Could it possibly be any worse never to know who her parents were than to have Lorraine Griffin for a grandmother and Charles Morton for a father...people who put a snake in her bathtub and had her evicted from her motel room?
"Bingo!" Jake muttered. He handed her the magazine he was reading, a regional publication.
"Mr. Thornton, Ms. Patterson, His Honor the Mayor will see you now," the receptionist announced.
Rebecca had only a second to glance at the article—a full page picture of Charles Morton, smiling beneficently and holding his cowboy hat in one outstretched hand as if about to throw it. A headline on the opposing page read: Time for a New Face in Congress?
Jake urged her toward the receptionist who stood holding the door into the mayor's office.
Was Morton planning to run for Congress? She supposed that would be the next step up from Mayor. If he were, he certainly wouldn't want an illegitimate daughter appearing on the scene. He'd likely do whatever it took to dissuade her from uncovering old secrets he'd prefer to keep buried. A man in his position would have no problem using his influence to get that daughter evicted from the only motel in town.
Rebecca crossed the threshold into the inner office on legs as shaky as if she'd run five miles.
Morton rose to greet them from behind a huge mahogany desk that dominated the room. The desk held the usual paraphernalia—a gold pen in a holder, papers stacked in boxes, a couple of files, a telephone, and a computer monitor. Plaques adorned the walls, and a plant sat in one corner. A large tinted window behind Morton let in the afternoon light without glare. The office could not have been more ordinary, yet Rebecca felt as if she were walking straight into hell.
She clutched Jake's arm for support. Jake was a stranger, someone who'd come briefly into her life and would soon be gone from it. He'd made that very clear by his distance since they'd made love and by his lack of response to her announcement that she'd be leaving. But she had to have something to hold onto while she faced the possibility that the man smiling and offering to shake hands with her, the man who made her skin crawl could be the man who'd created her and regretted that accidental creation ever since.
Jake shook hands with him, but when Morton offered his hand to her, she could only stare at the broad fingers, the wide palm with no calluses, no signs of labor. An image flashed before her, the image of her father's hand—of Jerry Patterson's hand—with calluses from the hard work of maintaining a home and restaurant, with the puckered scar on one thumb from a grease spill when he'd been cooking, a white scar on the other from the time a knife slipped while he was slicing a roast. Those same hands had been gentle when they'd applied a bandage to her skinned knee or held her and stroked her hair when she cried.
A lump started in her throat then changed to bile and she felt certain that if she touched Charles, she would vomit.
He changed the outstretched hand into a motion toward the two burgundy leather chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat. Sorry to keep you folks waiting so long. Being a public servant keeps you busy."
Reluctantly Rebecca let go of Jake's arm and sat gingerly on the edge of one of the chairs. Her revulsion to the inanimate object was, she knew, unwarranted, but the idea of sitting back in the chair was as abhorrent to her as shaking Charles' hand.
"What can I do for you folks today?" Morton asked, folding his uncallused hands on the polished surface of the desk. Rebecca found herself examining her own hands, clenched in her lap, searching, against her will, for any resemblance.
"We thought we'd drop in before we left town," Jake said.
"Leaving town, are you? Well, I hope you enjoyed your stay."
Charles Morton is evil. Lorraine Griffin's words came back to her as the man sat before them, smiling and lying.
"It's been very educational," Jake said smoothly.
He was right. She had no place here. He was able to carry on a conversation with Morton, to do his job, while she sat in silent shock.
"But, you know," Jake continued, "the damnedest thing happened. We've been kicked out of our rooms at the motel. Seems the whole place suddenly got booked up."
"Is that right?" Charles made no effort to sound or look surprised. "Well, once in a while that happens. Wilbur would go broke if he didn't have a full house every now and then. Probably a high school reunion or something."
"Probably. We thought you might be able to recommend a motel close to Edgewater. Something in a town twenty or thirty minutes away. Driving distance."
Charles' jaw muscles tightened, and his eyes hardened to chips of marble, the light blue color tinted with gray as if dirty. Nevertheless, he smiled. "Don't know of any place like that until you get up close to Dallas. I have to say, I'm a little surprised that you folks are still digging around down here. I'd think by now you'd have realized you've come to the wrong place."
"We had begun to wonder, but then we talked to Lorraine Griffin."
Rebecca stole a glance at Jake as he dropped that potential bomb. He sat comfortably back, long, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him, boots crossed, hands draped casually over the arms of the chair. His expression betrayed no hint of strain, concern, accusation...he might have been having a friendly chat. The detachment that kept her at arm's length served him well in his chosen profession.
"Lorraine Griffin is a very disturbed woman," Charles said coldly. "She lost her only daughter several years ago, and she never got over it. Of course, she always was kind of a fanatic. Her husband was the preacher at one of those extremist churches."
"I understand you were friendly with her daughter at one time."
Charles' knuckles whitened as he clenched his fingers more tightly about each other. Still his smile never wavered. "Of course I was friendly to her. I'm friendly to everybody. I'm a friendly guy."
"But you don't get engaged to everybody...do you?"
A sheen of perspiration glistened on Charles' upper lip. "I was never engaged to Janelle. She was a very sheltered, shy woman. Between the fact that she wasn't attractive and the strict way her parents raised her, she didn't get out much. Didn't date at all. Could be she took my friendliness the wrong way. If she ever told anybody we were engaged, I'm afraid that was just the fantasy of a lonely woman."
"I see."
Silence crowded around them as neither man spoke. The plush burgundy carpet beneath their feet swallowed even the sounds of breathing.
Rebecca knew what Jake was doing. It was a technique she'd often used in working with people. Refrain from speaking, and in the ensuing uncomfortable silence the other person would frequently say things he hadn't intended to say.
But this time Jake was wrong. Charles was proficient at his act. He was nervous but he wasn't going to say anything unguarded. He rose from his chair. "I hate to rush our little visit, but I do have another appointment. If there's nothing else I can help you folks with...?"
Jake stood and again shook Charles' hand. "You've been more help than you know."
Rebecca rose, and Jake wrapped one arm about her, supporting her. He propelled her toward the door, but before they could escape into fresh air, he stopped and turned back to Charles.
"Oh, by the way, good luck with your plans to run for Congress."
Charles hesitated only an instant before replying. "Thank you."
"Keep me in mind if you need a private investigator when campaign time gets here. You know, somebody to dig into the past of your opponent, haul out all his dirty little secrets, like they always do in those campaigns."
Blood suffused Charles' face. This time he couldn't hide his discomfort. His voice, however, was still smooth. "I'll be sure and do that."
Jake kept his arm about her all the way outside. If he hadn't, she wasn't sure she would have been able to stand.
"Breathe," he ordered when they stepped onto the sidewalk with the glass doors of the small building swinging shut behind them, separating them from Charles. "Take a deep breath and don't you dare pass out on me."
He opened the passenger door of her car. "Get in. I'll drive."
She didn't argue. She certainly wasn't going to pass out, but so many images were swirling through her mind, she wasn't sure she could focus on driving.
Jake backed out of the parking spot, looked at where they'd been and frowned. "You definitely need to get your oil checked. There's another spot like the one at the park."
"I'll check the oil before I start back to Dallas." An oil leak was the least of her problems right now.
"Do you watch your gauges to be sure your car isn't overheating? Maybe I ought to check to see if that's antifreeze you're losing."
"No. Just drive. If you want me to breathe again, get away from this place. Anyway, that spot could be from the person who parked there before me."
With one last glance at the parking space, Jake put the car into gear and drove down the street.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"We don't have a lot of options. It's either the park, the diner or we could run by Doris Jordan's. Get there a little early."
"Yes. Let's go to Doris' house." That was the only place she could think of at the moment that she really wanted to be.
***
The small, white house with its medley of bright flowers belonged to a woman Rebecca hadn't known a week ago and would probably never see again after today, but as she and Jake drove up, she felt as if she'd come home.
Doris greeted them as though they were welcome guests, as though they hadn't arrived two hours early. "I was hoping we'd have some extra time to visit," she said graciously. "Would you like to sit out here? It's a bit warm inside, but the shade from the trees keeps it cool on the porch all day. Have a seat and I'll go get some iced tea."
The swing, hidden by the trellis of morning glory vines on one side of the porch, lured Rebecca with its seclusion and its promise of soothing, gentle motion. She took one side and Jake, after a moment's hesitation, took the other, beside her but not quite touching. No surprise there.
"You knew Morton was planning to run for Congress," she said, finally able to discuss the visit now that she was in the safety of Doris' home. "That's what you were looking for in all those magazines."
"I didn't know. I suspected from something Lorraine Griffin said. If somebody doesn't stop him, he's going to spread that dark evil of his over this entire country."
"I just thought she was being rhetorical."
"That was a possibility, but Morton has moved up from being a cop to being Mayor. He strikes me as the type who'd like to go all the way to the top."
"That's a scary thought."
"Yeah, it is."
Doris came out with a tray holding tall glasses of amber tea.
Rebecca took a long sip of hers. The cool, clean liquid dissolved the lingering taste of slimy disgust that Morton had left with her. The warm air, cooled by the shade of thousands of leaves, evaporated from her skin the last traces of the refrigerated, foul air of Morton's office.
"Did you know Charles Morton plans to run for Congress?" Jake asked.
Doris leaned back in one of the cushioned, wrought iron chairs. "There's been talk about it. He's a very ambitious man. If he'd had the charisma to match that ambition, he'd have been out of here and in Washington D.C. long ago."
"So you don't think he'll win the election?"
"I didn't say that. Charles may not have charisma, but he does manage to garner influence. I certainly won't vote for him. However, I imagine a lot of people will.
"You knew him when he was young," Rebecca said. "Do you—" She bit her lip then forced herself to continue. "Do you think I look like him?"
Doris set her glass of tea carefully on the porch beside her and folded her hands in her lap, her composure unbroken. "I gathered from all your questions about him yesterday that you were considering him as a possibility for your father. After you all left, I thought about it, about Janelle Griffin and him."
"An illegitimate daughter suddenly appearing out of nowhere, a former lover who committed suicide, those are things that wouldn't help his chances in a political race."
"No, they wouldn't." Doris studied her thoughtfully. "There's a sadness in your eyes that reminds me of Janelle."
The shade seemed to darken around them, and the image of Doris became a little fuzzy. Rebecca realized she was holding her breath. She made herself breathe deeply, bring the world back into focus.
Doris' expression softened, and she smiled. "But that doesn't mean anything. You also have a stubborn set to your jaw that reminds me of my daughter-in-law, Mary, and eyes the same color as Mabel Atherton, my best friend in grade school—we certainly know she wasn't your mother—and a nose that's straight like my Ben's was and hair like—" She frowned then shrugged. "The good news, for what it's worth, is that I don't see any of Charles' features in your face. But I don't like him and I do like you, so that may cloud my vision. Is it really so important to discover your heritage when you may be upset with your findings?"
"That's what I keep telling her," Jake said.
Rebecca drew a finger around the rim of her glass. "I've been thinking about that. In any event, I'm getting out of the middle of it. After dinner, I'll be heading back to Dallas."
Rebecca thought Doris looked disappointed but maybe she saw what she wanted to see in the older woman's expression. "Well, I feel privileged to be included in your last evening here. Any particular reason you decided to leave?"
"We got kicked out of our motel rooms. It seemed easier to go back to my condo rather than try to find a new place to stay." It was an adequate explanation, never mind that easier encompassed a world of meanings.
Doris scowled, a vertical line creasing her forehead between her brows. "Why would Wilbur kick you out? He gets so little business, he usually tolerates anything from his customers short of throwing the television sets in the swimming pool or not paying their bills."
Jake gave a short bark of laughter. "The reason he gave us was that he was all booked up for the next month."
"All booked up? Wilbur? Not in my lifetime!" Doris' gaze flickered from Jake to Rebecca. She lifted her glass of tea from the porch, sipped then tapped one side with an index finger. It was the first nervous or impatient gesture Rebecca had ever seen her make. "Then you'll both stay with me for as long as you want," she said decisively. "I have a guest room, and Edgar's office has a long sofa he used to nap on. Or you can both share the guest room if you like. I may be old, but I haven't forgotten what it was like to be young."
The almost imperceptible rocking of the swing increased. Rebecca wasn't sure if it was from her nervous movements or from Jake's. How on earth did everybody in town know they'd been intimate? Did it show on their faces? Was the old shed equipped with a video camera?
"We appreciate the offer," Jake said smoothly, "but we couldn't impose on you like that. Anyway, I've got to get back to Dallas and take care of some things, like getting that broken headlight repaired."
Jake was right, but Rebecca found herself desperately wanting to stay in Doris' house, to spend the night in a bed that probably had a floral spread, then wake in the morning to have coffee in Doris' sunlit kitchen from one of her flower garden cups...to immerse herself in the peaceful spirit Doris had found.
Not rational, she knew. She had to find her own peaceful spirit.
"You wouldn't be imposing at all," Doris said. "I'd love to have the company. I'll be upset if you refuse. If your car has a broken headlight, Jake, you shouldn't drive it tonight. You can stay here, get a good night's sleep, then tomorrow you can go back to Dallas or whatever you need to do." She turned to look out to Rebecca's Volvo parked in the street. "Do you both have your luggage here?"
Jake shifted in the swing. "Well, uh, Rebecca's is, but mine's in my car at the park."
"Then why don't you get Rebecca's luggage now, and we can get yours after dinner."
He gave Rebecca a helpless look. She sque
lched a sudden urge to laugh. This man who maintained control of every situation, whether sparring with Charles Morton, extracting information from Lorraine Griffin, or making love with her, was out of his depth with Doris Jordan.
"My bag's in the trunk," she told him. "I believe you still have the keys."
Jake left the porch, and Doris leaned forward to pat Rebecca's hand. "Being a mother is a big responsibility. I remember when I brought Ben home from the hospital. That was absolutely the most terrifying experience of my life. I had no idea how I was ever going to take care of that baby by myself. If my mother hadn't been there with me, I might have been so terrified, I'd have refused to take him until he got a little bigger. Because your mother gave you up for adoption doesn't mean she didn't love you. It could mean she loved you enough to want somebody to take care of you at a time when she didn't think she'd be able to."
"What are you trying to say?" Had Doris figured out who her mother was?
"I'm not trying to say anything other than what I just said."
Jake returned with her suitcase, and Doris took them inside to show them the guest room. Rebecca smiled when she saw the bed spread and matching curtains with a soft floral print. Like the living room, the furniture, including a wooden bed frame with a tall, carved headboard, a small dresser and large chest of drawers, was old but well cared for. Pictures, music boxes and various paraphernalia were scattered about on every surface. It was part of Doris' home, part of Doris.
"This was Ben's room," Doris said. "I've changed the decorating scheme, of course. He had pictures of baseball players that he'd torn out of magazines and taped all over the walls, a carpet of dirty clothes on the hardwood floor, and he would never permit a spread on his bed. That might have meant he'd have to make it up occasionally. I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable in here. The bathroom is down the hall."
"Thank you. I'll just freshen up and be right out."
Jake and Doris left, and Rebecca stood for several moments, absorbing the stability, the history of the room, of the entire house. The stability and history didn't belong to her, of course, but it was nice to borrow the feeling for a little while.
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