The Sound of Rain

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Guess you’ll be heading home soon,” Judd said.

  “Looks that way.” Pete rested his forearms on the table.

  “Judd’s been looking out for me while you’ve been . . . away,” Sally said.

  “I thank you for that.” Pete finally lifted his eyes to meet Judd’s. The sorrow there was deep.

  “I showed him a picture of your grandma Dixon.” Sally blurted the words as though she’d been casting for something to say and they were the first to rise to the surface.

  Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you do that?”

  Sally looked nervous, as if realizing this might not be the safest topic of conversation. “He was asking about your family and . . . that land.”

  Pete squinted at Judd. “Did Heyward put you up to that?”

  “Of course not.” Judd glanced at Sally and sighed. He’d rather not have this conversation in front of her but guessed there was no time like the present. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the jaw harp, pushing it across the table to Pete. It had nearly been confiscated on the way in, but the guard deemed it a harmless item to share with a short-term prisoner.

  “Heard a story about the Bennington family hiding valuables when the Union soldiers came through back during the war. You mentioned something about treasure a time or two. Wondered if maybe hunting it was what made you decide to trespass.”

  Pete acted like he was only half listening. He picked up the jaw harp and turned it over and over in his hand. “There’s more than one kind of treasure,” he said, almost to himself. He looked to Judd. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Men found an old nail keg in a half-hollow tree they cut. That was in it along with some kind of diary and a knife.”

  Pete lunged across the table, grabbing Judd’s shirt. “Where are they?”

  A guard materialized and shoved Pete back down onto the bench. “Enough of that. Visit’s over.”

  “But I need—”

  “Don’t care, don’t matter,” the guard said, jerking Pete to his feet. “Get a move on.”

  “We’ll pick you up on Thursday,” Judd called as Pete disappeared through a door.

  Sally fought tears all the way to the truck, finally letting them fall once Judd had her settled inside.

  “You’re the best friend he’s got,” she sniffled. “Why’d he get worked up like that?”

  “Aw, it’s my fault. I should’ve waited until Thursday to talk to him. Something about that property has Pete in a state, and I’m thinking there’s more to it than just the loss of the land and the money it might have meant.”

  Daddy was making an effort to take an interest in the wedding without harping on the future of Waccamaw Timber. Larkin appreciated that he was at least trying. She kissed his cheek as she sat down at the breakfast table.

  “Your mother tells me I’m to walk you down the aisle on the eighteenth.”

  “I was hoping you would.” Larkin buttered a slice of toast and reached for the peach preserves.

  He grimaced. “Of course I will. I might even go so far as to say I’m looking forward to it.” He reached for his coffee cup but only twisted it in the saucer. “And whatever you and Judd decide to do after you’re wed is fine by me.” He finally sipped his coffee. “I’m afraid the company may mean more to me than it should. I’ve been . . . thinking about some things I may need to set to rights before long.”

  Larkin let a smile slide across her face and decided it was time to let him off the hook. “I thought we’d move into Granny Ben’s apartment while we look for a place of our own.” She laughed at her father’s stunned expression. She stepped around the breakfast table to wrap her arms around his neck, then sat on his knee and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Judd and I plan to stay for now. I think we’d like to be part of Waccamaw Timber Company. But I don’t think you can count on Judd being a silent partner. He has ideas of his own.”

  Daddy squeezed her tight. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled. “Although it may take some time for us to get used to each other.”

  “He’s pretty easy to get used to,” she said.

  Something was niggling at the back of Judd’s mind. Pete sure seemed to know that jaw harp, and the way he got worked up when Judd mentioned the diary and knife didn’t make sense. It certainly wasn’t any Civil War treasure, but if he didn’t know better he’d guess those items were exactly what Pete had been hunting.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Larkin said.

  They’d eaten supper with her parents and were taking inventory of what they’d need in the little apartment over the garage. It was nice enough, but Judd saw he’d be ducking rooflines and doorways once they moved in.

  “Aw, Pete’s got me worried, but I’d rather not stew about that right now.” He scooped her into his arms. “It’s gonna be a haul to carry you up those stairs and over the threshold.”

  She giggled. “I think you can manage.” She gazed around the main room. “Granny Ben sure would like knowing we’re using this place. She loved it here.”

  “That sure is a funny name for a woman,” Judd said, releasing Larkin and opening kitchen cabinets to see what more they’d need.

  “It was short for her last name.”

  Judd straightened, brow furrowed. “Last name?”

  “Bennington. My grandmother’s maiden name was Lavonia Bennington.” She grinned. “Ben is named for her—his full name is George Bennington Heyward. Maybe if we have a girl one day—”

  “Your grandmother was a Bennington? As in the Benningtons who owned the land your father’s timbering?”

  Now it was Larkin’s turn to furrow her brow. “Could be. I’m not sure.”

  “Pete’s grandmother was Eugenia Bennington Dixon. Could they have been kin?”

  Larkin tapped her lower lip. “Granny once mentioned a sister of Grandpa Victor—that makes her my great-aunt—who married a no-good gambler and was never heard from again. I tried to get her to tell me more, but she refused. Seemed to be a sore spot for her.” She smiled. “I do remember a story about how, during the Civil War, they hid the good silver and jewelry out in the woods, leaving just enough silver plate and costume stuff to fool the Union soldiers.”

  “That sounds like the Bennington family that owned the land we’re working now.” Judd stopped to piece it all together in his mind. “So maybe your great-grandparents left the land to the daughter whose husband didn’t take care of her. Your grandparents were doing alright in timber and turpentine.” He thought some more. “And then Pete’s father, Wade, who might have been a good bit like his own father, ended up selling the land to . . . George Heyward, his cousin by marriage. Which means Pete . . .” He did some calculating. “Pete might be your second cousin.”

  Larkin seemed delighted. “Really? Can I meet him?”

  Judd thumped down on an overstuffed, floral sofa. “Don’t you see? If Pete’s your cousin, that would explain why he’s so worked up about this timber tract and why he thinks your father pretty much stole it from him—even though they were family. It also raises a few questions about that nail keg we found and the diary that was in it. He’s been going on and on about needing to find something that would set the record straight.”

  Larkin’s eyes sparkled. “A mystery—how intriguing. But you don’t really think Daddy did anything wrong in getting that land, do you?”

  Judd tugged at his ear. “There’s wrong and then there’s not right. And your father seems to have been walking on both sides of many a fine line over the years.”

  Chapter

  39

  Sally was busy preparing a feast for Pete’s return, so Judd drove to the jail by himself. Pete met him at the curb, hands shoved deep in his pockets, squinting into the hot, early June sunshine.

  He climbed into the truck. “Thought to wait inside so’s nobody would see me, but where I been lately ain’t exactly a secret.”

  “Sally’s cooking a mighty fine meal to welcome you home.”
<
br />   Pete slouched low. “I don’t deserve that woman. That’s why I need to get ahold of that diary you mentioned.” He glanced at Judd. “You know anything more about that?”

  “I might.”

  Pete sat up straighter. “Can you take me to it? I need it real bad if I’m going to do right by Sally.”

  Judd signaled for a right turn and glanced at Pete. “What’s written in there?”

  Pete shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. But I hope it’s my grandma’s diary. Pappy kept it close and I always figured it was mainly sentimental to him. But one time, when he’d been drinking worse than usual, he told me there was something in there that would make me rich one day. I figured he was talking out of his head, but not long after that, I didn’t see the book anymore.” Pete stared out the window. “I asked him about it and he said he hid it on the land that belonged to his mother. She was still living then. Not long after that, she died and Pappy said he inherited the land.” Pete thumped his fist against his leg. “Then the fool sold it to George Heyward. Acted like he thought we’d get it back one day. ’Course, then he died.” He thumped his leg again. “Sorry cuss.”

  “You don’t have any idea what might be in the diary?”

  “My grandmother was disowned by her family when she married my grandfather. All she got from the Benningtons was that tract of land. Her father didn’t know it would grow up into some good timber one day. Or maybe he did.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes as though bone-weary. “I think that diary somehow shows I have every right to the Bennington land—that Pappy sold it out from underneath me.”

  Pete fished the jaw harp out of his pocket, tucked it between his teeth, and played a few mournful notes. “This belonged to Pappy. Can’t think why he’d hide it in a tree. Probably too drunk to know he’d done it. Probably didn’t even remember.” He plucked the instrument again, and Judd’s own jaw tightened.

  He felt torn. On the one hand, Pete deserved to know who his family was—that he was George Heyward’s cousin. On the other hand, he didn’t want Pete to cause trouble for the timber company—the one he was about to have a pretty serious stake in. The whole business was a convoluted mess. Still, Judd always did prefer the truth, no matter how inconvenient.

  Judd was still wrestling with what to do when they pulled up to Pete’s house. The magnolia tree was blooming, and the clean, fresh scent greeted him as he opened the truck door. He was also met by a car that looked a lot like the one George Heyward drove.

  Pete walked over to the car, eyes narrowed. “You know this car?”

  “Might be it looks familiar.”

  “What I thought,” Pete said and headed for the door.

  George Heyward met him on the top step. Pete froze, lip curled like a worried dog. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk,” Mr. Heyward said. Then he went back inside, leaving Pete and Judd to follow if they chose.

  Judd looked at Pete and debated blurting his information but then decided to wait and see how this thing played out. Pete inhaled deeply, turned and went into the house. Judd followed close on his heels.

  Inside, Sally stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wringing her hands. She looked to Pete, and he stretched an arm out toward her. She scooted to his side and tucked in close to him. Pete turned toward George, who stood with his hands braced on the back of an armchair.

  Pete gave George a dark look. “I’d invite you to sit, but I’m not sure you’d do it even if I asked. Why don’t you just say whatever you have to say so we can get on with my homecoming.” He spat the last word like tobacco juice.

  George glanced down at his hands. “Maybe we should all sit.” He looked back up. “Seeing as how we’re family.”

  Pete staggered and tugged Sally down onto the couch beside him. “What’s that you say?”

  George looked to Judd and then moved around to the front of the armchair and sat, as though he’d been carrying a mighty weight. Judd slid into a ladder-back chair near the door and kept his peace.

  George pulled the diary from his coat pocket. “This belongs to you as much as anyone,” he said to Pete. “I’ve read it—every word, and it made me think pretty hard about the way I’ve handled my family.”

  Pete bristled, but George held his hand up. “Now, don’t get your dander up. Eugenia was your grandmother, but she was also Augusta’s aunt. I’ve known it for a long time. It’s why I hired you on. I wanted to do right by you since you’re my wife’s cousin. But maybe my idea of what’s right got a little twisted along the way.”

  Although Judd had guessed the truth, hearing George say it out loud just about made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Pete was about to become his cousin by marriage.

  “Grandma Eugenia was . . .” Pete couldn’t seem to piece it all together.

  “Augusta’s aunt—her father Victor’s sister. I knew there was a younger sister who married the wrong man, but the Benningtons never talked about her and somehow I thought she was dead. ’Course, I eventually met Wade Dixon and figured out the truth. I never did say anything. I thought it would be best if everyone really did think that line had petered out.” He looked Pete in the eye and thumped the book. “But that’s not what happened.”

  “Pappy and Grandma Eugenia. That means Pappy was your wife’s first cousin.”

  “He was, and while I don’t care to speak ill of the dead, he never was the sort of man to hold a . . . steady job. And while I knew who he was, Augusta didn’t, and I hoped it would never matter.”

  “Why’s it matter now?” Pete had a suspicious gleam in his eye.

  George held the diary up and looked toward the ceiling, as if what he wanted to say might be written there. “I have come much too close to losing my family over my desire to preserve the business I helped build. It just might be that I’ve misplaced my priorities.” He took a breath and looked Pete in the eye. “You, sir, are my family and I intend to do right by you. Let me read you something.”

  He gently pressed the crinkling pages of the diary open, smoothing a particular page over and over—to buy time, Judd suspected. Then he cleared his throat and began to read.

  “‘Peter is gone and I cannot bring him back. Perhaps Victor was right when he said I was a fool to marry him, but he was so full of life and I was so full of love. Now Wade and I must carry on, bearing the shame of his manner of dying, as well as the horrors of surviving with no regular income—not that it was regular when Peter was with us.

  Father has given us the land where an old slave cabin sits, most likely to appease his guilt. It will have to do. He also gave Wade his pocketknife. I don’t suppose he can blame the boy for the sins of his father. Or his mother, for that matter. I could probably sell that knife for enough to feed us a good while, but I swear I never will. It and this sorry, swampy land are all we have to remind us of who we are. Who we were. Who we might be again. We have lost a great deal. I will see that my son does not lose any more.’”

  George looked up, eyes moist. “It’s dated November 6, 1902.”

  Pete had taken Sally’s hand at some point. He sniffed loudly. “I was named for my grandfather even though he was shot down the summer of 1902 for cheating at cards. I think Pappy hoped it would please Grandma Eugenia—the name. I guess Pappy wasn’t much better than his own father, but he did love Grandma.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “And I surely loved her, too. It would’ve made her madder than a hornet to know Pappy sold that land.”

  George reached in another pocket and pulled out the knife from the nail keg. “I’m guessing this is the knife she mentioned. There are initials carved in the handle—H.B. Augusta’s grandfather, your great-grandfather, was Howard Bennington.” He rubbed his thumb over the initials. “Your grandmother cared more about the family legacy this knife represented than she did about cold, hard cash. Made me take a long, hard look at what matters most to me.”

  He flicked the knife open, then shut it again and passed it over to Pete
. “Seems like this ought to be yours now.”

  Pete took the knife like it was a sacred relic. He flipped it open and ran his fingers over the staghorn handle. “I remember Pappy carrying this. Always wondered what happened to it.”

  George cleared his throat. “There’s more in that diary. It continues right on up until she died—after you were born. Your grandmother meant for the land to pass to you. I’d say she was aware of Wade’s propensity to drink and fritter away anything he had.” He fished a piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out. “I was able to buy the land because no will was ever found after Eugenia passed, leaving any property to fall to your father. I’m not sure if that diary would stand up in court, but it surely says straight out that she planned to leave everything to you.” He laughed, dry and hard. “Guess maybe ole Wade thought he had an ace up his sleeve. Sell the land to me, then let you get it back through the courts.” He handed Pete the piece of paper.

  Pete unfolded it and scanned the contents. He looked at George, a furrow forming between his brows. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s a deed showing I’ve signed the land over to you. It’s yours—the way your grandmother meant it to be—and we’ll split the profits on the timber just like I would have if you’d sold it to me.” He darted a look at Judd. “Things got a little tight with the company after that blasted hurricane and I needed the harvest, but since then a contract has come through from the state, thanks to Judd buttering up the forest service.”

  Pete squinted at him. “How much are we talking?”

  “I wrote the figure down there at the bottom of that paper.”

  Pete whistled low and showed Sally, whose eyes got big and round.

  “What’s the catch?” Pete asked.

  “No catch. Maybe just take good care of that pretty wife of yours and come have dinner with us after all this wedding business is over. I know Augusta would enjoy hearing about Eugenia.”