Coming Home to You (6 page)

It was one of the few times they’d been alone that afternoon. The children had reached the pond ahead of them and were busy skipping rocks at the far end. Tom had sensed the adults’ need for privacy and had assumed supervision of little Henry.

Bret looked not at the woman, but out over the glassy sun-lit surface of the pond, trying to keep from being distracted by that stretchy red top she had on and the way it showed off her curves.

Funny. Smart. Interesting. Attractive. And the kids had taken to her immediately. If she were anyone but Kathryn Morgan…

“So,” he said casually, “you mentioned last night that you knew my brother. How well?”

“Not well. I spent a few hours with him one weekend at Columbia in 1987.”

“Were you lovers?”

Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t liked the question. “No, we weren’t lovers. What made you think we had a sexual relationship?”

“Because that was the only kind of relationship James had with women.”

“Well, he didn’t with me. Besides, I wasn’t a woman. I was a kid, a teenager with zero experience.”

“How did you meet?”

“A reporter from
The New York Post
was writing an article covering one of his concerts, and apparently James’s manager convinced her to include some of
the fellowship students from the university in the photographs. I was among the five or so they brought in to meet him. James and I talked, swapped family stories, and then we went our separate ways. He was extremely nice to me when he didn’t have to be, and I’ve never forgotten it. Period. End of story. No sex involved.”

“And you said this was at Columbia?”

“I was in graduate school and he was playing a concert in Manhattan that weekend.”

“Graduate school? I thought you said you were still a kid.”

“I was.”

“You must have been a really smart kid.”

She simply shrugged.

“And you never saw James again after that day?”

“Nope.” She turned to him and folded her legs underneath her. “You know, you could have asked me this last night and saved yourself the trouble of bringing me here today.”

“I didn’t bring you here to ask about that.”

“Then why? Last night you were ready to boil me in oil, and then suddenly you’re at my door asking me to go riding. What gives?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m not sure. I told you I knew about Pine Acres, and maybe you were afraid I’d show up here. Or you wanted to find out what I might write about you in the book. Is that it? Those are the only two things that make sense to me. Did you think by bringing me out here I’d present you and the ranch in a more favorable light?”

“You read people pretty well.”

She looked directly at him. “A lot of the time. But you’re harder to read than most.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. But I will. You’re a contradiction, Hayes. You send out so many conflicting signals I’m not sure what to think of you.”

“Conflicting how?”

“Well, for example, you claim not to care what people think of you, yet everywhere you’ve donated money around town, you have plaques acknowledging the contributions. I’m not criticizing your generosity, but that seems a little self-serving to me, and the plaques…well, tacky. You’ve also had your name put on the front wall of this place as the major contributor. For a man who doesn’t encourage visitors and doesn’t seem to want friends, you’re going out of your way to ensure your name will be remembered in this town. Very contradictory.”

“You really think the plaques are tacky?”

“A little.”

“I suppose they are.”

“Am I right about your reasons for asking me here today?”

He nodded. “When you mentioned Pine Acres, it made me uneasy. I decided you might be less likely to hurt my kids if you came out here and got to know them. And, too, by showing you the ranch I hoped to change your opinion of me. I was suddenly reminded of that old saying, ‘Never argue with a man who buys his ink by the barrel.”’

That made her smile. “I’d never burn you in print for being nasty to me. That’s not my style. But I am glad you invited me here. I can’t remember when I’ve
had a more enjoyable afternoon. The ranch is incredible, and so are the kids. I’d like to know more about them, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“Is your interest personal or professional?”

“Both, I guess. I’m interested in the ranch because I think you used some of the money you inherited from James to build it.” She paused, apparently offering him the opportunity to deny or confirm her statement. He did neither. “If it’s true,” she continued, “that
does
make Pine Acres a part of my story.”

“See, that’s what I was afraid of. You’re jumping to conclusions about things you know nothing about. I don’t want you writing something that might make the ranch look bad.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “There’s no reason to be concerned. I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with what you’ve done here, including me, and the only reason I asked about the kids is because I’m interested as a person, not as a writer. Will you tell me about them?”

He hesitated.

“I swear I’m only asking because I like them.”

“All right, but you can’t use anything I say about any individual child. I can’t stop you from mentioning the ranch in your book, but I don’t want the kids hurt by the public knowing the intimate details of their lives.”

“You have my word. I won’t include them.”

He took off his cap and played with it as he talked, telling her first about some of the children she’d met but who hadn’t come to the pond with them.

“Now tell me about Tom,” she prodded.

“Tom’s had it hard. His parents and two sisters
died a few years ago from carbon-monoxide poisoning caused by a faulty heater. He was spending the night at a friend’s house and came home to find the bodies. He lived in six foster homes before he came to the ranch last spring.”

“Why has he lived in so many places? He’s so polite and sweet. I can’t understand why a family wouldn’t want him.”

“Because he’s a teenager. They’re more trouble, and they cost more money to care for. Some people don’t want to deal with that extra expense.”

“Are they all orphans like him?”

“No, the majority have at least one living parent, but due to neglect, abuse or some other reason, the kids have been removed from the home. Some have emotional problems brought on by what’s happened to them, and finding adoptive families is next to impossible.”

“Those scars on Shondra’s arm. How did she get them?”

“Her mother’s an addict. When she got high she used Shondra as an ashtray.”

“Dear God.”

“Keith and Adam, the twins with all the freckles, their father’s in prison.”

“What for?”

“Blowing their mother’s head off in front of them.”

He winced when he saw what his words did to her. He’d deliberately been crude to shock her and gauge her reaction. But seeing her distressed look, he felt ashamed of himself.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked quietly.

She was silent for a long time. She looked at the water, the pier, everywhere but at him. Finally she spoke. “Yes, I want to know. I want to understand how these children came to be here.”

He debated whether he should go on. He knew the horror stories, the kids used as punching bags or pawns in dirty divorces, the ones treated worse than animals or as property. But for someone who wasn’t familiar with the realities of child abuse and neglect, hearing what little value some parents place on the lives of their children could be unsettling.

“Please,” she urged.

“Melissa’s mother was only fourteen when she gave her up. LaKeisha’s mother was also a teenager. She already had two other illegitimate children by two different men, so she wasn’t able to take care of her.”

“And the shy boy with the drawings of sports heroes in his room?”

“That’s Kevin. He was abandoned in a bus station. We still don’t know the extent of the trauma he’s been through because he won’t talk about it. He was sexually abused and was probably forced by his father to act as a prostitute.”

“But he’s a baby! How could a parent do that to a child?”

“We’ve seen them as young as nine and ten selling themselves to finance their parents’ drug habits.”

“How is that possible?”

“I know it’s hard to believe. I had trouble believing it myself, but it happens, and more often than you’d imagine.”

“And Henry? What’s his story?”

He shifted on the pier, making the old boards creak. This story he wasn’t sure he could share without breaking down.

“Henry’s mother…” He stopped and swallowed as the bile rose in his throat. “Henry’s mother had a new boyfriend, and having the kids cramped her style. She was also heavily in debt. So she talked the boyfriend into helping her set fire to the house, a little two-for-one special. Her idea was to collect the insurance money and get rid of the kids at the same time. They tried to make the fire look like an accident, set by the kids playing with matches. As best we can figure, she told four-year-old Sarah that some bad men wanted to hurt them and she should take Henry and hide in the closet and not come out until she came for them. Because she trusted her mother, Sarah did it. Then they set fire to the adjoining bedroom.”

“What happened to Sarah?”

“She died a few hours after the fire of smoke inhalation and burns. Henry spent nearly two months in the hospital recovering from pneumonia and the damage the smoke did to his lungs, but thankfully, he wasn’t badly burned. Sarah had shielded him from the fire with her own body.”

“What happened to his mother and her boyfriend?”

“He made a deal with the district attorney to testify against her and got fifteen years. She pleaded not guilty, and her trial comes up in a couple of months. It’s a capital-murder case, so she’s still in jail, but that hasn’t stopped her from using Henry to get sympathy from the court. She won’t sign over custody of
him because it would hurt her case, and the state won’t sever her parental rights because, until she’s convicted, she’s considered innocent.”

“So Henry’s in legal limbo because the state can’t place him until there’s a disposition of the case?”

“Yes,” Bret said, slipping his cap back on. “It stinks because her rights are being placed above Henry’s.”

“And Henry’s father? Where is he?”

“He was a one-night stand she picked up in a bar. I doubt she even knows the guy’s name.”

The laughter of the children drifted toward them on the gentle breeze. He smiled as he watched Henry toddling after the older kids in their game of tag.

“Will you adopt him when he becomes available?” she asked.

“I can’t.”

“But single men can adopt. These days it’s done all the time.”

“I know, but it’s not an option for me.” He stood abruptly, wishing he’d never allowed her to pursue this. He walked toward the tree where they’d tied the horses. She ran to catch up with him.

“Hey, wait! I don’t understand. Why isn’t it an option for you? Anyone with eyes can see you love that little boy and he loves you. He hangs on every word you say.”

“I can’t adopt him. Drop the subject.” They had reached the horses and he snatched down the reins, which had been looped over a branch. He put his foot in the stirrup and started to mount, but she touched his arm.

“But if you love—”

He whirled and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I said I can’t,” he yelled, making both her and the horse jump. “Why won’t you listen to me, Morgan? I can’t adopt him. I can never adopt him. I’m no better than his mother.”

“Why do you say that?”

His face contorted with the pain he felt in his heart. “Because,” he said in anguish, “I killed my own brother.”

H
E’D NEVER MEANT
to tell her. For six years he’d lived with the guilt of having sent his brother to a fiery death, and not once had he shared his pain with anyone outside the family. But she’d pushed until the pain had boiled over. She’d dug until the wound that had festered for years broke open.

Adopt Henry? Dear God, he prayed every day for it. He’d take him in a minute. And Tom. And Melissa. And LaKeisha. And as many others as he could make room for. If it was only possible.

But it wasn’t. And it never would be. He’d resigned himself to that a long time ago.

He leaned one hand against the tree with his back to the woman and his head down, trying to bring his raw emotions under control. He knew he’d frightened her. He’d seen her fear. Then shock had replaced it. And finally repulsion.

She’d been so repulsed after he’d blurted his admission that she’d stepped back, not wanting to be touched by him.

“Hayes…” Her soft whisper jarred him. Her hand began to rub his back with the same comforting motion a mother might use to console a crying child. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” he said, clearing his throat. His voice was shaky. “Give me a minute.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

He shook his head. He found her presence and her touch oddly soothing.

She stood quietly while her hand continued its slow journey across the center of his back. It slid upward to stroke his shoulders and the nape of his neck, to brush lightly through his hair. So many years had passed since anyone had touched him this way that even after he’d calmed himself, he didn’t move. He closed his eyes. He relaxed his body. He concentrated only on her hand and the pleasure it gave.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered several minutes later, and his eyes blinked open. “I should never have kept after you about Henry. What you do about him is your business, and I had no right to say anything.”

With regret he straightened and her hand fell away. But he didn’t turn. He couldn’t look at her. Not yet. Not when he’d made such a fool of himself.

He swiped his free hand across one eye and then the other. “The kids?” he asked, afraid he’d really screwed up. “Did they hear me?”

“No. I don’t think so. They’re playing some kind of game. They don’t appear to be paying us any attention.”

His shoulders sagged in relief. If they’d heard, if they’d understood what kind of man he was, he couldn’t survive it. He’d lost so much. To lose the love of the children would leave him nothing.

“Hayes…Bret, please look at me,” she begged softly. “I can’t talk to you like this.” When he didn’t move, she took him gently by the arm and forced him
to turn around. He saw her tearstained face and realized, she, too, had wept, but silently so as not to intrude on his grief. “How can you imagine yourself responsible for James’s death?”

He lowered his gaze to the ground. She expected an explanation, and damned if he knew how he was going to give it.

A part of him longed to tell her everything, to confess the terrible wrong he’d committed against his brother and to finally face the consequences for what he’d done after his death. But his family…he had to think of them. Did he have the right to jeopardize their happiness just because happiness had eluded him?

“I…” He shook his head and expelled a breath, angry that he’d placed himself in such an awkward predicament. When he looked back up, she gave him a smile that said she understood his unwillingness to talk.

She reached over and took his hand, squeezing it lightly. “I know I’m the last person on earth you’d listen to, but I probably know as much—or more—about your brother as anyone. So will you listen to me for a minute, please?”

He nodded.

“You are
not
responsible for James’s death. The crash that killed James and the band was an accident, the result of a thunderstorm. I saw the report from the Federal Aviation Administration. I interviewed the investigators and dozens of people who were at the airport that night, and the evidence was conclusive.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know what you think you did
or should have done, but it’s obvious to me that you’re still hurting very deeply.” She let go of his hand. “I can’t say I understand why you didn’t go to his funeral, but I believe you loved your brother. I can’t imagine you hurting him intentionally.”

Her expression held such compassion that it made him ache. How could this woman express such unwavering faith in him when he had so little in himself?

“I want to tell you what happened the night James died….”

Her lips parted in surprise. “I don’t have to know this,” she whispered, offering him the chance to change his mind.

“No, but I have to tell it.”

“I
WAS THERE
that night.”

His revelation sent Kate’s heart fluttering. “I don’t understand what you mean when you say you were ‘there.’ Were you at the airport?”

“No, at the concert. And later I was at the hotel.”

Kate thought back to her interview the day before with the local librarian. “Miss Emma,” as she’d instructed Kate to call her, said Bret had been at the library returning books when they heard the news about his brother’s death, more than sixteen hours after it happened.

Kate quickly calculated the distance from Bret’s farm to Rome, Georgia—not more than four or five hours by car. Okay, that was feasible. He could’ve easily driven over that Friday night for the concert, talked to James, then driven home, unaware until he
and Miss Emma heard it Saturday afternoon that the plane had gone down.

But why hadn’t his family notified him of James’s death Friday night, instead of letting him find out secondhand a day later? That didn’t make sense.

“If you did go to that concert, you were one of the last people to talk to James,” she said more to herself than to him.

“If you want to call screaming at each other talking, then I guess so. I told him he was killing himself with the crap he was putting into his body, but as usual he wouldn’t listen to me. So I came home.”

“By ‘crap’ you mean drugs?”

“Yes.”

Kate briefly closed her eyes to regather her strength. So it was true. James had been using drugs. She’d refused to believe it even after the autopsy turned up diethyltryptamine, a synthetic hallucinogen. She’d held on to the slender possibility that somehow James had ingested the DET by accident.

“Did you know before that night that he was using drugs?”

“I suspected it for a long time because of the way he acted. One minute he was depressed and angry with the whole world, and the next he acted like nothing bothered him. I confronted him a couple of times and he swore he was clean.”

“Like he swore to his fans and the media.”

“I’d never seen any evidence, no needles or pills. I had to try to believe him, although I think a part of me knew he was lying.”

“How did he ingest it?”

“On blotting paper. He had several squares of it. I walked in on him putting one in his mouth.”

“What did you do?”

His eyes watered and he looked away. Kate understood his pain. She had six brothers and thought them all perfect. To catch one using drugs would shatter her. To discover a brother on drugs and then to lose him in the tragic way Bret Hayes had lost his…that, was inconceivable.

“You don’t have to tell me the rest of it,” she said.

“I want to tell you, but I need time to ease into it. Do you mind walking for a while?”

“No, not at all.”

He called to Tom, telling him they’d be back in a little while and to watch the children. Tom waved that he understood.

“I still own the land adjacent to the ranch,” he said. “Through these woods is a place that’s very special to me. I’d like to share it with you if you’re interested.”

The offer touched her. “I’d like that very much.”

T
HE OLD HOMESTEAD
was beyond a locked gate and cleverly hidden on all sides by thickly planted pines. A crumbling rock chimney stood in a sea of yellow field grass and wildflowers of every conceivable hue. The house once attached to the chimney had long ago given in to the assault of time; it rested among the flowers, now just bits of decaying wood and tin rusted to a color an artist would have difficulty re-creating.

Kate marveled at the contrast, the weathered gray of the wood, the tan of the rocks among the red, yellow and green of the vegetation.

“This is lovely.”

“I think so.” Hayes stood on a low rock wall that ran for thirty feet along one side of the ruins. He offered her a hand and pulled her up beside him. “Originally there was a two-room log house chinked with grass and mud, but over time, as the family grew, they replaced it with a larger house that had a tin roof and clapboard sides. Come on and I’ll introduce you to them.”

Kate followed him into the tall grass. The air held a pungent but pleasant odor. “That’s rosemary I smell. Where’s it coming from?”

“All over. The lady who lived here believed some superstition about growing it near the house.”

“The woman rules where rosemary flourishes.”

“That’s it. She made her husband plant tons of the stuff.”

“Hedging her bets,” Kate said. “I like this woman.”

The graves were beyond the field in the quiet cool of the trees. Joshua and Elizabeth Satterfield rested under a common headstone dark with age and covered with lichen. Kate knelt and brushed away the dirt that partly obscured the inscription. Using her fingers to feel the words, she was able to read it.

Death is only a shadow across the path to heaven
.

“How beautiful.”

“Joshua died during the Civil War,” Bret said. He gestured to the graves on the left. “These three children were stillborn and never named. The two over here were boys—five and seven. They died when the barn caught fire and they were trapped inside.”

“And this one?” she asked, pointing to the grave
of the couple’s infant daughter, Nancy Mary. The crude gravestone said she’d been born in January 1861 and had died in April that same year. “She was only three months old.”

“She died of pneumonia.”

“So many children lost.” She stood and wiped the dirt off her hand onto the seat of her shorts. “How do you know about the family?”

“Elizabeth’s granddaughter told me. When she was a child, she and the other grandchildren would sit on the front porch at Elizabeth’s feet, listening to her talk about how the family had lived through the war.”

“Is this granddaughter still living?”

“No, she died several years ago.” He smiled with remembrance. “She was really something special. Feisty. Funny. You never knew what she was going to say next, and you didn’t dare argue with her because she always won.”

“You sound as if you cared about her.”

“Yes, very much. She was an important part of my life. Her name was Margaret, but everybody, even her children, called her—”

“Granny Mag,” Kate finished for him, suddenly realizing the significance of his story and this place. “Margaret Taylor Bridges. Your maternal grandmother.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Obviously not well enough. I didn’t trace your family history on your mother’s side beyond your grandparents.” She looked at the graves with renewed interest. “These people—Joshua and Elizabeth Satterfield—were your great-great-grandparents, weren’t they?”

“Yes. The farm passed out of the family and became pastureland after Elizabeth died in 1915. I bought it back a few years ago. Most of it ended up as Pine Acres, but I kept fifty acres, intending to build a house for myself. I’d grown up hearing wonderful stories about the place from Granny Mag, and I got this crazy idea that I should settle on the same spot where Joshua and Elizabeth’s house had been and live a simple life like them.”

“A return to your roots?”

“Something like that.”

So that was why he was living here, in Alabama. “Why didn’t you build a house here?”

The shadow of regret for desires unfulfilled passed slowly across his face. She recognized it, having seen it in her mirror.

“Dreams die, I guess,” he said softly. “People die. And what seems simple never really is.”

His terse sentences said what poets have attempted to describe for hundreds of years—the ironies of life—but Kate heard no poetry in his words, only sorrow for the loss of a dream and the loss of a brother, who’d died much too soon.

Unintentionally, Bret Hayes had also described himself—a man whose simple facade hid a soul of great complexity. In this respect, at least, the brothers were very much alike.

Kate was beginning to understand him. And yet today he’d repeatedly surprised her. In bringing her here, in showing her this private place that meant so much to him, he’d given her an unexpected gift. The idea overwhelmed and confused her.

Crouching at the foot of one of the graves, he
picked up a clump of dry pine needles and nervously twisted it with one hand. He didn’t look at her, never looked at her when the conversation grew serious. His face betrayed him when he tried to hide his feelings. She knew that embarrassed him, and so he glanced away or lowered his head, even turned his back to her so she couldn’t look into his eyes.

“Thank you for sharing this place with me,” she told him.

“You understand you can’t write about it, don’t you?” he asked, seemingly mesmerized by the circular movement of the brown needles. “If fans knew James’s ancestors were buried here, they might desecrate the graves in search of souvenirs, like they did at the family plot in Chattanooga.”

“I understand. I was furious when I saw the damage they did to the headstones, and so thankful when your family built the mausoleum and moved the graves. It’s a beautiful resting place for James, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

Kate’s intuition kicked in. “You have seen it, haven’t you?”

“Sure.” His tone was convincing, but something about his answer made her doubt the credibility of it. If she could catch a glimpse of his face…

She dropped down in front of him and took the pine needles away. She held his hands within her own. Earlier she’d watched him lift a heavy saddle with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. Moments later that same hand had lightly, lovingly, rubbed across the head of a child. The hands were like the
man, she decided. They possessed both strength and gentleness.