goodness of human nature again, it does."
"What happened?" The question came from Cara, who was leaning forward on her elbows, intent on his answer.
"That’s the subject of tomorrow’s column, as a matter of fact. One of the people who read the column got tested and was a match. Doctors are going to schedule the surgery soon.”
"It must be a great feeling," Cara said, "being responsible for finding a match for that girl.”
Bergie shook his head, and absently fingered the turquoise stone on his bolo tie. "I already told you. I didn’t find her a match. I simply wrote the column.”
"But—"
"But you haven’t told me what you want yet, Cara,” he said, changing the subject.
Gray, usually so difficult to get off his bandwagon, transferred his attention to Cara. "I’ve been wondering that myself.”
"I want information," Cara answered, and Bergie thought she made a point of looking at him instead of his son. "That is, if you don’t mind answering questions on an empty stomach.”
"I'm hungry, dear, not famished." Bergie removed his glasses and wiped them with a napkin. His eyes, he knew, were a washed-out blue, like a garment that had been left on a clothesline too long. He kind of felt that way all over. Dry and used up. "Ask away. I've been wondering what an old man like me can do for a young woman like you."
"I want to know about the Rhett family," Cara said, and he saw her take a breath before she continued in a rush. "I'm a freelance writer working on an article about independently owned small-town newspapers. The Sun has succeeded while so many papers around the country have failed. I thought it would be a wonderful addition to the story."
"If you’re a journalist," Gray cut in, sounding skeptical, “why didn’t you say something about it yesterday?"
Bergie watched her eyes flash, her spine stiffen, her voice sharpen. What was going on here?
"We didn't say more than a few words to each other yesterday,” Cara told Gray.
"Yeah, but—"
"Sounds like a good reason to me not to mention it," Bergie interrupted before they could get into a verbal battle. He sent a warning look at Gray, who clenched his teeth and leaned back in his chair.
"But I don’t understand why you picked me to talk to," Bergie continued, once more at ease. He didn't like conflict of any kind, and he was glad he'd diffused it. "The newspaper's crawling with Rhetts. Reggie Jr. is the publisher, and his brother Curtis is the managing editor. Reggie's daughter Karen is a features writer. Any one of them can tell you more about the family business than me."
"Surely you realize you're part of the story," Cara said. "A bonafide celebrity working at a small-town newspaper."
"Wait a minute," Gray said. "You didn't know anything about my father when you came into the office. You were surprised that he wrote Bergie's Sound."
"You have that wrong," Cara countered smoothly, but Bergie noticed she wouldn’t meet his son's eyes. "I was only surprised that you were trying to pass yourself off as him."
"You tried to tell her you were me," Bergie cut in. "Now why would you do a thing like that, son?"
"I didn't—" Gray began.
"Yes, he did," she interrupted. "But now that I’ve found you, Bergie, it hardly matters anymore."
Bergie couldn't help but chuckle. "You have to admit, though, that it is interesting."
Gray didn't appear to share his belief. His face grim, he lapsed into silence once more. Again Bergie wondered what was going on. He'd been interviewed on plenty of occasions.
"I wanted to start with the publisher, but the newspaper receptionist told me that Reginald Jr. is out of town," Cara said, getting down to business. "Since you've been working at the newspaper for so long, Bergie, I was hoping I could get a little background from you before I talk to the others."
Bergie picked up his beer and took a drink, seeing no reason he shouldn't relate the history of the Rhetts. For the next hour, through the ordering, delivery
"What happened?" The question came from Cara, who was leaning forward on her elbows, intent on his answer.
"That’s the subject of tomorrow’s column, as a matter of fact. One of the people who read the column got tested and was a match. Doctors are going to schedule the surgery soon.”
"It must be a great feeling," Cara said, "being responsible for finding a match for that girl.”
Bergie shook his head, and absently fingered the turquoise stone on his bolo tie. "I already told you. I didn’t find her a match. I simply wrote the column.”
"But—"
"But you haven’t told me what you want yet, Cara,” he said, changing the subject.
Gray, usually so difficult to get off his bandwagon, transferred his attention to Cara. "I’ve been wondering that myself.”
"I want information," Cara answered, and Bergie thought she made a point of looking at him instead of his son. "That is, if you don’t mind answering questions on an empty stomach.”
"I'm hungry, dear, not famished." Bergie removed his glasses and wiped them with a napkin. His eyes, he knew, were a washed-out blue, like a garment that had been left on a clothesline too long. He kind of felt that way all over. Dry and used up. "Ask away. I've been wondering what an old man like me can do for a young woman like you."
"I want to know about the Rhett family," Cara said, and he saw her take a breath before she continued in a rush. "I'm a freelance writer working on an article about independently owned small-town newspapers. The Sun has succeeded while so many papers around the country have failed. I thought it would be a wonderful addition to the story."
"If you’re a journalist," Gray cut in, sounding skeptical, “why didn’t you say something about it yesterday?"
Bergie watched her eyes flash, her spine stiffen, her voice sharpen. What was going on here?
"We didn't say more than a few words to each other yesterday,” Cara told Gray.
"Yeah, but—"
"Sounds like a good reason to me not to mention it," Bergie interrupted before they could get into a verbal battle. He sent a warning look at Gray, who clenched his teeth and leaned back in his chair.
"But I don’t understand why you picked me to talk to," Bergie continued, once more at ease. He didn't like conflict of any kind, and he was glad he'd diffused it. "The newspaper's crawling with Rhetts. Reggie Jr. is the publisher, and his brother Curtis is the managing editor. Reggie's daughter Karen is a features writer. Any one of them can tell you more about the family business than me."
"Surely you realize you're part of the story," Cara said. "A bonafide celebrity working at a small-town newspaper."
"Wait a minute," Gray said. "You didn't know anything about my father when you came into the office. You were surprised that he wrote Bergie's Sound."
"You have that wrong," Cara countered smoothly, but Bergie noticed she wouldn’t meet his son's eyes. "I was only surprised that you were trying to pass yourself off as him."
"You tried to tell her you were me," Bergie cut in. "Now why would you do a thing like that, son?"
"I didn't—" Gray began.
"Yes, he did," she interrupted. "But now that I’ve found you, Bergie, it hardly matters anymore."
Bergie couldn't help but chuckle. "You have to admit, though, that it is interesting."
Gray didn't appear to share his belief. His face grim, he lapsed into silence once more. Again Bergie wondered what was going on. He'd been interviewed on plenty of occasions.
"I wanted to start with the publisher, but the newspaper receptionist told me that Reginald Jr. is out of town," Cara said, getting down to business. "Since you've been working at the newspaper for so long, Bergie, I was hoping I could get a little background from you before I talk to the others."
Bergie picked up his beer and took a drink, seeing no reason he shouldn't relate the history of the Rhetts. For the next hour, through the ordering, delivery