Sensing one of those “what is happening to the world” conversations in the making, Mandy said, “May I have two bouquets to take to the graveyard instead of one?"
"Of course you can, honey," Lenore said. "One for your Mama, and the other . . . for a man or a woman?"
"A woman," Mandy said. "My father's high school sweetheart. She was killed in a car accident right before they graduated. Just on the other side of the bridge."
"Alice Browning?" Lenore asked.
Startled, Mandy said, "Yes, how did you know that?”
"Honey, that's one of those small town car wrecks people talk about for years, just like Clod Fenton out on New Wreck Road. Those kinds of things are legendary," she said. "But you didn't even know Alice Browning. I don't mean to be nosy, but why are you looking for her grave?"
"When we were going through my Dad's papers we found some things he wrote about Alice," Mandy said. "He apparently thought I looked like her. And I understand that all of her people are gone. It makes me sad to think no one has been to her grave . . . or Mama's . . . in years."
While they had been talking, Lenore assembled both bouquets and tied the flowers with autumn orange ribbons. She held them out to Mandy. "Here you go, honey. That's $30. Cash, credit, or debit?"
"Debit," Mandy said, taking the flowers and giving Lenore her card.
As she rang up the sale, Lenore said, "Well, for what it's worth, I think the dead know when we take time to be with them. It might be silly, but I've always believed the people we think are gone are really still with us, watching what we're doing and maybe helping out where they can."
Mandy smiled broadly, “I think so, too. I mean, honestly, just because people are dead, that doesn’t mean they don’t want folks to come say hello every now and then, right?”
“Absolutely, honey,” Lenore said. “I couldn’t agree more.”
After Mandy left the shop, Lenore walked to the front window and watched the young woman cross the street and get in a brand new Range Rover. "Langston Lockwood would have a fit if he knew how much of his money went to buy that thing," she thought to herself. But then there were lots of things that would have given Langston Lockwood fits if he’d known about them.
34
The cemetery sat on the edge of town behind a low rock wall that ran the length of three city blocks. Mandy drove in the center gate and parked, getting out with both bouquets cradled in the crook of her arm.
She paused for a second to get her bearings and then walked toward two gnarled mesquite trees. There, situated between them sat an unadorned gray stone. "Irene Northrup Lockwood, born November 10, 1949, died July 7, 1992.”
Mandy knelt over her mother and laid the bouquet against the cold granite. "Hi Mama," she whispered. "It's me. Mandy. I'm all grown up now and . . .." Her voice broke. She swallowed hard against the knot in her throat.
"I still miss you so much. I'm back here now, living on the ranch with Katie and Jenny and I'm with a real nice man. Joe Bob Mason. But people just call him Joe now. Sometimes I tease him and call him that. Just Joe. It makes him laugh.”
She traced the letters of her mother’s name with her index finger as she talked. “He has the most wonderful laugh, Mama. He's the town mayor and he's really sweet and kind and good. He's not like Daddy at all. I think he's going to ask me to marry him. I'll come see you now that I live here, Mama, and I'll bring Joe with me next time. I love you, Mama."
She kissed the tips of her fingers and laid them against the stone, said a prayer, and then stood and looked toward the back of the cemetery. There, in the distance, was the weeping willow tree the woman at the courthouse described.
Mandy picked her way through the graves, pausing occasionally when she recognized a name, until she was standing in front of a stone angel covered in green and gold lichen. At the base of the statue the incised letters read, "Alice Marie Browning, born September 9, 1939, died December 23, 1957. Taken from us too soon.”
Just as she had done at her mother's grave, Mandy bent and placed the flowers, then stood and said uncertainly, "Langston Lockwood was my father. He never stopped loving you . . ."
Before she could continue, a flash of light off to her right distracted her. Mandy looked across the rows of tombstones and saw a dilapidated old house sitting well back from the road behind the cemetery. A high wall circled the two-story building. As she studied the weathered gray structure, she could have sworn she saw the curtain in the top window drop back in place. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she glanced around nervously.
Late evening shadows were beginning to fall and she was completely alone in a graveyard on the edge of town. Surely she was just imagining things . . . but then the curtain fluttered again. Squinting in the failing light, Mandy was certain there was a figure standing in the window watching her . . . through binoculars. Imagination or not, enough was enough. She turned on her heel and hurried back to her car.
"I'm telling you, Joe, someone was watching me," she said, turning her back toward the fire to face him as he came out of the kitchen with two glasses of red wine. “The sun was setting and I think it must have flashed on the binoculars. That’s what caught my attention and when I looked, someone was there at the window. Who lives in that awful old place anyway?"
"A widow woman named Smith or Jones or something equally nondescript," he said. "She's a recluse. Nobody ever sees her. She pays her taxes on time. That's about all I know. Maybe that’s how she passes the time, looking at people through binoculars. She must be pretty eccentric to live like that anyway.”
“What do you mean? How does she live?" Mandy said, taking the glass he held out.
"She has an old Mexican woman who works for her and runs her errands. The UPS truck stops and leaves stuff, but the driver isn’t allowed to come in the gate. There’s a little room off to one side, like where a guard would sit. All the packages have to be left in there. If he needs a signature or something, there’s an intercom. Highsmith's Market makes grocery deliveries once a week and they leave everything in the same place.”
“You mean she never goes out at all?” Mandy asked, scooting over to make room for him to join her on the hearth.
They were sitting in Mandy’s living room in the original Rocking L ranch house. They had finished dinner and were sharing the events of their day. While she tackled ancient civil servants and graveyard specters, Joe endured a protracted city council meeting where the town’s elected representatives insisted on prefacing their statements to him with “boy” or “son.”
Joe sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulder. “Welcome to the 21st century,” he laughed. “A person can be a total hermit if they want to. Seclusion courtesy of Amazon dot com. Why does it bother you so much?”
“I just think it’s sad,” she said, leaning against his shoulder. “Poor thing living all alone and amusing herself watching the world through binoculars. It’s awful.”
“You really do have a heart of gold,” he said, kissing her hair. “Maybe that’s how she wants to live. At least she has a housekeeper, so she won’t die in there and not be found for months or get eaten by stray cats or something.”
“Joe! That’s an awful thing to say!”
“It happens to old people, honey,” he said reasonably. “We send the Sheriff’s deputies out all the time to check on folks who live alone way out in the country when nobody has seen them for days on end. When Mrs. Walinsky had her stroke, we found her in an awful shape.”
“I guess if he’d have gone on living alone, that’s how Daddy could have wound up, too,” she said regret coloring her words.
“Naw,” Joe grinned, “we usually sent the Sheriff’s deputies out here because Langston had taken a shot at someone, not because he was bad off.”
Mandy sat up and looked at him aghast. “Joe, you are not serious. Daddy shot at people?”
“Well, I don’t know about people in general,” he answered, “but summer before last he took a potshot
at some city folks in a big black car who got lost out here on the dirt road and pulled in to ask directions. Langston said they were invading his privacy, and when they wouldn’t leave, he winged one over the hood of the car. The mail carrier was out on the lane and called it in. One of the deputies was just down at the crossing and came right to the gate. Langston was fit to be tied and the other people just wanted to smooth it over and get out of here.”
“They didn’t file charges?”
“No, they said it was fine. I thought it was damned big of them to be truthful. And they were even Yankees,” he said. “Given how folks up north feel about us and our guns, it was kind of a surprise.”
“Where were they from?” she asked.
“New York City of all places,” he said, reaching out and drawing her close again. “Now, can we please talk about something other than crazy old folks? No offense intended to your Daddy,” he added hastily.
“None taken,” she laughed. “What subject would you like to talk about?”
"As I recollect," he said with mock gravity, "we failed to …collaborate last night on pressing official business."
She arched her eyebrows in mock judgment. “Joe Bob Mason, I am not the one who came home with a belly full of enchiladas from the Hispanic Citizen’s potluck supper and fell asleep watching television.”
"God, that makes me sound old," he groaned. "Guilty as charged. Can I try for an improved performance rating tonight?"
Mandy’s eyes sparkled when she answered. “If this is a matter of a performance review, Mr. Mayor, I think we should take this discussion into executive session."
Some time later, lying warmly in the circle of his arms, Mandy listened to Joe's heartbeat slowly return to its normal, steady rhythm under her ear. The lazy motion of his hand drawing circles on her back was hypnotic. He wasn't like any other man she had known. Not at all like those desperately handsome Houston playboys who couldn't wait to get out the door when they'd gotten what they wanted.
"Why so quiet?" he said, kissing her forehead.
"I was just thinking how much I didn't want to come home when Daddy killed himself and how happy I am to be here now with you," she said, snuggling against him.
He tightened his embrace in response and said, “You coming back to this town was the best thing that's ever happened to me.”
"I didn’t just go looking for Alice Browning today,” she said suddenly. “I went to my Mama's grave, too.”
The gentle caresses continued as Joe waited for her to go on. "I want you to come with me next time," she said finally. “Not just because of that spooky old house. I want to take you to . . . well, to meet Mama. Do you think that's silly?"
"I think it's the sweetest thing anyone has ever asked me to do," he said.
"Do you remember her?" Mandy asked.
"Yes," Joe said. "She and my mother were in the same study club. I remember all the ladies coming to the house every few months when it was Mama's turn to host the meeting. I thought your mother was the prettiest one of all. She always had on something real simple and elegant, and she sounded so different from the other ladies. She was a Yankee, wasn't she?"
"Yes. Her people are from Boston."
"Do you know them?"
"No," she said. "We never had anything to do with them. They disowned her when she married Daddy. I never understood any of that, but now that we know what Daddy wrote in that journal, I think it must have been because she was engaged to marry Mr. Fisk and there was such a scandal when she eloped with Daddy and Mr. Fisk dropped out of the Senate race."
"Do you want to know them?" Joe asked.
"What?" she said, raising up to look at him. "You mean get in touch with them now?"
"Well, why not," he said, pulling himself up against the headboard. "You all are blood kin. Did she have brothers and sisters?"
"I think so," Mandy said, "but I'll have to ask Katie and Jenny. After she died, Daddy wouldn't tolerate any of us talking about her. It was like she never existed."
"I'm so sorry, baby," Joe said, reaching out and brushing his fingers through her hair. "That's just awful."
"It's not ever going to be like that between us, is it, Joe?" she asked, looking down as tears came to her eyes. "We're not ever going to treat each other the way my folks did, right?"
Joe put his hand under her chin and gently brought her head up until she was looking at him. "I love you, Mandy Lockwood. And if you'll let me, I'm going to spend the rest of our lives doing my best to make you happy."
"You make me happy already," she said, smiling tremulously. "I just need to understand why they were so unhappy. I'm afraid there's this whole dark legacy of the Lockwoods. It's not just for me. We all need to understand it and put it behind us. There's Jenny, with all that anger toward Daddy and still so torn up and hurt about Mama. And Katie, dancing to his tune all these years, shutting herself up inside and being alone. Why did all of this happen, Joe? Why did Daddy treat us the way he did? Where did the boy go who loved Alice Browning?"
"I don't know," he said. "And I'm not sure how you think you're going to find out when they’re pretty much all dead, but I'll do everything I can to help you."
35
Kate sat by the fire in her father’s study at the main ranch house. No matter how hard she tried to think of the room as her own, it was still his and probably always would be. Langston never allowed his wife or daughters to cross the threshold when he was alive, but after his death, this room yielded more information about the man than she’d gleaned in 37 years of being his daughter. Spending her evenings here made her feel closer to him and in a better way than she would have thought possible.
Never one for brightly lit rooms, Kate often read by the light of the fire and a flickering oil lamp. The dark shadows in the corners didn’t bother her. She liked the way the night brought the world down to a manageable size and the quiet eased nerves too easily rubbed raw by the pressure of being in the world.
Idly she swirled the whiskey in her glass and thought about her ride that morning with Jake Martin. She liked the man, and yes, she had fixed herself up for him a little bit, but what she really enjoyed about being in his company was the way he talked to her. What she wouldn’t have given for Langston Lockwood to have talked to her that way even once.
She knew she had the respect of all the men in town. Respect won over a hand of cards or down the barrel of a rifle. She could do all the things "the boys" did with easy skill. A part of her loved and drew comfort from that fact. Even her tyrannical father had taken a degree of pride in her accomplishments in that regard. Kate Lockwood was a woman who was sure of her place in the world and depended on no man to get her through the day or the night.
But Jake Martin was the first person in a long time who made her want to use her mind for something other than ranching. She took a sip of the bourbon and shook her head. It was a good 20 years too late to be mourning the college education she had been denied, but Jake Martin made her remember what it was like to use her intellect and her imagination.
She'd never told anyone about her scattered college credits, feeling half ashamed that they were earned online. But she told Jake, and his only remark was, "Isn't it fantastic the way the Internet makes it so easy to just keep learning? I love that."
But for all of her growing ease with the man, she'd stopped short of telling him about John Fisk's death and the riddle of Baxter's Draw. She had the feeling that Jake Martin might just be able to help them unravel that mystery, but that was too big a decision to make on her own. She needed to talk to her sisters.
Kate was the one who had convinced them to stay on the Rocking L and honor the terms of their father’s will in the name of rebuilding the family. No matter how much she might be used to making decisions on her own, this was not one of them.
She took up the book lying idle on her lap, Coronado's Children: Tales of Lost Mines and Buried Treasures of the Southwest by J. Frank Dobie, and started to read.
�
�These tales are not creations of mine. They belong to the soil and to the people of the soil. Like all things that belong, they have their roots deep in the place of their being, deep too in the past . . .”
Jenny was seated on the floor, leaning back against the front of the sofa with her iPad on her lap. Josh hit the door that evening like an excited little boy, fresh from discovering a litter of fox kits. He was dying for her to see the pictures, and had just given her the details to log into his Dropbox account.
As the photos came up on her screen, she said, “Good Lord, they are cute! Were you using a telephoto to get these?”
"I didn't have anything with me but my pocket camera," he said, his voice taking on a little hint of pride. "I just kept talking to them real soft like and not making any sudden moves so I could get up close. They're just babies. They didn't know what I was, so they weren't scared of me. Of course, as soon as their mama came home, I got snarled at and they skedaddled back on down that hole where she's raising them."
"You really love being out there with your camera, don't you?" she asked.
"Same as you love being in here with your pencils," he said, stretching to retrieve a sketchpad from the coffee table and flipping it open to a startlingly lifelike drawing of a barn owl. "He looks like he could just up and fly off the page."
"You are a nosy man, Josh Baxter," she said, trying to sound cross and failing. "I haven't sketched like that in a long time. I'm just practicing."
"If this is practice, I'm going to be impressed as hell to see something you think is serious," he said.
Coloring in spite of herself, Jenny said, "Thank you," and then got up awkwardly and went to poke at the fire.
"Sugar," he said from behind her, "why do you do that?"
"Do what?" she asked, keeping her back to him.
"Go scurrying off like that when I compliment you on something."
"I have never ‘scurried’ in my life," she said, jabbing at a log.
The Lockwood Legacy - Books 1-6: Plus Bonus Short Stories Page 17
