by Fay Robinson
“Coffee’s fine. Have you seen your son this morning?”
Mrs. Conner peered at Kate over the top of her reading glasses. “Your door was closed, so I assumed he was with you.”
Kate reddened at the implication in the statement. “No, I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“Then he must have gone somewhere with George. He was up and out of the house early this morning, as well. What are you planning for today?”
“I have no idea. I guess whatever he feels comfortable doing.”
Mrs. Conner folded the paper, laying it on the table beside her plate. “Have you given any more thought to your problem with the book?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I’m throwing it in the trash.”
Mrs. Conner’s face reflected her shock. “Are you certain?”
“I don’t see any way around it.” Kate glanced at the door. “Are we alone? Can we talk freely about this?”
“Yes, but keep your voice down. Agnes is in the kitchen.”
“If I turn in the story I originally had,” Kate said softly, “it won’t be complete, and I’d never forgive myself for that or for the dishonesty of it. I could add material James has given me and tell an almost complete story, but I’d need written documentation for it, which I don’t have. And obviously I can’t use him as a source.”
“But he could give the information as Bret, couldn’t he?”
“Too dangerous. He’d come under scrutiny from the media.”
“Perhaps I could be your source. Or pretend to be.”
Kate shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but no. You live with enough deception as it is, and I’m not going to add to it. I’d rather face the consequences of breaking my contract.”
“I’m speechless. This book means so much to you.”
“Some things mean more.”
“And the suspicion your actions will arouse?”
“I see no way to avoid it entirely. But it’s the lesser of two evils.”
Mrs. Conner appeared thoughtful. She sat back in her chair and stared at Kate, those intense blue eyes unreadable.
“Having my son home has been wonderful,” she said finally. “I love those long lovely letters he sends me, but they’re not the same as having him here in person.”
“He told me you two correspond often.”
“Quite often. He’s always been very good about letter-writing. Granny Mag—my mother—forced him to do it when he was younger, and surprisingly, he’s kept it up all these years. I’m thankful because they’re beautifully written and so descriptive they made me feel as if I was with him. ”
“Have you kept many?”
“Oh, every one. Tirades from summers at camp about the awful food. Pleas from his grandparents’ house to get a horse when he got home from his visit. Chronicles from every tour he made with the band. Up until the last few years, he was very open about his feelings. His letters, I suppose, have always been an outlet to express what was too personal to put in his songs. Many of them are more similar to journal entries than letters.”
“A journal?” Kate trembled as she put down her cup.
“Let’s look at them and you’ll see what I mean.”
Kate followed James’s mother to her study. The letters were in a beautiful old trunk in the corner. They pulled them out and placed them on the desk, hundreds of them, tied with blue grosgrain ribbons. She picked up one bundle of letters and looked at the dates. This group went back twenty-five years.
“I often get these out and read through them again. I think there’s one letter you might be particularly interested in,” Mrs. Conner said. “What was the date you met James?”
“March 10, 1987.”
She went through the stacks, scanning several letters, until she found the one she was looking for. “Ah,” she said, smiling. “I remembered this last night when Jamie told me how you and he first met.”
She handed Kate the letter. The first few paragraphs were about inconsequential things. Then came something totally unexpected.
…Some students from Columbia spent time with us last weekend while we were playing in Manhattan. One of them’s kind of a whiz kid. I was afraid she’d be a pest, but she wasn’t at all. I guess because she knows what it’s like to be different. We talked for a long time. When she left, I felt—I don’t know—strange, like I’d lost something important. I’m not sure I believe in kindred spirits, and it’s more likely that the connection I felt to her was loneliness rather than anything mystical, but I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. She was a tiny little thing, probably didn’t weigh more than 100 pounds or so, and she had the biggest green eyes I ever saw and a funny mouth. Pretty, though. She reminded me of those dolls you give Ellen every year for her birthday that are nice to look at but too special to touch. I had a hard time making her laugh at first, but I showed her a picture of Bret with that big catfish and told her what a daredevil he is. She got tickled when I told her about that time he fell out of the tree playing Tarzan and broke his arm. She said one of her brothers did the exact same thing when he was ten. Her name was Katie. I wish I’d thought to get her last name and address, but I didn’t, and Malcolm’s reluctant now to tell me how I can get in touch with her. I only wanted to write and say how much I liked meeting her. He wants me to let it go, though, so I guess I will. Do you think a time will ever come when I can stop worrying about bad press, paternity suits filed by women I’ve never met and pleasing other people? I hope so. I’d like to have a little farm and raise horses and tomatoes, maybe even find a girl like Katie and raise a ton of kids….
Tears streamed in rivers down Kate’s face. James had thought her special, at least at the time.
“Open and read some of these others,” Mrs. Conner said.
Over the next hour they went through all the stacks, picking letters at random and reading them out loud to each other. Some were amusing, with amazingly well-drawn caricatures of people he’d met. Some were sad, expressing his feelings of helplessness at tragic events like Lenny’s illness and Lauren’s suicide.
“His whole life is here,” Kate said. “And in his own words.”
“The letters are yours, Kathryn, for your book. Use them to remind the world how special he is.”
Stunned, Kate couldn’t speak at first. In her mind she saw the book in a new form, her narrative combined with his letters and drawings, and she wanted to squeal with joy. Nothing could be more perfect! But would James go for it? The decision had to be his.
“How,” she said, finding her voice, “can I ever repay you, Mrs. Conner? This is an incredible gift.”
“First, by calling me Marianne. And two, by remembering I’m partial to boys.”
“Boys?”
“Boys. Grandsons. Although a little girl would be nice, too.”
Kate laughed through her tears. “Convincing James might be difficult, but I promise I’ll do my best.”
“We’ll work on him together.”
A knock on the study door made them both quickly wipe their eyes. “Yes? Come in,” Marianne said.
Her husband opened the door, looked at their tear-streaked faces and frowned in confusion. “What on earth is going on in here?”
“We’re having a party,” she said. She walked over and hugged him tightly, confusing him even more. “Kathryn and I have hatched a plan, but we need everyone here to talk about it. Where’s my darling son?”
“I have no idea. Isn’t he here?”
“We thought he was with you,” Marianne told her husband.
“No, I had to run to the club. I haven’t seen him.”
Marianne looked at Kate. Panic showed in her eyes, putting a knot in Kate’s stomach. “I don’t like this. Last night he was talking strangely. I’m afraid he’s thinking of doing something foolish.”
“What did he say?”
Kate never got an answer. The housekeeper came up then, alerting them that there was a reporter on the telephone wanting to speak wit
h Mrs. Conner. “He wants to know if he can get a comment from the family before the press conference at ten,” the woman told her.
Marianne clutched her throat and screamed, “Merciful heavens,” but Kate didn’t hear. She was too busy listening to the anguishing sound of her dreams shattering into a million pieces.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“HURRY, HURRY!” Marianne shouted, but Kate was driving George Conner’s antique Cadillac as fast as she dared, considering she had no idea where she was going. She was a robot following directions. Turn left. Turn right. She swerved to avoid a car slowing to make the same turn, and she didn’t even look before she veered into the other lane.
The hotel where the reporter said he’d been told to be at ten wasn’t that far away, according to Marianne, but they were quickly running out of time. So much depended on getting there before James said anything.
What had he been thinking? If only he’d told her…
Marianne was on the verge of tears. “We’re not going to make it!”
“We’ll make it,” Kate said. But God help them all, she didn’t think they would. She squealed to a stop under the glass canopy of the Marriott, then jumped out and raced toward the door. Marianne surprised her by keeping up.
“Press conference?” she asked the valet.
“Meeting room C, upstairs.” He pointed at the escalator to the right of the lobby.
She handed him the keys to the Caddy and a twenty-dollar bill with instructions to park it. Both women took off at a jog.
“There,” Marianne said. When they reached the top of the escalator, they could see people with television cameras spilling out of a room into the hall. James’s voice came over the microphone.
“I appreciate your coming today on such short notice, but what I have to tell you is of extreme importance.”
Kate ran faster, leaving Marianne behind.
No, James! Don’t do it!
“There’s no good way to ease into this, so I’m just going to say it. James Hayes…is alive.”
Kate made the doorway just as the words left his mouth, and it was like hitting a brick wall. She stopped, unbelieving. She’d been too late. Too late!
Marianne came up beside her and clutched her hand for moral support. They waited, as did James, but the expected reaction didn’t materialize. No gasps. No shrieks of surprise. What they heard, instead, was a tinkling of laughter, starting in the back row and quickly spreading through the room.
“Good one,” somebody said.
A woman nearby leaned over and said to the man next to her, “The guy’s got a weird sense of humor.”
Kate and Marianne looked at each other, and a silent message of thanks and hope passed between them. The reporters thought James was simply breaking the ice before the real announcement. Kate quickly stepped in before James had a chance to do any more damage.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. She picked her way through the crowd to the front. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Kathryn Morgan and I’m a biographer. I’m one of the people who asked you here today.”
James grabbed her arm. “Hold on a minute.”
“Oh, you’re right. I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce Bret’s mother. Mrs. Conner, will you come up here, please?” Heads turned and gazes went to the back of the room.
“Kate…” James said again as his mother hurried forward.
Kate pulled him away from the podium and used the time while the reporters were distracted to tell him about the letters and his mother’s idea. “That means you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
He drew back and looked at her in astonishment—and what she felt sure was relief.
“But the decision is yours,” she added. “You, more than any of the rest of us, will have to live with whatever action you take today. I can’t tell you what to do.”
“You’ll support me, whatever I say?”
“Whatever you say. Whatever you do. Nothing that happens here today can ever change what I feel for you.”
“Remind me when we get home to show you how much I love you.”
“Oh, I definitely will. You can count on it.”
Without hesitation he returned to the podium and told the reporters, “I’m going to step aside and let my mother and Ms. Morgan explain why you’re here today, since they’re overseeing this project.”
Marianne, under a barrage of flashes, took his place. James moved to the side of the room beyond the range of the cameras.
Kate leaned forward to the microphone again. “Thank you for coming. The Hayes family and I have a major announcement about my forthcoming book on James Hayes and his band, Mystic Waters. We wanted to share this with the media in the family’s hometown and give you the opportunity to have the story first. You’ll be scooping everyone. Isn’t that delicious?”
That brought chuckles.
“Through the generosity of the family, certain letters have been placed at my disposal. These are letters written by James Hayes to his mother from the time he was a child up until his death. Not only are the letters insightful and very personal, they contain original poems and drawings.” Inspiration hit her. “And they include songs never before published.”
“Songs?” someone blurted out. A ripple of excitement went through the room.
Kate glanced at Marianne who, despite her surprise at Kate’s wild announcement about the songs, had the good sense to smile and act as if she knew exactly what was going on.
“Yes, songs no one’s ever seen or heard.”
A lady raised her hand. “How many songs?”
“I haven’t counted them, but I would estimate several hundred. And you’ll be particularly delighted to know he composed several complete symphonies during his lifetime, as well.”
The excited reporters scrambled to ask questions. Kate let them for a while and then silenced them with her hand.
“I know you’re all interested in the songs, but until the family decides if they’ll be recorded, they’ve asked me not to release them in written form.” A collective groan of disappointment echoed through the room. “However, I did bring one of the early letters. James wrote it when he was only nineteen and on his first road tour. He was wonderfully naive and impressionable. Would you like to hear it?”
She received an overwhelming response. Taking the letter from her pocket, she unfolded it and handed it to Marianne.
“Would you mind, since it was addressed to you?”
Marianne slipped on her glasses, cleared her throat and began. “‘Dear Mom. A short note this time. We’re on the bus, somewhere in Virginia—I think—and headed to Indiana. The land here is a lot like Tennessee, with hills reaching right up into the clouds and miles and miles of nothing but trees.
“‘It’s not all pretty, though. Lots of people live in houses that a good wind might blow away, and I don’t know how they stay warm. Makes me feel sad and kind of guilty, too. I’m spending all that money on the castle and these people have so little. But you’ve been poor, too, and you deserve something nice, so don’t mind my crazy talk. I remember what it was like after Dad died and you had to give up the place on Tennessee Avenue. I don’t want you to ever feel that bad again.
“‘When you get a chance, let me know how the house is coming along, okay? Or take some pictures if you think of it.
“‘Did you see anything about the Richmond concert on the news? You wouldn’t believe how the fans treated us! Like we were royalty or something, although they got a little crazy and wouldn’t stay behind the barriers. Malcolm thinks I shouldn’t stop and talk to them anymore because it causes security problems, but I hate not to do it. That’s the only reason I’m here—the fans. I want them to know how much I appreciate them listening to my music.
“‘I feel bad about missing Bret’s birthday, but I’m glad he liked the electric guitar. He wants to join me on tour for a few days during spring break, but he’s afraid you won’t allow it. Will you please say yes? I sw
ear I won’t let anything happen to him. Malcolm will be watching him, too, and you know what a good guy he is. I’ll ask Malcolm to call you soon, so think about it. I’d really like Bret to come. I don’t know when I’ll get home again and I miss him. I miss all of you so much.
“‘It’s lonely on the road. The guys are great, but being together all the time is rough. We fight about stupid things. Webb wrote a couple of songs and I don’t think they’re good enough to use, and neither do Billy and Tyler. So now Webb’s mad at all of us. Lenny’s acting weird, too. He doesn’t seem to ever sleep. But don’t say anything to his grandmother, because I don’t want her to worry about him. We’ll all be okay after a break.
“‘Well, I’d better go. Tell George and Ellen I love them and hope to see them soon. I love you, too, Mom. I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to call, but maybe I can find a minute on the bus to write again. I promise I’ll try hard. Love, Jamie.”’
When Marianne finished, Kate stepped back up to the microphone.
“That’s a small sampling of what you’ll see in the book, words straight from the heart by a man who cared deeply about his fans, missed his family and had to deal with the guilt of success at a very young age. He wasn’t perfect, just very human like the rest of us. He made mistakes, and he paid for them in a very tragic way. But I want to remind everyone in this room—James Hayes was a genius. He was truly one of the greatest musical talents we’ll ever see, and I think that’s much more important than any problems he might have had in the last few years of his life. I thank all of you for coming today. I hope to see you again when the book is released next year. If you have further questions, I’ll stay and answer them individually.”
That ended the press conference. Mrs. Conner took her husband’s car back to the house so she could give him the good news in person, but Kate stayed and gave one-on-one interviews to anyone who asked, hoping the photographers would use photos and video of her, rather than James, in their reports.
After forty-five minutes, the reporters packed up their gear and left Kate and James alone in the room. Kate closed the doors so they couldn’t be overhead by the hotel staff.
