I looked at the floor-to-ceiling stacks of books all bound in dark shades of leather or linen. It seemed a daunting task to go through all of them. I said to Elliott, “We need a plan of attack.”
He agreed. “I’ll start on one end you start on the other? We’ll meet in the middle.”
I stood up, ready to dive in. “I say we ignore the law books and just look for personal journals.”
“Deal.”
Within ten minutes we were all hard at work and the room was silent except for the tapping of Logan’s keyboard and the flipping of pages. The judge kept copious notes about all of his cases and rulings. There were more journals than I was expecting, but so far all of the ones we had found dealt with his professional life and not his personal life.
It was interesting reading through them and having a peek into a different time and into the mind of the grandfather I had never met. He was very clearly on the side of integration and social justice. His notes told the story of a man with a sharp mind and a sense of humor in the courtroom. But they gave absolutely no insight into his private life, so they really weren’t helping me to discover anything new about my mother.
After a few hours of scanning through very hard to read scribbled journals with ink-blotted pages, my eyes were starting to blur. I hadn’t found a single mention of my mother or of anything related to the judge’s personal life. I checked the front page of the book I was reading again; it was dated 1964. I asked Elliott what year he was reading through and he checked the front of the book in his hand. It was from 1958.
I said, “I haven’t found anything.” I was sitting on the floor with several books around my outstretched legs. “You?” I asked Elliott.
He held back a yawn. “I’m finding a lot of notes in this one about changing his will to include a stipend for a woman named Maudy and her son. He paid off the mortgage on her house and put aside money for her son’s college tuition.”
“Maudy? Do you think he had a girlfriend?”
Elliott closed the book and reshelved it. “No. I think Maudy was probably his maid. That’s what it sounds like anyway. She was probably more like a member of the family than just a maid.”
I stood up and gathered all the books I needed to put back. I said, “I know. I know. I read The Help.”
I heard Elliott laugh behind me at that. “That’s a terrible example. They were awful to their help.”
I turned around to face him. “They weren’t all bad, were they?” He was still laughing as he nodded his head. I tossed a ball of paper at him which he caught mid-flight.
Logan defended me. “The kids were always good to the maids, right?”
I felt vindicated. “Ah ha! See?”
Elliott acquiesced. “Okay, okay.” He shelved the book he had been reading. “Well, at least in this case it sounds like your mother and her parents were kind to Maudy.”
I had always wondered who had helped to raise my mom after her mother died and now I had a name for the faceless woman. Maudy.
As I put the last book back on the shelf, I double-checked the numbers on the spines. The journals went from volume 64 to volume 68. There were three books missing. I checked the rest of the bookcase to see if they had been misplaced, but they weren’t there.
“There are three missing. They would be the end of nineteen sixty-five and all of nineteen sixty-six.” My imagination ran wild and I was quite sure that the missing volumes were full of tidbits about my mother and anecdotal stories about her life. I even imagined photographs tucked into the pages that would come fluttering out if you opened the books. I was always imagining that I would stumble across a collection of photos of my mother’s early life. They were the stuff of legend to Georgia and me, as mythical as unicorns. Of course there was no evidence to support the idea that these missing journals held anything of interest. All of the books we had found contained only notes about his work, but because they were missing I had an urgent need to find them.
Elliott and I searched quickly through the shelves running our hands along all the spines looking for the missing volumes. They were not misplaced; they were gone.
He could see the frustration on my face and tried to make me feel better. “You know they’re just more of the same.”
I sat back down at the table with Logan. “You’re probably right.” I picked up the small stack of papers that Logan had printed out. Elliott rested a comforting hand on my shoulder for a moment before sitting down with us.
The first thing Logan had found was my mother’s birth certificate. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, but I couldn’t stop staring at the signatures from her mother and father. My grandmother’s writing was elegantly formal. It looked like calligraphy, especially compared to my grandfather’s scrawl that I had been trying to decipher all morning. They were starting to seem like real people to me for the first time in my life.
The next printout was my grandfather’s death certificate. I had never known he had died of complications due to gastric cancer, the fancy name for stomach cancer. So he had died of the same thing as my mother. A cold chill shot through me as I read that.
What was it like for her to watch her father die of stomach cancer and then develop the exact same disease? Did he suffer the way she did? Did he fight it the way she never did?
I sighed and chewed on my pen. This was a depressing line of inquiry. I glanced at the next printout; it was my grandmother’s death certificate. She died of lung cancer in 1956 when my mother was ten years old. I knew this event had forever changed my mother. I knew that seeing that coffin lid clamp shut was the reason she could not tolerate small spaces. But I only knew that because our father had told us when we were little so that we would stop teasing her about it and stop hiding under the bed. I rested my chin on my hand and found myself staring off into space. Elliott was accidentally in my field of vision.
He wore glasses when he was reading through the books but not when he was reading on the computer screen. He had to keep putting them on and taking them off. When he needed them again his hands would go through a well-practiced pat down: head, pocket, table, until he landed on them. Sometimes when he was concentrating on what he was reading his eyebrows would furrow and he would purse his lips. Elliott looked up and caught me staring at him. He kicked me lightly under the table. “Get to work, missy. No pay for slackers.”
I smiled at that and asked him, “What are you reading?”
Elliott scooted his chair slightly closer to mine and showed me the filings for the judgeship campaigns that Logan had printed out. There were well-documented lists of his campaign staffers and we found my mother’s name on each list starting when she was twelve years old.
As we flipped through the pages he said, “What do you think a twelve-year-old girl was doing on an election campaign?”
“Knowing my mother she was probably knocking on doors and demanding that people vote for her father.”
He smiled. “So you get your feisty spirit from your mom?”
“I am not feisty.”
“I beg to differ.”
I showed him the copies of the death certificates from my grandparents. Elliott put his hand on my knee under the table in a show of concern. “Is this hard for you? I mean do you feel like you just lost your mom and now here you are, in a way, losing the whole rest of the family?”
“Not really. It feels a little bit like we grew up in a place that isn’t real. I can’t really explain it.” I just shrugged. “But it also feels like I’m getting to know a part of my mom that I never knew before.” I pointed to the printout of the campaign boundary map. “I never knew she worked for her dad’s campaigns.”
I found myself leaning into Elliott as we traced the map showing the boundary lines of the 1958 state judge election. I was having a hard time concentrating. I was thinking that I didn’t really care one bit about the boundary lines of the 1958 election, but I didn’t say that. Actually, I didn’t say anything. I was sitting so close to him
that we were touching down the entire length of our legs. He smelled like soap and old books and there was black ink smudged on his thumb. His hand was still on my knee. I was having the urge to brush his hair out of his eye.
He squeezed my leg a little and said, “Or that her hometown was under a lake?”
I smiled and looked at him. His eyes were so green, I hadn’t noticed that before. My heart was racing and I hoped he couldn’t sense it. I said, as casually as I could, “Yeah. Or that.”
He leaned in a tiny bit closer and said in an almost whisper, “Olivia, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Logan, who I forgot was even in the room with us, shouted, “Whoa!” I jumped away from Elliott as he simultaneously slammed both of his hands on the table.
My heart was pounding as I looked at her and waited for her to fill us in on whatever was so important that it ruined the little moment we were having. Or maybe saved us from the moment we were having. I started chewing on my pen again.
“What, Lo!”
She looked back and forth between Elliott and me. “I found an article about that floating church steeple and there’s a picture of it in the lake. You know, the haunted one? Guess where the church used to be.” She looked back and forth between us again. I didn’t really care where that church used to be. I wanted to know what Elliot was about to say to me. Logan read from the article: “On the disputed line between the Forrest property and Rutledge Ridge. That’s us, right? Rutledge Ridge.”
I said, “Yes, it was called the Rutledge Ridge in the garden club books too. That must be what they called the hilltop where the house was.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. My mind was stuck a few seconds back in time and Elliott’s hand was on my leg and I felt like he was getting ready to tell me something. Or ask me something.
I glanced at Elliott and we both suppressed a nervous smile. I said, “It’s getting kind of late and I know you had work to catch up on today. And Logan and I”—I tried to sound casual to the point of complete disinterest—“are going to look at some lake houses for rent. I have some things I still want to . . . figure out . . . around here.”
Elliott’s mouth moved into a tiny smile on one side. “So you’re going to be here a bit longer?”
“Yes. Well, you know, I’m thinking about it. Georgia and I want to spread the ashes on my mom’s birthday. It’s at the end of the month. I was thinking I might stick around till then, see what I can find out.”
He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck; he looked nervous. “I’m glad to hear that.” He nodded, as if he seemed to be deciding something. “And I may have to go to Atlanta for a few days. Actually, I know I do. I’ll call you when I get back? Is that okay?”
“Sure. Of course you can.” I felt tense for some reason. Why did he suddenly have to go to Atlanta? For a few days no less. I tried to sound nonchalant as I said, “Logan and I are just planning to take it easy for a few days. See what rental houses we can find on the lake.”
“Good. Okay. Good.” Elliott stood up. “Let me just tell them to pull the car around.”
I was chewing on my pen as I watched him walk out of the room. Not sure what any of that meant.
My mental dilemma was interrupted by Logan. She said, “Gah, Liv.” She leaned over the table toward me.
“What?”
Logan put her pen to her mouth and started sucking it then chewing on it. She was making fun of me.
Oh that. “I know it’s a bad habit. I chew on my—”
She cut me off with a look on her face that told me I had completely missed her point. She leaned in farther and said, “I don’t think Elliott can take it.”
“Oh my God, Logan. Inappropriate.” I was trying to act sufficiently horrified but I had to stop myself from laughing. She was only fourteen. I wasn’t sure if she even understood her innuendo. I threw my pen at her. “Shut up.”
I walked over to the heavy French doors and opened them up to the small balcony overlooking the rear of the club. I stepped outside and was momentarily blinded by the sun reflecting off the water in the pool. It was obviously time for adult swim; a band of small children was lining the edge of the water all staring at the lifeguards and waiting for them to blow their whistles.
I could hear the thwack of tennis balls being hit somewhere out of sight to my right. I leaned out to try to catch a glimpse of the courts. They were beyond my reach, but on the side of the building I noticed a trellis-covered loggia leading away from the clubhouse and out toward the low grassy hills. The trellis was smothered in huge purple wisteria blossoms. As I was staring at the trellis a familiar shape walked out into the sunlight. It was Emory.
He caught me staring at him and waved up at me. I felt like I had been caught someplace I shouldn’t be. I raised my hand in a small wave and went back into the room.
I was gathering up my things when the door opened behind me. I turned expecting to see Elliott, but it was Emory.
He smiled at us and walked straight over to Logan. “Good morning, ladies.” He put his hand out. “And you must be Olivia’s niece.”
Logan limply shook his hand and nodded as I introduced her to Emory Bryant.
I said, “Hello again.”
He looked around the room, scanning the shelves, glancing at our piles of papers, taking it all in. “Researching, I assume? Any luck?”
“We’re finding out bits and pieces.” I didn’t want to lay all my cards out with Emory for some reason. “I did want to ask you something, though. How did you know that my mother was from Huntley?”
His face was completely still but he seemed to pause longer than was customary before answering. “It was Elliott. He referred to your family as the Huntley Rutledges when he introduced us at the marina.”
“Oh, right. I suppose he did.”
Logan piped up. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Bryant?” He raised his eyebrows, waiting. “Your golf course is right by my grandmother’s old property. How long have you owned that? I’m just wondering because we read an article about this little church that was on the disputed line between the Rutledges and the Forrests. Do you know anything about that? Or anything about the old church that used to be there?”
Emory responded without actually answering her question. “That dispute was never really settled. The property line was delineated by a stream that apparently used to change course frequently when it would flood.”
I asked, “So when, exactly, did you buy the property?”
Emory kept talking, ignoring me. “I actually donated that parcel of land where your mother’s house was to the historical society to create a buffer between the Forrests’ property and my golf course.”
I said, “You didn’t want a Hatfield-McCoy feud on your hands either?”
He looked at me pointedly. “I didn’t want anyone making false claims on the property that I spent a lifetime creating for my family.”
Elliott returned and Emory took that as his cue to leave. When he was gone Logan said, “That guy makes me nervous. He’s like super intense.”
Elliott shrugged it off. “He’s not technically supposed to be in the Reading Room. Maybe it made him seem a little off.”
I moved over to the table and helped Elliott pack up our things. “Emory’s not a Stag? You mean there’s a club in this town where he’s not a member?”
Elliott answered, “You have to be a bachelor when you’re put up for the Stags and he was already married when he became a member of the club.”
Logan closed the door and looked visibly relieved to know that she was safe from Emory. She let out a breath and said, “Super creepy dude.”
TWELVE
We were all three quiet as Elliott drove us back to Tillman from the Fells. I would imagine we all had our own reasons for the silence. We pulled up to the inn and Logan hopped out. I made a show of collecting my things so that I could have a minute alone with Elliott.
He smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry I have to leave town so s
uddenly. But I need to go take care of this. I’ll call you as soon as I get home.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” I had a feeling he was heading off to answer that ringing telephone. But what was he planning to say to her? “We’ll um, I mean Logan and I, we’ll just see you when you get back.”
He nodded and smiled. Then we sat there for a second unsure whether to hug or kiss or high five. I just laughed at myself and waved dumbly and then climbed out of the car.
I caught up to Logan and we made plans for lunch. She was chattering away endlessly while I pushed the food around my plate. We meandered through the town, stopping in a few shops. I bought a scented candle for Betty Chatham as a thank-you gift for the books she had given me. When we got back to the inn Logan went up to take a nap. I found a secluded bench off the town square and sat there, thinking.
It was an hour before I finally dialed Leo. When he answered I could tell he was busy; he was pacing in some faraway office in San Francisco or Silicon Valley. I wasn’t even sure where these meetings were taking place. I could hear his shoes tap over a hardwood floor then disappear onto lush carpet before turning around and retracing the journey.
I was hoping he would spare some time. “I can tell you’re in the middle of something. I hear you pacing. I just, I thought we should talk . . . about everything that’s going on.”
Papers were being shuffled and flipped. “I know, Livie. I want you to tell me how it’s going but I’m really pressed right now. Why don’t you send me an e-mail later and flesh it out for me. Send me some more pictures of that church you found.”
An e-mail? Seriously? I said, “It was a cemetery at my mom’s house, not a church.”
“Right. Listen, I’m sorry but I have to run.”
“Leo, we really need to talk.”
“Olivia”—when he used my full name I knew he was getting irritated—“you’re down there with no schedule and no deadlines and you want to chat, but try to be respectful of my time.” That was a line he had cribbed from the therapist we used to go to. It was one of his favorites and he used it all the time. “I’m doing real work today and I’m about ten minutes away from having to deliver some bad news to these people. I can’t talk right now. I will call you later.” Click.
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