Roses

by Leila Meacham

  He picked up the recorder. It had been a good idea… his grandfather taping his story. Whatever might befall him now, God forbid, there would be a record of the truth. He’d made mistakes—what man didn’t?—but they were forgivable, and God knew he’d paid for them in full measure. Matt supposed he could send a copy to Rachel, but she’d refuse to play it, and even if she did, he doubted that it would change her mind… give her pause, maybe, but not sway her. She might even use it against his grandfather in court as an admission of his guilt.

  He removed the cassette and pocketed it. But there was someone else who must hear it—someone for whom it might make all the difference.

  Chapter Seventy-two

  The next morning—bored, frustrated, and hungry—Rachel hung around in her motel room until nine o’clock before deciding that Percy was not going to call. On the off chance he might, she took time for breakfast at the coffee shop, stopping by the registration desk on her way back to ask if there had been a message for her. The fresh-eyed day clerk informed her there was not. Chagrined, she returned to her room, threw her things into the car, and headed for Dallas.

  The silence from Warwick Hall did not bode well. It sent the message that after reading the evidence against him last night, Percy had not caved. But he would, she told herself. It had been foolish of her to have expected a response so soon. Percy Warwick was not an easy man to make cave, even with the odds stacked against him. He’d need time for Amos and a team of the best lawyers he could hire to convince him of the folly of refusing her demands.

  Once clear of Marshall, she dialed Taylor’s office on the car phone. “On the face of it, you’ve got a viable case, Rachel,” he told her when she’d reported her courthouse findings. “Did you speak with Percy?”

  “No, his grandson. I stated my proposition and gave him copies of the letters. When his grandfather reads them, he won’t want to go to trial.”

  “You’re convinced of that?”

  “I am.” Rachel decided not to mention that she’d expected to have Percy’s verbal capitulation before she left Marshall. “I told Matt I’d give his grandfather a week to make his decision. If I haven’t heard from him by next Monday morning, I’m going to file suit.”

  “Did his grandson think he’d be amenable to making the trade?”

  She considered her answer. “ ‘Amenable’ is not the word he’d choose. Matt’s afraid of the effect that giving Somerset back will have on him.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  He knew which buttons to push, Taylor did. She said with more asperity than she felt, “I feel the consequences of the alternative would be inestimably worse. I’m sure he’ll not choose that.”

  Taylor’s silence led her to believe that he did not share her assurance. “I’m assuming, then, that you and the grandson did not part on cordial terms?”

  Once again she selected her words carefully. “He’s… very hurt. We were friends once.”

  “Friends make the worst enemies, Rachel.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth. “Uh, Taylor, it’s like the Indy 500 out here. I’d better hang up.”

  “I simply want you to be aware of what you’re giving up for what you’ll be getting,” he said, calmly ignoring her evasion. “Carrie’s impression from meeting Matt Warwick was that you were much more than friends.”

  “Is this conversation necessary to my case, Taylor?”

  “And also of what you’re letting yourself in for if you go through with this,” Taylor went on, undeterred. “The Warwicks could make living in Howbutker very difficult for you.”

  Rachel forced a bitter laugh. “Well, that’s nothing new to the ancestry of the Tolivers and Warwicks. We come from warring houses.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime. Meanwhile, I’ll be in Dallas around noon.”

  “Well, we might as well get started. Don’t come to the office. I’ll meet you at Carrie’s.”

  He rang the bell of the town house within minutes of her arrival. He entered wearing a rumpled suit and loosened tie and carried two white delicatessen sacks. His immediate objective was the thermostat.

  “My daughter thinks she’s a polar bear,” he grumbled, adjusting the temperature to a higher setting. He held up the sacks. “Lunch. I’ll make some hot tea to settle down the goose bumps. What’s in those boxes I saw in the SUV?”

  Following him into the kitchen, she said, “Ledgers in my grandfather’s handwriting. Also private letters and memorabilia of my great-aunt’s. I thought they might be helpful, and I… didn’t want outsiders pawing through them.” At Taylor’s raised brow, she added defensively, “It’s the least and last thing I’ll ever do on her behalf.”

  “If you say so. Bringing those things was a good idea. We might find something useful.” He took off his suit coat, rolled up his sleeves, and stuck the teakettle under the spout. “Hungry?”

  “No, but I’ll try. I’ve got to get back into shape.” She rubbed her arms. “Not only to face off with the Warwicks, but for body heat.”

  Taylor gazed around the clinically clean kitchen, whose all-white decor was prevalent throughout the house. “This igloo can’t be very cozy for a farmer.”

  “The company makes up for it, but I won’t be here long—only until Monday.”

  “That so?” He turned up a flame under the teakettle. “Then what?”

  “I’ll go to Howbutker and move into the Ledbetter house on the plantation. I’m sure Percy won’t object. It’s used as the manager’s office now, but I plan to renovate it for my residence. I’ve always wanted to live on Somerset.”

  Taylor opened a cabinet to take out cups and saucers. “You’re pretty sure Percy will go along with the trade, aren’t you.”

  “Aren’t you? What defense could the Warwicks possibly have against my claim?”

  Taylor seemed not to hear her. He set out their plastic container lunches from the paper sacks. “Boiled shrimp salad for you, a fried shrimp po’boy for me.”

  “Why aren’t you answering my question?” she asked as he added boiling water to the teapot.

  “Because you don’t want to hear that this is not a slam dunk,” he said, “and I don’t want to ruin your appetite. Let’s talk about it on a full stomach.”

  After clearing the table, Taylor said, “Now, let’s get down to business,” and asked to see her photocopies of the court records. “Did Matt Warwick say why Percy, knowing he was committing fraud, bought your father’s land?”

  “Yes, it was as you’d guessed. Times were hard.” Briefly she related Matt’s explanation, adding that Ollie DuMont had not known the sale was fraudulent.

  “Why didn’t he simply accept a loan from Percy if he was so desperate?” Taylor asked.

  Rachel explained the families’ “neither a borrower nor a lender be” policy. “Percy told Matt that Ollie would have lost the store rather than take a cent from him.”

  Taylor gave her a curious look. “Why don’t you believe him?”

  She frowned crossly. “What difference does it make whether I do or don’t? I have no doubt that Percy wanted to help Uncle Ollie out, but his primary consideration was for the Warwick Lumber Company. That section was a perfect location for his pulp mill, and he saw Uncle Ollie’s predicament as a way to get it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Percy Warwick I know.”

  Angrily, Rachel pushed back her chair. “Whose side are you on, anyway, Taylor?” She grabbed the teakettle and thrust it under the full stream from the faucet. “I get the distinct impression that you’re riding with the hounds but your heart is with the fox.”

  “I’m on your side, Rachel,” Taylor said, his glance unperturbed, “but it’s my job to play devil’s advocate. I must point out the weaknesses in our case so that we can prepare for them—because I can assure you, the defense will. They will present the extenuating circumstances as a favorable motive for Percy acting as he did and point out that i
t was not surprising for a man of his caliber…”

  She set the kettle back on the stove and turned to him, a hand on her hip. “And you will present the extenuating circumstances as having no bearing on the crime, right?”

  Flames were shooting up around the base of the kettle. “Right,” he said, leaving his chair to lower the gas. He patted her shoulder. “I’m going outside to bring in those two boxes. Don’t burn the house down before I get back.”

  They sorted through the contents of the boxes together, drinking cups of scalding tea. Taylor declared the ledgers ample corroboration of Miles’s signature and rummaged carefully through the other box to look for anything that might further force Percy to return Somerset. His letters and notes to Mary were such items. They proved their affair and the undying affection that had influenced Mary to bequeath the plantation to him rather than to her expected heir. “Sympathy value for our side,” he said. “The judge will instruct the jury not to be swayed by sentiment, but they’re human. The fact that you were bypassed in favor of Percy will be irrelevant to the case, but it will explain why you want something that once belonged to your family.” He unwrapped the collection of knitted strips and pink satin ribbons. “What is this?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rachel said. “It looks as if somebody had an afghan in mind but never got around to completing the project. I know it wasn’t Aunt Mary. She was forced to learn needlepoint in finishing school and avoided needles and thread like sandburs.”

  Taylor fingered the cream strips. “These must have been knitted by someone she cared about for her to have kept them. Her mother, perhaps?”

  “I don’t know. I never heard Aunt Mary mention her mother, but in any event, she wouldn’t have chosen pink ribbons for her daughter’s blanket.”

  “Why not?”

  She wondered how best to explain. “Well, because in our families—the Tolivers and Warwicks and DuMonts—pink represents unforgiveness. You won’t find the word in the dictionary, but that’s what it is. Red to ask forgiveness, white to say forgiveness granted, pink to say forgiveness withheld. That’s why this must be the work of someone outside the family.”

  Taylor gazed at her, clearly fascinated but uncomprehending. “So what do you folks do? Fly those colors from your housetops to express your sentiments?”

  Rachel laughed. “No. We give roses.” She reached into the box and withdrew a book. “You can read about it in here. It will explain what I’m talking about better than I ever could and why the Toliver name and Somerset mean so much to me.”

  Taylor read the title aloud. “Roses. I’m intrigued, Rachel. I’ll start it tonight.” He pulled out a kitchen chair. “Now park yourself. You’re going to make two columns headed A and B,” he instructed, and took a legal pad and a pencil from his briefcase. “A will represent the defendant’s side, B the plaintiff’s. If this case goes to trial, the jury will hear, determine, and interpret the facts in the case. We must make sure they’re favorable to our side. To do that, we have to anticipate and prepare for every fact the opposition plans to use in their defense. You say that Percy wanted to meet with you to explain why your great-aunt left him the plantation. You should have met with him, Rachel—”

  “No! He has nothing to say that I want to hear.”

  “Even if it strengthens his case?”

  “How could it? If our case hinges on whether or not the sale was legal, I’d like to see his side beat mine.”

  Taylor slid over the legal pad and pencil. “That’s what your two columns will help decide. Write Percy’s name next to A and yours by B.”

  Rachel wrote. “I think I know where this is going,” she said. “What do you want me to write under Percy’s?”

  “If you have to ask, that’s why we’re doing this. Percy Warwick is a respected and beloved business tycoon, a man who’s played by the rules all his life. His reputation is spotless.”

  “Until now.” Under A, Rachel wrote, “Spotless reputation.” “Now, what about B?”

  “You tell me.”

  She gave him an injured look. “Well, I may not be as beloved or well-known, but I’m honest.”

  “No doubt,” Taylor said, “but the defense will present you as a woman from a poor home in West Texas that her rich great-aunt took to her heart when she was a little girl. She clothed you, educated you, employed you, loved you, and left you an inheritance worth the value of a small country. What more could she have done for you? And now, on top of all her generosity, you want the land she sold to Percy Warwick in the Depression that provided jobs for hundreds of Howbutker County residents and saved the livelihoods of the two people entrusted to care for your father.”

  “All right, I see your point,” she said. “I don’t have sympathy on my side—only the hard, cold facts. But I’m not after his property. I’m after Somerset. That’s what I’ve hired you to do, Taylor—convince Percy and his lawyers that the facts don’t give him a chance of winning in court.”

  The lawyer carefully set his cup in the saucer. “When we get through with this list, you’ll see that I may not be able to convince them of that. They’d have good reason to take their chances. The only convincing I can do is to make sure they understand that you will sue if Percy is not willing to trade. But remember, Rachel, that win or lose your suit, Somerset is lost to you anyway. The court cannot force Percy to return it to you.”

  “Won’t that work to our advantage?” she asked. “I have nothing to lose. Isn’t that a powerful spot to be in?”

  “It is if you’re sure you have nothing to lose.”

  Rachel regarded him in exasperation. If she couldn’t convince her own lawyer that she meant business, how would he convince Percy’s? “All I need to know, Taylor—list or no list—is whether I have a good chance of winning if we go to court.”

  Taylor met her irritated gaze with a benign smile. “Not to appear immodest, but considering that I’m representing you, I’d say that, yes, you have a good chance of winning—if you want to call it that. You could end up with a huge award for damages or be awarded the return of your father’s property along with most everything it supports.”

  Rachel relaxed with a sigh of relief. “Then that should be persuasion enough for Percy Warwick. I know he looks good on paper, Taylor, but the fact is he and my great-aunt defrauded my father.”

  “So what?” he asked idly, and looked ready to duck if Rachel threw the teapot at him.

  “So what?” She appeared ready to grab the handle. “So Aunt Mary and Percy’s deception cost me my mother, that’s so what!”

  “Ah,” Taylor said, “now we’re getting somewhere.” He drew the pad toward him and picked up the pencil. “Tell me about that, Rachel. Tell me what the court should hear from your side.”

  Chapter Seventy-three

  The week dragged by. No word came from Percy. Rachel grew to detest the cold ambience of the town house, spending most of her time on the sun-warmed patio waiting for the phone to ring. The day after her return from Marshall, Taylor had telephoned Amos to introduce himself and leave his private number. Amos had wedged a stick in their spokes when he said that Percy would contact Rachel personally with his decision—a move that had rendered her a virtual prisoner in the house since she was then obliged to hang by the phone. She angrily told Taylor that it was a maneuver calculated to give Percy a last chance to justify himself, but if he tried, she’d refer him to Taylor’s office and hang up.

  But so far, Percy had not allowed her that opportunity.

  Her anxiety and loneliness had deepened by the day. At first it had seemed a good idea, while she was still so shaky, to live with a friend who could provide emotional support and comfort in the uncertain days ahead. Now, in less than a week, Rachel had come to regret accepting Carrie’s invitation to move into the extra bedroom. The all-white surroundings reminded her of a medical lab, and Carrie was rarely around to offer the companionship she’d expected. She was gone all day—first to her demanding job at the public relations
firm where she was in charge of new accounts—and in the evenings as well, either working late or meeting clients for dinner.

  “Lamb chop, I’m so sorry!” Carrie had wailed Thursday night when she came home late to find Rachel washing the pan used to make herself another omelet. “I had no idea when I asked you to move in that I’d be so busy. But I’ll tell you what. We’re going to a party tomorrow night, then out shopping Saturday and meeting some friends of mine for dinner. Percy can leave his message on the answering machine. No buts about it, now. I insist. You’re starting to grow algae!”

  That night—or rather, in the wee hours of Friday morning—Rachel had said to herself that if she could only get through the next three days, come Monday, she was out of here and out of Carrie’s and her father’s hair. Percy would have called by then, agreeing to her terms, and she’d discontinue Taylor’s services and move to the Ledbetter house.

  Somehow she’d managed the party at somebody’s penthouse, Carrie’s shopping spree on Saturday, and dinner that night with her friends at Old Warsaw. Both nights they’d returned to messages left only for Carrie.

  Today was Sunday, and she’d awakened with the sensation that ants were crawling under her skin. She’d shivered her way into the kitchen to make coffee and found a note from Carrie. Brunch at the Mansion on Turtle Creek was off. She’d been summoned back to the office to meet a looming Monday deadline. Good! Rachel thought. Feeling as she did, she would have been miserable company over champagne and eggs Benedict.

  The day inched along. She could not sit still. With metronomic regularity, she was in and out through the sliding door of the patio. She drank endless cups of hot tea to soothe her nerves and warm her raised flesh. The phone, hanging in pristine white from the white kitchen wall, became her most dreaded enemy, her dearest friend. What was taking Percy so long? What was there to think over? He had only one choice, and he knew it. Steadfastly, she refused to consider the unbelievable—that he would reject her offer.

  Back sitting on the patio for a countless time, she heard a neighborhood church bell begin its Sunday toll. Eleven times the chimes rang out, sending an ominous chill through her. Percy would wait until the eleventh hour to inform her of his decision, she was now convinced. Simply to keep her on pins and needles, he’d keep his hand off the receiver until tomorrow morning shortly before her lawyer’s office opened, then telephone. She should not expect a call before then. That’s when the phone would ring.