The Caretaker's Son

by Yvonne Lehman

  “A doozy?”

  She nodded.

  “Oh, honey,” Megan consoled, her blue eyes filled with compassion and she spoke low as if telling a secret. “Michael’s a divorced man, you know. He had a rough time for a while and did not lead a disciplined life. And sometimes—”

  “Hold it.” Lizzie slapped the table. “That’s TMI.”

  Megan groaned and sat back against the chair. Lizzie said, “Okay, so you French kissed Wesley.” She shrugged.

  Annabelle stared at her. Then glanced at Megan and then the table. “Not...Wesley.”

  “Ahoooohhhh,” Lizzie howled. “You mean the hunk?”

  Annabelle started to stand. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, no. Sit.”

  So she did.

  Lizzie said, “I would’ve kissed him if he’d let me.”

  Megan touched her hand. “You kissed him after you got engaged?”

  “No. But I was...promised to Wes.”

  “Why did you kiss him?” Lizzie asked.

  “Oh, Lizzie,” Megan said, taking her hand back. “They’ve been doing all that book work. And Wes has been gone. She’s attracted to him.”

  “No.” Annabelle shrugged a shoulder. “That’s not the reason. I mean, yes, I do find him attractive. I see attractive men all the time. But I don’t kiss them.”

  “Did he initiate it?”

  Annabelle shook her head.

  “You did?”

  “I couldn’t help it. I was in the creek with an envelope.”

  “Without a paddle?” Lizzie said and began to whoop with laughter.

  Megan covered her mouth, but her shoulders were shaking and she sounded like a grunting pig.

  Annabelle started laughing, too. And crying.

  “Don’t you know?” Lizzie said between rolls of laughter. “Everybody kisses when they’re in the creek with an envelope.”

  Annabelle tried to wipe her face. How could things be so funny and not? “It’s serious.”

  “Is it?” Megan questioned and the laughter died down.

  ‘No.” What a horrible thought. “I mean, we’re not serious. It was...a spur of the moment thing without thinking. An impulse.”

  “Okay,” Megan said. “If it’s not serious, then forget it.”

  “Should I tell Wes?”

  “No. No,” they shouted in unison.

  Annabelle leaned back. Then after a sensitive laugh, she told them about the publisher sending a letter. “I was just excited and happy and grateful.”

  Lizzie asked, “Is he still in the creek?”

  “No, silly.”

  “Oh, shucks. I thought if he was, I’d like to borrow that envelope.”

  Her dearest friends went into hysterics again.

  Annabelle slipped off the stool. “I have to get ready for work.”

  Chapter 21

  When he was growing up, he’d look at the big house and hold resentment against those who came here, lived here. He’d resolved someday he’d own a house like this. Now he could. Now he knew it hadn’t been resentment, but envy.

  Now that he could own a house like this, and had grown a little in maturity, what he desired was a sense of family. He hadn’t been able to give Miss B anything, only take all the kindness and teaching she gave him.

  Now that he had a chance for family, for acceptance, being a welcomed guest and friend of Miss B, he’d dishonored her. Annabelle was the only family she had left.

  Maybe he was making too much of it. Who could blame him? he kept telling himself.

  And each time the thought came, so did the answer. Only himself, Annabelle, Aunt B and Wesley Powers-Lippincott. That’s who. And anybody else who knew her.

  Why did she let him? Why did she kiss him back?

  He could answer that, too. It seemed deep inside just about everybody was a desire to write a book. And he’d encouraged that in her. He hadn’t instigated it. But he’d monopolized her time with his writing a book about Miss B and getting her hopes up with the publisher.

  He kissed girls all the time in New York. Well, a lot of the time. And more than kissing.

  Sure, he knew she was a grown woman. But he also knew she had been sheltered, or at least protected from the male population. Wesley had obviously respected her. She was a Christian trying to live up to moral standards and her faith.

  And here he comes along, claiming to want to honor Miss B, and what does he do but take advantage of her niece.

  He wished...

  No, he didn’t wish it hadn’t happened. He wished he wished it hadn’t.

  Maybe she would just chalk it up to a weak moment. Weak moment? He’d felt the current of it stronger than the pull of the creek.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal to her. Neither had said sorry when they’d left the creek to wash off the dirt.

  He couldn’t wash that off. Far from dirt, it was more like an impossible dream.

  He’d have to talk to her, see her reaction again. If this was an embarrassment to her he would wrap up what he’d come for as quickly as possible and hightail it back to New York. Or somewhere. Tybee had been a possibility. Probably not now.

  He really didn’t want to forget. He wanted to savor it. And the whole time he finished up at the creek he kept seeing it, feeling it, reliving it, over and over. And he hadn’t saved Anna; instead, he’d disrespected her. Couldn’t it be called a compliment?

  He guessed not.

  He would apologize. She might flip her graceful hand and say, “Forget it.”

  And that might even hurt worse.

  He kept at it, until he had the creek bank fixed. On Friday afternoon he told Miss B all was well. She’d looked out over the landscape or wherever her mind wandered, and he knew enough about her to know she was wondering about more than the bank of the creek.

  Was he saving Anna? Or hurting her?

  He needed to get his mind on something else so when Miss B asked if he’d like to go to their church Sunday he said he planned to see Willamina. So he went there again for those good, warm, welcome hugs and managed to sing the hymns reminding him of when he was just a little boy.

  Monday morning would be the big test. He’d play it cool as he could when she’d come over for the treadmill, then they’d...relate. So he got up early as usual for his swim at the fitness center.

  That’s when he heard it. Almost the first thing Paul said before they jumped into the pool. “Annabelle and Wes finally got engaged,” he said.

  “Engaged?”

  “Well, he gave her the ring Friday night. That’s what Lizzie said.”

  So Symon jumped into the pool and so did Paul and they swam for a long time before stopping for breath. Symon didn’t think he’d ever gone so long without breathing.

  Well...maybe once.

  He was grateful for that much preparation in facing her. But she didn’t come. Miss B came out as he and Mudd were walking around the flower beds, seeing the profusion of color, looking for any weed or unwanted vine.

  “Coffee’s made if you’d like some.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  He opened the screen when she came to the door with it then she settled in the rocker and he on the porch, leaning against the post.

  The silence seemed to speak. The landscape looked perfect, a beautiful picture of a big house, a great Southern city. Finally she set her cup in the saucer on the small table. “Our girl had a big night Friday.”

  He set his cup on the porch, not the step. “I heard,” he said. “Paul told me this morning at the fitness center.”

  After another silence she said, “Everything still all right down at the creek?”

  “The bank is now reinforced better than ever. But
it’s still the weak point. You’ll need to have it looked at. Tends to erode there.”

  She nodded. He knew she realized he was saying he wouldn’t be here to keep checking on it. He’d done enough damage.

  “I’m giving a small dinner party Friday night for them. Of course you’re invited.”

  When he looked at her quickly, she continued before he could say he had another appointment. “Wesley’s parents will be here.”

  He leaned his head back against the post and looked at the ceiling. The repairmen had done a great job. But he already knew that.

  “Of course Megan and Michael are invited. And Lizzie. Clovis will come. Willamina and Doris will cook. You could ask Paul to come if you’d like. I’d planned to have a dinner or a cookout or something for you since you’re considering staying here. Oh, I know you could do it yourself, for those in the writing profession.”

  Yes, he could. All he’d need do is set up appearances and book signings at stores and libraries, get an article in the papers with his pen name, his book titles. Be interviewed on TV. Be a local celebrity. It’s always interesting to the public when a local boy without means works his way up to success. And including Miss B as the greatest influence on his life would give him an in with the old-money, good background society.

  It wasn’t a bad idea. It went over well in New York and on his book tours.

  It would work here.

  He may have to resort to that, just get on with continuing his career, because he wasn’t doing too well in trying to be part of a family, in relating like a decent, mature person.

  “But,” Miss B was saying, “this came up so quickly and I’m Annabelle’s only living relative, so I must do this.”

  “Quickly,” he said. “I thought this had been planned for several years.”

  “Well, yes. But you see, Wesley aspires to going into politics and has to be careful of every decision. Annabelle pondered continuing with pageants or getting into teaching. Now, they suddenly know what they want to do. So, yes, it’s planned and at the same time rather unexpected. She’s been so excited about that book, and getting into teaching.”

  “That’s not a detriment to Wesley’s ambitions, is it?”

  “No. But it means a change in the way of thinking. Sometimes, any change seems like some kind of threat.”

  “So her pursuing the book idea was likely a temporary distraction.”

  “Maybe. But sometimes one has to have a wake-up call to see things clearly.”

  Maybe he had played a part in awakening Annabelle to knowing where she belonged and not delaying getting on with her life any longer. And Wes had resented Symon. He’d seen it.

  But why would Wes care about him? Wesley Powers-Lippincott had it all. The name, the position, the acceptance. He didn’t know that Symon Sinclair had anything.

  Mudd seemed to have an uncanny sense of being needed and moved to the top step. Symon rubbed his fingers into the hair on Mudd’s head. Of course, he had to come. He was Miss B’s friend and writing a book about her. So he said, “Thank you.”

  By the end of the week he had his head on straight. He’d been foolish to give too much thought to some insignificant act that didn’t bother anybody else. Annabelle hadn’t come over for her exercise. She’d probably grow fat and ugly. Mmm-hmm.

  He and Miss B talked some during the week, but she was busy getting ready for the dinner. And he spent more time with his career, and wrote his own proposal...for The Cherry Tree.

  Chapter 22

  Symon didn’t want to go to the front door and have someone let him in so he walked up the back path from the cottage and saw Paul and Wes standing with a couple other men. He said, “Congratulations,” to Wes, who thanked him and introduced his dad, the only one wearing a suit coat and tie instead of slacks and dress shirt like himself and the others. He was introduced to Michael about the time Lizzie yelled from the back door that it was time to eat.

  Annabelle seemed to stand back, but of course everyone knew her. Symon didn’t care to make eye contact or make any special congratulatory remark. That wasn’t difficult since they were making sure everyone had been introduced. Miss B asked Mr. Powers-Lippincott to say the blessing and afterward said seats were not assigned and they could sit wherever they liked. She spread her hand toward the ample amount of food, saying that Willamina and her daughter, Doris, had laid everything out on the sideboard.

  “I’m going to step in and speak to them a minute,” he said to whomever might care to hear, and after returning he took his time filling his plate so he could choose where to sit.

  Miss B sat at the head of the table. On each side of her were Mr. and Mrs. Powers-Lippincott across from each other. Wes was beside his dad and Annabelle next to him, then Lizzie.

  Symon decided to go down toward the end and sit by Michael, but Paul said his name and motioned to the empty seat between him and Mrs. Powers-Lippincott, so Symon was ensconced across from Wesley.

  Mr. P-Lippincott began to compliment him. “I know CoraBeth has worried about that creek after a big rain.”

  Out of his peripheral vision Symon saw Lizzie nudge Annabelle with her elbow and Annabelle returned it with a withering glance.

  Apparently it had been discussed. Laughed about?

  Symon kept his focus on Mr. PL’s face as the man added what sounded like a compliment. “I hear you’re getting it taken care of.” He nodded and forked a bite of food into his mouth.

  “It’s done,” Symon said. He could have added that he did it for Miss B. A guest, or a friend, didn’t have to work when they visited. But he refrained, recognizing he needed to rein in that sensitive, impulsive nature of his.

  “I met your dad a few years ago. You remind me of him.” At Symon’s steady gaze, he had the propriety to look down at his plate and cut his steak. Had Mr. PL asked his dad how it felt to have lost so much he could never reach out to anyone else, only the bottle? Only the landscape? If he’d talked to him, it would have been about the grounds, like he was doing with Symon now. Fine, if that was what he wanted to discuss.

  Symon understood the awkward millimeter-of-a-second pause. They’d be thinking he was an alcoholic. Miss B said, “He was a true landscape artist.”

  Like any astute society lady trying to rescue her husband, although Symon wasn’t taking offense, had no reason to, Mrs. PL turned to him and asked, “Where do you live, Symon?”

  “Lower Manhattan.”

  “Oooh. Nice section.”

  He smiled. “I have a studio apartment in an older couple’s house. They travel a lot and like having me to look after things. And I house-sit.”

  “House-sit?” she echoed.

  “I get paid to do that and it’s research for my stories. It’s information on some of the grand mansions in Manhattan and other places. Also background for occupations.”

  “What kind of stories do you write?”

  “Murder mystery. Thriller.”

  Mr. PL responded cordially, “I used to read a good bit. But most of my reading now is court cases. Um, writing’s a hard way to make a living, isn’t it?”

  “Except for the top ten, as the saying goes.”

  He wasn’t always in the top ten but close enough to do more than eke out a living, and his payment for speaking was wickedly abundant.

  And wealthy people were more than pleased to have him stay in their houses, use them as background in his novels and even name some characters after them. The books would then sell to all their employees, friends, relatives and acquaintances.

  Here, no one except Miss B knew he was well known in writers’ circles.

  “So you think you might stay in the area?” Mr. PL asked. Obviously someone had been talking about him.

  “Considering it. I’ve talked to a couple universities about being writer-in-reside
nce.”

  They seemed to need a moment of silence to absorb that. He didn’t add that they were more than receptive to the idea, particularly his alma mater.

  “You find it enjoyable?” Wes asked. “Writing about murder and mystery?”

  “About solving the murder and clearing up the mystery, yes.”

  “I do read when flying,” Mr. PL said, beginning to show a little more interest than polite conversation. “Symon...Sinclair, is it? Haven’t noticed anything of yours, but I go to Patterson, Grisham, Koontz, Corbin, DeBerry.”

  “That’s my kind of reading,” Symon said.

  “Are they Christian books?” Wes asked.

  “Depends on your definition, I suppose. Willamina’s a Christian. She cooked your steak. So does that make it a Christian steak?”

  Lizzie enjoyed it most; most others laughed politely and seemed to think on it. “I mean,” Wesley said, with a slight edge, “do they have Christian content?”

  Symon told himself he shouldn’t act like a smart aleck, make people uncomfortable, not in Miss B’s home, so he relaxed. “One of my early story ideas was influenced by the Bible. The one about a gang of serial killers.”

  They stared, probably thinking he knew nothing of the Bible.

  Miss B grinned.

  “The parable Jesus told,” he said, “about the evil farmers who killed everyone the owner sent their way, even his son.”

  Mr. PL cocked his head sideways. “Never thought of it that way.” He sort of nodded like it might be true.

  “Miss B taught me I always had to have good win over bad.”

  Miss B added, “Even before he could write he drew pictures about his stories.”

  “How many books have you had published?” Wesley asked.

  “Five. The sixth comes out in a couple months. Another in the works.”

  Symon had to analyze the situation. This was a dinner to celebrate an engagement. But they all knew each other. He was the new one. They were just being polite and trying to make him feel a part of them. Might as well show he knew a little something other than landscaping and writing a few books about killers.