Patricia Davids - A Matter of the Heart

Closing her eyes, she reached up and curled her fingers tenderly around the locket at her neck. She had more important things to think about than a man with friendly blue eyes, an engaging grin and strong hands that sent shivers down her spine when he touched her.

This is crazy. Get him out of your head. Refocus.

Forcing thoughts of the man out of her mind, she tucked the locket beneath the scooped neck of her top and proceeded into the scrub room. A long morning loomed ahead of her.

Rob admitted only temporary defeat as the doors closed between him and the intriguing doctor with shoulder-length blond hair, a cute upturned nose and intense hazel eyes. Dr. Blake might not want to speak to him, but he wasn’t about to give up so easily. His paper had sent him to do a story. It wasn’t an earth-shattering feature, but he would have to make do until a better story came his way.

He returned to the waiting room and scooped up his interrupted cup of mocha caramel latte. After taking a sip, he walked back down the hallway. Perhaps he could get what he needed for the story without using Dr. Blake.

At the nurses’ station, he paused to speak to the short, friendly brunette who had told him of Dr. Blake’s surgical schedule after only the mildest probing earlier that morning.

“You were right,” he said, leaning both elbows on the waist-high countertop and gracing her with his best smile.

She closed the chart she was writing on and stuck it in a silver wire rack. “I told you Dr. Ice Princess wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

An older nurse seated beside her looked up and said, “Traci, that’s no way to talk about Dr. Blake. She’s an excellent surgeon. Your patient has just arrived in pre-op number two. I think you’re needed there.”

Traci rolled her eyes and rose with an exaggerated sigh. “I didn’t invent the title, Emily, and you know she’s earned it.”

Rob watched her walk away, then turned his attention and his smile on the woman still seated at a long desk behind the counter. “Emily, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Rob Dale. I’m doing a story on a little boy having surgery soon named Ali Willis.”

“We aren’t allowed to give out patient information.”

“Of course, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I already know that Dr. Blake will be doing the surgery, and I’m interested in finding out more about her. I’ve been told she does quite a bit of charity work. That doesn’t sound like an ice princess to me.”

Emily sent a wary look his way, but he gave her his most disarming grin.

After a moment, she relaxed and said, “If she does, she doesn’t advertise the fact, but then I’ve never known her to give an interview. She’s a very private person.”

Or she has something to hide, he mused to himself. In the past he’d often found that the people who didn’t want to talk to him were the ones that deserved a closer look. The phone on the desk rang, and Emily excused herself to answer it.

Rob straightened but he didn’t move away. With half an ear, he listened in on Emily’s end of the conversation. Dr. Blake’s reluctance to talk to him had piqued his interest. The fact that she was prettier than any surgeon he’d ever met made him consider trying to interview her again, but his assignment was to do an in-depth piece on Children of the Day, a Christian charity devoted to helping innocent victims of war, not specifically on Dr. Blake. The only reason he was here was because of her work for the organization.

It was a fluff piece, but while he was in the States, he had to go where he was assigned. He glanced down at the red puckered scar on his forearm and flexed the fingers of his left hand. He was as healed as he was going to get. How many more of these feel-good stories would he have to do before he could return to the real action?

“You’re not staying home from school unless you’re running a fever, young man. Let me talk to your father.”

Rob couldn’t help but smile at Emily’s unsympathetic tone. He and his three brothers had been subjected to the same stern speech plenty of times while they were growing up. How did mothers everywhere know when their kids were faking it? However they did it, it would be a useful trait for a reporter to learn.

Rob’s cell phone began to ring. A surge of anticipation shot through him when he recognized the distinctive tone he had set for his boss and friend, Derrick Mitchell, the senior editor of Liberty and Justice .

Maybe I’m getting reassigned at last. Please, Lord, let it be the Middle East post that’s open.

Rob walked a few steps away from the desk and answered on the third ring.

“Rob, where are you on the Willis story?” Derrick’s voice crackled with impatience.

“Hello to you, too, Derrick. I’m still in Austin trying to get an interview with the boy’s surgeon, but she’s not talking.”

An orderly pushing a gurney came down the hall. Stepping aside to let the bed transporting an elderly man pass by, Rob frowned at the silence on the other end of his connection. Maybe Derrick was worried about Rob making the deadline.

Quickly, Rob said, “I don’t think she’s that important to the piece. I know you said I had until the end of October to get the story in, but I can have the rest of it on your desk in two weeks. A week if you need to rush it. Then I’ll be free to take the Middle East assignment that’s open. It’s my old stomping grounds. With the people I know in the area, I’ll be a real asset to the paper there.”

Stateside reporting was okay, but nothing was as thrilling as reporting from inside a war zone. He missed it—a lot.

“I’m sorry, Rob. I know how much you want that post, but I’m sending Dick Carter.”

Pressing a hand to his forehead in disbelief, Rob said, “You’re joking, right? Carter’s a greenhorn.”

“He’s got a nose for a story and he’s done some great work for us. You’ll want to check out his piece on the baggage handlers at Memdelholm Airfield.”

“Memdelholm was my piece.”

“Your piece about their special handling of packages to deployed servicemen was good—touching even. Carter’s piece about their drug-smuggling ring using phony names and addresses of Americans overseas is dynamite. It’s on today’s front page.”

“What? That’s crazy. I know men in charge there. Drake Manns and Benny Chase are both buddies of mine. They wouldn’t be involved in something illegal.”

“I’m afraid your friends are involved up to their necks. They were both arrested a few hours ago. My sources say they’ve pled guilty and are each trying to cut a deal.”

Thankful that there was a solid wall behind him, Rob leaned back and covered his eyes with his hand. “I can’t believe it. I served with Drake and Benny for three years. Benny saved my life. They’re great guys. They have so much respect for the men still serving.”

“Didn’t you have an inkling that things weren’t right?”

“They were reluctant to talk about their work, but I thought it was humility. Drake said they didn’t want me singing their praises. I trusted them.”

Rob couldn’t believe how much it hurt knowing someone he had served with had deceived him. How could he have been so easily mislead? That a raw newcomer like Carter had uncovered the story stung even more. “Oh, man. I really blew it, didn’t I?”

“You’re a good reporter, Dale. People open up to you. You could charm the U.S. Mint out of its gold and my grandmother out of her secret mincemeat pie recipe, but your trouble is that you prefer to see the good in people. You didn’t dig deep enough.”

“Overseas it was so black and white. We were the good guys, they were the bad guys.”

“That’s your army mentality speaking. You aren’t a soldier anymore. Your obligation is to report all sides of a story, even when it casts some of our servicemen or women in a poor light. The truth needs to be told, even when it hurts. That’s what journalism is.”