In Every Heartbeat Part 12

"Really? That's quite an accomplishment for one so young."

The compliment filled Libby with pleasure. "Thank you."

"I a.s.sume you're referring to fictional stories involving love affairs between unlikely partners?"

Libby, recalling the t.i.tle of her first story, nearly gasped at the woman's astute a.s.sessment. She nodded in reply.

Miss Whitford examined Libby by inches, her deep-set brown eyes drifting from Libby's hair all the way to her toes and then up again. "And have you drawn from your own experiences to aid you in the construction of these stories?"

"W-what do you mean?"

The woman laughed. "Oh, come now, Miss Conley. A young woman as beautiful as yourself must have been the recipient of male attention. They say to write what one knows. Do you know of love affairs . . . personally?"

Libby thought her nose might catch fire, her face burned so hot. "No, ma'am! I've used my imagination . . . honestly."

Another laugh trickled. "Now, don't be offended. Writers are an obnoxious lot, as you'll discover if you continue in this ridiculous occupation." She smoothed the ruffles that fluttered across her bodice and arched one spa.r.s.e eyebrow. "So tell me, Miss Conley, do you intend to continue writing love stories for magazines, or do you aspire to novels one day?"

"Actually . . ." Libby paused, half afraid of what the woman would say. "I hope to become a journalist. I'd like to record world events rather than make up stories. I'm using the magazine stories to establish my name as a writer."

Miss Whitford flipped her hand outward and made a little pffft pffft sound with her lips. "Journalism . . . a complete waste of time." sound with her lips. "Journalism . . . a complete waste of time."

Libby jerked backward. "Excuse me?"

"Can you recall for me, Miss Conley, the name of a popular author?"

Although Libby believed she might be walking into a trap, she swallowed and offered a short list of authors. "Frances Hodgson Burnett, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Zane Grey . . ." Petey was particularly fond of Zane Grey. She pushed that errant thought aside.

A smile curved Miss Whitford's thin lips. "Excellent choices. And I'm quite positive those names will be recognized by readers twenty, thirty, even fifty years from now." The smile turned conniving. "Now give me the name of the writer of the headline story for today's edition of the Missouri Courier Missouri Courier."

Libby stared at the woman in silence.

Miss Whitford nodded, her expression smug. "Precisely what I presumed."

Libby surprised herself by arguing with the author. "I might not know the man who wrote today's headline, but I do know the names of several renowned journalists. William Stead, for example."

"Yes, and look what happened to him," Miss Whitford countered evenly. "I won't deny he was a more-than-decent reporter, but part of the reason he's well-known is because of his untimely demise in such an unusual manner. How many s.h.i.+ps sink on their maiden voyage? The situation lent itself to infamy."

Libby was beginning to feel like a pa.s.senger on the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic, going down with no hope of survival. "But-"

"Miss Conley, if you want to make a name for yourself, you need to become a novelist. Considering the success you've already experienced, I would say your chances are quite good."

Libby held out her hands in supplication. "But I want to write serious stories. Real Real stories." She'd already had to give up her dream of becoming the daughter of Maelle Watts Harders. She wouldn't allow her dream of becoming a journalist to die without a fight. "I want to change the world!" stories." She'd already had to give up her dream of becoming the daughter of Maelle Watts Harders. She wouldn't allow her dream of becoming a journalist to die without a fight. "I want to change the world!"

Libby nearly cringed at her own emotional outburst, but to Miss Whitford's credit, she didn't even blink. Instead, she leaned forward slightly and took Libby's hand. "My dear, if you want to discover your place in the writing world, then you must explore. You're a college student?"

She nodded. "At the University of Southern Missouri."

"In the journalism program, I presume?"

She nodded again.

"And you're finding it agreeable?"

Libby held her breath. Very slowly, she shook her head from side to side.

Miss Whitford's lips twitched. "And why is it not agreeable?"

"Because I'm rolling over and crawling instead of running." The author's forehead furrowed, and Libby rushed to explain her cryptic answer. "So far, the articles I've written aren't terribly important on a large scale. I want to write something bigger, something important. But I haven't yet had the chance."

"Then seize the chance!" Miss Whitford's eyes sparkled with intensity, her plain face taking on a liveliness that made her look more attractive. "You're writing love stories on your own. So write an article on your own. Continue in your coursework-you've paid for it, and the instructors will provide important guidance. But don't limit yourself to their instruction. Do more. Choose a topic that interests you or adopt a cause that makes your blood boil. Write something of meaning meaning. It's the only way you'll know for sure that this dream you're harboring is worth pursuing."

She leaned so close, her breath brushed Libby's face. "Writers must write. You've discovered that by venturing outside the bounds of journalism to create fictional stories. But where does your true pa.s.sion lie? Do some seeking, Elisabet Conley, and discover your pa.s.sion-fictional stories or real-life events?" She sat upright, her face relaxing into the unperturbed, almost bored expression she'd been wearing before Libby came to sit beside her. "Some dreams are meant to be that-only dreams, dissipating with the morning light. But you won't know for sure until you've tasted them."

Libby nodded thoughtfully. She started to thank Miss Whit-ford for her advice, but Mrs. Daley bustled over and caught Libby's hand. "Elisabet, go sit with Alice-Marie now. The program is about to begin."

Libby rose and scurried to the far side of the room, where Alice-Marie had pulled two chairs close together near the parlor doorway. She listened to the author's presentation, but nothing the woman said during her prepared talk on the world of publis.h.i.+ng held as much intrigue as what she had shared privately.

The moment Miss Whitford finished, Libby slipped out of the parlor and headed for the study, where she'd seen the Daleys' maid lay the morning paper for Alice-Marie's father's use. Eagerness to put the author's advice into action propelled her down the hallway.

Closing the raised-panel pocket doors behind her, she bustled to the carved oak desk in front of the heavily draped windows on the far side of the study. Feeling like an intruder, she sat at the desk and opened the newspaper. She scanned the headings, exploring, as Miss Whitford had recommended, waiting for something to capture her attention so thoroughly it made her blood boil.

And on the seventh page-nearly the very end of the newspaper- a tiny block of print on the lower right-hand side sent her pulse racing.

Sixteen-year-old convicted of robbery and murder of drugstore clerk. Sentencing took place October 16, 1914, by the honorable Judge Merlin Simmons. The youth will be hanged by the neck on the 18th of December in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse. The judge said, "Perhaps his death will serve as an example to other street ruffians to abandon their lives of crime." of December in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse. The judge said, "Perhaps his death will serve as an example to other street ruffians to abandon their lives of crime."

Libby dropped the paper and stared straight ahead, her heart beating so hard and fast her ears rang. Sentenced to hang-and only sixteen years old. What kind of boy committed murder? Suddenly she had to know more. These simple lines couldn't possibly tell the entire story.

On tiptoe, she left the study, then dashed up the stairs to Alice-Marie's room. She retrieved her coat and then crept back down, holding her breath as she pa.s.sed the parlor doorway. But she needn't have worried. A question-and-answer session, with Miss Whitford at the center, held everyone's attention. No one even looked up as she unlatched the front door and slipped outside.

She intended to visit the office of the newspaper that had printed the brief article and discover where this youth was being held. Then she would find a way to visit him. She would uncover his story and tell it in its entirety. Once she'd written a real story, she'd know where her pa.s.sions lay-in the telling of imaginary tales or in reporting real-life events.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Bennett paced his small room, his hands balled into fists and his shoulders tense. Would this rain never cease? It had started early that morning, right after Alice-Marie and Libby left for Alice-Marie's house, and continued all day. He'd planned to spend the morning working on the grounds-earning a little pocket money-and then get several guys together for a baseball game in the afternoon before it got too cold to play. But now evening neared, and he'd spent the entire day cooped up in his room with a roommate who never took his nose out of his books.

Bennett slammed his fist against the window frame and growled. "Dry up, huh?"

His roommate-a short, bespectacled kid named Winston- looked up from his book and frowned. "Are you speaking to me?"

"Talking to the rain."

Winston sat in thoughtful silence for several seconds. Then he said, "I think that would be a singularly dissatisfying pastime, considering the rain is incapable of response."

Bennett had no answer for a comment like that, so he turned back to the window and tried counting the raindrops that ran down the square panes. If Alice-Marie were here, he'd go over and sit with her in Rhodes Hall's common room. The house matron was always right there, keeping an eye on everything they did, but if they held a magazine high enough, he could sneak a kiss before the nosy old woman cleared her throat and they were forced to lower the cover. So far Alice-Marie had let him kiss her three times. And the kisses had left him hungering for more.

Alice-Marie had invited him to go home with her this weekend, along with Libby. He'd been tempted, but he feared acceptance would give Alice-Marie the wrong idea. He didn't want her around forever. He just wanted to have some fun with her right now.

Thunder rolled in the distance, letting Bennett know the rain intended to stay for a while longer. He snorted. Maybe he should've gone to St. Louis County with Alice-Marie. Giving her the wrong idea and having to backtrack later would have been better than being stuck in this room with Winston.

Stomping to the door, Bennett yanked his jacket from a hook. Winston set his book aside and offered a disapproving look. "Are you going out?"

Bennett jammed his hands into his coat sleeves. "Sure am."

"But it's raining."

"Nothing gets past you, does it, Winnie?"

Winston's scowl deepened. "Would you like the use of an umbrella?"

Bennett paused, his hand on the doork.n.o.b. "You have one?"

"I do."

"I would like to use it, if you don't mind."

Winston carefully set his book aside and then knelt on the floor. His rear in the air, he pawed around under the bed, withdrawing several books, two pairs of socks, and finally a black umbrella. He held it out to Bennett. "My father gave it to me for my seventeenth birthday."

Bennett plucked it from Winston's hand and swung it around by its curved wooden handle. "Great gift."

Winston ducked to avoid being bopped. "Please take care with it. He purchased it on one of his visits to England."

Why'd they stick him with this boring kid, anyway? He and Winston had nothing in common. Next year Bennett planned to reside in a fraternity house instead of in the dorms. If he came back at all.

"I'll be careful. See you later." He hurried downstairs, but once he reached the ground floor, he couldn't decide where to go. He couldn't visit Alice-Marie or Libby-they were both gone. Pete would probably be studying-he was getting as boring as ol' Winston.

He tapped the tip of the umbrella against the floor, and the tapping reminded him of Pete's habit of tapping his peg leg. Even though he figured Pete would be studying, he'd go see him anyway. It would do Pete good to close the books and have some fun for a change. Maybe they'd play a game of gin rummy. He still had a pack of cards in his jacket pocket from the last time he'd played. Pete wouldn't gamble, but they could play for pleasure.

After a few moments of fumbling, Bennett figured out how to raise the umbrella, and he darted across the slick gra.s.s to Landry Hall. He shook the raindrops from the umbrella before setting it in the corner of the foyer and clattering up the stairs. His wet shoes left footprints behind, but the floor would dry in time. Without bothering to knock, he twisted the k.n.o.b on Pete's door and swung it wide. As he'd suspected, Pete was at his desk, bent over a sheet of paper with a pencil in his hand.

"Hey, buddy, working on anything important?"

Pete jerked upright. "Bennett . . . you startled me."

"Sorry." Bennett kicked off his wet shoes and flopped across Pete's cot. The springs creaked loudly in protest. "I came over to see if you wanted to play a game of cards or something. Some of the guys taught me a game called gin rummy-it's pretty fun." He patted his pocket where the deck of cards created a lump. "Want to?"

Pete sighed and ma.s.saged his temples. "I'd like to, Bennett, but I need to-"

"-work," Bennett finished for him. He bounced up from the bed and crossed to the window. Bracing one hand on the window frame, he frowned at his friend. "Honestly, Pete, you're turning into a real spoilsport. When's the last time you did anything fun?"

"When I pitched for your baseball game."

Bennett turned quickly to look out the window so Pete wouldn't see his face pinch with anger. The campus chatter about Pete's surprising performance had finally died down, but half the students still called him Peg leg Pete. They hadn't given Bennett any special nickname to set him apart.

"That was weeks ago, buddy." It took real effort, but Bennett kept his voice even. "I'd say it's time for something again."

"Too wet to play baseball," Pete mused. He s.h.i.+fted his attention back to the papers on his desk.

"So who says baseball's the only way to have a good time?"

Bennett took two long strides that brought him to the edge of Pete's desk. "Aw, c'mon, Pete. Take a break. Play a round of gin rummy with me. I'm about to go out of my mind with boredom."

Pete's pencil continued scratching across the page. "Read a good book. Work on next week's a.s.signments. There's got to be something you can do."

"I don't feel like reading, and I save Sunday afternoon for homework. This is Sat.u.r.day. Fellas ought to have fun on Sat.u.r.days."

Pete rubbed the back of his neck, yawning. "Tell you what, let me finish this and then I'll try my hand at . . . what did you call that game?"

"Gin rummy."

Pete made a face. "Sounds like an alcoholic drink."

At Pete's tone, Bennett experienced a flash of irritation. "Quit being so stodgy." He sat on the bed again and threw his arms wide. "Just because you're studying to become a minister, does it mean you have to act like one now? Can't you be a regular guy now and then?"

Pete put his pencil down and turned in his chair to face Bennett. "You want an honest answer? No, Bennett, I can't just be a regular guy. I haven't been a 'regular guy' since that trolley rolled over my leg eleven years ago."

Without meaning to, Bennett glanced at the empty pant leg dangling from the edge of the chair. Pete hadn't strapped on his peg leg today-he must not have been out at all. Bennett lifted his gaze to Pete's face. "But having a peg leg doesn't mean you have to be so . . . right right all the time. Honestly, Pete, it'd do you some good to relax now and then. Even at the orphans' school, you were always everybody's perfect little angel-never did anything wrong." all the time. Honestly, Pete, it'd do you some good to relax now and then. Even at the orphans' school, you were always everybody's perfect little angel-never did anything wrong."

And Bennett had never been able to compete with Pete in the good-boy department. Maybe that's part of the reason he'd become such a h.e.l.lion. At least the t.i.tle got him attention. "You aren't a preacher yet. Stop acting like one."

Pete's face took on that fervent older-than-his-years look Bennett had come to detest. "No matter what I'm doing-whether it's throwing a baseball or working on my a.s.signments or sitting here talking to you-G.o.d's Spirit is with me. I represent Him. And I want to represent Him well. When people look at me, I want them to see G.o.d's love played out before their eyes."

Bennett made a derisive face. "That's all fine and good. But you want to know what I think, Pete? I think you're doing everything for Him, and He's doing nothing for you."

Pete stared at Bennett as if he'd lost his mind. And maybe he had, because once he started talking, he couldn't seem to stop. "If He's so good and loves you so much, why'd He let you get hurt in the first place?" Why'd He let me be abandoned? Why'd He let me be abandoned? "Where was He that day you slipped getting off the trolley?" "Where was He that day you slipped getting off the trolley?" Or the years I spent scrabbling to take care of myself on the street? Or the years I spent scrabbling to take care of myself on the street?

Pete's face turned red. "G.o.d didn't make me fall. It was an accident."

"Yeah." Bennett twisted his lips into a scowl. "An accident that turned you into a cripple."

"He saved my life! I could've died, but G.o.d saved me."

"So you're gonna spend the rest of your life preaching the Bible to thank Him?"

Pete gawked at Bennett. "I owe Him."

"You owe Him." Bennett snorted. "Seems to me you already paid Him well. He got a foot and part of a leg out of the deal."

"Bennett!"

Pete sounded angrier than Bennett had ever heard him, but instead of being put off by it, he found it exhilarating. At least they weren't sitting there counting raindrops. Bennett propped his elbow on his knee and gave Pete a cynical look. "G.o.d might not've made you fall, but He sure didn't keep it from happening, did He?" Just like He hadn't kept Bennett from living on the streets, fighting for a sc.r.a.p of bread.

"It wasn't G.o.d's fault!" Pete thumped his fist on the desk. "It was-" His voice stopped abruptly, like someone had slammed a door and cut off the sound. He fingered the paper on his desk, crinkling its corner. Finally, so softly Bennett almost didn't hear him, he said, "It was my folks' fault. If they hadn't kicked me out, none of it would've happened. G.o.d didn't hurt me, Bennett. My own pa and ma did."