Roses (55 page)

Percy’s look remained doubtful. “And you learned all that about Rachel in one afternoon?”

“I’ve always known that about Rachel.”

Percy’s brows lifted over the rim of his glass, but he did not press the issue further. “Well, I’m sure that Mary can rest
in peace knowing she’s left Somerset and the farms under Rachel’s supervision. She’ll run them competently for William, then
inherit the family business from him when he dies. Mary could not have asked for a more satisfying end to things.”

“That’s not the way it’s going to work, Granddad.”

Percy lowered his glass. “What?”

“No. Rachel will be inheriting the family business, not William.”

Percy sat upright. “How do you know that?”

Matt was surprised at his sharp tone. “Because that’s what Mary has been grooming her for—to take over the reins when she
dies. If William inherited, he’d sell everything lock, stock, and barrel. His wife would see to that. She must be a piece
of work, that woman.” He related the full story that Rachel had told him in the gazebo, growing more exasperated at his grandfather’s
lowering brow. “Don’t you see, Granddad? How could Rachel have made any other choice for her life, regardless of what she
promised her mother at fifteen? How could she choose to be anyone—or anything—but who she is?”

“Indeed,” Percy murmured.

His frustration mounting, he said, “And when Rachel came along and proved to be a chip off the old block, how could Mary leave
the family holdings to William, knowing that wife of his would have them immediately on the auction block?”

“Because that was the
deal
!” Percy snapped, and immediately looked as if he could have bitten his tongue. Matt could see his mental scrambling to get
out of the hole he’d dug. Good Lord. What was he not telling him?

“What deal?”

“Simply this. When the people of my generation made a promise, it was considered a deal—binding forever. Mary promised the
land to William. I would have expected her to abide by her word.”

Matt was convinced that was not the real reason behind his agitation. “Well, no matter how you look at the situation, it’s
a shame that Rachel’s lost her mother over it. In a way, I suppose I can be somewhat sympathetic to how Alice feels. Her father
favored her brother over her and left her with nothing when he died, just like Mary’s father left his property to Mary and
zip to William’s dad. Rachel feels that if that hadn’t been the case, Alice wouldn’t have been so resentful of her perpetuating
the family heritage. As it is, she believes the Kermit Tolivers owe the Howbutker branch
nada
. That’s been the crux of their conflict—” He broke off in alarm. His grandfather looked as if a ghost had popped up behind
his chair. “Granddad, are you all right? You’re as pale as your shirt.”

Percy took a quick sip of his Scotch. “I’m all right,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Are you going to sit at Sassie’s
table like that? We have twenty minutes before we’re due.”

Matt eased out of his chair. There was something his grandfather wasn’t telling him. He heard that rattle in the closet again.
“I’m going,” he said, “but I’ll tell you this, Granddad. Whatever you’re withholding to warn me off Rachel, you’d better speak
while there’s still time or forever hold your peace. You’ll be talking about the girl I hope to marry.”

Percy lifted his pale face to him. “The way you feel, any warning would be fruitless, but may I advise you to take it slow?
You may have known
of
Rachel all her life, but you don’t
know
her.”

Matt placed his glass on the bar. “Well, neither one of us is going anywhere, so there’ll be plenty of time to prove she’s
the girl for me. And the way I feel is not as sudden as you think. At five years old I saw Rachel in her crib, too, remember?
And I also have an indelible memory of a fourteen-year-old girl in a white dress with a green sash.”

W
HEN
M
ATT HAD BOUNDED UP
the stairs, Percy melted back into his chair. Well, that was tit for tat, he thought, limp from his grandson’s revelations.
So their old deed had not lain quiet and forgotten all these years. Had Mary known its specter had turned up to haunt the
William Toliver household? Had she been aware of the real cause of the dissension between Alice and Rachel? If so, how could
she have corrected the misassumption without confessing the crime… and his involvement? All this time—according to Amos, who
was deeply disturbed by the discord between Rachel and her mother (Mary never discussed it with him)—he’d believed the rift
was based on Alice’s jealousy that Mary had “stolen” her daughter. It had not occurred to him that Alice thought Rachel was
usurping William’s inheritance. Had Mary gone back on their agreement? When push came to shove, had she elected to keep the
Toliver flag flying? Was William to be cheated once again?

He inhaled deeply to calm his erratic heartbeat. Well, he held one crumb of comfort. When he was gone, there’d be no evidence
remaining of what he and Mary had done, only its unfortunate backwash. That cursed plantation cast its shadow still.

F
rom the verandah, Rachel, with Matt beside her, waved good-bye to Percy and Amos making their way to the navy blue Cadillac
at the conclusion of the small dinner party. She was worried about Amos. Something was bothering him aside from Aunt Mary’s
death. She’d sensed it in Lubbock and at the airport, and tonight she was sure of it when she’d caught him lost in deep reflection,
miles away from them, his mouth a mournful U-turn. “What is it, Amos?” she’d asked at one point when they had a moment alone.
“What is it besides Aunt Mary’s loss that has you so concerned? You’d tell me if you were ill, wouldn’t you?”

He’d answered in startled surprise, “Of course. Banish that concern, my dear. I’m as sound as a fiddle. I suppose I’m still
in a bit of shock.”

She hadn’t believed him.

Matt turned toward her. He’d refused Amos’s offer of a ride, saying he preferred to walk home. “I must be going, too,” he
said. “I only wanted to make sure you’re all right before I leave you.”

“Oh, but I…,” she said in protest, and without thought placed a lightly restraining hand on his chest.

He closed his hand around it. “But what?”

“I… thought that since Amos was taking your grandfather home, you’d stay awhile.”

“You’ve been up most of the night, it’s been a long day, and you have a longer one tomorrow. It would be selfish of me to
stay.”

“May I be the judge of that?”

“For your own sake, I’m afraid not,” he said, but showed no inclination to release her hand.

They’d tried all evening to ignore what was happening between them. Every time their eyes met or their bodies inadvertently
touched, a current of physical tension passed between them. They’d both been aware of it, but it was more than sexual attraction
and they knew that, too. It was more as if they recognized they were two halves of a whole who’d found their missing part.
But there would be time to fit the pieces together later. Until then, though, her heart needed an answer to a question. She
flushed and asked quietly, “The girl you almost married—do you still… care for her?”

He drew back in surprise, then laughed, as if the idea that he could still harbor feelings for the belle from San Francisco
was absurd. “I remember her fondly, but good Lord, no,” he said.

Relief coursed through her. “Well, that seems certain,” she said.

“Trust me, it is. Now, what about your flyboy? Any residue there?”

She hesitated, leaving her hand swallowed in his. “There was… sadness, but no regrets.”

“Was?”

She stared into his eyes. “Until now.”

He kissed her lightly on her forehead. “Say no more, or I’ll have to stay.”

She sighed. She
was
tired, and her body ached for bed. “All right, but I’ll see you in the morning?” He had agreed to stand with her to receive
visitors during the first viewing.

“In the morning,” he assured her, and held on to her hand until he was forced to let it slip from his fingers as he descended
the steps. She remained on the verandah until his tall figure was swallowed in the deeper shadows of the trees canopying the
boulevard. A feeling of deep peace flowed through her. It was nine o’clock. If she added the ten minutes they’d spoken at
Matt’s birthday party to the hour they’d spent in the gazebo to the time they were together today, that would amount to… around
twelve hours, she counted. How was it possible to feel she wanted to spend the rest of her life with a man in whose company
she’d spent only half a day?

M
ATT WALKED SLOWLY, SAVORING HIS
newfound feelings. If this wasn’t the beginning of love, it would sure as hell do, he thought. A buddy had once told him,
“When a woman who’s not your mother remains on a porch to watch you leave, you can bet she’s got more than a liking for you.”
He chuckled. He’d felt her eyes on him as he walked away and didn’t hear the front door close until he’d disappeared around
the curve of the sidewalk. He would have liked to stay, explain about Cecile, how it was they didn’t marry. God knew they’d
thought themselves right for each other in every way except the one necessary for a lasting and happy marriage. Recognition
of the missing element came after they were engaged and almost too late to prevent them from making the biggest mistake of
their lives. When they met, he was thirty and working out of San Francisco, enduring the freewheeling singles scene, union
battles, clogged traffic, and salty sea air until he could get back home. She was a dyed-in-the-wool San Franciscan, with
ties to the first families who had settled the city by the bay. Sun and surf, beach and ocean, were in her blood. He’d known
of her deep attachment to the place when he’d asked her to marry him, as she’d been aware that a day would come when he would
return to Howbutker to run Warwick Industries. But they could handle their geographic differences, they’d thought. Already
she’d met his family. He’d taken her to Atlanta, where spirit and polish met spunk and brass, and then to Howbutker to introduce
her to his grandfather and Mary and Amos, Warwick Hall, and the sleepy little East Texas burg she’d eventually call home.
The people and place matched her expectations but, unbeknownst to him, not her anticipated acceptance of them.

As the time approached to mail their wedding invitations, he’d sensed a certain withdrawal. “What’s the matter, Cecile? Having
second thoughts?” he’d asked half-seriously on a night when the moon highlighted the sun streaks in her hair.

“No, Matt,” she’d said, her voice wispy with held-back tears. “Not about you. I could never have second thoughts about you
and the man you are.”

His heart had plunged. “But you’re having second thoughts? What about?”

“Us… together in Howbutker.” Her face had wrenched in appeal. “Matt, please understand. I mean no disrespect to your home.
It’s just that… now that the time is getting closer for me to leave my family, my friends, my home, the place I love more
than any place on earth, to—to live in Howbutker… well, it’s so different from here, so
provincial
! Warwick Hall is so
baronial
! And our children would have such
limited
experiences. I’ve been thinking… Couldn’t you move the headquarters of Warwick Industries here—to San Francisco?”

The proposal had caught him like a punch in the stomach. “No, Cecile,” he’d said, realizing she’d nurtured this hope for some
time. “I wouldn’t even consider it.”

At least they never played the “if you loved me” card when they tried to work out how they’d keep the marriage going with
one of them a fish out of water. They both knew love was not the problem. In the end, she’d loved him enough to let him go—“You’d
be miserable here, Matt. You might adjust temporarily but never adapt permanently”—and he’d loved her too much to take her
away from her doting parents, the brothers and sisters and slew of cousins she adored, the sunny family home overlooking the
Pacific, where ocean breezes filled its gauzy curtains like sails at sea.

So they had parted, and no other woman had piqued more than his passing interest until he saw Rachel again. The minute she’d
opened the door and he’d looked into that remembered face, he’d felt an immediate and irrefutable connection, a jolt of recognition,
as if he’d come across a keepsake he’d put away and forgotten until now. It was an incredible feeling, deeper, surer than
what he’d felt for Cecile, and it had only strengthened as the day went on. He’d felt their kindred roots touch, intertwine.
They shared the same interests, culture, love of town and people. There would be no conflict of lifestyles, background, and
place. She was the woman his soul had waited for.

His grandfather could relax. These were the eighties. Men weren’t hung up on their pride like those of his generation. They
supported their wives’ careers and shared in the responsibilities of home and child rearing. Nobody had to be first. The idea
was to be
together
. Rachel might be a Toliver, as committed to her legacy as her great-aunt, but so what? As far as he was concerned, if this
feeling between them panned out—and he had no doubt it would—Rachel could grow her cotton and acorn squash and he’d mine timber—a
perfect blend.

T
he next three days broke overcast and oppressive. Friday’s bright sunshine that had sparkled on Somerset and off the white
columns of the verandah remained behind mausoleum gray clouds that Rachel was to remember as apt harbingers of things to come.
Throngs attended the two viewings, not many of whom, in true East Texas fashion, did not press their humidity-damp cheek to
hers, threaten to wring off her hand, or crush her in rib-breaking hugs. Except for the clear vision of Matt’s strong presence
beside her, making the introductions and keeping the line moving, they passed in a mind-numbing blur. By the end of the first
viewing, she felt as limp and squeezed out as one of her mother’s hand-wrung sheets.