I opened my mouth, then closed it, hearing Granny’s warning.
The jack of clubs.
“You know more than you’re saying.” I kept my voice steady. “I don’t think my family is safe. Can your marshals offer us protection?”
“I’m sorry. I’m no longer involved.”
“So that’s a no.”
“There’s no reason-”
“For you to be here,” I finished. “Show yourself out, Agent Martinez.”
I sat, spent, in one of the rawhide easy chairs facing the fieldstone fireplace. The living room that once hosted our birthday parties and Christmas mornings felt as if its soul had drained away.
Sadie lit the kerosene lamp on top of the mantel while W.A. got papers together in the other room. Then she poured out three glasses of Merlot from a good bottle someone working in the kitchen tonight had thoughtfully tucked away for us.
My eyes were drawn to the flame.
I saw Tuck’s face.
It was my fault.
I had faked a sore throat to get out of school that day.
Because of my lie, Mama and Granny took me with them to the funeral home before visitation to write down the names on the cards pinned to the floral arrangements. I sat in a corner, cross-legged, forgotten. The casket was closed and would stay that way.
When they slipped out without me, I stood up, running my hand over the shellacked, gleaming maple box. In that instant, I realized Tuck wasn’t dead. That it was all a big mistake.
And I’d prove it.
I pushed up on the top half of the coffin lid as hard as I could. It didn’t budge. Determined, I dug my heels into the carpet and tried again. On the fourth try, I raised the coffin lid for six inches before losing my grip. It slammed shut with a deafening bang that brought Granny and Mama running. Granny said it was a miracle of God that I’d pulled my small fingers out of the way before they were crushed.
What I found inside that casket would layer the fabric of my dreams.
Rivers of white gauze wrapped around and around Tuck’s head like a mummy, smothering him, covering his burns. A baseball in his left hand. His baseball jersey, red and gold. I knew that a black 9 on his back was pressed into the white satin.
Mama and Granny carried me out of the funeral home screaming that he couldn’t breathe.
Tuck couldn’t breathe.
“Tommie.”
Thank God for Sadie’s voice, always bringing me back.
My gaze moved from the lamp to my sister. She gestured to W.A., who was spreading documents on the oak coffee table. I had to return Tuck to his black coffin.
I vaguely wondered if it was true that W.A. shot the rattlesnakes whose skin graced his briefcase, if we’d eaten some of the insides of those nasty reptiles years ago at his legendary rattlesnake fries. It had tasted like tough chicken.
“First, each of you gets a letter from your mother,” he said, sounding officious, unlike himself. “They were sealed when I got them. I suggest you read them in private, when you can take some time.”
He handed each of us a vanilla-colored envelope. Our first and middle names were scrawled across the front. Tommie Anne. Sadie Louisa. An unbroken wax seal on the back. I thought of the pink envelope from Rosalina, the piece of paper that had ignited everything.
“Second, I’d like to do a brief overview of the will. I’ll be direct. You girls get the ranch and every inch of the land, about five thousand acres, most of which includes the oil and gas rights. In addition, there’s about forty million dollars in the investment portfolio.”
He waited a second for this to sink in, but neither Sadie nor I cared much about money, maybe because we always knew it was there. Daddy had been open about our inheritance and how he expected us to handle it. Spend a little, give a lot.
W.A., a man who had defended murderers, drummed his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair.
Here it comes, I thought.
“The money in your parents’ investment portfolio will be divided into thirds,” W.A. said. “One third to Sadie, one third to Tommie. The other third goes into a trust to be divided between two undisclosed heirs.”
“I don’t understand.” Confusion flickered over Sadie’s face. I said nothing.
“I sure as hell don’t, either.” W.A. unwrapped a cigar from his pocket, more relaxed now that he’d delivered the news. “Your Mama and Daddy created an elaborate financial labyrinth with a financial adviser in New York. Didn’t include me.” He snapped open a silver lighter. “I’m not saying it’s a code that can’t be cracked. I just don’t think they wanted you to.” Three perfect smoke circles rose in the air between us, a magic act that used to delight us as kids. “She slipped once, though. Later on, when she wasn’t quite right. Indicated the heirs are children. Under eighteen.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. Just go, I screamed silently.
“I asked her once, if she was so intent on being secret about it, why she just didn’t give the money away privately before her death so you girls wouldn’t have to know,” W.A. continued. “She thought that would be deceptive. She said you girls wouldn’t care about the money.”
I laughed at this, an artificial sound in the room that once echoed with Mama’s music.
You were right about one thing, Mama. It’s not about money.
Hours ago, as they lowered her body into the red sandy earth, I’d been in the process of forgiving her.
That was my mistake.
CHAPTER 29
While W.A. roared his old white Cadillac to life outside, Sadie blew out the kerosene lamp and we headed into the kitchen with the dirty wineglasses. It was better in here. The low light over the sink was on, casting friendly light. The room had been whipped into perfect order, with damp dishtowels hanging neatly on Mama’s wooden towel rack, and foil-wrapped cookies and half-eaten cakes lining the long table.
“Whoa,” Sadie said, peering inside the refrigerator, crammed with Tupperware, Cool Whip fruit salads, and King Ranch casseroles. “Take me home and let’s deal with this tomorrow. Or never.”
Ten minutes later, I dropped Sadie in front of the trailer, armed with a slab of Marjory Adams’s double fudge cake and a generous serving of Waynette Sanders’s homemade macaroni and cheese, very specific requests from a text sent by Maddie.
Hudson appeared under her porch light as I started to pull out, tie loose and hanging around his neck, dress shirt wrinkled and untucked, a relaxed smile on his face. So this is where he’d disappeared to. To keep an eye on Maddie.
I waited with the engine running while he walked over.
“Scoot,” he said, opening my door and throwing his jacket across the bench seat. “I’m driving. I left my truck at the barn.”
I thought about protesting, my conditioned response to Hudson. I thought about asking why his truck was at the barn. Instead, I scooted.
“Are you going to forgive me?” I asked, my eyes straight ahead, following the headlights as they illuminated the deep tire treads in the dirt road.
“Probably,” he said.
I hadn’t really cried all day. Not like this. Embarrassing, hiccupy gasps. Hudson yanked the truck over to the side of the road and held on to me while I let out grief and fear and an unfortunate amount of snot.
“She’s gone, and I don’t even know who I am,” I said, sobbing.
Hudson pulled back, tilting up my chin.
“I know who you are. You’re this scar.” He touched my wrist. “And this one.” He stroked the hair at my temple. “You’re kind. Beautiful. Brave. You save children.”
The hug rolled into something carnal and primitive, nothing but sensation, hands and mouths roving, neither of us able to get enough fast enough.
“Wait,” he said thickly. He pulled off the brake and hit the gas but I couldn’t stop touching him and he couldn’t stop kissing me and it was a bumpy, chaotic ride until he turned off on one of the flattened grass four-wheeler paths to the pond.