A Bridge to Love (22 page)

Lucinda
shook her head. “Not scared that way. What scared me was that you were so
focused, so driven to get out of Mason County, and I wasn't sure I could keep
up with you.”

“Christ,
Lucy, you hated this place as much as I did.”

“No,
I hated being poor as much as you did.”

“I
see.”

“I
doubt it. I don't expect you to believe this, but I loved you enough not to
want to ruin your life. I was even afraid that you might come to hate me for
it. So I went to see Gill. First he told me he'd pay for an abortion. I refused
and walked out. That's why I told you –”

“What
made him change his mind?”

There
were tears in Lucinda's eyes. “Gill's a decent person. He thought about it and
accepted his responsibility. He even took me out to dinner and proposed. Then I
did the hardest thing I had ever done in my life before or since: I told you
that I was marrying Gill Gillespie.”

Randall's
face darkened. “And left me hanging for twenty-three years, not knowing if I
had a daughter or not.”

“You
never showed any interest in finding out if she was really yours.”

“How
would I have done that without, as you put it, making things more complicated?”

Lucinda
shrugged and then said in a tiny voice, “You just left. I never saw you after
the day you graduated. I wanted to say good-bye, good luck, something. Maybe
even to tell you the truth.”

“I
was already packed when I put on that cap and gown. I took the diploma and
walked to the bus stop.” Randall paced around the room.

Lucinda
followed him with her eyes. “Why did you come back now?” she almost whispered.

“To
buy Mason Bank. And to destroy it.”

Her
cheeks lost all their color. “Why?”

“You
and Gill destroyed my future. When I left here, all that kept me going was the
thought of being able to do the same for you.”

“Maybe
you should be grateful to us.”

Randall
laughed unpleasantly. “You're good, Lucy. Gill should have put you on the bank
board.”

“Randall,
please don't do this. It's not worthy of you.”

He
gave her a hard stare and strolled over to a group of silver-framed photos
arranged on the baby grand piano. “You're a prosperous-looking family,” he
said, as he picked up photos and inspected them. “Fine horses, nice vacations,
pretty clothes – Christ, what's this?” His gaze was riveted on a photo of the
three daughters, a few years younger, wearing soccer uniforms and holding trophies.
“Who the hell in Texas plays soccer?”

“Besides
you, you mean?”

Randall
glanced sideways at her. “Victor Gillespie threatened to horsewhip me if he
ever saw me near a football again. I stole my first soccer ball from Gill's
backyard.”

Lucinda
moved to stand beside him and look at the picture. “They were in a tournament
and all three of their teams won their divisions. They were more proud of each
other than of themselves. It was one of those wonderful moments of being a
parent when you feel that you've actually done it right.”

Randall's
face suddenly looked bleak. He put the photo down abruptly. “That's a pleasure
I haven't had.” He fell silent, staring at the array of pictures.

After
a long pause, Lucinda put her hand very tentatively on his arm. “I'm sorry,
Randall.”

He
looked down at her hand until she removed it.

“The
deal's off.”

“What?”

“Gill
has his bank back.”

Lucinda
was thrown off balance. “I don't know what to say. What should I tell him?”

“Tell
him that he's lucky his daughters played soccer. Have a nice life, Lucy.”

The
driver was leaning against the car and leapt to attention when Randall came
down the front steps. He opened the car door but kept looking back at the front
of the house. Finally he had the courage to ask, “Will Mr. Gillespie be
accompanying you, Mr. Johnson?”

“No.
And I'd like to get moving now.”

“Yes,
sir!” The driver slammed the door before he practically sprinted around to the
driver's seat. He had the car in motion before he remembered to ask, “Are we
going to the bank, sir?”

“No.”

“Then
where would you like me to take you, sir?”

Randall
was silent for a long minute. “Do you know where the town of Doss is?”

“More
or less, sir.”

“That's
where I'm going.”

“To
Doss? It's a fair drive.”

“I
know that. There's a bar there I want to visit...if it's still in business.
What's your name, young man?”

“John,
sir.”

“John,
drop the sir.”

“Yes,
si-...Mr. Johnson.”

“Randall.”

“Um,
right. How long do you expect to be in Doss?”

“A
long time.”

John
had no response to that. He silently turned the car in a smooth arc and headed
northwest. From sheer habit, Randall took out his cell phone to check his voice
mail. He had pushed the first button when he said, “Screw this,” and turned the
power off. He hefted it in his hand a couple of times, then opened the window
and hurled it into a clump of bushes. He spent the rest of the drive staring
out the window as the suburbs of San Antonio fell away, and they entered the
hill country of eastern Texas.

Dobie's
looked even worse than he remembered. A neon sign, lit even in midday, was the
only new addition to the big clapboard rectangle with no windows. The paint had
long ago flaked off, and the wood had weathered to a dark gray. The parking lot
surrounding it on all sides was half-full of pickup trucks and motorcycles,
making the couple of old Cadillacs stand out. Randall opened the car door
before the driver could and got out to stand with his hands thrust in his
pockets as he surveyed the bar's unprepossessing facade.

“I
think I should wait, sir,” the young man said as he watched two customers stare
at the limo.

“Go
home, son; I'm going to get drunk, and I don't need an audience.” He pulled out
his wallet and flicked a hundred dollar bill to John. “This is to help you
forget that you were ever here.”

“But
how will you get back to San Antonio? I don't think taxis come out here.”

“I'll
hitch a ride,” Randall said as he walked toward the door.

“Your
briefcase, sir.” The driver called to him.

Randall
swung around to smile at him. “Put a red ribbon on it and give it to Mrs.
Gillespie with my compliments.”

Then
he was swallowed up in the smoky depths of his past.

Nineteen

Kate opened her eyes in the
dimly lit room, wondering where she was and why she was awake. The second
question was answered as a telephone shrilled near her ear. She reached in the
general direction of the noise and almost pulled the phone off the small table
before she realized that she was in Clay's hospital room, and that the receiver
had a cord attached to it.

“Hello?”
she rasped as she pushed herself up on her elbow.

“Kate
Chilton?” a vaguely familiar male voice asked.

“Yes,
this is Kate.”

“This
is Tom Rogan. I'm sorry to bother you at this time of night, and in the
hospital, but I wondered if Randall had been in touch with you today?”

Kate
sat bolt upright. “No, he hasn't. He said he was going to Texas on business.”

“He
did go to Texas, but his Learjet is still waiting to give him a ride home.”

“Don't
the people he went to see know where he is?”

Tom
hesitated a moment, then said, “The bank president won't even get on the phone
with me. Something happened down there, and I'm worried as hell about Randall.
He's not checking his voice mail or answering his cell phone. He told the pilot
that he'd be on board no later than six o'clock, and now it's midnight in San
Antonio and he's a no-show.”

Kate
tried to gather her sleep-scattered thoughts. “Didn't he grow up near there?
Maybe he ran into an old friend?”

Tom's
voice was worried and impatient. “He wouldn't ignore his phone because of that,
and the bank president wouldn't be refusing my calls. Something's wrong.”

“Is
there anything I can do to help?”

“Leave
him a voice mail asking him to call you. And let me know if he does.”

“I
will if you'll promise to do the same.”

“I
might wake you up again.”

“I'd
rather that you did.” Kate paused. “You know, Randall seems pretty capable of
taking care of himself. You probably don't need to worry.”

“I'll
keep that in mind. Good night.”

Kate
threw off the covers and started toward her pocket-book when a sleepy voice
came from the cot in the corner. “Mom, who was that?”

“Just
someone looking for Mr. Johnson, Patrick. Go back to sleep. I have to go make a
phone call, and I'll be back.”

Kate
heard the rustle of sheets as Patrick subsided. She had dashed home that afternoon
to bring her younger son to see his brother. Clay was so much more cheerful
with Patrick there, playing cards, that Kate had arranged to have Patrick spend
the night. If Dr. Lane gave the okay, they could all go home together tomorrow.

Kate
quickly checked on Clay, but the painkillers were keeping him knocked out. Then
she grabbed a sweatshirt to pull on over her pajamas and took her handbag out
into the hall. It seemed utterly ludicrous to be so worried about a grown man
being late for a plane, especially if Randall Johnson was the man you were
worried about. Yet she believed Tom Rogan when he said that Randall wouldn't
stay out-of-touch for so long unless there was a problem. She suspected that
his telephone was never more than two feet away from him even when he slept.

As
Kate tried to formulate a message to leave him, her mind conjured up possible
explanations for his absence. CEOs did get kidnapped occasionally, although
mostly in Third World countries, she thought. It seemed more likely that
Randall had decided to revisit his past in some way. She knew it had been
problematic. But then there was the odd behavior of the bank president, who she
assumed had been involved in the business that Randall had flown down to
transact. She shook her head in defeat and punched in Randall's private phone
number, wryly noting that she had committed it to memory, so throwing away
scraps of paper would now be meaningless.

His
terse recorded request to leave a message came on. She wished it were longer
and had more of that Texas drawl in it. Then she could just dial in when she
needed a quick thrill. The beep sounded, and she said in a deliberately light
tone, “Randall, it's Kate Chilton. Poor Tom Rogan is so worried about you that
he broke down and phoned me. Now I'm worried, too. As soon as you get this
message, call me at the hospital or call Tom wherever you usually call him. I
hope everything is all right. Clay's doing fine. I'll talk with you soon.” She
hesitated a moment, wanting to say something more personal but unable to come
up with anything appropriate. “Take care,” she finished lamely and
disconnected.

She
suspected that Randall would get her message and be furious with both her and
Tom Rogan. After all, he should be able to take some time away from his responsibilities
when he wanted to without checking in with anyone. Obviously, Randall's wealth
and power came with strings attached –
including
widowed mothers calling for medical favors,
she thought with a grimace. She
had always considered him a rather solitary figure, perched on his mountain-top
beyond the reach of the daily hubbub. Tom Rogan's frantic phone call had
dispelled that illusion; it seemed that Randall Johnson had less freedom than
she thought.

She
tiptoed back into the hospital room. After silently laying her cell phone on
the bedside table with its power light still flashing, she confounded her own
expectations and fell immediately asleep.

When
the telephone rang again, Kate opened her eyes to pale morning light. Sounds of
the hospital stirring to life came through the door as she seized the receiver.

“Hello?”

She
was disappointed when Tom Rogan answered, but relieved when he said, “Randall's
on the plane.”

“Oh,
thank goodness! Where had he been? What did he say?”

“I
haven't spoken with him. The pilot called me.” Once again, Kate heard Tom's
hesitation, then he went on. “He arrived at the airport in a pickup truck with
two, well, the pilot's exact word was 'rednecks.' He was dead drunk and had to
be carried onto the plane.”

“Drunk?
I've never seen Randall drunk. I thought that because of his mother...” Kate
trailed off, not sure how much Tom knew of Randall's past.

“Exactly.”
Tom sounded grim. “You know, after we spoke, I thought about your idea of
Randall meeting an old friend, and it reminded me of a comment he made about
this deal. He said that he was going to 'repave memory lane.' That was when I
expressed doubts about the soundness of his decision to buy this bank.
Something blew up.”

“When
do you expect him to land?”

“In
about four hours. I'm going to meet the plane myself. Right now, the pilot says
Randall's passed out on the fold-out bed.”

Kate
was struck by a sudden worry. “I hope the pilots are discreet. Randall would
hate having this become public knowledge.”

Tom
gave a short laugh. “These guys see much worse than passed-out drunks and never
discuss it. Their jobs depend as much on their discretion as on their skill as
pilots.”

He
cleared his throat. “Kate, I'm not sure exactly what your relationship with
Randall is – and it's none of my business – but I think he will need his
friends when he gets back, whether he'll admit it or not. My sense is that
you're someone who cares about him. May I call you if I think you can help?”

“I'd
be hurt if you didn't.”

After
hanging up, Kate dropped her head back on her pillow for a moment as she
considered the fact that Tom Rogan knew she cared deeply about Randall Johnson.
She couldn't help wondering what Randall had said to Tom about her. A tiny
flicker of happiness warmed her at the thought that Randall's right-hand man
saw her as his boss's friend.

She
threw off the covers and padded into the bathroom to shower while the boys
slept. When she emerged, dressed and wide awake, breakfast was on the rolling
table. Clay and Patrick were joking about how awful everything was even as they
devoured it.

“Rubber
eggs.”

“Plastic
bacon.”

“Unidentified
gelatinous substance,” Clay said, poking at what Kate assumed was oatmeal.

Patrick
cracked up, then sobered. “Mom, who was looking for Mr. Johnson last night?”

“Um,
a business associate of his,” Kate said as she tasted the eggs. “Definitely
rubber,” she agreed with Clay.

“In
the middle of the night? That's kind of weird.”

Clay
looked up. “Is Mr. Johnson okay?”

“He's
fine. He's on a Learjet flying back right now.” Kate threw in the jet to
distract them.

“Cool,”
Patrick said. “I wonder what model.”

Clay
wasn't so easily redirected. “Why was his business associate so worried about
him?”

“Oh,
he didn't arrive at the airport when he said he was going to. And his associate
said that was unusual for Mr. Johnson.”

“But
he's a grown-up,” Patrick said.

Kate
laughed. “Grown-ups worry about each other too, you know.”

“Mom,
I like Mr. Johnson,” Clay said quietly. “And not just because he got the
surgeon to operate on my hand. Or because he has a helicopter.”

“So
do I, sweetheart. He's a good man.” Kate sighed.

Clay
gave her a sharp look, but said nothing further. After that, they were swept
into the hurry-up-and-wait routine of leaving the hospital. They dressed,
packed, signed forms, called Denise, and then spent an hour and a half playing
poker for pennies while they waited for Dr. Lane to release Clay.

Kate
lost her stake unusually quickly because her attention kept circling around the
twin worries of Clay and Randall. She was hugely relieved when Dr. Lane strode
in, followed by his entourage of interns.

After
a barrage of technical comments aimed at his students, the surgeon addressed
Clay and Kate in plain English. “I'm very pleased with my work on this. It's a
textbook case. Young man, you'll have full use of this hand
if and only if
you do all the physical
therapy I'm going to recommend.”

“Yes,
sir,” Clay responded with a brilliant smile.

Dr.
Lane smiled back. “When your hand's healed more, you're going to get this
really cool gizmo that will make you look like something out of the
Terminator
.”

“Lucky
dog,” Patrick said.

“Let's
not mention the word
dog
in this
context,” Kate joked.

The
doctor slid her an amused glance. “That's the spirit. Good luck, Clay. I'll see
you next week.”

Kate
shook his hand warmly. “I can't tell you how much we appreciate your miraculous
work.”

“Maybe
you can talk Mr. Johnson into naming the new wing after me,” Dr. Lane threw
over his shoulder as he exited.

The
three Chiltons looked at each other. Finally, Kate said, “He must have been
kidding.”

As
they walked in the front door, Clay looked around and said, “I feel like I've
been away for weeks instead of a couple of days.”

“Anesthesia
does that to you,” Kate said as she dropped the duffel bags at the foot of the
steps. “Would you like to go upstairs and sleep or would you rather lie down on
the couch in the family room and watch a movie?”

“The
family room,” Clay said, heading that way.

“Are
you hungry?” Kate asked as she arranged pillows for his back and hand.

“Definitely.
Especially after the unidentified gelatinous substance,” he said, setting
himself and his brother off into a fit of laughter.

Kate
smiled as she walked into the kitchen. If Clay was cracking jokes, he was
feeling all right. Her smile widened when she heard Patrick politely ask Clay
which movie he wanted to watch and accept his choice without argument. He was
obviously still worried about his brother. She wondered how long that would
last.

As
she took out sandwich fixings, Kate punched the answering machine's play
button. There were a couple of messages from Clay's friends, asking how he was
doing. Then Tom Rogan's voice sounded from the speaker. “Kate, Tom Rogan. I
missed you at the hospital. I met Randall at the airport. He informed me that he
didn't need a nursemaid, jumped into his car and spun out of the parking lot.
If you hear from him, please let me know. He looked like hell.”

Kate
glanced at her watch as the date and time sounded; the message had been
recorded an hour ago. She stopped the playback. What in the world had happened
in Texas? Should she try Randall again? She shook her head. Her message was on
his voice mail already. Repeating it wouldn't help.

She
pushed play once more. “Hello, Kate? This is Barbara Handley. I'm so very sorry
about what happened to Clay's hand. I do hope that he's all right. If I had
known that Thunder would be a problem, I would never have accepted your boys'
kind offer to walk him. I just can't believe that he would attack another dog.
Please tell Clay I called to wish him well.”

Kate
frowned as she listened. Thunder was not well-disciplined, but he had never
shown any sign of viciousness. And didn't Clay say it had been another dog's
fault? She would have to ask him the details again. Several more messages from
well-wishers spooled past as Kate fixed sandwiches. None were from Randall. She
again debated calling him. But first she decided to talk with Barbara Handley.