Roses (64 page)

The threat rang in the air between them. “I see,” Percy said, raking his tongue over dry lips.

Matt felt the need to give his feelings room. He turned for the door but remembered something and swung around. “I see that
Amos has released Mary’s house to the Conservation Society.”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“He must have. A black Suburban was parked by the garage a while ago, the hatch was open, and Henry was bringing some things
out.”

“Oh, son, that’s Rachel down there!” Percy cried. “Amos wouldn’t release the house until she has a chance to take what she
wants.”

But he addressed an empty doorway. Matt had sprinted for the stairs.

H
ow long has she been gone, Henry?” Matt asked.

“Maybe about thirty minutes, Mister Matt,” Henry said. “She didn’t let us know she was comin’. She’d have been gone long before
now if Aunt Sassie hadn’t stopped by. She’s stayin’ at my mama’s right now, you know.”

Matt nodded. “And she didn’t give you a hint where she was going?”

“No, sir. She was pretty closemouthed about herself. Looked like she wanted to get out of Howbutker soon’s possible. Can’t
say I blame her.”

Matt expelled a sigh of consternation and dialed the number of the sheriff’s department. He now had the description of the
Suburban, and Henry had even thought to notice the unusual personalized license plate: sky bee. Smart girl, Rachel. She had
thrown him off by exchanging cars with her roommate. The license plate identification should give the detective something
to work with. After giving the sheriff the new information, he hung up and asked, “And you say that the only items she came
by to get were the things in Mister Ollie’s army trunk?”

“Yessir. Them things and some old accountin’ books that have been around for the Lord knows how long. They belonged to Miss
Mary’s brother. She didn’t want nothin’ else.”

Fodder to use against them in a court of law, Matt surmised. He said, “Maybe he told your aunt Sassie something?”

Henry shook his head. “She didn’t tell her nothin’ that I didn’t hear, except… Miss Rachel told her she ain’t drivin’ back
tonight to wherever she’s goin’. Aunt Sassie was worried about that since she looked kinda tired and it was gettin’ late,
and we all know what happened to her folks when they tried that. But she told Aunt Sassie not to worry. She had reservations
somewhere in a motel on the way back.”

Matt considered. “Where’s your phone book, Henry?” He’d take a stab that Rachel would stay overnight in Marshall, a town located
an hour away. The phone book produced, he ran down the listings of area motels in the yellow pages and started dialing. His
second attempt proved successful. A desk clerk at the Goodnight Inn in Marshall told him that, yes, they had a guest by the
name of Rachel Toliver registered for the night. Matt thanked Henry and ran to his car.

T
HE EVENING CLERK AT THE
Goodnight Inn in Marshall, a retiree working to supplement his pension, listened to Matt’s request with visible discomfort.
Matt had expected Rachel to be here by now since she’d had a half hour’s start, but a knock on the door of her room number
had gone unanswered, and the sheriff’s deputies had caught no sight of her, either. Matt knew that what he was asking the
man to do was against motel policy. The company could be sued, and him personally, but he owed the Warwicks big time, and
he knew it. Years ago, Percy Warwick had saved his rebellious teenage son from a life of crime by offering him a job while
he served out his probation. The boy went on to college, earned a business degree, married, and was now living the American
dream in Atlanta, Georgia. Matt could see in the man’s eyes that he remembered what he owed Percy Warwick.

Nonetheless, rules were rules, and he detected that it went against the man’s grain to break them. He really didn’t know Percy
Warwick’s grandson all that well, and the motel owed some obligation to the guest. Matt could sympathize with his dilemma,
but he was desperate.

“Mr. Colter,” he said, “I wouldn’t put you in this spot if it weren’t crucial that I surprise Rachel Toliver.”

“Can’t you do that in the lobby?”

“That would ruin the surprise. She’d know what I was up to.”

“Which is?”

Matt grinned. “Not what you think, I assure you. You have my word. I simply want to talk to her in a place that’s private.”

Mr. Colter looked even more uncomfortable. “And that can’t be done here… in the lobby?”

“No,” Matt answered emphatically.

“Well… since you’ve given me your word as a
Warwick
”—he emphasized the word with a pointed stare at Matt through his bifocals—“I suppose I can bend the rules this once.” He
handed over a key. “Room 106. It’s on the ground floor to the right.”

“Much obliged,” Matt said.

A
RRIVING A HALF HOUR LATER
, Rachel had the feeling that the clerk had been on the lookout for her. He greeted her warily, and she caught him sneaking
looks out of the corner of his eye as she filled in the registration form. “If you need anything—anything at all,” he said,
handing her the room key, “simply run outside and holler as loud as you can, and I’ll come running.”

Rachel listened in bewilderment. What was he expecting her to find? Scorpions in the bathtub?

She drove around to her unit, realizing how tired she was. The drive out to Somerset had sapped her strength, but it had accomplished
what she’d hoped. The sight of the plantation again—and the insolent rise of the pulp mill’s smokestacks above the cypress
trees—had steeled her determination to get Somerset back. Earlier, she’d asked herself, Why bother with the fight? Why return
to Howbutker to live? In spite of its civic pride and history, its serenity and order, the infusion of new blood and money,
Howbutker was still an insular, class-conscious town. White-man rule arguably still reigned. She was a rich woman now, young
and modern and progressive. Why not take the money and go, start the Toliver tradition all over again like her South Carolina
forebears?

Because she
belonged
here, she answered herself. And the even rows of lush fall crops stretching to the horizon convinced her she could never
abandon the land of her family’s blood and sweat and toil and… sacrifices. She could never relinquish her own children’s legacy.
To do so would be the biggest betrayal of all, making her own betrayal worthless—all for nothing. The fields looked healthy
and well tended. Henry had said that Aunt Mary’s land manager was still in charge. “But after this year… who knows what’s
in store for the plantation?”

Staring off across the fields in the late afternoon sun, she’d smiled ruthlessly. She knew.

The key turned smoothly, and she opened the door to a room filled with dusk, the air conditioner unit humming. Before she
could grope for the light, a familiar voice spoke from a corner. “Hello, Rachel.”

P
ercy sat by the phone in his study, pondering. The hurt he’d heard in Matt’s voice when he’d called to say that he was in
a motel room in Marshall waiting for Rachel to check in still lingered in his ear. He should never have left the boy in doubt
as to who would come first if he was backed against a wall. He had simply believed he would not be forced to make an either/or
decision. With typical confidence—or arrogance—he’d been certain that once Rachel heard him out, he’d be able to honor Mary’s
trust in him and keep Rachel’s birthright from her while not sacrificing Matt’s.

Now, though, he had cause to wonder what that revelation might cost him. Matt’s threat—
I could never forgive the shafting of my father, no matter what story was behind it
—ricocheted like a gunshot in his mind. Was the risk of Matt’s love and respect—his forgiveness—worth the salvation of Rachel’s
feeling for Mary? He couldn’t relate Mary’s story without confessing his own, and what would he have accomplished if this
new discovery of Rachel’s made it impossible for her to forgive Mary, anyway? What if—no matter what his story—there was no
hope for her and the grandson of the man who’d defrauded her father? Would baring the consequences he and Mary had brought
about—the people they’d hurt, the lives they’d altered, and all because of Somerset—do anything but damage him further in
his grandson’s eyes? Did he have the courage to take that chance? He looked up at the painting over the mantel.
Would you want me to leave this earth with your son’s image of me in shambles?

He rubbed his hands over his days-old beard.
Oh, God, Mary, what a pickle you’ve placed us in
. If Matt succeeded in bringing Rachel here tonight, what would he tell her, after all?

M
ATT ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR
slowly, his expression briefly betraying his shock at her changed appearance. Unconsciously, Rachel pulled down one leg of
her khaki walking shorts. “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

Matt held up the object responsible. “With a key.”

Her lip rose in disgust. “Oh, I see. The desk clerk.”

“I called in a Warwick favor. I’m not proud of myself, but I’m a driven man.”

She set down her bag and held the door against the wall while she shoved a doorstop under it with her foot, her heart in her
throat. He looked wonderful, as dear as she remembered. She must give herself an escape route from this man who could throw
her off course. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I let my fingers do the walking. Henry told me you’d made overnight reservations somewhere on the way back. I figured you’d
be headed to Dallas and that a logical stopping point would be a motel in Marshall.”

“Clever you.”

“Cleverer you,” Matt said. “Reserving a room out of the county and exchanging vehicles were smart moves. They threw me off.”

“I want you to leave.”

“I’ll be more than happy to, if you’ll come with me. Granddad’s dying—literally—to talk to you.”

She’d been afraid of that. Despite her bitterness, she felt a deep lance of concern. “I’m sorry, Matt, I really am, but I’m
not going anywhere with you.”

“Well, then, let’s talk, Rachel… like we used to.” He gestured toward the chair, inviting her to sit down.

“You make it sound as if we’ve had a long association.”

“We have, and you know it. Too long and special to throw away. Don’t you agree that what we had together is at least worth
a little conversation?”

Rachel hesitated, swallowing at the dryness in her throat, feeling light-headed from the rapid pump of her blood. She set
her purse on the table between them and reluctantly pulled out a chair. Perhaps this meeting was a good idea. She’d show Matt
her hand so that he could advise his grandfather of the cards she held. They might come to an agreement this very night. “Talk
can’t save us, Matt,” she said. “I’m assuming the county clerk called your foreman, and you know where I’ve been—the records
I found.”

Matt took his chair again, drew open his sport jacket, and crossed his legs in a way that suggested he’d won a small victory.
“I’ve been so informed. Don’t you want to close the door? We’re losing our air-conditioning.”

Rachel glanced at the wide-open door, remembering the offer of assistance from the little gray-haired man at the registration
desk. What a joke if he thought he was a match for Matt Warwick. She’d have preferred scorpions in the shower. Ignoring his
request, she unzipped her purse and removed copies of the letters found in the green box. “I found these among Aunt Mary’s
personal papers, along with her father’s will,” she said, slipping them across the table. “It seems that he
did
leave a section of Somerset to his son, Miles. Since you’re aware of my findings at the courthouse, you’ll recognize their
implications. Read the longer letter first.”

She watched for signs of shocked dismay as he read, but he maintained a poker face, a trick she attributed to years of negotiating
contracts for Warwick Industries. But he didn’t fool her. She caught the small jump of muscle along his jawline. “You know,
of course, that the section to which your grandfather refers is the one on which he built his pulp mill—the section he and
Aunt Mary
stole
from my father.”

Matt refolded the letters thoughtfully. “It would certainly seem that way, wouldn’t it? That’s why it’s important that you
come hear what Granddad has to say. He can explain why at the time they thought their action justified—”

“
Justified?
” Rachel clutched her throat as if the word were choking her. “You
know
what that deception did to my family, Matt, the years I lost with them….”

“Yes, but Granddad didn’t until I told him two months ago. That knowledge, along with the animosity he knew you must be feeling
toward him and Mary, has been tearing him apart.”

“Well, so be it,” she said, refusing to be moved. “Wait a minute—” An astonishing notion occurred to her. “You talk as if
your grandfather
knows
of this evidence.”

Matt’s face betrayed the first glimmer of despair. “When Granddad learned from Amos that he’d seen Vernon Toliver’s will on
your bed and two letters, one of them written in his handwriting, he figured out, as you did, that they were the reason Mary
was babbling to get to the attic when she was dying. He remembered the note he’d written and guessed that the other letter
belonged to Miles.”

“So he
was
aware of what Miles’s letter contained?”

Matt toyed with the edges of the paper, obviously reluctant to answer for fear of implicating his grandfather further.

“I’ll take that as a
yes
,” she said. She dropped back against the chair. “There’s no doubt, then. He
knew
he was committing fraud by buying that land.”

Matt set his elbows on his knees and bent forward. “Rachel, a depression was on in 1935. Granddad says that if he hadn’t bought
those acres, the DuMonts would have probably lost everything, including Somerset. The sale was contingent on Mary naming your
father as her heir—”