Each Shining Hour

by Jeff High

  That was, until Christine spoke in a low, matter-of-fact voice.

  “Bradford, as wonderful as all this is, your hand really smells like cow.”

  We immediately stepped apart and I stared blankly at my hand. Then we both erupted into foolish laughter.

  “I’m sorry. Your hand was right there beside my nose and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  For me, however, the temptation was too great. I stepped toward her with both hands extended and spoke in a haughty voice of teasing sarcasm. “Oh, no, no, no. Darling, please, let me hold your lovely face, just for, you know, an hour or two.”

  Christine continued to cackle and pushed me away. “Bradford, that is not fair.”

  I lifted my arms in surrender and smiled at her warmly. “Okay, Chambers. You can’t have it both ways. Love me, love my cow smell.”

  Christine continued to laugh but regarded me artfully, not wanting to yield to my playful ultimatum. Then she stepped toward me, gave me a taunting smile, and looped her hands around my neck, standing at arm’s length. For a few moments, she said nothing, but offered only an enticing, devilish grin.

  And in the span of those brief seconds, I wondered.

  I wondered if she knew how incredibly seductive and electrifying she was when she did these things. Her warm, alluring smile, the light touch of her hands, and the subtle message in her willfully raised arms . . . a gesture that left her generous and sensuous curves unshielded and inviting . . . all stirred within me a maddening desire. She was so intelligent and intuitive. She had to know her effect on me.

  Or did she? Was this instead simply a spontaneous and innocent expression of affection, with no awareness of the incredible primal emotions she aroused? I had to laugh at myself. I knew I loved her passionately. But there was so much about her that I didn’t understand. It seemed that part of love’s mystery was the unexplainable delight of knowing that she could and would always fascinate me.

  Her voice brought me back. “How about this? Love you, love you with a bath.”

  The sparkle in her eyes was intoxicating. “Well, since you asked so nicely . . . what say you walk me to my car?”

  Christine untied the reins and led her horse as we walked back to the house. The huge animal seemed pleased to be free of a rider and to walk leisurely. She and I held hands but talked little as we made our way down the farm road. She seemed wonderfully happy. Nothing more was necessary.

  We arrived at my car and Christine tied the horse’s reins to one of the porch railings.

  “He’s a beautiful animal by the way.”

  “Thanks,” she responded. “His name is Casper. He’s a three-year-old stallion. A little rambunctious still, but a real sweetheart once you get to know him.”

  “I’ll take your word on that.”

  “You want to ride him?”

  I responded cautiously. “Wow, I don’t know. First milking cows and now this. That’s kind of pushing the envelope on the whole farm immersion thing. Not sure riding a horse is in my comfort zone.”

  Christine was undaunted. “Well, the way Mr. Pilkington talked, you’re a natural with animals. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  “Why do I feel like Casper is not the only one with a bit in his mouth?”

  “Oh, come on. You might really enjoy it.”

  I shrugged and responded half under my breath, “Sure. Nothing says I love you like riding a horse.”

  Christine smiled and began to untie the reins.

  “You mount on the left side, don’t you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  I was standing on the horse’s right, so I proceeded to walk around his tail. But I must have passed too close for comfort for Casper. Because as I rounded his rump, he kicked backward with his left leg and caught me squarely on my shinbone.

  “Ooow! Holy crap, that hurts!”

  Christine retied the reins and was immediately by my side. “Luke, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The pain was so excruciating that I literally had to stop and catch my breath.

  “He’s never kicked anyone. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Here, just let me go sit.” I hobbled over to the porch steps and plopped down. As I sat, cringing in pain, I noticed in the distance that a truck was turning in from the highway and proceeding up Christine’s driveway. The throbbing pain was shooting up my leg. Instinctively, I knew the bone wasn’t broken, but the sharpness of the injury was excruciating.

  Christine sat beside me awash with apologies. Spontaneous tears involuntarily formed in my eyes due to the sting and suddenness. I rocked slightly, waiting for the severity of the agony to subside.

  By now the truck had pulled to a stop and none other than John Harris emerged. He walked toward us and began to climb the steps. But when he saw my red and grimacing face, he paused to assess the situation and offer some choice words of comfort. “Huh. See, sport. I told you this one would have you crying like a little girl.”

  CHAPTER 47

  The Garden

  The next morning I was out of bed and finishing my coffee by six o’clock. Other than a nasty bruise, my leg was fine and I didn’t want it to stop me from my plans. It was Saturday, and the ribbon cutting for the grand opening of the bakery would be held promptly at ten. But I had something to do before then. I was going to plant a garden.

  Perhaps I was still riding a wave of exhilaration from all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, but I had decided to take John and Connie’s advice and try my hand at raising a few vegetables. I had arranged to have a tiller delivered from the Farmers’ Co-op so I could break up a patch of ground in the backyard. After leaving Christine’s the previous afternoon, I had stopped at the Co-op and picked up some seeds and fertilizer along with half an hour’s worth of unwanted but well-intended advice.

  At six thirty the Co-op delivery truck pulled into the driveway. It was Lester from the loading dock. Together we used a motorized tailgate to lower the tiller to the ground. I have to admit it was one of the more surreal experiences of my life to hear Lester articulate insightful and highly useful information regarding the proper use of the machine, employing three- and even four-syllable words. The day was rife with marvels.

  After he departed, I rolled the tiller to a sunny section of the backyard where the grass was thin. I put on gloves, but for some reason, before pulling the start cord, I stood and leaned against the handles and absorbed my surroundings. The wind stirred the leaves of the nearby trees and the early morning sun shone brilliantly. Yet for a brief second I thought I heard the distant murmur of a sweet, familiar hymn, borne on the breeze.

  “Well, sounds like the angels are having a good day.”

  I shook my head and laughed at myself. Only a place like Watervalley could make me say such a thing, or listen for voices in the chasing wind.

  I pulled the start cord and the tiller motor roared to life. Bracing myself, I engaged the rotors and began breaking up the lawn before me. It was a slow grind, but productive. The tines dug deep into the black dirt, mincing the clods into a fine, workable soil.

  The machine jostled and tossed me and I chugged along sluggishly. Occasionally I would stop and cast aside the clumps of grass that had been broken free. But in time the dark earth began to yield to the pounding of the tines, and admittedly, I found the work deeply satisfying. Until I had traveled about twenty feet.

  Suddenly, the tiller rotors began to bang and clank and kick up wildly. I disengaged the tines and shut off the engine. Bending low to the ground, I began to brush the dirt away to find out what had made the tiller shudder so violently, thinking I had hit a large rock.

  But instead of a rock it was a metal container.

  The size of a large shoe box, it was made of heavy steel and had been buried about six inches under the soil. Two large clasps held the hinged lid an
d base snugly together. I managed to wedge it out from where it had been caked in the ground. After removing my gloves, I released the rusty clasps and lifted the lid. My heart jumped at what lay before me.

  The box contained a rusted pocketknife and a small, equally rusted revolver. I carefully set these aside. Underneath I found deteriorated documents and a leather wallet which was still loosely intact by the tethers of old stitching. I peeled it open and found some illegible and ruined pieces of paper, smudged and glued together from time and moisture, along with the remnants of some dollar bills. Below that was a rotted cloth bag.

  My pulse began to race as the reality of what I was looking at hit me full force. The gun, the knife, and the wallet: all of these had been missing from the Oscar Fox crime scene. I carefully pulled at the cloth sack. Weakened from years in the moist earth, it fell apart instantly. And there before me, glistening beautifully and brilliantly in the morning sun, lay a large cache of diamonds.

  Stunned, I could do little more than sit in the soft grass. I was endeavoring to understand, to connect the dots. The story as it must have played out began to unfold in my imagination.

  The first thing I did when I could finally move was call Warren Thurman, the sheriff.

  Within the hour he and I were seated at my kitchen table, both of us still in a state of wonder. We reasoned that all those years ago, Oscar Fox had somehow made it home from the crime scene with these items and cleverly buried them along with the diamonds in the backyard of his neighbor, Lovett Mayfield.

  It was ingenious. No doubt, Lovett had already broken up his garden area, making it easy for Oscar to bury the box with his hands. Oscar knew that an investigation would call for a thorough search of his own home and property. A freshly dug hole in his own yard would be easily noticed. No one would think to look in Lovett Mayfield’s garden. Apparently, the box had been buried on the back fringe of the plowed area and had never been discovered. For some reason, Oscar was returning to the crime scene when he died. Yet everyone assumed he had been fleeing it. I recalled that he had run track at Dartmouth and had likely covered the mile distance to his house and back out to the bandstand in such a short time that no one would have guessed he had been home.

  All told, we counted over two hundred cut diamonds in various shapes and sizes. Warren and I could only shake our heads, staring at each other in astonishment.

  Finally he said, “I guess Oscar wanted to hide anything that connected him to his past. He probably thought that if people figured out the other guy was German, it would raise questions about his own identity.”

  “So, Warren. What happens now?” I asked.

  In his slow, easy way Warren smiled at me. “Doc, I’m glad you called me and brought me into the loop on this. But here’s how I see things. The papers from the wallet are all but destroyed, so I guess we’ll never know who the German fellow was. I wouldn’t be surprised if his identification was fake anyway. These diamonds aren’t a police matter. Beyond a doubt, they belonged to Oscar Fox, and like we’ve talked about before, the statute of limitations on anything involving him has long since passed. Now admittedly, the town of Watervalley does own this property and is merely loaning it to you during your time here. But no one in his right mind can seriously believe that the town has any rightful claim to the diamonds.”

  “Then who does own them?”

  “Seems simple enough to me. They belong to Oscar’s family, to Louise and Will.”

  “What about the company Oscar worked for? Wouldn’t they have some claim to them?”

  Warren shrugged. “You tell me, Doc. From what I understand, the company went defunct and the diamonds all belonged to Oscar’s relatives in the first place, that is, before the Nazis took over their business. I say they go to Louise. If she finds other family members with a claim, what she does about it is up to her.”

  I was elated. “Can we give them to her now?”

  Again, Warren shrugged. “Don’t see any reason why not.”

  * * *

  I doubt I could ever describe the look of shock and elation on the faces of Louise and Will Fox as Warren and I explained the situation to them. We four sat in the Fox living room as I unfolded the cloth in which I had placed the diamonds. Tears of joy and deliverance filled Louise’s eyes and began to fall down her face. Although more quiet, Will was equally excited, hugging his mother repeatedly. She was so beside herself with exclamations of amazement and delight, I thought I might need to give her a sedative. But soon enough she regained control of herself and offered Warren and me an endless stream of earnest thanks.

  Warren said, “Listen, as a formality I’m going to let the mayor know about this. But past that, Luke, I’m going to let you and Louise decide who else should hear the story.”

  Louise responded immediately, “I’ll be glad to let Dr. Bradford tell it to whomever he likes.”

  I smiled at them both. “I’ll tell Connie. That way, by my calculations, everyone in the town of Watervalley and all the way up to the international space station will have the news by Monday.”

  A minute later, Warren rose, bid good-bye, and made his departure. I lingered for a moment longer, then stood to do the same.

  Louise gave me a long hug. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for Will and me.”

  “I’m happy for the both of you, Louise. Maybe this can turn things around for you. No doubt, you can pay off the mortgage and maybe set some college money aside for Will.” I reached over and briskly rubbed his head.

  “Our lives won’t be the same,” she confirmed, then looked at her watch. “Oh, my goodness! Look at the time. The grand opening is in less than an hour and I need to be there in the next ten minutes. I can’t be late for my first day on the job.”

  I smiled broadly. “I’m sure Connie and Estelle will understand, given the circumstances. Just send Will over to my house later and he can ride with me.”

  “Are you certain that’s okay?”

  “More than okay. I’ve been promising him a ride in the Austin-Healey anyway.”

  Louise clasped my hand in hers. “Thank you, again.”

  I departed her front door practically walking on air. The sun, the sky, the wind, and the trees engulfed my senses and I soaked them all in. Lightly humming a familiar tune, I made my way to the backyard and started up the tiller once again.

  At nine thirty there was a knock on my front door. I had just cleaned up and dressed and was pouring a glass of iced tea.

  “Come in!” I shouted from the kitchen.

  Will strolled in, his curiosity-filled eyes absorbing everything. Rhett wagged his tail in excited expectation of a few pats on the head. Will was happy to oblige.

  “Hey, Will, want something to drink?” I asked.

  “No. I’m good.”

  “You know, I’ve got a question. That comic book you were writing, Captain Blue Jeans—did you ever finish it?”

  “Nah. I’m dragging it out.”

  “Dragging it out? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s just a way to spend a little one-on-one with Wendy Wilson since she was doing all the artwork. I kind of like her.”

  “Well, Will Fox. Aren’t you the clever Casanova? So, tell me more.”

  Will assumed a confidential tone, speaking in a manner that made me think he was passing along classified information critical to national security. “We’re just good friends. She’s one of the few girls around that actually has a brain. But we’re keeping everything on the down low. Around here, people talk.”

  I offered a ponderous nod, but I was cracking up inside. “Probably a smart idea.” I paused for a long moment, then added, “So, have you kissed her?” I couldn’t resist giving some of his own medicine back.

  He cut his eyes at me and spoke with as much hauteur as a twelve-year-old could muster. “In the words of the twenty-first-century philosopher Luke
Bradford, ‘That’s none of your business.’”

  I laughed out loud. “Come on, big man. Let’s get going.”

  We buckled ourselves into the Austin-Healey and I took a short detour out toward the lake to let Will experience the feel of the open convertible. He smiled nonstop on the way there, but as we pulled into the bandstand’s parking lot, it occurred to me that this place had history for Will and coming here might have been a poor choice. To my surprise, however, he asked me to stop the car.

  We sat for a minute as he carefully studied the new bandstand. After a few moments, he said, “You know, Dr. Bradford, it’s a funny thing. I’ve always lived with a bad feeling about my last name because of all the old stories. You hear things, people let things slip, and it leaves you wondering if your family’s past is always going to be this weight you have to carry around.”

  He paused and looked at me. “Now I’m wondering if I can live up to my family’s past.”

  I nodded and thought about his words, about my own father and his choice to remain a small-town doctor despite the much grander opportunities that came his way.

  “Well, Will. If I have learned anything from the legacy of your great-grandfather, it is that life is short and precious and that you have to make the most of each shining hour.” We sat just steps away from where Oscar had taken his last breath. And yet an abiding peace floated in the soft spring air, a sense of completion. It seemed that all the good that Oscar had intended had permeated the years and finally surfaced in the fullness of time. I spoke again.

  “Hold your head high, Will. You come from good people.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and we sat in silence for another minute. Finally, he turned to me with a face of quiet resolve. “Thanks, Dr. Bradford. Thanks for bringing me here.”

  I smiled and reached over, tousling his hair. “You bet.”

  I turned the Austin-Healey around and headed toward town. It was time to celebrate.