Love, Come to Me(58)

“It sounds like a gamble. What if it doesn’t work? What if we lose all our money?”

“We could always stay with your father above the store.”

“Don’t even joke about that!”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you starve.”

“What about this . . . this Redmond person? Are you certain you can trust him as a business partner?”

“I have no doubt about it. He’s ambitious, intelligent, and he’ll pull his own weight—in fact, I suspect I’ll have to find some way of reminding him that this is going to be an ensemble effort. He’s the kind who likes to go his own way.”

“Surely it will take a long time to start turning a profit.”

“That depends on several things . . . if you’re really curious, I’ll go over the numbers and estimates with you in a day or two.”

“No, thank you.” Lucy had never entertained an interest in numbers of any kind. Still, she was surprised by his apparent willingness to talk with her about such things. Usually men didn’t care to discuss business with their wives, or with any woman at all . . . just as women didn’t tell men about their private discussions and activities. “All I want to know is if we’re going to have enough money to live on.”

“We will. Enough, at any rate, to keep you well supplied with hats and hair ribbons.”

“Running such a large newspaper . . . that will take so much work,” she said, frowning.

“More than a few late nights,” he admitted.

“And all that traveling back and forth . . . how are you going to manage it?”

There was a long pause, and then Heath looked up from the glass he held in his hand, his blue-green eyes locking with hers. “It would be impossible,” he said quietly. “I can’t live in Concord and run the paper.”

The implications of that hit her as soundly as a physical blow. If he couldn’t run the paper from Concord, he would want to move.

“If you want to own a paper,” she said rapidly, “you can buy a local one, or start one yourself. You don’t have to get one in Boston—”

“I can’t do what I want to do with just a local paper. I don’t want to report on how many eggs the Brooks’ chickens laid on Thursday, and how Billy Martinson got the beesting on his knee—”

“But . . . but . . .”

“But what?” Heath prompted, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

“Think of where you come from, and where you are. You don’t know Boston. You haven’t been here long enough to understand the people up here . . .” As she faltered, he set the glass down and took one of her hands, holding it in a warm, electrifying clasp, his fingers pressing into her palms as if he would wring the truth out of her.

“Go on,” he urged. “I don’t want to have to guess at your thoughts about this. Tell me.”

“You know better than I do that there’s no sympathy for Southerners here. Bostonians want to punish them for the war . . . and you . . . you’re thinking of taking over a big Northeastern newspaper? There won’t be any support for you, not from any direction. There are so many obstacles in your way, and . . . and I can’t begin to tell you how difficult, how impossible it’s all going to be. They’re not going to want to listen to what you have to say. There are so many intellectuals around here, with all their different ideas about Reconstruction, fighting it out right and left. I should know—I’ve been to enough political discussions and meetings in Concord to be certain that what I’m saying is the truth.”

“I know. And you’re right, it won’t be easy. But this is a battle that has to be fought, and it has to be here, in Boston. I can do more good for my people—and your people—here than anywhere else. This is where decisions are made. It’s like stumbling around in a maze up here . . . they’re all wandering in circles, caught in the middle of issues that are too complex to understand, and no one’s taking a hard look at the truth. At the way things really are. The war is over, but nothing is solved—not states’ rights, not the problems of the freed slaves, not the economy, or political policies—”

“But no matter what you say, you won’t be heard,” Lucy said, becoming increasingly worried as she saw how determined he was. “They won’t listen—”

“Oh, I’ll be heard,” he assured her with a grim smile. “And they’ll listen. Because I’m going to use Damon Redmond as my front. I’m going to make him my managing editor, and through him and his editorials, every point I want to make will be made. He has the support and influence of one of the oldest families in Boston, and I’ll find a way to make use of that. I’m not going to hit anyone over the head with my beliefs—I won’t have to. I’ll sneak them in, here and there, and I’ll make them damned easy to swallow. I intend to produce a newspaper like no one else has ever seen before, appealing . . . seductive . . . and if I have to turn the entire profession of journalism upside down to do it, then I will.”

Much of what he said went by her completely. No one had ever talked about a newspaper being seductive before, and she didn’t understand how or in what way he planned to use Damon Redmond. All she focused on was the fire in his eyes, and the enthusiasm in his voice. His mind was firmly made up, and it would take a miracle to change it. “Can’t you just wait a year or two before rushing ahead with this?” Lucy begged. “It’s so soon. Wait until you get to know the area and—”