Carolina Girl (18 page)

The bottle cap in her drawer sang its siren song, and Rory
fought a wave of guilt. If uncertainty was tearing Cissy apart, didn’t
she owe her sister a little bit of hope? Or would she only shatter her if the
cap wasn’t real?

“Do you hate staying here?” Rory asked,
searching for clarification, terrified of revealing her secret dreams too soon.
“If you had enough money to pay the bills, would you still want to
sell?”

Cissy partially parted her hands where she’d buried
her face. “I won’t let you spend all your money on us. It’s
bad enough you’re trying to sell your car.”

Rory brushed that off with a careless gesture. “Forget
me for a minute. Imagine you’d won a million dollars. What would you do?
Sell out and move to Florida?”

Cissy rubbed her reddened eyes and leaned back in the chair.
“You sound like Dad. He’s always telling us what he’d do if
he won the lottery. Daydreaming won’t wish away the bill collectors.”

“Ciss, this is
important
. I know Mandy’s
education would be first on your list, but after that? Do you hate living
here?”

Cissy closed her eyes. “No. This is home. My friends
are here. Dad is here. This land was Mama’s and Grandmama’s and I
like having those roots. I like my garden, and the peach tree where we buried
Old Bones. I like working with Grandma Iris. If I had a choice, I’d never
leave. I’m not like you, Rora. I’m not curious about the world
outside. I just want to feel
safe.
”

Tears prickled behind Rory’s eyelids. Cissy had lived
in fear and uncertainty most of her life. That her sister’s only dream
was for safety struck Rory as heartbreaking. At least it was a dream she had
some chance of fulfilling—if some developer didn’t ruin it by sinking
the island with condos and parking lots. If the bottle cap prize was real.

“I think we can have that, Ciss,” she murmured,
afraid to say it too loudly, afraid even a whisper of hope would attract the
demons of misfortune. Living hand-to-mouth taught that kind of pessimism. Hope
was a foreign creature to be wary of, but as the younger, more sheltered
sister, she had more courage than Cissy. She hated taking risks, but she had to
be the one to dream.

Cissy didn’t even lift her head. “I have to have
a job. I don’t see it happening, Rora.”

“Don’t tell Pops, but I think we may have won a
million dollars.” Rory stated it as matter-of-factly as she could,
keeping her voice low in case Mandy was still awake.

Cissy didn’t move for about a minute. When she did, it
was to eye Rory with suspicion. “Did your plate come up a few noodles
short? Or have you listened to Dad once too often?”

Rather than argue, Rory crossed the room to her bedroom. She
had a hard time believing it herself. She was itching for someone else to
confirm that her plate wasn’t short any noodles. Jittery with nerves, she
returned with the precious bottle cap cradled in her palm and the bottle label
with the prize instructions. “Look at this. You tell me.”

In disbelief, Cissy glanced from her to the cap. Then
picking it up, she squinted at the writing on the inside. Still not believing,
she got up and held the cap and the label under a reading lamp. Her hand was
shaking as she closed her fingers tightly around the bit of plastic.

“Is this for real? Somebody didn’t just
manufacture this as a joke?”

Rory shook her head. “All I know is that it came off a
bottle with that label on it this morning. I called that number, and they said
I’ve won. I have an appointment to see a lawyer, verify its validity, and
set up a trust. I didn’t want to raise hopes until I knew for
certain.”

Cissy looked as if she wouldn’t ever open her fist
again. She held it against her chest, absorbing the impact. “I think I
want to scream. Would it be more real if we jumped up and down and
shrieked?”

Rory allowed a tiny bubble of joy to rise to the top.
She’d been bottling up her hopes beneath a cork of disbelief all day. She
was about to explode from the pressure. “We’d wake up Mandy,”
she warned with a grin. More little bubbles rose and fizzed like effervescent
champagne. “We could go outside and do a happy dance—just in case
it’s really real.”

Her family had lived so long on the edge, it was difficult
to comprehend that solid ground might be in sight. But now that she’d
shared the hope, Rory was ready to burst with it. Just seeing the light in her
sister’s eyes after they had been dead for so long erased her fears. The
prize had to be real. God couldn’t be so cruel as to disappoint Cissy
again.

Shakily, Cissy held out her fist. “Take it. Hide it
again. I’m terrified I’ll lose it or someone will run in the front
door and mug us for it. I’m not going to believe it until I see the
money.”

“Show me the money!” Rory crowed on her way back
to the bedroom.

“Happy dance,” Cissy cried, limping toward the
door, cane in hand. “For once in my life, I want to know what it feels
like to shriek in joy and howl at the moon!”

With the cap back where it belonged, Rory flew out the door
after her. In the shadows of the moss-draped oaks, amid the frozen grinning
statutes, they screamed their jubilation to the winds, danced and hugged,
hooted and laughed until they fell into the thick grass, howling at their
insanity.

An owl flew off in noisy outrage at the disturbance.
Fireflies skimmed the grass around them. And a particularly jolly old elf
beamed down at them in delight.

“A million dollars,” Cissy whispered to the
moon. “Mandy can go to college.”

“Pops can have insurance.”

“We can buy a new truck, cherry red with an extended
cab!”

“You can finally have that fire hazard of a toolshed
taken out.”

“Can we build a garage in its place?” As the
dreams stacked dangerously one on top of the other, Cissy backed off.
“And what about you? It’s your money. You found it.”

“Pops bought the soft drinks. I drank it. The house
belongs to both of us. It’s all one. I just don’t want anyone to
know until we’re
certain
.” Rory stared up at the moon
thinking they should have real champagne so they could be too high to come down
to reality so quickly. Still, bliss filled her soul.

“Shouldn’t we lock it up somewhere safe?”

“I called. The bank’s safety-deposit boxes are
full. I have an appointment with the attorney on Monday. He can put it in his
vault until we check it out. It’s going to be fine this time, Ciss. I
know it is.”

“I’ll believe it when I see a cherry-red
extended cab sitting in that driveway,” Cissy said in decisive tones.

“I can trade in the Beamer for that,” Rory said
with a magnanimous gesture of her hand. “I’m not sure I’ll
believe it until I see Mandy wearing graduation robes from Duke.”

“That’s going to happen if I have to sell a
kidney to do it. I think just seeing the bill basket empty would be
enough.”

“Make a list and attach all the bills to it. Maybe the
lawyer can figure how to deduct medical bills against the taxes.”

“This is just a little bit scary, isn’t
it?” Cissy whispered.

“A whole lot scary, but happy scary. Start imagining
your new future, Ciss. I say we go to Charleston and celebrate with new
shoes.”

“Dancing shoes,” Cissy agreed with glee.
“I want to dance around the fire while we burn those bills.”

“You got it.”

Rory thought she’d spend her share on running shoes so
she could run as fast and hard as she could from this narrow world where
happiness meant having no bills to pay.

And faster still from a man who could break her heart and
dash her dreams with one careless wave of farewell.

“I’m not going anywhere near the
courthouse,” Cissy protested the evening of the zoning meeting.
“I’ll stay here with Mandy and Dad, or you can drop me off at
Iris’s. She has basket weaving classes tonight. You can tell me all about
it when you come home.”

Rory knew her sister was nervous. Even a million dollars
couldn’t save the swamp and their neighbors if the commission decided in
favor of development. But she’d hoped Cissy would act as a barrier
between her and Clay.

The messages from “Purple Knight” nagged at the
back of her mind as Clay ambled about the living room, picking things up and
putting them down. Remembering Clay’s love of classic rock, she’d
responded to the
starry, starry night
e-mail with
I can’t get
no satisfaction
in hopes of uncovering his identity. Purple Knight promptly
replied with
Only the good die young.

She knew enough about golden oldies to identify Billy Joel.
Clay was the only man she knew who could quote rock songs for the purpose of
seduction and get away with it. That he used computers for communication
didn’t bother her. That his idiosyncratic messages woke all her feminine
instincts scared her to death. She didn’t know enough about him to get
involved. She had a family to take care of. A career to return to. She
didn’t have time for love. Or the courage to risk it.

Watching Clay study the brass clock from the knickknack
shelf as if it might reveal the secrets of time, she tried to believe this
enigmatic man couldn’t be the one talking about starry nights and
planets, but she knew better. Aside from the distinctive rock theme, who else
had the opportunity to filch her screen name? The man was just plain dangerous,
in more ways than one.

He’d verified that Iris’s brother had signed a
sales agreement on his share of the swamp. Everything rode on tonight’s
zoning meeting.

“There’s room for both of you in the
truck,” Clay offered, returning the clock to the shelf after resetting
it. Although he’d behaved as if he hadn’t heard a word of the
family argument, he solved it in one fell swoop. “Jared and Cleo took the
kids in the Jeep.”

“I can take Cissy to Iris’s and meet you in
town,” Rory said, hoping to wriggle out of spending time with Clay in the
intimacy of the truck. Just standing in the same room with him had her nerve
ends tingling, anticipating his touch or his kiss. After his promise of
celebration a couple of days ago, her imagination kept veering down paths best
left untaken.

It had been years since she’d necked with a guy in a
pickup cab, but contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t dead from the neck
down.

She’d never necked with a guy who looked like Clay did
tonight. He’d actually had his hair barbered so he came across as more
respectable—and striking—than Jeff Spencer in his banker suit.
Instead of a T-shirt and sandals, Clay had dug out a suspiciously
Hollywood-looking collarless shirt and sport coat to wear with a pair of
tailored khakis. “Funky business” might describe the style.

“Leave Cissy your car keys,” he answered,
rattling his own impatiently.

When Cissy’s eyes lit with disbelief, Rory felt as if
she’d been kicked in the stomach. It had never once occurred to her that
her sister might like the freedom of her own wheels. How selfish could she get?

She’d been away from home too long, and controlling
things had become a way of life she didn’t like to recognize in herself.
Digging the keys out of her purse, she offered them to her sister. “Keep
’em away from Pops,” she said, grinning at Cissy’s
astonishment.

“Me? You want
me
to drive that expensive
machine? Down Iris’s dirt road?”

“Might as well get a little fun out of it before we
sell it.” Dropping the keys in Cissy’s hand and ignoring
Clay’s invitation to take his, Rory stalked past him to open the front
door.

Clay turned and offered his arm to Cissy instead, who
accepted it without question. “At least one sister has a little
sense,” he commented.

“Rory doesn’t trust men,” Cissy confided
as they stepped outside. “Back in high school she and Jeff Spencer used
to date, until she decided to run for student council, and he ran against her.
He won, of course. He could afford posters and beach parties. It’s been
downhill ever since.”

“Thanks for sharing that, Ciss,” Rory grumbled.

“Spencer?” Clay asked. “The suit you were
arguing with in town?”

“We were both on the debate team. Maybe I should just
take the Beamer in and leave the two of you to catch up on a lot of fun
stories.”

“No way, José,” Cissy said, rattling the Beamer
keys. “I’m not letting go of these babies. Besides, it’s
probably safer if you don’t go into town alone if you’re planning
on upsetting whoever’s surveying out here.”

The last thing Rory was afraid of was physical violence, but
Clay’s accompaniment would make it look as if she weren’t fighting
this battle alone. Nervously she watched as Clay helped Cissy into the
convertible’s front seat.

“How much do you want to bet old Jeff has a stake in
developing the Bingham property?” Clay asked as Cissy looked over the
car’s gauges.

“That’s not even worth gambling on,” Rory
scoffed. “It’s his bank that owns Commercial Realty. It’s the
biggest bank in town. They’d score huge in mortgages alone. And
he’s really not wrong. We
need
business out here. Farming
isn’t profitable on acreages this small.”

“Argue this after I’m outta here,” Cissy
protested. “Debate isn’t my gig. I just want everyone to get
along.”

“I’ll find a catalog of happy dust just for
you.” Watching Cissy check the dials and the equipment, Rory lingered
beside her convertible.

“I think happy dust is illegal in most states,”
Clay declared, catching her elbow and dragging her away. “Although
I’m inclined to think that if we liquefied pot and poured it into a few
corporate water coolers, the world would be a safer place.”

“California dreaming,” Rory muttered, but the
image of bankers and CEOs skipping down the street arm in arm tickled her funny
bone. She bit her lip to hide it.

“I’m supposed to be the cynic here,” Clay
protested. “You’re supposed to say that’s a jolly good idea
and go looking for an organization to promote it.”