Belle Pointe. Karen Young

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СКАЧАТЬ about his injury. He’s undergoing pretty intensive physical therapy in St. Louis.”

      “How long are we talking here?”

      She shrugged. “Who knows? It was a serious injury. He could be out for the season.”

      He studied her thoughtfully. “And you’re here…working for your daddy?” He let his eyes roam around the office. “What does Buck think about that?”

      She crossed her legs and gave him a speaking look. “In this interview, I ask the questions, Pearce.”

      “O-kaaay…” He studied her, narrow-eyed, letting her know he guessed interesting things were going on in his brother’s marriage, but he wouldn’t press her…for now. “So, where do you want to start? The voters know my background, but it won’t hurt to remind them that we Whitakers go back five generations here.”

      Anne wished for a tape recorder, but since she’d occupied the tiny office for less than half a day, she hadn’t collected supplies, not even a notepad. At least there was a computer, albeit an aging one. She grabbed a few sheets of paper from the printer and prepared to take notes. “I have a standard list of questions that I use when interviewing,” she told him, “but don’t worry, I won’t use everything we discuss. It just helps to know as much about an individual as possible.”

      “Well, sweetheart, you know about all anybody could know about me,” he said, propping an ankle on his knee. “We’re family, aren’t we?”

      “What I meant was this, Pearce. To decide how to shape the piece that eventually emerges, some of my questions that may strike you as personal, but most of that won’t show up in print.” She gave him a professional smile. “Okay?”

      With the survival instincts of most good politicians, he took a while to consider the implications of that. “Hmm, I’m getting a little nervous.” He didn’t look nervous. Instead he looked relaxed and confident. Leaning back, he reached inside his jacket and brought out a cigar. “Do you mind if I light this?”

      She glanced at the wall where a No Smoking sign was posted and clearly visible. “I’m new here at the Spectator,” she reminded him, “but it appears there’s a no smoking policy.”

      “I sure wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with your boss,” he said, winking at her as he tucked the cigar back in his pocket.

      “Thank you,” she replied dryly. With her pen poised, she asked, “What person do you most admire, living or dead?”

      He laughed and shook his finger at her playfully. “Looking to trip me up, aren’t you? If I say George Washington, I alienate half of the voters in the district. If I say Martin Luther King, I alienate the other half. Can’t win for losing.”

      “I’m not looking to trip you up, Pearce. Knowing whom you admire gives me an idea of your value system.”

      “I’ll match my value system with my opponent’s any day,” he said darkly, suddenly losing all trace of good humor.

      “Your opponent,” Anne said, her pen flying across the paper. “That would be Jack Breedlove.”

      He shifted in his chair, both feet now on the floor. “He’s the chief of police…at the moment. Have you ever known an honest cop?”

      “It sounds as if you’re accusing Mr. Breedlove of something illegal. Would you care to be specific?”

      He looked at her notepad and swore under his breath. “Erase that, sweetheart. It’s off the record. I shouldn’t have said it.”

      She made a mark on the paper. “Do you call every woman you talk to ‘sweetheart’?”

      He winked at her again. “No, only the pretty ones.”

      She made another note and without looking up asked, “What made you decide to run for the state senate?”

      “Hey, wait a minute. I’m kidding. You put that in the article and every feminist in Mississippi will turn out against me.”

      She put her pen down and folded her hands on top of the desk. “Okay, if you act as if you’re taking this interview seriously, I’ll do the same.”

      “Agreed. So…let’s start with why I think my opponent’s qualifications to hold the office are pitiful.”

      She hid a smile. He was determined to control the interview and it suited her to let him think he was doing just that…for now. She could hardly wait to write up her notes and put in a call to his “pitiful” opponent.

      The ring of his cell phone woke Buck from a half doze. Groggily, he stared at the caller ID. His mind cleared instantly upon seeing the area code for Mississippi. His wife…finally. “Anne?”

      “No, Buck,” Victoria Whitaker replied. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

      “Ma. Hey.” He cleared his throat and settled back in the chair. “How are you?”

      “I’m fine. How’s that knee coming along?”

      “I can’t complain.” Between his mother and Pearce, he’d received more phone calls from Mississippi in the last few days than he had in the past five years. “Everything okay there?”

      “We’re in the throes of spring planting, as you know. Up early, working late. It’s demanding.” Many women in her situation spent their days playing bridge or golf at the country club or shopping in Memphis, but not his mother. She was busy ramrodding the hired help at Belle Pointe.

      “I hear you.” And his mother wasn’t one to call and chat either. Something was up.

      “I was surprised to see Anne at Beatrice’s shop this morning,” she said. “It seems odd that she’s here and you’re there.”

      “Anne claims when I’m injured I’m like a bear with a sore paw, so she took off to visit Franklin and Beatrice.” And he’d be joining her in a week. It was killing him to wait, but he was afraid of a setback if he put too much stress on his knee too soon.

      “Yes, she mentioned that you didn’t tolerate much coddling. What was it she said…hmm, something like you’d have the entire Jacks organization looking out for you. That you wouldn’t need her.”

      Buck rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. His head ached. It wasn’t the concussion. His mother always gave him a headache. “How’s Pearce’s campaign going?”

      “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. Pearce is preoccupied with his campaign, which is a complication. It makes us shorthanded at Belle Pointe.”

      “Ma, you’re not trying to tell me he ever gets his hands dirty at planting season or any other time, are you?” he asked.

      “I can only tell you I miss every pair of hands, especially now that Will Wainwright gave notice.”

      “Will has quit?” Buck’s mouth fell open.

      “Retired.” She gave an offended huff. “He gave me some excuse about wanting to see more of his grandchildren. It was terribly inconvenient.”

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