Love, Come to Me

  “Go on,” he said softly, resting his chin in his hand and staring at her.

  “If you’re interested in the rest of what he said, I . . . took a few notes on his lecture that you could read.” She shrugged with overdone carelessness. “Or I can tell you about it. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Notes,” Heath repeated, instantly curious. He wondered what she was up to, and he bent all of his effort towards suppressing a smile at her display of elaborate unconcern. “Yes, I’d like to see them.” Evidently that was the response Lucy had wanted, for she stood up without hesitation and went to her dressing table.

  “They’re right here.” She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thin sheaf of paper. “Just a few scribbles.”

  As she handed her work to him, Lucy was assailed with a multitude of regrets. She wanted to snatch it back before he could read it. She didn’t know what had possessed her to write about the lecture. It seemed like such a good idea this morning, but suddenly she was very sorry that she had followed through with it. It was just that Heath was always talking about his reporters, about their accomplishments and the mistakes they made, and she had wanted to see if she could write an article. Lucy wondered miserably if her efforts would embarrass him. Only the fear of seeming even more foolish than she felt at the moment kept her from saying anything. She wrung her hands behind her back, too agitated to sit down.

  Halfway through the first page, Heath glanced up at her sharply. “This is hardly what I’d call a few scribbles, Cin.”

  She shrugged casually and looked away from him as he continued to read. When he was finished, Heath set the article on the table carefully. There was an odd expression on his face, one which she couldn’t decipher. “It’s perfect. I couldn’t suggest a single improvement. How long did it take you to write this?”

  “Oh, just an hour or two.” It had taken all afternoon, but there was no need for him to know that.

  “The structure, the length, the style . . . it’s all just the way . . .” He broke off and gave her a quizzical half-smile. “Do you know how hard Damon and I have to prod our reporters to get something like this?”

  Feeling a glow of pleasure at his praise, she fought hard to keep an idiotic smile off her face. “I just wanted to try my hand at it.”

  “I’d like to give it to Damon.”

  “Do you mean for the Examiner?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “I don’t think it’s good enough,” she hedged.

  “This isn’t a time for modesty,” he said flatly. “It’s good enough.”

  “Do you think so?” She beamed at him. “If you want to, then take it to Damon, but don’t tell him who wrote it. Just sign it with some made-up initials, and if he doesn’t like it, no one will have to know.”

  “I won’t tell him who wrote it,” he assured her. “But he’ll probably suspect.”

  “Are you just trying to humor me and spare my feelings, or do you really like the article?”

  “I’m not trying to spare your feelings.” Heath glanced down at the article and ran his fingertips over the top page, still amazed by the clear preciseness of her writing. A sensation of pride crept through his chest as he realized what she had done. “In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that I’m surprised.”

  “Ashamed?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised by something like this. Not from you.” He stood up and went over to her, nudging her chin with his forefinger and tipping her face upwards. Did she know how different she was from the girl he had married? A year ago, she had possessed something, a hint of something special, that had attracted him against his will. Now that unnameable hint of magic had developed into something far more potent. God help him when she finally learned to use it. “What a marvel you are.” He smiled slowly. “Do something for me, Lucy.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t ever let me start to think of you as merely my . . . playmate.”

  “Is there a danger of that?”

  He cast a roguish glance towards the bed. “I’m afraid that in my appreciation for some of your talents, I might tend to overlook some of the others.”

  “Can I think of you as my playmate?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Always.” He slipped her robe off her shoulders and stroked the upper rise of her breasts with his thumbs, aware of the faint, breathy sound she made in response. “Are you tired of talking?” he whispered, catching delicately at her earlobe with his teeth. “Then come to bed and play, Cinda. I’ve got a new game for you tonight.” And she followed him willingly, entranced by the beguiling wickedness of his smile.

  Lucy’s article was printed in the paper, and it was not long before Heath encouraged her to write another one. The second was much more difficult to write than the first, but as she discovered how readily Heath responded to her hesitant questions, she became less shy about asking for his help. He sat down with her and made suggestions about how her work could be improved, while she managed to swallow her indignation about having her favorite paragraph removed. And she realized how good he was at what he did, and how he could make the prospect of rewriting an article seem like a pleasure instead of a chore. No wonder Damon had complimented his editorial abilities so highly.

  Heath had a gift for putting things plainly, and that was a valuable talent. Most writers were never quite able to say exactly what they meant. Not Heath. He knew exactly what he meant and he wanted everyone else to know, too. The Examiner, as he saw it, would have to reflect that same attitude, audacious and a little brassy. He wanted his reporters to be daring. And he demanded that they report on things that “the other reporters at the other papers” hadn’t even heard about. His conception of news was radical compared to the standards of the day. Most papers were merely showcases for an editorial voice. But the Examiner placed unheard-of importance on the efforts of its reporters: don’t wait for news to happen, go out and find it, make it, define it. Only a few of the reporters understood what Heath wanted of them, and they worked hard to satisfy his expectations.

  Living with Heath had given Lucy an advantage over all of them—she understood more about him, his feelings for language and his work than any of them would ever be able to grasp. A newspaperman was traditionally a witness of the times he lived in. But she knew that Heath wanted to be more than that, though he hadn’t said as much out loud. He wanted to be able to influence events, people, and decisions through the simple power of words on paper. The causes he believed in wouldn’t be solved any other way. Therefore, the first objective was to make the Examiner the most informed and powerful newspaper in Boston. Lucy believed it was possible, and she was going to lend her efforts toward bringing it about. She had her own talent with words and a growing self-confidence that would help her to choose them well. And more significantly, she had connections with influential people in Boston that neither Heath nor Damon had access to—not the bigwigs themselves, but their wives.

  Time and time again she proved her worth as a source of information, as she had on the day when no one could pry a word out of a state senator concerning the proposed takeover of the East Boston ferries by the city. Lucy found out every detail about the ferry proposal from the senator’s wife as they sipped tea at a club meeting. Through the women she associated with, she found out who was planning what and who was going where, and she discreetly passed on the information to her husband. Examiner reporters began to pop up in unexpected places, just in time to catch the latest stories, and their reports were gaining the reputation of being more updated than anyone else’s. The choicest stories, however, Lucy reserved for herself to write, and her skills improved steadily.

  She loved being able to share in Heath’s work. It was gratifying to find that sometimes they could communicate on a purely intellectual level. In Lucy’s past experience, she had discovered that most men didn’t like to see a woman’s intellectual side. But Heath wasn’t threatened by her intelligence: he enjoyed trading ideas with her. In fa
ct, he seemed to enjoy everything about her, even her occasional moments of contrariness or bad temper. Sometimes he went out of his way to rouse her out of her primness and good manners, provoking her into an argument. He loved to argue with her, tease and charm her. He held the keys to all of her passions, and he made certain that she lived and experienced each one of them as lustily as he did. Her memories of life before her marriage seemed like a pale reflection of this. What had she known of happiness then? What had she known about anything?

  On the twenty-sixth of January, Virginia, having accepted the Fifteenth Amendment, was readmitted to the Union. The news spurred a giant flurry of activity in the offices of every newspaper on Washington Street; everyone was talking about the controversial test-oaths of loyalty that the senate demanded of all public officials, as well as the numerous provisos concerning voting rights, holding elected offices, and public schools. Then in February, Mississippi ratified the amendment, and the state seemed to turn upside down as dozens of incidents of violence against blacks followed. There was a great deal of news to cover.

  Heath began the practice of working extra hours and coming home exhausted every night. None of Lucy’s pleas to slow down and rest had any effect on him. Seemingly tireless, he pushed everyone nearly as hard as he did himself, adding a Sunday edition of the paper and an extra two pages to the daily issues. As a result, everyone at the Examiner had the satisfaction of seeing the subscription rate jump by five thousand readers, putting it on a level with the Journal. Heath and Damon were exuberant at the progress the paper had made. Now they were no longer just surviving. They were competitive. And there were jokes around town that the owners of the Herald were beginning to look over their shoulders in fear of “Examination.”

  Lucy was delighted by Heath’s success, but at the same time she was worried by his ceaseless activity. He worked every waking hour of the day, took her to social events during the weekend, and discarded sleep as if it were an easily expendable commodity. Even Damon had admitted the last time he visited that he couldn’t keep up with Heath’s pace. Gradually the punishing schedule began to take its toll. Heath’s temper became much shorter than before. He developed a slight but persistent hoarseness from being outside in the cold weather so often, and the smooth drawl of his voice was replaced by a husky rasping that wouldn’t seem to go away. Upon noticing the new honed look about his cheekbones and realizing that he had lost weight, Lucy put her foot down.

  “Lucy,” Heath said, striding into the bedroom and straightening his necktie, “are you almost ready? We’re going to be . . .” He stopped short as he saw that she was still dressed in her robe, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m not going tonight,” she said stubbornly.

  His mouth hardened with impatience. “Honey, I already explained to you that we don’t have a choice. This is an Associated Press dinner, and there are some people I have to talk with—”

  “You also said that Damon would be there. He can talk to them.”

  “There’s no time to argue—”

  “Then let’s not.” She looked at him and couldn’t control the moisture that welled up in the corners of her eyes. He was as handsome and immaculately dressed as ever, but the distinctive glow of vitality he had always possessed had been drained by overwork, and there were faint shadows underneath his blue eyes. His expression was harsh and tired. What was making him so discontented that he would try to work himself to death? Was it some inadequacy of hers? Was it some nagging worry that he couldn’t bring himself to talk about? “I don’t like going out every weekend,” she said, her voice becoming wobbly. “We haven’t had time to sit down and just . . . just be together.”

  “It won’t be like this forever,” Heath said quietly. “There are just a lot of things to take care of right now, and—”

  “But you don’t have to do it all by yourself!” she cried. “You never trust anyone to take care of some of that work . . . and . . . and that’s just arrogance, to think that you’re the only one who can do it!”

  “Lucy . . .” As he saw the tears that dropped from her eyes, he sighed and rubbed his temples. “All right. In another few weeks I’ll start looking for ways to delegate responsibility.”

  That didn’t satisfy her. In fact, it only made her want to cry harder. “I don’t know how much longer you can go on like this, but I c-can’t!”

  Muttering a curse, he took off his shoes, coat, and necktie, picked her up, and sat down on the bed with her in his lap. Lucy huddled against his chest, burying her wet face into his neck. He was warm and solid, his heartbeat steady underneath her hand. “Shhhh . . . it’s all right,” he said into her hair, cradling her tightly. “We’re not going tonight. We’ll stay here.”

  “I’m not as h-happy as I used to be—”

  “I know. I know, honey. I’ll make it right. Everything’s going to be fine from now on.”

  “You don’t l-laugh as much as you used to.”

  “I will. Starting tomorrow.”

  “You spend all your energy on that paper . . . a-and I only get you when you’re all t-tired out.”

  “God.” He smiled and nuzzled through her hair, kissing the soft hollow behind her earlobe. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry so hard, sweet . . . shhhh . . .”

  He murmured to her and cradled her, stroking her hair until her tears stopped. A tentative, eagerly welcomed relief stole over Lucy as they eased back together on the bed. Nothing was wrong as long as he was with her and his arms were around her. “Stay with me,” she said, tightening her hold on him as she felt his weight shift. “Don’t go. Let’s just . . . let’s just rest a little while. And we’ll eat dinner up here later.”

  Since it was still early evening, Lucy expected him to refuse. There were always papers and articles for Heath to look through before he went to bed each night. But at the moment he was surprisingly tractable, making no protest as she left him and dimmed the lights. When she returned to the bed, he made a sleepy sound and gathered her close, resting his head on her bosom. Lucy welcomed the weight of him, letting her fingers drift through his tawny hair as she stared blindly into the fireplace. His body took on a relaxed heaviness as he slept. But this sleep was different from his usual, peaceful, contented slumber. This was ominously still. This sleep was deep and exhausted, a hungry sleep that had consumed him far too quickly. He did not even stir at the gentle tapping on the bedroom door.

  “Yes?” Lucy responded in a low tone, looking at the doorway. “What is it?”

  Bess peered around the corner cautiously. “Mrs. Rayne, the coachman—”

  “Thank him for his trouble and tell him that he won’t be needed tonight,” Lucy said, unsmiling. “Tell him to put the carriage away. And then make certain that we are not disturbed again tonight.” She knew that her manner was unnecessarily brusque, but the maid did not seem to take offense.

  “Yes, Mrs. Rayne.”

  The door closed again, and the room was enshrouded in darkness except for the soft red glow of the coals on the grate. There was little sound, just the occasional crackle of the coals and the deep, slow rhythm of Heath’s breathing. Lucy stayed awake beyond midnight, as if her watchfulness were the only thing that would guarantee her husband’s slumber. Perhaps someday she would find amusement in the memory of how tense and uncertain these hours had been, at how she had given in to unreasoning fear and curved her arms around him as if to protect him from the world that waited outside. Perhaps someday she would remember this and laugh. But not now. Not now.

  “You have a fever,” she insisted, following him back and forth as he dressed and prepared to leave.

  “Maybe I do,” Heath said matter-of-factly. He dried his freshly shaven face with a towel and strode back into the bedroom. “It’s winter. Everyone has a little temperature now and then. It’s damn well not going to stop me from working.”

  Lucy made an exasperated sound. “If I’d known how stubborn you were going to be, I would have tied you to the bed while you were s
leeping!”

  He grinned at her and stretched, feeling more energetic than he had in weeks. “I’m glad we stayed home last night. A little extra rest is just what I needed.”

  “You still need it. You obviously think one night’s sleep is going to undo weeks of self-abuse. Well, it’s not!” As Lucy noticed how carefree he looked, she became so irritated that snapping at him was all she could think of to do. Was there any other way to get through to him? “And if you don’t come home early tonight, and keep all the promises you made to me about—”

  “Don’t nag, honey.” He dropped a kiss on her nose and left the room to head downstairs.

  Lucy’s fists balled as she struggled to keep her voice from becoming as shrill as a fishwife’s. “What about breakfast?” she managed to ask in a reasonably controlled manner.

  His raspy voice floated to her from the hallway. “No time, Cin. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Despite the auspicious beginning to his day, Heath’s good mood disappeared an hour after he walked into his office. He sat down at his desk to read. A minor headache that he hadn’t been aware of before blossomed into a full-fledged, skull-cracking throbbing. A headache that seemed to be connected to every bone in his body, right down to his heels. He ignored it and concentrated on the words in front of him until they shifted back and forth across the page. Doggedly he worked until it was almost noon, and Damon’s familiar knock sounded at the door. With every rap on the door, there was a corresponding vibration in Heath’s head.

  “You don’t have to hammer,” he said, scowling, and Damon entered the office with a mock display of timidity.

  “Excuse me. I can see that you aren’t eager for interruptions this morning. I just wanted to check with you on the ideas for the editorial.”

  “I can’t remember finding any problems with it . . . it was . . .” Heath paused and rubbed his eyes. “What the hell was it about . . . Hiram Revels?”