Roses (52 page)

“So you won’t be coming back after today?” Danielle asked.

“No, Danielle, not unless something unforeseen forces me to return.”

W
illiam Toliver took a glass of iced tea out to his small patio for a few minutes’ reprieve from his wife’s stony silence before
returning to work. The plastic seat of his chair scalded his bottom, but it alleviated the chill creeping over him. The day
that he’d dreaded for years had finally arrived, dashing his hope that his wife and daughter would reconcile before Aunt Mary’s
death. Part of him was happy that Rachel would be stepping into the shoes she was born to fill. As a Toliver, that meant something
to him—a lot, in fact—even if the notion drove Alice crazy. He wished she weren’t accompanying him and Jimmy to Howbuker.
What a scene there would be when Amos read the will and confirmed to her that Rachel had “stolen” her father’s one chance
for a better life.

He sighed. But a part of him regretted that he’d taken Rachel to Howbutker in the summer of 1966, as Alice had predicted he
would. She was entitled now to say “I told you so” because from that summer forward, his family had never been the same. He’d
often wondered—even if he hadn’t introduced his daughter to her Toliver roots that year—whether her first garden wouldn’t
have eventually led her to Houston Avenue and Somerset.

Maybe not. God knew the first trip to Howbutker ten years before to introduce his wife and newborn daughter to his aunt and
uncle had not been a success. His little family was received graciously, but with the reserve of strangers. William found
that understandable. He had not been home since he’d run away at seventeen. He was then twenty-eight, and there had been little
contact with Houston Avenue in the years between. He had lived in Kermit for eleven years. At twenty-one, he had married a
drugstore waitress he met when he picked up medication prescribed for a hand he’d injured in an oilfield accident, announcing
his marriage to the folks in Howbutker by telegram.

William understood well enough that it was out of guilt that he’d neglected them and shame that, as a Toliver, he’d settled
for so little when his heritage demanded he desire so much.

“I ran away from all that was expected of me,” he explained to Alice. “I’m sure I hurt my aunt terribly. Aunt Mary and Uncle
Ollie’s son and only child died a few years after I came to live with them, and I… left her with no one to carry on the Toliver
tradition.”

Alice took a different view. Aroused by the protective instincts William loved in her and put off by his “snooty” aunt’s reserve,
she declared that it was Aunt Mary’s own fault that he had run away. It was she who should be asking for forgiveness. “She
tried to make you into something you aren’t to satisfy her own ambitions. You’re no farmer. You’re not even a Toliver—if it
means being like her.”

William had discounted the last remark. Even at fifty-six, Aunt Mary possessed an intimidating beauty, and her elegance and
regal manner were not the kind to put at ease a woman who still wore a Betty Grable hairdo and plucked her brows into a thin
arch. Furthermore, Alice had a possessive streak in her. William realized his wife feared that Aunt Mary would lure him back
to Howbutker by appealing to his sense of obligation. It had unnerved her to see how closely Rachel’s features resembled his
aunt’s. “She’s a Toliver all right,” Uncle Ollie had declared, beaming his delight as he lifted her from the bassinet.

Immediately, Alice had snatched her infant daughter into the harbor of her own arms, and William had read in her action that
to his wife, living in the world of Houston Avenue would result in a constant fight to keep and hold that which was hers.
No one could mitigate her sense of feeling hopelessly out of place, not even his sweetly mannered uncle, whom she’d liked
at once. Because he had “rescued” her husband, she tolerated Amos Hines, who was now thoroughly entrenched in the way of life
he’d chanced into. Percy Warwick, his blond hair silvered, tanned and still fit at sixty-one, literally took her breath away.
She pronounced him handsomer than any movie star and thought his wife must be crazy to go off and leave a man like him alone.

Even so, for all the unfailing courtesy shown her, Alice had felt as inappropriate in the elegant company of Houston Avenue
as flour sacking among silks and satins.

The evening before they were to return to Kermit, his aunt had asked him to sit with her for a while in the gazebo. “Your
wife does not like me,” she stated in her direct way when they were seated on the swing. “She isn’t comfortable with us here
among the pines.”

William cared too much for her to deny it. “She’s never been out of West Texas,” he said.

“The important thing is that she loves you, William, and that she’s made you happy.”

“You mean that, Aunt?” He regarded her in surprise. This was a different tune from the one he’d expected to hear, certainly
a change from the verse she’d sung when he was a boy. Commitment to one’s name, to one’s heritage, to that which the sacrifices
of others had made possible—that was the song he used to hear from Aunt Mary.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “If I’ve learned anything by now, it’s that some things are too priceless to sacrifice for a name.
You go on back to Kermit and don’t worry about anything you may have thought you left behind.”

She spoke sincerely, he could tell, but the stoicism with which she told him to forget what had been her life’s work tore
at his heart. He spoke softly in the darkness. “Aunt Mary, what about the plantation? What’s going to happen to it when… you’re…”

“Dead and gone or too old to run it anymore? Why, I’ll sell it. You’ll receive the proceeds as my heir even if Ollie succeeds
me. It’s already taken care of in the will. The house I may leave to the Conservation Society.”

“It’s such a shame….” Through a film of tears, William studied his crippled hand. “I’m so sorry, Aunt.”

“Don’t be.” She slipped her hand over his. “Somerset has always cost too much. It’s brought a curse to the Tolivers. No use
now enlightening you as to that. Be glad your children will grow up free of Somerset. Take Alice and that beautiful little
girl home and enjoy your life, though how that’s possible in a sand pit, I’ll never know.” William caught the sliver of a
smile in the darkness.

He asked, “Did you find the red rose I left on your pillow the morning I ran away?”

“Yes, William, I found your rose.”

That night when he went up to bed, he found a white one lying on his pillow.

Thinking of that time, he felt a pang of conscience. No matter that Aunt Mary had forgiven him, he’d always believed he owed
her for running out on her. Maybe Alice had been right about that, too. Deep down, maybe his main reason for taking Rachel
to Howbutker in 1966 was to make up for what he’d done—or hadn’t done—because he’d known that no matter what Aunt Mary had
stated in the gazebo, she could not resist a chance to install another Toliver on the land. Still, that would have been all
right, too, if he hadn’t shared with Alice the conversation between him and his aunt that night. If it hadn’t been for that
information and the fact that his great-grandfather had not seen fit to leave his son an acre of family soil, mother and daughter
would still be united.

He heard the telephone ring, and in a moment Alice came to the door. “Your lord and master is on the phone asking where in
hell you are,” she said.

William’s mouth pulled to one side. “Now how did he know where I’d be?”

A
mos was at the Howbutker Municipal Airport when the small Cessna Citation bearing the name Toliver Farms landed at ten o’clock.
He knew he looked ghastly, as if he’d spent time in a Tijuana jail. His face, never one to crow about at the best of times,
had shocked him when he went to shave this morning, but how could it not? His guts felt twisted into ball bearings, and he’d
been unable to sleep, getting up at three o’clock and spending the rest of the night on his terrace listening to the screech
of alley cats in heat.

Dear God, help us all, he prayed as the door to the sleek little jet opened and the short flight of steps popped down. A minute
later, Rachel appeared, saw him, and waved. Amos experienced a woozy feeling of déjà vu. How like Mary she looked, when he’d
first seen her standing at the top of the stairs in Ollie’s department store. Rachel was far younger, of course, but so utterly
like her in loveliness and—as Mary had appeared then—looking distressed. He waved back and fixed a smile.

Rachel hurried toward him, tanned legs gleaming in white culottes, and threw her arms around his neck. “Dear Amos,” she said,
her voice tender and warm. “How are you?”

“About the same as you, I expect,” he said, hugging her close.

“Then we’ll be a mess together.” She linked an arm through his and motioned the pilot to follow with her bags to his car,
a dark blue Cadillac as conspicuous in size but as unobtrusive as Amos himself. “I wasn’t able to convince my family to come
with me, as you can see,” she said, “but they should arrive by noon tomorrow. My mother’s coming, too. Tell me the plans you’ve
made.”

She felt as light as a sprite on his arm—a sacrificial maiden unaware of her doom. “The funeral is set for eleven o’clock
Monday, with the burial at three. Viewing hours are tentatively set for Saturday morning from ten until twelve and from five
to seven, if those times are all right with you.”

“They’re ideal,” Rachel said. “They’ll allow time for all of us to catch our breaths. Anything else?”

He cited other details subject to her approval. He’d given the go-ahead for the burial plot next to Ollie’s to be prepared
since Mary had not wished to be cremated. And to spare Sassie and Henry, themselves terribly bereaved, he’d booked the church
parlor for the reception after the funeral. No use having hundreds of people tramping through the house, dropping food everywhere.
Let the Women’s Auxiliary at the First Methodist Church handle it. There would be plenty of folks paying their respects at
Houston Avenue anyway.

“Seems as if you’ve thought of everything,” Rachel said. “What’s left for me to do?”

“You’ll need to choose a viewing dress for Mary and decide on the coffin and family flowers. I’ve prepared a folder of my
notes and the telephone numbers and names of personnel for you to contact. They’re waiting to hear from you. Also, today,
you’ll have to go over the obituary in case you wish to add anything. Mary wrote it herself and included it with her legal
documents. The funeral home requested it by four o’clock.”

Rachel stopped in her tracks. “Aunt Mary had already written her obituary? Did she know she was in failing health?”

“Well… as I’ve said, she never mentioned heart trouble to me. As for the obituary”—he attempted a weak grin—“it’s been my
professional experience that southern ladies of a certain age, long before the event of their deaths, like to compose their
own histories for print rather than leave the task to relatives. In Mary’s case, I believe she wanted to keep hers simple
and direct. No flowery embellishments.”

“How long ago was it written?”

“I’m afraid I can’t testify to the date.”

“Then I’ll leave it as it is, but I’m surprised that Aunt Mary would have even bothered with it.”

They had reached the car. The pilot caught up with them and loaded her luggage into his trunk. “Well, Miss Toliver,” he said,
sticking out his hand when he’d finished, “it’s been nice knowing you.”

Rachel took the hand as if she didn’t quite know what to do with it. “What do you mean, Ben? Where are you going?”

“Why, didn’t you know? My contract has been terminated as of this last flight. I was supposed to have flown Mrs. DuMont to
Lubbock today, but… I brought you here instead. This is my last run for Toliver Farms.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mrs. DuMont.”

“Did you and she have a disagreement of some kind?”

“No, ma’am. She simply told me she’d have no more need of my services. Scuttlebutt has it that the plane has been sold.”

“Sold?” Rachel turned to Amos. “Did you know anything about this?”

He lifted his shoulders and looked innocent, but he felt the blood sluice from his face. “She never said anything to me about
getting rid of the plane.”

Rachel swung back to the pilot. “Ben, I don’t know what to say, but I’ll get to the bottom of this. There must be some mistake.”

“Well, in case it is, you have my card and know where to reach me,” Ben said.

Rachel stared after the retreating pilot, looking perplexed. “You know,” she mused, “this is the second incident that makes
me think something’s going on in regard to the farms that I’m unaware of. Yesterday a representative from a textile company
we’ve sold to for years informed me that our contract would not be renewed.” She turned questioningly to Amos. “Do you think
Aunt Mary knew she had a short time to live and was making certain changes prior to her death? Do you suppose that was the
reason she was coming out to see me?”

Amos patted his pockets distractedly in a pretense of searching for his keys, feigning relief when he found them. “You know
that your great-aunt was not one to share confidences,” he hedged. “I’m sure all will come to light soon enough. Which reminds
me, Rachel. Do you think that after the burial, you and your family could meet in my office around five o’clock for the reading
of the will?”

“I’m sure that will be fine with them. They’ll want to get everything over as soon as possible so that they can leave for
Kermit the next morning. I’ll stay on, of course. I’ve left my foreman in charge in Lubbock and will run things from Aunt
Mary’s office for a while. Too bad that Addie Cameron retired when she did. I could have certainly used her help.”

“Indeed…,” he murmured, keeping his eye steady on maneuvering the car off the tarmac. It had been another clue he should have
picked up on, the recent and unexpected early retirement of Mary’s trusty assistant after she had worked twenty years for
her as her right hand. She was now living—and no doubt well compensated—near her son’s family in Springfield, Colorado. It
would be a miracle if Rachel did not learn of the sale of the farms prior to the funeral, and Lord only knew what her reaction
would be. This morning, he’d been on the phone to Mary’s lawyers in Dallas to inquire how much longer the news of the sale
would be held from the business community. Not long, they’d warned, once the media picked up on the fact of Mary’s death.