Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle (43 page)

“Without a doubt, he knew. Ever since his release, Richard had been begging her to get back together, then he started following her. Stalking her was more like it. So he knew, and I’ll tell you something else. I checked out Miss Petty’s toolshed right after the deputies removed his body, and there was evidence that he had been watching Thurlow’s house through a knothole in the wall.” Sam leaned against the counter, watching me ladle out scoops of coffee. “I guess he saw more than he could handle.”

“That is just amazing,” I said, looking up at him with an expression of wonder. “And you were brilliant to figure that out when even the deputies missed it. I’m so proud of you.”

I stepped away as a few more thoughts sprang to mind. “I guess Richard should be commended for making Helen a widow instead of a divorcée. He certainly passed on in the nick of time.” I smiled, switched on the coffeepot, and went on. “And you know something else, Sam? Now I understand why Thurlow kept bringing up Miss Petty’s name, implying that she was seeing Richard and might’ve instigated his heart attack. It was his way of steering suspicion away from Helen.” I just shook my head at the ins and outs of it all. “But I will never understand how Helen could fall for him—they are such opposites in every way you can think of.”

“Well,” Sam said, somewhat wryly, “let’s just say that she sees the potential in him.”

“Why, Sam,” I said, looking at him with a teasing smile, “you don’t mean to imply that Helen is materialistic, do you?” Before he could respond, I thought of something else. “I’ve often wondered whether Thurlow had a hand in Richard’s investment scheme and maybe ended up with all that missing money everybody talks about. That could’ve been part of what Richard was doing sneaking around Thurlow’s house—he wanted his wife and his money. Or rather, everybody else’s money, which he stole from them. From us, I mean.”

“Could be,” Sam said, as his arm slid around my shoulders, “but I expect we’ll never know, and to tell the truth, I don’t especially care.”

As a burst of laughter rang out from the living room, Sam’s arm tightened around me. He pulled me closer. “They’re having such a good time in there, they won’t miss us. Let’s go to my house. Just you and me.”

I melted into him. “Right now?”

“Right now.” Sam began to nuzzle my neck, and frankly, it was a whole lot better than watching somebody else’s neck get nuzzled.

My breath quickened. “Where’s James?”

“Off courtin’ somewhere, which is exactly what I have in mind.”

Later that night, after Sam had brought me home, supper had been cleared away, and everybody was deep in sleep, I filled a toothbrush glass in the bathroom. Then carefully tiptoeing across the hall, carrying the glass and a flashlight, I slipped into Lloyd’s room.

Placing the flashlight on Lloyd’s desk so that the beam cast a dim glow in the room without shining directly on him, I walked over to his bed. Standing there and looking down at that boy, my heart filled with love, and, I admit, some sadness too. Sadness because he’d been hidden from me for the first nine years of his life. I’d missed seeing him in his cradle, holding and rocking him as an infant, as I was getting to do with his sisters. I’d missed seeing him take his first steps, teaching him to read, and watching him grow during those years when I’d had no knowledge of his existence.

I sighed because, considering who his father had been, it was just as well I hadn’t known. I probably wouldn’t have appreciated anything about the child.

As I stood watching, I saw how Lloyd was snuggled down under the covers against the night chill—it’s not healthy to sleep in a hot room, you know. His fine hair was splayed out on the pillow, and all I could see was the top of his head. That was all right. It was all I needed.

I knelt down beside him, then hesitated. Being neither an ordained minister nor a priest, I’d not been instructed in the various sacramental methods. Should I pour water on his head or just drip it on? Either way, he’d end up sleeping on a wet pillow.

So, ever mindful of Lloyd’s health and comfort, I compromised. Dipping my fingers in the glass, I flicked a few drops of water on his head. “I baptize you,” I whispered, “in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

If I’d known how to make the sign of the cross, I’d have done that too. But I didn’t, so not wanting to mess up a sacred rite, I left it off. Then, rising with difficulty—I spilled water all down my gown as I stood up—I asked the Lord to bless my pitiful and unofficial ceremony as a stopgap until a better one could be arranged. Then, with my wet gown clinging to me, I went on to ask the Lord to accept my private effort in the spirit in which it was offered and to protect this child throughout his life, which I fervently hoped would be long and blessed with health and prosperity.

Then I hurryied back to my room, changed my gown, and went to bed, relieved that there were no more misunderstandings, no more secrets to hide, and no more toolsheds to be visited. I could sleep, secure in the knowledge that Sam would soon be with me, the Pickenses would be well settled not too far away, and Lloyd was fully, if somewhat unconventionally, baptized.

Sighing with satisfaction, I pulled up the covers and closed my eyes—everyone in my family was safe, except . . . my eyes popped open—Mr. Pickens!

Well, I thought, I’ll have to think of something else to put him right. There was no way in the world I was going to approach that man in the dead of night with a glass of water in hand.