by Jodi Thomas
With determined steps, Lora forced herself not to run as she heard the sound of the window being lowered. At five foot ten, her long legs carried her swiftly to the porch and out of reach of her mother’s final instructions. Her high heels clicked across the wood as she squared her shoulders and resigned herself to get this duty over with as quickly as possible.
Lora’s car still sat in the middle of the street as she opened the door to the old Altman house and hurried inside.
Air, cold and stale, closed around her. A wisp, thick as a sigh, rushed past. Escaping. She had the feeling she’d be wise to do so, as well. This place, or more accurately the grounds behind the house, held nothing but bad memories for her. She’d just as soon turn her vote in now to demolish the landmark. Anything, even a vacant lot, would be better than having this old mansion shadow Main.
Lora blinked, trying to adjust to the filtered light shining through dirty windows. Dark paneling, rotted in spots. Dusty floors. Silence. She fought the urge to turn and run but remembered her mother probably still waited outside and decided even a haunted house would be preferable company.
The floor creaked when she stepped into a wide hallway with doors on either side. Stairs rose from the back wall of the entry. Huge bookshelves, too large for vandals to steal, lined the corridor as if guarding long-forgotten secrets. A surprising dignity reflected in the room’s architecture, like an old soldier still standing proud in the uniform of his youth.
Lora forced another step, telling herself she’d already lived through hell being married to Dan for three years. What else could happen to her? He’d taken everything except her car, and he would have gotten that, too, if it hadn’t been in her father’s name. Dan had made it necessary for her to quit her job without references. He’d fought until she’d had no option but to do what he knew she hated most—to return home. He’d learned, in the law school she’d worked to send him to, how to cut deep and once he was set up in a practice, he’d cut her out of his life.
Straightening, Lora smiled. She might be down but she was a long way from out. What could one houseful of old stories do to her? She wasn’t some frightened fifteen-year-old. She was a battled-scarred divorcée.
At slumber parties when she’d been small, girls had told stories of how old Rosa Lee would kill any man who set foot on her property and cut him up so she could dribble his blood over her roses. In Lora’s current state of mind, she didn’t consider Rosa Lee’s actions all that terrible.
“Hey, lady,” a low male voice echoed through the passage. “This the place for the committee meeting?”
Lora fought down nerves as she spotted a kid, maybe late teens, leaning against the banister. Half his body stood in shadow, but nothing about the half she saw looked good. Dirty jeans, worn leather jacket, hair in his eyes.
“It is,” she answered. “Why?” She thought of adding, “Shouldn’t you be out robbing some quickie mart?” but held her tongue.
He shifted, stepping more into the light. The chain that held his wallet in place clanked against the rivets running along the seam of his jeans.
Lora held her ground. He was a few years older than she’d thought, a little more frightening. A three-day growth of beard darkened his chin. Angry gray eyes watched her, studying, judging, undressing her. If she’d been in Dallas, she would have reached for her Mace. But Clifton Creek didn’t have muggers, she reminded herself.
“I’m on the committee.” He turned, showing more interest in the house than in her. His hands spread wide over the paneling and caressed the grooves in the wood. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like inside here. One of the guys I spent a weekend in the drunk tank with says his grandfather told him they sent all the way to Saint Louis for the carpenters on this place. Had to bring most of the wood out on wagons.”
Lora forced her heart to slow. So much for her mother’s idea of it being an honor to be on one of the mayor’s committees. They appeared to be emptying the jails in order to fill the chairs.
“I’m on the committee, too,” she said needlessly. No one would be in this old place at ten in the morning unless they’d been asked to serve. “I’m Lora Whitman.”
“I know who you are.” He moved a scarred hand over the top of one of the massive hutches, dusting away layers of dirt. “I’ve seen you around.” He didn’t look up as he spoke. “You came back after your husband took you for a ride.”
Lora shrugged, not surprised even the town’s under-belly knew of her troubles. Keeping up with everyone was more popular than sports in this place. But she did resent his comment that made her sound as if she had been no more than a horse Dan had saddled up one day and then turned out to starve when he had gotten where he wanted to go. Which, in retrospect, was accurate.
She straightened, leveling the kid with her gaze. “That’s right. He took me for everything, and I had to come back here to work for my father.” She had no idea why she was telling this thug her life story. Maybe she just wanted to get the gossip straight for a change. “I was on my way to being an advertising executive with one of Dallas’s big five, and now I’m fighting to keep the salesmen from putting their kids in every commercial we shoot at the car lot.”
The youth surprised her by saying, “Well, at least you got an old man to run home to. And don’t knock those ads. Some folks like seeing the kids. I remember seeing you in a few of your daddy’s ads when you were little.”
She studied him more closely. “Do I know you?”
“Billy Hatcher.” Thankfully, he didn’t offer his hand. “I was in middle school when you were a cheerleader your senior year. I liked to watch you jump.”
Lora fought the urge to slap him. She tried to picture him as a half-grown boy watching her but had no memory of him. “I don’t jump anymore,” she snapped.
“Too bad.”
He grinned, and she controlled the longing to slug him this time. Much more conversation and she’d be a killer by noon. “Great!” she mumbled, “I’m on a committee with a sex-starved bully.” This might prove no different from her marriage.
“Hello?”
They both turned as a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like a Navajo blanket stepped through the door. “Are you both here for the meeting?”
Billy shrugged, but Lora offered her hand. “Yes,” she said, thankful to have someone, anyone, else in the room. “I’m Lora Whitman.”
The woman’s smile lit her makeup-free face. Her eyes sparkled with excitement behind thick glasses. “I’m Sidney Dickerson, history professor from the college. Isn’t this the most exciting thing in the world?” She pulled off the poncho and tossed it over the banister. “I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about the adventure we’re embarking upon.”
Lora caught Billy Hatcher’s gaze and realized they had something in common after all. Neither of them agreed with the professor.
As Sidney moved into what appeared to have been the dining room to set up, three more people entered. Lora knew the Rogers sisters and greeted them warmly. They spoke to her as if she were still their student in grade school. Between the two sisters, she’d bet they knew everyone in town. There hadn’t been a wedding or a funeral in forty years the old maids hadn’t attended. She wasn’t surprised when Miss Ada May Rogers took over the introductions.
“Lora, dear, do you know the new Methodist minister?” Ada May motioned with her hand for him to move closer. “This is Reverend Parker.”
Lora nodded, knowing anyone not born in Clifton Creek might be referred to as “new.” The minister had sandy-blond hair and a lean body beneath his slightly wrinkled suit. She’d guess him ten years older than she, but the sadness in his eyes made him seem ancient. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered hearing he was a widower with a small kid to raise.
Micah Parker offered his hand, reminding her they’d met before at the Labor Day pancake breakfast. Then, to her surprise, he greeted Billy Hatcher warmly before Ada May finished the introductions.
Bi
lly smiled and slapped the preacher’s shoulder as Parker complimented the kid on some work he’d done at the church.
Lora tried not to appear to be listening to the men as Ada May chatted with the professor. Glancing at the ceiling, Lora searched for cracks. It would be just her luck that the first day in years someone walked into the house the roof would collapse. The whole town would probably turn out to dig through the rubble for bodies. First, they’d uncover her hand (the one without a wedding band on it) or maybe one leg, all dusty and bloody. One of the Rogers sisters might survive. Of course she would die soon after of loneliness. The town might erect a statue on this very spot to honor the civic-minded heroes willing to serve and die on a committee.
“Are you all right, dear?” Ada May pulled Lora back to reality.
“Yes,” she mumbled. “I was just thinking how my clothes are going to get dirty in this old place.”
“That’s my fault,” Dr. Dickerson confessed from the doorway of the room she’d entered. “I only wanted the door unlocked, the boards removed from the windows and little else disturbed.” She motioned with her notebook. “Please, would everyone step into the dining room. I did have folding chairs and a table brought in and set up near the bay window so we’d have plenty of light. If we’re going to decide the fate of this house today, it’s only fitting we do it on the property.”
Everyone followed Sidney Dickerson’s lead. As Billy Hatcher passed Lora, he whispered, “Take off your clothes and leave them at the door if you’re so worried about the dirt.”
Lora flashed him her best “drop dead” look and rushed ahead. This was going to be a fine committee, she thought. Two old maids, a preacher, a sex-starved thug and a professor. And me, she thought, the total failure.
There were definitely levels in hell, even in Clifton Creek.
CHAPTER FOUR
A few minutes past ten, Sidney Dickerson had all the members of her committee sitting around a card table. Light shone through the newly unboarded bay window that stretched as high as the twelve-foot ceiling. The wide, planked floor reflected the sun even beneath years of dust. She wanted to close her eyes and spread her hands wide like she’d seen worshippers do on television. Feel the power! she thought of saying. Feel the history. In her calm, lonely life she’d known only a few times when she’d been so excited.
Judging from the group before her, if she dared do something so foolish, they would turn and run. In fact, none of them looked all that interested in being on the committee.
Billy Hatcher crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair between Lora Whitman and Reverend Parker, who wore a smile that could have been painted on a cigar-store Indian.
Lora Whitman stared out the window looking at nothing.
One of the Rogers sisters had already taken up her crochet, while the other paused with pen and paper, waiting to write down every word spoken.
“Welcome to you all,” Sidney began. “Thank you for agreeing to serve on this committee. We’re here to study the history of a house that represents the very heart of Clifton Creek. We’ve been asked to make a few decisions about the future of this building and the surrounding land…decisions that will affect not only us but generations to come. We alone will decide if the legend of the fine man who founded this town lives or dies.”
Billy yawned.
Beth Ann counted stitches under her breath.
Sidney fought back tears. This house—that was so important to her—mattered to no one else. No one. Maybe they should agree to take the oil company’s money and forget even talking about trying to save an old house.
The preacher checked his watch.
“According to my research—” Sidney knew she had to speed up “—this home was one of the first, if not the first, big ranch house built north of Dallas.” She glanced at her notes and lectured on. “Henry W. Altman must have been little more than a boy when he rode in and claimed this land. We know he paid cash for the wagon train of supplies and workers needed to build this place, but no one seems to know where his money came from. Probably an inheritance, since there’s no record of any Altman family members ever visiting the ranch. He was born in 1878, died in 1950. He fathered one child, Rosa Lee Altman, who never married.”
Beth Ann counted a little louder. Her sister elbowed her gently, signaling her to turn down the volume.
Billy leaned farther back in his chair and looked as if he were staring at Lora Whitman’s legs under the table. Considering the short length of her skirt, Sidney could only guess at the view.
She lifted her briefcase onto the wobbly card table. Sidney had to do something before someone interrupted her and asked for a final vote. They all looked as if they wanted to move on with their lives. She needed to act fast. “Before we talk about what needs to be done, I want to show you all something I’ve found. It may be a factor we need to consider.”
Pulling a worn book from her notes, Sidney’s hand shook. “This book was donated to the library when Rosa Lee died.” She beamed. “Though the book is valuable as a first edition, its true value may lie in the inscription. Which, after reading it, I think you all will agree dictates further research on our part.
“It says simply, ‘To my Rosa Lee, who promises to love no other in this lifetime. Leave with me tonight. Wait for me in the garden. I promise I’ll come before midnight. Fuller, July 4, 1933.’”
Ada May stopped writing. Billy glanced out the window. Beth Ann whispered, “darn,” as she lost a stitch. The preacher leaned forward, his smile melted as his body stiffened as if preparing for a blow.
“If this was given to Rosa Lee, then maybe all the stories about her being an old maid who never had a gentleman caller aren’t true.” Sidney moved around the table, as if circling a classroom. “Maybe there are secrets here to uncover. Secrets the town should know before we sell the land.”
“Who cares?” Billy questioned, slouching in his chair. “Secrets about folks long dead are of no interest to anyone.”
Lora looked as if she agreed.
Micah Parker stretched his hand toward the book. “May I see that, Dr. Dickerson?”
Sidney smiled, knowing she’d hooked one. “If birth records are right, Rosa Lee would have been twenty-three when she was given that book. My guess is Mr. Fuller would have been from around here, but why didn’t he meet her at midnight like he planned?”
“Maybe he did,” Billy answered.
Sidney turned to him. “Then why didn’t she leave with him if she’d promised to love no other in this lifetime?”
“Maybe her father stopped him,” Ada May chimed in. “She was his only child. Fuller might have been a no-good drifter. If she’d left with him, she’d have been poorly married.”
Sidney raised an eyebrow. “A drifter who bought a leather-bound first edition that must have cost a month’s wages during the Depression?”
No one seemed to have an answer.
Micah opened the book and ran his fingers over the words. The others in the room didn’t have to ask. They all knew the reverend thought of his wife.
“Maybe Fuller didn’t show up,” Sidney added. “And we have no idea if Fuller was his last name or first, since it was a relatively popular given name a hundred years ago.”
The minister studied the writing inside the book. “Why would a man who used such an expensive way to send a note, not show up as planned?”
Lora frowned. “She waited seventy years for a love who never returned?”
“What a martyr,” Ada May whispered.
“What a fool,” Lora mumbled. “No man’s worth more than fifteen minutes, tops.”
Reverend Parker stood slowly. He gently pushed the book across the table and took a step toward the door.
Sidney knew the words in the book had touched him. She saw it in his eyes. The preacher wore sorrow on his sleeve. But would words written seventy years ago pull him into the mystery, or push him away?
She followed Micah to the door, having no idea how she might comf
ort him or if he even wanted solace. It occurred to her that she’d suffered the greater loss, for she’d never, not in forty years of life, experienced such heartache. At least he’d once had someone promise to love him for a lifetime.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve a second before she heard the sound of a car braking.
She glanced outside. Sunbeams reflected off the bay window. Sidney blinked through crystal-white light a moment before the sun shattered.
An explosion of crashing glass echoed off the walls and bounced back on itself. Sunbeams splintered.
Sidney stepped back, bumping into the preacher. Chaos ricocheted into tiny slivers bouncing and sliding across the floor. She screamed.
Billy Hatcher threw his body into Lora’s as the glass blew around them like a rushing tidal wave. They hit the floor hard, sending folding chairs rattling. Ada May lifted her notebook and huddled near her sister. Glass rained across Sidney’s notes, reaching the edge of the crochet square Beth Ann had been working on. Rust-covered metal, the size of a man’s fist, tumbled to a stop at Lora’s broken chair.
Micah rushed forward. His shoes crackled on a carpet of slivers. “Is everyone all right!”
A chorus of groans and cries answered.
“What happened?” Beth Ann said in a shaky teacher’s voice. “Who threw that thing!”
Ada May’s sobs grew from tiny hiccups to full volume.
“I don’t know.” Micah placed a hand on Ada May’s shoulder. “All I got a look at was the back of a pickup.” He turned to the others. “Is anyone hurt?”
Billy lay curled over Lora. Neither answered Micah’s call.
Sydney shook as if someone had hold of every inch of her body and planned to rattle her very bones. “I’m not hurt!” she whispered. “I’m not hurt.” She tried to reach for Billy and Lora, but her legs began to give way.
She looked down at trembling hands and decided they couldn’t be hers. “I’m not hurt,” she whimpered.
The room faded. She fell into a warm, calm darkness.