Chapter Sixty-three
KERMIT, TEXAS, TWO MONTHS LATER
Rachel stood by the front door of her childhood home—car keys in hand, a packed bag at her feet—and took a last look around. She was leaving no visible trace of the lives lived here since before she was born. The scrapes and marks and stains left behind by her family members were under coats of eggshell white paint she’d applied herself, unwilling to trust strangers with the obliteration of their memories. It had taken her six weeks to clear and clean the place for the new occupants, whoever they would be. She had made an agreement with the Realtor that the house was not to be shown or the for sale sign to go up until she was ready to leave.
Her next-door neighbor, a woman she had known all her life and her mother’s best friend, had asked, “Why do you have to sell the house so soon, Rachel? Why can’t you give yourself time to come home awhile?”
She’d shaken her head mutely, her voice still lost in the well of her grief. She didn’t deserve to live in this place she’d loved and betrayed. It would be a sacrilege.
“Rachel, will you stay in Lubbock?” Danielle had asked when she went to pack her things from her office. Someone was already occupying her desk, a young Japanese man who had neatly boxed her personal belongings and stacked them in a corner. Ron Kimball, whose father was one of the survivors of the death march to Bataan, had already quit and found a job at another cotton farm a county over. No way would he work for a Jap, he told Danielle. She, too, had given notice.
“And do what?” Rachel had asked with a mirthless smile. “Watch Toliver cotton grow under somebody else’s management?”
She’d put the town house up for sale as well and boxed her belongings, realizing as she arranged for their storage that with the house on Houston Avenue gone and the one in Kermit soon to be on the market, she had nowhere to send them. She was virtually homeless… for a while.
Rachel took a final glance around the living room, picked up her bag, and let herself out. She’d already visited her old garden plot, now a neatly clipped part of the Bermuda-grass yard that showed only faint evidence of the bounty once grown there.
“I suspect this is where it all began for you,” Amos had remarked after the funeral when she’d found him gazing at the grass-covered depressions beside the house, where he’d gone to escape from those paying their respects inside.
“Yes, this is where it all began,” she’d said, remembering the late afternoons she’d tended her garden, the conversations overheard beneath the kitchen window.
“He wanted to come, you know.”
She had made no comment.
“Percy and I convinced Matt that… now would not be a good time. He’s terribly worried about you, Rachel. He can’t understand why you refuse to see him, or at least to take his calls. Frankly, my dear… neither can I,” he said, his face seamed with concern. “None of this is Matt’s fault, you know. Percy says that if you’ll just come back to Howbutker to hear Mary’s story, you’ll understand why she left things as she did and all for the love of you.”
“Really?” Rachel felt her lip curl. “I might have been convinced of that once, but not now.”
“Now? What’s happened now?”
“You’ll know soon enough. Excuse me. I have to get back to the others.”
Poor Amos, caught in the middle, she thought as she turned the ignition of her BMW. And Matt, too….
For the past two months, she’d tried not to think of him and how they’d parted. Everything was hazy after she’d answered the door and backed up before the troop of men filling the foyer. Matt had tried to take her into his arms, but she’d turned instead to Amos. Somehow she’d managed to call Carrie Sutherland, her best friend and roommate at Texas A&M, who must have flown over the highway from Dallas to arrive two hours later. She remembered the hurt in Matt’s eyes as he watched her and Amos go up the stairs to her room to await Carrie’s arrival, leaving him below. And later… through the fog of her pain, she remembered running downstairs when she heard Carrie in the hall and going into her arms rather than the ones Matt looked longing to hold out to her.
“It’s best that you leave now, Matt,” she’d said finally.
He’d got hold of her at last, taking her by the shoulders and angling his head down to look into her empty eyes. “Rachel, Granddad told me about the will… about Somerset going to him. On top of everything else, I can’t begin to imagine how hurt… how shocked you must be. I’m hurt and shocked for you, but I’m not the enemy here. You need me. We can get through this together.”
Her voice had come dull as a sleepwalker’s. “There are things you don’t know. You will become the enemy. You won’t have a choice.”
He’d looked as if she’d slapped him. “What?”
“Good-bye, Matt.”
Over the following weeks, the rest of that unimaginable time came back in cloudy bits and pieces, illuminated now and then by a streak of clarity. The dialogue between her and Carrie on the drive back from identifying the bodies the next day was one of those. In the sick silence, Carrie had asked, “Are you up to telling me why you slammed the door in the face of that gorgeous hunk of man on the verandah last night?”
“I didn’t slam it. And no, I’m not up to it. If you’re interested, be my guest.”
She’d let out a whoop. “Well, that’s really sweet of you, lamb chop, but he doesn’t impress me as a man who’s any woman’s to offer. He’s crazy about you, Rachel. Why are you shutting him out?”
“I have to. If I don’t, it will only make things much worse later.”
“Later?”
“When I take back what’s mine.”
Tears stung her eyes as she took her last glimpse of the house and street where she’d grown up. She would leave the house keys with the Realtor on her way out of town. She was headed to Dallas to bunk with Carrie for a while, but her main reason for going there was to meet with Carrie’s father. Taylor Sutherland was an eminent commercial trial lawyer specializing in real estate fraud. She had an appointment with him to evaluate the contents of the green leather box.
MATT PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY of Rachel’s house, finding its address easily from Amos’s directions. He parked the rental van and got out, assaulted at once by the dry heat and gritty wind that blew constantly in West Texas. His heart beat like a bongo drummer gone berserk. Finally, he’d have Rachel in his sights again. If she didn’t admit him, he’d force his way in. They had to talk. She had to tell him face-to-face why she wanted nothing more to do with him. There had to be more to it than his grandfather inheriting Somerset. Her last words to him the night of the accident kept running through his head: There are things you don’t know. You will become the enemy. You won’t have a choice.
“What did she mean by that, Granddad?” he’d asked when he reported those words to him. “What is it that I don’t know?”
“I have no idea.”
Especially disturbing was Rachel’s cryptic remark to Amos when he attended the funeral. At one time, she’d told him, she may have been willing to believe Mary had acted out of love for her, but not now, and when Amos asked her what had happened to cause her to say that, she’d said, “You’ll know soon enough.”
“Why now, Granddad? That implies she’s discovered further reason to condemn Mary—maybe even us.”
A shrug. “I don’t know, son.”
He had not been totally convinced of his grandfather’s ignorance. In the past two months, he’d been aware of rattling skeletons again—those family secrets he wasn’t telling.
The yard had been recently mowed. Its baked, dusty smell drifted up to him, reminding him of Amos’s observation: What a godforsaken place! How does anything but rattlesnakes survive out there? Matt shared his view. On the drive from the airport, surrounded by a desert of scrub brush that had all the beauty of a moon crater, he had wondered how this hardscrabble land had inspired Rachel’s passion for farming. It had to be blood, not locale.
He approach
ed the steps to the front porch uncertainly, disturbed by the unoccupied air of the place. The green shutters looked newly painted, as did the closed garage door. There were no curtains on the windows, and the glass sparkled from recent cleaning. No, don’t tell me…. He groaned and made a scope of his hands to peer through the small squares of glass in the door. The front room was empty, deserted as a bird’s nest in winter, not a stick of furniture in it. In chagrin and disbelief, he tromped around the sides of the house, gazing in windows, finding each room bare of everything but starkly painted walls.
“May I help you?”
He whirled from a window in the backyard to find an obese woman in a tropical-patterned muu-muu staring at him, hands on hips.
“Well, I—yes, you can,” Matt stammered. “The woman who lives here. Rachel Toliver. She appears to have moved. Can you tell me where she’s gone?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Matt Warwick.” Matt brushed the window dust off his hands and held one out. “A friend of the family from Howbutker, Texas.” He guessed her to be a neighbor and perhaps familiar with the names.
Slowly, the woman removed a hand from her hip and allowed it to be shaken. “I’ve heard of the Warwicks from Howbutker. My name’s Bertie Walton, a friend and neighbor. I live next door.” She nodded in the direction of her house. “What do you want with Rachel?”
Matt hesitated, then came right out with it. “I’ve come to check on her and maybe take her home. She needs to be with those who care about her.”
The woman seemed to relax. “I couldn’t agree more.” She looked him up and down and, as if deciding something, said, “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but you’ve missed her by little over an hour. I think she may be gone for good. She must have left when I was at the grocery store, and I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.” Her tone indicated deep hurt.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“’Fraid not. Told me yesterday she’d be in touch, but… the state she was in, I’m not holding my breath.”
Matt’s hope for a reunion plummeted. “You know anybody who’d know where she’s going?”
“Not a soul. Rachel wasn’t close to nobody in Kermit anymore, ’cept me. I was her mother’s best friend. The house is going up for sale. I’d try the Realtors in town, if I was you. There are only two. She’s bound to have left a contact number with one of ’em.”
Matt patted his coat pocket for a pen and notepad. “Could you give me their names and directions?”
“I can do better than that. Come on over and I’ll draw you a little map. You won’t find them otherwise.”
She waddled in the direction of her house, and Matt followed. Minutes later, he was seated at her kitchen table, watching her pour sun-brewed tea into glasses she’d taken from a special cupboard. “Mrs. Walton, why would Rachel move? I’d think that… under the circumstances… she’d want to stay here, where she’s known.”
“It’s Bertie,” she said, setting down the glasses of iced tea, a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen clamped under her fleshy arm. She wedged into one of the captain’s chairs and slapped the pad onto the table. “I can’t say I’m surprised that she left. Rachel’s been gone from Kermit a long time. There’s nothing here for her anymore, if there ever was. I would’ve thought she’d stay simply because she had nowhere else to go, but she couldn’t get outta here fast enough.”
“You said… the state she was in when she left. How did she look?”
Bertie had begun sketching streets and landmarks on the yellow pad. “When’d you last see her?”
“Two months ago, when she came for her great-aunt’s funeral.”
“Deduct about twenty pounds from that pretty figure of hers and add a thin, drawn face and berry brown skin, and you got it. She don’t look like the same girl who was here over Christmas.”
“She’s not the same girl,” Matt said softly. “How’d she get the berry brown skin?”
“From all that fixing up of the outside of the house—the roof, the shutters, the yard. Wouldn’t let nobody else touch ’em. But that’s not to say she wasn’t… together. Something was keeping her from falling apart. You could tell by the way she hammered those nails.”
Matt frowned. “She never hinted at what it was? Anything you can tell me would be a big help.”
Bertie reflected a moment. “It looked like some kind of inner force driving her, but… not exactly grit, if you know what I mean. Not the kind of gumption that makes you keep going whether you want to or not. It wasn’t that. No, it was more like she had a purpose, an objective in mind for when she finished up here.” She clicked off the ballpoint pen and ripped the sheet from the pad. “I can’t tell it no better than that.”
“You’ve told it very well, Bertie. Thanks for your help.” He finished the iced tea and stood up. “Write down your telephone number and if I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”
Bertie squinted up at him as if she had more to say before she saw him to the door. “You’re the boy Rachel first told me about years ago when she came back from Howbutker, aren’t you? She was about ten years old then, and mercy! She wasn’t the kind to wax on about anybody, but she did you. A while ago you said you were here to take her back to those who care about her. Are you one of those?”
“I’m at the top of the list.”
“I can see that. Well, you go find her, young man, and make her understand that… despite all her losses… she’s still got everything.”
“I plan to do just that, Bertie,” Matt said, a break in his voice. He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket, then laid a hand on her shoulder. “Stay seated. I can let myself out, and you have my word, one way or the other, you’ll hear from me.”
“I hope it’s a wedding invitation,” she said.
He threw her a smile. “If I can help it.”
He hit pay dirt with the second realty company but was unable to cash in. The Realtor handling the Toliver house was on her way to put up the for sale sign when Matt walked into the two-desk office. He’d guessed it would be against company policy to give out a seller’s out-of-town telephone number and address, but he’d use his considerable charm to worm the information out of somebody. He smiled at the woman and explained that he was friends with Bertie Walton, and she’d told him the house was for sale. Could she contact the owner at once? He was interested in making an offer before he left town.
Chagrin flashed across the Realtor’s face. Wouldn’t you just know it? she said. Less than two hours ago, he could have spoken with the owner right here. Now she was on her way out of town—where, she didn’t say. It was really very strange. She’d left no telephone number where she could be reached, saying that she’d be in touch when she got situated. However… if he’d like to make an offer, she could draw up the contract and present it the minute the owner called.
Did she have any idea when that would be? Matt asked.
The Realtor’s face lengthened. Unfortunately, no.
He smiled his regrets, saying that wouldn’t be convenient for him, but he’d take her card.
Outside the Realtor’s office, he sucked in a long, frustrated breath of bone-dry air. He was fairly certain Rachel was headed to her friend in Dallas, the zany blonde in jodhpurs and boots who’d driven in the night of the accident. Carla or Cassie, or something like that. Her name had not registered in the emotional turmoil. Amos might remember. Once he had the friend’s name, the rest would be easy. He’d go through the operator for her address, get a flight plan cleared to Dallas, and be in there tonight.
In the van, he dialed his home phone number on the portable phone he’d brought along. When his grandfather answered, he asked for Amos, knowing he’d be at Warwick Hall. Without delay, Percy handed the receiver to Amos. “What can I do for you, Matt?” he asked when he came on the line.
“Rachel has put her house up for sale and left town without telling anyone where she was headed, but you may be able to help me f
ind her, Amos. Do you remember the name of Rachel’s roommate at Texas A and M—that female dynamo we met the night of the accident? I think Rachel’s gone to stay with her in Dallas.”
Matt could hear his urge to kick himself. “I’m sorry, Matt, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch her name either.”
Matt struck the steering wheel with his palm and hissed a silent curse, but he said as if it didn’t matter, “Don’t fret about it, Amos. Maybe Sassie or Henry can tell me.”
But Henry did not recall the name either. “Miss Carrie is all I know,” Henry said. “Last names of strangers don’t stick with me. Maybe Aunt Sassie remembers. She’s staying at my mama’s. Want to call her?”
“Give me the number, Henry.”
But he hit a dead end there, too. Sassie had been so overcome with the events of those awful days she hadn’t known whether she was pitching or catching, she told Matt.
A detective, then, he decided, putting the van into reverse. They’d contact a detective agency to track her down. He punched in the numbers of his office in Howbutker, picturing Rachel up on the roof of her house, attacking the nails with a vengeance. Was that her purpose, the driving force keeping her together—vengeance? Against whom? And why? In his heart, he believed he knew. He had the chilling feeling his grandfather was the target.
“Nancy,” he said when his secretary answered, “put everything else aside and find me the name and number of a reliable detective agency in Dallas, then call me back with the information. I’m heading home.”
Chapter Sixty-four
DALLAS, TEXAS, SATURDAY
Rachel awoke the next morning to find with a start that the enameled clock on the bedside table read nine o’clock. She propped herself up on an elbow in the cold, all-white room, looking about her in confusion until she realized she was in the guest room of Carrie Sutherland’s starkly modern town house. She contemplated getting up, nudged by the farmer’s inherent guilt about lying abed while the day was wasting. Not since Saturday mornings in grade school had she slept so late. After a moment, though, she lowered herself back down. There were no fields to tend anymore.