Roses (69 page)

That night—or rather, in the wee hours of Friday morning—Rachel had said to herself that if she could only get through the
next three days, come Monday, she was out of here and out of Carrie’s and her father’s hair. Percy would have called by then,
agreeing to her terms, and she’d discontinue Taylor’s services and move to the Ledbetter house.

Somehow she’d managed the party at somebody’s penthouse, Carrie’s shopping spree on Saturday, and dinner that night with her
friends at Old Warsaw. Both nights they’d returned to messages left only for Carrie.

Today was Sunday, and she’d awakened with the sensation that ants were crawling under her skin. She’d shivered her way into
the kitchen to make coffee and found a note from Carrie. Brunch at the Mansion on Turtle Creek was off. She’d been summoned
back to the office to meet a looming Monday deadline. Good! Rachel thought. Feeling as she did, she would have been miserable
company over champagne and eggs Benedict.

The day inched along. She could not sit still. With metronomic regularity, she was in and out through the sliding door of
the patio. She drank endless cups of hot tea to soothe her nerves and warm her raised flesh. The phone, hanging in pristine
white from the white kitchen wall, became her most dreaded enemy, her dearest friend. What was taking Percy so long? What
was there to think over? He had only one choice, and he knew it. Steadfastly, she refused to consider the unbelievable—that
he would reject her offer.

Back sitting on the patio for a countless time, she heard a neighborhood church bell begin its Sunday toll. Eleven times the
chimes rang out, sending an ominous chill through her. Percy would wait until the eleventh hour to inform her of his decision,
she was now convinced. Simply to keep her on pins and needles, he’d keep his hand off the receiver until tomorrow morning
shortly before her lawyer’s office opened, then telephone. She should not expect a call before then. That’s when the phone
would ring.

Vexed, she picked up the ancient tome of the unpublished history of the Tolivers she’d brought out to pass the time. Odd that
Aunt Mary had never mentioned the history or shown it to her… perhaps because it contained nothing she didn’t already know
of Toliver lore. To the sound of the church bells dying away and the buzz of the last of Indian summer’s bees in the queen’s
crown, she opened the aged cover and began to read.

P
ERCY LISTENED TO THE OVERHEAD
toll calling the congregation to the First Methodist Church of Howbutker, where he’d presented himself a willing worshipper
nearly every Sunday of his life, except for the interruptions of his war service and business trips. He’d lost track of the
names and faces who had filled the pulpit. Most stayed as long as the bishop allowed, for the church coffers were full, the
needs of the flock few, and life in Howbutker simple and undemanding. Not one of them had said much of anything to inspire
or instruct him for many years. He came for the peace, the music, and a kind of solace he received nowhere else.

This morning, he was in special need of solace. All week, he’d heard arguments debating his case. He’d sat in a smoke of them
for five days, listening to Amos and the crackerjack team of lawyers called in, and once everything was considered—even the
strong possibility that Rachel could wind up with nothing but lost time and lawyers’ bills—the consensus was that he should
return Somerset. As a matter of fact, the out-of-towners could hardly refrain from scratching their heads over what the delay
was all about. Why would Percy even remotely consider any other decision but giving back the plantation to spare his company
the expense and disruption of a lawsuit and himself the stench of scandal?

And still he could not say the words they wanted to hear, including Matt. Matt was in Atlanta now, springing a surprise visit
on Lucy. He’d informed his grandfather Friday after the conclave broke up for the weekend that he would take the plane to
see his grandmother and not be back until Sunday afternoon. Percy had nodded in understanding. Matt saw Lucy in a different
light now and needed to make up for the years of his misassumptions. Percy had been sorry to see him go at such a time, but
he was happy for Lucy. They’d become closer now, and that was good. When he was gone, Lucy would be all Matt had left.

He closed his eyes. That would be soon, he believed. Mornings now he was surprised to find himself awakening. He was tired,
weary of living. A man out of dreams was out of life, and his were spent. Not one had come true, not the important ones, anyhow—those
of a happy marriage, a loving family, a house filled with children and grandchildren. Ironic how—even in death—his Mary had
robbed him of the last dream he really hadn’t known he’d nurtured—Matt and Rachel falling in love, marrying, uniting their
empires, living happily ever after under one roof, the war of the roses over at last. But Mary had killed that dream when
she left him Somerset.

The organ prelude began, quieting the murmurs among the congregants. Never came this moment of a Sunday morning but that he
did not look across the aisle up two rows and remember Ollie and Matthew and Wyatt. There were Sundays when he could all but
see them sitting there in spit-and-polish order, Ollie’s pate gleaming and the boys’ hair still damp and showing the coercive
rake of comb and brush. The backs of their heads, their profiles, were indelibly imprinted upon his memory. Sometimes he closed
his eyes as if in prayer, as he was doing now, and he could see them lined along the pew, Ollie’s plump shoulders trimmed
by the masterful cut of his suit, Wyatt’s hunched typically forward, Matthew’s squared against the seat. How he missed them.

The service began. As he rose with the congregation to sing the first hymn, he sensed Amos’s pointed concern and frustration
from six rows back. Percy sympathized. There was no one more maddening than an old fart who couldn’t decide what direction
to take, though his way was as clear as a West Texas highway. He knew what he must do, but still he was here today in his
own Gethsemane, asking that this cup pass from him… that he be spared the anguish he must face tomorrow. Perhaps somewhere
in the sermon was a nugget of divine wisdom that would direct him to another path.

The reading of the Word commenced. Percy’s mind wandered, waiting for the message. He thought of Mary. He couldn’t remember
when his prayers had finally been answered and the sexual fires for her had died—the fire, but not the flame. It had been
such a blessing, the final banking of the embers. What a relief to feel simply love and nothing else. Right now, it was as
if she were inside his head pacing back and forth… back and forth… with those long strides of hers, slender hands wringing.
Percy, Percy, what are we going to do?

Damned if I know!
he answered, and looked about him to see if he’d spoken aloud. No one was paying any attention to him, but the minister had
him locked in his gaze. He had raised a forefinger, not in admonition, but as if in emphasis of some point directed solely
at Percy. His ears pricked. Here it comes! he thought.

“Hearken to me, you who pursue deliverance, you who seek the Lord…” The minister was quoting from the Old Testament, but Percy
had missed the book, chapter, and verse. “Look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were
dug.”

The minister’s eye roved on, and Percy grappled to understand the application of the words.
Now what in hell am I to do with that?
No answer for him
there
. He’d never put much stock in the rock from which he’d been hewn or the quarry from which he was dug. That was Mary’s pitch,
the song and dance that had caused all their woe.

The service came to an end with “Rock of Ages” sung as the closing hymn. Percy rose to his feet slowly, thoughtfully, hymnal
in hand. The sermon had been about rock.
You who pursue deliverance, look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were dug….

Percy gripped the back of the seat, the hymnal nearly falling from his hand. Joy lit his face like sunlight breaking through
clouds. Of course! Look to the rock! That’s it! he exulted. By damn, he had his answer.

L
UCY SAT IN THE LATE
morning sunlight of her parlor, the room mellow with the Sunday peal of the carillon from the church tower on the corner.
Its golden cadence struck terror in her heart. The sound was a pitiless reminder that time was running out for Percy and Matt—even
for that little chip off the old block waiting by her phone in Dallas, though she didn’t know it. By this time tomorrow, Percy
would have answered her ultimatum, and another generation of lives would be skewed off course by one Toliver’s bulldogged
obsession with Somerset.

It was as she’d guessed. Mary had detached her great-niece from that cursed body of land to protect her from the consequences
she’d suffered at its hands. And holy Mother of God, what consequences!

She was still numb from hearing Percy’s replay of them on the tape Matt had spun for her Friday night. He’d arrived unannounced,
and at first when Betty told her he was in the living room, she’d thought he’d come to report that his grandfather had died.
She’d popped up from her chair in such a fright that the blood had whooshed from her head, and she’d had to grab hold of her
dressing table to keep from hitting the floor. Matt had found her there, swaying, and rushed to catch her before she fell.

“
Gabby!
It’s not what you think. Granddad’s all right!” he’d cried, and snatched her to him as if she were a child he’d saved from
certain death. She’d begun to cry—from relief, regret, or the surprise and intensity of Matt’s feeling, only the saints knew.

“Then what brings you here?” she’d asked, looking up through her flooded eyes from the massive environs of his chest and shoulders.

“I’ve brought something you need to hear. You have a tape recorder?”

They’d gone outside in the growing dusk to hear the tape while the moon rose and highlighted her lunar garden. Neither said
anything during the playing. She’d listened, still as the stone on which she sat, now and then reaching for another tissue
from the box Betty had thoughtfully provided. When the tape was over and the recorder clicked off, she’d snatched another
Kleenex and plugged it to her raw nose.

“Now we know,” she’d said.

He’d nodded. “Now we know.”

“Lots of blame to go around.”

“And to forgive, Gabby.”

“And to forgive.” Percy’s voice was inside her, touching all the still raw places, making her ashamed of her nastiness, though
taking its cause upon himself, never blaming her… not once in his story. She had wiped her puffy eyes and added the tissue
to the wadded pile at her feet. “I hope you’ll believe that I never would have revealed that Matthew was Percy and Mary’s
son. That was an idle threat and base of me, but I never would have told even if your grandfather had filed for divorce. I
hope you’ll believe me.”

“Of course I do. And Granddad does, too. It wasn’t your threat that kept him from divorcing you.”

“Why, then?”

“Because he knows you still love him.” His voice had come to her gruffly in the moonlight, reminding her of Wyatt’s.

She’d reddened and hoped that in the darkness he couldn’t see. “Still… I held the threat over him until the day of Mary’s
death—a shameful thing to do. I… just couldn’t bear to let him go. But now… you tell him to go ahead and file for divorce.
I won’t stand in his way.”

He’d reached for her hand. “Granddad’s not going to divorce you, Gabby.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he told me so.”

She’d given in to a spell of crying again and, when she was down to sniffles, had said, “Your father did a wonderful thing
sending him that painting. I’m glad he forgave him. Of course, I never knew about the red rose Percy slipped into the book
he took to Korea. Imagine Wyatt familiar with the legend of the roses…. So what now? What do you think Rachel will do?”

It had broken her heart to see the grief in his eyes. “Repeat her great-aunt’s mistake.”

Damn the little witch, Lucy had thought.

And now Matt was gone, and here she sat, helpless to save the men she loved. Twenty minutes ago, as he was leaving, he’d asked,
“Will you be all right, Gabby?” the blue eyes he’d inherited from her saying she had only to utter the word and he wouldn’t
go. Another unprecedented first.

“I’ll be all right, Matt. Go see to your grandfather.”

He’d left the tape, one of several copies, he’d said. It sat on the coffee table, a five-by-seven cassette holding the misdirected
journeys of two lifetimes. What a tragedy that Rachel would never hear it. It could save the day and all the tomorrows to
come.

“Mopin’s not going to help,” Betty said from the doorway. “Maybe you shouldn’t have canceled your bridge party today.”

“I couldn’t have concentrated. What’s that?”

Betty held out a slip of paper. “I don’t know if Mister Matt intended to throw this away or not. I found it on the floor next
to the trash basket in his room.”

Lucy examined it. It was a sheet of notepaper bearing the name of a motel in Marshall, Texas. Scribbled across it was a telephone
number preceded by a Dallas area code. A light popped on in Lucy’s head. Matt had said he’d tracked Rachel to a motel in Marshall
where they’d had their last confab. She was staying with a friend in Dallas, the daughter of her lawyer. This must be a contact
number where Matt could reach her. An idea started to form.

“Bring me the phone, Betty,” she said.

“Uh-oh. I know that look. What are you up to now?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

She dialed directory assistance, and an operator gave her the name and address of the number on the notepaper. Carrie Sutherland.
Lucy then dialed the number of a wealthy friend who’d long shared her companionship. “Of course,” he said when he heard her
request. “You’ll find my plane and pilot waiting for you, and I’ll arrange for a car and driver to meet you at your destination.
Have a good flight.”