Old Wounds (34 page)

29.

A V
OICE FROM THE
P
AST

Sunday, October 23

“What do you
think, Jared? Would your father be okay with our looking around the house at Mullmore? I’d really like to find Maythorn’s spy notebooks. Do you think he’d let us have a key?”

Jared took a sip of his espresso before replying. They had spent several hours at the Pack Library, scanning the microfilmed pages of the
Asheville Citizen-Times
for November and December of 1986. At last, frustrated by the paucity of information, Rosemary had called a halt and the two had moved on to the coffee shop at a nearby bookstore.

Now Rosemary watched him, supremely aware of his nearness across the tiny table. In these surroundings, peopled mainly by the younger, more raffish of Asheville’s denizens, with a sprinkling of aging hippies, Jared’s impeccable and conservative clothing, as well as his sleek good looks, set him apart.

He smiled at her, perfect white teeth against the smooth tan of his face, gray-blue eyes regarding her with something like amusement, and suddenly she felt like the awkward little girl she had once been, seeing her friend’s brother as a being from another plane: untouchable, unknowable, unattainable—yet eagerly vying for his attention.

“Would the notebooks still be there? The movers packed up most of the furniture and things—and even if you did find them, do you really think there’d be anything useful?”

“I’m sure she hid them well—not in her dresser drawers or under her bed or anything easy.” Rosemary leaned toward Jared. “I think she said something about the basement—that they’d be safe there because we were the only ones who spent time down there. And yes, I think they could be important—Jared, what if she saw something she shouldn’t have and that was the reason—”

He put his hand over hers but didn’t answer for a moment. At last he nodded. “You could be on to something; it’s certainly a possibility, anyway. God knows, everyone has secrets, including me. If we find those notebooks, I fully expect to see myself revealed as a drug fiend.” The blue gaze held her. “I have to plead guilty to buying the occasional baggie of home-grown marijuana from our redneck neighbors on the backside of the mountain. And I know that Maythorn knew. But so did Moon and Patricia—I took care to let them see how very bad I could be.”

He winked at her and murmured, “Promise you won’t turn me in, Rosie, and we’ll go talk to Moon about the key to Mullmore right now.”

“Jared and I went to see his father, and Mr. Mullins said he would meet us at Mullmore on Friday and let us in so Jared and I can look for Maythorn’s notebooks.”

Elizabeth and Phillip, decorously reading in the living room, looked up to see a flushed and exuberant Rosemary standing in the doorway, a paper bag in one hand.

“Mum, we went to that mission place you told me about. It was just like you said, all those people in the front yard and everything. And Mr. Mullins was really nice—almost as if he’d been expecting us. When I explained what I wanted to do, he just nodded and said that he thought it was a good idea and that I should let the Higher Power guide me. He said that he’d been avoiding Mullmore all these years, but that perhaps it was time for him to go back and face the past.”

She waved the bag at them as she approached. “I picked up some bagels for breakfast, and some lox and cream cheese spread. Oh, and Mum—Mr. Mullins wanted you to call him. I’ve got a card with his number on it right here.”

Rosemary thrust the little rectangle at Elizabeth, then disappeared into the kitchen. They could hear her humming as she opened and closed the refrigerator. Elizabeth looked at Phillip.

“Well,” she said, reaching for the telephone, “I guess I’ll see what he wants.”

Her one-time neighbor picked up on the first ring. “Redemption House. This is Moon. How can I help?”

“Moon, this is Elizabeth Good—”

“Elizabeth! Thank you for calling. I have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“Moon? Who—”

There was a rustle of sound as the phone changed hands. Then a second voice murmured in her ear. “Elizabeth? This is Mike. I’m back.”

How can the sound of a voice do that to me? Almost twenty years since I’ve spoken to him and I can still see him, the way he looked when I told him I’d made a mistake, that I couldn’t hurt Sam. The way he just stared at me with that uncanny stillness. And then he said—what was it—No, I think you’re making a mistake
now.
And he walked away and my heart nearly broke at the sight of his back, the way he held his shoulders as if supporting some invisible weight.

Elizabeth had sought the refuge of her bathroom, too unnerved by the call to explain to Phillip the significance of this unexpected voice from the past. Phillip, aware of her penchant for long, soaking, tub baths, had not seemed to notice her agitation, but had continued on with his preparations for tomorrow’s class. Mercifully, Rosemary, too, had not asked about the call. Instead, she’d said good night, lost in her own thoughts, and explained that she would be leaving early in the morning to return yet again to Chapel Hill.

As she lay back in the tub, Elizabeth’s mind was busy. Old dreams, long forgotten, and once well-buried regrets seemed to rise with the steam from the surface of the lavender-scented water.

It all came down to the simple fact that I was convinced Sam no longer loved me…and that Mike did. I felt like Sam was ignoring me and I was hungry for love. And so…

And so she had come close to tearing apart the life they had begun to build at Full Circle Farm.

Thank god for that blessed bell…

April 1985: their first spring on the farm. Sam, plagued by the nightmares of the past and the almost overwhelming job of learning to run a farm, had been unusually short-tempered as he struggled with the plowing and the planting. To his credit, she thought, he had always managed to remain easygoing and loving around the girls.
Thank goodness for that. But on that one day, when so many things seemed to be going wrong and all I wanted was for him to put his arms around me like he used to do…to tell me it would be okay…

Tears were running down her face, already damp from the steam of the bath.
Instead, he was so cold, so hateful, that I felt like he was some stranger inhabiting Sam’s body. And then he walked out of the house, saying he didn’t know when—or if—he’d be back.

She had watched the truck out of sight, then, when Laurel had asked where Pa was going, had concocted a quick story. She had gone through the rest of the day with mechanical cheerfulness when Laurel was around, but with a foreboding that knotted her stomach.

As soon as Rosie gets home from school, I’ll go for a walk in the woods. If I can just get off by myself for a little while, I can figure out what to do.

Finally Rosemary had appeared, trudging slowly up the road, an open book held before her. As soon as she reached the house, Elizabeth had charged her with watching Laurie, “Just for a half an hour,” had put on her old straw hat, and headed for the woods.

Thick-growing wild iris made a pool of lavender-blue on the slope at the edge of the wood and she sat down on a fallen tree, hoping that the flowers’ cool beauty would calm her and soothe the pain she felt. She was staring unseeing at the flowers, numb and unable to think, when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

His hair was silver-gilt in the afternoon sun and his eyes mirrored the iris. He knelt beside her and brushed his fingers against her cheek.

“Rosie called Maythorn to say she had to stay home with Laurie.” His breath was sweet and clove-scented. “I wondered if I might find you here again.”

I forgot about the time; I forgot about the girls; I forgot about all the promises I’d made—for better or worse. He made me feel…treasured.

And then, like a savage intruder into a peaceful dream, had come the frantic clanging of the farmhouse bell on the front porch, the bell that was reserved for emergencies. She had been on her feet and racing toward the house almost at once, without a backward glance.

On the porch, a white-faced Rosemary ran to her, clutching at her hand and dragging her toward the door as she stammered out an explanation. Laurel, climbing the steep steps up to Rosemary’s bedroom, had slipped and tumbled down the stairs. “She won’t wake up, Mum! She’s breathing but she won’t wake up!”

Horror-struck, Elizabeth had burst into the house to find her younger daughter sprawled at the foot of the stairs. Far down the hill the welcome sound of Sam’s returning truck grew louder.