Homecoming

by Rochelle Alers

  Dana froze, her eyes narrowing. “Are you saying Harry wasn’t my father?”

  “I did not say that, child.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Payton?”

  “I haven’t said anything yet, have I?”

  She wanted to shake the man. He was playing word games with her. She’d come to him because she suspected her grandmother might have confided in him. After all, he had been her attorney and her friend.

  Crossing one knee over the other, Eugene fingered the sharp crease in his tan slacks with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “Georgia and I talked about a lot of things.” His head came up and he gave Dana a direct stare. “And with Georgia the topic of Alicia was off-limits—to everyone, including me. After my wife died, she’d invite me over for dinner and we’d talk.” He shrugged a narrow shoulder. “We’d talk about the weather, baseball, the little wars going on all over the world, and we’d talk about you.”

  “Me?”

  Eugene affected a sad smile. “Yes, you. Georgia adored you. There were times when she said you should’ve been her daughter instead of Alicia’s. She always left explicit instructions for me whenever she left to spend the summers with you. I had to come twice a week to water her plants, pay the yard man, and check to make certain the water was running and the electricity was on. The thing she was most concerned about was her grandfather clock. It had to be wound once a week very, very slowly until the spring tightened just a little. She claimed the clock had never stopped in all the years it had been in her family.”

  Nodding, Dana said, “I remember her always talking about that clock. She taught me how to wind it the year I turned six. We made a game of counting the number of revolutions whenever I turned the key.”

  She wanted to tell Mr. Payton that Georgia was not only concerned about her clock, but also about every piece of furniture in her house, which was filled with pieces that had been passed down to Georgia after her marriage to Daniel Sutton. Dana did not think of them as antiques, but as family heirlooms.

  Her maternal great-grandfather, a talented cabinetmaker, had crafted all of the tables, chairs, stools, headboards, and footboards by hand. The distinctive design of a soaring eagle with several spears in his beak had been carved into every piece he’d created during his lifetime.

  The story handed down over several generations was that Moses Sutton symbolized his ancestors as spear-carrying eagles prepared to smite any proponent of racism. Whether the tale had any merit, Dana had to decide what she was going to do with the furniture. Each piece was heavy and constructed of solid oak or mahogany. The furnishings in the modest two-story house were a part of her legacy—a legacy she did not want to sell or give away.

  “What can you tell me about my father?” She refused to leave without getting some answers to her questions.

  “What is there to say about Harry? He was Dr. Nichols: healer, comforter, and the consummate gentleman. We once had an influenza epidemic, and I watched Harry go from house to house tending the sick without stopping to eat or sleep for more than twenty-four hours. It was a miracle he didn’t come down with the virus.

  “You ask me about your father, and I can tell you the man was a saint. He would’ve given up his own life to save someone else’s.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask me—the answer is an emphatic NO! Dr. Harry Nichols did not kill Alicia Sutton Nichols because he’d taken an oath to preserve life, not take it.”

  “But there are doctors who do take lives.”

  “That may be true, but not Harry Nichols.”

  Closing her eyes, Dana rested the back of her head on the cushion of the rocker, trying to bring her fragile emotions under control. She felt as if she’d asked a hundred questions and not one had been answered.

  She opened her eyes, staring directly at Eugene Payton. “Why weren’t you a material witness at my father’s trial?”

  “I’d asked to be one, but the defense attorney refused my request.”

  Sitting up straighter, she shook her head. “Why?”

  Eugene did not drop his gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you defend Harry Nichols?”

  “I couldn’t because he’d turned down my offer in favor of Ross Wilson’s cousin, a hotshot attorney from Jackson who’d earned a reputation of never losing a case after he’d sued an insurance company and won because they reneged on paying blacks death benefits they were entitled to. I told Harry that he was going to be tried before small-town folks who would resent him hiring a big-town lawyer. He wouldn’t listen, and in the end his plan backfired.”

  “I’m going up to the Greenville courthouse tomorrow to pick up a transcript of the trial. I would like your assistance when I go over it.”

  Eugene shook his head. “Save your time and your money, Dana.”

  She sat up straighter. It was the first time the elderly attorney had called her by her given name. “Why, Mr. Payton?”

  “Because it will yield absolutely nothing. I have some notebooks I’m going to lend you which should answer some of your unanswered questions. I attended every session of Harry’s legal proceedings, from the grand jury hearing to the actual trial and finally his sentencing. Not only did I want to support a friend, but I also wanted to see firsthand what Sylvester Wilson had planned for Harry’s defense, because if the jury had come back with a guilty verdict, I was preparing myself for Harry’s appeal. None of that mattered after Harry hung himself.” Placing his hands on the arms of his chair, he pushed to his feet. “Let me go and get the notebooks for you.”

  Dana picked up a glass of sweet tea, taking a sip, realizing she’d been away from the South too long to appreciate the preferred beverage of most Southerners. She took another sip, finding the brew too strong and too bitter for her taste, despite the sugar settling in the bottom of the glass.

  Eugene returned, his arms filled with a stack of leather-bound notebooks. He placed them on a table. “I have to get the rest.”

  Dana picked up one, thumbing through it. The writing was small, neat, and precise. Eugene Payton’s notations were more detailed than a court transcript. Each day was noted with date, time, and weather. On each day he’d describe all the jurors, their clothing and attitudes—whether they were alert or lethargic. Her pulse quickened. Mr. Payton’s notebooks would give her what no official court transcript could—an instant replay of her father’s trial.

  * * *

  An hour later, Dana completed setting up her office-in-the home on the back porch. She’d picked up her laptop computer, installed several programs that were not factory-installed, called to activate her newly purchased cellular telephone, unwrapped a package of legal pads, sharpened a dozen of the half gross of pencils she’d decided to buy at the last moment along with an electric pencil sharpener.

  When she had changed out of her dress and into a pair of shorts, tank top, and a pair of leather thongs, she noted the chipped nail polish on one of her big toes. Dialing the number to Hot Chocolate, an upscale salon in downtown Hillsboro, she set up an appointment for Friday morning for a wash, set, manicure, and pedicure. She and Tyler planned to celebrate their recent engagement over dinner at a trendy restaurant near Greenville.

  Sitting down on the glider, she opened the first page of the first notebook she’d put in chronological order, shivering when she read the opening line: I received a telephone call at 10:11 this morning that Dr. Harry Nichols is being held and questioned about a fire which destroyed Raven’s Crest less than two hours after Alicia Nichols was found dead in her bedroom. Alicia had been shot three times in the head, at close range. Dana, the couple’s only child, is reported to be staying with her grandmother.

  Tyler massaged the back of his neck with one hand, and then rolled his head from side to side. He had both the Connellys on the phone, trying to convince them to have their premature son transferred to a hospital in the capital that specialized in low-birth-weight babies.

  “Your son cannot get the care he needs here that
he can get in Jackson.”

  “But I don’t want to be away from my baby,” Miranda wailed into the receiver.” She went to the hospital every day to look at her tiny son.

  “Don’t cry, Mandy. We’ll work something out,” Charles crooned on an extension. “Dr. Cole, I’d like to say yes, but there’s no way Mandy can travel to Jackson every day to see Chuck, Jr. And I we don’t have any relatives in Jackson who she can stay with.”

  “I think I can help you out,” Tyler said before he could censor himself.

  “How?” Miranda and her husband had spoken in unison.

  Thinking quickly, Tyler said, “There’s a fund set up for a situation just like the one you’re facing. I’ll call you tomorrow with details.”

  “What kind of fund?” Charles asked. “We’re proud people, you know. We ain’t asking for no handouts.”

  “This is not going to be a handout, Mr. Connelly. The money will come from a foundation.”

  “What’s the name of this foundation?”

  Tyler cursed under his breath. Why didn’t the man just accept his offer? “The SCC Foundation for Medical Research,” he said quickly.

  “Okay. We’ll wait for your call. Won’t we, Mandy?”

  “Yes, Chuck.”

  “Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Connelly.”

  Tyler hung up quickly before he’d be forced to tell another lie. There was no SCC Foundation for Medical Research, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be in the near future.

  Glancing at his watch, he noted the time. It was almost nine-thirty, and he had yet to prepare to go home. It was Thursday, the clinic’s late night. Rising from his chair, he walked over to a shelf and picked up a telephone book. Thumbing through the business section, he found a listing of hotels.

  After ten, he turned off the lights, set the alarm, and walked out of the Hillsboro Women’s Health Clinic to where he’d parked his truck. He’d made a reservation for Miranda Connelly to stay at a hotel near the hospital where her son would be transferred until he received medical clearance to come home. Tyler had given the clerk at the reservation desk his credit-card number with explicit instructions the hotel not disclose his name. The clerk reassured him his personal data would remain privileged information. Chuck Connelly may be a proud man, but he wasn’t a proud fool.

  Dr. Tyler Cole had come to Hillsboro to lower the infant-mortality rate, and even if he had to use his own money to make the project a success, he would.

  He started up his truck and backed out of the lot. He waited until he was on the road before he activated the hands-free phone in his vehicle. Tiny lines fanned out around his eyes when he heard the break in the connection followed by Dana’s husky greeting.

  “Hi, darling,” he said.

  “Hi yourself, lover.”

  “Are we still on for tomorrow night?”

  “Are you calling to cancel, Tyler Cole?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Quite eventful. I’ll tell you everything when I see you.”

  “Tell me now.” Tyler wanted, needed to hear her voice. It had been four days since he last saw her.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have nothing but time, sweetheart.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in my truck on my way home. I just thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “What if I swing by and pick you up? You can spend the night and hang out until I come home tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I have an eleven o’clock appointment at Hot Chocolate for my hair and nails.”

  “I’ll drop you off and pick you up. Do you think you’ll be finished by two-thirty?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you’re not, then I’ll wait. Maybe I’ll get a haircut and manicure while I’m there if you’re not finished.” There was a prolonged pause and Tyler turned the wheel to right, executing a tight U-turn.

  “What was that?” Dana asked.

  “My tires making skid marks on the asphalt. Pack a bag, Dana. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “But I’m in bed!”

  “Then don’t get up.”

  Pressing a button, he ended the call, his white teeth gleaming in his brown face.

  Twenty

  Tyler didn’t know how she readied herself so quickly, but Dana was waiting for him, bag in hand, when he pulled into the driveway behind her car. Not waiting for him to get out to help her up, she opened the passenger-side door and slid in beside him.

  Grinning at him, she ordered, “Let’s get this party started.”

  Tyler shifted into reverse, and then slammed on the brakes when she reached over and placed her hand on his groin, squeezing him gently.

  Eyes bugging, Tyler collapsed over the steering wheel, gasping painfully. “Whoa, Dana! What are you trying to do to me?”

  She flashed a demure smile. “I just wanted to see if you’re as ready for me as I am for you.”

  Biting down on his lower lip, he gave her a sidelong glance. “We can do it here. Right now. In the backseat.” Each word came out in a slow measured cadence.

  Dana looked out the side window. “No, thanks. I can wait.”

  Easing his foot off the brake and onto the gas pedal, Tyler did know whether to laugh or call the teasing minx’s bluff. It would serve her right if he parked somewhere near the woods and took her in the backseat. The risk of being discovered would probably bring her teasing to an abrupt halt.

  The heat between his legs increased with the speedometer inching above the speed limit. Having sampled Dana body’s once had not been enough. She was a drug he’d become hooked on from the first encounter.

  The ten-minute drive from her house to his was accomplished in five as he pulled into the garage. His right hand moved quickly as he placed his hand over her breasts, massaging them until the nipples sprang into prominence.

  “Don’t you dare move,” he said.

  Dana sat motionless, waiting for Tyler to come around and help her out. She had barely had time to catch her breath or grab her small overnight bag when he lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the house.

  She knew by the set of his jaw he was angry, but that did not bother her. If they were to marry, then there would many times when they would not agree with each other, leaving them to try and work out their problems or disagreements. She was also aware that she probably would not come to know who Tyler Cole actually was until after she married and lived with him.

  Tyler carried Dana up the staircase as if she were a small child. Eight steps. She counted them. It had taken eight long steps for him to cross his bedroom and place her on the bed. As he stood over her, his hands went to his waist, unbuckling his belt. She waited until he had shed his shirt and slacks before she moved off the silken quilt.

  “No, Dana,” he drawled, capturing her arm. His voice was so low it resembled a growl. “No more teasing.”

  First she was standing, and seconds later she was on her back with Tyler straddling her, her top pushed up to her neck and his mouth on her breasts. He suckled one, then the other, until she thought she was going to lose her mind. Raising his hips, he undid the button on her shorts. She gasped loudly when it was his turn to cup her warm musky heat.

  “Are you ready for me?” he rasped in her ear. “Tell me, baby.”

  “No!”

  He laughed deep in his throat. “Oh, yes, you are. The love is pouring out of you.”

  “Ty—” His mouth covered hers, cutting off all speech and sound. Dana felt as if she’d been submerged in molten lava as waves swept over her.

  Her arms circled his neck, bringing him closer. She opened her mouth, her tongue meeting his. Their kisses grew stronger, more passionate, as their passions escalated.

  Tyler ground his hips into hers, wanted to melt into her. He wanted her moaning, writhing, a
nd pulsing under him. Fastening his hands in the straps of her tank top, he pulled it off her shoulders, the fabric parting where he’d ripped it in half.

  The sight of her full breasts rising and falling above her tiny waist in the dimly lit room was his undoing. He undressed her, then himself, throwing each discarded garment on the floor. Curving an arm around her waist, he lifted her and stripped the bed of the quilt in one sweeping motion.

  Dana felt the coolness of the sheet against her naked back. She gasped once before moaning in an exquisite ecstasy when Tyler’s hardness pushed into her quivering wet body in one sure thrust of his hips and she took all of him into her up to the root of his rigid sex.

  Closing his eyes, Tyler struggled not to climax. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

  Dana kissed his shoulder, tasting salt and inhaling the sensual fragrance of his cologne. “I think asking me not to breathe would be an easier task.” Her husky voice was warm and smooth as velvet.

  Tyler’s hips rocked in an up-and-down motion, setting a rhythm Dana could follow easily. “Don’t do that either. I’ll breathe for the both of us.”

  That said, he led her on a journey of sexual pleasure she’d only glimpse before. Just when she felt herself going over the precipice, he pulled her back, changing positions. He tasted her, she him. He took her as she knelt, holding onto the headboard for support. She reciprocated when she straddled him, establishing a rhythm that left both of them moaning and gasping for their next breath.

  It all ended when Tyler turned her over and loved her as if it would become their last time together. Anchoring her legs over his shoulders, he stared at the passion tightening her features, and then he did what he had promised—he released her legs, covered her mouth, and breathed for both of them as he melted into her.

  The pleasure lingered, long after their breathing resumed a normal rate. It was still there when Dana lay against damp chest, his arms around her. It lasted throughout the night until the pinpoints of light found their way under the drawn drapes.