Chapter One
Rebecca Fletcher passed through the French doors and stepped onto the verandah. She rubbed her arms. It hardly seemed like May—more like March. A light rain settled on the lush green lawn that dipped and rolled a hundred yards on each side of the alley of trees. Rebecca squinted. The muddy James was barely visible through the mist, but it was comforting to see it there as always. She leaned against a column, pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her nose, and brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of a finger.
Attractive in an all-American, outdoor way, she did not consider herself much above average in looks—although most men would say she underestimated herself. Her skin had a wholesome, scrubbed look and the creamy, freckled complexion of a redhead. A competitive spirit and a tall, athletic build had led to varsity letters in field hockey and tennis as an undergraduate. Now on the low side of twenty-five, she still played tennis as often as possible, jogged daily, and worked out at least three times a week at the Club.
She breathed in cool, damp air and let out a sign. She felt the presence of someone approaching and turned to face the long, sad face of Dr. Martin.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how much longer she’ll be with us. Her breathing has become even more erratic. I think you’d better see her now.”
Rebecca nodded and hurried past. She walked quickly and quietly across the brick red and dark blue Oriental carpet in the front parlor; her footsteps created a hollow echo as she crossed the black and white tile entrance hall. A nurse, her head bowed, sat in a chair by the door to what was normally the library, now converted into a sick room. Rebecca gently pushed open the door, holding the knob so the lock wouldn’t click. The odor of denatured alcohol and disinfectant met her as she took a tentative step inside.
Anemic light filtered through the large, rain-streaked bay window creating a checkerboard pattern on the white linen comforter cover. Rebecca moved forward. The old woman turned her head slowly, tethered by oxygen tubes that spouted from her nose. Recognition unfolded in her eyes.
“Rebecca,” she said. “I knew you’d come.”
“Oh, Minnie, you know I’d be here, no matter what.”
“It won’t be long, Rebecca. I won’t be here . . . much longer.”
“Don’t say that, Minnie. Think positive, remember?”
“Am. . . . Won’t need these tubes where I’m headed.”
Rebecca searched her pocket for a clean tissue as she knelt beside the bed.
Minnie touched her hand. A hint of conspiracy in her tone, Minnie said, “I’m going to be with Robbie. He’s waiting for me. I’ve seen him.”
Rebecca wiped her eyes. “I’m gonna miss you, Minnie.”
“Don’t cry, Rebecca . . . promise me, promise me . . . something.”
Rebecca moved closer.
“Promise me, Rebecca, that you’ll make sure Live Oaks stays, stays the way it is. It’s—it’s the roots of the Fletcher family, your roots, Rebecca. . . . Keep it . . . keep it as it is. Pass it on to your own children.”
Rebecca touched her frail hand. “I don’t understand, Minnie. Are you saying you want me to have Live Oaks?”
“Yes, you Rebecca—” Minnie looked over Rebecca’s shoulder as though someone had come behind Rebecca. “Robbie!” She struggled to rise up.
Rebecca’s stomach jumped to her throat as she turned to see, but no one was there. She abruptly stood and looked down at Minnie, whose head now lay against the pillow—eyes shut, mouth open.
Rebecca rushed from the room. “Doctor Martin, come quick!”
Dr. Martin hurried past. He took Minnie’s wrist, searched it with his forefingers and thumb. After a moment, he looked at his watch, then stood and turned to Rebecca.
“She’s still with us.”
Rebecca nodded. She walked back through the house toward the verandah, staring down at the crumpled tissue. Poor Minnie. Her time was near, no doubt of that.
Rebecca passed through the French doors. Her gaze swept the lawn, paused for a moment at the gazebo on the knoll, and came to rest on the alley of huge live oaks that led to the landing on the river. Those trees—they were simply amazing, and so magnificent. The branches had grown together to form a tunnel—a canopy.
Was it true? All this would soon be hers?
Rebecca stepped off the verandah and felt the damp, light rain on her face. She hurried across the bricks to the entranceway and looked up at the ancient, gnarled limbs. The rain hardly penetrated here, but she felt chilled and wished she’d brought a sweater.
She strolled between the huge trunks, rubbed her arms, and felt, as she always did when she took this path, the presence of her ancestors. Apparitions of her mind bowed and curtsied, each one dressed in eighteenth or nineteenth century finery.
Rebecca had learned about the trees when still a rough and tumble tomboy. Her nanny had been more interested in Nancy Drew than in her, which had suited Rebecca fine. It gave her time to herself and freedom from discipline. One day, when Rebecca had stolen away, she’d shinnied up an oak and scooted out a limb. As she had reached for a higher branch she’d dropped her doll.
“Hey, what’re you doing up there?” a boy had said. He was much older than she, and looked tall, even from high up where Rebecca was.
She looked past him to the doll on the ground. It seemed a long way down. The boy picked it up.
Rebecca said, “Just climbing. That’s all.”
“I can see that.” He squinted one eye. “Does your nanny know?”
“She’s on the verandah,” Rebecca said.
“You better climb down—or she’s gonna be mad.”
“I don’t care.” Rebecca felt uneasy about being up so high. Perspiration formed on her brow.
“You know, that limb might break if you don’t come down off it. You don’t want it to break, do you?”
Rebecca wrapped her arms around it. “No.”
He shook his head. “Your great, great, great something grand daddy had those trees planted. They’re old—real old. They’re so old they’re in the history books, and I’ll tell you one thing that’s sure—something that old might break.”
Rebecca looked down, afraid but unwilling to admit it.
“Hang down,” he said. “I’ll catch you. Drop your legs down and hang.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want your nanny or your grandmother to see you up there, do you?”
“I don’t wanna come down.”
“Sure you do. All you have to do is hang down. I told you—I’ll catch you.”
It took more coaxing, but she finally did hang from the limb by her hands. The boy grabbed her feet and then her legs, and lowered her to the ground.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“Charles. I know your name, Rebecca.”
“How’d you know about my great-something grandfather and the trees?”
He sat down on the ground and leaned back against one of them. Rebecca took her doll and kneeled beside him.
“I expect everyone around here knows about the trees,” he said. “They’re old, all right, real old. More than two hundred and fifty years, they say.” He looked up into them. “Your great-something grand daddy had them planted before the main house was even finished because he wanted folks to have shade when they walked up from the river. Back in those days, the river was the highway—it’s how folks got from one place to another.” He put his hands behind his head and gazed into the canopy. “I’ve been told it was my great-something grand daddy who planted them—since my ancestors were the ones who did all the work.”
“Why’d they do all the work?”
“They had to—they didn’t have a choice.” He looked at her. “Your great-something grand daddy owned my great-something grand daddy.”
Rebecca stopped and looked at the tree Charles had sat against that day. The two of them had become friends, and had remained close while she grew up. Now, they’d gone separate ways, and she missed him, but was happy for him, too. He was a resident in surgery at the Medical College of Virginia.
She turned and gazed through the alley at the house. She felt the flutter of excitement arise within her. It would be her house!
She studied the details: The black slate roof, white-washed dental molding, massive chimneys, handmade red brick, the stately Georgian design. The house had an indelible place in history enjoyed by only a handful of Colonial homes along the James: Shirley, Berkeley, Sherwood Forest, Westover, Carter’s Grove . . . Live Oaks. How thrilling and how fitting that it would be hers. The house, the trees—they were her family, after all.
Growing up, her classmates at St. Charlotte’s School came home each day to their mothers and their sisters and their brothers. She came home to Live Oaks and the ghosts of her ancestors. And in the mornings, her friends were driven to school by their mothers in car pools, or by their fathers on the way to work.
Not Rebecca. Charles’ father drove her to school.
One particular day stuck in her mind.
A teacher had opened the back door of Minnie’s black Cadillac station wagon. Rebecca had stepped out, her book bag slung over her shoulder.
“Is that a hearse?” Mary-Randolph Hinton had asked her.
“What’s a hearse?” Rebecca said.
Emily Miller said, “A hearse is a car that carries dead people. I got to ride in one when my grandmother died.”
The two girls and Rebecca walked toward the front door of the lower school.
“No, that’s not what it is,” Rebecca said. “Henry calls it a station wagon.”
“Who’s Henry?” Mary-Randolph asked.
“He’s the man who drives me here,” Rebecca said.
“Why doesn’t your mommie or daddy drive you to school?” Emily said.
Rebecca forced out the words. “I don’t have a Mommie or daddy.”
They stopped inside the door.
Emily had said, “Why not?”
Mary-Randolph had given Emily a tug on her sleeve and had pulled her toward the lockers. “Don’t ask her that,” she’d said in a whisper. “Don’t you know her mommie and daddy are dead?”
Nowadays, Rebecca was aware that children could be cruel to one another and not even realize it. But back then, she had felt real pain.
She sighed and began walking toward the house. Live Oaks was proof she wasn’t created out of whole cloth, that she had flesh and blood ancestors, and it had never been more apparent to her than in the sixth grade, when her glass came here for a picnic and a tour.
“Wow, Rebecca,” Emily Miller had said. “Mrs. Hinnley said your great-great-great grandfather was a colonel in the Revolutionary War, and that George Washington and Thomas Jefferson had dinner with him in your dining room.”
Rebecca had felt her chest swell. “They were on the way to Williamsburg.”
She, Emily and Mary-Randolph walked toward the gazebo, and Mary-Randolph pointed to the field beyond it.
“Are those your horses, Rebecca?”
“Yes—that one’s Millie and the other’s Jacques.”
“Do you ride them, Rebecca?” Emily asked.
“Oh, sure,” Rebecca had said. “But I like Travis-George the best. You can see him way down at the other end.”
“Wow,” both Emily and Mary-Randolph had said at the same time.
Wow, thought Rebecca. That had been a long, long time ago. She gazed at the same field. The son of Travis-George was grazing there.
Rebecca breathed in the odor of hay and manure, and felt the warm sun on her cheeks. She had assumed Live Oaks would pass to her Uncle William. But from what Minnie had just said, that did not appear to be what was going to happen.
It was fitting the place would be put in her hands and not in his—if caring for a place, loving it, meant anything. William had always been so blasé about Live Oaks—had taken it for granted. Now, the deed would be recorded in her name, and she would be its owner and its keeper—a conduit for its safe passage to future descendants of Robert Fletcher. She would care for it and cherish it—as much as that first owner of Live Oaks had.
That evening, three places were set with the best family china and crystal in the main dinning room. Candles blazed atop silver candle sticks. The light from them reflected in the dark, polished wood of the Queen Anne table.
Rebecca sat across from Dr. Martin. She looked up from her soup, her spoon poised above the bowl. “I’m sorry Uncle William has stood us up, Dr. Martin,” she said with a little shrug. “I really don’t know where he is.”
“Don’t worry about it, Rebecca. It’s a treat to eat at this table—where the future of this nation was discussed and decided on. I only wish it were under happier circumstances.”
“You’re nice to stay.” She dipped her spoon. “Poor Minnie.”
A man’s voice said, “So whatta ya think, Doctor? When’s she gonna die?”
Rebecca turned. It was Uncle William, obviously drunk. She watched him take a sip from a paper cup as he swaggered into the room.
The doctor stood.
“Naw, don’t get up.” William patted the air as he weaved unsteadily to the chair at the head of the table. He sat down, picked up the servant’s bell, held it over his head and shook it. “Mosell! Soup for the lord of the manor.”
Rebecca said, “Look’s like you’re well into your cups, Uncle William.”
“Got an excuse, today. Ma mama’s dyin’.”
Dr. Martin stared at him. “To answer your question, William, I’m afraid it would surprise me if your mother hung on for more than a day or two.”
Mosell put a bowl of soup on William’s plate.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Vichyssoise,” Mosell said.
“Cold leek soup? Psshit! How ’bout bringin’ me a ham sandwich?”
She frowned and took the bowl. “Whatever you say, Mr. William.”
“Uncle William, this is only the first course,” Rebecca said. “Mosell has a roast prepared.”
A drunken smile appeared on William’s face. “A roast? Yeah, well, that sounds good. I’ll skip the cold soup and move straight on to that.”
Mosell left the room, a scowl on her face.
William blinked. “Ah, you were saying, Doctor?”
“Technically, your mother has pneumonia. But it’s really a side effect of emphysema.”
William took a pack of Marlboros from his breast pocket, offered them around, stuck one in his mouth and searched in his pockets for a match.
Dr. Martin shook his head. “Her lungs are filling up with fluid. There really isn’t anything we can do.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d take a lesson from her if I were you, William. Cigarettes did it.”
“Ma mother’s seventy-six, Doctor. I should live so long.” He pulled a candle to him and lit his cigarette.
“Really, Uncle William,” Rebecca said. “If you must smoke, do you have to do it at the dinner table?”
“I can do what I want—s’my house, now. Almost, anyway.”
Ah, but you’re wrong.
William picked up the bell and rang it hard.
“Mosell, an ash tray. And some wine, a bottle of St. Emilion—that’ll go nicely with a roast.”
Rebecca was glad when dinner was over, and she could go upstairs. Uncle William was so obnoxious and such an embarrassment. But he was Minnie’s son, and with his mother on her deathbed Rebecca supposed his drunkenness could be excused. No doubt people handled grief in different ways. Rebecca felt an enormous sense of loss, too, as she knew William must. But for her, it would only add to her pain to try to fill the emptiness with alcohol.
She sat down at her vanity and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hazel-green eyes were rimmed with red. Her cheeks were flushed. Other than Uncle William, her grandmother was the only blood relative she knew.
Her father, Robert Hilliard Fletcher, VI, had brought her to Live Oaks to live with Minnie a long, long time ago when Rebecca was not yet four. Even so, she could vividly recall the sense of anticipation, and the anxiety she’d felt on the drive along the dirt road from Route 5.
“Are we almost there, Daddy?” she said.
“It’s a mile and a half from the highway to the house, Becky,” Daddy said. “But yes—we’re almost there.”
Rebecca was afraid to meet her grandmother. It was the first time.
“Where’s Mommy?” Rebecca asked.
Her Daddy didn’t answer. He cut the wheel, dodged a goose.
“Where’s Mommy, Daddy?”
He sighed. “I told you, Rebecca. I told you a hundred and fifty times. I don’t know where she is. Wish I did. I know you miss her. I miss her, too.”
They came around a curve, and Daddy pointed. “There it is, Rebecca.”
Rebecca had never seen such a big house. It was flanked by huge trees. Lush green grass surrounded it.
“Of course, this is the back,” Daddy said. “The other side’s the front—faces the River.” He looked at her, touched her hand. “There’s something I want you to promise me, Rebecca. Will you do that?”
“What, Daddy?”
“Don’t be asking your grandmother where your mom is, Okay? She doesn’t know, either, and it’ll only make her angry.”
Rebecca picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. It wasn’t long afterward that Daddy left her, too.
She’d cried and cried.
“Why do you have to leave, Daddy? Why?”
She buried her face in his chest and he folded his arms around her. “I’m in the Army, Rebecca. They tell me where I have to go. But I’ll be back, Rebecca. I promise I’ll be back. And maybe they’ll send me someplace where you can come with me—next time.”
Rebecca brushed her hair harder, and tears welled up. Six months later, Minnie came into her room, her eyes red, a handkerchief balled up in her hand. She sniffed, wiped her nose, knelt to make herself Rebecca’s height.
“What is it, Minnie?”
“It’s your Daddy, Rebecca. He’s, he’s dead—gone. Killed in an under cover operation in Nicaragua.” Minnie took her in her arms. “I’m, I’m so, so sorry, Rebecca. This shouldn’t happen to anyone—especially to a child. Oh Lord, Rebecca. I told him not to, I told him not to join the Army.”
Rebecca put down the brush and wiped away tears.
Minnie missed her son almost as much as Rebecca missed her Daddy. But Minnie refused even to discuss Rebecca’s mother. Rebecca wouldn’t have known anything about her at all if it weren’t for the letters she’d found when she was a teenager.
She’d been searching Minnie’s desk for a stamp and felt a surge of joy when she recognized her Daddy’s handwriting. She’d been reading them, sitting on the floor, when Minnie came into the room.
Minnie’s voice was shrill. “Rebecca, what are you doing?”
“Just reading some of Dad’s old letters. What’s wrong with that?”
“They were written to me, that’s what.”
Rebecca looked at the floor. “He was my dad.”
Minnie sat down in a chair and let out a sigh. “Yes, I suppose. But it would have been nicer if you’d asked.”
Rebecca raised her head. Softly, she said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me about my mother, Minnie?”
Minnie cut her eyes toward Rebecca. “My blood boils whenever I think about her. She was from the wrong side of the tracks, Rebecca, and she behaved that way, deserted you and Robbie. If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything, and that’s precisely what I’ve done.”
“These letters don’t say she deserted us,” Rebecca had said. “Daddy said she disappeared. He had no idea what happened to her. Maybe she got amnesia or something.”
Minnie had shaken her head. “Oh, Rebecca. Amnesia only happens in pulp novels and B movies. It’s more likely your mother got a case of wanderlust and took off. That’s what happens to people without a sense of family, or roots.”
Rebecca screwed the lid on the jar of moisturizing cream.
She’d thought and wondered about her mother all her life. What did her mother look like? What had happened to her? Rebecca couldn’t remember a thing. Her memories simply did not go back any farther than that day in the car with her Daddy as they drove to Live Oaks. Even her mother’s name had remained a mystery until she’d found the letters. Now, at least knew her first name, Nina, and she knew from the return address on the envelopes where she’d lived with her and her dad for those first few years of life. It had been in Baltimore on Bolton Street.
Surely, her mother must be out there somewhere. For years Rebecca had hoped and prayed she’d return to rescue her from being an orphan, rescue her from being different than her classmates. Now, as she sat before her mirror in this old plantation house that would soon be hers, she felt a strange sense of ambivalence and resentment. After all, the mystery woman called Nina had abandoned her, hadn’t she? Perhaps it was best if they never met. At least now she’d have Live Oaks. It had always been Live Oaks that had helped fill the emptiness she felt from having no real family. Now Live Oaks would be hers, forever.
Rebecca slid between crisp clean sheets and looked up at the four posts of her bed. Generations of Fletchers had slept here in this room, many in this bed. She owed them everything: her character, her sense of history, her roots. She wouldn’t let them down. She’d deliver Live Oaks to future generations.
The next morning, a knock on the door penetrated Rebecca’s consciousness. Her eyes popped open, and she sat up. “Come in,” she managed.
The door opened slowly. Dr. Martin head emerged. Then the door swung the rest of the way and he stepped into the room, eyes tired and sad.
“She’s gone, Rebecca. Your grandmother is . . . dead.”
Rebecca felt her stomach drop. She’d known this moment would come but hadn’t realized how it would actually feel.
“She died in her sleep, Rebecca. It was a peaceful death—as peaceful as death can be. A blessing, really.”
It was sunny and breezy a few days later, and it smelled like spring, when Minnie was buried in the plot on the hill next to the grandfather Rebecca had never known. It was a lovely spot that overlooked the bend in the river. Afterwards, the mourners walked back to the house in silence and clustered on the verandah where coffee and pastries awaited them on tables covered in white linen.
At first they sipped and munched in silence. Then, after a few minutes had passed, a low murmur spread as they began to speak in subdued, hushed tones.
William, who’d been conspicuously absent from the grave side service, appeared in the doorway of the house and stepped onto the verandah carrying liquor bottles in each hand and under one arm. He put them down on a table and looked up. “Hey, Jason!” he said and slapped a golfing buddy on the back.
Everyone stopped talking and turned.
William met their questioning stares with a shrug, then grabbed a bottle and held it up. “Brandy, anyone? Kalua? B and B? Schnapps? No sense being morbid.”
Eyebrows shot up in unison.
He took a bottle of cognac in one had, a snifter in the other, and stepped over to Rebecca, raising the bottle to pour some in her teacup. She covered the cup with her hand.
He shrugged and poured himself a healthy portion, tossed it down, and poured another.
He laughed a loud laugh and put down the bottle.
“I can see it now,” he said. His hand swept toward the river. “A road, bending down that way. Five-hundred-thou—no, make that six-hundred-thousand dollar houses on each side. Quarter acre lots with no view that go for a hundred and fifty apiece. A dock with motorboats tied up, and a seafood restaurant with a fake lighthouse.” He poured himself more cognac. “And next to it, where those damn live oaks are, that’s where I’m gonna put the condos. Studios’ll sell for over two hundred thou.”
Rebecca felt her brow furrow. “What are you talking about, Uncle William?”
He took a swig and looked at her over the rim of his glass. “I’m talking about the exclusive and very, very expensive development I’m putting up here on Live Oaks.” He stuck his nose in the snifter and took a whiff. Then exhaled and said, “I’m talking about an eighteen-hole championship golf course. I’m talking about how I’m gonna be a rich sonofabitch, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“No, it can’t . . . I thought . . . “
“What did you think, Rebecca, dear?”
“Well, from what Minnie said, I thought Live Oaks would pass to me.”
He stuck his nose in the brandy snifter and inhaled. “You’ll get your inheritance. Robbie’s share. But I get Live Oaks.”
“But, then, why did she say—”
“Don’t tell me she said you’d get it.” He shrugged. “She never did understand legal stuff—wills and trusts. Anyway, what do you care? I told you, you’ll get yours.”
Rebecca felt dizzy. “But Live Oaks? You can’t turn it into a housing development.”
“I can damn well do what I please with it. It’s mine, or will be soon.”
“Where you pointed—the trees. How can you put condos up?”
“Cut ’em down.” He laughed. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking—history, right? You and Minnie. You’re more concerned about what was, than what is—like that good for nothing father of yours. She cared more for him when he was dead than she ever did for me alive. Well, don’t you worry—I’ll leave thirty yards or so up here near the house—for show.” He pointed. “I plan to leave from here to there, where the drive will be. But there’s no way the rest will stay. They obstruct the view and take up room where the shops will go.”
Uncle William drained his snifter, then reached for the bottle.
A dozen thoughts clamored for Rebecca’s attention. She needed air and opened her mouth to take some in. She stared at William as he poured a hefty refill.
“And the house,” she said softly. “What are your plans for the house?”
He took a sip, smacked his lips. His eyes looked wild. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly tear it down if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s what makes the property so desirable—creates historical value.” He nodded to himself. “It’ll need a few minor alterations, of course. Move a wall here, add ventilation ducts there, but it’ll make a dandy restaurant, or a club house for the golf course, or maybe a cozy conference center for top execs. I’ll make the final decision when I’m further along.”
The next day, Rebecca sat in a high-back leather wing chair in the walnut-paneled lobby of Carter Wells Randolph & Studwick, Private Counsel. Her feet rested on a time-mellowed oriental rug, her eyes on an old engraving of two golfers on the moonscape surface of a Scottish moor.
A tall man with gray hair and an out-of-season suntan appeared. He clapped his hands together in delight.
“Rebecca Fletcher, is that you?” he said. “The last time I saw you, you couldn’t have been more than twelve.”
Rebecca stood.
“Good Lord,” he said, taking her hand. “You’ve grown up. Stylish, good-looking, a grown woman.”
She gave him a firm shake and smiled. “I’d rather you were impressed with my newly minted MBA, than with the work of Estee Lauder and Ralph Lauren.”
“Really? Darden?”
She nodded. “Start work next week.”
He gestured for her to follow. “Last I heard you were woman’s singles champ at the Club. Not tempted to turn pro?”
“I’m not that good, Mr. Wells.”
“Call me Rod.” He paused at an office door, motioned her in; held a chair for her. Then sat behind his desk, facing her. Rebecca inhaled the scent of pipe tobacco and furniture polish.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “This business with Live Oaks and your inheritance—apparently there’s some confusion.”
“Minnie indicated Live Oaks would go to me, but my uncle says the estate is his. I can tell you, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since he told me. The worst is, he’s planning to ruin the place with a gaudy development.”
“Uh-huh.” Rod opened a folder and put on reading glasses. “As you’d suspect, I’ve already researched this matter. Let me summarize as succinctly as I can. According to the terms of your grandfather’s will, everything was left in a trust for your grandmother to use during her lifetime. Then the contents of the trust were to be divided evenly between your father and your uncle, or their wives if your father or uncle were deceased. With both your parents gone, your father’s share comes to you.”
Rebecca nodded.
Rod continued, “The catcher is Live Oaks. It was to pass to your father, his oldest son, or to his wife if he were deceased, provided there were offspring of the marriage. The idea was for it to pass on down the line through the oldest son, which was your dad. Your grandfather was loyal to his English roots and that’s the tradition in England. Live Oaks has passed in the same manner from one generation to the next since the first Robert Fletcher died back in Colonial times. The way the document is worded, though, with both your father and mother gone, Live Oaks goes to William. The fair market value of it is counted in his fifty percent share. So, actually, you both get the same dollar value.”
“I see,” Rebecca said. “Let me be sure I heard you right. You said Live Oaks was to go to my mother if my father were dead.”
“Yes.”
“Well, suppose she’s not dead? In fact, I’ve always assumed she’s still alive.”
Rod Wells lifted his hand in protest. “No one has heard from your mother in twenty years. In anticipation of the complications her disappearance was sure to cause because of the terms of this will, the papers necessary to have her declared legally dead were filed a long time ago.” He opened a brief. “Let’s see. Yes, almost seven years ago—the waiting period is almost up.”
“But, what if she isn’t dead? What if I can find her?”
The lawyer peered at Rebecca over half-moon reading glasses. “Live Oaks would go to her, and so would the rest of what’s now coming to you.”
“How much would you estimate that to be?”
“Your share will be something over seven million dollars, after estate taxes are paid.”
Rebecca took a breath. “Seven million dollars.”
“Seven, seven and a half. Most of it’s in stocks and bonds. It fluctuates.”
“How much is Live Oaks worth? I mean, couldn’t I buy it from Uncle William?”
“You could—if he’d sell it. According to the appraisal, it’s worth about two and a half million—as a residence.”
“How much if he develops it?”
“Oh, well.” His eyes searched the ceiling. “A lot more. Maybe as much as ten million. If he plans to develop it, your uncle won’t want to sell it for less, I guarantee that.”
Rebecca felt sick to her stomach. “How long? How long do I have?”
The lawyer’s brow furrowed. “How long before what?”
“To find my mother. ”
“Oh, I see.” He put his elbows on the desk and cupped his hands. “Uh, William will be pushing to get this resolved I know, so we’ll probably be in court practically the day after the waiting period is up.” He picked up a document and turned to the last page. “I’d say you’ve got until sometime in the first week of July.”
“Less than a month. That’s not much time.”
Rod Wells stared at her. “You haven’t asked for my advice, but I am your family’s lawyer, so you’re going to get it anyway. I can’t imagine why you’d want to find a mother who—there’s no delicate way to put this—a mother who abandoned you as a little girl, and then turn over a seven-million-dollar inheritance to her.” He shook his head. “What makes you think she wouldn’t turn around and develop the land herself? You’ll be out seven million and have accomplished nothing.”
Rebecca stared at him. “That’s a good question, Rod. A very good question. I’ve a lot of thinking to do before I answer. For that matter, I’ve a lot of thinking before I decide what I’m doing with the rest of my life.”
Rebecca quickly came to the realization there was no way she wanted to become a lady of leisure at the age of twenty-four. What would she do? Play tennis in the mornings? Twiddle her thumbs in the afternoons? Go bar hopping every night? She’d worked hard for an MBA, and now she was going to do something with it—start the job she’d accepted at the advertising agency in Baltimore. So what if she didn’t need the money? She wanted a career.
The decision about whether to try to find her mother so Live Oaks would stay out of the hands of Uncle William was not as easy, and she spent two sleepless nights thinking about it. She thought about it while she packed, and she thought about it as she drove to Baltimore.
The downtown skyline came into view, and she was still trying to decide.
She asked herself, was it irony or was it a subconscious urge that had led her to chose Baltimore after graduation? This was, after all, the city where she was born, the city where she had lived the first three years of life with her father and her mother.
She maneuvered in stop and go traffic through the business district and then turned onto Mt. Royal and headed toward Bolton Hill.
It must be a subconscious longing to know, she decided. That’s what that drew her here. She might as well face it. She wouldn’t rest—couldn’t rest—until she found her mother. It was as simple as that. Once she did find her, she’d decide whether to risk letting her know about the inheritance. Who knew? Maybe she could strike a deal with her mother to keep Live Oaks intact, and pass it on to Rebecca’s children—assuming Rebecca had children. She’d gladly give up seven million dollars to keep Live Oaks out of Uncle William’s hands. Live Oaks was so much more important to her than money would ever be.
It seemed doubtful, of course, that such an agreement could be made legally binding, but it was worth a try. If it were apparent her mother couldn’t be trusted, if she were a down and out heroine addict, for example, Rebecca simply wouldn’t tell her about the inheritance. Even so, she might be able to use the fact that her mother was alive and stood to inherit the estate as leverage to persuade William to cut back his plans. If she could at least to force him to spare the trees and the house, it would be well worth the effort.
Rebecca turned one corner after another, checked street signs and noted numbers on houses. Once she was satisfied she was close enough, she backed into a space and turned off the engine.
What if her mother were a dope addict? What would Rebecca do? Walk away and leave her in a flop house, or a gutter? Could she?
Rebecca stood and closed the car door. She looked at her surroundings as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The foliage of tall trees along the street formed a canopy, which reminded her of the magnificent oaks Uncle William planned to topple.
Nineteenth Century townhouses with no yards in front lined each side of the street. White marble steps jutted out from porticoes onto the sidewalk. Why did this scene seem so familiar? She hadn’t been here since she was three years old. That time had long since faded from her memory.
She walked for half a block and noted the numbers. Her pulse quickened: 1308, 1310, 1312. She stopped. Was this it? The other houses were red brick. This one was stone. Cold, gray stone.
She took the envelope from her handbag and looked at the return address. The ink was faded and smudged, but there was no mistake.
What did you know? A sign in a first floor window advertised an apartment for rent. She climbed the steps and rang the bell.
After a few moments the door opened six inches. An elderly man peered out at her from a dark interior.
Rebecca said, “The apartment, is it still for rent?” .
“Oh yes, yes.” He opened the door. “My wife usually shows it, but she’s out just now.”
Rebecca stepped in and looked up at an old, crystal chandelier. Her eyes shifted to the cobwebs in the corners of the high ceiling. Déjá vu.
The old man turned toward the stairs. “The one for rent’s on the second floor in back.” He cocked this thumb. “Under the steps is the door to the cellar. I point that out because there’s a washer and dryer down there that the tenants can use.”
Rebecca looked at the cellar door, and felt cold breath on her neck. Déjá vu.
He climbed slowly, lifted each foot deliberately. “Two apartments are up here. One takes up the second and third floors in back, and the other takes up both floors in front.”
“Are both for rent?”
“No, no. Our son lives in the one in front. Back’s for rent.”
The old man found a key on a ring attached to his belt.
“This front room here’s got a fireplace,” he said as they walked in. “Works, too.”
The fireplace and the passageways on each side must have matched a pattern buried in her memory. She felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach. This had to be it. This was the apartment where she’d lived!
She told herself to calm down, to put on a composed exterior. “Has your son lived in the other apartment long?” she managed.
“Twenty years—more, except when he was in the service. Can’t rent you that one. Down here’s the kitchen.” He moved through the passageway on the right. “That is, if you’re interested.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m interested.”
He pointed up stairs. “That’s how you get to the bedrooms. There’s two of ’em.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
“Help yourself. I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind. Don’t take stairs if I don’t have to.”
The first was a good size room with a big window. She gave it only a glance and moved to the next.
This room was oddly familiar, but it seemed and felt much smaller than it should. Why? She turned a complete circle. The color . . . gray wasn’t right. She stepped to the bay window and sat on the window seat. Yes. Maybe it only seemed smaller because she was so much bigger now. But this must be it. This was her room!
She looked at the walled garden three floors below. The view matched up with one buried in her mind.
She shivered, stood and rubbed her arms.
The man downstairs was Mr. Pritchard, and there would be a Mrs. Pritchard. The letters from her father to Minnie mentioned them. Her dad had been suspicious of the Pritchards—had felt they may have been involved with Maman’s disappearance.
Maman? The French word for Mommie.
Odd that that name had come to her. Was Maman what she’d called her mother?
Rebecca descended the stairs and found the old man in the kitchen.
“What’d you think?” he asked.
“I like the little bedroom in back.”
“Most use that one as a spare. Other one is bigger.”
“It would make a nice nursery,” she said. “If it were painted another color besides gray.”
“Reckon it has been used that way before. You’ll want your husband to see the apartment, then?”
“Oh, I’m not married. No children, either.”
The old man scratched his head.
A female voice called out, “Harold! Harold! Are you in there?”
“That’ll be my wife,” the old man said. “In here, dear!”
A woman with a smooth, dark complexion and silver hair tied back in a bun came down the steps, an aging beauty with a Mediterranean air—high cheek bones, a straight thin nose, jet black eyes.
“This is Mrs. Pritchard,” the old man said. “Sorry, don’t think I caught your name.”
“Rebecca Fletcher. Happy to meet you, Mrs. Pritchard.”
Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes seemed to contract. Her lips pursed.
“Miss Fletcher’s thinking of renting the apartment.”
Mrs. Pritchard waved away the idea. “I do not think so.”
“Why do you say that, dear? I think she is.”
She flashed him a stern look. “We do not want young people living above us, Harold. You know what can happen. Parties, music.”
Did Mrs. Pritchard have an accent? Italian, perhaps?
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pritchard,” Rebecca said. “I don’t like loud music, either, and I don’t know anyone in Baltimore. So, I can’t invite them to a party.”
“Your roommate will know others.” She shook her head. “No, I will not have it.”
“I’m not going to have a roommate. I don’t want one. I like my peace and quiet much too much.”
Mr. Pritchard nodded and smiled. “Did you hear that, dear?”
Mrs. Pritchard stared at him. “I will not tolerate loud parties.” She walked from the room.
Mr. Pritchard shook his head. “Sometimes I simply don’t understand that woman, even after forty-five years. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have this apartment.”
“Hope I haven’t caused you a problem, Mr. Pritchard.”
He smiled. “She’s like that sometimes, but she always gets over it. Anyway, it is my house.” He looked at her for a moment. “You promise no loud music or parties?”
“I promise.”
“This place has been vacant much too long. You take can have it—if you really do want it. Five hundred bucks a month—includes utilities.”
“You bet I do.”
It wasn’t long before Rebecca had moved in and was busy painting the little bedroom in the back. That hideous gray had to go. Yellow was a better choice.
She surveyed her job on the woodwork. Nothing had been left uncovered. But what about the inside of the cupboard beneath the window seat? No thorough painter would leave it undone. She laid her brush on the paint tray next to the roller, kneeled, and pulled on the knob. The door wouldn’t budge.
She scraped firmly all the way around with a trowel, and tried again. It gave a little this time. She used the trowel again.
It popped loose.
Yellow?
The inside of the cupboard was yellow—almost exactly the same shade. Somehow, she’d knew it should be.
And this? The pudgy, rounded leg of a doll—and a toy block.
Imagine that. A time capsule.
Rebecca tried to visualize the rest of the doll. . . . But no luck.
Too bad. Anyway, it was time for a break.
She went down the stairs, stood in the dingy kitchen, and looked around. More work to do. Getting this place in shape would take a while. It had probably been thirty years since these cabinets saw the wet end of a paint brush.
And there—the basket of clothes waiting to be washed. Why was she putting off that trip to the basement?
Did she think Edgar Allen Poe’s Telltale Heart was buried there?
She moved to the back door and looked out. Man oh man—bright, glorious sunshine. Not a day to be inside, much less in a basement. The trip to the moldy bowels could wait.
She slipped out to the second floor back porch and looked up at the bright blue sky. The sun made her squint. Below, the garden was green and lush.
Mr. Pritchard was there, supine on a chaise lounge.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it, Mr. Pritchard?”
He looked up, waved. “What’ve you been painting?”
Rebecca touched her painter’s cap. “The room in back.” She descended the steps. “I’ve discovered it was the same color once before, and that a little girl used to live there.”
“Really? How’d you figure that?”
“The closet under the window seat was painted shut,” she said. “And a doll’s leg and some blocks were inside.”
Mr. Pritchard’s nose twitched. “Must have been some time ago.” He closed his eyes.
Rebecca strolled along a walkway. She stared at weeds that grew in the cracks between bricks. Careful, Rebecca, she told herself.
“When do you suppose it was?” she said as nonchalantly as she could.
“Wha-what’s that?”
“When do you suppose a little girl lived there?”
Mr. Pritchard’s brow furrowed.
“Can’t remember offhand,” he said slowly. “No, wait. It’d have to be twenty years. Maybe more.”
“Did they live there a long time?”
“Who?” He blinked. “Oh, yes, the child and her family. Lemme see. Don’t think she was even born when they moved in. Lived here till she was three or so, then the mother disappeared. Poor fellow couldn’t believe that she’d walk out on him like that. What was that fellow’s name?” Mr. Pritchard’s eyes snapped opened as though something had occurred to him. He stared straight up at the sky.
“Harold, are you there?” It was Mrs. Pritchard’s voice.
“Here, dear,” he called back.
The first floor back door flew open. “You said you’d fix the faucet.”
Rebecca cleared her throat. “I’ll be leaving now.”
“Oh, it’s you,” Mrs. Pritchard said.
“Excuse me, chores to finish,” Rebecca said. “So terribly good to see you.”
Rebecca hurried up the steps, and didn’t exhale until she had closed the door.
The old woman had probably realized who Rebecca was as soon as she said who she was. That was probably why she’d acted so strangely toward her.
“Recognized your name. You lived here with your mother and father when you were little. And you know what? You used to leave your toys on the steps. That’s when I decided I’d never let you live here again—”
No, that didn’t make sense. What could she possibly have against Rebecca that would have carried over into adulthood?
Maybe Mrs. Pritchard was naturally unpleasant.
In her mind she heard Mr. Pritchard say, “Just like that, sometimes.”
The next day, on Sunday afternoon, Rebecca decided she’d stalled long enough. She took the basket of dirty laundry, opened the apartment door and started down the stairs. She strained to see her feet, placed each one carefully.
Soon, she stood before the cellar door—felt cold breath on the back of her neck, and turned to look. But no one was there.
She moved closer to the door. What could possibly be down there?
Creepie-crawlies? So what? She wasn’t afraid of creepie-crawlies.
She pushed the door open and found the light switch. Damp air and a moldy odor reached her. She felt weak. Her knees threatened to buckle.
She freed one hand from the basket, took the sleeve of a blouse and wiped perspiration from her forehead.
Rebecca drew in a breath; grabbed the basket firmly. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Move.
The bricks . . . something seemed strange. They oozed.
Bricks don’t ooze and there’s no such thing as ghosts.
Why had she thought of ghosts?
One step at a time. Take them one at a time, and soon you’ll reach the bottom.
At last she stepped onto the concrete floor and stood directly beneath a bare, twenty-five watt bulb. A bead of perspiration slid down her cheek. The light from the naked bulb disappeared into darkness. She closed her eyes to force them to adjust. Then she opened them and saw the cellar for the first time in twenty years: A washer, dryer, pipes overhead, a furnace, rafters, wires, crawl space above the bricks. All this formed a pattern that triggered a piercing alarm, as though she’d looked up to see a fire truck coming at her at full throttle, horn blasting. Her pulse took off like a Roman candle, blackness closed in, she dropped the basket, fell back against the wall, and slid to a crouch trembling uncontrollably.
She drew in air, exhaled, and tried to focus on her breathing.
Relax, Rebecca. Relax.
What could possibly be buried in her unconscious mind that caused her to react this way? Did it have to do with her mother? Had they come here to do laundry and something terrible happened?
She struggled to her feet, her knees weak and wobbly.
A creaking noise startled her. The pace of her heartbeat surged.
It’s only a pipe expanding, silly. There’s no such thing as ghosts.
Unless buried memories were ghosts. If so, one must be lurking in the shadows, ready to jump.
After a moment or two, the rapid beating of her heart began to subside. She took a deep breath.
As the seconds ticked by, a kind of heat welled up within Rebecca, as though the hairs on her arms and neck had ignited. She felt them burn; clenched her fists. Whatever was out there wasn’t going to stop her—even if it was a ghost. If such things did exist, the damn thing would simply have to step aside. A memory couldn’t hurt you—not physically, anyway. And what was a ghost but a memory? What she had to do was find Maman and persuade her to sign over Live Oaks in exchange for Rebecca’s inheritance—no matter what it took.
She wanted Live Oaks for herself, for her children, for the sense of permanence and for the pleasure it would bring, and nothing could stop her from having it. Not a ghost, not a demon. Not a memory. Nothing.
Wait a minute, Rebecca. Are you really up to this? Whatever stands in the way is not going to give up easily.
