He would never hurt her again and not because he had said he wouldn’t, but because she would not let him. Kent had destroyed her naivete, her ability to easily trust in the goodness of others. And Johnny Mack had taught her the foolishness of loving with blind devotion. She had once loved with all her heart, completely, holding back nothing. But now she loved no one, except Will and Lillie Mae. Trusted no one, except Will and Lillie Mae. Johnny Mack couldn’t hurt her—not any longer. But he could hurt Will.
Lane glanced up at the second story of the house and noted the light shining in the windows of Will’s room. She had to talk to him, explain about Johnny Mack, make him understand that he wasn’t the horrible human being Kent had said he was.
But just how much about Kent and about Kent’s death did she dare discuss with Will? How much could she dredge up without renewing Will’s nightmares? She had believed it was a blessing that he couldn’t remember Kent’s murder, whether he committed the crime himself or had simply been a witness to it. If Will had killed Kent, if he had taken his baseball bat and bludgeoned Kent to death, wouldn’t it be better if he never remembered?
If only she had been there. If only she could have stopped Kent from spewing his putrid hatred and torturing Will with a distorted version of the truth. But Lillie Mae had been there and hadn’t been able to prevent disaster. Or had she? Was it possible that Lillie Mae…. No! She had to stop speculating about what happened the day Kent was murdered. It didn’t really matter who killed him. All that truly mattered was keeping Will safe.
Lane took one step at a time, preparing herself for the confrontation with her son. What could she say to him? How could she make him understand that regardless of what Kent had said about Johnny Mack, the man wasn’t a monster. He was simply a guy who had made some bad choices, a man who had made up his own rules as he went along and had been hell-bent to snub his nose at local society. She couldn’t defend most of the things Johnny Mack had done, but she could paint a more honest picture of Will’s biological father. Even if she hated Johnny Mack, she didn’t want Will to hate him.
Chapter 8
Lillie Mae met Lane the moment she entered the house. A frown marred her wrinkled face. Lane had known Lillie Mae long enough to recognize the look as one of agitated concern. Is she worried that I’m angry with her because she sent for Johnny Mack?
“You and I need to talk,” Lane said. “But first I’m going upstairs to see to Will. I have to explain some things to him about Johnny Mack and make him understand—”
“Will’s gone.”
“What?”
“Miss Edith called right after you went out.” Lillie Mae grimaced as if the mention of Kent’s mother left a bitter taste in her mouth. “She asked Will to come over there and see Miss Mary Martha. Seems she’s been calling for Will.”
“Calling for him by name or just calling for her baby?”
Lane hated the way Mary Martha often referred to Will as my baby. Since the first time her sister-in-law held Will, Lane had felt a certain uneasiness every time Kent’s sister had lavished attention on him. Mary Martha had an almost unhealthy attachment to Will, but whenever she had mentioned that fact to Kent, he had dismissed it as foolishness.
“You aren’t jealous of Mary Martha are you, sweetheart? Kent had said. “She’s just being a devoted aunt. No need for you to concern yourself.”
“I don’t know if she asked for him by name. Will didn’t say. Just told me that his aunt was calling for him.” Lillie Mae nodded to the door. “Did Johnny Mack leave?”
“Yes.”
“Will he be back?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. He invited himself to lunch.”
“Sounds like Johnny Mack.” The corners of Lillie Mae’s mouth lifted slightly, with just a hint of a smile. “Why don’t you go in the den? I’ll make us some herbal tea, and we can have that talk.”
Lane nodded. “Tea sounds good about now.”
As Lane made her way to the den, she wondered if she should go over to the Graham house next door and check on Will. No, she shouldn’t. Her son considered himself a capable young man. At fourteen, he often resented Lane’s smothering motherly attention. It had been difficult enough before Kent’s murder to allow Will breathing space, but now—dear God, now!—she couldn’t bear for her son to be out of her sight for more than a few minutes. What if his memory returned when she wasn’t with him? What if he remembered that he had killed Kent?
Easing down into the tan leather chair near the windows overlooking the west side of the house, Lane sighed. Mentally and emotionally weary, tired from carrying heavy burdens in her heart, she lifted her feet to rest them on the huge leather ottoman.
Her gaze scanned the room, which she had left unchanged since her parents’ deaths. This den had been her father’s sanctuary, a place to escape from his busy work schedule as the owner of Noble’s Crossing’s only daily newspaper—the Herald—begun by William Alexander Noble in 1839 and co-owned today by Lane and Edith Graham Ware.
Shortly after her marriage to Kent, her father’s newspaper had been on the brink of being gobbled up by a New York conglomerate, but Edith had come to the rescue, saving the paper from Yankee invasion. Now Lane depended on the revenue from the paper to support herself and Will and to keep up the Noble estate. No matter what happened, she would never touch the trust fund her father and Edith had jointly set up for Will.
Lately Lane found herself gravitating toward this room, this small, cozy haven nestled away from the activity of the rest of the house. Dark paneled walls and wide crown molding in rich wood tones recalled the elegance of a bygone era, as did the heavily carved desk and the antique Persian rug. A portrait painted by renowned Atlanta artist Gower Mayfield hung over the fireplace—a portrait of a young, beautiful Celeste Noble and her only child, Lane, at the age of five.
She missed her parents terribly and probably always would. Although she and her mother had seldom seen eye-to-eye on anything, she had adored Celeste, the royal social butterfly of Noble’s Crossing. No one could give a party the way Mrs. William Noble had. Her lavish soirees had been the talk of Alabama in the late sixties and early seventies. Perhaps if her mother hadn’t spent so extravagantly, her father might not have found himself between the proverbial rock and hard place when the family’s ownership of the Herald had become endangered.
She had not only loved her father, but she had admired him greatly. Bill Noble had been a gentle man who had possessed a strong moral character and a charitable soul. He had known almost everyone in town by name and treated rich and poor with the same respect. He had been the one who had first hired Johnny Mack Cahill to do yard work on Magnolia Avenue.
When Celeste had protested about Johnny Mack’s presence, Lane’s father had said, in his calm, yet authoritarian voice, “The poor boy needs someone to give him a chance. He has no one, except that drunken Wiley Peters, to see after him. I don’t like the idea of anyone going hungry, and I have an idea that Johnny Mack has gone to bed hungry more than once in his life.”
“Mark my word, Bill Noble, we will all rue the day you brought that young hellion into our lives!” Celeste had said. In retrospect, her statement had been eerily prophetic.
After having overheard that conversation between her parents, Lane had made a point of checking out this dangerous boy. Sitting in the window seat in her upstairs bedroom, she had watched him as he mowed the grass and pruned the shrubs. She had been all of fourteen and filled with sexual urges she simply hadn’t understood. All she had known was that every time she looked at Johnny Mack Cahill, her body tingled and her mind created images of his muscular brown arms holding her close as he gave her her very first kiss.
“Tea’s ready.” Lillie Mae stood in the doorway, a silver tray in her hands. She smiled tentatively at Lane. A peace offering? Are you upset with me? Lillie Mae was asking silently. And if you are angry, will you forgive me for summoning Johnny Mack?
“Put the tray over there.” Lane inclined her head tow
ard the large mahogany desk with elaborate ribbon detailing on the drawers. “Please, pour us both a cup. Then come sit over here by me and we’ll talk.”
Lillie Mae’s hesitant smile broadened, creasing lines into her pale cheeks. “We need him, Miss Lane. We need him bad. Otherwise, I never would have sent for him.”
Lane only nodded, uncertain how she should or could react. She didn’t doubt for one minute that Lillie Mae had acted out of love and concern for Will and her. But she couldn’t share Lillie Mae’s certainty that Johnny Mack would be their savior. How could a man who had once wreaked so much havoc on this town, whose irresponsible acts had damaged so many lives, suddenly become the solution to their problems? If trouble possessed a name, that name was Johnny Mack Cahill.
Lillie Mae handed Lane a Royal Doulton china cup filled with hot Earl Grey tea. No lemon. No sugar. No cream. “I figure that with him being fifteen years older, he’s not the same boy who left Noble’s Crossing in the dark of night, letting a lot of folks think he was dead. He’s thirty-six. Older and maybe a lot wiser. And I know for a fact that he’s got money. He’s been sending me a check every month for years now, and I’ve been putting it in a savings account in case you and Will ever needed it. If Johnny Mack don’t offer to pay for you a good out-of-town lawyer, we’ll use that money to do it.”
Lane accepted the cup, then set it aside on the small table to her right and grasped Lillie Mae’s hand. “I love you dearly and I understand why you wrote to Johnny Mack, but…what makes you think he can help us?”
Lillie Mae squeezed Lane’s hand as she looked into her eyes, her expression one of devotion and love. “Johnny Mack never took advantage of you, of your innocence, and we both know he could have. And when he left this town, he refused to take you with him. You’re the only woman I know he ever treated special. And I figure after you saved his life, he knew he owed you. All I did was call in your marker.”
Lane released Lillie Mae’s hand, leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “He told me that he’s very rich.”
Lillie Mae eased her thin body down into the wing chair across from Lane. “I figured as much. He could hardly afford to send me so much money every month if he wasn’t.”
“He hired a private investigator who somehow got hold of Will’s original birth certificate.” Lane massaged her temples with circular swirls of her index fingers.
“Did he think Kent was Will’s father just because that’s what Sharon put on the birth certificate?”
“He asked me if he or Kent was Will’s father.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
Lillie Mae released a long, relieved sigh. “Did you tell him everything? I mean about how Sharon came to you wanting money for an abortion and how y’all tricked Kent into adopting Will?”
Lane picked up the cup of tea. “Yes. I explained how and why Kent and I married and adopted Will and that until Sharon’s deathbed confession, Kent believed Will was his son.”
“Why that girl of mine had to get religion before she died and confess her sins is beyond me.” Tears gathered in the corners of Lillie Mae’s faded gray eyes. “I loved her, my Sharon. But Lord knows she wasn’t worth shootin’. I guess folks thought that her dying the way she did, from AIDS, was punishment for her sins. But it wasn’t God’s punishment. It was her own doing. If she hadn’t been hooked on them drugs, she’d never have come down with that horrible disease.”
Lane kept silent. She agreed with Lillie Mae’s assessment of Sharon’s wasted life, but where Lillie Mae had a right to malign Will’s biological mother, Lane didn’t. After all, Sharon had given her something she otherwise would never have had—Johnny Mack’s baby.
“So, Johnny Mack knows the truth.” Lillie Mae glanced at Lane, her gaze speculative. “But you didn’t tell him any details about your marriage to Kent, did you? You didn’t tell him what a high price you paid for Will’s life.”
“No, I didn’t tell him. And I don’t want you sharing my secrets with him, either. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I understand only too well.”
The fact that his grandmother met him at the door instead of one of the servants told Will how eager she was to see him. Maybe he shouldn’t think of Edith Ware as his grandmother anymore, now that he knew Kent wasn’t his father. But how could he turn off his emotions? Miss Edith, as everyone referred to her out of respect for her position in the community, had always been his doting grandmother, someone who had lavished attention and money on him all his life.
Edith reached over and squeezed his arm, a sad, uncertain look in her eyes. “Thank you for coming, Will. I know that things have been strained between us since your father’s—since Kent’s death.”
“Yes, ma’am. I suppose, since you believed Kent was my real father, finding out that he wasn’t came as a big shock to you.”
“Yes, of course. It was a major shock to all of us, except Lane, who had known all along that—”
“I don’t want you to say anything against my mother,” Will said. His stomach knotted painfully. He wasn’t going to listen to Miss Edith making accusations against his mother. Not now or ever. He might be only fourteen, and others might consider him just a kid, but he knew things. He knew that his mother had suffered more than anyone else. He had heard the things Kent had said to her before their divorce. He knew the way Kent had treated her. And now, with Kent dead, people thought she had murdered him. But he knew better. His mother couldn’t kill anyone. Not unless it was in self-defense or to protect someone she loved.
“As you wish,” Edith replied. “We won’t discuss Lane. Not tonight. At the moment I have a more urgent problem.” Edith ushered Will into the marble-floored foyer and closed the door behind him. “Mary Martha is quite agitated and we can’t calm her. Jackie has suggested giving her a sedative, but my poor girl has been overmedicated since Kent’s death. And sometimes the medication has an adverse effect on her. I was hoping that you could calm her. All your life, you’ve been able to work wonders with Mary Martha.”
“You know that I’ll do what I can, but if she’s still in as bad a shape as she was the day of Dad…Kent’s funeral, then I doubt she’ll even know who I am.
“She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone since the day after the funeral,” Edith said. “Not until tonight. She’d been rocking one of her dolls for several hours and she kept calling it her baby. Then suddenly she flung the doll aside and said it wasn’t her baby, that her baby was a big boy now. That’s when she started calling for you.”
Tears pooled in Edith’s eyes. When she closed them, droplets glistened on her eyelashes, and moisture trickled onto her cheekbones. “You’ve always played that little game with her. You know, where you pretend that you really are her child. I was hoping that you’d play along with her tonight.” Edith opened her eyes and looked squarely at Will. “And if she says anything…you know, about Kent—”
“Don’t you think you should call the doctor?” Will asked. “Not just old Doc Morgan, but a real psychiatrist. Someone who might be able to help her.”
“If she doesn’t improve, then of course we’ll have to seek psychiatric help. You know we’ve taken her to numerous doctors in the past, and she’s even stayed at several private clinics; but no one’s ever been able to help her.”
Will started up the stairs, then halted when he noticed that his grandmother remained in the foyer. “Aren’t you coming up with me?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I think it’s best that you see her alone. She always preferred to have you all to herself. But after your visit, please…just let me know how things went.”
Will nodded agreement. “Sure.”
Mary Martha’s room was at the end of the hall. He stood outside the closed door for a couple of minutes, took several deep breaths and mentally prepared himself for whatever he found when he walked into his aunt’s bedroom. When he knocked, Jackie Cummings opened the door immediately.
&nb
sp; “Well, hello, Will.” Jackie stepped back just enough to allow him entrance. “Miss Edith said you were on your way over. I sure hope you can calm your aunt down. As you can see, she’s made a mess of this room, but Miss Edith wouldn’t let me give her another sedative. And I guess she’s right. We’ve kept Mary Martha pretty doped up ever since your daddy’s…er, Kent’s funeral.”
Will glanced past his aunt’s nurse and quickly scanned the room. A child’s room. A little girl’s haven. With dolls tossed hither and yon, the bed linens ripped from the mattress and pillows and books scattered about over the floor, it appeared that the little girl who lived here had thrown quite a temper tantrum.
Mary Martha stood huddled in a far corner, her eyes glazed, as she systematically ripped pages from a book. The paper floated to the floor like autumn leaves drifting off tree branches.
“No bedtime story. No bedtime story,” she repeated again and again as she continued destroying the book.
Will took several hesitant steps in his aunt’s direction. He wasn’t sure why, but there had always been a unique connection between Mary Martha and him. For as long as he could remember. In retrospect, he now assumed that he had connected well with his childlike aunt because he had been a child himself. But even as he grew older, the ties that bound them had not been severed. She had often called him my baby, and when she had been in one of her moods, his parents had allowed her to enjoy the fantasy that she and not Lane was his mother.
“Aunt Mary Martha?”
She stopped her repetitive page ripping the moment she heard his voice. “Will?” Her gaze searched the room. When her vision focused on him, she smiled. A weak, delicate smile. As delicate and frail as the willowy woman who held out her hand to him. “Will, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s me. Grandmother said you weren’t feeling well, so I came over to see about you.”
“Oh, my sweet baby.” Mary Martha dropped the partially destroyed book and glided across the room like a spirit floating on air.
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