Silver River Secrets

by Linda Hope Lee

  “Hey, Leetha, how are you?” Rory opened his arms to receive her hug.

  “Can’t complain.” She drew back and looked him up and down. “You’re not in costume. Go grab a hat.” She pointed to a stack of cowboy hats on a nearby table.”

  “Okay, if it’ll make you happy.”

  She gave a wry grin. “It’ll make A.J. happy.”

  Rory grabbed a black Stetson and plopped it on his head.

  “See you later, hon. I need to check on the food situation.” Leetha waved him toward the patio and then went into the house.

  Rory looked around. A.J. stood at the barbecue pit, looking over the chef’s shoulder. Probably giving him pointers. Nobody knew barbecue better than his grandfather, and why he’d bothered to hire a chef was a mystery.

  The aroma of the sizzling ribs filled the air, and Rory’s stomach rumbled. Lunch seemed a long time ago. He grabbed a beer from an ice-filled tub and a handful of chips from a basket on the buffet table.

  “Hey, Rory.” Stuart MacKenzie stepped to Rory’s side.

  “Evenin’, Stu.”

  Stu wore a leather vest over a plaid shirt, a belt with a big silver buckle, cowboy boots and, of course, a Stetson. But then Stuart jumped through all of A.J.’s hoops.

  And yet, Rory held no grudge against his grandfather’s loyal employee. He liked Stuart and felt Stuart liked him, too.

  “This is Hank Ebberly.” Stu nodded to the man with him. “He’s from Milton.”

  “Ah, Ebberly Construction.” Rory shifted his beer so they could shake hands.

  “Been lookin’ at property for a subdivision,” Hank said.

  “I showed him the Whitfield farm,” Stu said.

  “Which we don’t own yet,” Rory reminded him.

  “Right. But A.J. says you’re about to close the deal.”

  “No date’s been set. In the meantime, what about those fifty acres up on Sagebrush Hill?”

  Stu looked at Hank.

  Hank shrugged. “No harm in looking. But I sure do like what I saw at the Whitfield farm.”

  After Stu and Hank moved on, A.J. caught up with him, clapped him on the back and introduced him to some people he hadn’t met. He sampled the ribs and salads and switched to coffee.

  Finally, deciding he’d stayed long enough, he left the party.

  On the way to his truck, Rory passed the outbuildings. As his gaze landed on the shed, he thought about the old car stored inside. He glanced over his shoulder. No one was in sight. A quick look wouldn’t hurt.

  The shed’s door was unlocked. He turned the handle and went in, leaving the door ajar. The interior was dark and shadowy, but he could make out the object of his visit. The blue paint had faded, rust spots showed here and there and the tires were flat, but the ’61 Dodge Polara still had character and style. He ran his fingers along the fin on the back fender and then stuck his head in the open driver’s-side window. Steering wheel and gearshift looked okay, but what about the engine? Maybe he’d take a quick look…

  “Thought you were in a hurry to leave.”

  Rory backed out of the car’s window and, without facing his grandfather, said, “Just thought I’d see if you still had this baby.”

  When there was no reply, Rory turned and saw the sad look on A.J.’s face. In an instant the look vanished, replaced with a frown directed at Rory.

  “Why don’t you let me fix this up for you?” Rory said.

  “And give you one more excuse to stay away from the office? I don’t think so.”

  “But what good is this car doing sitting here? You could be driving it, enjoying it.”

  “Maybe I like it just the way it is.”

  “I remember Grandma telling me you gave her this car for her birthday.”

  The pained look crossed A.J.’s face again. “I don’t need you to remind me of the car’s history,” he said, his tone gruff. “I need you to stop fooling around with cars and put your efforts into the business.”

  Rory folded his arms and shook his head. “You never change, do you?”

  A.J. set his jaw. “I see no reason to.”

  “And I see no reason to change the way I am. So, I guess we’re stuck, as usual.”

  Later, on the way home at last, Rory fumed. More often than not, he and his grandfather were at odds with each other. The Dodge was an old conflict. Something else that rankled was A.J.’s assuming the Whitfield property would be sold to a developer. The more Rory thought about that, the less he liked the idea. At first, he hadn’t cared what happened to the property, only that the house was destroyed. Now, he found himself protective of the entire acreage.

  When he reached town, on impulse he bypassed his street and continued on. Once he hit the highway, he watched for the Whitfield place, and when he reached the road, he turned onto it. He bumped along, his car’s headlights cutting a swath of light in the darkness. At the house, he pulled to a stop, got out and gazed up at the derelict structure. He walked around to the back, his feet crunching in the dry grass. He gazed up at the bedroom window, and it dawned on him that that was all it was: a window. Not the window anymore, but a window.

  The day he and Lacey had come here together, as painful as that was, had changed him. He still wasn’t sure exactly how, or why, or what it meant, but it had.

  It wasn’t until he retraced his way along the highway to home that a plan began to form in his mind.

  *

  “WHERE’S RORY LATELY?” Gram asked a few days later while she and Lacey were enjoying their evening tea on the patio. A brief rainstorm left the air cool and refreshing, and rays from the setting sun glistened on the still-wet grass and the leaves of nearby cottonwood trees.

  “Oh, he’s around.” Lacey kept her tone casual.

  Gram sipped her tea, studying Lacey over the rim of her teacup. “Maybe so, but not so much around you.”

  “I saw him at yesterday’s committee meeting. He gave me a photo to use for the article about the classic car show.”

  He hadn’t mentioned helping her anymore, though. But, then, Lacey was at a loss for what to do next, anyway. What she had learned so far indicated her father made a lot of enemies, mainly through gambling. The mean side of him was difficult to accept because, to her, he’d always been kind and loving. And as far as she knew, he’d been kind to her mother, too.

  She’d read more of Norella’s journal and found nothing to indicate she feared her husband. If anything, she wanted more attention from him. Lacey believed her mother’s neediness made her vulnerable to the attentions of other men, including Rory’s father. Still, none of that proved anything, one way or the other.

  “I always liked Rory,” Gram mused, capturing Lacey’s attention again. “His father was okay, too. But the grandfather, that A.J., bossy as all get-out.” Gram folded her arms and vigorously shook her head. “And I’ll never, so long as I live, sell him the farm for a housing development or whatever. And you’ve got to promise me that after I die, you won’t, either.”

  Lacey sighed. “I promise, but I know you’ll be around for a long time yet, so I don’t have to worry about that.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Gram said, “Do you think you and Rory will ever get together again?”

  “No. That’s so not going to happen. Ever. Why would you even think such a thing?”

  Gram studied her fingernails, a bright pink, freshly painted during a visit to the in-house beauty salon. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve spent time together this trip. Not like the other times you’ve visited and did not say a word to each other.”

  “I know, but we can never regain what we lost, Gram. You, of all people, should understand that. You lost a lot, too.”

  Gram folded her hands in her lap and gazed into the distance. “I know. But I’ve been thinking that maybe a person shouldn’t put so much effort into gaining back what’s been lost. Maybe the goal should be moving on and creating something new.”

  Moving on. That was what Rory wanted them
to do. But was that possible when such an important part of the past—her father’s innocence—was yet to be proven? How could she give up that goal? And yet she had to admit to daydreaming more than once about reconciling with Rory. Fortunately, she always came to her senses before agreeing to something she’d later regret.

  But Gram’s mentioning moving on wasn’t something she’d ever said before. She opened her mouth to ask her more about that, but before she could, Gram hugged her arms and said, “Let’s go in now. It’s a bit chilly out here.”

  *

  AT DALTON’S AUTO REPAIR, Rory flipped the sign on the front from Open to Closed. It was five thirty, and John had already gone home. Rory went back to his office to straighten up. Well, sort of. He shut down the computer and stuffed a stack of invoices into a drawer. He’d finish up with those tomorrow.

  His gaze strayed to the photos on the wall. His gallery. Growing all the time as he added new cars to his collection. He focused on the ’57 Chevy, his favorite for so many reasons.

  He pulled the photo from the wall and sat in his desk chair, looking at the picture, recalling the day he and Lacey had found the car at Stan’s Auto Salvage. He’d talked his dad into having the car towed home, where it sat in the garage. He’d worked on it, bit by bit, piece by piece, learning as he went along. More often than not, his dad would be with him, lending a hand or just providing moral support and father-son companionship.

  When the tragedy happened and his grandfather forbade him to see Lacey anymore, he didn’t want to have anything to do with the Chevy, either, because it reminded him so much of her, and of his dad, too, and he missed them both so much. When he moved to A.J’s rambler—his grandmother was still alive then—he’d put the car into the shed with A.J.’s old Dodge. He’d made occasional visits while attending college. After opening his auto shop, he’d brought the car over and picked up where he’d left off in the restoration.

  His chest tightened at the thought of ever letting the Chevy go. He needed the car, needed it to help keep the memories alive. He didn’t ever want to forget the happy times with Lacey—and with his father. Whenever he looked at the car or drove it, the past lived again.

  Wait. Wasn’t that the same reason Remy Whitfield wanted to keep the farmhouse standing? She needed the house to help keep her memories alive, just as he needed the car.

  And he wanted to tear the house down. A sinking feeling hit his stomach. He blew out a breath and sagged back in the chair. What to do… What to do.

  He leaned forward again and put his head in his hands. And as he sat there, an idea came to him. A plan that would work for everyone, for him, and for Lacey and Remy. He straightened, turned on the computer again and pulled up his accounts. Savings, a few stocks, a couple of CDs and the balance in his checking account. He tapped the numbers into his calculator. Added an estimation of the amount he figured Stan Levy at the bank would loan him. The bottom line wasn’t as much as he’d hoped. Okay, he could sell some of his cars. But not the ’57 Chevy. Never that one.

  He needed something to show Lacey and Remy. He grabbed a piece of paper and made some doodles. He was no artist, though. Not with pencil and paper, anyway. He needed a professional.

  Kane Peters, an architect who worked with Dalton Properties, came to mind. He picked up his phone and located Kane’s number. A minute later, he had him on the line.

  “Hey, Kane, I got a job for you. No, not for Dalton Properties. For me. I’m going solo on this one.”

  *

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU…” Lacey joined the chorus. That Gram was seventy-three didn’t seem possible, but she was. Her once lustrous black hair was mostly gray now, and her once strong body frail and confined to a wheelchair; but her blue eyes still had their sparkle and her smile beamed as wide as ever.

  The Riverview staff had helped Lacey organize the party. They’d provided the cake and other refreshments and the balloons and streamers hanging from the ceiling.

  In addition to Gram’s new friends—including Hal Jacobson—Lacey invited some people from town. Seeing how much her grandmother was loved warmed Lacey’s heart.

  In truth, she’d had misgivings about attending the party herself because, like with the Youngs’ barbecue, she risked the whispers and sidelong looks of those who remembered the murder. But when the home’s activity director had approached Lacey with the idea, assuring her birthday celebrations were one of the services they provided for their residents, how could she refuse? She knew Gram would be thrilled to be honored on her birthday by all her friends, both old and new.

  When the song was over, everyone clapped and cheered. Gram beamed as she gazed around the room. “Thank you, thank you,” she said when the applause died down. “What a wonderful surprise. One of the best presents is having my granddaughter, Lacey, here with me to celebrate.” She gestured to Lacey, who stood behind her.

  Lacey leaned down to give Gram a hug. “I’m glad I could be here, too.”

  After they’d finished their cake and ice cream, Lacey picked up Gram’s empty coffee cup. “I’ll get you a refill.”

  “I can do that,” Hal said.

  Lacey shook her head. “No, Hal, I’ve got it. I’ll get some for you, too.” Before he could protest, she snatched up his cup and hurried toward the coffee cart. She smiled to herself. Hal had hardly left Gram’s side all evening.

  While Lacey filled one of the cups, Eleanor Higby, from her grandmother’s bridge club, stepped to the cart.

  “Lovely you could be here for your grandmother’s birthday.” Eleanor said.

  Lacey set the filled cup aside and held the other one under the urn’s spigot. “I’m glad the timing worked out.”

  Eleanor pursed her lips and shook her head. “Too bad your father’s crime chased you away. Living with that all these years must be tough.”

  Lacey’s stomach clenched, and she was about to mumble something and hurry away. Instead, she took a deep breath, lifted her chin and looked Eleanor in the eye. “It’s true. I did leave town because of my father’s alleged crime. But my circumstances have changed now, and…and I just might come back to Silver River.”

  “Why, that would be wonderful. I’d love to see you around town again. And I’m sure your grandmother would be thrilled.” Her eyes twinkled. “But a certain old flame wouldn’t have anything to do with your decision, would he?”

  Lacey had to smile at “old flame.”

  “I have been renewing some friendships on this trip, but if I do move back, it will be just for me.”

  “I hope it works out for you, dear.”

  “Why, thanks, Eleanor. I appreciate your support.”

  Lacey returned to Gram and Hal, pleased with her and Eleanor’s exchange. Voicing her belief in her father’s innocence did not intimidate her anymore. She had more confidence now.

  Then it dawned on her that she’d also told Eleanor she might return to Silver River. Where had that come from? Was she honestly considering coming home to stay?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “COME ON, SON, you can’t tell me you’re surprised I’m planning a subdivision for the Whitfield property.” A.J. gripped his putter and tapped the golf ball. The ball rolled along the green felt runway stretched across his office floor and dropped into the metal cup with a clink. He looked up at Rory and frowned. “You are going to seal the deal with Remy, aren’t you?”

  Rory shifted in his chair. “I plan to, but not as a representative of Dalton Properties.”

  A.J. dropped his jaw and stared. “What are you talking about?”

  “I won’t pressure her into selling her land for something she doesn’t want.”

  “Hah. She might want the money. But don’t tell me you’re planning to buy the property yourself. No way you could swing a deal like that.”

  Rory avoided his grandfather’s eyes but kept his voice steady. “I haven’t worked out all the details yet.”

  A.J. coaxed another ball into position with his putter. “You’re not forg
etting I own the property your shop sits on. Prime land like that would go in the blink of an eye.”

  “Go ahead and sell it. I can find another location.”

  A.J. shook his head. “I don’t want you to find another location. I want you to come to your senses and give up that hobby and work full-time here, where you belong.”

  Rory stiffened. “You know this isn’t what I want to do with my life.”

  “Have you ever given this business a real chance?” Without waiting for a reply, A.J. smacked the ball. It followed a straight path for a couple seconds and then veered off and missed the cup. “Drat!”

  “I worked here summers while going to college and part-time since then,” Rory said. “That’s enough to know whether or not this is something I want to do.”

  “You’ve put in time, but your heart hasn’t been in it.”

  “That’s exactly the problem. My heart’s not in it.”

  A.J. walked to his desk and propped the putter against the side. “We’ll plan on you being here full-time by—” he leaned over to flip the pages of his calendar “—October first.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not giving up this business, son.” A.J. leveled him a stern look.

  Rory gritted his teeth. “Please, don’t call me ‘son.’ Your son is dead.”

  A.J. drew a sharp breath.

  Realizing how cruel his words sounded, Rory wished he could take them back. But A.J. had pushed him into a corner.

  A.J. let a few seconds elapse and then said in a calm tone, “You don’t need to remind me. Not a day goes by I don’t miss him. But you are like a son to me. And so like your father.”

  “No, I’m not like him. I’m not the same as either of you. I am my own person.”

  “Of course,” A.J. said soothingly. “And you can be your own person—right here. You can still play with your cars, as a hobby. I have my golf—” he held up his putter “—and you have your cars.”

  Rory stared at the floor.

  “I don’t understand you, Rory. Any other grandson would be grateful to have a livelihood like this handed to him. This is what your father would want. If you think so much of him, honor his memory.”