by Karen Young
“Specifically, where did I lie?”
“Hell, the voters now think I’m the next thing to Saddam Hussein! Thanks a lot, Anne. With friends—and relatives—like you, who needs enemies?”
Buck pushed his chair back and reached for his cane. “Let’s take this discussion somewhere else, Pearce,” he said. But as he made to stand, Pearce shot out a hand and clamped down on his arm.
“I can say what I need right here, Buck. And I’m wondering how much of this shit you knew about. I’m wondering whether you put her up to this.”
Buck looked down at Pearce’s hand, then lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s eyes. Without Buck saying a word, Pearce withdrew his hand.
“This could ruin me,” he said. “I want a retraction.”
“Of what? So far, you haven’t told me where I’ve erred.” Anne folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “If you have anything else to say to me, you’ll have to say it to me in my office at the Spectator.”
“Are you working for Breedlove?” he demanded.
Anne sighed heavily. “I’m a journalist, Pearce. I’m not working for anyone.”
“Yeah,” he sneered. “Like the rest of the jackals in the media. Sure, you’re neutral.”
“That’s it. We’re out of here.” Buck rose, tossed a fistful of bills on the table and caught his wife’s elbow. As one, Franklin and Beatrice rose, too.
Pearce studied the group for a long moment. “I guess I am, too,” he said, rising. On his feet, still holding his brother’s gaze, he adjusted his cuffs, touched the knot of his tie. “I’ll see you at the lodge,” he told Buck, shifting his shoulders as if ants were inside his jacket. “And I’ll expect answers.”
“Hmm, that went well,” Anne said a little breathlessly, when they were outside.
Buck was shaking his head. “I haven’t made it past the first few paragraphs yet, but he looks like a loser when compared with what you said about Jack Breedlove.”
“I thought we might hear from a few disgruntled folks,” Franklin said in his gentle voice. “But Anne’s the reporter and she had her own ideas about the piece. She felt it would have more…what was it you called it, Annie? Oh, yes, punch. It would have more punch if the two men were profiled side by side.”
“It certainly has punch,” Beatrice murmured, reading from Buck’s copy of the paper. “And Jack does show up quite well.”
“Jack Breedlove has a well-thought-out platform that will appeal to a broad base of citizens,” Anne said, defending her journalism. “He came from an impoverished background, joined the army, was wounded, got a college education while still helping his younger siblings and from all accounts, runs a tight ship as chief of police.”
“You learned all that in one interview?” Buck looked doubtful.
“No, I did a little research,” she said, smiling softly. “I didn’t have to do much. I just had to say his name and people loved to tell me what a great guy he is. He’s going to win this race, folks.”
“I guess nobody said my brother was a great guy?”
She gave a slightly awkward shrug. “Not really.”
He released a weary sigh. “The Whitakers aren’t looking too heroic today, are they?”
Beatrice patted his arm. “If you’re thinking of that incident with the mortgage, please don’t. It’s a part of the past that’s not worth wasting a minute worrying over. In fact, if you just stop and think about it, everything is still in the family.” She smiled brightly at Buck. “I have the Jones house, thanks to Franklin, and you’re a Belle Pointe heir, so your children will be heirs to the Jones land. I’m assuming the children will be yours and Anne’s,” she added.
In the small silence, Franklin cleared his throat. “I’ll be escorting my wife back to her shop now. Come along, Beatrice.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” Buck said as the Marshes strolled away, arm in arm.
“The land grab? My stepmother is the eternal optimist. And we don’t have any children.”
“Yet.” And with that, Buck walked off in the opposite direction.
Twelve
After leaving Anne and the Marshes, Buck went directly to the county courthouse to check the legality of the land transfer from Harvey Jones to Belle Pointe. His face was a grim mask as he climbed back in the SUV and headed out to see his mother.
He found her working in her rose garden. When she became aware of Buck at the ornate gate, she dropped her pruning shears into a basket and waited as he approached.
“Buck.” She began removing her gloves, watching him walk. “Your knee is apparently much better. How long before you can discard the cane?”
“When Ty tells me.” He glanced over at a bench situated beneath a tangled canopy of honeysuckle. “Can we talk?”
“Of course.” Leading the way, she removed her hat and rolled up her shirtsleeves. She sat down, letting her gaze wander over the garden, and Buck did the same. It would be another month before the roses bloomed. One of his better childhood memories was the sweet scent of sun-warmed roses, even though the garden had been forbidden territory. One surefire way to incur his mother’s wrath was to accidentally clip a bloom from one of her prize hybrids with a fast ball. Or to cripple a rosebush with a bad throw.
“When do you expect that to be?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, settling back on the bench. “I won’t need the cane much longer, but that doesn’t mean the knee can take much punishment. I won’t be running any foot races, that’s for sure.”
He watched a dragonfly settle on the globe of a bright green gazing ball in the center of her rose garden. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Now that Will Wainwright has retired, I’ve reconsidered about helping out.”
She gave him a quick, surprised look. “You just told me your knee can’t take a lot of punishment. The work here is quite physical and the hours are long. It’s nothing like playing a game a few times a week with panting fans cheering.”
“Keep that up and you’ll talk me out of it,” Buck said. No point in reminding his mother that she’d literally pushed him into “playing a game” as a career, or that the constant competition he faced was more daunting than farming cotton would ever be. “I was under the impression that you needed help and I’m offering. Are you interested or not?”
“Well, of course I’m interested. We’re in somewhat of a bind with Will quitting so abruptly, but the situation is not desperate. Although it would have been a challenge, I can run Belle Pointe without a manager.”
“Or without Pearce’s valuable assistance,” he said, openly sarcastic.
“Yes, indeed.”
He almost laughed. The way his mother’s mind worked, by helping her she would be doing him a favor. “I’ve got conditions,” he told her.
“Why? Are you planning to make significant changes?”
“I want to hire and fire as I see fit. I want complete control of the crews and I want to see the books.”
“Provided you discuss your actions with me before implementing them, I have no objection. Just remember, once you’re gone Pearce and I will have to live with any changes you’ve made, or waste valuable time and energy dismantling them.”
“If you fear my management style is such a disaster waiting to happen, why did you ask me to do the job?”
“I believe I explained. Will’s departure was unexpected. It takes time to find a good manager and you know Belle Pointe. Besides the fact that you know what it takes to plant and grow cotton, men like you and will work for you. Finally, you’re a Whitaker and you’ve arrived just at the right time here in Tallulah. I considered it almost…providential, if you will. Why wouldn’t I ask you?” She studied her nails. “I’ll be truthful and say I was disappointed when you refused.”
It was the closest he’d ever come to actually receiving a compliment from his mother, even a left-handed one. “Then you shouldn’t object to letting me do things my way. I don’t promise to clear every d
ecision with you.”
“So long as you keep in mind that you’re only here temporarily.”
“Okay. Now, for my conditions. I’ll be rehiring Oscar Pittman.”
She turned her face away. “Terminating Oscar was Pearce’s decision. You’ll have to see him about that.”
“Pearce is busy campaigning. Let’s leave him to do what he does best.”
“If you’re suggesting again that he isn’t capable of running Belle Pointe, you’re quite mistaken. He simply has too much on his plate to devote the time it takes to do the job well.”
“I’m not suggesting he doesn’t know squat about farming cotton, Ma. I’m saying it flat-out. Regardless of what he has on his plate. It’s a fact and you know it.” He turned his head to watch a tractor plowing the field east of the house. It was dry from several weeks without rain and dust billowed out from behind the tractor. He was reminded of the countless ways that farmers were dependent on factors beyond their control.
“I had lunch today with Anne. She was with Franklin and her stepmother.” He brought his gaze around to see her face. “Beatrice is Harvey Jones’s daughter.”
“There’s no need to remind me of Beatrice’s background. I’ve known her all my life.” Still miffed by the insult to Pearce, Victoria’s reply was cool.
“Then you remember that Harvey Jones farmed a thousand acres of cotton.”
“What is your point, Buck?” Victoria’s gaze was now on the tractor plowing the east acreage.
“He died deeply in debt. Did you know that?”
She brushed a leaf from her shirtsleeve. “Everyone knew.”
“Couldn’t pay his taxes, so he had to borrow money…from John Whitaker, a man he considered his friend. The upshot was that Belle Pointe then held a mortgage on Harvey’s land. A thousand acres of rich Delta bottomland that just happened to border Belle Pointe’s west property line.”
“I see now where you’re going with this. Yes, John loaned Harvey the money to pay a huge backlog of tax. Harvey was a stubborn old fool. He could have asked Beatrice for the money. He could have gone to his relatives. God knows, the Joneses are thick on the ground around here. He was a respected citizen in the town, therefore, the officials were extremely patient with him, but he simply let every tax year roll around and paid nothing. It was inexplicable.” Her tongue clicked with impatience. “The town would have cooperated, but he was simply too stubborn to ask.”
“Maybe you and Pearce could have offered help,” Buck said softly. “Cut the man a little slack instead of foreclosing on the loan Dad made to him to add another thousand acres to Belle Pointe. Four thousand acres wasn’t enough? You wanted five?”
“Is Beatrice responsible for filling your head with this drivel?”
“No, I heard about it from my wife,” Buck said grimly. “And she got it from digging around in those archives.”
“There was nothing illegal in what we did,” Victoria said, with a defensive lift of her chin. “The land came to Belle Pointe in a perfectly respectable legal process.”
“Yeah, but was it the right thing to do, Ma?” Without giving her a chance to reply, he added, “The only redeeming thing in the whole sorry mess is that now Harvey Jones’s daughter lives in the house where she was born. I don’t know how Franklin got it, I’m just glad he did.”
“He bought it from me,” Victoria said. “Or rather, from Belle Pointe Enterprises.”
Buck frowned. “When?”
“Within a few days of moving to Tallulah.”
For a second, Buck was struck by the coincidence of Franklin later marrying Beatrice, the woman who’d been born in the Jones house. He didn’t mention to Victoria that he intended to see to it that Beatrice got the title to the Jones land, as well. But no sense signaling his next move to the opposition right now.
His mother sat a little straighter on the bench, balancing her hat on her lap. “Now I have a question for you,” she said. “What do you think is Anne’s purpose in rooting around in those old Spectator files?”
“Curiosity?” he guessed, shooing off a bee with his cane. “A carryover from her dad’s obsession with the Delta? Research for the sake of research?” He glanced at the tractor, noting the neatness of the rows plowed by the operator. “I don’t know, Ma. Why do you ask?”
“I would prefer that she put aside her research—if that’s what it is—for the time being. The fact that she’s reporting is a distinct advantage, as she’s family. It will be helpful to Pearce to have a positive voice in the media…even though Franklin’s newspaper is just a weekly.”
Obviously she hadn’t read Anne’s article yet. Buck shuddered to think how she’d react.
“But there’s a danger in poking around in the past,” she went on. “Isolated incidents can be misleading when taken out of context. We want to avoid the possibility of embarrassment to Pearce as his campaign is getting underway.”
“I get it. You wouldn’t want the voters to know he grabbed a thousand acres from the Jones. Or that he fired Otis. Or that the crews at Belle Pointe are working for less than minimum wage.”
She stood up abruptly. “I’m trying to discuss this reasonably, Buck, but you always make things so difficult. Must things always be stark black and white with you? I don’t have to apologize for acquiring the Jones land, or for the decisions made in the management of this estate. And I expect you to keep your wife from blundering into sensitive territory as regards this family.”
“The Whitakers aren’t the only family in the county, Mother. And Anne isn’t the kind of person who sets out to dig up dirt on anybody.” He got stiffly to his feet. “To tell the truth, you aren’t the only one who’s concerned with what she might find. When I learned about the Jones land, I was ashamed, but all I could offer was an apology. God knows, I’ve done nothing to stay abreast of what’s happening at Belle Pointe.”
He brushed at a few dead leaves on his clothes. “As for asking Anne to stay out of the archives, I’d be wasting my breath. First of all, it would send a red flag up so fast she’d redouble her efforts. On top of that, she’s a professional and she’d be insulted. As weird as it seems, she’s interested in Tallulah history.”
“That’s all well and good,” Victoria said, “but it’s up to you to point out to her the impact that negative publicity can have on Pearce’s campaign.”
“I’ll mention it,” he said, on his way to the gate. With his hand on the latch, he looked back at her. “I’ll start work here in a couple of days and I’ll be bringing Oscar with me.”
“All of this is contingent upon Pearce’s approval, Buck,” she called as he walked away.
Buck stopped, turned and faced her fully. “No, Ma, it isn’t. Tell me now if the job is mine. With the conditions I laid out. I don’t intend to dance to Pearce’s tune and we need to get that straight right now.”
He could see her struggling, needing him and hating it. Worried that if she gave him an inch, he’d take a mile. Seeing him as a threat to Pearce’s primary position at Belle Pointe. Troubled that Pearce was too preoccupied to deal with it. If the situation hadn’t been so desperate, she would call his bluff.
She drew her mouth into a tight, hard line and nodded briefly. “You’ll do me the courtesy of calling when you’re ready to start,” she snapped.
“Sure.” He turned about before his face gave him away. He felt good. He couldn’t wait to get started. It would be hard, hot work, at least until the cotton was planted. Then a period of relative calm before things got busy again and defoliating began. Then another period of calm as the cotton matured and burst ready to be picked. Not a lot different from a baseball season, he thought.
Hot damn!
His good mood took a dive when he found Pearce’s big Lexus parked at the lodge. It hadn’t taken his mother long to give his big brother a heads-up. Their conversation must have been a doozy, Victoria filling Pearce’s ear about Buck moving in and bringing Otis with him, and Pearce whining about the article. After
considering it for a minute as he sat in the SUV, he decided to be amused.
Once out of the SUV, he strolled across the gravel drive with the help of his cane and stopped at the bottom of the steps. Pearce sat in a wicker rocking chair drinking a beer and smoking a cigar. Dreading the climb up the twenty-six steps, Buck said, “I thought you’d be out using the daylight hours to knock on doors and kiss a few babies.”
“I’ve got volunteers for the first and I don’t need to do any baby-kissing until the primary gets closer.” Pearce ground out the cigar and tossed the butt out into the azaleas. “What I’ve got to do right now is use the media to introduce me, erase the impression of that goddamn article Anne wrote. We need to put a face with my name for folks in parts of the district who don’t know me. For most of them, the only Whitaker they recognize is you. They need to know me.” He jerked his thumb toward his chest.
“Hmm.” Guessing what was coming, Buck paused halfway up the steps.
“So, I’ve got a date with an advertising agency tomorrow morning and I want you to go with me. I’m shooting a TV spot and I figure to get the most exposure if you’re in it with me. They’re suggesting a theme with me as a family man. I’ve laid down the law to Claire. She’ll assume her political face. All she has to do is smile. Paige is the wild card. I want her to wear normal clothes and a wig, if necessary. And remove all that piercing shit. I want us to look normal, but special. I want to convince the voters they’ll be lucky to have Pearce Whitaker working for them in Jackson. Which is where you come in.”
“Excuse me?”
Pearce set his empty beer bottle on the floor beside him. “I want you to let them shoot some scenes with you and me. You know, give them a look at my life, my pretty wife, my charming teenage daughter, show some shots of Belle Pointe and—the icing on the cake—my little brother, the pro baseball great. Having you in the spot is better than a couple of towheaded kids. It’ll be dynamite.”