Lettie had reminded Luke again the night before they left that while they were this far east, this might be his last chance to see his father and brother once more, that too much had been left unsettled over these last twenty-two years. Luke had again argued against the idea, but Lettie realized she had apparently given him plenty of food for thought. At the last minute he had changed their tickets at the train station, buying fares to St. Louis instead. He wired home that they would arrive about a week later than first planned and would be taking a different route home.
"You're going to feel so much more at peace, Luke," Lettie said aloud. "I am sure of it. I wouldn't have urged you to do this otherwise."
Luke said nothing, not so sure she was right. He had driven her along the riverfront, where huge warehouses had the name Fontaine Warehousing and Shipping painted on the front of them. Luke had been unable to find the supply store. A hotel sat on the location. He did, however, remember how to reach his father's house, if it was still there. It had been a fine home, but an unhappy one for him. All the houses along this street were elegant, with immaculate lawns and gardens. Huge shade trees shrouded the sun and made the street seem private, cut down the noise of the city that lay not so far away. Luke vaguely remembered those trees, but they had not been so big then.
"There it is," he said, pulling the horse that drew the carriage to a stop. "He must still live here. None of my letters ever came back."
Lettie sensed his agony. She gazed at a lovely brick two-story house, with a white-pillared porch. It was six o'clock in the evening, and Luke guessed that his father would be home about now. He had considered trying to find him at the warehouses, or perhaps ask if Jacques Fontaine had a downtown office; but he had decided that seeing the man again for the first time should be a private matter. He was not so sure what would be said, what his father's reaction might be.
"Maybe we should leave now and just leave things the way they are, Lettie. If the man wanted to see me—"
"No. We've come this far. We're going inside."
Luke breathed deeply, thinking how ridiculous it was that he should feel so apprehensive and almost afraid to see his own father. He slapped the reins and headed the horse and carriage up the long brick drive to a hitching post in front of the house, then got out to tie the horse. Lettie climbed down, praying inwardly she had not done the wrong thing by insisting that he do this. She did not want to see him hurt all over again, but then the damage had already been done when Luke was fourteen years old. For another fourteen years he had lived with the agony, having to face his father nearly every day with the full knowledge that the man had emotionally disowned him. It was only his own pride that had kept Jacques Fontaine from telling others the truth of his beliefs, for he would not want the public to know his wife had cheated on him, if, indeed, that was even true. It was enough that Luke knew, enough that Luke suffered inwardly, to the point that he had gone off to a war and nearly gotten himself killed, then had left St. Louis altogether and had fled to a faraway land to try to forget the hurt. But just as she had had to accept Nathan, had learned to love him and to accept the awful thing that had happened to her, so did Luke have to face the truth and the hurt. No one can run from his or her past, she believed, and being the proud man that he was, Luke deserved some answers. She slipped a hand into his, and they walked together to the front door.
Luke lifted the knocker, hesitated a moment, then banged it four times. A moment later a uniformed maid opened the door. "May I help you?"
"I'm not sure. I'm looking for John Fontaine," Luke told her. "I'm Luke Fontaine, John's brother."
The woman's eyes widened, and a smile of delight lit up her face. "Oh, my! The big rancher from Montana!"
Luke frowned. "You mean, my father has talked about me?"
"Oh, dear! Didn't your brother write you? Your father... oh, my. Do come in, Mr. Fontaine. I just can't believe you've finally come home, after all these years!" She stepped aside and ushered them into a wide, cool entrance hall. Let-tie tried to imagine how it felt to Luke to enter his old home after all these years. She knew what a strange, difficult moment this must be for him.
Luke removed his hat. "What did you start to tell me about my father, ma'am?" he asked the maid.
She wrung her hands nervously. "I had better get your brother. You can talk to him. He's the one who has often talked about you to his friends and such. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the parlor here." She led them into an elegant room full of flowers and fine furnishings. Rich paintings were hung strategically for the best light, and one in particular struck Lettie's heart. It was a painting of a beautiful young woman, with dark hair and deep blue eyes —Luke's eyes. She realized Luke was staring at the picture himself. "Is this your wife, Mr. Fontaine?" the maid was asking him about Lettie.
Lettie touched his arm. "Luke?"
He was so lost in the picture that her touch startled him. "What?" He glanced at the maid. "Oh! Yes. I'm sorry. This is my wife Lettie."
"Mrs. Fontaine, it's wonderful to meet you. You can't imagine the things we picture about women who dare to go to places like Montana and live on a ranch! But you're nothing like what we imagined." The older woman put a hand to her mouth then, blushing lightly. "My goodness, it isn't my place to be carrying on like this. Please sit down. I will go and get Mr. Fontaine and then bring you something to drink. Coffee? Tea? A little whiskey for you, Mr. Fontaine?"
Luke breathed deeply in nervous anticipation. "Yes, I could use a stiff drink at the moment. My wife likes tea."
"Do you have iced tea?" Lettie asked. "It's so warm today."
"Oh, certainly! Just make yourselves comfortable. Mr. Fontaine is in his study. I'll send him right in!"
The woman quickly left. Luke's attention returned to the picture. "My God," he muttered. "It has to be my mother. My father would never let me see a picture of her. I wonder why he chose to put this up finally." He blinked back tears and shook his head. "She was so beautiful. I don't believe she was the kind of woman he made her out to be, Lettie. I've never believed it. If she did have an affaire, it was because she was terribly unhappy. My father could be a very cold man at times."
Lettie put a hand to his back. "You look just like her, Luke. Look at her eyes."
He nodded. "I'd give anything to take that painting home with me."
"And you deserve to have it, Luke."
The voice sounded almost like Luke's. They both turned to see a man who was not quite as tall as Luke. He resembled him a little in the face, but his hair was a sandy color, with much more gray in it than Luke's, and his eyes were brown. He walked closer and put out his hand. "Hello, Luke."
Luke stared at the man a moment, ravaged by a torrent of emotions. Here was the brother he had not seen in twenty-four years. When he left St. Louis, John was still off fighting somewhere in the war. He hadn't seen him since they both left for that war in '61. Before that, in spite of their father's announcement that he thought Luke to be a bastard, they had remained close until going off to war and never seeing each other again. Why hadn't John written him in all these years?
"I know what you're thinking," the man spoke up. "We have a lot to talk about, Luke. I'll open by saying I have always considered you my brother in every way. Whether or not we had the same father didn't matter."
At first Luke could not find his voice. He grasped John's hand and shook it vigorously. "Hello, John," he finally managed to say.
They both grinned, and in the next moment they were embracing. Lettie glanced at the painting of their mother, thinking how happy the woman would be to see this reunion. She could almost feel Beverly Fontaine's presence in the room.
CHAPTER 34
"Father died last year, Luke."
Luke stepped back, anger in his misty eyes. 'Died! Why didn't you write and tell me?"
John asked Luke and Lettie to sit down. "Partly because at first I didn't know how to tell you. I felt so bad about how he treated you to begin with, and my wife had di
ed just weeks before Father. I was lost in my own mourning and, I don't know, so much time slipped by that I felt like an ass for not having let you know right away." He sat down across from them, and the maid brought in a silver tray with drinks and a pitcher that was sweating from its cold contents. She poured some iced tea into a tall glass for Lettie.
"There's lots of ice in the pot, so it should stay cold for quite a while," she told her. She turned to John. "I brought your best bourbon, sir."
"Thank you, Margaret," John answered. "Please close the parlor doors when you leave."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Fontaine."
John poured himself and Luke each a shot of whiskey. He handed over the glass. "To Jacques Fontaine," he said, rather sarcastically.
"Only if we drink a second shot to our mother," Luke answered.
John nodded. They downed their drinks and poured another, saluting Beverly Fontaine. Lettie quietly watched.
"I'm sorry about your wife, John," Luke said. "I can't even imagine life without Lettie. Did you have any children?"
John leaned back in his chair, his eyes showing sadness and disappointment. "No. You're the only brother with sons to carry on the Fontaine name. A guilty look came over his face. "I, uh, I married Lynnanne, Luke. Her first husband was killed in the war, so she moved back here from New York and... well, I always cared for her. I never told you about my feelings back when you were courting her. I knew how you felt about her. When you started writing me..."
The man leaned forward, running his hands through his hair. "I treasured those letters, Luke. I wanted to write back, but I was afraid to tell you I'd married Lynnanne. I knew Dad was the one who fixed it so she got sent away. I thought maybe you'd think I had something to do with it, too." He met Luke's eyes, saw the hurt and disappointment there. "I never told Lynnanne about the letters. Dad never did either. But I envied you, Luke, all the excitement and adventure, building on a wonderful dream and making it on your own like that, all the children you've had. Lynnanne was unable to bear children." John reached over and poured himself another drink, then held out the bottle to Luke.
Luke took the bottle, tipping more of the whiskey into his own shot glass. "You could have told me, John. I was happily married. It wouldn't have mattered."
"I guess part of me was jealous of your success and accomplishments, worried Lynnanne would regret not having married you if she knew. I know part of her heart still belonged to you. I was afraid I'd seem less... I don't know... less of a man, maybe, if she knew about all the things you were doing up in Montana." He shook his head and slugged down the drink. "You were always braver, more adventurous, certainly the better looking brother. Whoever fathered you must have been one good-looking—" He hesitated, seeing the sudden pain in Luke's eyes. "I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't mean that the way it came out."
Luke looked away, and Lettie knew he was struggling with great emotion. His brother had married the woman he'd lost because of his own illegitimacy. He would probably never know who his real father was, and all these years his brother and the only father he had ever known were aware of where he was but had never written.
"I'm so damn sorry, Luke, about everything. After Lynnanne died, then Dad, I was ashamed to write you. After all the lost years, it seemed pointless." He sighed with regret. "You have what, four living children?"
Luke just put his head in his hands, saying nothing.
"Five," Lettie answered for him. "If you've read all our letters, you know that our first son, my son from a first marriage, was stolen away by Indians. He finally came back to us about a year ago."
"Really! That's wonderful. What's he like?"
"He is very Indian in spirit," Lettie answered. "He also has an Indian wife and two small children."
John shook his head. "I'll be damned." He smiled sadly, moving his gaze to Luke. "Luke, I hope you'll try to understand my actions. Maybe someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I'm awfully sorry about the son who died, but you've done well, little brother. Leaving here was probably the best thing you could have done. You made a name for yourself, showed Dad you're someone of worth, a son he could be proud of. Fact is, he was secretly proud of you. I could see it in his eyes every time he got another letter. He was just too damn stubborn to admit it or answer you... and too ashamed of sending you away."
Luke wiped at his eyes and rose, walking to a window. "How do you know that?"
John leaned back in his chair, studying his shot glass. "Well, I sold our house and moved back in here when Dad got sick. Just a few days before he died, he asked me if I thought God would forgive him for turning his back on you. He said that about the time you were conceived, he suspected our mother of having an affair with a fellow businessman who later left town. He never would tell me who it was. He was hurt so deeply, he just couldn't bring himself to believe you were his. I have always had my doubts, but I guess we'll never know. I'm sorry, Luke. All I know is it never made any difference in how I felt about you as a brother. We have a lot of good boyhood memories, had some good times before that awful day Dad blew up and told you you were a bastard. For all we know, he could have been dead wrong. I think he realized that, too, in the end. Just before he died, he wept, wondered if God would forgive him for turning you out with no proof you were fathered by someone else. I think he realized you should never have been blamed either way. What he did was cruel, and you probably couldn't have forgiven him, even if he'd asked."
Luke glanced at Lettie, and she saw the terrible sorrow in his eyes.
"All those wasted years," he said softly. He sat back down and leaned back with a heavy sigh, rubbing his eyes. "The hell of it is I probably would have forgiven him. All I needed was one letter, one sign of affection and pride." He looked at John with tears in his eyes. "Did he ever acknowledge how he felt about what I've accomplished in Montana?"
"Not in words, but as I said, I could see the pride in his eyes. In the end he told me that if I ever wrote to you or saw you, I should tell you that he was sorry, that part of him always loved you. Deep inside he knew he'd been wrong, that you could very well have been his own son. He was just so hurt, he could never quite forgive our mother."
"I'll never believe our mother was anything but perfect," Luke answered defensively. "If she did have an affair, he drove her to it. You know what he could be like sometimes."
"I know. All I can tell you now is that he kept those letters, Luke, every one of them. They were very special to him. I still have them if you'd like them back. They might be useful, kind of a diary for you, a review of all you've done in Montana."
Lettie reached over and touched Luke's hand. "I'd like to have them, Luke."
He smiled bitterly. "What difference does it make anymore? Go ahead and keep them if you want."
John got up from his chair, looking down at both of them. "So, why don't we talk about the present, the future?" he said, trying to bring some joy back into the reunion. "The past is just that—past, gone, irretrievable." He met Luke's eyes. "You're a representative for the territorial legislature, I hear. It was in the newspaper."
"Here? In St. Louis?" Lettie asked.
"Sure was. Luke Fontaine, son of prominent businessman, Jacques Fontaine, and now one of the biggest landowners in Montana, was voted into Montana's territorial legislature, et cetera, et cetera."
Lettie smiled. "He's going to run for governor when Montana becomes a state," she told John.
John smiled. "Well, with someone like you supporting him, how can he go wrong? He said some pretty wonderful things about you in his letters, and I have to say, Lettie, that you're even more beautiful and gracious than I had you pictured."
Lettie liked John, realized he was very much like Luke. She had been prepared to hate this brother for also turning his back on Luke, but she understood his reasoning, knew it was mostly their father's fault they had lost so many years. "Thank you."
John sobered, sitting down again and facing Luke. "Luke, you have every right to hate both Dad an
d me; but I'm telling you now that I personally believe you have a right to your share of the business, if you want it."
Luke's eyes showed grateful surprise, mingled with a hurt that simply was not going to go away overnight. He shook his head, then got up and turned away, breathing deeply to control his emotions.
"Dad gave up the supply store and concentrated on the warehousing and shipping," John continued. "I have to be honest with you, Luke. Fontaine Warehousing and Shipping clears about a million a year. We ship merchandise all the way up to Duluth, Minnesota and as far south as the Gulf, even out into the Atlantic to eastern seaports. Right now we're setting up to ship merchandise all the way to Europe."
Luke struggled to find his voice, overwhelmed at the generous gesture. "I appreciate the offer, John," he said, finally able to talk. "Some men would be angry to have to share their fortune with someone else after having it to themselves for years. Just the offer tells me you never held anything against me." He turned to face his brother. "You're the one who has worked with the business all these years. I don't want or need any part of it. We're doing fine up at the Double L. We even have a couple of copper mines, own a hotel, a granary, stock in the Northern Pacific. Just this past year I bought some land around Butte and they've discovered more copper there. It's a real bonanza—not gold, but copper pays damn good right now. I didn't come back here to try to get a share of the business. I just wanted some answers. Now I've got them." He looked at Lettie. "My wife is the one who talked me into doing this. As usual, she was right in telling me to come." He turned his gaze back to John. "No matter what the past, we're still brothers, and we shouldn't go the rest of our lives never seeing each other. I'm not sure I can ever get over the hurt, but it helps to know my father—" He hesitated. Should he even call Jacques Fontaine father? "That Jacques at least regretted what he did."
Wildest Dreams Page 53
