Reflection

by Diane Chamberlain

  "You were wrong to come to the church tonight," he said, "and I was wrong to open the door to you."

  "I know." She felt the slight contraction of the muscles in his arms beneath her hands.

  He lifted one hand to her cheek, and she closed her eyes at the touch of his fingers. She could remember feeling that hand on her breast long ago. She could still remember the warmth, the tenderness in his touch, and that's what she was thinking about as he pressed his lips to hers. He kissed her softly, without any of the fever that was mounting in her body.

  The darkness was disorienting. She felt dizzy when he touched her lower lip with the tip of his finger, when he opened her mouth that way, then leaned forward to kiss her again, deeply this time, and she felt the hunger beginning to rise in his body as well.

  He wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed her head against his shoulder, stunned by her tears. After a minute, he spoke softly in her ear. "Why is it," he said, "that right now I feel no guilt?"

  She tried to measure her own guilt and found it nearly absent. "Neither do I," she said.

  She heard his sigh, muffled against her ear. "I feel so damned human these days. Weak-willed. And the worst part is, I can't seem to pray anymore. It scares me."

  She hugged him harder. She thought he was shivering.

  "You're shaking," he said, and she realized it was her own body that was trembling.

  "I just want you so badly," she said.

  He rubbed her arms as if he could somehow still her tremor. "I want you, too. You know that, don't you?"

  She nodded against his chest.

  "And I'm crazy to play at it when we can't have it. I'm not willing to make love to you, Rachel, when there's no hope of anything more than that."

  She was willing, though. It would be wrong. It would be the worst thing she'd ever done in her life, but right now she was willing. "I wish you weren't so strong," she said.

  He laughed, pulling away from her. "If I were strong, I wouldn't be standing here in the dark with my arms around you."

  She let go of him, and they began walking up the path again in silence.

  Rachel couldn’t recall ever having seen Marielle's cottage, but she sketched a quick picture of it in her imagination. A small living room, a tiny cramped kitchen, and one bedroom, the double bed miraculously made up with clean white sheets.

  Damn Katy Esterhaus. Damn the Mennonite church.

  "There it is." Michael caught her shoulder and pointed to their right.

  Rachel shined the flashlight into the woods to illuminate the small, ramshackle, and thoroughly unthreatening cottage. The shutters hung askew; the shingles on the roof were in shreds. The chances of finding a clean bed inside seemed minuscule. Good.

  "Incredible that she could live in this little shack all these years at the same time that she owned this valuable piece of land," Rachel said.

  They walked toward the front door. Michael tried the knob, but it was locked. Rachel slipped the key from her pocket and inserted it into the keyhole. It was an easy fit. It turned with a satisfying click.

  "I don't believe it," Michael said.

  She glanced at him, shrugged, and stepped over the threshold.

  Michael tried a wall switch, and a tiny living room suddenly appeared in front of them. "She didn't have the electricity turned off," he said.

  The room was cluttered with nondescript furniture, old moth-eaten blankets, and a few hundred copies of Reader's Digest.

  "So now that we're here," Michael asked, "what are we hoping to find?"

  "The Bible, for starters," Rachel said. She looked around her at the grimy blankets and magazines. "What a firetrap."

  Michael sat down on a hassock and began rooting through a bookshelf. "I'll start in here," he said.

  Rachel walked down a narrow hallway, past the door to the kitchen, which was as tiny and unappealing as she'd imagined it, to the small bedroom at the rear of the cottage. There was indeed a double bed, stripped, the striped ticking of the mattress yellowed and stained.

  A wooden cross hung askew on the wall above the bed and a dresser, caked with dust, stood against the wall. Rachel rummaged through the dressers nearly empty drawers, finding a few balled-up articles of clothing, nothing else. The drawer of the small night table was empty.

  Discouraged, she stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips. "Have you found anything?" she called into the hallway.

  "A great article in a 1972 Reader's Digest about this blind guy who walked clear across the country with his two dogs."

  "Michael!" She laughed.

  "Seriously. It's inspirational."

  She shook her head and opened the door to a deep closet. A few empty wire hangers were clumped together at one end of the rod, and yet another old blanket was bundled onto the shelf above her head. She was about to close the door when something caught her eye. Something dark stuck out from the shelf below the blanket.

  She had to stand on her toes to reach it. It was definitely a book. She tugged at it, and the blanket fell over her head as the book landed in her arms. It was thick and leather-covered. Marielle Hostetter's Bible.

  She tossed the blanket over the footboard as she sat down on the bed, the Bible on her knees. Now what? She opened the front cover. Someone had scrawled a family tree on the inside pages, the ink a faded purple. She found Marielle's name. The younger of two children, with no offspring of her own.

  Leafing through the pages, she was disappointed to see no markings that might help them understand the old woman's thinking. Well, it had been a far-fetched idea, after all.

  She was about to close the book when she thought to look inside the back cover. A folded sheet of onionskin paper slipped to the floor. She picked it up and lay it flat on the bed, and what she read forced her to read it through a second time.

  "Michael!" she called. "Come here."

  She was reading it a third time when he appeared in the doorway to the bedroom.

  "I found the Bible," she said, "and this was inside it."

  She handed him the thin sheet of paper. He began reading it, and she watched the blood leave his face as he understood its meaning.

  –24–

  Michael drove ahead of Rachel on the way to Helen's, glancing in his rearview mirror from time to time, trying to catch Rachel's eye, trying to get answers to the questions running through his head. On the seat next to him lay the precious sheet of paper they had found in the Hostetter Bible—the thoroughly bizarre codicil to Peter Huber's will. How had it come to be there? Was it legal? Did Helen know about it? And who was Karl Speicer? Nothing made sense.

  He wished Rachel was sitting next to him so they could talk about it, puzzle it out. Just as well, though. He couldn’t be with her. The walk through the woods had been pure temptation. Each time he saw her, he was playing with fire. If a member of his congregation came to him seeking counsel about a similar situation, he would have no hesitation in telling him or her to avoid the person.

  But what if that person was your oldest, most precious friend?

  He had barely come to a stop in front of Helen's house when Rachel was at his car window.

  "I've been thinking," she said. "Maybe we shouldn't just lay this on her. She seems a lot stronger lately, on a physical level at least, but I don't know how this might affect her."

  Michael gingerly lifted the sheet of paper from the seat and got out of the car. "We have to talk to her, Rache." There was no way he could keep their discovery from Helen.

  She nodded reluctantly. "Gently, though. I have a bad feeling about it. It's so strange."

  "Well." He took her arm and started toward the porch steps. "Let's go see if we can get some answers."

  They found Helen reading in the library. She looked up when they walked into the room, a broad smile on her face.

  "Michael!" she said. "It's good to see you."

  He bent low to kiss her cheek. "Good to see you, too, Helen." He knew her happiness was linked to seeing him
together with Rachel. Helen had a keen sense of how the universe should be ordered.

  Rachel pulled the ottoman in front of her grandmother's chair and sat down. "We have to talk to you, Gram," she said. "We found something."

  Helen frowned. "Found something?" she repeated.

  Michael sat down on the sofa. "Rachel went to see Marielle Hostetter a few days ago," he began.

  Helen turned her frown in Rachel's direction. "You did?" she asked.

  Rachel nodded, and Michael continued. "For some reason we couldn't figure out, Marielle gave Rachel the key to her house. She said something about a 'land thing' being in her Bible. We went to her house tonight and found the Bible, and inside there was an addendum to Peter's will."

  He glanced at Rachel, hoping she wasn't upset at him for plowing ahead this way, but her expression was one of apprehension rather than objection. He held the codicil out to Helen, but she drew back from it, the smile gone from her face.

  "Shall I read it to you?" he asked.

  "I think I know what it says," Helen said.

  He exchanged a quizzical look with Rachel before he began reading. '"The land which I inherited from my parents, bounded by the town limits of Reflection on the north, Colley Road on the east, Spring Willow Pond to the south, and Main Street to the west, has been home to the Hostetter family for generations,'" he read. '"Marielle Hostetter may continue to live on that land until her death, at which time the property shall pass to her heirs, or she may dispose of the land as she sees fit, and retain the proceeds from any sale. The foregoing will be void, however, if my last work, Reflections, is delivered to—and publicly critiqued by—Karl Speicer. If that condition is met, the property will be made a gift to the town of Reflection, to be preserved as parkland, and Marielle Hostetter shall instead receive any royalties resulting from the sale of that work.'"

  Michael was still astonished by the unorthodox message, although this was the fourth time he'd read it. He looked at Helen, whose face was nearly the same shade of gray as her hair.

  "I remember that part of Peter's will, yes," she said quietly.

  She'd known about this chance to save the land and said nothing? Michael was about to speak, and none too kindly, when Rachel sent him a look of warning.

  She wrapped her hand around Helen's. "Are you all right, Gram?" she asked. "Is this upsetting you?"

  "I'm all right."

  "This Karl Speicer," Rachel continued. "He's the pianist we'll be seeing Friday night, isn't he?"

  Michael was surprised. He hadn't made that connection.

  Helen didn't answer. She was staring into the darkness outside the library window. "Peter's been dead ten years," she said, "and I'd truly forgotten about that part of his will. But to answer the question I'm sure you're both dying to ask, there is no piece called Reflections."

  "Wait a second." Michael stood up from the sofa, frustrated. "Back up, please, Helen. First of all, the land was Huber land?"

  "It was in Peter's family for a long, long time—generations—and he inherited it from his parents. Which means it is not mine. I have no say over what happens to it. Do you understand that?"

  They nodded like admonished children.

  "But why would he leave it to Marielle?" Rachel asked.

  "Because he took pity on her. Peter was a caring, generous person. His family had allowed her family to live in that cottage for as long as anyone could remember, so everyone always assumed the land was Hostetter land. And now it is. There's nothing we can do about it."

  "But if he took pity on her, why didn't he simply say she could live there until she died and have the land convert to parkland after her death?" Michael asked.

  Helen looked out the window again, and Michael feared she was going to cry.

  Rachel squeezed her grandmother's hand. "We don't have to talk about this right now if you don't want to, Gram," she said.

  "Peter had his ways," Helen said, looking from Rachel to Michael. "He had his reasons for doing things that sometimes didn't make sense to other people," she said.

  "Do they make sense to you?" Rachel asked.

  She nodded. "Knowing Peter, yes. I understand his thinking perfectly."

  Michael sat down again, resting the sheet of paper on his knees. "Is this addendum legal?" he asked.

  "Yes. It's legal."

  "The music must exist if he refers to it," Michael said. "Where could it be? Could this Karl Speicer have it? Why would Peter have wanted the music to go to him?

  Helen eyed him with forced patience. "Which question do you want me to answer first?"

  "Why Karl Speicer?"

  "Karl is a pianist, and yes, he's the pianist performing at the Kennedy Center Friday night. He's very old—my age—by now. I can hardly believe he's still performing, although…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked into the distance for a moment before returning her attention to Rachel and Michael. "He was a good friend of Peter's," she said. "He loved playing his works."

  "Could he have a copy of the music?"

  Helen laughed, and he and Rachel glanced at each other. What was so funny? "No," Helen said. "We would certainly know about it if he did."

  "Why would Peter make what happens to the land contingent on Karl Speicer seeing that particular piece of music?" Michael asked.

  "I told you, Michael, Peter had his own reasons for doing things. I can't explain them."

  "Gram." Rachel covered both her grandmother's hands with her own. "Where can we look for the music? Where might it possibly be?"

  "Nowhere." She was beginning to sound impatient."I looked after Peter died, Rachel, and it's been ten years. If it existed, I would have found it by now."

  "Maybe it's tucked away somewhere, though. I don't know—beneath the floorboards or something. Maybe we could find it and take it to Washington with us on Friday and give it to Karl Spei—"

  "No, no, no, no!" Helen shook her head furiously. "Rachel. Michael. You must leave this alone!" Quick tears appeared in the older woman's eyes. They scared Michael but not as much as they seemed to rattle Rachel. She leaped up to put her arms around the older woman.

  "Gram, sweetheart, it's all right," she said. She looked at Michael above her grandmother's head.

  Helen raised her arms to cast off Rachel's embrace. "You have to promise me you won't try to talk to him," she said. "Not Friday night or ever. Promise?"

  Rachel stood next to him. "I promise," she said.

  "Michael?" The older woman looked for his answer.

  He nodded reluctantly. "All right," he said, reaching for her hand. "And I'm sorry we upset you."

  Helen took his hand briefly, then dropped hers limply into her lap. "I'd like some privacy now," she said.

  Michael looked at Rachel. "I should go," he said. "I have to pick Jace up from his youth group."

  Rachel nodded. "I'll walk you out." She touched her grandmother's shoulder. "I'll be back in a minute, Gram."

  They were quiet until they reached his car. "What do you make of all that?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "I have no idea. "

  "The last thing I want to do is hurt Helen," he said, "but if that music exists, we've got to find it."

  Rachel sighed. "Do you think the attorney might know something about it? The one who drew up the will?"

  "Well, it's certainly worth a try. Sam Freed drew it up, and I know him pretty well. I'll give him a call tomorrow." Maybe Sam could explain Peter's reasoning, if nothing else.

  Rachel leaned against his car. "I had a terrible thought while we were talking to Gram," she said. The porch light caught the gray of her eyes, and he remembered kissing her in the woods. He wanted to kiss her again.

  "What's that?"

  "Well, does this make any sense to you? That my grandfather would leave that valuable a chunk of land to Marielle Hostetter?"

  "It's the craziest thing I've ever heard, but none of this makes any sense to me."

  "Gram is acting so strange about it," Rachel said, "and I do
n't want to push her on it. She's too fragile. But do you think there's any chance that Marielle could have been more to my grandfather than just a woman who lived on his land?"

  Michael almost laughed. "First of all, she's more than twenty years younger than Peter. And secondly, Peter was very intellectual. A woman like that would have held no interest for him whatsoever."

  "That's not what I was thinking." Rachel covered her mouth with her hand. She was nearly laughing herself, and he smiled without knowing what he was smiling about. "I'm sure this is ridiculous," she continued. "The product of an overactive imagination. But what if Marielle is his daughter?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Maybe Marielle's mother had an affair with my grandfather. Maybe that's why she killed herself. Because my grandfather wouldn't leave Gram. And Gram knows it all, but doesn't want to tell us. It would explain everything."

  It would—everything except the strange contingency—but it seemed preposterous. He also didn't like to think of Peter tomcatting around the neighborhood. "Even if that were the case, which seems a little extreme, it's moot. We don't really need to know the explanation. We just need to find the music and then persuade Helen to let us talk to this Speicer guy."

  Rachel looked toward the house. "I should go in to her," she said. "She's not herself."

  He caught her hand before she could walk away. "Rachel?"

  The gray eyes grew even wider, waiting.

  "I love you." He felt safe enough, in control enough, to say those words out loud. "I don't know what to do about it, but I do."

  She smiled. "I love you, too," she said. She gave him a hug, pulling away before it could become anything more than that, and he watched her walk toward the house.

  * * *

  Helen was in her bedroom when she heard the creak of the screen door and knew Rachel was back inside. Quickly she closed and locked her bedroom door. She needed another minute to herself. Needed to still her trembling. She felt dizzy and lay down on the bed, drawing in long, slow breaths. She heard Rachel's knock on the door.