To Love and Honor (12 page)

“Both.” With his hand still holding her chin, Roger pressed his lips against hers, as he answered the question with caresses that left her like putty in his arms. When her senses returned to normal, she had her arms around Roger's neck, and he was whispering terms of endearment in her ear.

“How long have you known?” she murmured.

“For at least a year—perhaps even longer than that.”

“Why haven't you told me?”

“Well, for one thing, Larry Holland was cluttering up the landscape, but I wouldn't have let that deter me if you hadn't seemed so satisfied with the status quo. I didn't want to scare you off, as I preferred friendship to nothing.”

“We'll have to forget this happened, for I can't deal with it now. We have to get back to Maitland, and with Janie along, we'll have to continue to be ‘friends.'”

“I doubt I can forget what happened, and I had no intention of speaking today, but you seemed so alone that I wanted you to know that you need never be alone again. I'll always be there for you, Violet, any time that you need me.”

They were deprived of any further intimate conversation on their trip home because of Janie's presence in the back seat, but once, when she knew that Janie was sleeping, Violet reached out her hand and placed it on the seat between them. He immediately covered her fingers with a touch that conveyed his warmth and concern.

Although they couldn't talk, some of the time Violet
forgot her mother's death, and the situation she faced when she arrived home, marveling at Roger's declaration of love, and her reaction to his embrace. How could she have been so blind as to believe all that existed between them was friendship? And she
had
believed it! She had enjoyed being with him, she had relied on his help and advice, but, in the years she had known Roger, she had never before experienced that tingling, breathless, giddy, awesome feeling that she had always expected from love until he had kissed her a few hours ago. Nor, except for a few glances that she couldn't interpret, had he ever given any indication that he held for her a keen, humbling, urgent yearning that had caused a strong man like him to tremble when he took her into his arms. Considering the depth of his longing, which he had experienced for more than a year, she wondered how he could wait so long to approach her. But she had long known that Roger was self-disciplined, deliberate in his thinking, not given to hasty judgments. So, if he said he loved her, she had no doubt that he did.

And amazingly, she loved him. She'd never realized it before, yet suddenly she felt no doubt of that.

 

The funeral was held in the sanctuary of First Community Church, well attended by the members of the congregation. Janie and Mrs. Grady came, as did Nan Oliver. As was customary, a floral arrangement arrived from the school, and several of her fellow teachers called at the funeral home the night before to offer condolences, and to Violet's surprise, so did Larry. While he was offering the trite words commonly spoken at a time of death, Violet met Roger's eyes across the room. He always seemed to know her inner
thoughts, but she couldn't read his.
Was he jealous of the time she had spent with Larry or was he above such petty emotions?

As Pastor Tom delivered his brief message, Violet was comforted to hear that he had talked often with Linda about her relationship with God and had been satisfied that she was spiritually prepared to go to Heaven. Yet Violet's thoughts dwelled once again on her mother's unhappy life—dead at forty-five, and over half of that time she had been behind bars. Before her marriage, Linda had apparently been a happy person, for Ruth had talked often about their fun-filled girlhood, so what about marriage had changed her? Would she ever learn what had brought her mother to the breaking point?

Did anyone except Ruth and herself mourn for Linda? In all honesty, Violet knew that she didn't mourn as much for her mother, as she sorrowed for the lost years that could never be reclaimed. That was a void in her life which would never be filled. Now that she had gotten accustomed to having people in the house, she would no doubt feel lonely when Ruth returned home.

She would have liked for Roger to be at her side today, but after he had declared his love for her in Springfield, he had reverted to the caring friend he had always been. Except when he was at work, since their return to Maitland, he had been in constant attendance—most of the time at a distance, but she knew he was there. Right now, she needed friendship more than anything else from him, and although a brotherly hug around her shoulders was comforting, she longed for much more.

 

Several of the church women had a meal prepared at Violet's home after the funeral, which Roger and Pastor Tom shared with them. Snow had started falling while they were at the cemetery, and within two hours, an inch of snow blanketed the ground. After he had eaten, Roger excused himself. “I'll need to check in at headquarters. We'll need all of our officers on duty tonight—this could be a nasty snow.”

Violet walked with him to the door and waited while he shrugged into his coat. “Let me know when you want my company,” he said softly.

“All the time,” she replied honestly. “but I do know that you have other commitments.”

He squeezed her hand, and his eyes blazed with promises of the future. “I'll try to telephone before you go to bed.”

“Be careful, Roger,” she called as he went toward his car, wondering if his wife had often been concerned about the dangers that Roger faced as a policeman. The times he had embraced her when he was in uniform, Violet was always aware of the safety vest he wore and the reason for it. She sighed.
Just another adjustment she would have to make if they were married.

The house was strangely quiet after all the guests left. Violet remembered that it had been that way when Aunt Ruth's husband had died—he came from a large family, and when his sister, brothers, nieces and nephews had gone, Violet and Ruth had eyed each other in dismay, wondering how they could cope with the emptiness.

Ruth must have been thinking the same thing for she said, “We got through it the last time, we will manage now, too.”

“Did she ever talk to you when I wasn't here? About the important things, I mean.”

“Not often. She did thank me one day for taking such good care of you. She was proud of the woman you had become, but I assured her that I hadn't had much to do with it. You came from good stock on the maternal side, and the Conleys weren't all bad—your father just happened to be the rotten egg.”

“When I was in Springfield last week, I met a Mike Conley. He was an obnoxious sort, and I figured that all Conleys were like that. He seemed rather interested in my background—could he have been a relative?”

“Possibly, for your father came from Kansas City, but I never knew any of them. But back to Linda. She wrote a letter to you one day and put it in that metal box of hers. You weren't to see it until after her death. Do you want to read it now?”

“Yes, of course.”

Violet felt as if she'd had about all she could take, but she wondered if the contents of the letter might help her bring closure to this traumatic situation.

Ruth went into the bedroom and brought out the box and placed it on the dining table. She handed Violet the key that Linda had worn on the chain around her neck.

“I'm afraid to open it,” Violet said, “but more afraid not to.” She inserted the key and lifted the lid. On top of several other papers in the box was an envelope addressed, “Violet.”

“‘Daughter,'” Violet read aloud.

When she finished reading, Violet looked up wonderingly at Ruth.

“The executor of her estate! What did she have?”

“Nothing to my knowledge. She had some inheritance from our father, but she spent all of that on the trial.”

Ruth hovered over Violet as she lifted documents from the box. First, they found Linda's Last Will and Testament bequeathing her estate to Violet. With shaking hands, Violet pulled out another envelope, containing a contract between a leading publisher and Richard Cameron, a pseudonym for Violet Conley, for publishing rights to the book
What's Your Prison?

“That's the book Pastor Tom has been quoting. Do
you suppose Linda wrote that book?” Ruth asked. “She was always writing verses and stories when she was a child.”

Violet rushed into the living room and brought back the book the pastor had loaned her, but which she had never had time to read. She opened the book, and on the first page read a dedication, “To my daughter.”

She handed the book to Ruth and sorted through the other items in the box. There was a check stub for $100,000—an advance toward royalties on the book. A bank account opened in Linda's name showed that she had received a total of $150,000 thus far for the book.

“And she died without benefitting from her labor,” Violet said.

“Oh, she benefitted from it,” Ruth said. “She died comfortably knowing that this inheritance would make up to you for what you had lost when she killed your father. The Conleys are wealthy people, and as your father's heir you would have gotten quite a sum. Linda did exactly what she wanted to with the proceeds from that book.”

“Isn't it wonderful? I've been ashamed of my mother all of my life, and now I have something to feel proud about. She made a difference in the world—no doubt this book has been a help to countless people.”

As Violet stared down at the book she knew the money made no difference to her. It was her mother's achievement that mattered.

“Linda was always a secretive person. Even as a child, she kept most of her thoughts to herself, but she should have told us so that we could have rejoiced with her.”

“And I've been worrying about how to pay her funeral expenses. I wish she had told me.”

Violet sat up the rest of the night reading the book, and she felt as if each page were a personal message from her mother. With God's help, Linda had come to terms with her restricted life, had made a contribution to uplift others through her book, and she had died in peace without any bitterness in her soul. Violet's own faith was strengthened as she read the closing pages of the small book.

The ringing telephone awakened Violet the next morning, and groping sleepily from beneath the covers, she found the receiver and muttered, “Hello.”

“Did I awaken you?” Roger said guiltily. “It's almost nine o'clock. I supposed you were awake by now.”

Violet sat up in bed and pulled the covers around her shoulders. “I normally would have been, but I didn't sleep well.”

“I'm sorry I didn't telephone last night, but it was too late when I went off duty. I have a few hours this afternoon, if you want Jason and me to help with rearranging the furniture.”

“That will be helpful. I intend to call the hospital supply company today and have them pick up their equipment. And after you finish that, would you have time to go with me to talk with Pastor Tom?”

“Are you forcing me into marriage already?” he replied in a teasing tone.

“Then that will teach you to be careful of what you say,” Violet said, leaving him in suspense.

A telephone call to William O'Brien's office later on in the morning confirmed the validity of the papers they had found among Linda's possessions. She had written the book over a long period of time, and upon William's insistence had submitted it to a publisher two years ago. She had banked all of her money, and the royalties were credited to her account twice each year. As far as O'Brien knew, Linda had never written anything else.

He assured Violet that settling the estate would be a simple matter and could be handled over the telephone and by mail, saving Violet a journey to Kansas City. Violet didn't question the lawyer about the trial that sent her mother to prison. Perhaps one day she would.