The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “She looks pretty, by the way.”

  “She always did. She just needed good advice on how to apply the products. And better skin care.”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

  “Anyway,” I drawled, “if not for Brianna and me talking about her feelings, about Rob, and me sort of encouraging them along . . .”

  A sly grin spread from his lips. “Is that what you call it?”

  “I do.”

  “Whatever you say.” Mirth glinted in his eyes.

  I watched the landscape outside the passenger window. The town had come into view, its square-faced buildings, the window displays, and the planters and benches I’d come to appreciate seeing. “By the way,” I said. “I’m going to take off Tuesday morning.”

  “Oh? Nails again?”

  I looked at my hands, to the still perfectly groomed fingertips. “No. Just something I need to do.”

  Will parked the truck in a parking space across the street from the drugstore. “Care to elaborate?” He turned the key.

  “Are we eating here?”

  “Yep.”

  “Yum. I’m starved.”

  “Does this mean you aren’t going to tell me what you’re doing Tuesday?”

  “Yep,” I said, mocking him.

  “Does it have anything to do with the graves?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are we going to talk more about that?”

  “Not today.” Because I couldn’t trust him. That he’d support me. My feelings about the descendants and . . . Sean. “Today, let’s just . . . eat.”

  On Sunday, after church, I returned to the graves at the foot of the hill and against the tree line. With Will standing beside me, I stared at Marguerite’s headstone. Reading over and over the words carved there. Thinking of how Noah Swann had printed the line from Proverbs 31: Her children rise and call her blessed.

  Her children. His children.

  “What’s the attraction?” Will asked, crossing his arms.

  “I’m thinking—and let’s not even get into the sin factor here because, yes, I know this kind of thing was done all the time—but, I’m thinking about the snub to society that it took to put this headstone up.”

  “What I’m thinking,” he added, “is how Miss Emily over there didn’t have it knocked down after her husband’s death.”

  “She couldn’t,” I said, looking at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was in his will. She couldn’t tamper with it or do anything against their offspring, otherwise she’d lose her inheritance, which was quite impressive.”

  His brow furrowed. I imagined that, behind the dark shades, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  I had said too much. I shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “I got carried away at Ancestry.com the other night. No biggie.” I walked away from the headstones. Will followed.

  “When will you be ready to show me what you’ve found?”

  My stomach dropped, as did my heart. Even without Will’s help, I’d already figured out what I needed to do.

  First, finish my notes on the slave graves.

  Second, get into the Flannery home and see if I could find out who had given Sean the steroids. After that . . . after that . . .

  I felt my home calling. The apartment in Orlando. My too-small office tucked behind Courtney’s desk. Dad would be disappointed. Gram heartbroken. But in the end, I now knew “my place.” I knew who I was in the grand scheme of Parks & Avenues.

  An investigative reporter. If I could find the right kinds of ideas—story lines—well, surely Old Florida was chock-full of ancient stories to tell.

  “When will I be ready?” I asked around the knot in my throat. The corner of the old church shimmered into view, blurred by the tears I forced back.

  “I asked you first,” Will teased.

  “Cute.” I dug into my purse—one I’d brought from Winter Park, purchased at Nordstrom—found my Dior sunglasses, and slid them on as camouflage.

  “Well?”

  “Um . . . how about Wednesday?” I tried to make my voice sound as normal as possible.

  “What’s wrong with tomorrow? Or this afternoon?”

  I shook my head. “No. Wednesday. For sure.”

  Not that it would make any difference in the end. After all, by Tuesday night, William Decker would vow never to speak to me again.

  No doubt.

  Which was, of course, the hardest pill of all to swallow.

  36

  I worked from home on Monday, but promised Will I’d make it to the newspaper office in time for, as Alma put it, “story time.”

  “This information you’re collecting,” he said from the other end of the line, “is it going to make me happy or will I be upset for a month of Sundays?”

  The answer lay in the latter of the two choices, but I managed to laugh despite my worry and say, “I hope you’ll be happy.” I flipped my thumb through a small stack of old magazine copies. “I’ve also nearly finished my proposal for getting the magazine up and running again. I’m figuring the first issue will release in October for the November/December issue.”

  “Do you know the name of said magazine, by chance?” The lilt in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Of course I do,” I said. “It’s Swamps and Dining Out.”

  “Woman, you won’t do.”

  We ended the call and I went back to work, forming two piles on my countertop, one with information about the slaves and their descendants, the other about Sean Flannery’s steroid use. Around 3:00, I took a shower, dressed in simple Topshort skinny trousers, an even simpler Camuto tie-front blouse, and a pair of the flats I’d bought in Chimney Rock.

  Chimney Rock. The mountain I’d never gotten to climb.

  But maybe one day. Years from now? Soon? Just. Not. Now.

  Will noticed my attire, of course. He hadn’t mastered all the name brands, but he managed to mutter, “Reverting, Miss Rothschild?” just before the afternoon meeting started.

  I smiled as sweetly as I knew how. “No. Just being true to myself.”

  During the meeting, I couldn’t help but think how the fight had gone out of us. The spark that kept us feisty. Yet my feelings for him as a man—new and as unfamiliar as they were—hadn’t waned. We’d spent the majority of Sunday together. Eating with his grandparents. Laughing over an old movie watched in their family room. Later, dining on tomato sandwiches—a first for me. He’d kissed me good night at the cottage door. Tenderly, leaving me to lie awake and stare at the ceiling all night.

  At least the better part of it.

  So, that spark remained. It would die out soon enough, I knew. Or at least I hoped. Just like the girls from the public junior high had forgotten about me soon enough, so would William Decker.

  Whether I’d forget him was another issue. I’d not forgotten Margo. Or Trudy. Or that really awful girl, Jennifer.

  With the meeting behind us, I expected Will to ask me to dinner, but instead he told me he had a city board meeting to attend. “A reporter’s work is never done,” he added with a roll of his eyes.

  “Let’s just hope they don’t try to change trash day,” I teased.

  He walked me to my car. Kissed the tip of my nose. Said he’d call me later. “I’m probably going to turn in early,” I said. “So text me before you call.”

  His text, which came shortly after 10:00, found me sitting in the semidarkness of the cottage, staring at a rerun of That Girl. I didn’t respond to it. I’d also not responded to the calls from my parents, Gram, and Leigh. I couldn’t. I only wanted to drink in the country ambience of the room. The cottage. Decker Ranch.

  So I didn’t respond. My mind was too weary and my heart too heavy. If this was the last message I’d get from Will, I wanted to keep it exactly the way it was, full of friendly possibilities and hope. I hadn’t meant to, but in two short weeks I’d latched on to him. When he inevitably pulled away, I’d need something to remind m
e that for a moment, for a small, tender group of days, I’d let myself dabble in love.

  By the time the sun started its early-morning climb on Tuesday, nausea had gripped my stomach—and I didn’t think it would let go. Fear blanketed me, drenching me in sweat. Complicating matters was the knowledge that Will’s reasoning—that this was a no-win situation—could not have been more accurate. I played each and every scenario in my mind. Time and again. None of them came out with me as the winner.

  Yet, when my alarm rang, I thought of Lawson and I knew I wouldn’t turn back from what I had to do. Another young man could possibly be making the biggest mistake of his life. Maybe I was, too. But that was okay. Exposing Sean, exposing his drug usage, and exposing the person or persons supplying him with poison, equaled giving him back his potential. What he could be, without them. Even if “what he could be” wasn’t “the golden boy.”

  But at least he’d be alive.

  I’d made it only a little more than two weeks in Testament, which was longer than I’d made it at Bear Gully Middle School. Just as in seventh grade, I’d grown in the fourteen-plus days. Or, at least I’d changed.

  Brianna shoved the key into the back door of the Flannerys’ home.

  “And you’re sure no one is here,” I said, resting most of my weight on my left foot. I’d brought my crutches, just in case, and left them in the car. Thankfully, every day my ankle had gotten stronger, and the hiking boots kept me from falling flat on my face.

  “No one is ever here. Well, sometimes she was here on Mondays, but the whole point of changing my cleaning day to Tuesday was so that I could have the house to myself.”

  “Okay. When we get in, show me where you found the vial and the needle. Then go about doing whatever it is you do when you’re here.”

  Bri reached for my hand. Squeezed. “I’m so nervous.”

  “I know.”

  “But why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “I know,” I repeated. “Let’s get this done.”

  She pushed the door open and we walked onto the herringbone rug that ran the length of a small mudroom. On the right side, just past a large antique butter churn, stood four cubbies fashioned from white, wide-slat pine boards. Inside each were brass pegs and deep bases, perfect for shoe storage. “Nice,” I whispered.

  “I hang my purse here,” she said, hooking it in the first cubby.

  “I’ll hook mine in the next cubby then.” I grinned at her, in hopes of lessening the tension.

  Brianna stepped to a tall utility pantry, opened it, and brought out a caddy with several cleaning items. “Tools of my trade,” she said.

  “So I see.”

  “Come this way,” she said, taking me by the hand again. We walked through the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room where I’d first met Sarah Flannery. Memories of that morning swept over me. William Decker’s cold shoulder. His lecture about being on time. His telling me to take notes when he, in fact, recorded the interview. His glare when I mentioned that the people of Senegal speak French. But, just as quickly, I recalled the night we’d gone to Movie in the Park, the laughter on the way home, the kiss in the cab of his truck. The feel of his lips against the tip of my nose. Soft. Warm. And just a tad moist.

  I sighed. And you, Scarecrow, I will miss most of all.

  “This way,” Brianna said, releasing my hand. We started down a short staircase into a shadowy cluster of rooms. I clutched the handrails for support.

  “It’s so dark . . .”

  “Not a lot of natural light. And I think Sean likes it that way, to be honest with you.”

  “I didn’t realize this house was split-level.”

  “A lot of houses around here are. You just can’t tell from the road.” She flipped on a hall light. “There’s only three rooms down here. A game room right here.” She pointed to the door in front of us. “The bathroom is right here.” She reached into the doorway and flipped on another light, revealing an untidy bath, strewn with dropped towels and dirty clothes. Hair, toothpaste globs, and spit had dried into the sink.

  “Yuck,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.

  Brianna crossed her arms. “I always do this down here first. I get the worst over with, you know what I mean?”

  I shook my head. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite like this. Even in college.”

  “My mama says some men are pigs when it comes to the bathroom.” Her head bobbed and she added, “Actually, what she says is that most men are pigs when it comes to the bathroom, but I don’t like to prejudge most men.”

  I thought of the tidiness of Will’s guest bath. And walking through his office. Of the framed articles. The one of Conrad Moses and Will and Felicia . . .

  I drew in my breath.

  “What is it?” Brianna asked.

  Shaking my head, I said, “Nothing. Just something I thought of. ”

  “About Sean?”

  “No.” I looked over my shoulder to the only other doorway. “Is this his room?”

  “Come on,” she said, stepping inside the darkness, flipping on the light.

  If I’d thought Sean’s bathroom to be in disarray, I had no words to describe the bedroom. My mouth gaped open. “This must take you all morning.”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I just strip the bottom sheet, scoop up the clothes and throw them in the laundry. Add a clean fitted sheet, throw his comforter over—that’s apparently all he sleeps with—dust, vac, and I’m done. I don’t spend a lot of time in here.” She frowned. “Who’d want to?”

  I pointed to the highboy. “Is that where you found the vial?”

  She nodded. “Bottom drawer.”

  All the drawers were pushed tight into the bulky piece of antique furniture. I took Brianna’s hands in mine, looked her in the eye, and said, “Here’s what I want you to do. Go across the hall. Start working in there.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I turned her toward the door. “Just go.”

  She left the room with a final look over her shoulder. Tears formed in her eyes. God love her, I thought. I pulled my iPhone from my pocket, took a photo of the highboy. I walked across the room, stopping every step to throw discarded clothes into one pile as I made my way to the highboy. I knelt before it, slid the bottom drawer toward me, noting exactly how items were placed—an unnecessary step. Everything was chaos. Using a pencil I found next to one of the highboy’s claw-foot legs, I shifted things around.

  There they were—four additional vials. A handful of syringes, still in protective packaging. And all of it in a collection of football programs, school papers, and magazines—the latter I could bet his mother didn’t know about.

  I snapped another shot with my iPhone. Then another with the vials resting in my palm—label side up.

  I pushed the drawer shut. As I did, a simple flip-style phone slid from under one of the magazines. I reached in carefully, picked it up as though it were dirty underwear, and pulled the cover open. Powerless, the screen came up black. On instinct I pushed the Send button and waited a second until the phone came to life. When it did, I pushed the Contacts button. There were none.

  I gave the Send button a tap. Several calls were outgoing and incoming, all to and from the same number. I entered it into my phone and saved it. I then pushed Menu, followed by Media Center. There were no pictures. No videos.

  I clicked up one level to the Messages center, clicked on Inbox, scrolled to the bottom of the stored texts, then read each one to the top. They were all from the same person. The same number as the sole contact. But nothing indicated who.

  “Ashlynne?” Brianna spoke from the door and I jumped. “I’m sorry. I’m done with the bathroom. I’ll run a dust cloth over the game room and I’ll be ready to come in here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah. I’m just not sure what. I’m going to need
to take photographs of some messages I found on the phone, which could take awhile.”

  “You could always go upstairs. Sit in the living room. I’m sure it’s more comfortable.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I closed the drawer, rose slowly, gained my balance, left the room and went up the stairs to the kitchen. I pulled a chair from the breakfast nook table, sat, and worked on snapping shots of several of the texts, making certain I recorded the date and time of each one.

  Clicking out of Inbox, I went to Sent Messages. There were, according to the recorded data, twenty-three sent versus twenty-seven that had come in. I began photographing those, once again starting at the bottom, working my way to the top, snapping as I went along. I came to the fourth outgoing text. I raised my camera to capture the image, then stopped.

  From outside, a car door slammed.

  “Oh Great-granny,” I whispered.

  37

  I jumped, scooping up the phone. Without returning the chair, I darted into the mudroom, opened the pantry door, and folded myself inside up against the hanging mop and broom. I pulled the double doors to, holding my breath as the back door opened.

  “Brianna?” Jean Flannery’s voice echoed. Footsteps clicked through the room, past the pantry in which I hid, and into the kitchen. “That boy,” she said. “If he ever puts his chair back I’ll faint and fall over dead.” After a pause, “Brianna! I forgot something so I’m up here!”

  I cracked one door so as to hear better and spied my purse hanging in the cubby. I bit my lip as I listened to Jean’s footsteps continuing through the house. “Brianna?”

  I stepped from the closet, grabbed my purse, and returned to my hiding place.

  “Mrs. Flannery?”

  I had to remind myself to breathe.

  “I forgot . . . I’ll need to . . . how much have you . . .”

  “I just finished the downstairs except . . . I was about to . . .”