The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday

by David Corbett

  “I left out any mention of the gross things Giordano said to you.”

  “Noticed that,” Rayella murmured.

  “I just figured, given how you looked as you talked about it—”

  “Rest of this is bad enough. What he said—it ever hits the Internet?”

  “I’m drafting a motion for the proceedings to be sealed. None of this should ever become public.”

  Rayella glanced up at her as though she’d just said the dumbest thing imaginable. Then, returning her gaze to the document: “Yeah, what’s here is good. Got a pen?”

  Lisa didn’t, but she found one atop the dresser with a notepad supplied by the resort. As Rayella signed, Lisa asked, “How are you doing? Your head, I mean.”

  “I’m fine.” She handed the pages back to Lisa.

  “I’m worried about concuss—”

  “Said I was fine.” Rayella lay back down in the bed, turned her back.

  Lisa, feeling a little jilted, said, “We’ve got a strong case for emergency injunctive relief—immediate return of the letters. This won’t take long.”

  She caught herself wanting to say how sorry she was—for everything. Given Nico’s admonition, however, she simply rose from her chair with, “I should get back to work.”

  “Funny,” Rayella said, still facing the far wall, “how something you didn’t even know existed one day becomes the most important thing in your life the next.”

  Funny and terrifying, Lisa thought, but before she could actually work out something appropriate to say, Rayella added, “I called my boyfriend. He’s driving all night, should be here early in the morning.”

  “That’s great,” Lisa said.

  “Just felt, I dunno, like it’d be nice, having someone on my side.”

  “Rayella, I realize you must feel like I let you down, but I really do understand that whatever—”

  “You understand?” Like that, Rayella shot back up, feet on the floor, one fist clenching the sheet. “Rich little princess, famous daddy, ‘never wanted for anything’—that’s how you put it, remember?” An acid laugh. Eyes to match. “I been passed door to door my whole damn life. Learned to keep quiet, clean up after myself. Got used to going last. Got used to pretending I wasn’t even there.” Wincing as she shook her head. “But you understand.”

  ***

  As she left, closing the door behind her, Lisa heard the deadbolt and chain clatter instantly back into place. Then, turning toward her room, she spotted a figure at the end of the walkway materializing from the shadows.

  Her nakedness beneath her suit suddenly felt more extreme. She glanced quickly behind her, looking for somewhere to run—then took note of the tapping sound, the cane’s brass tip against the pavers.

  Turning back, she noticed first the distinctive lanky frame, then, as he came nearer, the wary smile, the lonesome eyes.

  “Woulda got here sooner,” Tuck said, “but they wouldn’t let me fly the plane.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Inside her room, Lisa felt caged with Tuck sitting there. She started to pace back and forth, talking through the legal issues, and for several moments he watched her like a dog in a state of amazement at the workings of a clock.

  Finally, he reached out, snagged her hand. “Sit for a minute. Let’s talk this over.”

  “That’s what I’m trying—”

  “Not that. I don’t mean the legalities, that’s all fine. I mean what you need me to say to you. Personally.”

  She stood there a moment, enjoying the rough feel of his hand, then broke free, sat on the bed, wondering if he could tell she had nothing on beneath her suit.

  “Littmann mentioned your name,” she said. “We spent all that time keeping you out of it, making it look like I’d found him on my own. Then he not only brings you up, he makes it sound like there’s serious bad blood.”

  “What did he say, exactly?”

  “‘Tell Tuck Mercer we’re not even close to even.’ Something along those lines.”

  Tuck sat back, as though chewing on the words, then shrugged. “I’ve got no clue what he’s talking about.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Lisa—”

  “Why come up with him as a buyer? How did you even know he existed?”

  “He’s on a list I put together of names the various auction houses let drop here and there, people interested in the American West—art, memorabilia, that kinda thing.”

  “Why would you need a list of names?”

  “Why did Savannah Royster come to me? People get in touch, wondering about something they found in the attic—what is this worth, do you think this has value? Like I’m the cowpuncher’s Antiques Roadshow. I put them in touch with people willing—”

  “No, no.” Shaking her head, she stood up, forearms waving back and forth as though to fend off a handsy drunk. “You lied to me.”

  “I did not. I swear.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He’s the one lying.”

  “About what?”

  “How the hell should I know? Ask him. Maybe he bought one of my fakes. If so, it’s news to me. Look, Lisa, please…”

  He got up from his chair, followed her to where she’d taken up position near the window, staring at the curtains for lack of anything better to do.

  “I would never stick you in the middle of something like that.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You really believe I would?”

  She started trembling—anger, shame, fighting the desire to be held. Fighting the desire to turn around and knee him in the crotch. Shoot to kill.

  With the gentlest pressure, he turned her around. Before she knew it, her head lay on his chest, his arms wrapped around her, one hand stroking her hair as he said, “I’ll make this up to you, I promise. Never shoulda happened, not this way.”

  His breath had a sour scent, that whisper of whiskey, which instantly made her crave a drink. Except one drink would turn to three, then five, then a cascade of happy booze and the next thing she knew it would be two days later, she wouldn’t recognize where she was or the people she was with, and no matter how hard she concentrated she’d never quite work out how she got there.

  He broke the spell of that reflection by lifting her chin. Their eyes met briefly before the kiss, which felt at first like a crush of stubble but then she gave into it, focusing on his lips, licking and nibbling, leaning into him as she placed her hand on his nape and gently pressed, wanting him closer.

  His hand moved under her jacket, and he shivered with surprise, just a little, as his fingers met skin, not cloth.

  He led her away from the window and onto the bed, unbuttoning her suit jacket, unzipping the skirt. Yes, she thought in a moment of abstraction, slipping both items off, I don’t want to have to iron those again.

  He ran his calloused hands across her body, from between the knees up along the thighs, her hips, the flat of her stomach, the rippled fretwork of her ribcage, caressing one breast, then the other, smiling with a kind of appreciative sadness.

  “You are so damn lovely,” he whispered, like he’d just found something he thought had been lost.

  She helped him off with his own clothes, and they lay together, doing the horizontal dance—leg here, arm there, hands wherever—while kissing some more and readying themselves for the next thing.

  They both had condoms, he opted for hers—she slipped it on him herself, then lay back and wrapped her legs around his waist as he entered her, a claim of possession—finally, she thought—encircling her arms around his neck, not letting him stray too far, wanting to feel the heat coming off his chest.

  God knows I’ve earned this, she thought.

  As his rhythm picked up and his breathing quickened, she rocked her hips in time, urging him on, and when he came inside her, she closed her eyes, cooing with pleasure as she held back her own, not wanting to give him that, not yet.

  Instead, her mind drifted to that night she drove off the Taconic
Parkway into that massive tree, her very own arbor mortis. Earlier that evening, before her memory faded to black, she’d seduced a circus performer named Lars.

  Lying on his back, he’d lifted her naked over the bed with those godlike arms of his, one hand flat against her sternum, the other cupping her pubis—his term, curiously medico-technical in his jargon, that Lars—two fingers curled deep inside her, his palm deftly placed and gently undulating as she arched her back and spread her arms and legs, tilting right and left as though riding updrafts and thermals in a canyon of light. As her orgasm built, then broke—it didn’t take long—she thought: I just came like an angel. Like Icarus. Behold my melting wings.

  Is that too much to ask, she wondered, opening her eyes again, seeing Tuck hunched above her, steadying his breath. Just once more in her life, to feel that kind of weightlessness. And was it really only twenty-four hours ago she would have given anything in the world to share that with this man?

  ***

  As they lay together afterward, she on her side, him close behind her, the only pillow talk she could muster was, “I can’t let myself fall asleep. There’s still—”

  “Shush,” he whispered, kissing her neck, scraping her skin with his stubble. “I know.”

  “I’m worried,” she said. “We need to make it clear there was no undue influence or incapacity. The grandmother, she was in her right mind.”

  Tuck stopped his caresses. Drifting away to lie on his back, he said to the ceiling, “The old girl was totally clear-headed when we met. She came to my office, got there on her own steam. Went on and on about how the letters were going to be a surprise gift for—”

  “Not ‘going to be,’” Lisa said. “Stick to just ‘were.’”

  “Okay.” A chesty sigh. “Got it. That was the sense, absolutely. Like I told you, I wrote as much on my copy of the contract. ‘Gift for granddaughter.’ I brought that, by the way, the contract, figuring you might need it.”

  Yes, she thought, but when exactly did you write those words down—at the time? Last night? On the plane?

  She rose from the bed, found her robe, shrugged into it and cinched the belt, resisting an urge to pick up the phone, dial Nico’s number—and discuss what?

  Tuck watched her from where he lay, naked, middle-aged-cowboy handsome.

  She said, “We might as well get to work. Drafting your affidavit, I mean.”

  “You’re not actually thinking of using my testimony.”

  “You’re crucial—how the letters came into the grandmother’s possession—”

  “I’m no lawyer, but isn’t that hearsay?”

  “That’s up to the judge. I also need you to work up an estimate of their worth, and then there’s the whole gift issue.”

  “Can’t you work around all that somehow? Just let Rayella say her grandma gave her—”

  “I’m not suborning perjury.”

  “I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to leave something out.”

  “Under oath? That’s a distinction without a difference.”

  “Lisa—”

  “Besides, Littmann already knows you’re involved in this.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He suspects, how’s that? The point is, if we don’t bring it up, he sure as hell will, and that’ll make it look like we’ve got something to hide. Worse, withheld evidence.”

  He looked at her as though the promise of just a few moments before was lost for good. “What if I refuse? I don’t mean to be a hard ass, but I really think this is the wrong way to go.”

  I can’t believe, she thought, you actually said that. “Don’t do this. It’s really not fair.”

  That seemed to hit home. He lay there thinking it through, hands clasped behind his head so the ropey muscles in his arms flexed and popped. “You said the pleadings are sealed, right?”

  “I’m going to file a motion to that effect, yes.”

  “So word won’t leak out.”

  “There’s no rock-solid guarantee. Things happen, but I’ll do all I can.”

  “I mean, whatever the judge ends up thinking, fine. But if this gets out into the public domain, things get chancy fast.”

  “You’re worried about your reputation?”

  “I’m worried,” he said, “about yours.”

  She felt chastened by the warmth in his eyes. “Leave the drafting to me. Your past is behind you. You’re a respected expert now.”

  He rose and sat up on the edge of the bed, body lean and hard as a crowbar as he coughed once into his fist, settling his feet to the floor. After a moment, his face broke into a smile. For whatever reason, that charmed her. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, there’s still a chance that gravity won’t win.

  He rose to his feet, favoring slightly his trick leg. “All righty, Misty Meaner. You call it, I’ll haul it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  As was her custom, Meredith Littmann rose from her narrow, solitary bed well before daybreak. Darkness would linger beyond dawn, though, for at least another hour, possibly more, given the vast swath of shadow cast across the ranch by the Dragoon Mountains, rising up less than a mile to the east like a massive stone wall.

  The arrested light did not bother her. On the contrary, she preferred it. One might even say she’d spent by far the better part of her life in twilight.

  It wasn’t just the abeyance of first light that appealed, however. The silence did as well. Those first moments of yawning stillness enchanted her. She could hear her own bare footfall across the creaking hardwood floor, like a ghost alone in her dusty manor.

  All too soon the roosters and dogs would fight over who rose first, with the coyotes mocking them both from the granite hills. Then the murmurings of the ranch hands and wranglers as they made way from their quarters beyond the corral and headed for the stables, where they’d be greeted by nickers and whinnies and snorts, the ruffled shake of un-brushed manes, then a racket of hooves across hardpan as the ponies cantered out toward their morning pasture.

  Soon enough the pump engines would roar alive, then start chugging if the windmills lay still.

  The day, with all its pointless, noisy enterprise, would begin.

  For now, at least, awake in the tranquil dark, she had time for herself, by herself.

  Gideon, who for years now had bivouacked in the far wing of the sprawling house, would leave her alone—for hours, if not days—preferring his own company, or that of the help or his henchmen. His security detail would not check in until breakfast at the earliest, and even then only to ensure she’d not tumbled over something and broken her neck during the night—not so much to grieve her passing as to make arrangements.

  She secretly nurtured this impression of fragility. In fact, since the twins had gone off to college—Ben to USC, Nicola to Stanford—she’d done her best, through calculated missteps and subtle failings, to create the impression that her defects in vision had grown progressively worse, as though hysterical blindness intensified in an empty nest.

  True, her right eye remained clouded to the point that, if she shut her left, the world dissolved into a milky gray haze crisscrossed by blurred, arching silhouettes and dotted with spectral floaters.

  However, if she reversed the procedure—closing the right eye, opening the left—she could read clearly all the way down to the seventh line on a Snellen chart, something she kept hidden even from her ophthalmologist. And, of course, her husband.

  Being infirm had made her a fiercely private person. And long ago, when her affliction first manifested itself—age sixteen, after witnessing the boy she loved get trampled and gored by a rampaging bull—she found that most people quickly wearied of her presence. A quick question as to how she was feeling, what she might need, and then they couldn’t vanish fast enough.

  That came to suit her. Solitude, like higher math or a dead language, provided hidden treasures to those attuned to its subtleties. As for loneliness, it tended to bother most those who felt terrified
by death, or wanted to escape their own minds.

  ***

  She felt her way from her bedroom into the long corridor connecting her wing of the house with the central foyer, found the switch for the track lighting, and gently raised the dimmer until the paintings lining each wall materialized.

  There were forty-two overall, varying in size from that of a book cover to a blanket, varying as well in technique and competence, palette and tone. But not in era or subject matter. All concerned the American West and spoke of that century when artists, if no one else, realized a way of life, a rare form of human nobility—and savagery—was vanishing forever.

  Holding a hand over her clouded eye, she began her morning meditation.

  The relative obscurities appeared first, desert painters like Bill Bender, Olaf Wieghorst, then the modernists and minimalists who followed them: Jimmy Swinnerton, Conrad Buff, Maynard Dixon.

  The last of these, Dixon, remained her favorite in this group, for personal as well as aesthetic reasons. He’d abandoned two wives for the sake of his freedom, the second being the Great Depression’s most iconic photographer: Dorothea Lang.

  Perhaps that aversion to constraint explained his preference for tone and shape over exactness of line, at least at this late state of his development. This piece in particular, of an Apache family meandering across chaparral toward distant hills—retained the strange harsh blur of dusty sunlight so true to the desert, even when scanned by her workaday eye.

  Turning toward the opposite wall, she encountered the classic cowboy painters: Clyde Forsythe, Ed Borein, Charlie Russell and, of course, Frederic Remington. These pleased her least, not just on formal grounds, though several demonstrated excellent command of technique. They so clearly sentimentalized their subjects, which reduced to the level of cartoon even the most accomplished drawing and brushwork—but that also, of course, accounted for their vast popularity, as well as their inflated dollar value.

  Next, moving down that same side of the corridor, came the Indian portraitists, from the obscure William Victor Higgins with his bright bold modernist colors to Sharp and Blumenschein with their Cezanne textures and palette, the more Impressionistic Berninghaus, then still further back in time to the true original: George Catlin, the Buffalo Bill of the lecture circuit with his stern, simple, mesmerizing Choctaws and Seminoles, Comanche and Sioux.