The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “The church news?”

  “Yeah. My mama gathers the church news once a month from all the county churches and then takes it down to the paper.”

  Church news? I didn’t ask the obvious, but instead inquired as to why she didn’t simply e-mail the information.

  Brianna shook her head. “My mama doesn’t believe in computers or the Internet. She says it’s the devil’s playground.”

  I nodded. “Do you remember anything else about what was said?” I returned to my work as I swept the blush brush across her cheek, hoping to appear nonchalant to the question.

  “No. But it was something about . . . what was that word?”

  I closed the compact, picked up my tweezers, ready to bring a little shape to Brianna’s brow. “A word?”

  “Something to do with journalists.”

  “Do you mind if I tweeze your brows a little? You’ve got great shape, but you need just a little framing to your eye.”

  She shook her head. I stood over her, tilted her head back and angled it toward the light. The only sound in the room for several moments was that of our breathing, until her eyes flew open and found mine.

  “I remember the word.”

  My arms dropped. “Okay,” I said, again trying to keep my face expressionless.

  “Ethics. Mama said he broke the rules of ethics.”

  25

  Ethics?

  William Decker?

  After visiting more with Brianna and meeting her adorable little girl—an exact replica of her mother—I drove back to the cottage as fast as my car and the speed limit allowed, anxious to go online in the privacy of my bedroom. But as soon as I pulled around the Deckers’ home, I found Will and a young man standing in the middle of the driveway, blocking my path.

  I slammed on the brakes. Powered down the window.

  “There you are,” William said. “Someone here I want you to meet.”

  I put the car in park and got out.

  The young man—tall, slender, with a head full of dirty-blond hair—walked to the other side of my car, whistled, and said, “Yep. You did it all right.”

  I looked at Will as if to say, “Excuse me?”

  “Ashlynne,” he interjected quickly, “this is Cliff.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Ma’am.” He placed his hands on his hips, splaying his fingers. “You got yourself a nice dent there, but it’s fixable.”

  I pushed past William and joined . . . Cliff. “Maris’s father . . .”

  Pride washed his face. “Yes, ma’am. You know my little girl?”

  I pointed toward the highway. “I just came from Brianna’s.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Well . . . just so you know, William called me a little while ago and asked me to come over and look at your Jag.” He whistled again. “Nice car, by the way. What’d it set you back? Around a hundred?”

  Yes, not that it was any of his business. “I appreciate your help, Cliff, but I think I’ll just drive the car back to Orlando in a week or two and let someone from a specialty shop look at it.”

  “No one’s better than Cliff at this kind of thing,” William said. “You ought to at least—”

  I clasped my hands together and held them in front of me. “I really do appreciate your help, Cliff, but I seriously don’t think—”

  “Oh, stop being so snooty and let the man at least look at it,” William barked from the other side of the car.

  My head grew fuzzy with anger. “I’m not . . . snooty!”

  “You are too. You think that just because your car cost a lot of money, Cliff here doesn’t know anything about getting rid of a few dents?”

  My cheeks grew warm, even as I took deep breaths to control my emotion. The old hurt rising in me. “It’s not that I don’t think—”

  “I can do it,” Cliff said, so quietly I almost missed the words. “I’ll have to contact Jaguar and see about the paint, of course. To match it.”

  “I’m sure you are very good with trucks and . . . four-wheel drives . . . and that kind of thing,” I said, as kindly as I knew how.

  “If you must know,” William said, now clomping to where we stood, “Cliff is as good at cosmetics for cars as you are at cosmetics for chicks.” He pretended to laugh at his sordid attempt at humor. When I didn’t respond, he continued by clearing his throat and saying, “He can repaint your car and you’d think it was the original.”

  “I’m sure—”

  “Tell you what,” William interrupted. “You let Cliff take your car, take out the dents, repaint the door, and if you aren’t one hundred percent pleased, I’ll drive the car down to Orlando myself and I’ll pay to have the whole thing redone at one of your”—he forked his fingers in the air—“specialty shops.”

  “You won’t be any worse off,” Cliff muttered beside me.

  I shook my head, clearly outnumbered. “But what will I drive in the meantime?”

  “I’ve already talked to Big Guy. You can drive one of their vehicles.”

  Backed into a corner. The proverbial rock and the hard place. I sighed. “Again, that’s very kind . . . and I . . .”

  William crossed his arms and sighed. “Just say yes, for crying out loud. Let the boy do what he does.”

  I threw my hands up in defeat. “Oh, all right. Yes.” I looked at Cliff, who grinned broadly, no doubt anxious to get his hands on what he probably considered automotive artwork. “Should I just drive it to your shop in the morning? You do have a shop, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Behind my daddy’s house.”

  Of course it was.

  “Less overhead,” William added with a grin.

  “But I promise you . . . I’ll treat her like she’s gold.”

  “She practically is. What about the paint job? Won’t you need to have her, you know, somewhere special for that? Dust-free?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ve got a friend over in Asheville. He’ll let me use his place. State-of-the-art.” He took a loving look at the Jag. “But if you want, I can just take it now.”

  I looked at the lineup of cars and trucks behind the Deckers’ home. I assumed the one I didn’t recognize—a sports car—to be Cliff’s. “What about your car?” I asked. “Will you leave it here?”

  “I can drive your car to Cliff’s,” William said. “Cliff, you won’t mind bringing me back for my car, will you?”

  Cliff shook his head. “Not a bit.”

  I set my jaw and gave Will my most forced smile.

  “Say ‘Thank you,’ ” he said.

  I walked past him to the driver’s side to retrieve my purse. “Thank you . . .”

  With my car somewhere between the Decker Ranch and Cliff’s daddy’s backyard, I climbed into the center of the upstairs bed, crossed my legs, and opened my laptop. While it came to life, I looked out the large window, through the trees with their spiraling leaves. From where I sat I could see the deep woods and, snaking through them, a packed red-mud path. I rose on my knees, allowing my eyes to follow until it disappeared into the thicket.

  I settled back on the bed, ran my finger over the mouse, entered my password, and then typed WILLIAM ALEXANDER DECKER into the search engine.

  The first link was to his Twitter account. I clicked on it, but the account had been closed.

  The second was to his Facebook account. Like the Twitter account, it was no longer “available.”

  A short Wikipedia article informed me only of the numerous awards Will had won while living in Chicago and that his growing career in journalism ended abruptly.

  There were several images of him, but none with his hat. I found that interesting. The blonde I’d seen in the framed newspaper article showed up in a few. And, in each of those, she looked completely starry-eyed.

  After a half hour of research and nothing solid as to the information Brianna had spoken of, the proverbial lightbulb went off over my head. I grabbed my cell phone, which had been lying on the bed beside me, leaned back, and dialed my
father’s cell phone number.

  After a few minutes of general chitchat, I asked the question. The reason for my call in the first place. “Hey, Dad? What’s Courtney doing these days? I mean, with me not in the office.”

  “We keep her plenty busy, why?”

  “She’ll move right on up with me when I return, though, right?”

  “Of course, honey. What, are you suddenly worried about her future?”

  I frowned. To be honest, I’d not once thought about what would happen to Courtney, not with me gone and not even when I returned. I knew Gram well enough to know she’d find something for her—some position—but I’d not, well, worried. “No, I just wondered . . . if I were to call the office, say in the morning, would I still find her working there?”

  Dad paused. “Why don’t you just call her cell phone and ask her?”

  I stared at the ceiling, not wanting my father to know that my inability to be a “people person” had developed to the point where my assistant’s cell phone number—or any of her numbers for that matter—was not something I had possession of. “Uh . . .”

  “You don’t have it, do you?”

  I fell back onto the pillows. “No. I suppose I should, but . . . I . . . don’t.”

  My father remained silent for the longest possible string of minutes. “You can still find her at her desk outside your office.”

  “Dad . . . ,” I said, closing my eyes. “I want you to know that . . . I’ve only been here a week, but I’m already . . . seeing . . . what you wanted me to . . . see. To learn.” When he didn’t respond, I concluded, “I’m almost anxious to see what changes will come after another twenty-five weeks.” More or less.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Ashlynne,” he said, his voice as serious as I’d ever heard it. All business. Right then, at that moment, I wasn’t his daughter, I was the woman being primed to take over his position at the magazine.

  Minutes later I called my office at Parks & Avenues and left a message on Courtney’s voice mail. I asked, kindly, for three things: (1) to see what she could find on any battle fought near Testament, North Carolina, from the Revolutionary War forward; (2) anything she could find on the professional life of William Alexander Decker while he worked for the Chicago Star; and (3) to keep my call between the two of us. “You know how much I enjoy research,” I told her in conclusion, “but let’s face it, you’re the queen. I bow to your expertise.” And then I smiled, hoping she could “hear” it across the miles.

  I ended the call with a “Hope you are doing well,” scrambled off the bed, and changed into my new hiking clothes. Minutes later, I flew out the front door, stuffing the house key into a pocket of my new cargo shorts. I turned left and hurried over low-lying shrubs and brambles until I found the path I’d seen from my bedroom window.

  The road was rocky. Broken. Wide in some places. Narrow in others. Light flickered between the branches of the black-and-white oaks, the pines, and the maples. At times, the path grew dark, overcome by shadows. My fingers reached for my cell phone in one of the pockets of my cargo shorts. Feeling it, a sense of safety washed over me.

  The snapping of limbs brought me to a stop. I whirled around, but saw nothing. Shook off any notion of forest ghosts. Turned and continued forward until I came to an oblong clearing, high above a ravine. I observed below the straight, flatness of the land. Placing my hands on my hips and bracing my feet about a foot apart, I leaned over ever-so-slightly. Trees, ancient and gnarled, though some straight as soldiers, affirmed what I’d suspected.

  “It’s part of the Revolutionary War road,” a voice from behind said.

  I gasped, lost my footing, and tumbled headfirst down the slope. Buried rocks—their tips jutting out of the earth—jabbed at my muscles. Thorny bushes tore at the exposed parts of my flesh. As I tumbled, I focused on keeping myself tucked in. An instinctual motion of survival, which I only partially managed. I wrapped my head with my arms, felt my body bump and flop until it came to rest with a thud on the road below.

  “Ashlynne!”

  I lay sprawled on my back, my hair tangled about my face, my arms flopped outward. I groaned, and my name was called again. Footsteps half ran, half clomped into the ravine. I opened my eyes to see the trunk of a tree rising over me—a pine, whose branches didn’t bother to start until they’d nearly touched the blue of the cloudless sky.

  “Are you . . .”

  I jerked my eyes to the left. Will Decker, his face covered by panic and glistening sweat, came to an abrupt halt. No cowboy hat rested on his head. “Owww . . .”

  “Don’t move,” he said, squatting next to me.

  I blinked. “I think I’m okay.”

  “Let me see. Don’t move, you hear?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. His fingers worked like tiny massage therapists, first down one leg, then the other. I kept my eyes on his, seeing the concern. The fear.

  “Any pain?”

  “Not really.” Just embarrassment. Did that count?

  Warm fingers and hands worked up my right arm. Down my left. Across my shoulders to my neck. “Anything at all?”

  “Just sore already.” And my chest hurt. Though I knew it wasn’t from falling. William Decker’s fingers running up and down my body, even in a platonic fashion, made it difficult to breathe.

  “I don’t think anything is broken, but roll over on your side. Don’t try to sit straight up.”

  I did as I was told until I could push myself up and onto my knees. Will’s arms came around my waist. He lifted me as though I weighed nothing more than a pillow.

  “Can you put weight on your feet?”

  My left foot went down without issue, but my right refused to accept any pressure. “My right foot,” I said. “I think it’s the ankle.”

  William helped me to lean against the tree, squatted before me, and took my foot into his cupped hands. I looked first to him, then up the hill I’d rolled down, and over my left shoulder to where the old road stretched and bent. I hissed between my teeth as he pressed against the bone of my ankle.

  “Nice shoes,” he said.

  “Hiking boots,” I retorted, gazing down on him.

  His grin was lopsided and his right eye squinted. “I know. Just wanted to see if you still had any spunk in you.” He stood. Brown eyes met mine. “I guess you’ll live.”

  “Of course I’ll live,” I said. “The question is, how will I get out of here?”

  William rested his hands on his hips. He looked behind him. To the right. To the left. Back to me. “Only one way I know of,” he said. And, before I had a chance to protest, his right shoulder caught my middle, doubled me over, and hoisted me up. Strong arms came around the back of my legs at the bend of my knees.

  “What?” I screamed. “Put me down, William Decker.” The dull pain in my ankle became a throb.

  “Stop wiggling. You’ll end up hurting you and me both,” he said, already ambling to the left. “There’s a slight incline just down the road a piece. Won’t be so difficult to tote you.” His breath came in ragged spurts. “Hold on.”

  I grabbed hold of the belt looped in his jeans. “Don’t you dare drop me.”

  “Just be still.”

  “I am being still,” I said, gritting my teeth. I watched the road below me and attempted to keep focus on the path, the packed mud, the patches of grass, the embedded rock. My head grew fuzzy from every ounce of my blood rushing to my brain, so I craned my neck as far back as it would go. The trees lining the Revolutionary War road bobbed and blurred. I closed my eyes, painfully aware of the intimacy of being carried by a man . . . this man . . . in such a way. I wanted to die.

  I wanted to dance.

  “Can I ask a question?” I ventured.

  “Can I stop you?”

  I couldn’t help myself. I smiled. “What were you doing? Follow-ing me?”

  “No.” He took several deep breaths before continuing. “I brought you the keys to my grandfather’s truck, so you’d have it in
the morning.”

  I pictured the dilapidated vehicle parked behind the Deckers’ home. “The truck?”

  “Don’t look a gift horse—”

  “You did that on purpose,” I said, squirming. “You knew good and well the last thing I’d want to do is drive his truck.”

  “Would you please be still before I drop you on your backside and put a real hurt on you?”

  I dug my elbows into his back, harder than necessary, and rested my chin on my fists.

  “Thanks,” he said, then remained quiet until, “Right up here. We’ve made it, no thanks to you.” He took a deep breath. “All right. I’m going to try hauling you up the incline, so please work with me.”

  “Hauling me?” I jerked.

  His grip grew tight. “Be still, for crying out loud.”

  “I am being still. But what do you mean by hauling me. What do you think I am? A load of lumber?”

  “A load of lumber,” he said, taking angled steps upward, “would be a whole lot easier to tote.” He grunted under my weight.

  “And how do you see that?” The pain in my foot intensified. The pressure in my chest deepened.

  “Lumber doesn’t talk back.”

  I started to slip and Will’s hold tightened. “Hold on,” he repeated. I clutched his belt again until my knuckles turned white.

  “Just watch where you put your hands.”

  He guffawed. “Lady, please . . . hush.”

  We reached the top of the incline. William’s hands relaxed. “I’m going to set you down right here on this boulder.” I slid backward, up and over his shoulder. “Easy now. Don’t put any weight on that foot.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  I came to rest on my left foot. My hands clutched shoulders that flexed beneath them, my forehead pressed down against the left. “Easy now,” he repeated, less bossy. More coaxing. I hopped slightly on the left, pressing myself against him for balance. His arms slipped around my waist. Held me in place. I took in a deep breath, smelled the sweat of his labor mixed with the morning cologne he’d chosen. Marc Eckō. “Okay?” he whispered.