by Sylvia Nobel
“I understand.”
She grew silent again but I knew something was wrong because of the way she was gnawing at her fingernails. “Please don’t think I’m being ungrateful,” she suddenly blurted out, “but I’m having a real hard time dealing with all this and to be honest, I don’t know how long, or even if I’m going to stay here at all. But, if I do,” she added, a note of conviction entering her voice, “I’m not sure I want anything printed in your newspaper.”
My heart skipped and I slid a glance at her. The thought of losing this juicy story before I even got it was simply unacceptable. Patrick said it was up to me to convince her, so I’d better get cracking.
“I know how you feel,” I began, choosing my words with care. “Sharing private family matters can be difficult so we’ll just play everything by ear for starters. Later on, if you decide to allow me an exclusive on this, I give you my word that nothing will be printed without your say so. Plus that, I may be able to help you over some rough spots if you’ll let me.”
She said nothing, but appeared to be thinking it over. I charged ahead. “Look, maybe you’d feel more comfortable if you knew a little more about me. What did Margie tell you?”
“Just that you’re divorced, you moved here from Philadelphia last spring because of asthma and that you’re a reporter.”
I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Margie to come up with such a brief, insipid biography. “Well, I like to think I have just a bit more depth than that.”
“She also said if you got too pushy and pried too much, I was to send you packing.”
The flare of irritation heated my face. My sister-in-law was a real prize. “I prefer to think of it as perseverance. It’s true that I’ve been accused of being hotheaded at times, and true that patience sometimes eludes me, but I have a good sense of humor, I bathe regularly and,” I said, tossing her an impish grin, “I’m a very good listener.”
Dividing my attention between her and the road, I felt a surge of elation when I was rewarded with the faintest flicker of a smile. “What did Margie and Patrick tell you about me?”
I repeated the information my brother had given me. “He also told me you actually talked to Dr. Orcutt and that he wasn’t very forthcoming with you.”
“That’s for sure. When I first got his letter, I thought it was some kind of a sick joke. And then, when he called, well...he sounded like maybe he was uncomfortable talking to me.”
“What did he tell you?”
“First, I asked him why I should believe any of it and then I got this creepy chill when he started telling me personal stuff about my mother.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“He described what she looked like. He told me her maiden name and he knew the exact day that she died. Things like that. But the really weird part was that he knew all about me. I mean, here’s this stranger on the phone calling me from someplace I never even knew existed and telling me I now own it. It still doesn’t seem real. But the hardest part...” she faltered, swallowing hard, “is finding out that my mother lied to me all these years. Why would she do that?”
I glanced at her stricken face, but decided not to speculate until I had more facts. “Perhaps the letter will help explain things.”
“I hope so. Right now, I feel like my whole life has been one huge question mark.”
“What do you mean?”
“A thousand things. Like…why we moved around so often, or why our phone number was always unlisted, or why we got our mail at a Post Office box? I always felt like we were on the run from something. You know, like we were in the Witness Protection Program, or something. I used to imagine all kinds of crazy stuff.”
“Did you ever ask about your father?”
“Sure. Lots of times. But she never wanted to talk about the past. And whenever I’d bring him up, she’d get this weird look on her face. Then she’d get real moody and sad. Sometimes, I’d find her sitting alone crying, and then I’d feel awful. So,” she said, exhaling a deep sigh, “after a while, I just quit asking. But, she did other strange things too.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, tons of things now that I think about it. You know, I didn’t even know my illness was called epilepsy until after she died!”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. She acted like...I don’t know, like she was ashamed of it or something. She told me it was just fainting spells and to never, ever talk about it with anyone.”
“Didn’t she take you to a doctor?”
“Oh, sure, I had a bunch of brain tests. EEG’s they’re called, and I take medicine, but the doctor didn’t give it a name either. It was just ‘my condition’ and,” her voice held a touch of resentment when she added, “I thought I had some horrible disease, like leprosy.”
I frowned in disbelief. “That seems rather cruel.”
“I guess, in a way, but then my mom fussed over me a lot of the time too. I always thought she was just being overprotective, but now...I don’t know.”
I edged another look at her. She seemed to be ruminating more to herself than confessing to me. But I was glad that she now felt confident enough to confide in me, so I offered no further opinion.
For a while then we rode in silence, both occupied with our private thoughts until I heard her murmur, “The landscape here seems strange. Dry and lonesome looking.”
She was squinting across a particularly barren stretch of sparsely foliated sand toward a row of jagged mountains on the horizon which, according to the map I’d studied earlier, were aptly named the Sawtooth Range.
I knew what she meant, I thought, adjusting my sun- glasses against the glare. Having also grown up among dense green forests and friendly rolling hills, my first impression of Arizona had struck me as a forbidding composite of cactus and rock and sunlight so harsh, at times it seemed to burn the color from the sky.
“I know you said it’s the rainy season, but it sure doesn’t look like it ever rains,” she remarked, watching a dust devil spiral past. I couldn’t help smiling to myself. I’d uttered those exact words myself less than four months ago. “By the way,” she said, yawning, “Dr. Orcutt’s nurse called late last night to give me a message from him. He suggested that after my meeting in Tucson, it would be much easier if we take the shortcut. She told me we’ll save about an hour’s driving time and can probably be there by dinner time.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a shortcut.”
She rummaged around in her purse again and extracted a scrap of paper. “We’re supposed to take the old road. State route 181.”
“I wonder why Dr. Orcutt didn’t call and tell you this himself?”
“Who knows? Maybe he was busy delivering a baby or something.”
“Okay, I’ll check the map when we stop for gas.”
We cruised past an eye-catching rock formation called Picacho Peak and reached Tucson before noon. The downtown district appeared to be much smaller than Phoenix, boasting an assortment of mid-size office buildings and only a few high-rises. One in particular stood tall against the desert terrain like a gleaming block of blue ice. Once we pulled off the freeway onto the side streets, the graceful pueblo-style homes showed off the distinct Spanish influence. I was impressed with the clear, smog-free air and stunning beauty of the Santa Catalina and Santa Rita Mountains, which rose majestically in the distance. We had lunch and gassed up the car before driving to the address Angela read to me. When I pulled into the parking area of the coral adobe-walled office building, she seemed visibly nervous as she actively chewed on one thumbnail.
Once inside, I accompanied her along a plant-studded hallway until we reached a door that read: Clarence Hutton Attorney-at-Law.
“I need to check in with my office,” I said, tapping my watch. “But I’ll go in if you like.”
She seemed to be weighing my offer then all at once she squared her jaw. “That’s okay, Kendall. I think I need to do this alone.”
Bravo! I cheered to mys
elf. Underneath her timorous demeanor ran a semblance of backbone. “Okay. I’m going to find a phone then I’ll wait for you over there.” I gestured towards two armchairs flanking the elevator.
Back in the lobby, I waited a few minutes for an elderly woman to finish her conversation, then punched in all the necessary numbers from my calling card. After a few rings I heard Ginger’s cheery voice. “Castle Valley Sun.”
I chatted with her a few minutes and then asked to speak to Tugg. “Sure thing, sugar pie, but before I connect you, I thought you’d like to know that Tally’s already pining away for you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because he told me to be sure ‘n tell him the very second you called `cuz he needs to yak at you a spell.”
I laughed at her colorful Texas dialect and told her I’d be tickled pink. A thrill of delight raced through me just knowing I’d get to speak to him one more time today.
After answering several office-related questions for Tugg, I felt more and more positive that I’d made the right decision. Judging from the lilt in his voice, he sounded happy to be ensconced in the spot I’d just liberated myself from. With a promise to phone him tomorrow, we said our good-byes and he transferred me to Tally’s extension.
“Hey there,” came his pleasant baritone over the line. “How’s it going?”
“Okay so far. We’re still in Tucson and I don’t have much to report yet. So, what’s up? You miss me?”
“Yeah, I miss you,” he replied gruffly, “but that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
I tried my best to sound coquettish. “And here I was hoping that it was.”
“You remember that article on Morgan’s Folly I was telling you about?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I found it.”
Did I detect a somber edge to his words? “And?”
“How about I read it to you.”
“Okay.”
For a few seconds there was nothing but the sound of paper crinkling in my ear before he said, “Here goes. Thursday night, May 3rd, sixty-four year old Grady Morgan, owner and operator of the once-prosperous Morgan Mining Company, sustained serious head injuries resulting from a fall from the second story balcony of his home. The examining physician called to the scene confirmed that alcohol could have been a factor.
Mr. Morgan was rushed by ambulance to the hospital in Bisbee twenty miles away and from there was flown to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix where he is listed in critical condition.
Morgan’s housekeeper, Marta Nuñez, claimed that she heard shouts and witnessed what appeared to be the figure of a woman fleeing the scene. Deputy Sheriff Clark Brewster stated, “As a result of initial investigations by sheriff’s detectives, there is no evidence at this time to indicate that Mr. Morgan’s fall was anything other than accidental.”
As I stood there silently digesting all the data, his voice turned ominous. “I think the operative words are ‘at this time,’ don’t you?”
The same three words that apparently disturbed him lit a fire in me. “Sounds intriguing.”
“Keeping in mind that Grady Morgan died since this was written, it is possible the focus of the investigation may have changed by now so your cock-sure assessment that this story holds no danger may not be correct after all.”
There was no mistaking the uneasiness in his tone, but I was undeterred. “Tally, I can’t back out now.”
“I’m not suggesting that, Kendall, but I hope you’ll be on your guard. I’d like to have every luscious inch of you back in one piece.”
I warmed to his obvious concern. “I’ll be careful, and you be careful too. As far as I’m concerned, you could be in more danger from Mexican bandits down there than I could ever be.”
He chuckled. “Okay, we’re even. So long for now, beautiful boss lady.”
Was I lucky or what? “Bye yourself, handsome cowboy.”
I sighed happily and was poised to hang up when I heard Ginger in the background demanding to speak to me.
“Hey, girlfriend,” she said, coming on the line again. “Y’all been listening to the radio?”
“No. Why?”
“There’s one humdinger of a storm blowing in. The weatherman says it’s the tail end of one of them big `ol tropical storms so you better watch your butt.”
I turned to the wide picture window. Sure enough, massive clouds with billowing cauliflower tops pushed skyward over the southeastern horizon like great white cathedrals. It looked like the normal afternoon buildup of clouds, but a tiny shudder of apprehension raced through me. “Thanks, Ginger. I’m sure we’ll be there long before anything major develops.”
I hadn’t planned to talk for twenty minutes and hoped Angela hadn’t been waiting too long as I retraced my steps towards the lawyer’s office. When I didn’t see her, I settled into one of the chairs with a magazine, thinking that her meeting must have entailed more than just picking up a letter.
Moments later I heard what sounded like a muffled sob. Mystified, I turned to look behind me, seeing nothing but a few potted plants in a dimly lit corridor leading to an exit. When I heard the sound again, I rose to investigate.
My breath caught when I spied Angela hunched on the floor beside a leafy rubber plant, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, a wad of papers clutched in one hand. She rocked back and forth as silent tears streamed down her face.
Had she suffered another seizure? My initial shock dissolved into concern as I knelt in front of her. “Angela, what’s wrong?”
The eyes that met mine were deep, dark pools of misery. “Angela doesn’t exist,” she whimpered. “She never existed. And neither do I.”
Chapter 3
At first she was inconsolable, alternating between sobs, bursts of hysterical laughter, and babbling almost incoherently about her father, and her birthday not being in April after all. I finally got her settled down and escorted her into the ladies room. While she was splashing water on her tear-streaked face, I began to read over some of the papers she’d pressed into my hand.
The first bundle contained various personal papers belonging to her mother, a birth certificate, a record of her baptism, and her marriage license. I set them aside and suppressed a gasp of shock as I began to scan Angela’s birth certificate. She was right. Her recorded month of birth was October and the year listed would mean she was not twenty, but twenty-one. Before I could finish studying the document, she said in a hushed voice, “Read the letter.”
For a few seconds, I stared at her grief-stricken face, then put the birth certificate aside and unfolded the next sheet of paper.
MY DARLING AUDREY,
I CAN CALL YOU THAT AT LONG LAST, FOR YOU KNOW NOW THAT THIS IS YOUR GIVEN NAME. I WILL BE GONE WHEN YOU READ THIS AND I PRAY THAT ONE DAY YOU WILL BE ABLE TO FIND IT IN YOUR HEART TO FORGIVE ME. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW THE AGONY I HAVE SUFFERED WONDERING IF I MADE THE RIGHT DECISION TO RUN AWAY WITH YOU EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO, AND THAT EVERYTHING I HAVE DONE SINCE WAS TO PROTECT YOUR BEST INTERESTS.
I NEVER PLANNED TO TELL YOU ABOUT YOUR FATHER, GRADY MORGAN. HE WAS AN EVIL MAN AND I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT YOU WOULD BE BETTER OFF NEVER KNOWING THAT HE EXISTED. BUT THINGS HAVE CHANGED NOW AND I MUST MAKE MY PEACE WITH GOD. BECAUSE OF THAT LONG-AGO DECISION, I HAVE NOTHING OF VALUE TO LEAVE YOU AND IT SEEMS WRONG TO DEPRIVE YOU OF YOUR RIGHTFUL INHERITANCE AND ALL THAT COMES WITH IT.
DR. MILES ORCUTT HAS BEEN A DEAR AND TRUSTED FRIEND. HE WILL GIVE YOU GOOD ADVICE. HE HAS ALWAYS KEPT HIS PROMISES TO ME AND HAS GIVEN ME HIS WORD THAT YOU WILL NOT BE CONTACTED UNTIL YOUR FATHER’S DEATH.
IN CLOSING, IT IS MY FERVENT HOPE THAT YOU WILL UNDERSTAND THAT I LOVE YOU WITH ALL MY HEART, AND THAT MY SOLE PURPOSE WAS TO KEEP US BOTH FROM HARM’S WAY. THERE IS SO MUCH THAT MUST REMAIN UNSAID AND MY DYING WISH IS FOR YOU TO HAVE A HAPPY LIFE. BUT FOR YOUR OWN PEACE OF MIND, REMEMBER, MY DARLING, THAT THE SECRETS OF THE DEAD ARE BEST BURIED WITH THEM.
It was signed your loving mother, RITA BARNES MORGAN, and dated a f
ew months prior to her death. A multitude of emotions churned inside me when I raised my head to meet Angela’s—or Audrey’s as I now must think of her––red-rimmed eyes in the bathroom mirror. I tried to fathom how she must feel at this moment. I couldn’t.
For lack of anything else, I said, “Do you want to go someplace and have a cup of coffee or something?”
“No,” she said shakily, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to be out in public again. I’ve already made a spectacle of myself once today.”
Her shoulders slumped in defeat, she presented a truly pathetic picture. But, even in her distraught state, I thought about what an arresting face she had—perfect rosebud-shaped lips, a small slightly upturned nose and the most striking set of eyes I’d ever seen. Cavernous, and chocolate brown in color, they were crowned with a magnificent set of dark, thick brows that presented a stark contrast to her ashen, yet flawless skin.
There seemed little I could say in the way of consolation so, operating entirely on instinct I slipped an arm around her shoulders. There were no appropriate words to cushion the devastating blow she’d just received, so I figured a dose of good old-fashioned comfort was about all I could furnish at the moment.
She managed a brief smile and leaned into me for an instant, eyes closed. I experienced a sudden rush of empathy, feeling as though somehow I’d stepped out of my reporter’s role and into that of guardian. “We can talk when you’re ready,” I offered gently. “Shall we go?”
She nodded, folded the papers into her purse and started towards the door. “I need to take my medicine,” she informed me as we stepped into the hallway.
At the water fountain, I watched her fumble with pills and felt a sudden stab of guilt. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
She raised solemn eyes to me. “I have to now.”
“I’m curious about something,” I said to her as we headed outside to the car. “Why did your mother choose to have her affairs handled by a lawyer in Tucson instead of closer to home?”