The First Law of Love

by Abbie Williams

  I really do love it here, I thought, studying the sky above Stone Creek, stretching endlessly to the horizon where the mountains waited, patient and protective, as they had always been. Again these notions swept me away with surprise. I’ve been here before now, somehow, sometime. I know it. The certainty of this tugged at my very soul. As my eyes roved over the magenta-edged clouds gathering above the peaks (surely it would rain hard again before morning), I considered suddenly that I had a clue, even a small one, a place to begin researching, and despite everything, I felt a tremble of excitement.

  Back inside I fed Peaches, ate a couple of handfuls of dry cereal while leaning against the counter and staring into space, put my hair into a ponytail and carried my laptop, notebook and a pencil out to the porch. There I smoked two cigarettes (justifying this because it calmed my nerves, at least a little) and then opened my laptop. Into the search bar I typed the words Thomas Yancy.

  Nothing promising at first; there was a list of White Page information, advertisements for applications to find anyone, anywhere. I scrolled through all of the junk, my eyes alert for a hint of something I could focus my energy upon, a puzzle piece, even a fraction of an answer. And then I saw a Civil War ancestry page that had turned up that name. Thunder growled in the distance and I shivered, my eyes lifting to the horizon, where an anvil cloud was massing. I looked back at my computer screen and clicked on the link.

  The information was sparse. Thomas F. Yancy, served in the Fifty-First Pennsylvania until 1865, mustered out in April of that year. No picture available. I tapped my fingers against my lips, considering what Derrick had said at the Coyote’s Den, about Thomas Yancy being shot in the back. He had been adamant and though he’d also been extremely drunk, he seemed to know exactly what he had been talking about.

  Coward, Derrick had said. Fucker has it coming now.

  Who do you mean? I wondered intently. Who shot Thomas Yancy? Why does it matter now, over a hundred years later?

  The air chilled with a breeze, the pine trees all around the parking lot rustling as though trying desperately to tell me something. On the third floor, a mom called for her kids. On impulse, I typed Spicer into the Civil War page search bar. My fingertips tingled just typing Case’s last name. The third hit on the page read ‘Returns from U.S. Military Posts, 1865’ and showed the name ‘Henry Spicer.’ Heart clubbing, I backed out of the page and retyped this new name into the general search engine.

  Less than a minute later I was sweating, my breath shallow, as I stared at the image of a black and white family picture. The caption read, H. Spicer Family, 1872.

  Oh my God. This is Case’s family.

  I was sure of this as I stared with wide eyes at the old photograph, absolutely devouring it. Henry and his wife, presumably, were seated at the center, surrounded by their family. Not one smiling face in the bunch, though I understood this was due to the length of time required for exposure; slow-operating cameras of the day. My eyes tracked over the faces of their numerous children, suddenly zeroing in on one in particular, a boy of perhaps eighteen, standing tall in the back row.

  My chest hurt with a repressed breath and I was touching the screen, caressing his face, before I even knew my fingers had moved. Insane as it was, I realized he looked familiar. I knew him. I dragged my eyes from him to read the names listed in the caption, scrawled as though with an old-fashioned quill pen, moving frantically until I found the one that belonged to him – Cole. Cole Spicer, 1872. Eyes staring directly into mine from the old photograph, handsome and perhaps even a little defiant, shoulders thrown back.

  Jesus Christ.

  I looked back at the gathering storm in the here and now, trying to center myself. Attempting to regain reason.

  Tish, you’re a lawyer. There is no logic to this. You don’t know this man, you have never known this man. There is no way that this is Case in another life —

  I minimized the window and opened a second, typing Cole’s name into the engine next. The same image I had just been studying appeared, but as I clicked desperately on suggestion after suggestion, I found nothing more. Nothing useful, no birth or death dates, no further evidence of his existence.

  I had to call Case. I had to see him. I needed this so much that I stood up and carried the laptop with me into the apartment. I found my phone and began to dial his number before stopping myself and holding the phone to my forehead.

  You can’t call him.

  I understood this, though it did nothing to lessen my desire. I forced myself to replace the phone on the counter and then went back outside. I did not, however, possess enough willpower to stop searching the Internet. I tried every combination I could concoct. I learned the names of all of Henry Spicer’s children. I surmised that this was the ancestor who had carried the violin to the war and then subsequently westward, the beautiful violin that Case still played to this very day.

  I tried Thomas Yancy in conjunction with Henry Spicer, but came up empty-handed. I did discover that Thomas Yancy, who had once fought for the Union in the Fifty-First Pennsylvania, had two sons, the younger of the two with the bizarre name of Dredd. There was nothing to suggest that Thomas Yancy had been cheated out of land or murdered, or that he was somehow connected to Derrick. At last I searched Yancy Corps, clicking on the History link on their homepage. It was neat and tidy, briefly mentioning the founding of the company in Chicago in 1893; the original founder was listed as Fallon Yancy. The eldest of Thomas Yancy’s sons. No mention of the father or the younger brother.

  So there is a connection.

  I covered my face and pressed hard. Instead of finding any real answers, I had only unearthed a thousand new questions. Thunder absolutely exploded then, startling me; the sky was pewter-gray even though there should have been a good two hours of daylight left. Lightning sizzled and I smelled the rain seconds before it began pelting the earth. Stubbornly I remained where I was and pulled up the photograph of the Henry Spicer family one more time.

  ***

  Hours later I was sleeping on the couch when a noise crept into my dream and my eyelids fluttered open. Though the thunder had passed, a soaking rain was still falling heavily outside, numbing my ears to any other sounds. But I knew I had heard something else and sat up fast, flinging the afghan from my hips, my heart tripping over itself in sudden fear. Fear, I understood, that would immobilize me if I let it; I thought, Get up, don’t be so helpless.

  I stood and rushed to the door, flinging it open, not quite able to contain a shriek as Peaches, who’d inexplicably been in the hallway, darted past my ankles and leaped onto the kitchen table.

  “You scared me!” I half-yelled at her, even though it was unfair. The green digital display on the stove read 5:41 am, though the lingering storm still created a sense of deepest night. Squaring my shoulders, I jogged down the hall and then the steps to the entryway, scanning the parking lot, uncertain just what I expected to find. Case, sleeping in his truck, guarding me in the night hours? I rolled my eyes at myself; a part of me had prayed to find exactly that.

  Instead I saw only the wet parking lot, dim in the damp gray light of a rainy July morning.

  ***

  Keeping myself occupied during the day wasn’t a problem, at least not at the law office, where more people than ever were stopping by during business hours to inquire about their legal rights regarding their land dealings with Capital Overland. In addition, Al was busy with his usual case load, working between the court house and the office while I held down the fort. We had convinced almost a dozen families to reconsider the sale of their property, and though I had not seen him since the night at the Coyote’s Den, I felt as though I could sense Derrick Yancy’s anger directed my way like a weapon pointed at my head.

  Clark made a point of stopping into the law office on Thursday to remind me to come to dinner tomorrow night. As much as I hated to lie to him, I made up an excuse, telling him I simply had too much work to do. Clark didn’t exactly buy this, I could tell, but t
o his credit he let it slide. He said, “Will you at least be at Al’s birthday? The boys and I can come to pick you up, if you’d like.”

  “I will,” I promised him. “But I already told Robbie Benson that I would go with him.”

  Clark’s eyebrows furrowed a little and I rushed to explain, “He’s my old friend from school, remember, who’s housesitting for Ron?” Not that I’d seen much of Robbie this week – he’d been too busy lounging in Ron’s palatial cabin with a booze supply and the satellite dish, the worthless little shit. I was not feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

  “That’s right,” Clark said. He studied me with his kind eyes before asking quietly, “Tish, are you all right?”

  I nodded as vigorously as I could manage. Clark left just as Al came back from the court house, the noonday sun bright as a signal beacon on the street outside. Al greeted Clark and then focused on me. He said excitedly, “I heard word just now that Derrick Yancy is considering pulling up stakes around here!”

  “Not just a vicious rumor?” I countered, too wary to get caught up, though Al seemed genuinely enthusiastic.

  “Time will tell,” he said. “But this is good news! Only thing better would be you telling me that you’ve agreed to stay in Jalesville.”

  “I don’t even know if I passed the goddamn bar exam,” I told Al, hedging.

  “You passed or I’ll eat my hat,” he teased me, not about to let me rain on his parade, hanging the hat in question on the coat rack. “You know, after I took the exam I spent two weeks on a fishing trip. Shit, and here you are working yourself half to death for me. You can take tomorrow off, if you want.”

  “Too much to do,” I countered.

  He grinned at me and said, “At least take off early today.” He studied me a moment longer and I could sense he wanted to ask me about something.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “It’s not my business…” Al deliberately trailed off, a lawyer tactic I recognized, designed to snag a reluctant answer. I narrowed my eyes at him and he laughed, knowing he could not trap me in this fashion. He asked forthrightly, “Is it my imagination, or is there a little something between you and young Mr. Spicer?”

  My heart responded heatedly to this question and my gaze flashed out the window, as though expecting to see Case’s maroon truck pull up to the curb. What I wouldn’t give for that. I hadn’t seen Case since Saturday morning in the parking lot of Stone Creek, and the puncture wounds in my heart throbbed painfully, reminding me clearly of their presence. I didn’t even have to speak for Al to say gently, “I thought so.”

  I bowed to Al’s insistence that I leave early; he made me promise that I would take a walk, get some fresh air. He didn’t mention Case again, but I drove the wrong way on Main, just so that I could put my eyes on Spicer Music. The OPEN sign invited me but I was far, far too chicken. Instead I rolled by as slowly as I dared, studying his modest little music shop, desperate to see him inside. Instead I saw only the sun refracting blindingly from the glass.

  So what is between you and Case? What exactly?

  Something more than I could even explain, that was all I knew for certain. Something from over a century ago and something ten times stronger now, an echo of a time before, the memory of what had once existed between us and was now dying to be acknowledged again. I closed my eyes and pictured Cole Spicer’s black and white face, Cole Spicer who was long dead now; nothing could change that. Could it truly be plausible that his soul existed within Case?

  Was I certifiable for even considering the possibility?

  I was thinking so deeply about this that at first it didn’t register that someone had parked in my reserved spot at Stone Creek. I felt a flash of annoyance that turned to a beat of pure apprehension in the next second, as I recognized Derrick Yancy’s black GMC.

  What the hell?

  Again with the power play, taking my rightful place and forcing me to park to the side instead. He was clearly waiting for me; how long had he been here? Had he followed me from the law office? I hadn’t gone straight home, instead lingering near Case’s shop, which would have given Derrick time to get to Stone Creek ahead of me, if he had indeed observed me leave work. He didn’t even climb out of his 4x4 as I approached; instead he watched me, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

  You spineless little bastard, I thought as I neared him, keeping my chin held just a hair higher than usual. Bring it on, buddy. I’ve been waiting for this. For only a second did I waver, wanting Case to be with me right now more than ever. But then I reminded myself that I was far from spineless. That I could hold my own.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. Derrick was seated just above me in his big SUV, and I had the distinct impression he liked that I had to literally look up to him, as though he was some sort of royalty, always slightly higher than those around him. The sun was hot on my head as I refused to look away; all I could see was my own angry reflection in his sunglasses. I could feel the chill of the air conditioning blasting from the cab of his vehicle.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” he said in a perfectly-modulated voice.

  “Then start talking,” I said, my words clipped and just a hair over-enunciated.

  “Not here,” he said. I peered behind him, into the recesses of the SUV; it was empty of anyone but him.

  “If you think I’m about to go anywhere with you, you’ve severely underestimated my intelligence,” I told him. My hands were planted on my hips.

  “I don’t underestimate you at all, rest assured of that,” he said then, lifting his sunglasses from his face. His eyes made my stomach cramp – there was so much anger in them, a vicious loathing that I knew he couldn’t justify even if he’d tried. I understood, as I hated him perhaps unreasonably too. He said, low and heated, “You are fucking up my business here. I won’t have that, do you understand? You’ve done your little duty for Turnbull and now it’s time to go home.”

  “I’ll go home when I’m ready,” I said, glaring at him as though attempting to pick answers from his brain. “There’s still plenty of work here.” On inspiration, I leaned even closer to him, despite all instincts screaming at me to stay back, and said intently, “And I won’t be scared away from here. No matter what you do.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously, though his voice was very calm as he said quietly, “Accidents happen, counselor. Whether we like it or not. Sometimes, they happen to people we care about.”

  Again he’d succeeded in catching me horribly off guard. My knees turned instantly to gelatin and it took all the willpower I possessed to keep my composure. Derrick smiled then, fully understanding just how much he had rattled me, slipping his sunglasses back into place. He said lightly, speaking my name the way he would deliver an insult, “Go home, Patricia, where you belong. Do you understand me?”

  He had driven smoothly away before I could manage to muster the strength to walk inside.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I said not a word to anyone of this encounter with Derrick Yancy.

  He’s bluffing, I told myself. He’s trying to scare you, just like he sent someone to mess up your apartment while you were gone. He’s all talk.

  But the thought that he might be serious, that something could happen to someone I cared about, tortured my every waking thought.

  I kept my head low at work on Friday; Al was worried. He reminded me at least three times that it was his birthday party this evening.

  “I’ll be there, don’t worry,” I assured him. I adored Al, truly, even though my primary motivation for attending his birthday party was because I was certain that Case would be there, as Al had invited nearly everyone in town. I was dying to see Case, furious at him for staying away from me this week.

  But my heart ached at the thought of seeing him and being unable to touch him.

  Touching him may have been at the forefront of my thoughts that evening, as I showered for the second time and proceeded to get ready, and the raw, almost painf
ul hope of him touching me in return. A week apart from Case had left me devastated and approaching desperation. Not to mention I still owed him an apology. I had stopped myself from driving out to his place over a dozen times this week, even more from calling him. I needed to tell him I was sorry in person and if he wasn’t at Al’s tonight, it would be a sign that I should drive out to Ridge Road after all.

  I blew out my hair, letting it fall in soft curls down my back. I had lined and shadowed my eyes with extra care. Make-up accomplished, I stood before my tiny closet, agonizing. At last I settled on sweet and simple, slipping into my pale-pink bra and then a tank top a step above everyday wear, made of pretty white eyelet. It had a scalloped neckline and fitted perfectly over my breasts. With this I wore the matching panties and black linen shorts; my black strappy sandals would be perfect as a finishing touch. I fastened my diamond studs in my ears and pressed both hands to still the panicky fluttering in my gut.

  What if he’s not there?

  Oh God, Case, please be there…

  Robbie was still planning to pick me up, though he was late; it was quarter after seven, but what did I expect? Peaches came to curl around my ankles and I stooped to pet her; as I did, I heard my phone chirp with a text message. I hurried to gather it up and read the message from Robbie: Almost to ur place. And sure enough, I went to the kitchen window to see his BMW carefully navigating the gravel of the parking lot. I could exactly picture the wincing pain on his face at having to drive off blacktop with his prized possession.