Million Dollar Dilemma - Judy Baer Mills & Boon Steeple Hill

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I’ll try it. Frankly, I wasn’t quite sure I was brave enough to taste it myself.” Actually, the prayer I whispered to myself was more a petition for safety—from my own cooking.

      “I’ve eaten stranger things lately,” he said enigmatically. He poked at his chipped plate. “I don’t have much in the way of dishes. I usually use paper.”

      “These are fine. I never ate on a paper plate at home. My grandfather didn’t believe in waste.”

      “No kidding?”

      “He also hated throwing anything away if he still considered it ‘good.’ Once we got something, we used it until it fell apart. Then we repaired it and used it some more.”

      “Why didn’t you just buy new?”

      “Psalm 41:1.”

      He stared at me blankly until I remembered that outside my family, giving only a Bible reference was rarely enough.

      ‘“Happy are those who consider the poor. The Lord delivers them in the day of trouble.’ My grandfather wouldn’t spend an extra dime on himself if he thought he could give it away. My grandmother still jokes that the widows and the orphans had better things than we did because Grandpa was more generous with them than with us.”

      “Was that a problem?”

      “No. It wasn’t as though we were involuntarily poor. Poverty was a choice for us, a challenge. How much could we give up in order that others might have more? Believe it or not, Grandpa managed to make it into a game. I learned early how little we actually need.”

      “Interesting.” He stared at me with those velvety chocolate-colored eyes and once again I felt a little weak in the knees. “Probably considered loony in this day and age, but definitely interesting.”

      As I pushed my chair back from the table and started to say goodbye, a furred cannonball landed in my lap and began to rumble.

      “Pepto?” Adam stared at the cat that had just launched itself into my arms. I was equally startled, but Pepto redoubled his purr, turned around twice on my thighs and sat down. “What are you doing, crazy cat?”

      “He’s fine. I like animals.”

      “No, he’s not. He’s never done that before. Even to me.”

      “Animals and small children seem to like me,” I told him as I stroked Pepto’s fur. It felt much softer than it looked. “Grandma says it’s a sign of my ‘pure nature.’My sister Jane says it’s because I wear perfume that’s a combination of catnip and cotton candy. Either way, I don’t mind.”

      As Pepto tilted his head upward as if he were looking at me, I scratched that tender dip beneath his chin, and his purr turned to a happy roar. When I lifted my head, Adam was staring at me in disbelief, as if I’d made roses grow out of a dirty ashtray. I chuckled inwardly. It was easy to woo the cat. I’m just glad it’s not on my agenda to win his master’s heart.

      CHAPTER 5

      Animals and small children, huh?

      Adam pondered the notion as he scrubbed out his frying pan. He’d never in a million years expected Pepto to do an about-face and decide to actually like someone. He took a pad of steel wool and worked at a bit of egg yolk stubbornly clinging to the pan. Of course, loath as he might be to admit it, Adam had liked his new neighbor, too. Even without the bird-of-paradise, persimmons and improbable red hair, she’d still be charming and funny. She was a breath of fresh air for his very stale attitude, and having her here tonight had provided a moment of relief from the pressure mounting inside him.

      He’d turned into the equivalent of a human pressure cooker lately, and Cassia Carr was an unexpected release valve. He’d been tempted to lecture her about the wisdom of being as open and trusting as she’d been in her little hometown, but decided instead that he’d just keep an eye on her. The inhabitants of this building were all good people—many had lived here twenty years or more. Cassia was obviously a quick study and would develop street smarts quickly enough without his advice.

      The phone rang just as Adam put the frying pan in the dish rack to dry. He glanced at the caller ID. It was his agent and best friend, Terrance Becker.

      “Adam, old man, you’re back! Listen, buddy, are you all right? I heard you had a pretty rough time over there.”

      “No rougher than anyone else. At least I didn’t starve to death.” Sickening images shimmered in his mind like heat waves off the desert floor. Adam hadn’t known until recently how painful death from malnutrition could be.

      “You did tighten your belt a couple notches, though,” Terrance said. “I talked to Frankie.”

      Frankie Wachter was the photographer who traveled with Adam. He hoped Frankie didn’t have too big a mouth. Terrance didn’t need to know every gory detail of their trip to Burundi. There were some things Adam would just as soon keep under wraps. The wrenching emotions both he and Frankie had experienced were private. His research and articles could speak for him, and nothing else need be said.

      “The magazine loved your stuff, by the way. You sent them so much that they’re serializing it. Frankie got some great pictures, too. Heart wrenching. Whenever you want to quit freelancing and write for just one publication, let me know, okay? I’ve got several offers for you.”

      Adam grunted a non-comment. Being tied down had never suited him. As a journalist whose career had centered primarily on human rights issues, Adam wanted to be free to go where circumstance and instinct took him. Ironically, this last time it had taken him to one of the poorest places he’d ever been—Burundi, a landlocked country about the size of Maryland whose population had an overall life expectancy of less than forty-seven years, and 12 percent of whom were infected with AIDS. The tension between the Tutsis and the Hutus left the people in constant turmoil. It was a difficult life, especially for the youngest, most helpless members of society, the children. When Adam had gone in to do a story on a small relief organization that was attempting to provide minimal life-sustaining provisions for the people, he’d had no idea that what he would see and experience could so utterly change him.

      Knowing the statistics was nothing compared to seeing the reality. If 70 percent of all malnourished people in the world were children and forty thousand a day died of starvation, then where were the people who could help them? Vulnerable, helpless and defenseless, the children had greater nutritional demands than the adults and were utterly unable to forage for themselves. At night, when the camp was silent, Adam had lain on his cot staring into the blackness, wondering what he could do to put a thumb in a dike of this magnitude. Life was leaking out of these young ones, and he had no way to stop it.

      “So what are you planning next?”

      Adam felt himself flinch. He’d drifted light-years away from Terrance and the conversation about his career. “Not a thing.”

      “A little R & R? Good idea. A few days off and you’ll feel like a new man.” Terrance sounded worried. “That’s what you meant, right?”

      “Not really. I’m burned and I’m bummed. The last thing I feel like doing is working.”

      “You don’t have to cover every tragedy in the world,” Terrance told him. “Not everything you do has to be nominated for a Pulitzer. Lighten up. Do something not quite so heavy for a change, a little mind candy. How about a piece on baseball? Or music, like ‘Adam Cavanaugh on Aging Rockers— The Dolls, the Dope and the Depends.’ Boomers might eat it up.”

      “Good try, but no thanks. I’m tired in a way I’ve never been tired before.” Wordsmith that he was, even Adam couldn’t describe it. “It’s in my bones this time. Watching children die and being absolutely helpless to stop it changes a person.”

      “But like you said in your article, those kids were past the point of no return before you ever got to them.”

      “That

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