Tracie Peterson Read online

  “Got it, Melissa.” The man loaded a new roll of film with graceful ease while juggling two other cameras, a bag of lenses, and a backpack crammed full of who-knew-what.

  Melissa slipped in and out of the crowd, eavesdropping as she loved to do. There was more to be learned in the private little circles of politics than in the grand arena itself. People in the smaller groups forgot to guard their tongues. Melissa had gotten the scoop on more stories by riding around in elevators in state offices and the Capitol than anywhere else.

  “I’m going to that little restaurant downtown,” one of Glencoe’s staff was telling another. “I think it’s called The Swedish Crown. It’s supposed to have authentic Swedish food, and since I’ve never eaten any, I thought I’d give it a try.”

  Melissa caught sight of Darren snapping pictures as the governor posed for a photo-op with the town’s merchants.

  “He’s going to promote tourism this time around,” a woman was saying to another reporter. “He promised this would be a top priority. There’s a lot of money to be had in tourism, and Lindsborg has a great deal to offer.”

  “Such as?” the reporter questioned and Melissa hung on, waiting for the explanation.

  “This community was settled primarily by our Swedish ancestors. We have a wonderful college here, and they put on first-class productions of Handel’s Messiah twice a year. We have a beautifully restored Victorian mansion and a wonderful bed-and-breakfast called The Swedish Country Inn. You can get some pretty good food here, too,” the lady said with a laugh.

  Melissa thought of laying hands on some of that “pretty good food” as she wandered down the street, continuing to take notes while her stomach growled in protest. Spotting Glencoe just ahead, Melissa pressed through the animated crowd and prepared to ask some of her own questions. Maybe she’d even address the tourism question. After all, the woman had a point, and the fierce pride of these people and their Swedish ancestry would make a great backdrop for the story.

  She was less than an arm’s length away from Glencoe now, standing directly in front of a shop that sported Swedish crafts and novelties. The window display portrayed a variety of candelabras. Most were bright red, painted with dainty white flowers and streaming greenery. This seemed to be one of the most popular items available. In the window opposite the door to the shop, a T-shirt blazed, “You can tell a Swede, but you can’t tell him much.” Most politicians must be Swedes, she thought with a smile.

  “Ah, Mrs. Jordon, isn’t it?” Governor Glencoe asked. “I see you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Melissa turned around and nodded. “Very much. This is my first trip to Lindsborg.” She was closer to Glencoe now than she’d been during the speech. It seemed to her that he looked a bit pale, maybe even sick. His eyes betrayed dark circles, although it was evident a makeup artist had tried to conceal them.

  “And what do you think?” Glencoe asked in a voice that sounded almost pained.

  “I think there’s great potential here for tourism.” There, she’d given him the ball to play with, now she’d wait and see if he’d take up the issue.

  “Tourism can be a strong industry . . . ah,” Glencoe stammered a bit and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “The state could benefit from additional tourism.”

  The uniformed highway patrolmen nearby seemed to take note of the situation.

  “Are you okay?” Melissa asked, seeing the governor sway.

  The ashen color of his skin spoke for him. Glencoe was obviously sick. Before he could take another step, the governor glanced almost pleadingly at Melissa, then collapsed on the ground.

  “Help . . . somebody help!” Melissa yelled.

  One patrolman grabbed a two-way radio, while another pushed back the crowd. “Have the plane standing by.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Melissa shouted above the din.

  A dark-suited member of Glencoe’s team came running. “Have you called ahead?”

  “The plane’s ready,” the patrolman answered, then in a low voice he questioned, “Should I contact his oncologist?”

  “Would someone tell us what’s wrong with the governor?” Melissa shouted again.

  Strong hands took hold of her shoulders. “I’m afraid you’ll have to move back.”

  The handsome face of another patrolman looked down at her. The wide-brimmed hat he wore shaded his eyes, but Melissa thought he looked strangely familiar. “Is the governor all right?” she questioned him.

  “Nothing serious. We’re flying him back to Topeka,” the man replied.

  Melissa moved back and scribbled notes in a fury of ink smudges and illegible markings. She remembered the remark about an oncologist, and at the bottom of the page she wrote the word “Cancer,” followed by a question mark. One way or another, Melissa was certain she was on to a much bigger story than the governor’s intent to be reelected.

  Five

  “I’m so grateful you could take the time to reschedule our interview,” Melissa said as she slid into the restaurant booth.

  Cara smiled. “I’m just glad we could spend some time alone.” It seemed a lifetime since she’d seen Melissa, and yet sitting here together melted away the years and brought back fond memories. “So tell me about this man you married and how life has been treating you.”

  Melissa snapped the burgundy linen napkin open and placed it on her lap. “Peter is positively wonderful. He’s handsome and brave and, most importantly, faithful.”

  “That often seems a rarity in both men and women these days,” Cara acknowledged, picking up her menu.

  The waitress approached to take their order and Melissa immediately took charge. “I’m picking this one up,” she announced.

  “That isn’t necessary, Melissa.”

  “I want to. My treat.”

  Melissa’s chocolate brown eyes conveyed her sincerity, and Cara nodded in agreement. “This one time. Next time, my treat.”

  They ordered seafood salads and sipped iced tea while waiting for their meal. The room around them hummed with activity, but surprisingly enough the silence at their table seemed awkward and stilted. Cara wondered how to open the conversation, but Melissa settled the point by speaking.

  “So did you mean it?”

  “Mean what?” Cara asked, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before the waitress had interrupted them.

  “Will there be a next time?”

  Cara smiled. “Of course. I had no idea you were in Topeka, or we’d have done this long ago.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Melissa relaxed against the booth’s back cushion. “I was afraid too much time had passed. . . .”

  “And that we’d be changed, with nothing in common?” Cara added.

  “Exactly.”

  Cara considered her longtime chum. Time had definitely been kind to her. She was the athletic sort who tanned easily under the Kansas sun. Whenever they’d gotten together as kids, Melissa was always the one to suggest some form of sport for entertainment. Tennis had always been a favorite among the “brat pack.”

  “Do you still play tennis?” Cara questioned, lost in her memories.

  Melissa gave a puzzled frown. “Not as often as I’d like to. Peter travels a great deal and I go with him whenever I can. As for tennis, I still get in a game or two when the wind isn’t blowing with galelike forces.”

  “That’s Kansas for you. Well, I’d suggest a game, but I’m so out of shape that I’m sure it would be no challenge at all.”

  “You don’t look out of shape. You look great. I almost didn’t recognize you when I walked in. You always wore your hair down to your hips and I was certain you’d never cut it.”

  Cara sobered. “I cut it after Jack died,” she said matter-of-factly. “I really only kept it long for him.”

  Melissa nodded. “I remember he was very fond of long hair. Does Brianna have long hair?”

  “Yes,” Cara replied. “Although she wears it that way because she likes it.
I told her I wouldn’t interfere as long as she takes care of it.”

  The tension of mentioning Jack seemed to pass. “And does she?” Melissa asked with a smile.

  “Like a professional. She’s one sweet kid.”

  Just then the waitress appeared with their salads, placing large platters in front of each woman.

  “Thank you,” Cara said and waited for the woman to leave. Melissa had her fork in hand when Cara asked, “Would you mind if we said grace?”

  Melissa quickly put down her fork. “No, I . . . please, go ahead.”

  Cara knew Melissa was uncomfortable. She quickly bowed her head and offered the prayer aloud. “We thank you, Father, for this meal and for the fellowship of good friends, Amen.”

  She looked up to find Melissa rather surprised by the simplicity of the prayer and Cara shrugged with a smile. “Short and to the point. After all, I’m hungry.”

  They shared a smile as they dug into their salads, and for several minutes seafood was the focus of their interest.

  Melissa broke the silence first. She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, then took out a microrecorder from her purse. “Do you mind if I use this for the interview?”

  Cara shook her head. “I think it’ll be easier than you trying to take notes while eating.”

  Melissa switched it on. “I’ll probably get home and find it full of munching and crunching sounds.”

  “Just leave that part out of the article,” Cara chuckled.

  “Well, if you’re ready, here goes.” Melissa picked up her fork again. “Why don’t you tell me how you and Jack got HEARTBEAT started.”

  “Did you watch the television interview on Sunday?” Cara asked. Melissa nodded while downing more salad. “That’s a pretty good explanation for the hows and whys of this ministry. Jack and I always wanted to get involved in youth work. We had an excellent youth pastor in our church when we were growing up. He inspired us to carry the torch for kids.”

  She found herself repeating a great deal of what the TV interview had covered, and soon the salads had disappeared and the waitress was offering dessert.

  “Interested in splitting some cheesecake?” Melissa asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  Cara grinned and remembered the old days when they used to share dessert to avoid too many calories. “Nope, I want my own piece.”

  “Good. Make it two cheesecakes,” Melissa told the waitress. “Now before she gets back, tell me about the future of HEARTBEAT and where you hope to go from here.”

  “Well,” Cara said almost hesitantly, “I’ve been asked to consider advancing the ministry to other states. I’ve been approached by leaders in Colorado, Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri. They want me to either oversee them in a managerial manner or offer seminars that would train their people and leave me as a kind of headquarter director.” She knew Melissa would pick up on her less than enthusiastic attitude.

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Melissa responded just as the cheesecake arrived.

  “Not in and of itself,” Cara began, wondering if she could explain her misgivings to her old friend. “It’s just that Jack and I always knew that in order for HEARTBEAT to work, it would have to stay at a very local, very personal level. I’m afraid if I expand to help other states, this ministry will grow into some kind of national monster. I don’t mind if other people take our program as a basis for their own, but I worry about having a national headquarters.”

  “But kids in other states need help, too. Just think what this could do for large urban communities. If you could compel businesses in places like New York and Dallas to take an active hands-on interest in their kids, criminal and gang activities would likely drop.”

  “I’ve thought of all of that, Missy,” Cara said, forgetting herself. “But I don’t feel led to do any expanding. At least not yet.”

  “You mean led by God?”

  Cara knew Melissa’s skepticism where spiritual matters were concerned. “Yes, I mean led by God.”

  Melissa looked away uncomfortably. She tried to summon the waitress, but when that failed she turned back to Cara. “So in conclusion,” she prompted, “HEARTBEAT is headed where?”

  “I’m not sure at this point,” Cara admitted. “It’s been suggested we start a newsletter for the three hundred HEARTBEAT centers.”

  “Three hundred? Are there that many towns in Kansas?”

  Melissa’s disbelief made Cara smile. “Well, you’re the news expert. I’d think you’d have all your facts and figures down. I have no idea how many little towns and communities there are in Kansas, but there are a bunch, let me tell you. Even so, some towns have more than one HEARTBEAT center. Remember this is localized—founded and funded by area businesses and churches. For instance, here in Topeka there are four HEARTBEAT branches. One is backed by a large Hispanic/Catholic community. One is interdenominational, another is heavily supported by a cooperative of local business leaders, while the fourth is thriving due to the combined efforts of a rather large evangelical church in the north area of town. So by and large, the bigger the city, the more HEARTBEAT involvement.”

  “So will you put this newsletter out sometime soon?” Melissa asked. By now she was jotting a few notes on the back of a single sheet of paper.

  “I don’t think so. I am too busy, and again, I’m not sure it’s the direction we want to go. I was just talking with my partner, Joe Milken, before lunch today. He reminded me that it’s things just like this newsletter that consume massive amounts of time and energy and lead to an overall picture of organized business.”

  “But seriously,” Melissa said, putting down her pen, “isn’t HEARTBEAT an organized business?”

  “I like to think we’re a ministry for God—first, last, and always.”

  “So is it something you and Mr. Milken will be able to handle between just the two of you?”

  “If we can keep people from forcing us to make HEARTBEAT something it was never intended to be. However, if you’re interested in a job, I just might be able to hire you on,” Cara said, wondering how Melissa would respond.

  She didn’t have long to wait.

  “Oh no,” Melissa laughed. “Not me. I’d never be good at that kind of job.”

  Cara decided to push. “We always worked well together, and now that we’ve crossed paths again, it would be a shame to go our separate ways. You’d make a great PR woman, and just think of your contacts from the newspaper business.”

  Melissa fidgeted with her napkin. “It would never be intriguing enough for my interests.”

  “You never know,” Cara smiled. “Hanging out with me can be a real adventure.”

  “So are you headed off on an adventure after this interview?” Melissa asked, snapping off the recorder and putting it into her purse.

  Cara recognized the wall Melissa had put up between them and let the subject drop. “I suppose you might say that. I’m due to pick up some materials from the secretary of state’s office at the Capitol. They’ve been generous enough to provide some books and postcards of Kansas for HEARTBEAT to distribute throughout the state.”

  Melissa nodded. “I’ll show you the way if you want to follow me over. I’m scheduled to see the governor at two o’clock.”

  “Sounds great.” Cara looked at her watch and saw that it was already a quarter till two. “We’d better hurry.”

  ****

  At the Capitol, Cara parted company with Melissa and promised she’d be in touch soon. She watched Melissa walk through the second-floor doorway marked “Governor’s Office.” It was amazing to find Melissa all grown-up. Gone was the flighty girl who’d always kept them laughing from one joke to the next. This Melissa seemed quite serious, if not downright preoccupied. Of course, I could have offended her by suggesting she join HEARTBEAT, Cara worried. They had parted company more than once on the issue of religion.

  Shrugging it off, Cara made her way around the rotunda to the secretary of state’s office. She found a stack of supplies
on the receptionist’s desk marked with her name.

  “I’m here to pick these up,” Cara said, motioning to the stack in front of the young girl sitting at the desk.

  The girl looked up from her computer keyboard. “Okay,” she said, not asking for anything in the way of identification.

  Cara picked up the materials and groaned. “They’re heavier than they look.”

  The girl shrugged and went back to her work, seeming not to notice that Cara had to juggle the armload in order to open the door.

  To Cara’s consternation she managed to walk right into someone coming in from the outside. Papers flew everywhere, postcards going one direction, coloring sheets and books slipping off in another.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cara announced to a pair of very shiny black shoes as she hurried to gather the things up.

  A rich masculine voice replied, “It was all my fault. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  Her gaze traveled up dark blue slacks, with their perfect crease and French blue stripe on the side, to the lighter blue dress shirt bearing the badge and insignia of the Kansas Highway Patrol. The man was smiling at her with a sincere look of concern in his blue eyes.

  Then he knelt down. “Here, let me help.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cara couldn’t help stealing quick sidelong glances at the man. He was very handsome in his uniform. His broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist, where a Sam Brown belt met the black holster holding his revolver.

  “I really am sorry,” she said, standing up as the man retrieved the last few pages.

  He extended the papers to her with a broad grin. “I’m not. It gave us a chance to run into each other.”

  “Yes . . .” Cara murmured. “Literally.” She liked the way his smile broadened and the way his salt-and-pepper hair fell down across his forehead.

  “I’m Harry Oberlin,” he said as she took the coloring sheets.

  “Cara Kessler.”

  “Yes, I know. I recognized you from your television interview.”

  “Oh.” She could think of nothing more to say.