“Busy day tomorrow,” Ben said at last. His smile was ironic. “I’ll see you later.” He ruffled Mr. Chips’ coat, turned, and walked away.
Somewhere down on Main Street, the truck she’d heard took a corner a little too fast and the brakes squealed. Then the truck accelerated with an angry roar.
I’ll bet the driver had a fight with his girlfriend, too, Chelsea thought. Tonight had been a good night for fighting.
1938
Carrying her towel and swimsuit in a cloth bag, Kathleen Barrie followed Upper Main Street to the public swimming pool in Tombstone Canyon. She stopped at the Canyon Store for a Hires Root Beer, then started up the tall flight of cement steps that climbed the hill.
Kathy could hear the swimmers before she saw them. At the top of the steps where the moths policed the reservoir, a chain fence led to the entrance.
Myrna Crofts looked up from a book she was reading. “Hi, Kathy. That’ll be five cents.”
A few minutes later, Kathy emerged from the changing room wearing her one-piece suit and a bathing cap.
The water was cool and silky, despite the shattering explosions of cannon-balling children. It sluiced over Kathy’s aching shoulders, smoothing muscles cramped from close needlework. She floated on her back, ears ringing from the water. Bobbing along, blissfully unaware, Kathy didn’t know how far she had floated until her head bumped the ledge that separated the adult pool from the kiddie pool. Two muscular legs loomed beyond her upturned face. A man was sitting on the ledge. Without turning over, she peeled water and moved away. A voice, distorted by the rush of water, came from his direction.
“Kathy, is that you?”
Kathy strained her eyes backward, following the legs up to the torso, the arms, and at last, the face.
John McCord.
Water rushed into her nose, making her cough. Heart thudding, she thrashed the water, trying to gain her footing on the pool’s slippery surface. Tears sprang to her eyes; her throat was raw.
“Are you all right?” The man slipped into the water beside her. Kathy only swallowed more water in reply.
He was very close to her now. His eyes radiated concern. Eyes she knew well, mostly from dreams.
“Are you—”
I’m fine,” she gasped. She could feel the warmth of his body in the cool water. His hand clamped on her shoulder, its heat and weight familiar. She had to get away.
With a scissored kick, Kathy swam to the other side of the pool. John was right beside her.
“Kathy,” he said. “It’s been years. It’s so good to see you.”
Kathy stared at him. His chestnut hair, water-smooth, the blue eyes under sandy brows, the strong jaw and rugged features. The face she’d once loved. The face she now hated with all her soul.
“Leave me alone,” Kathy said as she swam to the edge of the pool, pulled herself out, and stalked to the changing room.
John stood in the shallows, the water fragments breaking like glass around his waist. What had he ever done to make her hate him?
John smoothed his hair back one last time, then rang the doorbell. The buzz reverberated through the house.
No answer.
He leaned on the buzzer. He’d damn well wait her out.
His shoulder to the doorbell, he looked at the houses piled like children’s building blocks, one on top of the other, all up and down the canyon, tin roofs winking in the sun. Felt the sweat creep under his collar. Blinked at the glaring blue sky, the taste of dust in his mouth. It sure was hot. He’d have to get used to that again.
John had been in Bisbee a week now. His father wanted him to work in the mines, start at the bottom. To build character, his father had said. “You have the education; now it’s time to see the other side. That’s what I did, and it’s served me well over the years.” John didn’t like the idea much, especially now that he was married. Peggy, pregnant again, had preferred to stay in New York. He would send for her after the child was born, sometime in February.
In moments of self-revelation, John admitted to himself that he really wasn’t that interested in the company. When it came right down to it, the thing he was best at—and liked the most—was polo. But he would please his father—there was never any question about that—in the dogged, reliable fashion that characterized everything he did. After all, a fellow had to do something.
Switching shoulders for comfort, he kept constant pressure on the doorbell.
How could Kathy hate him after all they’d been through together? John’s mind strayed back to the times they had shared as kids on the Gulch. There had been a whole gang of kids—English, Mexicans, Serbians, Irish—it didn’t matter who you were, as long as you could run fast, play hard, and were brave enough to do things on a dare. The fact that John was Lucas McCord’s son meant nothing to the kids on the Gulch, not then.
Kathy had been one tough customer. He remembered the time she’d pinned Langdon Bowen to the steps behind the Lyric Theatre for making fun of her Easter dress. She’d held his head over the edge and made him scream that she was a goddess.
John smiled. He had gone away to boarding school in 1928. When he had returned for the summer a few years later, he’d been surprised to see that Kathy had grown into a beauty. They’d picked up where they left off (he’d thought), but one day . . .
One day, after he and Kathy had gone hiking in the Huachuca Mountains, it had started to rain. They’d sought refuge from the thunderstorm in the new car his father had given him, and one thing had led to another—
Abruptly, Kathy opened the door. She tried to close it again, but John’s foot was quicker. Would you mind telling me,” he asked, “why I’m such a pariah?”
Kathy laughed bitterly. She was more beautiful than he remembered, and her perfume—the scent of roses—wafted to him on the hot, still air. “I suppose it wasn’t such a big deal to you,” she said. “You could go back to your fancy eastern school without another thought!”
“I don’t see. . .” But then he did. He saw it perfectly. What a fool he’d been! No wonder Kathy never returned his letters. Bisbee wasn’t New York City. There must have been talk about them.
He’d been a boy—an eager, stupid boy—unable to keep his hands to himself. And if that wasn’t enough, he had blithely gone off to school leaving Kathy holding the bag. Probably everyone had guessed about them. She must have had some bad moments. “I’m sorry, Kathy,” he said. “You must think I’m a terrible cad. But it was such a long time ago. We’re both grown up now. After all,” he laughed nervously, “no harm was done.”
She whirled on him. “No harm done? Why? Because your child was stillborn?”
Dread started in his vital organs, spreading to every corner of his body. “Are you telling me—”
“I suppose you haven’t been to the cemetery yet, have you ? Have you even taken a look at the grave of your own child?” Kathy held the door open. “Get out, John McCord. Your father may own the town, but don’t you expect forgiveness from me!”
He would have protested, but her face, so beautiful a few moments before, was drawn into harsh lines. He could feel her hatred.
The door slammed shut. He heard the rapid click of a lock, and the rattle of a bolt, shutting out all his questions.
Thirty-five
The day after the argument at the Copper Queen Hotel, Chelsea went for a run. It was early evening. A cold front had come in overnight, sweeping away the heat in a whirl of gray clouds.
Chelsea jogged past City Park, rounded the bend, and followed Brewery Gulch, nearly running into a drunk reeling out of St. Elmo’s. She thought about last night. Ben’s unsettling revelation, and conversely, her own growing desire for him. And Gary . . .
Had she imagined the disappointment in his eyes when he saw her with Ben? He covered up admirably, but Chelsea had sensed he was hurt.
I’ll have to talk to him. It’s only fair. Until a few weeks ago, Chelsea had thought that Gary’s jokes about marrying her were just that—jokes.
But apparently, there must have been some genuine feeling behind them. She winced, remembering the night he’d told her he loved her. She had dismissed it at the time as a maudlin outpouring brought on by too much wine, but now . . .
Why couldn’t Gary have been content with friendship? Why did he have to ruin things by becoming attracted to her?
Sorry, Gary. I only fall for real bastards. Like Jason. It’s a little personality defect of mine.
She slowed to a walk and took the road that wound up to Youngblood Hill, past the Muheim Museum, and then down OK Street. The Gulch stretched below her, the rust-colored buildings rearing up against the lowering margin of clouds. Pinpoints of brightness scattered on the hills above her; people were turning on their lights. It would be pitch-dark by the time she reached the house.
She increased her pace, rubbing her arms. It was the first of October today. The nights were getting nippy. She wished she was closer to home.
On her left, backed into Chihuahua hill, a dingy, yellow shack loomed in the darkness. Chelsea nearly passed it by, but something flickered in the corner of her eye that made her stop.
Lights. Weak, stuttering, tiny. They crawled like fireflies around a small sign above the door: “Henry Kagle, Photographer.” Underneath was the familiar Kodak trademark. And in the dimly lit display window, on a velvet drape, sat a box camera identical to her own.
The sign on the door said, “Yes, We’re Open.” On an impulse, Chelsea opened the door and walked in. The only light in the room cast a yellow glow.
“May I help you?” the woman at the counter asked. The long glass case under her elbows contained over fifty cameras, taking up every bit of space on three shelves. A veritable museum of antique cameras. Cameras from all different eras: folding cameras; box cameras; press cameras; stereo cameras; reflex cameras like the twin-lens Rolleiflex staring at her from the top shelf.
“Quite a collection, wouldn’t you say, honey?” the woman said. She looked about seventy years old, her gray hair molded stylishly to her face, her clothing understated yet fashionable.
Chelsea nodded. “The box camera in the window,” she said. “I was just curious—”
“You like that old Brownie, do you? That was my husband’s first camera. He bought it for three dollars in 1917.”
“Oh.” Chelsea didn’t know what else to say.
“Are you interested in old cameras?”
“No. Not really, that is . . .” Chelsea floundered. Suddenly she had an idea. Maybe this lady would know where to get film for the Brownie. She didn’t stop to consider what might happen if she actually found some 116 film and used it. “Do you still take pictures with it?”
“I’m afraid not,” the shopkeeper laughed. She walked over to the window and picked up the camera and showed it to Chelsea. “See? It’s been broken for a long time. It won’t advance the film.” She set the camera back in the window and smoothed her skirt.
Chelsea walked around the shop. The usual glass cases of minerals lined the walls. Some stones had been polished and set. A number of machines cluttered up the back of the shop: buffers, stone cutters, all covered with a fine, gray dust. But what drew Chelsea were the photographs on the walls. They were black-and-whites and very old. Some were by C.S. Fly, the great photographer of the West. Others, mostly portraits, were signed “Henry Kagle.”
“My husband used to work for J.M. Ball’s Rexall on Main in the thirties,” the woman said, noting Chelsea’s interest, “before he opened his own studio. He did a lot of portraits.”
Chelsea wasn’t listening; she had come face-to-face with Kathy Barrie’s portrait.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Mrs. Kagle asked.
“Yes.” Although the pose seemed simple, the lighting was superb. Backlit, Kathy’s alabaster skin glowed under lustrous dark hair. Threads of light danced in a nimbus around her head.
“Henry was very proud of that portrait.”
“Did you know her?” Chelsea asked.
“Did I know her? She was my best friend!”
“She was . . . your best friend.” Chelsea couldn’t believe her good fortune.
“You sound as if you knew her, too. Did you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Because I’d love to know if she ever got to Hollywood. We kind of lost touch—Henry went into the Army, and I went to live with my parents in North Dakota for a while.” She smiled, remembering. “I’ll bet she made it, too. She used to say to me, ‘You just watch, Frances, someday you’ll be at the movies and you’ll see my name on the credits.’ She isn’t a relative of yours by any chance, is she? No,” Frances Kagle decided, “your coloring’s so different.”
“I found some pictures of her in my great-uncle’s house.”
“That’s strange. Where is his house?”
Chelsea told her.
“Well, Kathy lived on Higgins Hill, all right. She lived there with her grandmother. I suppose she just left those pictures behind. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Kagle looked at her strangely. “Just that a bunch of old pictures probably wouldn’t matter that much to her now.”
“Maybe I can track her down, give her back the pictures,” Chelsea said.
“Sure would like to know if she got to Hollywood. She was the kind who could get there, if anyone could. She had that . . .” Mrs. Kagle searched for the word she wanted, found it, and stressed it, “. . . drive. Very unusual for a woman in those days. Not like today, when women are sitting on boards of corporations and running their own companies. Times were different.”
“So Kathy was an actress?”
“Lawd, no. She wanted to be a dress designer. Even changed her name to Katherine Barrow. Sounded more sophisticated, she said. I remember how she used to talk about Carole Lombard and Jean Harlow and how someday she would be designing their clothes. I hope she made it. After the way they treated her in this town, she deserved a break.”
“Oh?” Chelsea hoped that Mrs. Kagle was on a roll.
“I remember what they did to her brother, you see. He never should have threatened Lucas McCord. Next thing you know, he’s run out of town, just like his father before him.” She shook her head. “Sean was a good man. I had a crush on him when I was younger, before I met Henry. But he went up against the McCords, and that was that. They lost one of their best workers in Sean Barrie.”
“Why did he threaten the McCords?”
“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt anybody now. It was so long ago. John’s been dead for almost forty years, and Lucas McCord died a little while back.”
Chelsea couldn’t believe she was listening to her own family history, given her by a perfect stranger.
Frances Kagle explained that Kathy had a baby by John McCord (Chelsea knew it, she’d known it all along!). Even though Lucas tried to cover it up, everybody knew who the father was—everyone, it seemed, except Sean Barrie. “I think it was Reed Jenkins told him what everybody knew, but didn’t say. Sean went crazy. Nearly killed Reed. Threatened to kill John McCord if he ever showed his face in Bisbee. Next day he was given his walking papers and told to get out. And in those days, when the McCords said hop, you hopped!
“Sure would like to know what happened to her,” she added. “One thing’s certain. Bob McCord didn’t get his way.”
Suddenly the overhead light dimmed, flickered off, then came back on.
“Oh, dear me,” Mrs. Kagle said. “I’m afraid that light bulb’s going to go.”
Chelsea looked at her watch. “It’s okay. I need to get home.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes looked glassy in the yellow light. “I was so enjoying our talk. Not many people come in here anymore. I could make us some coffee.”
“No, really. I’ll come back.” Chelsea backed out the door, feeling suddenly nervous. She had a long way to walk, and it was now full dark.
“I could drive you back,” Mrs. Kagle called.
“Thanks, but I
’m fine.” Chelsea waved and walked out into the night.
She was halfway home before she remembered Mrs. Kagle’s words. Bob McCord didn’t get his way.
What did that mean?
Chelsea shivered, but not only because of the cold.
One thing was certain. Bob knew Kathy.
And he’d lied about it.
Thirty-six
Lucas emerged from his gray Packard and stood by the curb. The sight of Kathleen Barrie’s house filled him with loathing. John was living here in direct opposition to everything he had been born and bred for.
Lucas had expected peeling paint, junk in the yard, tall grass, and undergrowth. He expected the slut’s house to reflect her morals. What he found instead was a neat lawn, well-tended roses along the gate, a swept-clean porch. This image undercut his indignation, made his frustration worse.
As he reached into the car for his hat, he remembered the argument with Johnny—the anguish on the boy’s face, the question asked over and over: why?
“I did it for you, son. For your future. You have a wife, a child, and another one on the way. You can’t let one mistake ruin your whole life.”
“What about her life, or doesn’t that matter? What if the baby had lived?”
“She didn’t,” Lucas said shortly. He looked up to see John staring at him, a mixture of horror and pity in his eyes.
Walking up the steps to the Barrie house, Lucas remembered John’s eyes. They were what bothered Lucas the most, what kept him awake at night. John’s eyes.
What if the baby had lived?
He rapped on the door. Presently Kathy answered. She wore a simple dress and apron, a net snood around her hair. Her face, open and lovely, closed in when she saw him. She let him in without a word.
Lucas removed his hat and followed Kathy into the living room. His gaze swept the room. So this was where his son, used to the finest things, was living. How could he stand it? Apple-green wallpaper. Cheap, veneered furniture. Only one decent piece in the room: a rolltop desk that looked very old. Everything was clean and dusted, however, and the floral curtains added a certain cheerfulness. Still, Lucas could not believe that John could be happy here.
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