Steps to the Altar (34 page)

He gave a cynical laugh and pulled the T-shirt quickly over his head, covering his old wounds. But now, every time I looked at him, I would know. And he would know I knew.

“You ever heard of Brooklin Oil Company?”

I shook my head no.

His shoulders moved slightly, shrugging into the shirt. “Guess Texas business isn’t all that important out here in the Golden State. Brooklin Oil was incorporated by my great-granddaddy. Isn’t actually an oil company anymore. Merged with Chevron a-ways back and my daddy retired to his two favorite hobbies, golf and bopping college cheerleaders. When he retired, he reluctantly threw me my share and told me to get lost. Kind of like he did my mama.” He gave me a half smile. “Who, by the way, really is Cajun.”

I couldn’t help asking, “When . . . when did your dad do . . . ?”

His eyes turned almost black at the memory. “I was thirteen years old.”

Involuntarily, I gave a small gasp.

He continued talking as if he hadn’t heard my reaction. “To his credit, it was the only time. When I tried to get between him and my mama, he gave me a choice, me or her. I thought myself a man. He made me stand there and prove it. Of course, me and mama left after that.”

“The police . . . did you . . . ?”

He shook his head no, giving another cynical laugh. “Benni, my dad is worth almost a quarter of a billion dollars. What police department is going to arrest him for beating his wife and kid? After that, we left to live with my pawpaw and mawmaw Gautreaux in Beaumont, my mama’s parents. Well, I did, anyway. Mama started with the hospitals. She kinda never lived with me after that.”

“Hospitals?”

He looked at me for a long moment, then said in a slow, patient voice, “Benni, my mother is pretty much crazy. She took so many beatings from my dad the doctors think it might have done something permanent to her brain. She lives in a fantasy world where the memory of . . . well, where it’s just a whole lot happier than in her real life. Sometimes, I can’t blame her.”

I looked down at my coffee-stained floor, studying the tips of his black cherry–colored boots, trying to hide the tears pooling at the back of my eyes.

“The stories about your mother . . .” I said in a low voice, still not looking up.

“She reads a lot and then takes what she reads and assimilates it into this really wonderful history. She honestly believes she’s done all those things.”

His voice softened into almost a whisper. “I know it was cruel to tease you about her, but it was just my stupid way of coping. I really do love her. Actually, she’s real happy in her fantasy world. Happier than most of us, truth be told.”

I swallowed over the thick saltiness in my throat. How did this puny little planet that God created manage to hold all the cruelty human beings were able to invent?

He stepped closer, took my chin, and lifted my head. His fingers felt warm on my skin, calloused like Gabe’s, but with a different texture. He stroked my chin with his thumb while we stared at each other for a long moment.

“It’s okay, ranch girl. It was a long time ago. I haven’t seen my daddy in twenty-five years. But I’m sure proud that you care enough to choke up about it.”

We continued staring at each other, our breathing becoming slower, deeper. If I didn’t do something quick, the next step would be his lips on mine. And at that moment, I craved the taste and feel of his mouth more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life.

But my life was already screwed up enough without adding that complication. And it was wrong, no matter how much I wanted it. I turned my head, breaking the fragile emotional thread connecting us.

“Dang.” His laugh was as low and intimate as if we had kissed. “But, darlin’, that
is
a first and ten. No denyin’ I’m in the game now.”

Embarrassed by my momentary weakness and annoyed at his confident tone, I backed away and took refuge behind my desk. “I’ve got work to do. Like I said, the T-shirt’s on the house. I’m sorry for spilling coffee on you.”

“No problem,” he said, still smiling. “It was
almost
worth it. Now, are you going to tell me where you’re heading off to? I’m assuming it has to do with Maple Sullivan. Remember our promise to share information.”

I stuck my hands in the back pockets of my Wranglers and lied through my teeth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook his head and grinned. “Lordy Mama, you are so cute when you lie. Did you know your right eyebrow gets this little twitch every time you tell a fib?”

My hand flew up to my face. Geeze Louise, he was right. “Get out.”

“When are you going?” he asked.

“Goodbye, Detective,” I said.

“Is it dangerous? Will you at least tell me that?” His expression looked genuinely concerned.

“No, it’s not. I promise.” I held up two fingers.

He studied my face for a moment, then finally said, “Okay, you’re not lying. Just call me if you’re going to do something the least bit dangerous, okay? Promise.”

“Okay,” I said, without a twitch.

Before I had time to move back, he stepped closer and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “You be safe, ranch girl.” Then he turned and walked out of my office whistling softly under his breath.

It took me a minute or two to regain normal breathing. This situation with Hud was rapidly moving beyond my control. In that moment, Dove’s words about any of us being tempted came back to me in a flood. Remembering about how much I’d wanted to kiss Hud—was I really any more innocent than Gabe?

I filed that confusing dilemma in the back of my mind, turned my scratch pad over, and dialed the number of the Idyllwild Chamber of Commerce. I asked the woman who answered if the town had a historical society.

“Why, we surely do. The person to talk to would be Arlene Rivers,” the woman said. “She’s president this year. What was it you were looking for?”

“Genealogical research,” I said off the top of my head. “I’m tracing family trees.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. I was sort of tracing a family tree, just not mine.

“Oh, isn’t that the most addictive thing?” the woman said, laughing. “I got started on mine when my son hooked me up to the Internet and I’ve gone back sixteen generations. It’s a disease, genealogy. And for the life of me, I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this information. My son couldn’t care less.”

“It is addictive,” I agreed. Just to cover all bases, I asked her about Mrs. Albert C. Smith.

“Oh, I’ve only lived here two years,” the woman said. “Me and my husband retired here from Riverside. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I’m sure Arlene could help you.”

“Can I have Ms. Rivers’s phone number?”

“Certainly, but it’s Mrs. Rivers. She’s eighty-two and doesn’t like being called Ms. She’s a spry one, lived here since she was a child. Always makes a homemade angel food cake for the historical society meetings. Whips the egg whites by hand, mind you, which she never forgets to tell us.” She read the number to me. “You tell her that Betty Juniper down at the chamber said you were okay. She’ll talk to you. In fact, you may have to plumb hang up on her once she starts to gabbing.”

“Great, thanks.”

I dialed the number, and after six rings, a faint voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Rivers? Mrs. Arlene Rivers?”

“Yes, who’s calling?”

I dropped Betty’s name and gave her my genealogical search story. Then I asked her about Mrs. Albert C. Smith.

Her voice came on a little stronger. “Albert Smith? He’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m actually looking for his wife.”

“Lily? She’s dead too.”

I leaned back in my chair, disappointment flooding through me. I’d had such a good feeling about this lead.

“Her sister’s alive, though. You want to talk to her?”

I sat forward and grabbed a scratch pad. It couldn’t hurt. “Sure, what’s her sister’s name?”

“Thelma. Thelma Jones. Isn’t that something? One of them married a Smith, the other a Jones. I think that’s really something.” Her laugh cackled like water on a tin roof.

“It is funny,” I said. “Do you have a phone number?”

Her voice instantly grew sharp and suspicious. “Who did you say you was again?”

I patiently explained my story of searching family roots and how Betty from the Chamber of Commerce said I was okay.

She gave a snort. “That Betty’s red hair is dyed or my name isn’t Arlene Rivers. But she seems a good egg so I guess it would be okay. Let me go get it. Now stay here. Don’t go away.”

“I won’t.”

After almost five minutes she finally returned. “Sorry about the wait,” she said. “It was downstairs and these old bones don’t move as fast as they used to.” She read off the number, then made me repeat it back to her.

“Thanks, Mrs. Rivers. I really appreciate your taking the trouble to help me.”

“Oh, no trouble. Why, I think looking for your roots is something to be encouraged. My family came to California . . .”

After another fifteen minutes of hearing her family’s trials and tribulations starting with the Gold Rush, I was able to pry myself away from her. I felt guilty, knowing she was probably lonely and craved conversation, but I couldn’t wait any longer to call this Thelma Jones and see if she had any information about Mrs. Albert C. Smith and the flowers delivered to Garvey’s grave.

I dialed the number and another elderly lady’s voice came over the phone.

“Mrs. Thelma Jones?”

“Speaking.”

Before she thought I was a phone solicitor, I hastily explained how I had got her name and gave her my genealogical story. There was a long pause before she answered.

“What is it you want to know?”

I hesitated a moment, not sure exactly how I should phrase it. Finally, I just decided to tell the truth . . . or at least part of it. I told her about cataloging Maple Sullivan’s trunks, about my discovery of the flowers, and my curiosity about them. I left out any mention of the crime and hoped she didn’t know anything about it.

“Oh, isn’t that interesting,” she exclaimed. “You know, I’d wondered for years why I was sending flowers to that family’s grave.”

“You’re sending them?”

“It was in my sister’s will. She left money specifically for it. Her instructions were clear. Send an unsigned money order once a year to this florist with a note saying it was for the Sullivan plot. There’s enough for three more years, then it runs out.”

“Did your sister know Garvey Sullivan?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t think so. They weren’t actually from her. Apparently, it was something
she
was asked to do. She told me that right before she passed away five years ago. Breast cancer, poor thing. It was a slow going for Lily, so we had a lot of time to talk and plan. Organized as the day is long, my Lily. Always was, even as a little bitty girl. Used to fold her doll’s clothes away neat as a pin. Loved to iron Daddy’s cotton handkerchiefs.”

“Who asked her to send the flowers?” I said, trying to get her back on track.

“Why, her dearest friend, next to me, of course. Marybell Knott.”

“Marybell Knott,” I repeated.

“She died about eighteen or so years ago,” Thelma Jones continued. She gave a great sigh over the phone. “So many of my age are gone now.”

I silently echoed her sigh. At least I wouldn’t be faced with the dilemma of turning Maple in.

“A lovely lady. A bit of a recluse, but always willing to help out at church. She wrote our historical society newsletter for almost thirty years. Real clever with words. Even wrote a play once we all performed. It about broke Lily’s heart when Marybell passed on. Oddest thing. She got breast cancer too. What’re the chances of both of them dying from the same disease so many years apart?”

“Was Marybell married?” I asked. “Did she have children?”

“No, she was what we all used to call an old maid. She seemed to like her life, though. Worked as a waitress at the Red Kettle Cafe here in town for as long as I can remember. When she finally had to retire because of her arthritis, more than one person in this town mourned. No one could waitress like Marybell Knott.”

I was excited. Deep in my heart, I believed I’d found Maple Sullivan. She’d even returned to her roots and worked at the only skill she had next to writing. But I needed real proof.

“You know,” Thelma Jones said. “If it’s Marybell you’re interested in, I’ve got a box of her things stored in my garage. It’s been there since my sister died. I looked through it once, just a bunch of old letters and a few knickknacks. You’re more than welcome to look through it. Frankly, I’d be tickled if you hauled it away. I’ve got more than enough junk of my own.”

My heart jumped. Maybe there’d be something in there that would prove she was Maple Bennett Sullivan.

“When would you like to come by?” she asked.

I glanced down at my desk calendar. There was no way I could do it today with Dove’s shower tonight, and Friday was out since it was Elvia and Emory’s rehearsal dinner. It was at least a seven-hour drive to Idyllwild from San Celina. That was without the traffic I’d most likely hit going through Los Angeles. Unless I wanted to wait until next week, which I didn’t, there was only tomorrow.

“How about tomorrow?” I asked. “Early afternoon?” I’d probably have to spend the night, but the way things were with me and Gabe and how busy everyone was with the weddings, no one would even miss me. I’d be back in plenty of time on Friday for the rehearsal dinner.

“That’s fine with me. I have my bridge club in the morning, but I’m free after the noon hour.”

After getting directions to her house, I hung up, so excited I wished I could get in my truck and leave this moment. But I still had Dove’s shower to get through tonight. Right now, silly games and jokes about marriage were the last thing I wanted to hear, but this was a special time for Dove and I’d already ruined it enough by telling her about Gabe and me. Tonight, I swore to myself, I’d be as chipper and entertaining as a USO performer.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the trunks and doing some long-neglected paperwork in my office. A little before five o’clock, I headed home and changed into a new pair of Wranglers, a white snap-button cowboy shirt, and my good Tony Lama black boots. When I reached the restaurant where Dove’s shower was to be held, there were at least thirty people there before me already chowing down on the spicy buffalo wings, cheese and vegetable platters, tiny tri-tip beef sandwiches, and potato salad. I loaded up a plate and joined Elvia and Amanda at a back table, where we giggled and laughed at the antics of some of our town’s most respected senior citizens, who could, apparently, party down with the best of them when the occasion called for it. Dove, sitting at a front table of honor, was roasted brilliantly by her longtime friends and I found myself forgetting my problems for a little while and having a great time. They even managed to cajole me, Amanda, and Elvia up to the stage to sing with the karaoke machine a pathetically mangled version of “My Guy.” The irony of the song’s words certainly wasn’t lost on me.