by Lisa Jackson
She quickly took notes as the man rambled on, and she decided the complexion of Gold Creek had changed little in the past decade, though there was more talk about environmental concerns that affected the timber town. When jobs depended upon cutting down trees and slicing them into lumber, no one really cared about the fate of endangered species of wildlife.
“Sure, we care,” a man admitted, as he wiped his work glove over his face and brushed off the sawdust that clung to his hair and his mustache. “But if it comes to the damned owls or my family, you’d better bet I’ll pick my family every time. It’s time those big-city environmentalists got a look at real life. Who’s in the corner of the little guy, hmm? Who’s protecting my environment—my job? I’m just a workin’ man. That’s all. And you can print that in your paper.”
He’d finished his coffee then and headed back to work. Rachelle watched as he climbed aboard a forklift, shifted some levers and began moving stacks of lumber.
She didn’t see Erik Patton until she’d started back to the car. He was standing by three other men, hard hats in place, gloves stuffed in back pockets. He was bigger than she remembered, and the start of a beer belly had begun to hang over his thick belt. At the sight of Rachelle, he stopped talking for a second, then muttered something to his friends and walked over. Hitching up his pants, he almost swaggered and Rachelle braced herself.
“Heard you were back in town,” he said, stopping only a few feet from her. He fished in his pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Stirrin’ up trouble again, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?” He squinted through a cloud of smoke as he lit up. “Moore’s back, too. Quite a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it?” she replied, then decided Erik would be an interesting subject to interview. He’d been here from the day he was born and his college career had either been cut off or he’d decided he loved sawmilling. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I’m doing a series of articles for the Herald and—”
He waved off her explanation and removed his hat. His hair, shot with the first few strands of gray, was creased where the band of the hard hat had fitted against his head. “I heard about it. Why would you want to talk to me?”
“Because you’ve been here the whole time I was gone. You’ve seen the changes in town—”
He snorted. “What changes? This place is just as dead today as it was twelve years ago.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and cast a look at the sawmill, where men bustled in and out of sheds and heavy equipment kept the logs moving.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
He shot her a dark look—the same brooding glance that she remembered on the night he’d driven her to the Fitzpatrick summer home in his pickup. “Some people have roots here.”
“But you were going to college…” she pressed on, and his lips turned into a tiny frown of disappointment.
“Sonoma State and I had a parting of the ways,” he said. His cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and smoke curled in the clear air. “I don’t know what good this is going to do, Rachelle,” he said with more candor than she’d thought him capable of. “Moore should have stayed away and left things as they were. And you—“ he motioned toward her pocket recorder “—you were better off in the city. No one here is ever going to forget that night, you know. And you and Jackson back in town just bring it all up again. You’re not going to be very popular.”
“It’s not the first time.”
He took a final tug on his cigarette, and as smoke streamed from his nostrils, he tossed the butt onto the ground and settled his hat back onto his head. “You were a smart girl once. Do yourself a favor and go back to wherever it is you came from. And tell Moore to do the same. Believe me, there’s nothing here but trouble for both of you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS SHE UNLOCKED THE DOOR to her cottage, the phone began to ring. She dropped her purse and sack of groceries on the counter and picked up the receiver before the answering machine took the call.
“I was about to give up on you!” her mother scolded gently.
Rachelle rolled her eyes to the ceiling and twisted the phone cord in her hands. She’d only been on the phone ten seconds and already she was on a Mom-inspired guilt trip. “I’ve been busy.” The excuse sounded lame.
“Too busy to have dinner with me?”
“Never,” Rachelle replied as she stretched the phone cord taut and shoved a quart of milk into the refrigerator. “In fact, I was planning on asking you out.”
“Nonsense. It’s already in the oven.” They talked for a few minutes and neither woman brought up Jackson’s name, but Rachelle braced herself for the evening ahead. No doubt it would be an inquisition. Ellen Tremont Little made no bones about the fact that she thought Jackson Moore was the cause of all Rachelle’s problems.
Within half an hour Rachelle had changed and driven the two miles to her mother’s small house. She carried a bottle of wine with her as she pushed the doorbell.
The door opened and Ellen waved her inside. Her mother looked smaller, more frail than she had on her last visit to San Francisco and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. Her permed hair was unkempt and frizzy, and she was nervous as she hugged her daughter. “Thank God you’re here,” she whispered, clinging to Rachelle and smelling of cigarettes and perfume. She dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Rachelle asked, but deep in her heart she knew. Her mother’s second marriage had been rocky for several years.
“Harold moved out,” Ellen replied as Rachelle glanced uneasily around the small rooms, glad not to find her stepfather, pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth, reading glasses perched on the end of his tiny nose. He was a small, round man with a nasty temper and cutting tongue. From the day he’d married Ellen, he hadn’t been satisfied with anything she or her daughters had done.
“Are you okay?” Rachelle asked, holding her mother’s shoulders at arm’s length.
“I think so.” Her mother offered a wan smile. “When your father left me for that woman, I thought I’d die. I couldn’t imagine not being married.” She wrung her hands together as she motioned Rachelle into a tired kitchen chair that Rachelle remembered from her youth. “It wasn’t just the money, you know. It was the company. The fact that I’d be alone. When your father left me, he took our social life with him.” She sighed heavily. “And it was hard to accept the obvious fact that he’d rejected me—rejected me for a younger woman.” She shook her head and her lips tightened at the corners. “You can’t imagine the shame of it…everyone in town whispering about me… . Well, maybe you do understand a little.” Her sad eyes filled with tears as her gaze met Rachelle’s.
I understand more than you’ll ever believe, Rachelle thought, but held her tongue.
“Anyway, I was at a loss.” Ellen threw up her hands. “All my friends were married. My social life—what little there had been of it—was gone. I felt betrayed, alone, miserable and then…well, you know. I met Harold. I knew he wasn’t perfect, but he was a way out of the money problems and the loneliness… . Oh, God, Rachelle,” she whispered, working hard against tears, “I’m going to be alone again.” She held her face in her hands, and Rachelle hugged her tightly.
“Being alone’s better than being with Harold,” Rachelle said, but felt more than a little stab of guilt. Harold, though a mean, self-important man, had, when she was struggling in school, loaned Rachelle enough money to make ends meet until she graduated from the University of California at Berkeley. She’d paid him back with interest, but still, she couldn’t forget that he’d helped her when she’d needed it.
“I know I’m better off without him, but it’s so hard. So damned lonely.” Ellen sniffed and rubbed her forearms as if suddenly cold.
“You’re sure it’s over?”
Ellen waved away the question and her face knotted. “He, uh…” She looked about to confide in her daughter, but changed her mind
. “We’ve agreed. All we have to do is work out the details with the lawyers. I just—I just don’t know what I’ll do,” she said in a voice choked with bitterness.
Rachelle’s heart went out to her mother. “You could come to the city. Live with me.”
Ellen’s face crumpled for a second and then she started to smile. “Live with you?” she repeated. Suddenly she was laughing or crying or both. Tears streamed down her lined face. “Then we’d both be miserable.”
“It would only be until you got on your feet.”
“I couldn’t even drive in San Francisco. No, honey, I’m a small-town girl. Born and raised here. I guess someday I’ll die here. Probably earlier than I should if I don’t give up these,” she admitted, reaching into a drawer for a carton of cigarettes. Her fingers shook as she opened the cellophane wrapper of a new pack. Lighting up, she let out a smoky sigh. “I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to quit.” She studied the tip of her cigarette and lifted one side of her mouth. “I think I’ve got to go out and find a job. Isn’t that a hoot? At forty-eight. I never worked a day in my life. What can I possibly do?”
“You’ll find something,” Rachelle predicted.
“I hope so.” Ellen drew long on her cigarette, then set it in an ashtray near the sink. Without another word, she started moving food from the oven to the table, and Rachelle helped put the napkins and flatware on the place mats. She stubbed out her cigarette just before they sat down, then, in a ritual that had been with the family for as long as Rachelle could remember, she folded her hands and sent up a silent prayer.
“No matter what happens, we’ve got to thank the Lord,” Ellen said, an explanation Rachelle and Heather had heard a hundred times over after their father had walked out.
The meal—pork chops, gravy and squash—was delicious. Rachelle was so full, she could barely move, but her mother wouldn’t hear of her declining dessert, “her specialty” of strawberry-rhubarb pie topped with whipped cream.
Rachelle ate three bites and had to quit. “I can’t, Mom. Really. It’s wonderful. The best. But I swear I’m going to pop.”
Ellen laughed and seemed almost happy as she licked the whipped cream from her fork.
“I like cooking for someone,” Ellen said sadly as she wrapped the remainder of the pie in plastic wrap. “I enjoyed cooking for your father and even Harold. Now who am I going to cook for?”
“Yourself.”
Her mother threw her a disbelieving glance. “Cooking for one is worse than cooking for a dozen. You should know that.”
Rachelle ignored the little dig about her marital state. Her mother had been pushing her toward the altar for years and didn’t understand why she hadn’t yet taken the plunge, even though she herself was soon to be twice divorced.
Ellen reached for her pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Heather says you’re thinking of getting married.”
Rachelle, if she’d been able to find her sister at that moment, would gladly have strangled her.
“David, I assume,” Ellen added.
“He thinks it’s time,” Rachelle hedged.
“And you?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“You’re going on thirty. David’s a nice man, has a good job and seems to love you.”
She couldn’t argue with such straightforward logic. But her mother wasn’t finished. While her cigarette burned unattended in an ashtray, Ellen began clearing the dishes. “You know, I read your column every week,” she said simply, and a touch of envy entered her voice. “You’re the first woman in this family to have completed college and that’s always been a source of pride to me. I thought that—” she leaned against the sink to gather her thoughts “—I thought that you, of any of us, would be a survivor. You’d find the right man. Even after that mess with Jackson Moore.”
“Mom—”
Ellen held up a hand to hush her daughter. “But I’ve heard that Jackson is back in town.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen him?”
Rachelle’s shoulders stiffened. “A couple of times.”
“Oh, honey!” The words were a sigh, and again tears threatened her mother’s tired eyes. “We don’t have a very good track record, the women in this family. I’ve married twice and never found happiness, and Heather…well, she’s living proof that money isn’t everything. That husband of hers was worth a fortune and still it didn’t work out.” The lines of strain were visible on her face. “But I always thought with you it would be different. You would find Mr. Right.”
“And you think David might be Mr. Right,” Rachelle stated.
“I only know that Jackson Moore isn’t. And I think it’s more than a coincidence, Rachelle, that he’s back in town at the same time you are.”
“So?” Rachelle picked up an apple from a basket of fruit on the counter and began tossing it in the air and catching it, avoiding eye contact with her mother.
“So, I want to remind you of all the pain that man caused you and this family. I’ve made mistakes, I know, but I hope that you don’t follow in my footsteps.”
“By getting involved with Jackson again,” Rachelle guessed, a headache forming behind her eyes. She placed the apple back in the basket.
“He’s no good, Rachelle,” Ellen said, turning off the water and drying her hands on a nearby dish towel before smoking the rest of her cigarette. “We all know Jackson’s bad news, Rachelle. Even you. You can’t forget how you felt when he walked out of town and left you holding the bag. You were the one who had to walk down the streets of Gold Creek and hold your head up while people talked.” She touched Rachelle’s hair and smiled sadly. “Just don’t do anything as foolish as getting involved with him again, baby. I don’t know if you could stand getting hurt a second time.”
* * *
HER MOTHER’S ADVICE HAUNTED her all night and into the next day; Rachelle couldn’t shake the feeling that she was marking time. So far, this Wednesday morning had been a waste. She’d spent some time in the library, doing research, and then had driven to the logging company for her interview with Brian Fitzpatrick.
He wasn’t overly friendly. Seated behind a solid wood desk, he managed a thin smile and motioned her into a chair. He ordered coffee for them both, but he squirmed a little in his chair and she wondered if he, too, was remembering the night when they’d last spoken, the night Roy had attacked her, the night Roy had died.
He was a stocky man, his football physique beginning to sag a little around the middle. His hair was straight and brown and just beginning to recede.
His office wasn’t the plush room she’d expected. His desk was oak, the chairs functional, the decor wood paneling had seen better days. A family portrait of Brian, Laura and their boy adorned the wall behind his desk and the few chairs scattered around the room were simple and sturdy. The portrait bothered Rachelle. Because of Laura. She was smiling, her hands on her son’s shoulders, Brian’s arm slung around her waist. Wearing a wine-colored dress and pearls, her blond hair piled in loose curls over her head, she looked elegantly beautiful, but though she smiled, she didn’t seem happy, as if the painter had forgotten to give her the sparkle, the bubbly, flirtatious personality that Rachelle remembered.
She studied the carpet, which was thin in some areas, and the brass lamps which were showing a little bit of tarnish. The office wasn’t decorated in the flamboyant Fitzpatrick style. But then Brian had never been as flashy as his older brother, or even his father. She’d heard the rumors around town that Fitzpatrick Logging was having some financial difficulties, but she’d dismissed the news as gossip. The Fitzpatricks had attracted attention and speculation—be it good or bad—since they’d first settled in Gold Creek.
“I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” Brian said after they’d gone through the motions of a less-than-enthusiastic handshake and Rachelle had turned on her recorder. Though he attempted to be civil to her, the temperature in the room was cold and he didn’t bother smiling
.
“I decided it was time to visit.”
“Why?”
“I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” she replied with a smile.
But he ignored her attempt to change the course of the conversation. His eyes narrowed and he tugged thoughtfully at his tie. “I just thought you were smarter than that, Rachelle. There’s nothing for you here, and any column you write about Gold Creek isn’t going to be all that interesting.”
“We’ll see,” she replied, taking out her notepad.
“You know my family doesn’t much care for you,” he said slowly. “I said I’d do this interview just because I thought a little publicity wouldn’t hurt the company, but no one’s forgotten that you stood up for that lyin’ bastard who killed my brother.” He said the words with such deadly calm that she thought he must’ve rehearsed them a hundred times.
“Jackson didn’t kill anyone,” she maintained, her spine stiffening.
“Sure he did. There just wasn’t enough evidence to put him away. Everyone in Gold Creek knows it and you know it, too. And, from what I hear, he’s back. Probably to make trouble again.”
“Why would he do that?”
Brian threw his hands up in the air. “Who knows? Can anyone figure out why he does anything he does? Look at the cases he tries, for God’s sake. He’s always defending some loser who shot a lover or stole from his boss or forged a million dollars’ worth of checks. I have no idea why Moore does the things he does. As far as that goes, I can’t even figure out why you’re here. Just what is it you want from me, Rachelle?” He picked up a paperweight—a crystal golf ball—and polished its clear surface over and over again with the corner of his sleeve.
“I’d just like some answers about the company. Gold Creek, is, after all, what a lot of people would consider a company town. Or it was when I left here eleven years ago. The Fitzpatricks are an integral part of the town’s history as well as the primary employer. What Fitzpatrick Logging does, affects most of the citizens in town.”
