by Fay Robinson
“That seemed to go okay,” she told him, coming to stand in front of him. He remained in the spot where he’d listened to the remainder of the press conference. He leaned with his back against the wall, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got to admit I’m a bit put out with you, though. Why didn’t you tell me what you planned to do?”
“I was worried about what would happen to you if you didn’t go through with the book. I overheard you talking on the phone with Marcus last night.”
Kate sighed. “Is that what brought this on? My argument with my stupid brother?”
“Partly.” He straightened and ran a hand through his hair. “Boy, I can’t believe the scene in here today. I guess I’m lucky this whole thing didn’t blow up in my face.”
“We’re all lucky. This could have been a disaster. But I think everything’s going to work out fine. I can weave my background material between the letters and produce a book that’s almost autobiographical. It won’t be exactly the one I set out to write, but it’ll be an honest portrayal of your life, and that’s all I ever wanted to do.”
“I had no idea Mom kept my letters.”
“We had a great time going through them this morning.”
“What will your publisher and editor say about this switch?”
“They’ll be thrilled to have exclusive rights to print the material, and since it comes from your mother, its authenticity is above question. The book’ll sell like wildfire.”
“And you’ll make a fortune.”
“No, I want to give what I make to your foundation. Maybe we can use it to build another ranch for the children.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I want to. With the royalties from the book and your songs, we can support both foundations. Think of all the wonderful things we can do.”
“That sounds great.” His forehead furrowed. “But I’m confused about the songs. I don’t remember sending any, and even if I did, it sure wouldn’t have been several hundred.”
“You didn’t. I lied about that part.”
He cocked his head. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? Those are new songs, not old ones.”
“Does it really matter when they were written? They’re still your songs. You said you wished people could hear the ones you’ve composed in the last several years. Well, here’s a way. You can continue to compose songs for as long as you want, and we can even find someone to record them for you. We can see about having someone produce your symphonies, too, if that’s okay. Is that okay?”
She laughed at the slow grin that spread across his face as he realized the implications of what she was saying.
“I thought it might be. Think how perfect this is. You get to compose and have your songs recorded, but you don’t have to live as James Hayes. It really is the perfect solution.”
“It sounds wonderful but—” the grin vanished and was replaced with a worried look “—you lied for me today. You implicated yourself by getting up there and not telling the truth. And you’ll have to continue to lie to your brother, won’t you? Or do you plan to tell him?”
“No, I don’t plan to tell him or anybody. When I weigh the public’s right to know against your right to live normally, I’m sure I’m doing the morally correct thing. You and your family are the only victims of your masquerade, James.”
“But if somebody uncovers it one day—”
“Even if they do, which I don’t think is ever going to happen, it won’t matter. Nobody can hurt us now.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because you told me something fourteen years ago that changed my life, and I believe it as strongly today as I did then.”
“What did I say?”
“You said…people can’t hurt you unless you give them the power to hurt you. And you’re right. We have to refuse to give anybody the power to hurt us. We’re together. And we’re going to stay together forever, no matter what happens. Let them take their best shot at us if they want to, but it won’t do any good.”
He put his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. “I like that ‘together’ part a whole lot.”
“Me, too.” She kissed him, then leaned her head on his chest. “We’ll go forward and not look back.”
“I want that, Kate, but there’s one thing I still have to do. I can’t live with a shadow hanging over my life.”
“I know.”
“Will you come, too?”
“If you need me.”
He hugged her more tightly. “I’ll always need you.”
THESE OLDER CEMETERIES had always seemed like special places to him, with their ornate headstones and words meant to comfort the living. Forest Hills was a work of art, fragrant and colorful during the warm months, but beautiful even on a cold winter day like today.
He parked the truck along one of the narrow drives where hundred-year-old oaks stood guard, remembering the many times he’d come here as a child. Most often it had been with his grandmother Hayes, who’d appointed him her “weed puller” and had dragged him here at least once a month.
Granny would make a gallon of lemonade and they’d spend Sunday afternoon tending the graves of her husband and her babies who’d been born dead. Later, another of her sons had died and been buried here—James’s father—giving them even more reason to visit.
Growing up, James had accepted those visits as part of his duty. But he’d honestly enjoyed coming because Granny would sing while they pulled weeds, and she’d had a wonderful voice. Often she talked to him about his father. He’d only been ten when his father died, but through Granny Hayes’s stories he’d come to know his father well.
Granny Hayes had since died herself and rested in the graveyard with Granny Mag and Pop, his maternal grandparents. And Bret was here now, although it was more difficult to accept that.
In the spring the dogwood trees and azalea bushes would bloom to make this place look more like a garden than a cemetery, but today it was cold and cloudy, and James shivered despite the warm air blowing from the car heater.
He’d called the cemetery office ahead of time and requested the mausoleum be closed to the public for a couple of hours. The staff had placed a sign on the front gate, and that had dispersed the crowd. Only a few fans hung around waiting for the reopening.
“I’ve decided I need to go in there alone,” James told Kate.
She understood why without his having to explain it, as she understood so much about him. She gave him that soft crooked smile he’d come to love. “I’ll wait here,” she said.
“I won’t be long.”
He hesitated, fiddling with the keys in the ignition. Now that it was time to get out and walk inside, he wasn’t sure he could. She didn’t say anything. She offered no words of encouragement. He knew Kate believed that he’d somehow find the strength within himself, and no prompting was necessary.
With his insides in a jumble, he got out of the truck and slowly walked up the cement path to the white-marble mausoleum that stood like a light amid the graying stones and hand-carved statues of the older graves. Arrows and messages marred some of the gravestones. Fans had marked the path to the mausoleum, just as they’d marked the path to the grave before that.
Appeals from the family hadn’t stopped the desecration. The media said it was a way for the hundreds of thousands who visited every year to express their feelings about his death.
The guard at one of the doors checked his identification. “Me and Eddie will be down near the drive so you can have some privacy, Mr. Hayes,” he said. “You take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you.”
The rectangular building allowed visitors to enter one door, walk past the vaults in the wall and exit through a second door. Practicality had been a primary consideration in the design, yet his mother had insisted it also be beautiful. Somehow the architect had fulfilled both needs. The structure could handle crowds without problem, but was also a fitti
ng tribute to the people James loved.
The cemetery sat at the base of the mountain, and he could see his mother’s house above, an ugly thing, he realized suddenly. For the first time he also understood why his mother had selected this site. Every time she looked down from the window seat in the parlor where she liked to sit, she had to look at the tomb of a dead son she couldn’t acknowledge.
Demons. Guilt. Self-punishment. This was what she was talking about last night.
He went inside the mausoleum and shut the door behind him. For a moment he stood there, letting the quiet surround him and his eyes adjust to the dim light. The place was peaceful, though dark. On sunny days the stained-glass windows at the roofline likely let in the light and chased away the gloom, but sunlight today had been nonexistent.
He walked down the corridor to the first of the vaults. Engraved on the stones were the names Margaret Taylor Bridges and Mason Bret Bridges—Granny Mag and Pop, his mother’s parents. Next to them lay Eleanor Jefferson Hayes and Wilson James Hayes, his father’s parents. Beyond them, he found his father, David James Hayes.
He remembered his father as a gentle man with a good sense of humor, who found fulfillment in having a family. His mother often told him that much of his father lived in him, and he supposed that was true, although he’d never thought so, growing up.
He glanced to the end of the corridor. He didn’t have to read the name to know who rested there. Ropes kept fans from touching the stone in the wall, but they’d covered the floor in front of it with flowers, photographs and candles. Slowly he made his way to the vault.
“Hello, Bret.”
Only his mind whispered a reply.
Seeing his own name etched in the stone gave him a strange feeling. One day he’d probably lie here like Bret, behind a stone with the wrong name on it.
“I’ve been meaning to come…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Finding the courage has been hard, considering the things we said to each other that night.”
He unclipped the rope and moved the flowers aside so that he could stand at the stone and touch it. He ran his fingers over the letters.
“I thought for a long time that the reason I couldn’t come here and face you was that I was afraid you wouldn’t forgive me for what I did after the crash—pretending to be you. But that wasn’t the problem. I don’t think you care about that, do you? You’re probably pretty happy to have all these girls come by every day to leave you gifts. You always did like to be the center of attention.”
He smiled sadly.
“Guilt has kept me away, Bret, guilt over not being able to help you with your problems while you were alive. I’ve felt, too, that I somehow caused your death. I know you weren’t happy in life, but I’m not sure why. I’ve agonized about it for years, what I could have done, what I should have done.”
Tears formed. This was harder than he’d ever imagined, and yet he had an almost compulsive need to get it out, to rid himself of all the hurt inside him.
“I wish I could have fixed things for you. I’d have done anything, given you whatever you wanted, if it would have made a difference. But I don’t know what I could have done to make you happy. That was something only you had the power to do. I love you. I’ll always love you, and I’ll always be proud you were my brother, despite the arguments we had. But it’s time to go on with my life and forget about the past. I have to do this. I need a chance at happiness.”
He could barely speak now. The pain was unbearable.
“I hope,” he said in a whisper, “that you can hear me, and that you care enough to listen. Please…brother…you know what I’m asking, what I need.”
He broke down. He put his face against the cool stone and sobbed. But for the first time since his brother died, these tears he shed in happiness. For in his heart, he knew that Bret had heard his plea.
And forgiven him.
EPILOGUE
JAMES AND KATE waited six months after the press conference, and when no one came forward to claim they’d seen him on television, they married. Alone one night with no one but a flop-eared ugly dog as a witness, they stood by a campfire in the middle of a horse pasture and pledged their hearts to one another for eternity.
Kate seemed content with that, but James wanted more. He married her a second time—as Bret—in a quiet ceremony in Chicago, attended by their families. Having made peace with his brother and no longer crippled by guilt, he found he couldn’t deny himself what he wanted most in the world next to Kate. Children.
So Tom came to live with them.
Then Melissa.
Then the twins, Keith and Adam.
Then Kevin.
Then Shondra.
Then LaKeisha.
The following year Kate’s publisher released her book, and it immediately shot to the top of the best-seller lists, introducing James to a new generation of fans. The first album of his songs, sung by ten different artists, coincided with the book’s release. The album debuted at the top of both the pop and country charts.
But number one in the Hayes household was the newest addition: James Bret Henry Hayes, age two months.
“We’ve got to have a bigger house,” Kate said, rubbing her hand across the baby’s dark head as he nursed, “or this family’s got to stop growing. We have no place to put this child when he gets too big for the bassinet.”
James, always fascinated by the intimate giving of life from mother to son, lay down on the bed in front of her and watched. He gave her a disarming grin, the one he knew she couldn’t resist, the same grin he’d used to talk her into filing for the adoption of seven children.
“We’ll build a bigger house,” he said.
“I was afraid you’d choose that option.”
“I’ve already been thinking about it.” He reached over, took a piece of paper from the drawer in the bedside table and unfolded it. “A new house, but one that looks old and has a big front porch with room for rocking chairs. We can sit and rock and grow old together.”
“I like that. How many bedrooms are you planning?”
“Twelve. Maybe thirteen.”
Kate’s eyes widened in horror. “Sweetheart, that’s not a house, that’s a hotel. Think of the cost, the electric bill, the cleaning, the—”
“I know it’s big, but don’t you hate it that Tom has to sleep on the couch when he comes home?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“And the kids will get married one day, and we’ll have a house full of grandchildren.”
“All right, Hayes, don’t push your luck. I’m still getting used to the idea of being a mother. Don’t turn me into somebody’s grandmother.”
“But you’ll be such a cute little grandma. The kids can all call you Granny Kate, and you can teach them how to make peach cobbler.”
She chuckled. “That might be kind of fun.”
“Are we in agreement about the house?”
“I suppose so. Where are you planning to build this monstrosity?”
“I know an old homestead that smells of pine and rosemary.”
“Your ancestors’ land adjacent to Pine Acres?”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s a lovely idea.”
“We should be able to get enough from the sale of this place to build the other house and expand my business. Maybe we could also build you a detached office. I know it must be hard writing and talking back and forth to Marcus when you’ve got screaming kids in the background.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Kate said. “Whatever you want to do is fine. I have one request, though.”
“What’s that?”
“No turrets.”
His lips twitched. “No turrets. I promise. I still can’t believe my mother lived in that house all those years and wouldn’t tell me how much she hated it.”
“Don’t fret about it. Your mom and George love their new house, and the old one’s perfect for the next children’s shelter. Those kids will love living
in a castle.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so. And Ellen is so excited about heading up this project. I think it’s going to be what she needs to get her life back together.”
He nodded in agreement. “I haven’t seen her this happy since she kicked that jerk out.”
Little Jamie’s loud sucking sounds drew their attention, and James leaned closer to have a look.
“He’s perfect, isn’t he?” Kate asked.
“Like his mother.” He kissed her and rolled off the bed to his feet. “I’m going to lock up and check the kids. Be right back.”
Tom, home for the weekend from Auburn University, was in the kitchen studying for his final exams. James stuck his head around the door. “How’s it coming?”
“Almost finished.” Tom rubbed his hands across weary eyes. “I want to read this section one more time, make sure I know it.”
“Okay, but don’t stay up too late. You’ve got a long drive to school tomorrow. Night, son.”
“Night, Dad.”
Dad. The first time one of the children had called him that, he’d felt light-headed from the pleasure. Even now, though he heard himself called Dad a hundred times a day, it still moved him.
In the girls’ room, he checked to make sure Melissa wasn’t sleeping with her head under the pillow again. He rescued Shondra’s bear from the floor and tucked it back under her arm. He covered LaKeisha against the chilly air.
Across the hall, where the boys shared a room, he found Adam already curled up in the bed with his twin, Keith. This child was having more trouble adjusting than the others, and only time and love would cure what ailed him.
In the bottom bunk on the other side of the room, Kevin also had a sleeping partner—Sallie—who had “adopted” him as her own the day he arrived. She slept at the foot of his bed every night.
James’s thoughts drifted, as always during this ritual, to another child who should be sleeping in this room. Even though he’d been unable to provide a home for Henry, he would always carry him in his heart.
He scratched Sallie’s head. “Night, old girl.”
