From the Heart

wine before she grinned at him. “You know, a trench coat with a few wrinkles, the world-weary face. You stand in front of agovernment building or a sordid pit and report the news in a drizzle. It has to be drizzling.”
    “I don’t have a trench coat,” he pointed out.
    “Don’t spoil it.”
    “Even for you,” he said with a smile. “I’m not going to start doing stand-ups in a trench coat.”
    “I’m crushed.”
    “I’m fascinated.”
    “Are you? By what?”
    “By your image of a field reporter.”
    “It was my image before I got into the game,” she admitted. “I saw myself having meets with disreputable figures of the underworld in seamy bars and breaking world-shaking stories before breakfast. It was going to be one fast-paced story after another. Adventure, excitement, intrigue.”
    “No paperwork, stakeouts or time editors.” Drinking his beer, he watched her. How could anyone remain so lovely after the day she had put in?
    Her laugh was warm and appreciative. “That’s it exactly. Reality came into focus in college, but I think I still had this image of high adventure and glamour. It stayed with me until I covered my first homicide.” She gave herself a quick shake and returned to her wine. “That’s the sort of thing that brings you back to earth quickly. Do you ever get used to dealing with that, Thorpe?”
    “You don’t get used to it,” he countered. “But you deal with it.”
    She nodded, then pushed away the mood. The piano player had switched to a melancholy ballad. “Are you really writing a novel?”
    “Did I say that?”
    Over the rim of her glass, she smiled. “You did. What’s it about?”
    “Political corruption, naturally. What about yours?”
    “I don’t have one.” With a spark of mischief in her eyes, she looked up at him. A dull, throbbing ache started in his stomach. “Actually,” she began in lowered tones, then hesitated. “Can you be trusted, Thorpe?”
    “No.”
    She gave a muffled laugh. “Of course not, but I’ll tell you anyway. Off the record,” she added.
    “Off the record,” he agreed.
    “When I was in college and money was scarce, I did some writing on the side.”
    “Oh?” He wondered how money could have been scarce with her family background, but left the question unasked. “What kind of writing?”
    “I did a few pieces for My True Story. ”
    After choking on his beer, he stared at her. “You’re kidding! The confession magazine?”
    “Don’t get lofty. I needed the money. Besides,” she added with a touch of pride, “they were pretty good little pieces.”
    “Really?” Thorpe gave her a lewd grin.
    “Fictional,” she stated.
    “I’d like to read them . . . just for educational purposes.”
    “Not a chance.” She glanced up as the crowd at the bar grew noisier. “What did you do in your misspent youth, Thorpe?”
    “I had a paper route.” He cast a casual glance over his shoulder at two men who were arguing over a game of darts.
    “Ah, always the journalist.”
    “And chased girls.”
    “That goes without saying.” Liv watched the dart players come nose to nose over their disagreements. Customers at the bar began cheerfully choosing sides. Thorpe reached for his wallet. “We’re not leaving?” she asked as he pulled out bills.
    “Things are going to get rowdy in a minute.”
    “I know.” She grinned. “I want to watch. Do you want the guy in the hat or the one with the moustache?”
    “Liv,” he began patiently, “when’s the last time you were in on a barroom brawl?”
    “Don’t be stuffy, Thorpe. I’m betting on the guy in the hat. He’s smaller, but he’s wiry.” Even as she spoke, the man with the moustache threw the first punch. With a sigh of resignation, Thorpe leaned back. She’d be safer in the corner at this point.
    Those at the bar turned to watch, holding their drinks as they shouted encouragement. Liv winced as her man took a jab in the stomach. Throughout the pub, customers began topull out bills as they wagered on the outcome. The bartender continued to dry glasses. The two men came together in a furious hug, then toppled to the floor to wrestle.
    Thorpe watched them roll around on the floor. A chair was knocked over, and a man with a glass of ale set it upright, sliding it out of range. He settled on it to root for the man of his choice. There were shouts of encouragement and advice.
    It appeared Liv’s prediction was a sound one, Thorpe decided. The man with the