by Gwen Hunter
"Mother," she said, in that warning, irritated tone teenage girls use when they think they are about to be manipulated.
"No really. Sit down and let me fix us some breakfast. And while I’m doing that I’ll. . . ." I faltered, turning away, focusing on the roses Alan had given me. I breathed in their heady, sweet scent, noticing for the first time that, as I had predicted, the fragrance had filled the house. I had been breathing their perfume even in my sleep. What would I say to my daughter? What illusions about her father would I destroy? "Eggs?" I asked briskly.
"You know I don’t eat eggs." In that tone again. I was making a mess of this.
"Oh. Right. Nonfat, unflavored yogurt and that too-sweet, blueberry cereal you like."
"Are you stalling?" Jas demanded.
"Absolutely."
Jas laughed, a high, tinkling sound that I loved. Sitting at the table, she leaned her chair back on two legs and propped her bare feet in my chair. "So I should just wait and let you figure out how much of the truth you want your little girl to know," she said, her voice amused.
Little girl? This was no little girl staring up at me, her head angled back on a long stalk of neck, her body slightly arched in startling and unexpected sensuality. This was no child. Where had my daughter gone? My little girl? I turned away from her bright, perceptive gaze.
"Something like that," I admitted. "Although it’s more like I’m trying to decide exactly how much I really know." The truth of my statement startled me. What precisely did I know? What verifiable facts did I have? Only an angry man’s incoherent accusation and a few, possibly unrelated, pieces of paper in Jack’s office. And that fragment of a handwritten note penned in Jack’s neat lettering. Murder. . . . But hints were not the same thing as proof, my mind insisted. And just because Senator Waldrop had dropped by for no reason didn’t mean anything was illegal. Perhaps I had been tormenting myself needlessly over nothing. Nothing at all. That rationalization made the partial lie I was about to tell easier on my conscience.
Moving about the kitchen with effortless familiarity, I spooned a half cup of plain yogurt into a bowl, setting both bowl and the cereal Jas loved on the table. She dropped her feet out of my chair and sat up straight.
"Jazzy Baby," I paused. Jazzy Baby. Her childhood nickname. I started with it again. "Jazzy Baby, I think your father had a bad business deal he was trying to clean up in the last weeks before he died." I opened an English muffin and popped both halves into the toaster, setting a sterling spreading knife and cream cheese on the table. "I think Senator Waldrop was involved in whatever it is, and because I’ve been too upset to worry about business since your father died, I let the situation go unresolved. In fact, I’ve let the entire business go too long and the problems are piling up." The muffin popped up from the toaster and I spread cream cheese on thickly. I had always loved cream cheese, the rich white taste of it on my tongue. "Anyway," I said, taking a bite, "I hired Macon to take a look at things and help me clear up the outstanding company debts and make decisions. It’ll take a good year to finish up Davenport Hills, and—"
"I know," Jas interrupted. "I never trusted RailRoad the Third either." RailRoad was Jasmine’s pet name for Rolland, chosen because he could railroad anyone into anything. She stirred blueberry cereal into the yogurt, making a white and purple slimy mess.
Jas loved the mixture, but it looked vile and I couldn’t watch her eat it. Instead, I concentrated on the muffin. "Well, it’s not that I don’t trust him—"
"Puh-lese. The man’s so smooth, he’s greasy. This is good," she added, the words making their way past the mouthful of yogurt and cereal. "You really should try it."
"No thank you," I said delicately.
"I don’t get it. You can drain a peri-rectal abscess and play in blood and human excrement all day long, but you can’t watch me eat breakfast."
"I couldn’t watch someone eat the contents of a peri-rectal abscess either. And speaking of peri-rectal abscesses, you know your father hated it when you called Rolland ‘RailRoad’."
Jas grinned at me unrepentantly and deliberately stuffed a spoonful of her breakfast into her mouth before speaking again. We had taught her better. I distinctly remember teaching her it was impolite to talk with her mouth full. "You gonna sell the company?"
It unnerved me that Jas had considered the possibility, but her face was unconcerned, more involved with chewing cereal than in my response. "It’s a possibility," I said cautiously.
"I think you should. You never liked all that stuff, so why burden yourself with it. On the other hand, you could sell the major part of the company and still keep an interest, kind of like a silent partner. We got any tea?"
"Silent partner?" I put my muffin down, two bites missing from the edge. I had never thought about the possibility of keeping part of the company but giving up the responsibility. I was staggered that Jas had come up with the idea. "That’s a thought. In fact, it’s a good thought."
"Yeah, Paz thought you should offer it to old RailRoad, but I thought you should keep it in the family. You know, sell it to one of the Chadwicks."
"The Davenport Hills investors might have a say in my selling, but I like the idea. I like it a lot." Unless the investors were involved in a plot to kill a man, which would make any thoughts I had about the development a moot point anyway.
Jas scraped the bowl clean, her eyes on the motion of her spoon. It was a crisp sound, a click and scrape that echoed slightly in the silent house. She was concentrating too hard on her empty bowl, the click of her spoon filling the void where words should go. And her eyes didn’t meet mine. "Did you get things straightened out with Topaz yet?"
"I knew you were going to bring that up."
I raised my brows, feeling like Nana when someone said something she thought was dumb. "You think I should ignore the fact that you and your best friend had a huge, screaming fight out in the yard last night? Over the idea of me dating?" Jas kept her eyes on the empty bowl and still spoon. "Jasmine, look at me," I said gently. She raised her eyes slowly, unwillingly, a frown on her face and a stubborn tilt to her jaw. God, she was beautiful.
"I have no desire for another man. Your father was the most wonderful, important man in my life. He was my partner and my friend." The words sounded stilted and thick, shouldering their way past the lump in my throat as I spoke what had once been the truth. Tears welled and started to fall from my eyes, making slow tracks down my face. I swallowed, but it didn’t help. And there were tears in Jasmine’s eyes as well.
"I have no interest in testing the waters for another man. Dating has no attraction for me. But I also don’t like the idea of being lonely. When you go to school, I’ll be alone in this big house, rattling around with no one to talk to, share with, or love." Elephant tears spilled from Jas’ eyes and ran down her face, dissolving the salt in the cracks and corners. She sniffed and wiped her cheeks. I let my tears fall untouched. "So I’m not going to promise that I won’t make new friends some day. And I’m not going to promise that all the friends I make will be female. But please understand. . . ." I paused and wiped my face, realizing that this was my first cry in days. I had counted them once, adding up the totals when I went to bed. My record was twenty seven—almost nonstop tears. Now, it felt strange to be crying again. My T-shirt was damp where the tears had fallen. "Please understand that I have no intention of dating or seeing anyone without us talking first. Our grief is a . . . a shared grief. And we have to get through this together. You and me." Jas buried her face in my lap, sobbing. Through my own tears, I hadn’t even seen her move from her chair. With damp hands, I stroked back her hair, loving the silky length of it. It seemed to glisten with golden highlights, the way it had when she was a child and still blonde.
"I couldn’t replace Jack, sweetheart. I wouldn’t even want to try. Don’t worry about that." And then I simply had no more voice to speak as we sat, mother and child, and cried, silently. Long minutes later we both sniffed and the moment was broken. "And
now you go on upstairs and shower and change clothes and call Topaz and make up. You hear?"
"Yes ma’am."
"And be figuring out who we need to hire to help out around here. The farm is too much for the two of us and a drunken stable hand. If you intend to keep the horses, we’ll need to hire a trainer and a handyman." I decided I might as well lay out all the cards and let Jas pick up the ones she wanted. My baby wasn’t a child anymore.
"Yes ma’am," she said again. She wiped her face on her T-shirt, stretching the neck out and up over her nose. From inside the shirt she said, "I have a few contacts, people I can call to see who might be available, who might want to relocate." She spoke through the wet cloth, hiding the bottom part of her face. "And for a handyman, let’s get Aunt Mosetta to send a couple of Chadwicks over to help out this summer. We can look for someone permanent come fall."
"All right," I said, hiding my reluctance. "I owe Nana and Aunt Mosetta a visit; I’ll go by and get her to send me some of her brood." I hadn’t visited Nana since before Jack died, breaking a practice of years standing. Weather and my work schedule permitting, each evening after dinner Jack and I had routinely made the short trek to the old Chadwick farmhouse where my Nana and Aunt Mosetta lived, to visit and swap news and gossip. It was time to renew some old habits, even if I did have to go alone. It was also time for Jas to renew old habits. "And speaking of Aunt Mosetta’s brood, what about Topaz?"
"Oh Jeez." Jas dropped the T-shirt. It was stretched to the shape of her fist, and settled slowly against her breastbone. "I guess I was a real idiot." I said nothing. "I shouldn’t have yelled at her huh?"
"Yelling seldom accomplishes anything productive," I agreed. Jas looked so forlorn sitting on the kitchen floor beside me, her head framed by the spray of roses. Nose swollen, eyelids puffy and damp, and still a bit of sleep salt around them, she looked for a moment like the little girl she had once been. After a moment, I added, "But then again, apologizing helps to build character. Or so my mother always told me."
"Mama Caldwell wouldn’t know that. She’s never apologized for anything in her life."
"Jas!"
"It’s true. Daddy always said so."
I ignored her comment, concentrating on the subject at hand. "Do you owe Topaz an apology?"
Jas opened her mouth and closed it with a snap. I could see her toying with the idea of saying no, the thoughts bounding around like bunnies behind her eyes. "If I said Paz owes me a bigger apology than I owe her, you wouldn’t fall for that would you?"
" ’Fraid not."
Jas sighed, one of those theatrical heaving sighs that played so well on the silver screen back in the fifties. "You’re going to end up just as opinionated and stubborn as Nana when you’re old, you know that?"
"Thank you. I choose to take that as a compliment."
Delivering another melodramatic sigh, Jas got up from her place at my feet and moved to the back stairs. Her pace picked up as she reached the top, and I figured she had either gathered her courage to call Topaz, or she had caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Jack and I had built the house with plans to have four children, two boys and two girls. My inability to carry another child to term had left Jas with no siblings, and three rooms and two full baths to call her own. The fourth upstairs room was used for storing luggage, the nine foot tall Christmas tree that graced the two-story entry hall for one month out of the year, and what Jack had referred to as "stuff": miscellaneous papers, photos, art works we had grown tired of, an old rocking chair with a busted out bottom, Jas’ old toys, my old Barbie collection. Lots of stuff.
I could hear Jas moving overhead, muffled thumps, a blare of music. Then silence, as I assumed she dialed Topaz’s number.
The storage room. As usual, every thought brought me back to Jack. We had vowed to clean out the fourth bedroom this summer, disposing of the mounds of accumulated and unused possessions. Now I would have to tackle the job alone. Propping my head on the kitchen table, I cried silent tears of mingled sorrow and self-pity, tears which burned and left my throat aching. I allowed myself ten minutes of selfish release. The scent of roses, so strong I could taste it on my tongue, and the sunlight brightening my kitchen pulled me back to the present. Drying my face on my T-shirt, much as my daughter had dried her own, I stood and took the remainder of my muffin back to the master suite. A master suite without a master. God, I hated being a widow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Macon pulled up in front of Jack’s office at precisely eight A.M., parking a brand new, four-wheel-drive Jeep at an angle to the office door. The price sticker was still on the Jeep’s window. I hoped he hadn’t run right out and bought the new toy as soon as we concluded our phone conversation the day before.
The truck was bright teal green with an iridescent glow to the shiny finish; rubber strips ran down the sides and oversized wheels anchored the vehicle. The stereo system would have delighted a half-deaf teen-ager, blasting a Black Sabbath ’70s hit through the open window. Not a very lawyerly vehicle. But then, Macon Chadwick wasn’t a very lawyerly-looking man.
Crisp new jeans, a madras plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and leather Docksiders completed his wardrobe. Only the leather-bound briefcase marked him as a professional. With a jaunty step he came to the doorway where I waited.
There was a shock of delayed recognition as Macon took my hand. The greenish brown eyes and dark-skinned face I remembered from my childhood melded into a man I had seen recently. At Jack’s funeral.
"Ashlee. You’re looking lovely as ever."
I managed a smile, realizing suddenly that this was going to be a lot harder than I’d expected. Especially with what I had discovered this morning when I returned to the office after breakfast. Macon tightened his grip, his gaze direct. "We’ll get through this, Ash." His full lips lifted slightly higher on one side in a charming, asymmetrical smile that exposed even, white teeth. "We Chadwicks stick together." I laughed then, a strangled sound and squeezed the hand that held mine. He had a nice handshake, a good grip, firm and sure, as if nothing in the world would ever shock or startle Macon Chadwick. I held on to that thought as I dropped the hand and guided him into the depths of Davenport, Inc.
Switching on lights as I went, I opened the blinds, exposing the havoc and disorder of the office. Macon stopped, staring at the mess, his brows raised. I gestured to the room and tried for another smile. "Jack’s office." File drawers were hanging open, papers were scattered on the tables, the floor, the desk tops. Fingerprints marred the dusty surfaces. Only a few were mine. "It wasn’t this way the other day. I suppose Jas might have been in here, but I can’t imagine her leaving it like this. My daughter is neatness personified." I laced my fingers together and squeezed. It was a helpless, nervous gesture, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
Macon set down his books and briefcase on the floor in a rare clear spot. Turning on lamps with the tips of his fingers, he moved slowly through the office, stooped, studied the disarray and the fingerprints in the dust.
After a long moment, he said, "Humm."
"Is that a professional ‘humm’ or a general, run-of-the-mill ‘humm’?" I asked.
"Professional. There are very few prints in the finger marks. At least two people ransacked this place, and one didn’t wear gloves."
"I’m pretty sure that was me," I whispered.
"Have you called the police?"
"No. And neither will you." My voice sounded weak and vulnerable, not the strong, determined tone I’d intended. I swallowed. "Nothing’s missing. Not the TV, not the guns, not the computers. And according to Jack, there’s no way in to the safe." My voice sounded better, but still not firm and in control. I needed to work on that. "I have no intention of telling the local sheriff’s office about Jack’s problems. Or this." I handed Macon Jack’s handwritten letter, the letter about murder. He held it without opening the envelope, his eyes on me. I was sure he was seeing more than I wanted him to. "Bes
ides, with no prints, what can police do?" It wasn’t so much a question, as a challenge. And my voice sounded stubborn, which was better than whiny.
"I don’t like this, Ash. I don’t know what problems you have with Jack’s company or his estate, but—"
"Lot’s. Lot’s of problems. You want to back out?"
Macon sighed, sounding exasperated. "No. Show me what you have."
I explained about the strange, threatening letter I had destroyed. About the phone calls from Bill, saved on the digital memory in the drawer beneath the answering machine. And I pointed to the letter he still held. As I spoke, Macon watched me, his lips tight and obstinate. I took a deep breath, proud that I still sounded forceful. Hoping it would be enough. My hands were white where I had squeezed the blood out of the flesh. "You’re going to need some help. I gave Esther two months off with pay when Jack died, but she says she’s just sitting around getting fat and annoying Sherman’s—that’s her husband; he’s retired. She’ll be here at eight-thirty and if you need anything Esther can help you. She’s been with Jack for years." That stopped me.
Esther had been with Jack ever since Robyn quit and moved to Atlanta to take a job with the Coca-Cola company. Robyn who had betrayed me. Slept with Jack. But I didn’t say that. Not yet. Perhaps never. Not unless Macon uncovered something I had missed in my last minute search of Jack’s desk. It was the one damning piece of evidence I had left out of my narrative.
I had gathered several more pictures of Robyn and Jack from my husband’s desk, all the matchbooks from places he had never taken me, all the love letters and dried four leaf clovers I never knew he collected. Gathered them up, all the memorabilia left over from the affair and added them to the bulging grocery bag, returning it to my closet like the dirty little secret it was. I would destroy them later, when Jas wasn’t likely to catch me. I pointed to a place on the floor. "Here’s the papers that have piled up in the last week or so, the company records, the list of investors from the Davenport Hills project, and—" The phone rang, the shrill, electronically generated, digitized bell interrupting my words like an omen. I jumped, my bravado slipping from me like fleas from a dead rat.