Roses (59 page)

The pine-canopied road was quiet and peaceful—no sight or sound of another car—and he had the sensation of driving through
a silent green tunnel, a good stretch to think. He kept recalling Aunt Mary’s words to him in the gazebo that summer of 1956:
Be glad your children will grow up free of Somerset
. What had she meant by that? He was convinced it was behind her decision to sever his daughter from her Toliver roots. To
hell with Alice’s theory that she’d done it to keep her promise to him. Aunt Mary was free to change her mind at any time,
and they’d both known she owed him nothing. He also couldn’t buy that she’d willed Somerset to Percy as an expression of regret.
That bit had come as a shock—that they’d been lovers—but not when he thought about it. They had looked made for each other,
and he had wondered at one time why Aunt Mary, a goddess, had chosen a cherub over a Greek god. Not that there was ever a
better man than Uncle Ollie.

Then why, when she’d primed Rachel to step into her shoes, had Aunt Mary snatched them away?

Somerset has always cost too much,
she’d said.

He now had an inkling of what she’d meant by that. Somerset had cost her Percy and God knew what else she had been alluding
to that summer. In a way, it had cost her him. He’d have stayed if he hadn’t been made to work out at the plantation. God,
how he’d hated the place—the chiggers and mosquitoes, the heat and sweat, the sucking mud in the rainy season and the clinging
dust in drought, the burrs and constant fear of snakes coiled under the cotton bushes, the never-ending cycle of work, work,
work. And someday, so he was made to understand—because he was a Toliver—it was all going to be his.

He shook his head as if a fly had penetrated his ear passage. He could not have abided it. No sirreebobtail. And now Somerset
had come between his wife and daughter, and it would cost Rachel that fine Matt Warwick, too. They were another couple that
went together like peas and carrots, if ever he saw one, but she could never marry a man whose grandfather possessed the land
that she would always believe should have been hers. His aunt had meant well, but she’d blown it. Rachel would never forgive
her, as Alice would never get past their daughter throwing in her lot with Aunt Mary.

He blew out a woeful breath. He could understand the costs, but what of the curse? What in blue blazes was the Toliver curse?
How did it show itself? Had Aunt Mary saved Rachel from it? How would she know?

The winding, narrow road under its green awning swam before his vision. His senses swelled with a sorrow for the tragic barter
of things… those cherishables folks traded away that could never be reclaimed. His eyes and ears and nostrils were so filled
that he did not register the urgent blowing of the train whistle in the distance. The car windows were rolled up, his right
view blocked by the towel and a hang-up bag in the back. The air conditioner hummed. A faint blare of Jimmy’s rock music leaked
from the Walkman. When first he heard the cry of the train whistle, it sounded like a natural sound of the region, so much
a nostalgic part of his childhood this hour of the day that the car was on the track before he realized that a freight train
was bearing down upon them.

Alice and Jimmy never opened their eyes. For an illuminating instant before the train struck, William’s mind was fully alert,
and he understood with perfect clarity the gist of the Toliver curse.

B
ack in her room, hardly able to draw breath, Rachel climbed up on the bed, opened the green leather box, and carefully lifted
out the last will and testament of her great-great-grandfather. It was dated May 17, 1916. She was aware that he had died
in June of that year, so the document must have been drafted shortly before. A letter had been inserted between the pages.
She unfolded the single sheet and glanced at the closing signature: “Your loving father, Vernon Toliver.” A chill grabbed
her spine. She felt as if she’d found the key to a locked, forbidden room.

Dearest wife and children,
she read.

I have never thought of myself as a cowardly man, but I find that I do not have the courage to apprise you of my will’s contents
while I am still alive. Let me assure you, before its reading, that I love each of you with all my heart and wish, as deeply,
that circumstances could have afforded a fairer and more generous distribution of my property. Darla, my beloved wife, I ask
you to understand why I have done what I’ve done. Miles, my son, I cannot expect you to understand, but someday, perhaps,
your heir will be grateful for the legacy I leave you and entrust you to retain for the fruit of your loin.

And Mary, I wonder that in remembering you as I’ve done, I’ve not prolonged the curse that has plagued the Tolivers since
the first pine tree was cleared from Somerset. I am leaving you many and great responsibilities which I hope will not force
you into a position unfavorable to your happiness.

Your loving husband and father

Rachel met her startled gaze in the dressing table mirror beyond her bed. This was the first written reference to a Toliver
curse she’d ever come across. What did it mean? How was it manifested? And what was this legacy that Vernon Toliver had left
his son? The chill gripping her backbone spread. With a growing sense of the unthinkable, she turned the brittle pages until
she found the name
Miles Toliver
listed as sole beneficiary of a tract of 640 acres and a description of its location along the Sabine River.

No! No way! Aunt Mary couldn’t have… she wouldn’t have…
She fixed her eyes on the paragraph again, rereading the words expressed in their legal jargon, her mind reeling from their
implications. But there was no mistaking their meaning. Contrary to what her family had believed—to what Aunt Mary had
allowed
them to believe—Vernon Toliver had left a section of Somerset land to his son.

Rachel lifted her white face to the mirror. Aunt Mary had lied by omitting the truth of her brother’s inheritance. But why?
What was the point of the secret? She’d have thought Aunt Mary would have
wanted
her father to know of the land Miles inherited, to encourage his interest and commitment. What happened to those acres? Had
Miles Toliver sold them? Had Aunt Mary been ashamed of the sale and not wanted her nephew to know what he’d done?

There were two other envelopes in the box, held together by a rusted paper clip. The faded name above the return address of
the top one caused her to lose breath.
Miles Toliver
. It had been mailed from Paris, but the postdate was too faint to read. She unclipped it, setting aside the other envelope
without a glance, and carefully withdrew a letter dated May 13, 1935.

Dear Mary,

I am in hospital, having been diagnosed with lung cancer, a result of the phosgene gas I inhaled during the war. The doctors
tell me that it’s only a matter of time now. I’m not afraid for myself, only for William, my son. He’s seven years old and
the sweetest little fellow in the world. His mother died two years ago, and it’s been only the two of us since. I’m writing
to say that I’m sending him to you and Ollie to take in and raise as your own, perhaps as a younger brother to Matthew. He
looks exactly like a Toliver, Mary, and who knows but that someday he may grow up to appreciate and respect the family name
with the enthusiasm his father lacked. I’d like you to give him a chance to try. I have made arrangements for him to arrive
in New York on the
Queen Mary
June fifteenth. Attached is the dock information.

Also enclosed is the deed to the section along the Sabine that Papa left me in his will. As you can see, I have transferred
it to you to hold in trust for William until he is twenty-one, at which time you’re to transfer the property to him to do
with as he sees fit. I’m hoping by then, for your sake as well as his, he’ll be so entrenched in the Toliver tradition that
he wouldn’t dream of parting with a nugget of his inheritance.

I am at peace knowing that he is going to a good home. Tell Ollie that I still consider him and Percy the finest friends a
man ever made. I hope you will all remember me in the memories of the good times we shared.

Your loving brother,

Miles

Rachel stared at the letter in dumb disbelief, unable to grasp its shocking revelations. Irrelevantly, she recalled her father’s
description of himself arriving in New York Harbor at seven years old, alone and afraid, looking foreign and speaking only
French. She’d heard the story many times of how Uncle Ollie, his cherubic face wreathed in a smile, had hailed him from the
waiting crowd on the dock and put him at ease immediately, buying him ice cream and sodas and regaling him with boyhood tales
of Miles on the long train journey to Howbutker. Uncle Ollie had been sent alone to collect him because it was planting time
at Somerset.

Feeling as if every corpuscle were jumping, Rachel picked up the other envelope addressed to Mary DuMont and instinctively,
horrifyingly, guessed that the bold black handwriting belonged to Percy Warwick—perhaps because it had been clipped to the
clear proof of betrayal and deception by the woman he loved. No return address, stamp, or postdate, which meant it had been
hand-delivered. She slipped out the brief message, noting that it was dated July 7, 1935.

Mary,

Though I have misgivings, I believe I can see my way to agree to your proposal. I have gone to Ollie’s creditor, and he cannot
be moved from his position. Therefore, I will buy the section we discussed. Let’s meet Monday at the courthouse at three o’clock,
and we will take care of the matter. Bring the deed, and I will bring the check.

As ever,

Percy

Rachel drew back her shoulders, inwardly seeing the smokestacks and emissions rising from the site of Warwick Industries’
huge pulp mill and paper-processing plant bordering Somerset’s eastern boundary. On the other side of the complex lay the
Sabine River. She had always thought its juxtaposition next to the Toliver plantation accidental, but now…

Dear God—was it possible? Did Percy’s note refer to her grandfather’s section along the Sabine, and had Aunt Mary
sold
it to him against Miles’s instructions? Were Percy’s misgivings based on knowledge that the land wasn’t Aunt Mary’s to sell?
Rachel studied the date: July 7, 1935… two months after her father’s arrival in New York Harbor.

Another remote possibility, logical and less shocking, but no less shameful, nudged in. By the time William Toliver had reached
twenty-one, Aunt Mary was well aware of her nephew’s lack of feeling for the plantation and his heritage. Had she simply incorporated
his acres into the rest of Somerset and never mentioned them to him because she was afraid he’d sell his inheritance? If they
did
not
abut Somerset and she hadn’t sold them to Percy, where along the Sabine were they located? Where was the deed? And what section,
then, would she have sold to Percy?

Rachel pressed her cold hands to her hot cheeks. What had she discovered? Evidence of fraud? Or plain deceit and thievery?
Was her father the culprit here? Had Aunt Mary transferred the deed as instructed and he’d sold it and the two of them kept
his secret all these years?

No, never. He wouldn’t have allowed her mother to believe a lie that was at the root of her resentment against the Tolivers.
But then—until today—she wouldn’t have believed Aunt Mary guilty of her crimes, either, and as for Percy Warwick… he was the
most honorable man she knew. She gazed at the note and felt sick to her stomach.
Bring the deed
…. Was it conceivable that he would agree to a proposal that would defraud a six-year-old boy of his inheritance?

At least she would get one answer when her father telephoned tonight. She’d tell him of her discovery and question the whereabouts
of the deed, but she was certain he’d say he had no idea what she was talking about. He’d never known he was to inherit a
section of land that had belonged to his father. And tomorrow, she’d go to the courthouse and check the record of deeds for
the location of the land.

Car lights flashed across her bedroom windows, reflected off the closed garage doors. Sassie and Henry were home. She scrambled
off the bed to let them in before they rang the bell and she’d have to explain the locked back door. She was halfway down
the stairs when the kaleidoscopic play of a squad car’s blue and red lights struck the fanlight. She halted in midflight as
other tires screeched to a stop before the verandah, followed by the slam of car doors and the urgent pitch of men’s voices—among
them Matt’s and Amos’s.
What in the world—?

The back doorbell buzzed. She barely heard the sound for the frantic beat of her heart as she rushed to answer the imperative
summons of the front door chimes. The insistent ring came again as she struggled to wrench the cranky bolt from its antiquated
casing and finally throw open the door. A contingent of men stared at her, Amos and Matt in the forefront, the county sheriff
and two highway patrolmen behind them, their grimly set faces almost stopping her heart.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“It’s your… parents and… Jimmy,” Amos croaked, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a Ping-Pong ball.

“What about them?”

Matt stepped across the threshold and gripped her hand. “Their car was struck by a train, Rachel. They were killed instantly.”