Belle Pointe

by Karen Young

  “You’re back to Jim Bob Baker, I assume,” Pearce said in disgust.

  “Actually, I’m back to Rudy Baker,” Buck said softly. “And I don’t think you want to go there.”

  Pearce was silent for a stunned minute. Buck let him stew. He didn’t know in his own mind what he could do—should do—about the Whitaker lineage. Maybe there was no harm in keeping his mother’s secret and letting Pearce go on claiming to be John Whitaker’s firstborn son, but it stuck in Buck’s craw to let Pearce get away scot-free with cold-blooded murder.

  “You can’t prove anything,” Pearce said finally.

  Buck looked at his feet with a wry shake of his head. “That you killed Jim Bob because he was blackmailing Ma? That pesky contract does keep rearing its ugly head, doesn’t it? Or was it because you didn’t want the world to know that you were sired by a rowdy country-western musician instead of an aristocratic gentleman planter?”

  Pearce couldn’t quite prevent a quick glance at the doors of the suite to be sure they were closed. “You can’t prove anything,” he repeated.

  “About your paternity? Not without DNA, I can’t. About Jim Bob’s murder?” Buck shook his head. “Again, it would be hard. It was a long time ago and it was an accidental death. Maybe that’s the way it should stay. And I’m willing to let it stay, but only on two conditions.”

  Peace gave him a look of patent disbelief. “I don’t see how you’re in a position to dictate conditions, bro. You just admitted you can’t prove anything and I’ve warned you before about stirring up family shit. You are in no position to be tainted by scandal again. Your hopes for another sweet contract with the Jacks will go down in flames with my reputation.”

  “I’ve already resigned from the Jacks, Pearce. I won’t be playing baseball again. I’ll be running Belle Pointe.”

  Pearce stared at him. “What kind of bullshit is that? You live and breathe for baseball. I grant that you didn’t have it easy at first in the minors, but you’ve got it made now. And you want me to believe you’re going to settle down and grow cotton in a one-horse town? Do you realize you have to drive to Memphis to get sushi?” He gave a grunt of disgust. “Get real, Buck.”

  “You haven’t heard the conditions yet,” Buck said, unfazed.

  “Doesn’t matter what the goddamn conditions are.”

  “One, you drop out of the senatorial race. You’re gonna lose anyway once I start openly campaigning for Jack.” While his brother sputtered, Buck added, “Two. Move. Leave Tallulah. Go to D.C. You’ve probably made some useful connections there. You’re a lawyer and a liar. You’re well suited for the D.C. scene.”

  Pearce vibrated with rage. “You’re a sonofabitch, you know that?”

  Buck left the window, heading across the room. “Watch your mouth. That reflects on our mother and the ambulance carrying her to the funeral home is barely out of sight.”

  He made to shoulder past him, but Pearce grabbed his shirt. “You don’t walk off until we’re done talking, Buck! I want to know—”

  “I’m getting pretty tired of you grabbing me, Pearce.” With strength born of disgust, he jerked his arm free. His face looked chiseled in granite. “I don’t care what you want to know. As soon as the funeral’s over, I’m heading for Chief Breedlove and whatever I say to him depends on you.” He paused, looking his brother in the eye. “Your call, bro.”

  “I’ll call it.”

  Pearce’s head whipped about as Claire came out of the bathroom. “Before you start a heavy discussion like that, you should check to see that you’re alone,” she said dryly, then spread her hands. “Surprise.”

  “How long have you been in there?” Pearce demanded.

  “Long enough.” She moved to her husband and straightened his tie. “There’s only one way in and out. And it’s just about the only place in the house where a person is guaranteed privacy. You might want to make a note of that.”

  “This doesn’t concern you, Claire,” Pearce said in a repressive voice. “You’ve already filed for a divorce, so take off. We’ll be down in a minute.”

  Fury flared in her eyes. “It doesn’t concern me that Buck has just revealed I’ve been married to a murderer? It doesn’t concern me that I’ve lived a lie for sixteen years?” Her face showed absolute disgust. “I’ve put up with a lot since the day I married you, Pearce. I’d planned to simply walk away—with Paige—and start a new life. But now I think that’s a spineless thing to do. I’ve been weak and passive too long. Buck might be willing, but I’m not going to let you get away scot-free this time. The choice is not up to you.”

  She moved to the doors. “As soon as we’re done with your mother’s funeral, I’ll be talking to Jack Breedlove.”

  “Yeah, I bet you will,” Pearce sneered.

  “As the chief of police,” she added firmly. “In spite of your accusations, I’m not having an affair with Jack.” She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “I’ve been tempted to leave you many times, Pearce. Since I decided to do it, you’d be amazed how happy I’ve been.” She wrenched the door open. “Take your time coming down. As I said, you have until after the funeral. It’s not likely, but I guess you could do the right thing on your own, but we won’t count on it, will we, Buck?”

  “Hey…” Buck caught up with her. “Wait for me.”

  Anne stared at Buck in amazement. She wasn’t the only one. Franklin gaped, too. And Beatrice covered her mouth to hide a smile. “You’re telling me Claire was in the bathroom listening to you and Pearce and nobody knew it?”

  Buck’s smile was somewhat off-center. “Well, maybe I had an idea the bathroom wasn’t empty.” When everybody seemed to expect more, he explained, “Claire wears a pretty recognizable perfume.”

  “So she came out fighting mad? Claire?” This from Beatrice. “It’s hard for me to imagine Claire on a tear.”

  “Like an avenging angel, she was,” Buck said wryly. “She’s having a taste of independence and she’s liking it.”

  “And right then and there, she gave him an ultimatum?” Franklin, who was nursing a brandy that Buck would dearly like to share, smiled faintly. “One might call that poetic justice.”

  “Which may be the only justice possible, as unfair as it sounds.” Buck finished his Earl Gray and stood up. “Don’t think I’m entirely happy with the way it’s all come down. I had a talk with Jack and we agreed it beats us how we could prosecute him on the words written in a journal over twenty years ago. Like me, Dad only suspected what happened. Neither of us had any proof and Pearce will go to his grave denying it.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to reveal his motive,” Anne said thoughtfully, moving to stand beside him. “That would cast a shadow on your mother’s reputation and that seems somehow…dishonorable now she’s gone.” She rubbed his arm, thinking he needed a little affectionate stroking. “I can see how you chose to let all those old secrets stay buried.”

  Buck linked his arms around his wife, his arms crossed at her waist. “Yeah, the secrets stay, but Pearce loses almost everything. The way I see it, he’s lost his chance in politics, he’s lost his wife, he’s forced to rebuild his career from scratch in D.C. without the prestige of Belle Pointe and all the doors that would have opened for him and finally, he knows that I know for certain that he killed a man in cold blood.”

  “The person I worry about is Paige,” Beatrice said.

  “Yes, me too,” Anne said. “How was she today when you told her? I know Victoria was never very affectionate toward her, but still, she’s a child. Losing her grandmother so suddenly must have been a shock.”

  “How could I have forgotten?” Beatrice opened an old-fashioned pie safe and brought out a chocolate cake. “I thought we needed a distraction today, so Paige and I baked a cake.” She set the cake in the center of the round table. “Franklin, will you hand me that knife over there, please? Anne, dessert plates are in that cupboard.”

  “Now you tell me.” With a pat to Anne’s bottom, Buck nudged her asid
e and sat back down at the table. “I’ll take some of that, please, ma’am.”

  “Me, too,” Franklin said.

  Anne waved away an offer of cake. “About Paige…” she prompted.

  “Yes.” Beatrice cut two generous wedges. “When I told her, she was quiet, thinking it over. And of course, I didn’t mention suicide. I simply said Victoria had been diagnosed with cancer and had decided against a long and difficult treatment.” She placed the cake on dessert plates, then sat down as Buck and Franklin tucked into it. “Paige understood her grandmother well. She said Victoria would have hated walking around with no hair and looking sick.”

  “No tears?” Anne wanted to know.

  “Sadly, no.” Beatrice paused, thinking back. “I’ve yet to tell you the worst. Paige said Victoria’s death was just one more change going on. She said she thought it wouldn’t be long before her parents got a divorce. I knew you’d said Claire hadn’t told her yet, Anne, so I was a little…distressed.”

  “That child,” Anne breathed in wonder. “Claire hasn’t a clue that she knows. So how did she find out?”

  “She read the journal, didn’t she?” Buck guessed.

  “Yes.” Beatrice nodded. “I don’t know exactly when she read her father’s awful secret. I just know that for a long time she’s been distancing herself from Pearce. That’s why Claire’s drinking was so worrisome. The child was surrounded with dysfunction, her mother, her grandmother, her father.”

  “I guess that explains why she assumed that Goth look,” Buck said. “Her whole life was pretty dark.”

  Anne touched Beatrice’s hand. “Except for you. Thank goodness, she had you.”

  “If Claire is successful with AA,” Beatrice said, “and she stays on an even keel while she divorces Pearce, I think Paige will be okay.”

  “Especially once Claire marries Jack,” Buck said, earning three surprised looks. He shrugged. “She told me out of her own mouth that was her plan.”

  “She has certainly looked happy lately.” Beatrice’s eyes were soft meeting Franklin’s across the table. “Love will do that.”

  For a long minute there was silence all round. Anne, watching the men enjoy their cake, took in a long breath. There was something she needed to do and it made her nervous, just thinking about it.

  “Is something else bothering you, Anne?” Beatrice, rinsing teacups at the sink, paused in the task.

  Beatrice had an uncanny radar where she was concerned, Anne thought, not for the first time. It was so strong that it amazed her she hadn’t guessed their real connection before she was told. “Ah, there’s something I’d like to show you,” she told Beatrice. Flustered, she looked around for her bag.

  “This what you’re looking for?” Buck reached out and plucked the bag from the seat of an empty chair. She caught his eye and realized that he knew what she intended to do. Had urged her to do it.

  “Could we go to the living room?” she said to Beatrice. “Dad, Buck, we’ll be back in a minute.”

  Puzzled, Beatrice dried her hands on a tea towel and dropped it on the countertop without taking her eyes off Anne. Gripped by a nervousness that drove her heart up in her throat, Anne walked quickly to the front room of the old Victorian. The house where Beatrice had been born. The house of Anne’s own ancestors.

  She sat down and patted the cushion of the love seat, inviting Beatrice. When she was seated beside her, Anne pulled a letter out of her bag.

  “Oh.” Beatrice knew instantly. A hand went straight to her heart.

  “This letter was in the box you gave me. It was sealed with my name written on it. It’s from Laura, my mother.”

  “I know.” Beatrice’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “In spite of everything that has happened in the last few days, there’s no way I was able to resist reading everything in that box.” She touched Beatrice’s hand. “Thank you for giving me that glimpse of your friendship with Laura.”

  Beatrice, beyond speaking, nodded.

  “I’d like to read this to you…if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, of course. Yes.”

  Anne took the letter from its envelope and smiled up at Beatrice. “You’re gonna love this.” She was beginning to feel more at ease. Actually, she was feeling just fine, she decided.

  “It starts, ‘Dear and Precious Anne.’” Suddenly she was choked up, reading the words of someone whose memory she treasured. She cleared her throat. “If you’re reading this, you will have met your birth mother and now know the story of your father’s love affair with Beatrice Jones and its wonderful consequences: you, my darling. When Franklin came to me, broken and riddled with guilt, and confessed he’d been unfaithful, my first thought was, ‘Well, now he’s done what I knew he would do eventually. It’s behind us and we’ll just pick up where we left off and never speak of this again.’ Oh, I was going to be noble and forgiving. So ridiculous, so impossible. My next thought was ‘How dare he!’ Of course, I was angry. Bitterly angry. I’m only human. I felt so sorry for myself that I just wanted to curl up and die right then and there. It wasn’t fair. He was healthy and strong and virile, just as I used to be before MS struck. And now I was sick and weak and pathetic. Of course he’d had an affair. The mystery was why he hadn’t done so before. And then, worst of all, I was struck with a terrifying fear that he was going to ask for a divorce.

  But no, not Franklin. Perhaps I should have offered him one, but I was far more selfish—and am today—than your father, Anne. Instead, Franklin then said the words that explained why he’d been compelled to confess his infidelity. Yes, no prettying it up. Infidelity. A betrayal of our vows. But it was much worse than an affair. His lover was pregnant!

  I wanted to scream. I hated him. I hated her. I had longed for a child with all my heart, but to no avail. It wasn’t fair that he’d fallen in love with a beautiful and healthy woman, but adding insult to injury, she had conceived his child. Easily and naturally, in one short summer affair! While I sat stunned and heartsick, thinking up ways to punish him, he went on to say that this woman’s father considered a baby born out of wedlock to be a disgrace to the family. She had been sent to a relative in another state and the baby would be put up for adoption.

  Giving a baby away to strangers when I longed for a child? Knowing Franklin was responsible for a child and doing nothing about it? It would have haunted me forever. How can I make you understand the emotion that consumed me from that moment? No stranger would have that baby. That baby was meant for me.

  Selfish, you think? All about me, me, me? Maybe. But I thought of it as consolation for being stricken with a nasty disease that rendered me infertile. So God had simply made it up to me by giving me you.”

  Anne stopped, swallowed hard and brushed at a tear. “Sorry,” she whispered and to finish, leaned against Beatrice whose arm had encircled her waist. Again, she cleared her throat. “And so, as the years have passed, I have shared your growing-up years with Beatrice Jones. She was there in spirit when you took your first step, when you graduated from kindergarten, high school and college. She was there when you married Buck. And when the day comes that you read these words, I hope you are sitting next to Beatrice Jones. If so, I hope you will be able to do this one thing for me. Tell her, thank you.”

  For a long minute, neither was able to get past the lumps in their throats. Tears from both blurred the image of the letter now lying in Anne’s lap while each felt awe at the amazing generosity of Laura Marsh.

  “I am so glad she thought to do this,” Anne said finally, resting her head comfortably, naturally against her mother.

  “She was…” Beatrice paused with her arm still around Anne, gently rubbing the soft sleeve of her T-shirt. “She was an angel, a very human one, but an angel just the same. My God, I owe her.”

  Anne reached up and covered Beatrice’s hand on her arm, gave it a little squeeze, then leaned up and kissed her cheek. “No, Mom, I’m the lucky one.”

  Epilogue

  Three
months later…

  Anne lay flat in bed and took in several long, deep, slow breaths. Eyes closed, she waited…waited. Beside her, Buck shifted, coming awake within a few minutes of the alarm going off. Oddly, he had his own internal alarm clock. Must be a farmer thing, she thought. As naturally as breathing, he turned over and reached out to pull her close.

  “Don’t touch me,” she ordered. “Don’t move.”

  He went still, but opened one eye. “I can’t move?”

  “No.” She breathed in again, slowly. “Not yet.”

  Smiling, he straightened out and stacked his hands behind his head. “Okay, tell me when.”

  Suddenly, she threw back the covers and dashed to the bathroom. With a more or less empty stomach, there was little to upchuck, but she suffered through a series of dry heaves anyway. Same thing, every morning, like clockwork. Nothing she did, no remedy she tried worked to stave it off or prevent it.

  Buck, now beside her, knew the drill. Wordlessly, he handed over a cold wet face cloth. Weakly, she wiped her face, then went to the sink and brushed her teeth. Buck, following routine, was back in bed, again flat on his back, his hands stacked behind his head. “Morning, sunshine.”

  She laughed, fully recovered now, and crawled back in bed. Plumping her pillow, she lay back, snuggled up against him. “I know it’s crazy.”

  He shifted to take her into his arms. His kiss was sweet, soft with sympathy and a little worry. “How much longer do you have to go through this?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? What’s a little morning sickness when you think of the reason?” She looked up at him, kissed his jaw. “Six more months and we’ll have a baby!”

  He angled back to be able to see her face. “And everything’s okay? No complications?”

  “Like last time? No, nothing.” Because he looked worried, she reached up and swept hair from his brow. “The funny thing is that I’m not worried this time. I know this pregnancy is right. I know this baby is fine.”