Million Dollar Dilemma Read online

  Still, the door was wide open and I could see Adam hovering over the stove in overlarge gray sweatpants and an equally washed-out red sweatshirt. His dark hair was damp, his feet bare, and if I had to judge by the sound of pans and lids clanging harshly as he flung them about, his mood was foul.

  When I’d moved in, the landlord had assured me that the occupant of this apartment was “a nice guy who works for a newspaper or something.” I probably should have paid more attention. That’s hardly a ringing endorsement for a person’s sterling character, but the landlord also told me that if I ever got into a jam I could safely knock on this guy’s door and ask for help. Since I’d had no intention of doing anything that I couldn’t handle on my own, I hadn’t asked any more questions. Now I wished I’d given my curiosity full range.

  Maybe I’d just take my salad home and eat it all by myself.

  Unfortunately, the cat chose that moment to yowl like a banshee. I looked down to see if I’d stepped on his tail, and when I looked up again, Adam was at the door staring at me with those disconcerting eyes of his. On the front of his faded sweatshirt were the words Don’t Mess With Me.

  Wishing desperately I’d heeded that advice much earlier in the day, I did the only thing I could manage. I thrust the bowl into his hands and blurted, “Salad. I made too much. Since you just came home, I thought you might not have anything in your refrigerator.”

  “But you brought me flowers already. You’re too generous.” He was laughing at me, so I laughed, too.

  “Sorry I’m being such a hick, but this is how we do it back in Simms. I’ll just go back to my place now and spend some time getting sophisticated. I’ll be back in twenty years or so.”

  An odd expression flashed in his attractive eyes. “Don’t get sophisticated. I hate it when that happens. It ruins perfectly nice people.” He stepped back, and with his hand indicated that I should enter. “Want some eggs and bacon?” he offered. “I don’t have any bread, so I made a few pancakes to go with it.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “No bother. Come in. Scram, Pepto.” The cat slithered away, looking back at me with a disgruntled expression.

  Adam pushed his door wide open and beckoned me in. He made no move to close the door after me. Sometimes I surprise myself, but I’m still an old-fashioned girl at heart and I appreciated his thoughtfulness.

  He moved to the cupboard, took out two pottery plates and handed them to me. “You’ll have to move the mail to one side while we eat.”

  The table was piled high with important-looking letters and a gargantuan stack of magazines, most of which were news publications and journals, with the occasional glossy print piece.

  He peeled back the foil on my bowl and peered curiously inside.

  “Fruit salad,” I offered, hoping to clarify.

  “Not like any I’ve ever seen.” He stared at the oddly colored stuff for a minute before picking out a piece of star fruit. He bit into it and his eyes narrowed. “It reminds me of a soft-shelled crab.”

  “I went a little crazy in the produce section and bought one of everything.”

  “I thought that was how you shopped for flowers.” He put down the bowl and went to retrieve the frying pan and a stack of pancakes. He set the hot pan on a pile of magazines, his version of a trivet.

  “It’s getting out of hand. My new hobby is trying out everything exotic in the grocery store—and compared to Simms, it’s all exotic. You can’t be picky when shopping at a combination grocery store, post office, feed supply, hardware, beauty parlor, pawn shop, you know.”

  “No wonder you’re having fun.” Adam slid scrambled eggs and three slices of bacon onto my plate and some onto his own. He rolled an unbuttered pancake into something that looked like a soft-shelled taco, put it beside his plate and reached for my salad. As he dished it up, I winced. The persimmon dressing was not an appetizing color.

  “It’s not bad,” he said finally. “You want some?”

  “Since you haven’t grabbed your throat and fallen off the chair, I suppose I’ll try it. Frankly, I wasn’t quite sure I was brave enough to taste it myself.” Actually, the prayer I whispered to myself was more a petition for safety—from my own cooking.

  “I’ve eaten stranger things lately,” he said enigmatically. He poked at his chipped plate. “I don’t have much in the way of dishes. I usually use paper.”

  “These are fine. I never ate on a paper plate at home. My grandfather didn’t believe in waste.”

  “No kidding?”

  “He also hated throwing anything away if he still considered it ‘good.’ Once we got something, we used it until it fell apart. Then we repaired it and used it some more.”

  “Why didn’t you just buy new?”

  “Psalm 41:1.”

  He stared at me blankly until I remembered that outside my family, giving only a Bible reference was rarely enough.

  ‘“Happy are those who consider the poor. The Lord delivers them in the day of trouble.’ My grandfather wouldn’t spend an extra dime on himself if he thought he could give it away. My grandmother still jokes that the widows and the orphans had better things than we did because Grandpa was more generous with them than with us.”

  “Was that a problem?”

  “No. It wasn’t as though we were involuntarily poor. Poverty was a choice for us, a challenge. How much could we give up in order that others might have more? Believe it or not, Grandpa managed to make it into a game. I learned early how little we actually need.”

  “Interesting.” He stared at me with those velvety chocolate-colored eyes and once again I felt a little weak in the knees. “Probably considered loony in this day and age, but definitely interesting.”

  As I pushed my chair back from the table and started to say goodbye, a furred cannonball landed in my lap and began to rumble.

  “Pepto?” Adam stared at the cat that had just launched itself into my arms. I was equally startled, but Pepto redoubled his purr, turned around twice on my thighs and sat down. “What are you doing, crazy cat?”

  “He’s fine. I like animals.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s never done that before. Even to me.”

  “Animals and small children seem to like me,” I told him as I stroked Pepto’s fur. It felt much softer than it looked. “Grandma says it’s a sign of my ‘pure nature.’My sister Jane says it’s because I wear perfume that’s a combination of catnip and cotton candy. Either way, I don’t mind.”

  As Pepto tilted his head upward as if he were looking at me, I scratched that tender dip beneath his chin, and his purr turned to a happy roar. When I lifted my head, Adam was staring at me in disbelief, as if I’d made roses grow out of a dirty ashtray. I chuckled inwardly. It was easy to woo the cat. I’m just glad it’s not on my agenda to win his master’s heart.

  CHAPTER 5

  Animals and small children, huh?

  Adam pondered the notion as he scrubbed out his frying pan. He’d never in a million years expected Pepto to do an about-face and decide to actually like someone. He took a pad of steel wool and worked at a bit of egg yolk stubbornly clinging to the pan. Of course, loath as he might be to admit it, Adam had liked his new neighbor, too. Even without the bird-of-paradise, persimmons and improbable red hair, she’d still be charming and funny. She was a breath of fresh air for his very stale attitude, and having her here tonight had provided a moment of relief from the pressure mounting inside him.

  He’d turned into the equivalent of a human pressure cooker lately, and Cassia Carr was an unexpected release valve. He’d been tempted to lecture her about the wisdom of being as open and trusting as she’d been in her little hometown, but decided instead that he’d just keep an eye on her. The inhabitants of this building were all good people—many had lived here twenty years or more. Cassia was obviously a quick study and would develop street smarts quickly enough without his advice.

  The phone rang just as Adam put the frying pan in the dish rack to dry. He glanc
ed at the caller ID. It was his agent and best friend, Terrance Becker.

  “Adam, old man, you’re back! Listen, buddy, are you all right? I heard you had a pretty rough time over there.”

  “No rougher than anyone else. At least I didn’t starve to death.” Sickening images shimmered in his mind like heat waves off the desert floor. Adam hadn’t known until recently how painful death from malnutrition could be.

  “You did tighten your belt a couple notches, though,” Terrance said. “I talked to Frankie.”

  Frankie Wachter was the photographer who traveled with Adam. He hoped Frankie didn’t have too big a mouth. Terrance didn’t need to know every gory detail of their trip to Burundi. There were some things Adam would just as soon keep under wraps. The wrenching emotions both he and Frankie had experienced were private. His research and articles could speak for him, and nothing else need be said.

  “The magazine loved your stuff, by the way. You sent them so much that they’re serializing it. Frankie got some great pictures, too. Heart wrenching. Whenever you want to quit freelancing and write for just one publication, let me know, okay? I’ve got several offers for you.”

  Adam grunted a non-comment. Being tied down had never suited him. As a journalist whose career had centered primarily on human rights issues, Adam wanted to be free to go where circumstance and instinct took him. Ironically, this last time it had taken him to one of the poorest places he’d ever been—Burundi, a landlocked country about the size of Maryland whose population had an overall life expectancy of less than forty-seven years, and 12 percent of whom were infected with AIDS. The tension between the Tutsis and the Hutus left the people in constant turmoil. It was a difficult life, especially for the youngest, most helpless members of society, the children. When Adam had gone in to do a story on a small relief organization that was attempting to provide minimal life-sustaining provisions for the people, he’d had no idea that what he would see and experience could so utterly change him.

  Knowing the statistics was nothing compared to seeing the reality. If 70 percent of all malnourished people in the world were children and forty thousand a day died of starvation, then where were the people who could help them? Vulnerable, helpless and defenseless, the children had greater nutritional demands than the adults and were utterly unable to forage for themselves. At night, when the camp was silent, Adam had lain on his cot staring into the blackness, wondering what he could do to put a thumb in a dike of this magnitude. Life was leaking out of these young ones, and he had no way to stop it.

  “So what are you planning next?”

  Adam felt himself flinch. He’d drifted light-years away from Terrance and the conversation about his career. “Not a thing.”

  “A little R & R? Good idea. A few days off and you’ll feel like a new man.” Terrance sounded worried. “That’s what you meant, right?”

  “Not really. I’m burned and I’m bummed. The last thing I feel like doing is working.”

  “You don’t have to cover every tragedy in the world,” Terrance told him. “Not everything you do has to be nominated for a Pulitzer. Lighten up. Do something not quite so heavy for a change, a little mind candy. How about a piece on baseball? Or music, like ‘Adam Cavanaugh on Aging Rockers— The Dolls, the Dope and the Depends.’ Boomers might eat it up.”

  “Good try, but no thanks. I’m tired in a way I’ve never been tired before.” Wordsmith that he was, even Adam couldn’t describe it. “It’s in my bones this time. Watching children die and being absolutely helpless to stop it changes a person.”

  “But like you said in your article, those kids were past the point of no return before you ever got to them.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier. Or prettier. Sorry, Terrance. This writer is taking time off—a long time. I haven’t got it in me anymore.”

  “Just for a while…”

  “Maybe forever.”

  He heard Terrance’s sharp intake of breath and knew what was coming next.

  “Promise me this, Adam. Before you throw in the towel, give it some time. Find a story to write that isn’t going to eat your heart out and see how that feels before you make any rash decisions.”

  “That’s not going to help.” Something had broken in him that needed to heal—his heart. No story he could think of was going to distract him enough for that to happen.

  “Just promise.”

  “Only if something falls into my lap. I’m not going out to look for a fluff piece just to prove to you that I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Think this through, Adam….”

  “Gotta go. I’ll call you when that story comes knocking on my door.”

  Adam stared at the phone a long time after he’d hung up. He couldn’t believe he’d just chopped away at the cable that had kept him connected to life for the past fifteen years, had brought him a Pulitzer and a myriad of other journalistic awards. But the import and meaning he’d always attributed to life, the idea of God, peace and goodwill on earth, humanity and brotherhood had all evaporated during his time in Burundi. Something was deeply wrong with a world in which a child could be born, live and die and leave no more impression than a raindrop in an ocean.

  CHAPTER 6

  Why people think city living is so great is beyond me.

  Everyone says things are so convenient here. Maybe, but I think it’s a little weird that I could order a pizza, a taxi and an ambulance at the same time and count on the pizza to come first. Of course, in Simms the rumor that you’re sick can arrive before the illness does, so maybe it’s, as Grandpa always said, “a horse apiece.”

  I rode the brakes as I nosed my way into the right lane on I-494 and made ready to pull onto the exit ramp that led to the “shortcut” I’ve devised to get to work. Shortcut…hah! There’s no such thing. Not here, at least.

  In Simms we talk in miles. If something is sixty miles away, it’s probably sixty minutes away, too, give or take a few, depending on the weight of my foot on the accelerator. Here, miles have no meaning, as far as I can tell. It takes me thirty-five minutes to get to work if I time it right and three times that in rush-hour traffic. I don’t know if I’ve driven five miles or fifty. I only know that it seems like a hundred.

  I haven’t got it fine-tuned yet, but I’m getting there. I haven’t been late for work in a week and I’ve completely gotten over the urge to shriek every time I hit the gas and edge off an on-ramp into speeding traffic. I’ll just say this—more than once I’ve been thankful that I’m right with God when I’m pulling onto the freeway.

  My car was a hand-me-down from my father, who got it as a hand-me-down from a parishioner. Actually, it probably belonged to a few people before that, as well. As pedigreed cars go, mine’s an elderly mutt, over eighty-four in dog years.

  As I pulled into Parker Bennett’s parking lot I heard a yell from behind me. “Hey, lady, your muffler just fell off!”

  I slowed and looked through my rearview mirror. I assumed it was a joke, but with my car anything is possible. Then I saw who was standing in the middle of the parking lot grinning with that gap-toothed grin of his. I’d met Randy Mills at work first, but I also ran into him at the church I attended a couple Sundays ago. How great is that? God gave me a Christian friend right off the bat. He’s a lean and lanky scarecrow kind of guy, with sandy hair and sandy freckles. I leaned out the window and waved before pulling into a parking space. By the time I’d gathered my purse and my lunch, Randy was standing arms akimbo, theatrically studying my tires.

  “Sorry, I was mistaken. It wasn’t your muffler at all. It was your whole transmission that dropped. Do you have tape and bubblegum in your tool kit, or do you want me to fix it for you? I’ve got a bale of twine in my trunk.”

  “Very funny, Randy. I don’t make fun of your car.” I tried my best to look indignant.

  “Don’t bother locking it, Cassia,” Randy advised. “If you’re lucky, somebody will come by and steal it.”

  “Not if I can help it.
I put it in the garage every night.”

  “No kidding?” Randy sounded and looked amazed. “You actually protect that thing?”

  “At least I’m not like some of my neighbors who leave their expensive cars out at night because there’s too much useless junk in their garages.”

  “Right,” Randy said with a grin. “You drive your useless junk.”

  We fell into step together as we walked toward the front doors of Parker Bennett’s main office. I had to skip every few steps to keep up with the long-legged accountant.

  “It’s a good car,” I said defensively. “Never a problem. I have it serviced regularly.”

  “I’m sure you do. Just don’t wash it. It’s only the rust that’s holding it together.”

  “You’re just jealous because your car doesn’t have two hundred and thirty thousand miles on it.”

  “No kidding? Two thirty?” Randy whistled. “I didn’t know they could get that high.” Then his genial face sobered. “Seriously, Cassia, it’s time to get something newer. It doesn’t have to be expensive, but you shouldn’t be driving city streets in that thing. You’re going to end up stranded someplace.” He eyed me up and down. “A lamb among the wolves.”

  “I can change a tire, check the oil, test the air in the tires and even make sure the alternator belt is tight.”

  “Maybe so, but rebuilding the whole chassis is probably beyond you, and that’s what you’ll need to do soon.”

  I skipped again to match my steps to Randy’s long stride. “If it’s any comfort, my sister agrees with you. She’s suggested that I take her car this winter and she’ll buy a new one.”

  “Why don’t you get the new one?” Randy held the door for me.

  “I don’t need one.”

  “Sometimes life is about more than ‘needing.’ What if you want one?”

  “But I don’t.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “For the last eighteen months, Randy, the closest thing I’ve come to a traffic jam is having to wait for a semi to come by in the other lane so that I can pass a tractor. Besides, I can use a pair of jumper cables just as well as the next girl.”