Seeking the Shore

by Donna Gentry Morton

  “Oh my, who is the poor fashion disaster coming up the walk?”

  “Fletcher Valentine,” Julianna said. “The bank’s comptroller. If Leyton were Goliath, Fletcher would be David.”

  They waited for him to reach them, their eyes rounding in horror as they watched the toe of one shoe strike a crack in the walkway, sending him stumbling toward the hard pavement. In his desperate attempt to regain balance, he flailed as though he were dancing to the uncontrolled beat of native drums. His briefcase came loose from his fingers, sailing over the hedges that lined the walk, spewing an assortment of pencils before landing with a thud on the ground. For a second, he appeared to be following along behind the briefcase, but the hedges caught him in the chest.

  “Oh!” Virginia gasped. “You poor thing!” She hurried down the steps to a beet-faced Fletcher. Extending her hand, she said, “Let me help.”

  Fletcher twisted in his bed of manicured bushes, managing to position himself on his side. Glasses no longer on his face, he squinted up at Virginia and gave her his trembling hand.

  She pulled him to his feet then picked his glasses up off the ground. “Here.” She gently placed them back on his face and adjusted them so that they were even. “Are you all right?”

  “Y-y-y-esssssssssss,” he stammered as his eyes filled with the sight of this statuesque redhead holding a cigar. To anyone watching, it was clear he beheld her as the most amazing creature he had ever seen.

  Virginia, aware of the worship, offered a brilliant smile and introduced herself. “I’m Miss Virginia Fleming, Julianna’s dearest friend.”

  “Fl-fl-fl-fletcher Va-Va-Va-lan . . . t-t-t-tine.”

  “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt, Fletchie.” She glanced at Julianna, standing on the porch, amused and mouthing the word, Fletchie?

  Virginia winked and looked back at Fletcher, whose eyes were glued to her.

  She puckered her lips, zapping him with the disarming, irresistible pout of a little girl. “Uh oh, in all the excitement, my cigar has lost its fire. Do you have a match?”

  Fletcher patted his pockets like a man trying to put out a fire. Finding matches in the breast pocket of his shirt, he took them out and lit one, but his hands shook so badly that the flame died before reaching Virginia’s cigar.

  “Forget the cigar, Fletchie. I have a question.”

  “Wh-wh-what?”

  “It would be my complete honor if you would escort me to the Polo Club banquet.” She smiled. “Would you be so kind?”

  “Wh-wh-when?”

  “Tonight.”

  He shuffled his feet and blushed. “I . . . Mr. Sheffield—” He gestured at the briefcase on the other side of the hedges. “I have to . . . oh, take him a couple of . . . well, reports and—”

  “You do that,” she said. “And then you can escort me to the banquet.”

  Disbelieving, he nodded and quickly gathered up his briefcase before scampering away like a frightened rabbit. Watching him scurry by, Julianna waited until he was inside the mansion before approaching Virginia, who she was sure was the only woman in the world who could get away with adding an “ie” to any man’s name.

  “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes . . .”

  “He’s an adorable work in progress,” Virginia said. “Did you see the way he looked at me?

  “Yes, but Fletchie is not your type.”

  “My type?” Virginia laughed. “You’ve seen where dating with my type has gotten me.” She looked thoughtful. “Effective immediately, I am redefining my type.”

  Julianna grinned. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Miss Virginia Fleming, but I’m certain you know what you’re doing.”

  They swayed in the porch swing, waiting for Fletcher to finish his business. He emerged onto the porch, eyes jumping about for Virginia, reflecting both panic and relief when he saw she was still there.

  “You can drive,” she told him as she rose from the swing.

  He looked at his watch. “It . . . it’s only th-th-three in the after-afternoon.”

  She started down the steps. “There’s something we must take care of, Fletchie.”

  “Wh . . . what?”

  She motioned for him to follow her onto the walk. When he joined her, she leaned her face close to his and whispered kindly, “Your clothes, Fletchie. We must find you the proper attire.”

  “Oh.” He shifted his feet and looked at the sidewalk.

  She rested a hand on his arm. “It’s not personal, Fletchie. I love a man who is bold enough to go against the flow, but certain occasions call for certain duds, right?”

  “Right.”

  “On second thought,” Virginia decided as they made their way along the walk, “I’ll drive.”

  They got into her bright roadster. As they roared away into the sunny February afternoon, Julianna had a feeling that Fletcher Valentine had just begun the ride of his life.

  “Anything interesting happen today?” Leyton asked from his room in the Biltmore.

  “Not really,” Polli said from the other end of the phone line. “That Virginia Fleming came by. Ooh, she’s the meanest thing.”

  “Stay away from her,” Leyton said, instantly bored with the topic. “What did your boss do today?”

  “The usual stuff, I guess. He and Mrs. Sheffield are gonna eat dinner and play cards tonight at some place called Sugar-something. Oh, that nervous guy, Fletcher Valentine, came by.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know. Leyton scowled.

  “He comes by a lot, though.”

  Leyton suddenly took interest. “How much is a lot?”

  “Maybe once a week,” Polli said. “It’s been going on for a while.”

  What could Fletcher and Richard be meeting about? The question disturbed Leyton, clouding his conversation with Polli, and stuck around to badger him after they had hung up.

  Do they suspect anything?

  He was already uneasy that Richard might. Pair him up with Fletcher and . . .

  He went cold at the thought, throat choking so much that he couldn’t unloosen his tie fast enough.

  Calm down. They’ll never prove a thing.

  He relaxed some, smiling at his reflection in the mirror as he retrieved his briefcase from the valet stand. He opened it and removed some file folders, laying them before him on the bed. Just to be safe, absolutely safe, he had brought them along to Atlanta.

  His future was in these files. Growing bigger and bigger.

  He looked through them, always glad to study his interests. But wait.

  Something is missing.

  He thumbed frantically through the folder he was holding. It looked intact, but there were papers that seemed to have vanished. He looked at another folder, finding the same thing. And another and another, his cold sweat getting colder with each one, sending him into the frenzied ripping and tearing of a man who had misplaced a million dollars.

  Richard shipping him off to the convention . . . Fletcher’s visits to the mansion . . . personal papers gone astray.

  The room spun like a top, his head throbbing with the thundering of his panicked heart. The convention ended in two more days, but he couldn’t wait that long. No, forty-eight hours could mean the end of life as he knew it. A mere twenty-four hours could mean the same thing. For that matter, twelve hours . . .

  Keep your head.

  He sat still on the edge of the bed with his head bowed and eyes closed. To those who didn’t know better, he might have been mistaken for a man in prayer.

  He took a few breaths, deep and cleansing, then assessed the situation he might be facing. It needed to be fixed, headed off at the pass, but he could only do it if he left the convention now, if he made his way back home tonight.

  That’s what he would do, and he’d do it as a man who was cool, calm, collected.

  And calculating.

  Leyton was back in town around ten that night, having pushed the Duesenberg to its m
aximum abilities. If only he could do the same with his brain, but there seemed to be no solution to his problem. If Richard and Fletcher already knew; if they already had proof in their pockets . . .

  He had thought an answer would come as he drove through the night with nothing but the yellow half moon as his companion. Even it had turned its back on him, though, slipping behind the clouds as if to announce that Leyton had not a friend in the world.

  His soul felt as dark as the winter night. Still, there must have been some glimmer of light deep inside because he wasn’t ready to abandon everything.

  There must be a way out! He struck the dashboard with a fist, but the force didn’t yield a remedy. It only fueled his frustration. All he needed was two years, two lousy years and he would be out of their lives forever. Julianna would have the freedom she wanted, and he would have the security that obsessed him.

  He didn’t feel like going home, so he drove around the countryside, its roads lonely as they wound past farmhouses that had shut off their lights for the night. He felt like the only person in the world, the sole survivor of some catastrophe that had snatched mankind away.

  Sugar Branch Road was not as sweet as its name implied. All dirt, it was as slick as ice after a rain and was punctured with more holes than Swiss cheese. Unexpected dips and sudden curves would drop a motorist’s heart into their stomach, and it wasn’t unusual for cars to run off into ditches.

  On this night, though, there were lights on and signs of life on Sugar Branch, filling the square windows of a mansion atop a hill that overlooked the rolling hills and valleys of the country. Sugarwood was the name of the estate, owned by the Robbins. Nathaniel and Celeste were as Confederate soldier and Southern belle as a couple could get. They were friends of the Sheffields and often played host to Richard and Audrey. It was dinner and cards tonight, Polli had said.

  He idled before the mansion, knowing in his heart why he had driven out here. Mentally, he wasn’t ready to admit it. Not because he had suddenly come to know compassion, but because he had never imagined himself doing anything nearly this drastic when it came to handling Richard.

  He drove around a while longer, never venturing far from Sugarwood. He passed it numerous times, reminded of the night he made trek after trek by the bungalow in Ambrose Point. What a night that had been. Over and over, he had gone by the still, never-changing house, its emptiness almost making him crazy.

  The outside of Sugarwood was flooded with light, allowing Leyton to see the Sheffield’s black Packard sitting in the circular drive. Are Richard and Audrey ever going to leave? he wondered every time he came by. How much bridge could two couples play?

  Finally, around eleven he saw them exit the front door and get into the Packard. He kept driving, going in the direction he would take if Dreamland was the destination. It required traversing the worst part of Sugar Branch, which was a narrow wooden bridge that stretched across a gorge. Ghost Gorge, they called it, the name stemming from legends that the deep gorge was haunted by the spirits of motorists who had plunged down its steep embankments, coming to rest in the shallow stream that ran through it.

  Leyton drove across the gorge then turned around in the road. With the nose of the Duesenberg pointing straight for the bridge, he cut the headlights, surrounding himself in such blackness that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

  Then he waited.

  Richard and Audrey traveled slowly along Sugar Branch, more cautious than usual as darkness wrapped itself around the already difficult road.

  “Oh, here comes the bridge,” Audrey complained. “I despise this bridge in the daytime.”

  The Packard slowed even more, and was practically creeping as it prepared to come onto the bridge. Just then, headlights popped from the night, like evil yellow eyes that had spotted prey. Blinding, the lights raced across the bridge, setting the stage for a head-on collision. Richard yanked the wheel. The Packard swerved. The car flipped on the skinny road and fell hard on the embankment. Then started to roll, faster and faster over wild brush and rocks. On its descent toward the wet bottom, its windows shattered and doors fell free, tossing the occupants out onto the wind-chilled, rugged ground.

  Polli and her roommate left the Purple Top Hat a little before midnight and headed home—home being the thin-walled, two-bedroom apartment they shared.

  “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight,” Polli said, leaning against Mitzi’s old Model A as the other woman turned its crank. “I’m hooked up with someone now.”

  “Oh, honey.” Mitzi sighed as the car started. “You’re not hooked up. What you are is mixed up. Mixed up with a married man.”

  “He won’t be married forever,” Polli predicted, getting into the passenger’s seat.

  Mitzi stared ahead and sighed again. “Listen to me, Polli, ’cause I’ve wised up about married guys.”

  “I know what you’re gonna say, Mitz,” Polli said. “If he cheats on her, he’ll cheat on me. But I’m telling you, this’ll be different.”

  “You just hope it will be,” Mitzi told her. “But if you’re dead set on sticking with this man, you’d better get ready for some lonely nights, honey. He’ll want to keep it a secret, and that means you’ll come second to everyone. The wife, the kids, the in-laws, the neighbors, the family dog for cryin’ out loud. Do you really wanna be that low on someone’s totem pole?”

  Polli ignored the question. “He called tonight from Atlanta. Phone was ringin’ as I walked in the door.” Excited, she turned in the seat and gave Mitzi’s shoulder a friendly push. “Hey, let’s drive by his house.”

  “Why? He’s in Atlanta.”

  “I know, but you gotta see this house.“ Polli beamed. “Who knows, I might be living in it someday.”

  “Forget that.” Mitzi gave her light-brown curls a shake. “If he leaves her, the wife gets the house. Besides, if I see the guy’s house, aren’t you scared I’ll figure out who he is?”

  “Nah.” Polli wasn’t worried. “It’s not like we hang around his side of the river.”

  Mitzi had explained this part of the married-man game to Polli more than once. You told your girlfriends every detail except the fella’s name. Dropping a name was risky, so the guy had to stay a mystery. Until he broke your heart. Then you called your girlfriends and blubbered everything while stuffing your face with candy bars and fizzy soda pop. That’s how these things usually ended, with a blemish break-out and a bloated gut.

  “Pleaseeeeeeeee, Mitz.”

  “Oh, okay,” Mitzi relented. “Where’s he live?”

  “River Drive.”

  Mitzi turned around in a gas station and started back the other way. The farther she drove, the bigger and finer the houses got.

  Polli was peering out the passenger’s side window. “Lemme see, he’s the ninth house on the right. Six . . . seven . . . eight . . . there it is!”

  She pointed to a tree-jammed, sloping yard supported by a stone retaining wall. “There are so many trees that it’s hard to see the house.” She strained hard in the darkness, doing her best to get a peek through the naked branches.

  “It’s dark as a tomb,” Mitzi griped. “I’m taking us home.”

  “No, wait!” Polli cried. “I can see a bit of light, probably coming from the hall.” She rolled down the window and stuck her head into the frigid air.

  “Good, there’s a light. Let’s go home.” Mitzi yawned.

  Polli was flushed with excitement. “No, let’s have a look around the outside. Maybe peek into the windows.”

  “No!”

  “Oh, why not?” Polli came back inside the window, folded her arms across her chest, and pouted. “He’s not home. It’s not like he’ll know.”

  Mitzi gritted her teeth. “Oohhh, you won’t rest until we do, now will you?”

  Polli smiled and shook her head. “Nope.”

  Mitzi pulled into the driveway and made a slow climb toward the top, cringing at the popping and crunching of the tires against gravel. The
last thing she wanted to do was wake up any hoity-toity neighbors.

  “Stop!” Polli gasped as the headlights fell on the Duesenberg, illuminating its back end as it sat parked near the house. “He’s home!”

  Mitzi jerked the car into reverse. “I thought he was in Atlanta!”

  “That’s what he said!” Polli wailed. “I swear!”

  “He lied,” Mitzi hissed as she swung back into the street and floored the gas pedal. “They all do.”

  Polli felt dazed, like someone had slapped her across the face. “He’ll have a reason.”

  “No, honey, he’ll have an excuse,” Mitzi said, “but not a reason. There’s a difference.”

  Well, fine, Polli thought, suddenly more upset with Mitzi than with Leyton. An excuse was better than nothing, wasn’t it? Like that night at the ball, when Leyton was nasty to that girl with polio. His excuse might not have been the greatest, but it sure beat just doing something and having no excuse. Didn’t it?

  Maybe he would fill her with some excuse for being home and not telling her. And if he did, then that’s just the way it would be. She’d take an excuse over nothing. Yeah, she’d take it.

  It was one thirty in the morning when the phone rang at Dreamland. Julianna sprang up in bed, instinctively fearing that the hour of the call meant bad news.

  She ran from the bedroom and down the staircase, grabbing the receiver on the sixth ring.

  “What?” she cried. “What’s happened?” And then, with mounting alarm, she listened to the caller who had the unfortunate job of delivering awful news in the middle of the night.

  An accident. Her parents. The hospital.

  She dropped the phone, frozen in a panic. She was shivering on the outside and burning on the inside. The only part of her body that could move were her eyes, and they darted frantically about the foyer as she tried to absorb the shock, tried to find her way through the disorienting fog and figure out what to do next.

  A howl came from outside the darkened house. Bucko, Jimmy Mac’s Bluetick Hound, who sometimes bedded down on the front porch, had been awakened by the commotion inside the door. His barking shook Julianna from her trance and sent her bolting down the hall and through the kitchen, slamming out the back door and to the servants’ quarters behind the house. Her bare feet struck the freezing ground, sending a brutal attack of February cold throughout her body.