The Way Home (7 page)

They stopped in a few other rooms, where a variety of activities, from woodworking and drawing to rehearsal for a theater production, were in progress.

“The other big part of our program is sports,” Michael told her as he ushered them down the hall toward the gym. “We have athletic activities scheduled every night. Tonight it's basketball, and we are incredibly fortunate to have a prominent local attorney as one of our coaches. He's working with the young-teen team right now. He's a bit camera-shy, but I'll see what I can do to convince him to give you an interview.”

Amy frowned. An attorney. Camera shy. Saint Vincent's Boy's Club. Her step faltered. Wasn't Saint Vincent's the charity Candace Bryce had referenced when she introduced Cal at the charity bachelor auction? Hadn't she said something about him participating only because Saint Vincent's would benefit? Amy hadn't made the connection until now. But surely there were other attorneys who volunteered here, she reassured herself. It would be too much of a coincidence if he happened to be here the very night she'd come to do her story. Yet somehow, deep inside, she sensed that, coincidence or not, it was him.

Amy's heart began to pound. She didn't want to intrude on Cal's off-duty “turf.” It was too…well, personal. Since their “date” two weeks before, their only contact had been in the courtroom, and then only an occasional, fleeting connecting of gazes. He hadn't
acknowledged the thank-you note she'd sent him for the flowers, nor had she expected him to. Their limited contact had been impersonal and therefore safe. Which was fine with her. Something strange had happened that night as he was leaving her apartment. The unexpected sizzle of electricity that had sparked between them had left her rattled. For whatever reason, Cal Richards was a distraction, and distractions were not something she needed at this point in her career.

Michael stopped at the gym door and pushed it open for her to enter. “A lot of the boys in here would be on the streets if it wasn't for people like Cal Richards,” he said, confirming Amy's premonition.

Her heart stopped, then raced on. She hesitated, and both the director and Steve looked at her questioningly.

“Something wrong, Amy?” Steve asked.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She knew her reaction was totally illogical. After all, she'd covered any number of stories that had put her in physical danger or resulted in threats of bodily harm, and she'd always remained calm and cool. This situation was a piece of cake compared to that. She could handle this, she told herself reassuringly.

But as she stepped to the door, the sight of Cal in his tank T-shirt and sweatpants, with biceps to rival a Mr. World candidate she'd once interviewed, made her long for the relative safety of a bank robbery or an impending tornado. However, since both Steve and Michael were staring at her curiously, she was left with no choice but to enter the gym.

“Just taking a moment to observe,” she replied
belatedly to Steve's question. His skeptical look as she brushed past told her he didn't buy her response, but it was the best she could do.

“I'll see what I can do about that interview,” Michael said. “Excuse me for just a minute.”

“So what gives?” Steve asked the moment the director was out of earshot.

Amy gazed after Michael as he headed toward the group of boys clustered around Cal. “It's just that the assistant prosecuting attorney and I have…clashed…a few times.”

Steve followed her gaze. “You and every other member of the press in Atlanta. Join the club. Haven't you given up on him yet?”

“I don't give up,” Amy said determinedly. “I still go to the courthouse almost every day. But so far, no luck.”

Just then Cal looked her way, and their gazes met for one brief moment before he turned back to Michael and said a few words. Then he directed his attention to the boys, and Michael rejoined them.

“No luck on the interview, I'm afraid,” he apologized. “Cal's one of our biggest supporters—in a lot of ways—but he keeps it low-profile. His motives are purely altruistic, and he has no interest in personal recognition or accolades. However, when I explained to him that this feature would be good for Saint Vincent's and might encourage others to support our work, he did agree to some—what did you call it— B-roll filming?”

“That will be fine, Michael,” Amy assured him.
“I think we have plenty of other shots, so we'll just film for a few minutes here and then wrap it up.”

“Great.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “I hate to run, but my daughter is in a school play tonight, and I'll just be able to make it if I leave now. Would you mind if I took off while you finish up?”

“Not at all,” Amy assured him. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank
you,
” he replied, shaking her hand. “You can't imagine how much this kind of publicity will mean to Saint Vincent's.”

“I hope so. You do good work here, and you deserve all the support you can get.”

“Thanks.” He shook hands with Steve, as well. “Feel free to spend as much time as you like here. Cal just asked that you try to keep him in the background as much as possible when you film.”

“No problem,” Steve assured him, hoisting his Minicam into position.

“I'll wait over there,” Amy said, nodding toward the corner where a youngster sat alone on a folding chair, watching them curiously. “Good night, Michael.”

“Good night.”

As Steve scoped out the gym for angles, Amy wandered over to the little boy of about seven, who was sitting on his hands, his legs wrapped around the legs of the chair. She sat beside him and smiled.

“Hi. My name's Amy. What's yours?”

“Mark.” He spoke softly and hung his head.

“Well, it's nice to meet you, Mark.” She nodded toward the court. “Do you play basketball?”

He shook his head. “I'm too little.”

“But not for long. Pretty soon you'll be just as big as those guys out there.”

He looked up at her shyly. “I hope I can play as good as my brother. He's on the team. Mr. Richards says I have po-po-potential.”

He struggled with the complicated word, and Amy smiled. “Then I'm sure you do.”

“Mr. Richards lets me watch. He says I can learn a lot by watching. And sometimes, when the practice is over, he shows me how to hold the ball and how to throw.”

“Sounds like he's very nice.”

Mark nodded vigorously. “I like to talk to him. He listens real good.” Mark glanced toward Steve. “What's he doing?”

“He's shooting some video for a story we're going to do on the news about Saint Vincent's.”

“Wow! You mean we're going to be on TV?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because Saint Vincent's is a good place, and we want to let other people know about it.”

“I like it here,” Mark affirmed. “Sometimes it's not real nice at home, when my mom is sick, so Troy—that's my brother—and I come here and do stuff.”

“That should be a wrap, Amy. You want anything else?”

She looked up at Steve. “I think we're done. Thanks, Steve.”

“No problem. Want me to walk you to your car?”

“Sure.” Saint Vincent's wasn't in the safest neighborhood, and Amy didn't take unnecessary chances.

“Let me just check in and see where I need to go next.”

“Do you want to use my phone?” She reached for her purse, but he shook his head.

“Mine's in the bag. I'll stow this stuff, then call. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

Amy turned back to Mark. “So you like coming to Saint Vincent's?”

He nodded emphatically. “It's neat. After school they give us cookies and milk. And the grown-ups here don't yell or throw things or anything. They talk nice to us and listen to what we say, like we're important. It makes me feel good to come here.”

Amy leaned closer and laid her hand on his. “You know something, Mark? You
are
important. Every person is different, and every single one is important in his own way. There's nobody else in the whole world just like you, and nobody could ever take your place. You remember that, okay?”

Mark smiled shyly. “You're nice, Amy. I wish my mom talked like you.”

“Ready to do a little practicing, Mark?”

Mark and Amy simultaneously looked up at Cal. She was glad for Mark's eager response, which momentarily distracted Cal, because for a second her voice deserted her. It was one thing to look at Cal in his workout clothes from across the gym, and quite another to have him standing only two feet away. His tank T-shirt clung to his broad chest, and with one hand on his hip and the other arm hugging the bas
ketball to his side, his well-defined biceps made her breath catch in her throat. The man was in absolutely perfect physical condition, she realized, from his pecs to his abs. There wasn't an ounce of excess flesh on his well-toned body. Muscled chest, tapering waist, flat stomach, slim hips. To use one of Darlene's favorite expressions, Cal Richards was one hot-looking dude. If during their date she'd been impressed by the man's mind and ethics, today she was equally impressed by his physical attributes. He radiated a virility that literally took her breath away and made her respiration go haywire.

As Cal finished his brief conversation with Mark, handed him the ball and watched him scamper off, Amy reached for her purse and made a pretense of looking for her keys, trying to buy herself a few moments to restore her poise. No man had ever wreaked such havoc on her emotional and physical equilibrium by his mere proximity. That Cal Richards should be the one man who
could
seemed like a nasty trick of fate. Why couldn't some
compatible
man have had this effect on her—and about two or three years down the road?

Cal turned back to Amy, planted his hands on his hips and took a moment to study her bowed head as she searched through her purse. Her light brown hair swung forward, hiding her face, and he was glad for the momentary reprieve. He hadn't planned to speak to her. But as he'd watched her interact with Mark, he'd been struck by the quick rapport she'd established with the shy little boy, who—for good reason—had a real problem with trust and rarely said
more than a few words to strangers. The fact that she had quickly broken through his reserve and established a comfort level with him said a lot. It was yet another appealing side of this intriguing woman, and he'd found himself walking over to her without making a conscious decision to do so.

Amy withdrew her keys and slung her purse over her shoulder before she looked up.

“Hello, Cal.”

Her voice seemed more throaty than usual, and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. “Hello, Amy. This is a surprise. Isn't this a bit off your normal beat?”

She shrugged. “I go where the stories are.”

He glanced at his watch. “How many hours a day do you work? You were in court at nine this morning.”

She looked at him steadily. “How ever many it takes.”

He frowned. “But why would they assign you to two stories twelve hours apart?”

“They didn't assign this one. I proposed it and got permission to put a piece together. I'm hoping it's good enough to win airtime. But the rest of my work still needs to get done. So I do these kinds of stories after hours.”

His frown deepened. “Have you had dinner?”

The impulsive question surprised him as much as it obviously did her.

“No.”

He hesitated, unsure what had prompted that query. But he was in too far now to back out, and he didn't
have time to analyze his motives. “Would you like to grab a bite with me? I came here directly from the office, and I'm starving.”

She stared at him. Was he actually
initiating
a date? With a woman he'd gone to great lengths to avoid? “Could you repeat that? I think my ears are playing tricks on me,” she said cautiously.

Cal gave her a crooked grin. “Would you believe me if I told you I'm as surprised by the invitation as you are?”

She couldn't doubt the sincerity in his eyes. “Yes.”

“So how about it?”

She tilted her head and looked at him quizzically. “Can I ask why?”

He paused to consider. “That's a fair—but tough—question,” he replied candidly. “Frankly I have no idea. Maybe because I feel I still owe you a dinner. Maybe because I enjoyed our evening together. Maybe because it would make my grandmother happy.”

She eyed him warily, but now there was a slight twinkle in her eye. “I'm not even going to ask about that last reason.”

“Good. So?”

She studied him for another few seconds, then gave a slight shrug. “Why not?”

He smiled, and the warmth in his eyes brought a flush to her cheeks. “Great. Give me ten minutes to shower and change.”

Cal headed back toward the boys still on the court as Amy stared after him.

“What was that all about?”

With an effort she tore her gaze from Cal's retreating figure and looked up to find that Steve had returned. “He asked me out to dinner.”

Steve's eyebrows rose. “No kidding! What brought that on?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, maybe it will give you a chance to pump him for that angle you're after.”

“Maybe.”

But oddly enough, for a woman who always put business first, the very last thing on her mind at the moment was the Jamie Johnson trial.

B
y the time Cal reappeared fresh from the shower exactly ten minutes later—looking fabulous in worn jeans that fit like a glove, a cotton shirt with the long sleeves rolled back to the elbows and his wet hair even darker than usual—the modicum of poise Amy had regained during his absence immediately evaporated.

“Right on time,” she remarked breathlessly, glancing at her watch as she struggled to control the sudden staccato beat of her heart.

“My grandmother always told me never to keep a pretty lady waiting,” Cal said with a wink, which did nothing to restore her equilibrium.

She was glad he wasn't privy to her elevated pulse rate—although there was nothing she could do to hide the telltale flush that suffused her face at the unexpected compliment. “I think I like your grandmother,” she replied, struggling for a light tone.

He chuckled. “She's a hard lady not to like. Ready?”

Amy nodded, and Cal fell into step beside her as they headed for the exit.

“Is she still in Tennessee?” Amy asked.

“Yes. Always has been, always will be.”

“By choice or circumstance?”

“Choice. She's perfectly content with her cabin in the mountains and her work at the local craft co-op.”

When they reached the door, Cal pushed it open, one hand in the small of her back as he guided her out. It was an impersonal gesture, born of breeding and good manners, but it nevertheless sent a tingle up her spine. Get a grip, Amy admonished herself. It's okay to enjoy this impromptu date, but remember—there's no future here. You are two very different people.

“Where are you parked?” Cal asked as he surveyed the small lot.

Amy pointed toward a late-model BMW. “Over there.”

Cal noted the car, but made no comment. Instead, he turned to her, his gaze moving swiftly over her attire, taking in the royal blue jacket with black buttons, wide gold choker, black slacks and heels. “Where would you like to go? You're dressed for the Ritz, but I don't think they'd even let me in the back door,” he said with an engaging grin.

She smiled and shrugged. “Anywhere is fine. Fast food, if you like.”

“Oh, I think we can do a little better than that. Have you ever eaten at Rick's?”

“No.”

“It's a nice place—good food, comfortable atmosphere. And not too far from your apartment, so it will be convenient.”

“For me, maybe. But what about you? I'm sure your day has been as long as mine. How about somewhere in between our places?” Amy countered. “Where do you live?”

He named the modest suburb—a far cry from her upscale neighborhood. Considering his position, she was a bit surprised—but not too much. She was beginning to realize that Cal Richards was a man who preferred a simple life and didn't have a pretentious bone in his body.

“Frankly, unless you have some other preference, I'd enjoy going to Rick's. It would be a nice change of pace. By the time I get around to dinner most nights I'm too tired to go out, so I usually just nuke something.”

Amy acquiesced. “That's fine with me, then. I'll just follow you.”

He waited until she was in her car, with the doors locked, before he headed to his own. She watched in the rearview mirror, and wasn't the least bit surprised when he stopped beside an older-model compact. Despite his prestigious position, Cal Richards obviously saw no need for conspicuous displays of success. The man continued to amaze—and impress—her.

When they arrived at the restaurant, he was out of his car and beside her door almost before she turned off the motor. As she reached for her purse and
stepped out, she smiled. “My compliments to your mother. She obviously raised a gentleman.”

Though he smiled in response, a fleeting pain passed across his eyes. “Actually, my grandmother gets most of the credit. My mom died when I was twelve.”

Amy's gaze softened in sympathy. “I'm sorry.”

“Thanks. It was a hard time for everyone. Dad was beside himself, so Gram suggested we move in with her until we got past the worst of the grief. It worked out so well, we never left. I always missed Mom, of course, but Gram was great. She did a terrific job as a surrogate mother. And Dad went above and beyond, trying to make up for the fact that I only had one parent. I don't think he ever missed a single event in my life, from spelling bees to camping trips with the Scouts.”

“I take it the three of you are still close.”

“Very.” He ushered her inside the restaurant, and smiled at the hostess. “Hello, Steph.”

“Cal! It's good to see you. It's been too long.”

“Tell me about it,” he said ruefully. “Life's too busy. But I'm overdue for a dose of Rick's cooking.”

She picked up two menus and led the way to a quiet corner table. “I'll let him know you're here. Enjoy.”

Once they were seated, he took one brief glance at the menu then laid it aside.

“A man of quick decision, I see,” Amy remarked.

He flashed her a grin. “No, just in a rut. I always seem to get the same thing here.”

“Which is?”

“Seafood pasta and the house salad. It's a pretty tough combination to beat.”

Amy put her menu down. “You convinced me.”

A moment later the waiter arrived with a basket of crusty French bread still warm from the oven, and Amy helped herself while Cal gave their order. She closed her eyes and smiled as she took the first bite.

“Now
this
is the way to end a long day,” she declared.

Cal chuckled and followed her example. “It sure beats a microwave dinner.”

“Amen to that,” she replied fervently. “Unfortunately, that's my usual fare.”

He smiled. “I take it the kitchen isn't your favorite room.”

She tilted her head and considered the question. “Actually, I
like
to cook. But there's never any time.”

“That commodity does seem to be in short supply these days,” he agreed with a sigh.

“Yet you manage to find time to help out at Saint Vincent's.”

He shrugged dismissively. “A lot of people do a lot more.”

“Maybe they're not as busy as you are.”

“Some are busier. And the basketball is only one night a week.”

“Michael Sloan hinted that your support went way beyond that.”

Cal shifted uncomfortably. “I help out here and there in different ways,” he said vaguely. “I believe in the work they do. Those kids need all the help and
encouragement they can get. I've been very blessed, and I feel the need to give something back, to demonstrate my gratitude in a concrete way. Saint Vincent's lets me do that.”

He made it sound as if Saint Vincent's was doing
him
a favor, she thought, once again impressed by the way he downplayed his obviously significant contribution to the boys' center. “You certainly have a fan in Mark,” she observed.

Cal smiled briefly, then grew more serious. “Mark's a great kid. He's smart, ambitious and willing to learn. Which is saying a lot, considering he comes from a single-parent home headed by an alcoholic mother, has no idea who his father is and lives in one of the poorest—and roughest—sections of the city. He and his brother are the kind of kids we're trying to help at Saint Vincent's. We want them to understand that they
do
have options and that there are people who care.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of it, to hear Mark talk. How did you get involved there, anyway?”

“Through my church. We sponsor an annual field trip for the kids, and I volunteered a few years ago. I've been helping out down there ever since.”

Amy tilted her head and studied him. “So you're a churchgoing man.”

He nodded. “All my life.”

Their salads arrived, giving her time to digest his comment. “I admire that,” she said frankly when the waiter departed. “In fact, I envy it a little.”

“You don't go to church?”

“Not much anymore. We went every Sunday when I was growing up. But once I was out on my own— I don't know, other things somehow took precedence. Time was at more and more of a premium, and somehow religion dropped to the bottom of my priority list.”

“That can happen,” Cal said without censure. “When I first came to Atlanta I was tempted to skip church. It was just one more obligation to fit into a schedule that was already too packed. But every time I missed a Sunday, I felt somehow out of sync for the rest of the week. I know going to church is just an outward sign of faith, but it reminds me to keep my priorities straight and helps keep me grounded.” He paused and studied her for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Since you attended church most of your life, do you ever miss it now that you've stopped going?”

Amy propped her chin in her hand and considered the question. “Sometimes I feel guilty about not going. But I can't say I
miss
it, per se.” She did, on occasion, however, sense that something was
missing
from her life. And she suspected it had to do with her lapsed faith. In some vague way she felt she had disappointed God, and the longer she stayed away from church, the harder it became to go back. But she wasn't about to reveal that to Cal. “I really don't think about it too often,” she finished. “And I certainly don't live it the way you do.”

“I don't know. Look at the story you were working on tonight. That will help a lot of people.”

“I'd like to say I did it for purely selfless reasons. But my motives weren't really altruistic,” she said frankly. “Yes, I hope the story benefits Saint Vincent's. But I also hope it gets me noticed.”

Cal studied her for a moment. “Can I ask you something else?”

There was something in his tone that made her cautious. “Maybe.”

“Are you ever off duty?”

“Of course. I'm not working right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

He steepled his fingers and gave her a direct look. “I guess I'm wondering if you're still hoping to get something from me you can use in the Jamie Johnson coverage.”

Amy stared at him, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “You think I accepted your invitation just because of that?”

He shrugged. “I can't think of any other reason. Not that I'm complaining, you understand.” He gave her a wry smile. “It beats eating alone.”

Amy continued to stare at him as the waiter refilled their water glasses. He couldn't think of any other reason? Was he kidding? She could think of about a dozen without even trying. He was intelligent, handsome, articulate, generous, had a good sense of humor and, considering his comment, was obviously completely without ego—a refreshing attribute and a definite plus as far as she was concerned.

Amy laid her fork down carefully and cleared her throat. “Look, I know you think I'm a workaholic,
and that everything I do has an ulterior motive, but will you believe me when I say that my only reason for accepting your invitation tonight was because I wanted to? Because I enjoyed our last evening together? And because, like you, I prefer not to always eat alone?”

He chose to focus on her last comment. “If you eat alone, it must be by choice. I can't believe you lack for male companionship.”

She shrugged indifferently, pleased nonetheless by the backhanded compliment. “Relationships are demanding. And I don't have the time. So why start something I know will simply fizzle out as soon as the guy realizes he takes second place to my career?”

“Your job is that important to you? So important that you're willing to give up your personal life?”

She grimaced. “Now you sound like my mother.”

“And what do you tell her when she makes those kinds of comments?”

“That of course I want a husband. And children. But marriage and kids aren't compatible with the demands of my career. I'll get around to those things eventually.”

“After you do all the ‘important stuff'?”

She gave him a startled look, then frowned. “I didn't say that. And besides, who are you to talk? You spend an inordinate amount of time at your job, too, and as far as I know you haven't made time for a wife or family, either.”

He couldn't argue with her on that. And they were heading toward turf he preferred to avoid.

“Touché,” he replied lightly. “How did we get on this subject, anyway?”

Amy shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“How about we get off it?”

“Good idea. I don't want to end the evening with indigestion. So…tell me what you do for fun.”

“I'm not sure I remember,” he confessed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he chased an elusive piece of lettuce around his plate.

She rolled her eyes. “See? You
are
as bad as I am. Well…what about vacations, then? Where do you go when you manage to get away?”

“Back to the mountains.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes. I've been other places, but there isn't much that can rival a morning in the Smoky Mountains, with the mist floating over the valleys and the blue-hued mountains forming an ethereal backdrop. The majesty of it never fails to take my breath away. And the incredible peace there—it's a balm for the soul.”

Amy hadn't expected such a poetic description from an assistant prosecuting attorney—nor one so heartfelt. “I can see now why you said you had to think long and hard about leaving,” she said slowly. “I can hear in your voice how much you love it there.”

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. He was rarely so open in expressing his feelings about the mountains, and he wasn't sure what had prompted him to be so candid tonight. “So where do you go?” he asked, turning the tables.

“Cancún. The Caribbean. Europe now and then.”