Fences: Smith Mountain Lake Series - Book Three

by Inglath Cooper

  Angela looks up in surprise. “I have no idea.”

  “I heard you talking in the foyer. Did you ask her?”

  “Do you think she would have told me if I had?” She aims her voice at neutral, but fails to keep the edge from it.

  “I won’t have her making a spectacle of this family,” Judith says. “Jeffrey has been gone no more than a—”

  “Year, Mother. He’s been gone a year. Of his own choosing, I might add.”

  Judith shoots up from the chair, tightening the belt to her white robe with two precise motions. “I will not tolerate that kind of belligerence from you, young lady. You would do well to remember it.” She leaves the room then, a cloud of wounded disapproval in her wake.

  Angela stares after her mother, flinching at the quiet click of the office door, the sound more effective than a slam.

  A wave of resentment rolls over her. She banks it down with well-practiced resolve. It does no good to buck the system. One goes along to get along.

  She puts her hand on the computer mouse, clicks on old mail. Opens the letter she’d received at work earlier that day.

  Old memories fade, but never really go away, do they?

  The words send a chill through her now, just as they had the first time she’d read them.

  She backs out of her e-mail, clicking over to documents, where she’d stored the attached file that came with the message.

  The photo shows a younger version of her sister-in-law with Tate Callahan. Both smiling back at her. A moment of happiness forever frozen in a single snapshot.

  The email address isn’t one she knows. Who would have sent this to her? And why?

  Angela stares at the picture. How many times as a young girl had she wished for Tate to look at her that way? Wondered what Jillie had that she didn’t.

  She tries to dredge up the old hatred, wrap herself in it so the memories don’t hurt so much. But the hatred doesn’t come. The only emotion she can summon is regret.

  Twenty-Two Years Ago

  JEALOUSY WAS ABOUT to eat a hole inside her.

  Angela stood beside the Stone Meadow Farm horse trailer, tidying the braids of her horse’s mane, her fingers quick and nimble at the task.

  The Cross Country Farm Classic was held every fall on the first Saturday in October at Smith Mountain Lake. Angela had been entering the show since she was six and had consistently won blue ribbons every year.

  This year, at sixteen, her only competition, as far as she could tell, was Jillie Andrews and the big, chestnut mare that belonged to Sonya Mason.

  But it wasn’t being entered in the same classes with Jillie and the enviable mare that had Angela green with jealousy.

  She glanced at the white barn across the stretch of grass where the trailers were parked.

  Just outside the sliding front doors, Jillie stood dressed in show breeches and a navy blazer. Beside her, Tate Callahan held the reins of the mare. Jillie was talking about something, her hands waving in animation. Tate listened with a smile on his face and then laughed.

  Angela picked up the show program, scanned the next class. Jillie rode before she did. Great.

  She put her braiding kit back in the trailer, checked the girth, then used a mounting block to swing herself into the saddle.

  Five minutes later, she stood near the entrance to the ring. Jillie rode up, waited for the judge’s nod, then entered the gate.

  Tate stood on the other side of the entrance. Angela turned her horse and walked over.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Tate glanced over his shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Isn’t Jillie on Mrs. Mason’s favorite?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I can’t believe she’s letting Jillie ride her.”

  “Guess she thinks she’s ready for it,” Tate said, his voice matter-of-fact.

  Angela nodded, her gaze lingering on his face. Since the first day he’d walked into their school, she’d been completely taken. She was a movie fiend, and there wasn’t a better-looking guy featured in any movie she’d ever seen.

  Tate Callahan had light-blue eyes that looked as if they’d seen things that made him older than his sixteen years. His hair was on the long side, and his shoulders had started to widen on his lean body.

  She looked at the ring where Jillie now cantered the perimeter and said with as little reluctance as she could muster, “They look good together.”

  “They do,” he agreed, his gaze hanging on Jillie, as if she were every good thing he’d ever hoped for.

  Another stab of jealousy riveted through her. What was it about Jillie? She was more tomboy than girl. None of the other guys at school paid much attention to her. No one except Tate.

  “If you want a job, you could work at our farm,” she said, the words rushing out too fast so they ended up sounding a little desperate.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a job.”

  He responded without taking his eyes off Jillie. Angela’s face burned red hot, and for the first time in her life, she had absolutely no idea how to go about getting what she wanted.

  She turned her horse then and walked away, stopping a short distance back from the ring and watching Jillie finish her ride. When she was done, Tate met her at the exit gate, a big smile on his face. He unwrapped a piece of candy and gave it to the horse. Jillie smiled back at him, and Angela would have given up every single thing to which she’d been born just to be in her place.

  10

  Tate

  I GET UP BEFORE the sun, sleep a wasted effort in my plain hotel room since I spent most of the night watching the numbers on the digital clock flip forward.

  I pull my laptop computer from its case and stare at the blank screen, my fingers still against the keys.

  Nothing.

  I feel frozen inside. Locked up like an eighteen-wheeler careening down an ice-covered highway.

  I slide back from the desk and slap the laptop closed, quickly getting dressed and packing my duffel bag before heading out of the room.

  Few cars are out, as I drive down the quiet road leading to Westlake at just after six. I stop for coffee at Carter’s, a small country store that hasn’t changed much in the years since I left here, the paint a little more faded, the sign above the front door drooping a bit on the right side.

  I park my car out front between two pickups with mud-spattered tires and jog up the steps, the front door dinging as I step inside.

  A woman with bright-red hair and tired, blue eyes looks up from behind the cash register. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” I say. “Coffee?”

  “Just made some. First aisle on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Two men in overalls are talking by the coffee pot. I nod at them and pour a cup. I can feel the woman’s gaze, as I pop a lid on the coffee and make my way back to the register.

  “I know who you are,” she says suddenly, clapping her hands together. A smile breaks across her face. “Tate Callahan. My goodness, in the flesh. I knew I recognized you, but it’s sure been a long time. I didn’t expect a real live celebrity to walk through the door at this hour of the day. You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I meet her wide-eyed gaze, sudden recognition flickering. “Alma Davis.”

  Color tints her cheeks, her smile growing wider. “We had algebra together.”

  I nod. “I remember.”

  “So what are you doing in these parts?” she asks with polite curiosity.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest.”

  If she finds the answer odd, she doesn’t let on. “I expect you got by to see Jillie, huh?”

  “Yeah. I did,” I say, handing her a five for the coffee.

  She pops open the register, handing me my change. “You two used to be thick as thieves, if I remember right. Shame about her husband, wasn’t it? Awfully young man to go that soon.”

  It takes a moment for the words to settle into comprehension, and I stare at her for a moment, a cold sheen of sweat
breaking across my skin. “What do you mean?”

  “Jeffrey. He died last year. I assumed you knew—”

  “What happened?” I ask, my voice not sounding like my own.

  Alma shakes her head, red hair glancing her shoulders. “They say he committed suicide,” she said, her voice lowering. “Hard to believe of someone who had all that he had. A wife, and those two little girls—”

  I can hear the blood pounding in my ears now. “Girls?”

  She leans back a bit, giving me a suspicious stare. “You must not have done much catching up with Jillie, after all,” she says. “Kala and Corey.”

  Children. Jillie has children. I’ve never thought of her with children. Stupid, though. She’s married. Had been married.

  I remember then the things I said to her last night. Take that home to Jeffrey. I’m sure he’ll be waiting to finish what I started.

  I run a hand around the back of my neck, barely suppressing a groan.

  “Would you mind signing my copy of your book?” Alma asks, pulling my thoughts back to the present. “I’ve read it twice, cover to cover. It’s in the back, if you can hold on for a minute.”

  All I want is to get out of here. Sort through what I’ve just learned. But forcing a smile, I say, “Sure.”

  She’s back in thirty seconds, handing me the book and waiting while I write something on the dedication page.

  I scrawl a signature across the bottom, then hand back the pen and the book. “Real nice to see you, Alma.”

  “You, too, Tate. Come on back anytime.”

  I let myself out the door and take the steps to my car two at a time.

  Backing out of the parking lot, I shove the stick shift into first and gun the car onto the two-lane road that leads out of town. I have to get out of here.

  Jeffrey. Dead.

  The words ricochet through me. Why hadn’t Jillie told me last night?

  As soon as the question surfaces, I ask myself why would she? I remember again the awful things I said to her, unwelcome remorse hot in my chest.

  Just ahead on the right is the road that will take me back to US 220 and the interstate leading north. All I have to do is take the turn and head back to Manhattan and a life far removed from the memories this place brings back.

  But I think of Jillie and the look on her face when she’d gotten out of the car last night. Considering our past, it shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care.

  Which doesn’t at all explain why just before reaching the interstate on-ramp, I slow the car and do a U-turn in the middle of the road, heading back and not away.

  11

  Jillie

  I’VE JUST returned from taking the girls to school when there’s a rap at my bedroom door.

  Lucille sticks her head inside and says, “There’s a call for you, Jillie.”

  The round-faced woman, who’s worked some twenty years as a housekeeper for the Tailors, long ago won my heart when she refused to call me Jillian, as Judith had ordered her to.

  “Who is it, Lucille?” I ask.

  “He wouldn’t give his name.”

  My stomach instantly drops. “Can you please tell him I’m not here?”

  The older woman raises an eyebrow. “I already told him you were.”

  “Just tell him I’m . . . I don’t know. Tell him I’m busy.”

  Lucille frowns. “Someday you have to start living again.”

  “Lucille. Please. Just tell him.”

  “All right,” she says, shaking her head with a disapproving cluck.

  I hear her pick up the extension in the hall outside the bedroom door. “I’m sorry, sir. She’s busy,” Lucille says, sounding as convincing as a deacon trying to explain to the pastor why he fell asleep during a Sunday sermon.

  A moment later, Lucille reappears in the doorway. “He asked me to tell you he’ll come over and wait until you’re not too busy to see him.”

  If I had any doubt that it’s Tate on the phone, I no longer do. “I’ll take it in here.”

  Lucille smiles. “I’ll just hang up here then,” she says, disappearing from the room and closing the door behind her.

  With damp palms, I pick up the phone beside the bed. “Hello.”

  “Can you meet me today?”

  The voice is unmistakable, even though the anger that had tinted it the night before is now gone. “I think we already said everything we needed to say, Tate,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “I don’t think we did.”

  “Then we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

  “No one’s living at Cross Country, right?”

  “No. It’s for sale,” I say, feeling the same pang I feel every time I think of the farm I had loved so much.

  “Meet me at the back pond in an hour. If you don’t come, I’ll see you at your front door,” he says and hangs up before I can manage another word.

  12

  Jillie

  I’M CLUTCHING THE steering wheel of the Mercedes so tightly that my knuckles are white against the dark leather.

  I shouldn’t have come. That would have been the right thing, the only thing that makes any sense. And yet, here I am, pulling up beside the black Porsche with my heart pounding so hard I have to lean my head against the back of the seat to steady my breathing.

  This is no big deal. Really. A few words, and I’ll be on my way. After all, what else is there to say?

  I look out across the field to the pond where Tate now stands on the old dock, arms folded, his back to me. I feel a sudden catch in my throat, a deluge of old memories assaulting me.

  How many summer afternoons had we lazed there in the sun, faces to the sky, pouring out our visions of the future? I would ride in the Olympics. Tate would be a famous writer.

  At least one of us had made our dreams come true.

  I force myself to open the door and get out. I stand for a moment, reaching for the courage to put one foot in front of the other and move.

  He looks around then, and I stop as if I’ve been seared to the spot.

  He lifts a hand and waves, and I am catapulted back to a time when we had been young, and just the sight of him weakened something deep inside me. It’s unsettling to realize that the effect is the same.

  I cross the grass field, setting my gaze to the right of him, and yet starkly aware that he watches me the entire way.

  The dock has more creaks now than I remember. A few of the boards sag in places. A male and a female duck sit perched on the edge, diving into the water as I approach.

  Tate stands a few feet away, his face serious and set. In the light of day, I can see that time has changed him. But if anything, it has only enhanced his appeal.

  As a boy, he’d had the kind of looks that made perfectly intelligent girls forget their train of thought. The face that had once been boyish now has the planes and angles of a man, part of his appeal both then and now a noted indifference to the way he looks.

  I glance down at the dock floor, aiming my voice at neutral. “What’s the point of this, Tate?”

  “An apology,” he says quietly. “I owe you one.”

  “For?” I say, not quite able to hide my surprise.

  “What I said last night. I’m sorry. I didn’t know about Jeffrey.”

  I turn away from him, face the pond, watching the two ducks glide gracefully across the smooth surface. “Last night should not have happened.”

  He is silent for a moment, and then, “You’re right. It shouldn’t have.”

  The words are said with a humble honesty that brings back too many reminders of the Tate I had once known.

  I look at him, see the intensity in his eyes, feeling something within me bend under its force.

  We stand for a minute or more, awkwardness a vice encircling us both.

  “Are you okay?” he asks finally.

  Again, there is the old Tate in the question, concern at its core. I swallow hard, nod. I’ve kept everything that happened with Jeffrey locked up inside m
e, refusing to look at it or talk about it.

  Tate is the friend I’d once confided in, as I have no other since.

  The need to do so now feels too right, but with that rightness comes the full realization that he is not here to stay. That tomorrow, or the next day, he will be gone, and I will be left to figure out how to forget him again.

  “I have to go,” I say, turning to leave.

  He stops me with a hand on my arm. “Jillie.”

  His voice on my name. Just that, and I have to close my eyes against a sudden onslaught of feeling. I don’t say anything, but stand there, my feet refusing to move.

  “Do you ever wish it had all worked out differently?” he asks.

  I turn then, meeting the questions in his eyes. How can I answer? I have two wonderful daughters. For that and that alone, I could never regret the direction my life has taken.

  Did I miss him?

  Yes.

  Do I still think about him?

  Yes.

  But I can say neither of these things now. There is nothing to be gained by it. “I have two incredible daughters,” I say.

  Another wash of silence before he says, “Were you happy with him?”

  “I had every reason to be.” I drop my chin, studying the boards beneath my feet. I look up then and find his gaze on me, steady and unwavering. It is the same as it had once been, his ability to see through whatever outside barriers I might have erected around myself. He had once known me, as no one else ever has, and the remembrance of that is there now, plain to see.

  He waves a hand at the far end of the dock. “Sit a while?”

  Refusal springs automatically to my lips. To stay is to extend something that has no place to go. I know this, and yet I find myself nodding, following him across the dock to the end that faces back toward Cross Country Farm.

  He sits down, offers a hand for me to follow. I sit without taking it, feel his registration of the rebuff.

  I look at him then, unable to turn away from his blue eyes. It’s like it was before, this ability he has to see through me, inside to where the real truth lies. I feel as if he is looking for it now, trying to place something he missed.