Chapter 10

Copyright 2000 by Elizabeth Delayne



Jonathon set up his laptop on the back porch in the predawn hours. It was an elegant sun room in style, a quiet place that mixed nature and luxury. It was a spot where in the morning one could sit and watch the sun rise over the rose garden.

And he wrote. He'd learned over the years to pour emotion into his writing, to accept things he couldn't through the pages of his books. He used the sickness to spur Peter into panic, to lead him to find his love. And he wrote with conviction, knowing that there was something worth fighting for . . . and there was life worth living.

He thought maybe his readers would find a different side to his detective stories.

He'd seen Lillian slip from a doorway further down, watched her walk among the flowers, her fingers gently gliding over soft petals, her movement ghostlike in the dim light.

She'd been worried, ridged, finally choosing a bench in the center of the garden where she too watched the run come up.

And he prayed for her, knowing that she struggled, holding onto demons like he did. He prayed for her as well because he knew she was running from God, even from the comfort of God's love.

The beauty of God's love, he thought remembering the way Erica had held onto him last night, that wasn't always easy to lean into.

He tapped his fingers against the wood of the breakfast table as he skimmed over the words he had just written. Now sunlight streamed through the room. Erica sat across from him, absorbed in her work, mindless to the birds that chirped around them. Reading glasses were perched on her nose. She kept a pen in her hand, though she had yet to use it.

They'd made milk shakes together he thought, and smiled, laughing over spilt ice cream, feeding each other chocolate pieces straight from the bag. She'd told him stories, ridiculous pieces of her days in college, when she'd been rooming with Amber. And he'd forgotten the darkness long enough to tell her stories of fishing with his dad, of tipping the boat too far one way, of his own father pushing him out the other way.

And here they were now, mid-morning breakfast dishes pushed to the side, their livelihoods spread out between them . . . and their lives, Jonathon thought, stretching out on that path of eternity before them.

Erica peered over her glasses and smiled at him, reading the promises in his eyes and storing them in her heart. It had been such a lovely feeling to be able to join him at breakfast this morning. Things were different, the secrets gone, the rubbish out of the way--still there, but no longer in between them.

She looked over toward the door when she heard the light click of heels on the hardwood floors inside. Her mother appeared in the doorway, partly in the shadows.

"I wanted you to know I'm going to New Orleans for the morning," she stood in the doorway, uncertain for a moment before stepping into the light, shutting the door behind her. She was strained, cautious, Erica thought.

Jonathon tapped a few commands into his computer, then lowered the top. "I give you two a few minutes."

He met Lillian's eyes, held them. Then she nodded her appreciation and watched him slip out the door.

Lillian stood quietly until the door closed behind him, then crossed the room and pulled the chair closest to Erica. She glanced down at the table, ran a hand over the smooth surface, lifting a paper to check it's contents, then setting it aside without thought. Cool emerald eyes met their mirror identity in Erica's.

It unsettled Erica a bit, having her mother this close, her eyes uncertain but more warm than they had been in two decades.

"Do you realize, Erica, how much I love you?"

Erica smiled and reached for her mother's hand. It was an effort, because it was awkward, and she admitted that there was a bitterness inside that she still needed to pray over, "I'm beginning to. You held onto all of those secrets for so long. It couldn't have been easy."

"Nothing has been as hard as loosing your father," she reached out with a tentative hand and brushed gently at Erica's hair. "I have always been so proud of you for surviving . . . for thriving. Even though I don't understand your religion, I have been thankful that you found it."

"I wish you would talk to me about it."

"Maybe when this is over," Lillian stood, taking a deep breath. "Which may be soon. I might as well be honest with you, Erica. I'm driving into New Orleans today to meet with the F.B.I. investigators. I'm going to tell them all that I know."

"You're going by yourself?"

"It's something I have to do."

And something that had gotten her father killed, Erica remembered. "I'll go with you."

"Erica—" Lillian held out a hand. "Please understand that it was so hard to tell you what I told you yesterday. I told you the truth, from the beginning, but I didn't give you all the details. It's hard for me to face them myself. It's going to take some detachment for me to tell the rest. I don't know that I'll ever be able to tell you everything."

"I want you to remember your father as the good man he was and could have been at that point in his life. This happened at the factory and in town that chocked him. He made his own decisions," she said carefully, "and I don't know if I can ever forgive him for that, but there were other things . . . and I need to share those things."

"So you're going alone. You're going to do this alone."

"It has to be done."

"Then take Jonathon. He understands police procedure. He can step in."

"I won't take him away from you. You have had so little time with him."

"And maybe we both need time, I don't know," she said thinking of the horror he'd shared the night before. Maybe it would be good for him to reach into that life he had loved for so long . . . to see the good he could still do, "I don't want you going alone. Please take him—or call Baxley."

"No, not Baxley," Lillian sighed. "He's been a little clingy lately."

Erica laughed and shook her head, "Oh, mama. To think I resented you for so long," they shared a long, loving look. "Take Jonathon."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure I want someone I trust with you. I'll talk to him when he comes back in."

Lillian nodded, clearly unsettled, and stood, started to turn away. Erica reached forward and stopped her with a gentle placement on her mother's arm. She stood, emerald eyes meeting again.

"Mom—one thing. I've never had a moment to tell daddy about . . . my religion, as you call it, but what happened to him is part of me and part of what sent me looking for something else. "I . . . I don't know what I would do if I lost you. It isn't an easy thing to say."

"Probably because it isn't an easy thing to be—not with me, I understand that," she glanced toward the rose garden, then back at her daughter. "Would you mind explaining to me why my cook thought you'd been eating ice cream for breakfast?"

* * * * *

Jonathon checked his wallet for identification and cash before slipping it into his pocket on his way down the entry hall stairs. Lillian was at the bottom on her cell phone, her free hand resting possessively on a small chest that she'd placed on a table. When she saw him, she said a few quick words before flipping it closed. She reached a hand out to him.

"Thank you, Jonathon."

He smiled, gave her hand a squeeze. "No problem."

"Would you take this out to the car for me," she said, giving the chest a pat. "I need to grab some paperwork for the drive."

"Always the business woman."

"A woman has to have something to occupy her time," she said with a smile as she started up the stairs. She stopped, turned around and watched him pick the chest up. "Jonathon, we have several cars . . . find one you want to try out. The convertible's nice this time of year."

She turned back, hurried upstairs to Gordan's old office, not her own. She'd had the office cleaned many times, and had, after time, removed many of the familiar objects of his. Many of her guests used it to conduct business, and it was still a standard meeting place for factory business.

They'd both had their lives, their businesses, so even twenty years ago she'd already established an efficient office of her own. It brought it more sunlight, and rested above the rose garden. She'd offered it to Erica, but she'd preferred the apartment and office in New Orleans.

So Lillian had left things as they were.

She thought maybe, when this was over and Jonathon and Erica were married—she had little doubt that he would ask her soon—she would give him the office as a present. It would give him a place to work when he visited. He would feel welcome, as would Erica. And they would be close by should a grandchild come along.

She knew he had a father, a professor, and she contemplated that as she opened the door to the office and moved quickly over to the safe. Maybe his father would be willing to accept a new job at a university close by. She had a few connections. Or maybe he was ready to retire. The lake house would be a good place to let him stay.

Or maybe, she thought as she shifted the picture aside and spun the combination with little thought, maybe she should just let Erica and Jonathon make their own decisions. Find their own way.

She pulled out the folded papers, slipped them into her purse and set the safe to rights.

It was time, she thought, pressing her purse to her side, for change.

Lillian stopped off at her own office, grabbed her briefcase and hurried down the stairs. The front door opened as she reached the landing. Baxley walked in. He was wearing a suit, obviously stopping by on his way to or from the factory. He'd been handling things there for 20 years.

Off and on he'd tried to handle her . . . and at times she'd let him.

"You're leaving."

"I'm on my way out, yes," she said with a smile and stepped forward to kiss his cheek. "I have some business in New Orleans."

"You always have business."

"Sometimes I let myself. My daughter would have said that I had far too much play time. I think it's time I took back some of the reins. She needs a break now and again."

"Yes she does. But she got her work ethics from both her parents," he said, taking her hands. "Things must me getting better for you two."

"I hope so. It's been a hard couple of weeks."

"You'll get through it."

She laughed airily. "Of course we will. We're Caines. As strong as the land and the tradition around us. Isn't that what you always said?"

"Of course it is. Let me come with you. We can had some time together—"

"I'm not going to be gone that long," she said, giving his hands a squeeze. "I want some time with my daughter. We've had so little in her lifetime and I've recently discovered that I want so much more. You were right about that. I let the past interfere with the greatest gift I was ever given," She kissed his cheek again and released his hands. "I'll be back soon."

"Drive safe."

"You know me . . ." she said as she disappeared down the hall.

"Of course I do," he mumbled and watched her go. "Demon on wheels."

He stood still for a minute, waited to hear the movement of a car on the drive, then headed upstairs. Just to check. He would feel better if he checked.

* * * * *

Jonathon smiled a little as he handled the road in a nice package of a car. The motor of the slim, refurnished convertible, ran smooth. It hugged the curves gracefully.

He looked over at Lillian. She'd covered her hair with a scarf. There was worry in her eyes.

"Where'd you get a beauty like this?"

She glanced at him and smiled, "It was Gordan's baby. When he died . . . well, needless to say I kept it up because I wanted to keep him close. We had some wonderful evenings out in this car, under the stars. Erica always wanted to drive it."

"But you never let her."

"Oh, sure I did. When she'd graduated from college and was working full time," she laughed over the rushing air. "I wish now I'd told her—well, so many things. She'd known this car was connected to her father. There are stories I should have told her."

"You will."

"You always seem to know the best things to say."

"Not always. I just know you love Erica."

"And this is coming from a man who loves my daughter himself?"

He glanced at her, smiled, then looked back at the road. "It is."

"You share her belief. I'm happy about that. I don't understand it, or her most of the time. But it's made her happy. Made her into a better person then I ever was. She has a lot of her father."

"She wants you to understand," Jonathon said, praying for the words. The right words. "I want you to understand."

"Of God, of church . . ." she shook her had, looked briefly toward the passing green. "I don't know if you'll understand this, but I didn't come from a place where a church dominated a town like this one does. And the things I've seen in this town, from my own home where the Caines had been members at a church since it's founding . . . I don't know why I would want to believe."

"But you say Erica has found something wonderful."

"She'd found something that's made her better. It's helped her to heal. But she hasn't found it here. Not in this town."

"Christianity has often been perverted," Jonathon mused. "By people, for their own selfish gain. People, not just in the south, found excuses for slavery within the Bible and manipulated others with it. During World War II, the Nazi's had Judaism extracted from the Bible. Jesus couldn't be a Jew, under their rules. They used it to maneuver. That was a choice that people made."

"And yet everyone reads the same Bible—"

"And everyone finds their own meaning. It's personal. It's life," he thought of his own struggle, his own darkness, and thought of the meaning . . . the relationship that he hadn't been able to handle. "Things happen in life. We live in a world and we will die out of this world. But there is a life that goes beyond this one. And it starts here. We make our own choices. People choose their path."

"As you and Erica chose yours."

"It isn't a religion. It's a relationship. We believe God is here, waiting for us to have one with Him. Then as we believe, we see Him, we trust Him, we have a relationship with him."

"I can't think of this, Jonathon."

"You said yourself you believe Erica found something."

"I did," she sighed, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was focused, "Before we get to New Orleans, there are some things I would like for you to know."

Jonathon nodded, and let the subject drop. She had listened to him, and he was grateful, and he prayed that the Holy Spirit would use what ever it took as a nagging pressure point, so she would continue to think, continue to process, continue to question.

"The world around this area was . . . upside down in the time around Gordan's death. People were angry. Neighbor's, friends. The KKK became very active and everything, every decision seemed turbulent," she ran a hand over the scarf, checking the bow. "Gordan came home, nieve--determined not to be the person he had been raised to be. And he tried—and he was railroaded. There was a black man Gordan had chosen to promote at the factory. It wasn't a position of authority, no one would have to answer to him, but people went crazy. We, Erica and I, were threatened. Letters, phone calls. Someone shot at us on our way home from a women's tea and we found all kinds of . . . grotesque, betwitching objects scattered around the main house. Whoever it was was close. Gordan backed down and seemed to loose perspective. He lost his hope."

She pressed her hands to her heart and took a deep breath, "The man ended up . . . murdered. The sheriff in town reported that he was shot while breaking into the offices at the factory. They painted a picture that he'd been up for the job, but they'd found evidence against him. They produced the evidence. Accused a dead man of being an embezzler, a womanizer. He had a family. A precious family. And he was such a good man."

"The whole mess nearly destroyed Gordan," Lillian closed her eyes and tried to focus. It was hard to get around the words. She had not been able to share this with Erica. "He was taking pills, maybe just plain out doing drugs. He wasn't sleeping. He was drinking. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Loving, afraid, and loosing a battle. We were arguing a lot . . . he would, at rare times, become violent. We were crying, together. I begged him to leave. He might have been considering it even early on, I don't know."

She swallowed, told him the story she'd told Erica, the one that had always haunted her daughter's dreams, "Seeing Erica there, that night, broke his heart. When he got home, we argued and he left. Records show him driving to New Orleans, flying to Toronto. I assume he visited several places that were ours. I want to believe that. He came home changed, weak, saddened, but changed. We were leaving. He had some things to take care of that would take a few days, but he wanted me to pack. He handed over his drugs to me, asked me to destroy them."

"And he told me that he knew there were things I suspected and he told me the truth for the first time. He made me promise to keep my silence in case something should happen. He made me promise to protect Erica."

"And when he died, I took Erica away for a little while, but it wasn't long before I returned. I needed to be close to him. I needed to find away to understand. And I wanted to find the answers, when it was time. I wanted those people who helped destroy the Gordan I knew close by so I could destroy them. I hated them," she pressed her fingers to her eyes, "and I nearly lost my daughter, emotionally, because I couldn't take it all in."

"I could be in trouble, Jonathon. I knew things that I didn't share with the right people. I hid and maybe ran from the trust. I obstructed justice. But how do you share things with the right people when so many are corrupt? When the world is upside down and evil seems to be everywhere?"

* * * * *

It was hard for Erica to sit still. She tried to read, but found it full-filling. She kept thinking of her mother, of her father and of all the secrets she would probably never know.

And somehow was peaceful with that.

She prayed for her mother, for the situation. And as she prayed, she wondered.

She visited the rose garden, walked the pathways her mother seemed to walk daily. She slipped into Jonathon's room, smiled at the disorder. There were papers scattered over the desk, his laptop tossed carelessly on the bed. He'd left the decorative pillows piled on the widow seat. And he'd pulled out two framed photographs to place on his nightstand. One of him and his father. The other of him and her.

She ran a finger over the glass and smiled.

And leaving, decided to visit the one place she had always visited when she wanted to remember her father.

Baxley was on his way out.

Erica stopped, frowning. He looked nervous and her guard was up, "What were you doing in my father's office?"

"Looking for some paperwork we need at the factory."

"Sorry," she said and pressed fingers to her eyes. "I was thinking of dad."

"Everyone seems to be doing that recently."

"What's wrong, Baxley?" His voice wasn't the usually smooth southern roll she was used to. "What's happened?"

"Where's your mother, Erica?"

"Mamma? She went to New Orleans. The FBI wanted to talk to her."

"So she'd going to talk."

"She has nothing to hide," she took a step back. There was something wrong with his eyes. And fear spread it's wings in her heart. God, help me, she prayed. "And it's not a big deal. Just some follow up questions on how my mom met my dad."

"No," he shook his head, slipped his hand inside his coat, and drew out a gun. Erica froze. "She took it with her."

"What with her?" She started to back up. Stopped when he shifted the gun toward her.

"Everything. The chest, the papers. She couldn't keep her mouth shut. After all these years, she'd turning crusader."

His voice was high pitched, panicky. "Baxley, what's going on? You're scaring me."

"Better you then me. I'm sorry Erica. I'm sorry for everything."




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