by Nora Roberts
“That is problematic, seeing as he’s the landlord of both my home and business and seems to take those responsibilities seriously.”
“I’m prepared to compensate you for the time and effort it takes to relocate. Perhaps back to Charleston, or to Florence, where you again have family.”
“Compensate me? I see.” With deadly calm, Tory picked up her coffee. “Would it be crass for me to ask just what form of compensation you had in mind?” She smiled a little, and saw Margaret’s jaw tighten like a bow pulled. “After all, I’m a businesswoman.”
“The entire matter is crass, and deplorable to me. I see no choice but to sink to your level in order to preserve my family and its reputation.” She opened the purse on her lap. “I’m willing to write you a check for fifty thousand dollars upon your agreement to sever ties with Cade, and with Progress. I will give you half that amount today, and the rest will be sent to you upon your relocation. I will give you two weeks to remove yourself.”
Tory said nothing. She also knew the weapon of silence.
“That amount,” Margaret continued with her voice sharpening, “will allow you to live quite comfortably during your transition.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” Tory sipped her coffee again, then set the cup neatly back in its saucer. “I do have a question. I wonder, Mrs. Lavelle, what makes you think that I would be, in any way, receptive to the insult of a bribe?”
“Don’t pretend a sensibility you don’t possess. I know you,” Margaret said, leaning forward. “I know where and who you come from. You may think you can hide behind a quiet manner, behind the mask of some borrowed respectability. But I know you.”
“You think you do. But I can promise you I’m not feeling quiet or respectable right at this moment.”
It was Margaret’s composure that unraveled, that had to be gathered back, tightly rewound like a ball of yarn. “Your parents were trash and let you run wild as a cat, sidling down the road to push yourself on my child. Luring her away from her family, and finally to her death. You cost me one child, and you won’t cost me another. You’ll take my money, Victoria. Just as your father did.”
She was shaken now, down to the heart, but she held on. “What do you mean, as my father did?”
“It only took five thousand for them. Five thousand for them to take you out of my sight. My husband wouldn’t turn them out, though I begged him to do so.”
Her lips trembled open, then firmed. It had been the first and last time she had begged him for anything. Had begged anyone for anything. “Finally, it was up to me to see to it. Just as it is now. You’ll go, you’ll take the life you should have lost that night instead of her and live it somewhere else. And you’ll stay away from my son.”
“You paid him to leave. Five thousand,” Tory mused. “That would’ve been a lot of money for us. I wonder why we never saw it. I wonder what he did with it. Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Lavelle, but I’m not my father. Nothing he ever did to me could make me like him, and your money won’t change that. I’m staying, because I need to stay. It’d be easier not to. You won’t understand that, but it’d be easier. As for Cade …”
She remembered how distant he’d been, how removed after her episode the night before. “There’s not as much between us as you seem to think. He’s been kind to me, that’s all, because he is a kind man. I don’t intend to repay that kindness by breaking a friendship, or by telling him of this conversation.”
“If you go against my wishes in this, I’ll ruin you. You’ll lose everything, as you did before. When you killed that child in New York.”
Tory went white, and for the first time, her hands shook. “I didn’t kill Jonah Mansfield.” She gulped in air, let it out in a broken sigh. “I just didn’t save him.”
Here was the chink. Margaret dug her fingers into it. “The family held you responsible, and the police. And the press. A second child dead because of you. If you stay here, there will be talk about that. Talk about the part you played. Ugly talk.”
How foolish, Tory thought, to have believed no one would connect her with the woman she’d been in New York. With the life she’d built and destroyed there.
Nothing could be done to change it. Nothing could be done but face it. “Mrs. Lavelle, I’ve lived with ugly talk all my life. But I’ve learned I don’t have to tolerate it in my own home.” Tory got to her feet. “You’ll have to leave now.”
“I will not make this offer again.”
“No, I don’t suppose you will. I’ll see you out.”
Tight-lipped, Margaret rose, picked up her bag. “I know the way.”
Tory waited until the length of the living room separated them. “Mrs. Lavelle,” she said quietly, “Cade is so much more than you believe him to be. So was Hope.”
Rigid with pain, and with fury, Margaret gripped the doorknob. “You would dare speak to me of my children?”
“Yes,” Tory murmured as the door snapped shut and left her alone in the house. “I would.”
She locked the door. The click was like a symbol. Nothing she didn’t allow in would get in. And nothing, she told herself, that was already inside would hurt her now. She walked to the bathroom and stripped, couldn’t get her nightclothes off fast enough. She ran the shower hot, almost too hot to bear, and stepped into the vicious heat and steam.
There, she let herself weep. Not an indulgence, she told herself. But because, as the water beat on her skin to make her feel clean again, the tears washed away the scum of bitterness inside her.
Memories of another dead child, and her helplessness.
She cried until she was empty, and the water ran cool. Then she turned her face up to the chilling spray and let it soothe.
When she was dry, she used the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. Without compassion, without excuses, she studied her face. Fear, denial, evasion. They were all there, she admitted. Had been there. She’d come back, then she’d buried herself. Hidden herself in work and routine and details.
Not once had she opened herself to Hope. Not once had she gone beyond the trees and visited the place they’d made there. Not once had she gone to the grave of her only real friend.
Not once had she faced the true reason she was here.
Was that any different from running away? she wondered. Was it any different from taking the money that had been offered and running anywhere that wasn’t here?
Coward. Cade had called her a coward. And he had been right.
She put on her robe again, and went back into the kitchen to look up the number, dialed, waited.
“Good morning. Biddle, Lawrence, and Wheeler.”
“Victoria Bodeen calling. Is Ms. Lawrence available?”
“One moment please, Ms. Bodeen.”
It took no more than that for Abigail to come on the line. “Tory, how nice to hear from you. How are you? Are you settling in?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll be opening the store on Saturday.”
“So soon? You must’ve been working night and day. Well, I’m just going to have to take a trip up your way sometime soon.”
“I hope you do. Abigail, I have a favor to ask.”
“Name it. I owe you a big one for my mama’s ring.”
“What? Oh. I’d forgotten.”
“I doubt I’d have come across it for years, if then. Hardly ever use those old files. What can I do for you, Tory?”
“I … I’m hoping you might have some contact with the police. Someone who could get you information on an old case. I don’t—I think you’ll understand that I don’t want to contact the police myself.”
“I know some people. I’ll do what I can.”
“It was a sexual homicide.” Unconsciously, Tory began to press and rub her right temple. “A young girl. Sixteen. Her name was Alice. The last name—” She pressed harder. “I’m not completely sure. Lowell or Powell, I think. She was hitchhiking on, ah, 513, heading east on her way to Myrtle Beach. She was taken off the r
oad, into the trees, raped and strangled. Manual strangulation.”
She let out a huge breath, relieved the pressure in her chest.
“I haven’t heard anything about this on the news.”
“No, it’s not recent. I don’t know exactly when, not exactly. I’m sorry. Ten years ago, maybe less, maybe more. In the summer. Sometime in the summer. It was very hot. Even at night it was very hot. I’m not giving you very much.”
“No, that’s quite a bit. Let me see what I can find out.”
“Thank you. Thanks so much. I’ll be home for only a little while longer. I’ll give you the number here, and at the store. Anything you can tell me, anything at all, would help.”
She kept herself busy, and had nearly five uninterrupted hours and still Abigail didn’t call back.
People stopped by the window off and on during the day and admired the display she’d created out of old crate boxes, homespun cloth, and cannily selected samples of pottery, handblown glass, and ironwork. She filled her shelves and cabinets, hung wind chimes and watercolors.
She arranged point-of-purchase items on the checkout counter, then changed her mind and chose different ones. Willing the phone to ring, she organized boxes and shopping bags.
When someone rapped on the door, she was almost relieved. Until she saw Faith on the other side of the glass. Couldn’t the Lavelles leave her be for one damn day?
“I need a gift,” Faith said, the minute Tory wrenched open the door, and would have pushed past if Tory hadn’t shifted and blocked.
“I’m not open.”
“Oh hell, you weren’t open yesterday, either, were you? I only need one thing, and ten minutes. I forgot my aunt Rosie’s birthday, and she just called to say she’s coming to visit. I can’t hurt her feelings now, can I?” Faith tried a pleading smile. “She’s half crazy anyway, and this might push her over the edge.”
“Buy her something on Saturday.”
“But she’s going to be here tomorrow. And if she likes her present, she’ll come on down on Saturday herself. Aunt Rosie’s loaded. I’ll buy something very expensive.”
“See that you do.” Grudgingly, Tory gave way.
“All right, help me out here.” Faith swirled in, spun around.
“What does she like?”
“Oh, she likes everything. I could make her a paper hat and she’d be pleased as punch. Lord, you’ve got a lot more in here than I imagined.” Faith reached up, sent a metal wind chime whirling and tinkling. “Nothing practical. I mean I don’t want to get her a set of salad bowls or that kind of thing.”
“I have some nice trinket boxes.”
“Trinkets? That’s Aunt Rosie’s middle name.”
“Then she should have the big one.” In the interest of getting it over and done, Tory walked over and chose a large beveled glass box. The panels were mullioned in diamond shapes and hand-painted with tiny violets and pink roses.
“Does it play music or anything?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Just as well. She’d have it going all day and half the night and drive us all mad. She’ll probably fill it with old buttons or rusted screws, but she’ll love it.”
Faith flipped over the tag, whistled. “Well, I see I’m keeping my word.”
“The panels are hand-cut and painted. There are no two alike.” Satisfied, Tory carried it to the counter. “I’ll box it for you, and throw in the gift tag and ribbon.”
“Very generous.” Faith took out her checkbook. “Seems to me you’re ready for business. Why wait till Saturday?”
“There are a few stray details yet. And Saturday’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Time does fly.” She glanced at the amount Tory had totaled and dashed off the check while the present was boxed.
“Pick out a gift tag from the display there, and write what you want. I’ll loop it on the cord.”
“Hmm.” Faith chose one with a little rose in the center, scrawled off a birthday greeting and added xxx’s and ooo’s after her name. “Perfect. I’ll be top of her list for months now.”
She watched Tory secure the box with shiny white ribbon, slide on the card, then twist and loop the business into an elegant bow.
“I hope she enjoys it.” She passed the box over just as the phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Sure.” Something in Tory’s eyes had Faith stalling. “Just let me enter that figure in my checkbook. I’m always forgetting.” The phone rang a second time. “You just go ahead and get that. I’ll toddle on out in just a second.”
Trapped, Tory picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, Southern Comfort.”
“Tory. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you.”
“No, that’s all right. I appreciate it. Were you able to get the information?”
“Yes, I think I have what you’re looking for.”
“Would you hold on a moment? I’ll get the door for you, Faith.”
With a little shrug, Faith picked up the box. But as she walked out she wondered who was on the phone, and why the call had made Tory’s quick and clever hands tremble.
“I’m sorry, I had someone in the shop.”
“Not a problem. The victim’s name was Alice Barbara Powell, white female. Sixteen. Her body wasn’t discovered until five days after the murder. She wasn’t reported missing for three days, as her parents thought she was at the beach with friends. The remains … well, Tory, the animals had been at her by then. I’m told it wasn’t pretty.”
“Did they catch him?” She already knew the answer, but she had to hear it.
“No. The case is still open, but inactive. It’s been ten years.”
“What was the date? The exact date of the murder.”
“I have that here. Just a minute. It was August twenty-third, 1990.”
“God.” A chill ran through her, into heart and bone.
“Tory? What is it? What can I do?”
“I can’t explain, not right now. I have to ask you, Abigail, if you can use your contact again. If there’s a way you can find out if there’s any like crime, in the eight years before, and the ten years after. If you can find out if there were any other victims of that kind of murder on that date. Or right near that date in August.”
“All right, Tory, I’ll ask. But when I find out, one way or the other, I’m going to need you to tell me why.”
“I need the answer first. I’m sorry, Abigail, I need the answer. I have to go. I’m sorry.”
She hung up quickly, then simply sat down on the floor.
On August 23, 1990, Hope had been dead exactly eight years. She would have been sixteen years old that summer.
13
The living brought flowers for the dead, elegant lilies or simple daisies. But flowers died quickly when laid on the earth. Tory had never understood the symbolism of leaving what would fade and wither on the grave of a loved one.
She supposed they brought comfort to those left behind.
She brought no flowers to Hope. Instead she brought one of the few keepsakes she’d allowed herself. Inside the small globe a winged horse flew, and when it was shaken, silver stars sparkled.
It had been a gift, the last birthday gift from a lost friend.
She carried it across the long, sloping field where generations of Lavelles, generations of the people of Progress, were laid to rest. There were markers, simple as a brick of stone, elaborate as the rearing horse and rider cast in bronze.
Hope had called the horseman Uncle Clyde, and indeed he was the likeness of one of her ancestors, a cavalry officer who’d died in the War of Northern Aggression.
Once, Hope had dared her to climb up behind Uncle Clyde and ride his great steed. Tory remembered hitching herself up, sliding over the sunbaked metal that reddened her skin, and wondering if God would strike her dead with a handy bolt of lightning for blasphemy.
He hadn’t, and for a moment, clinging to the cast bronze, the world spread out in greens and browns benea
th her, the sun beating on her head like a dull hammer, she’d felt invincible. The towers of Beaux Reves had seemed closer, approachable. She’d shouted down to Hope that she and the horse would fly to them, land on the top turret.
She’d nearly broken her neck on the way down, and had been lucky to land on her butt instead of her head. But the bruised tailbone had been nothing compared to that moment so high on the rearing horse.
For her next birthday, her eighth, Hope had given her the globe. It was the only thing Tory had kept from that year of her life.
Now, as they had then, live oaks and fragrant magnolia guarded the stones and bones, and offered shade in dapples of light and shadows. They also provided a screen between that testament to mortality and the regal house that had outlasted its many owners and occupants.
It was a pleasant enough walk from the cemetery to the family home. She and Hope had walked it countless times, in blistering summer, in rainy winter. Hope had liked to look at the names carved in the stone, to say them out loud for luck, she’d said.
Now Tory walked to the grave, and the marble angel that serenaded it with a harp. And said the name out loud.
“Hope Angelica Lavelle. Hello, Hope.”
She knelt on the soft grass, sat back on her heels. The breeze was soft and warm, and carried the sweet perfume of the pink baby rosebushes that flanked the angel. “I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I kept putting it off, but I’ve thought of you so often over the years. I’ve never had another friend like you, someone I could tell everything to. I was so lucky to have you.”
As she closed her eyes, opened herself to the memories, someone watched from the shelter of trees. Someone with fists clenched to white bone. Someone who knew what it was to crave the unspeakable. To live, year after year, with the desire for it hidden in a heart that thundered now with both that craving, and with the knowledge it could feed.
Sixteen years, and she’d come back. He’d waited, and he’d watched, always knowing there was a chance some day she could circle around, despite everything, and come back here where it had all begun.
