The Baby Connection. Dawn Atkins
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though, he told me he was glad. That’s not always the case. A hell of a lot of people regret talking to me.”
“But it’s your job to get the truth, even when it hurts.”
He shot her a look, then stared out the windshield. She could tell he liked what she’d said. The conversation felt so natural. It had to be their shared passion for journalism, but it felt good to her. Damn good.
She’d been thirsty for this kind of talk, dreamed of it from the first day of her first class, but rarely experienced it, because she never had time to hang with classmates or professors. And now she was doing it with Noah Stone, the best of the best.
The hotel sign appeared, signaling the end of the trip. Damn. She pulled in and stopped. “The reservation’s prepaid for two nights, so you shouldn’t have any charges or—”
“Have a drink with me, Mel,” he said. “In a couple of days, I’ll be lost to the assignment and I won’t come up for air until it’s over. This feels good, talking with you. How about it?”
Yes, oh, yes, please. But she made herself look at her watch. “I guess I’ve got time for one drink….”
“Great.” He reached around for her portfolio. “All right if I look at your stuff?”
“If you want to. Sure.” She felt like pinching herself with excitement.
They headed straight to the bar, where they sat knee-to-knee at a small table, leaning in to hear each other over the soft piano someone played.
“This feels like a martini night to me,” he said. “We’re both about to take off—me to Iraq, you to your new job. Sound okay?”
“Sounds great.” She was celebrating her graduation, after all. The launch of her career. At last, she’d achieved what she’d worked so hard for. And she was doing it with Noah Stone, no less. This called for more than an ordinary glass of red wine for sure.
“Two martinis, up, two olives,” he told the waiter. “With gin, as God intended.”
As soon as the waiter left, Noah opened her book, shifted to the side so they could both look at the pages. They were so close she could see the crinkles around his eyes, the streaks of darker color in his light brown hair, which curled, untamed, to his collar. He had a beauty mark above one ear, and his cologne filled her head.
Their arms touched and they breathed in sync as he flipped the pages, commenting on the subtlest detail of shot after shot. His praise thrilled her, but she kept getting distracted by how close he was, how sexy, how mmm.
“I like these street graffiti ones a lot,” he said.
“The gang-squad cop told me they signified a turf war. I thought the way the styles clashed told that story.”
“Only because you got the right angles and depth of field. Your composition is, hell, poetry.”
“Thanks.” He really got what she’d been trying to do. And he knew what he was talking about, so it was high praise indeed. Meanwhile, his nearness electrified her. It was as though her skin was vibrating. Sparks flew so hot and fast she swore she could see blue flashes.
The drinks came and Noah tapped his to hers. “To good gin, remarkable art and great company.”
“To all that,” she said, and they both drank, watching each other over their glasses. The icy cocktail burned all the way to her toes.
“Good?” Noah asked, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkling.
“Mmm.” She smiled. “Perfect.”
He nodded, satisfied, then flipped to the next page. “This guy has a great face.” He tapped the shot of a Hispanic man with a leathery tan and sad eyes beneath a white straw hat. “How’d you get so close?”
“It wasn’t easy. He waved me off at first. People tend to stiffen, preen or shy away from a camera, but I hung around long enough to become scenery.”
“Smart. Are Latino issues of particular focus to you?”
“I’m passionate about my heritage, but I won’t let that limit me. There’s a knee-jerk tendency to slot Latino reporters into any story that involves brown skin or speaking Spanish. I intend to resist that.”
“Good for you.” He closed the book. “This is great stuff, Mel. No wonder News Day snapped you up.” He searched her face. “So why photojournalism? Why not art or commercial photography?”
“How can you ask that?” she demanded. “You know why. Journalism matters. And with people barely reading these days, photos are crucial. A picture stops you cold, makes you see what you’d rather ignore. Think of the photo of the Viet Cong soldier being shot in the head, the leash shot at Abu Ghraib. The starving children in Darfur. News photos galvanize people. They can change the world.” She realized she’d gotten louder. “Sorry. I get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize. You need that kind of passion or this work will kick you in the teeth.” He hesitated. An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered in his eyes. Fatigue? Sadness? “Keep your fire, Mel. No matter what.”
“What else is crucial in an investigative reporter? Personality traits, I mean.” She was eager for his answer.
“You interviewing me, Ramirez?”
“Taking notes.” She tapped her skull.
He smiled. “Curiosity is bedrock. For me, anyway. It’s like an itch, a craving to know. I hate secrets. I have to get to the bottom of things. You’re that way, too. I can see it in your work. You drill to the core, the essence.”
“That’s what I go for, yeah.”
He nodded. “You also have persistence, which is vital. You have to be unstoppable. I think Bobby Kennedy said truth is ruthless. Sometimes that’s all that gets you through the black nights of doubt.”
“You have doubts?”
“Always. Am I asking the right questions? Talking to the right people? Am I being fair? Is every fact checked and double-checked? Have I gone too far or not far enough?”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Part of the package. It’s our job to speak up for the underdog. The powers that be will steamroller the little guy every time. We have to shine a light on that.” He took a sip of his drink. “For investigative work, you have to ask why. Humans never act without motivation, usually selfish, so you have to dig for who would gain, how and why.”
One drink turned into two and the words flew, both of them full of the same fire for their work. She was so attracted to the man that she was afraid if he touched her, she might combust on the spot.
“You have to follow the story wherever it leads for however long it takes,” Noah said. “It helps to be single.”
“Lots of reporters have families.”
“If you’re good, the job has to be number one. The hours are unpredictable and always long. I’ve watched my married colleagues struggle. They’re always on the phone apologizing to their kids, their wives, their boyfriends. Apologizing or fighting. Paul hated leaving National Record, but Cindi got pregnant and that was that.”
“He seems happy to me.”
“People adjust.” He slid his martini glass forward and back. “Maybe it’s just me. I was an Army brat, so we moved a lot when I was a kid. I learned how to make friends easily and let them go when I had to.”
He took the last sip, clearly thinking about what he’d said. Then he smiled. “That’s me, though. What about you? You have a family?”
“It’s just me and my mom.”
“What about…a boyfriend?” He spoke slowly, tracking her reaction.
She shook her head.