Lucinda shook her head. “Not scared that way. What scared me was that you were so focused, so driven to get out of Mason County, and I wasn't sure I could keep up with you.”
“Christ, Lucy, you hated this place as much as I did.”
“No, I hated being poor as much as you did.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it. I don't expect you to believe this, but I loved you enough not to want to ruin your life. I was even afraid that you might come to hate me for it. So I went to see Gill. First he told me he'd pay for an abortion. I refused and walked out. That's why I told you –”
“What made him change his mind?”
There were tears in Lucinda's eyes. “Gill's a decent person. He thought about it and accepted his responsibility. He even took me out to dinner and proposed. Then I did the hardest thing I had ever done in my life before or since: I told you that I was marrying Gill Gillespie.”
Randall's face darkened. “And left me hanging for twenty-three years, not knowing if I had a daughter or not.”
“You never showed any interest in finding out if she was really yours.”
“How would I have done that without, as you put it, making things more complicated?”
Lucinda shrugged and then said in a tiny voice, “You just left. I never saw you after the day you graduated. I wanted to say good-bye, good luck, something. Maybe even to tell you the truth.”
“I was already packed when I put on that cap and gown. I took the diploma and walked to the bus stop.” Randall paced around the room.
Lucinda followed him with her eyes. “Why did you come back now?” she almost whispered.
“To buy Mason Bank. And to destroy it.”
Her cheeks lost all their color. “Why?”
“You and Gill destroyed my future. When I left here, all that kept me going was the thought of being able to do the same for you.”
“Maybe you should be grateful to us.”
Randall laughed unpleasantly. “You're good, Lucy. Gill should have put you on the bank board.”
“Randall, please don't do this. It's not worthy of you.”
He gave her a hard stare and strolled over to a group of silver-framed photos arranged on the baby grand piano. “You're a prosperous-looking family,” he said, as he picked up photos and inspected them. “Fine horses, nice vacations, pretty clothes – Christ, what's this?” His gaze was riveted on a photo of the three daughters, a few years younger, wearing soccer uniforms and holding trophies. “Who the hell in Texas plays soccer?”
“Besides you, you mean?”
Randall glanced sideways at her. “Victor Gillespie threatened to horsewhip me if he ever saw me near a football again. I stole my first soccer ball from Gill's backyard.”
Lucinda moved to stand beside him and look at the picture. “They were in a tournament and all three of their teams won their divisions. They were more proud of each other than of themselves. It was one of those wonderful moments of being a parent when you feel that you've actually done it right.”
Randall's face suddenly looked bleak. He put the photo down abruptly. “That's a pleasure I haven't had.” He fell silent, staring at the array of pictures.
After a long pause, Lucinda put her hand very tentatively on his arm. “I'm sorry, Randall.”
He looked down at her hand until she removed it.
“The deal's off.”
“What?”
“Gill has his bank back.”
Lucinda was thrown off balance. “I don't know what to say. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him that he's lucky his daughters played soccer. Have a nice life, Lucy.”
The driver was leaning against the car and leapt to attention when Randall came down the front steps. He opened the car door but kept looking back at the front of the house. Finally he had the courage to ask, “Will Mr. Gillespie be accompanying you, Mr. Johnson?”
“No. And I'd like to get moving now.”
“Yes, sir!” The driver slammed the door before he practically sprinted around to the driver's seat. He had the car in motion before he remembered to ask, “Are we going to the bank, sir?”
“No.”
“Then where would you like me to take you, sir?”
Randall was silent for a long minute. “Do you know where the town of Doss is?”
“More or less, sir.”
“That's where I'm going.”
“To Doss? It's a fair drive.”
“I know that. There's a bar there I want to visit...if it's still in business. What's your name, young man?”
“John, sir.”
“John, drop the sir.”
“Yes, si-...Mr. Johnson.”
“Randall.”
“Um, right. How long do you expect to be in Doss?”
“A long time.”
John had no response to that. He silently turned the car in a smooth arc and headed northwest. From sheer habit, Randall took out his cell phone to check his voice mail. He had pushed the first button when he said, “Screw this,” and turned the power off. He hefted it in his hand a couple of times, then opened the window and hurled it into a clump of bushes. He spent the rest of the drive staring out the window as the suburbs of San Antonio fell away, and they entered the hill country of eastern Texas.
Dobie's looked even worse than he remembered. A neon sign, lit even in midday, was the only new addition to the big clapboard rectangle with no windows. The paint had long ago flaked off, and the wood had weathered to a dark gray. The parking lot surrounding it on all sides was half-full of pickup trucks and motorcycles, making the couple of old Cadillacs stand out. Randall opened the car door before the driver could and got out to stand with his hands thrust in his pockets as he surveyed the bar's unprepossessing facade.
“I think I should wait, sir,” the young man said as he watched two customers stare at the limo.
“Go home, son; I'm going to get drunk, and I don't need an audience.” He pulled out his wallet and flicked a hundred dollar bill to John. “This is to help you forget that you were ever here.”
“But how will you get back to San Antonio? I don't think taxis come out here.”
“I'll hitch a ride,” Randall said as he walked toward the door.
“Your briefcase, sir.” The driver called to him.
Randall swung around to smile at him. “Put a red ribbon on it and give it to Mrs. Gillespie with my compliments.”
Then he was swallowed up in the smoky depths of his past.
Nineteen
Kate opened her eyes in the dimly lit room, wondering where she was and why she was awake. The second question was answered as a telephone shrilled near her ear. She reached in the general direction of the noise and almost pulled the phone off the small table before she realized that she was in Clay's hospital room, and that the receiver had a cord attached to it.
“Hello?” she rasped as she pushed herself up on her elbow.
“Kate Chilton?” a vaguely familiar male voice asked.
“Yes, this is Kate.”
“This is Tom Rogan. I'm sorry to bother you at this time of night, and in the hospital, but I wondered if Randall had been in touch with you today?”
Kate sat bolt upright. “No, he hasn't. He said he was going to Texas on business.”
“He did go to Texas, but his Learjet is still waiting to give him a ride home.”
“Don't the people he went to see know where he is?”
Tom hesitated a moment, then said, “The bank president won't even get on the phone with me. Something happened down there, and I'm worried as hell about Randall. He's not checking his voice mail or answering his cell phone. He told the pilot that he'd be on board no later than six o'clock, and now it's midnight in San Antonio and he's a no-show.”
Kate tried to gather her sleep-scattered thoughts. “Didn't he grow up near there? Maybe he ran into an old friend?”
Tom's voice was worried and impatient. “He wouldn't ignore his phone beca
use of that, and the bank president wouldn't be refusing my calls. Something's wrong.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Leave him a voice mail asking him to call you. And let me know if he does.”
“I will if you'll promise to do the same.”
“I might wake you up again.”
“I'd rather that you did.” Kate paused. “You know, Randall seems pretty capable of taking care of himself. You probably don't need to worry.”
“I'll keep that in mind. Good night.”
Kate threw off the covers and started toward her pocket-book when a sleepy voice came from the cot in the corner. “Mom, who was that?”
“Just someone looking for Mr. Johnson, Patrick. Go back to sleep. I have to go make a phone call, and I'll be back.”
Kate heard the rustle of sheets as Patrick subsided. She had dashed home that afternoon to bring her younger son to see his brother. Clay was so much more cheerful with Patrick there, playing cards, that Kate had arranged to have Patrick spend the night. If Dr. Lane gave the okay, they could all go home together tomorrow.
Kate quickly checked on Clay, but the painkillers were keeping him knocked out. Then she grabbed a sweatshirt to pull on over her pajamas and took her handbag out into the hall. It seemed utterly ludicrous to be so worried about a grown man being late for a plane, especially if Randall Johnson was the man you were worried about. Yet she believed Tom Rogan when he said that Randall wouldn't stay out-of-touch for so long unless there was a problem. She suspected that his telephone was never more than two feet away from him even when he slept.
As Kate tried to formulate a message to leave him, her mind conjured up possible explanations for his absence. CEOs did get kidnapped occasionally, although mostly in Third World countries, she thought. It seemed more likely that Randall had decided to revisit his past in some way. She knew it had been problematic. But then there was the odd behavior of the bank president, who she assumed had been involved in the business that Randall had flown down to transact. She shook her head in defeat and punched in Randall's private phone number, wryly noting that she had committed it to memory, so throwing away scraps of paper would now be meaningless.
His terse recorded request to leave a message came on. She wished it were longer and had more of that Texas drawl in it. Then she could just dial in when she needed a quick thrill. The beep sounded, and she said in a deliberately light tone, “Randall, it's Kate Chilton. Poor Tom Rogan is so worried about you that he broke down and phoned me. Now I'm worried, too. As soon as you get this message, call me at the hospital or call Tom wherever you usually call him. I hope everything is all right. Clay's doing fine. I'll talk with you soon.” She hesitated a moment, wanting to say something more personal but unable to come up with anything appropriate. “Take care,” she finished lamely and disconnected.
She suspected that Randall would get her message and be furious with both her and Tom Rogan. After all, he should be able to take some time away from his responsibilities when he wanted to without checking in with anyone. Obviously, Randall's wealth and power came with strings attached – including widowed mothers calling for medical favors, she thought with a grimace. She had always considered him a rather solitary figure, perched on his mountain-top beyond the reach of the daily hubbub. Tom Rogan's frantic phone call had dispelled that illusion; it seemed that Randall Johnson had less freedom than she thought.
She tiptoed back into the hospital room. After silently laying her cell phone on the bedside table with its power light still flashing, she confounded her own expectations and fell immediately asleep.
When the telephone rang again, Kate opened her eyes to pale morning light. Sounds of the hospital stirring to life came through the door as she seized the receiver.
“Hello?”
She was disappointed when Tom Rogan answered, but relieved when he said, “Randall's on the plane.”
“Oh, thank goodness! Where had he been? What did he say?”
“I haven't spoken with him. The pilot called me.” Once again, Kate heard Tom's hesitation, then he went on. “He arrived at the airport in a pickup truck with two, well, the pilot's exact word was 'rednecks.' He was dead drunk and had to be carried onto the plane.”
“Drunk? I've never seen Randall drunk. I thought that because of his mother...” Kate trailed off, not sure how much Tom knew of Randall's past.
“Exactly.” Tom sounded grim. “You know, after we spoke, I thought about your idea of Randall meeting an old friend, and it reminded me of a comment he made about this deal. He said that he was going to 'repave memory lane.' That was when I expressed doubts about the soundness of his decision to buy this bank. Something blew up.”
“When do you expect him to land?”
“In about four hours. I'm going to meet the plane myself. Right now, the pilot says Randall's passed out on the fold-out bed.”
Kate was struck by a sudden worry. “I hope the pilots are discreet. Randall would hate having this become public knowledge.”
Tom gave a short laugh. “These guys see much worse than passed-out drunks and never discuss it. Their jobs depend as much on their discretion as on their skill as pilots.”
He cleared his throat. “Kate, I'm not sure exactly what your relationship with Randall is – and it's none of my business – but I think he will need his friends when he gets back, whether he'll admit it or not. My sense is that you're someone who cares about him. May I call you if I think you can help?”
“I'd be hurt if you didn't.”
After hanging up, Kate dropped her head back on her pillow for a moment as she considered the fact that Tom Rogan knew she cared deeply about Randall Johnson. She couldn't help wondering what Randall had said to Tom about her. A tiny flicker of happiness warmed her at the thought that Randall's right-hand man saw her as his boss's friend.
She threw off the covers and padded into the bathroom to shower while the boys slept. When she emerged, dressed and wide awake, breakfast was on the rolling table. Clay and Patrick were joking about how awful everything was even as they devoured it.
“Rubber eggs.”
“Plastic bacon.”
“Unidentified gelatinous substance,” Clay said, poking at what Kate assumed was oatmeal.
Patrick cracked up, then sobered. “Mom, who was looking for Mr. Johnson last night?”
“Um, a business associate of his,” Kate said as she tasted the eggs. “Definitely rubber,” she agreed with Clay.
“In the middle of the night? That's kind of weird.”
Clay looked up. “Is Mr. Johnson okay?”
“He's fine. He's on a Learjet flying back right now.” Kate threw in the jet to distract them.
“Cool,” Patrick said. “I wonder what model.”
Clay wasn't so easily redirected. “Why was his business associate so worried about him?”
“Oh, he didn't arrive at the airport when he said he was going to. And his associate said that was unusual for Mr. Johnson.”
“But he's a grown-up,” Patrick said.
Kate laughed. “Grown-ups worry about each other too, you know.”
“Mom, I like Mr. Johnson,” Clay said quietly. “And not just because he got the surgeon to operate on my hand. Or because he has a helicopter.”
“So do I, sweetheart. He's a good man.” Kate sighed.
Clay gave her a sharp look, but said nothing further. After that, they were swept into the hurry-up-and-wait routine of leaving the hospital. They dressed, packed, signed forms, called Denise, and then spent an hour and a half playing poker for pennies while they waited for Dr. Lane to release Clay.
Kate lost her stake unusually quickly because her attention kept circling around the twin worries of Clay and Randall. She was hugely relieved when Dr. Lane strode in, followed by his entourage of interns.
After a barrage of technical comments aimed at his students, the surgeon addressed Clay and Kate in plain English. “I'm very pleased with my work on th
is. It's a textbook case. Young man, you'll have full use of this hand if and only if you do all the physical therapy I'm going to recommend.”
“Yes, sir,” Clay responded with a brilliant smile.
Dr. Lane smiled back. “When your hand's healed more, you're going to get this really cool gizmo that will make you look like something out of the Terminator.”
“Lucky dog,” Patrick said.
“Let's not mention the word dog in this context,” Kate joked.
The doctor slid her an amused glance. “That's the spirit. Good luck, Clay. I'll see you next week.”
Kate shook his hand warmly. “I can't tell you how much we appreciate your miraculous work.”
“Maybe you can talk Mr. Johnson into naming the new wing after me,” Dr. Lane threw over his shoulder as he exited.
The three Chiltons looked at each other. Finally, Kate said, “He must have been kidding.”
As they walked in the front door, Clay looked around and said, “I feel like I've been away for weeks instead of a couple of days.”
“Anesthesia does that to you,” Kate said as she dropped the duffel bags at the foot of the steps. “Would you like to go upstairs and sleep or would you rather lie down on the couch in the family room and watch a movie?”
“The family room,” Clay said, heading that way.
“Are you hungry?” Kate asked as she arranged pillows for his back and hand.
“Definitely. Especially after the unidentified gelatinous substance,” he said, setting himself and his brother off into a fit of laughter.
Kate smiled as she walked into the kitchen. If Clay was cracking jokes, he was feeling all right. Her smile widened when she heard Patrick politely ask Clay which movie he wanted to watch and accept his choice without argument. He was obviously still worried about his brother. She wondered how long that would last.
As she took out sandwich fixings, Kate punched the answering machine's play button. There were a couple of messages from Clay's friends, asking how he was doing. Then Tom Rogan's voice sounded from the speaker. “Kate, Tom Rogan. I missed you at the hospital. I met Randall at the airport. He informed me that he didn't need a nursemaid, jumped into his car and spun out of the parking lot. If you hear from him, please let me know. He looked like hell.”
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