Wedding at Wildwood (12 page)

And yet, she couldn’t just leave.

“You told me I wasn’t very good at waiting, Grammy,” she said now as she touched a finger to the first picture she’d taken of Dillon. Holding the black-and-white photograph close, she said, “Lord, I’ve been waiting most of my life for this man. I’ve prayed about this, longed for him to love me back—at times I didn’t even know or understand what I was waiting for. Now, I do.” She closed her eyes, the sweet memory of Dillon’s kisses causing her to draw in her breath. “I thank You for bringing me home again, for letting me see that Dillon means so much to me, and he always will. I guess I’m going to have to leave it in Your hands from now on. We need Your help, Lord.”

She’d finish the preliminary photographs of the wedding. She’d have everything in order for Susan so the bride could pick the best shots for her wedding album. Then Isabel could concentrate on Dillon.

Holding Dillon’s picture away so that she could barely make out his features in the soft light from a nearby lamp, she whispered, “I made you a promise. I’ll see it through.”

When he’d left all those years ago, she’d been hurt that he hadn’t told her goodbye.

This time, she wouldn’t be able to tell him goodbye.

“He asked me to trust him,” she reminded herself again as she turned out all the lights but one and sat there clutching Dillon’s image close to her heart. “And that’s what I intend to do.”

From his spot in Eli’s office, Dillon saw one soft yellow light burning in the Landry house down the road. It was late, so late, and everything about the countryside was quiet and still. Shadows loomed here and there, waiting, hushed, warm with the wind of a summer night. The sleeping land reached out to him, holding him close in its embrace.

His land.

Isabel’s land.

They’d lived here, watched this land change and grow, shift and blossom. Apart, they’d lived a life together that few people could ever understand. And tonight, they’d each worked at their individual tasks, in individual, completely different homes. That, at least, brought Dillon some measure of comfort. Somehow, he knew Isabel was there in the dark, thinking of things, thinking of him maybe, just as he was thinking of things, and her, always her.

He sank back against the soft leather of the office chair, picturing Isabel hard at work in her makeshift darkroom, her green eyes bright with excitement and pride as she created her own special way with film and chemicals.

Dillon smiled now, proud of her gift, proud that she’d overcome all the obstacles holding her back, to move on with her life. She could have easily settled for living out her days in Wildwood, Georgia, but she’d had the courage to follow her heart.

He wished he had that kind of courage. Instead, he’d been a coward who’d run away from his home and his responsibilities. He’d followed nothing except his own stubborn pride, and he’d wasted so many years and so much time holding on to a grudge that didn’t seem to matter very much right now.

As angry as he was with his brother, Dillon also felt some sympathy for Eli. With Dillon’s defection and later, their father’s death, Eli had been left with the tremendous responsibility of running the huge plantation. He’d done the best he could, under the circumstances. Granted, according to the files in front of him, Eli had made some bad decisions, but then he’d had no help, none at all.

Running his hands through his hair, Dillon fought exhaustion and regret. If he’d stayed here, this might not be happening now. If he’d stayed here, he and Isabel might have wound up together. But no, her life had turned out much better without him. He had to remember that, at least. She didn’t have to deal with the mess he would have to face come morning. And he intended to keep her out of it, for her own sake.

His brother had really created a monster of tangled finances and bad business decisions. Apparently, Eli had a dream of reopening the old, long-idle cotton gin that had once been the mainstay of Wildwood. But before his brother had accomplished that particular feat, Eli had decided he needed a new house and a new car and new farm equipment.

In essence, his brother had robbed Peter to pay Paul.

In essence, not only the old plantation house, but most of the Wildwood land, was in danger of being sold or auctioned off. From everything he’d been able to decipher in the computer files, Dillon now understood that things were worse, much worse than anyone knew, probably even Eli himself.

With a groan of frustration, Dillon hung his head. He sat there, adding and subtracting, reworking the figures, trying to come up with a viable solution, trying to understand what had driven Eli to such extremes, but nothing worked.

Yet he would not give up. And in the back of his mind, a solution had started to form, a germ of an idea that was swiftly growing into the only way out of this whole ordeal. If Eli would go for it.

Tired, Dillon decided he’d go back to Wildwood and try to get some sleep. As he reached to turn off the single lamp splattering bright light across the cluttered desk, his hand struck a worn Bible sitting off to the side, on top of some battered, stuffed folders.

His father’s Bible. Did Eli actually read the word of God?

Curious, Dillon picked up the leather-bound book and surveyed it. When was the last time he’d actually taken the time to read the Bible? When was the last time he’d turned to God, really turned to God, for help in his life?

He remembered a time when God was his only salvation, when he’d had no hope left and he’d reached out into the dark night. He’d found his salvation then, alone and lonely, and on his last shreds of dignity.

Would God listen to him one more time?

Without hesitation, Dillon opened the book to a passage that Eli had obviously marked with a torn piece of paper.

It was the book of Ecclesiastes. The first chapter was headed “The Vanity of Life.”

Shocked, and even more curious, Dillon started reading.

“Vanity of vanities,” said the Preacher; “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”

“What profit has a man from all his labor, in which he toils under the sun? One generation passes away, and another generation comes; but the earth abides forever.”

The earth abides forever. This land had survived in spite of everything that had happened. The winds of both fortune and bad luck had blown over Wildwood, and still this earth had withstood the test of time.

“What were you searching for, there in those passages, Eli?” Dillon wondered now. “Did you realize too late that you’d overstepped your bounds, that your vanity had cost you more than you were willing to pay?”

Dillon got up, placed the Bible back where he’d found it, then on second thought, picked it back up and clutched it underneath his arm. He had a lot of soul-searching to do and this particular book might help him find some of the answers he needed.

For the first time in many years, Dillon’s heart went out to his older brother. How long had Eli carried the burdens of Wildwood on his shoulders, without any support or understanding, without any guidance, except what he could find in this worn book?

“I’ve been unfair to you, brother,” Dillon whispered as he closed the kitchen door and walked through the gardens toward home.

He was still bitter, but he felt a new peace settling over the earlier fatigue that racked his body. He would try, really try, to understand why Eli had done the things he’d done.

And, he’d offer his help to his brother.

Holding the thick, worn Bible close, Dillon stared up at the house he loved so much. And he prayed his stubborn brother would be able to accept his help.

Together, they could keep this land.

Together, they too could abide forever.

D
illon hesitated a few seconds, then knocked softly on the heavy wooden door of the Landry house. The information he had to tell Isabel and her grandmother weighed heavily in the pit of his stomach, choking him with a helpless despair. Better coming from him, though, than through official papers from the bank.

Martha opened the door and smiled brightly. “Dillon, what brings you to my doorstep on a humid Monday morning?”

“Hello, Mrs. Landry,” he began, shifting his booted feet in an uncomfortable fidget. “I…I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, c’mon in,” Martha replied, swinging an arm in invitation. “How about a cup of coffee and some apple cake?”

“Coffee sounds good,” he said as he entered the small dining room. “I’ll pass on the cake. I’m not very hungry, but thanks anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Martha indicated a chair, then turned to go into the kitchen for his coffee. “Isabel, as you might remember, has a rather large sweet tooth, so I always bake on the rare occasions she comes home. How that girl gets away with eating all that fattening stuff is beyond me. Guess she walks it all off, out on her photography excursions. She does have a talent for taking pictures, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dillon let Martha’s proud chatter pour over him like a soothing balm. She didn’t have to brag to him about her granddaughter. He was completely convinced of how special Isabel was. Which made his visit all the more difficult.

“Where is Isabel?” he asked now, glancing around after Martha handed him a steaming mug of coffee.

Martha gave him an indulgent look. “She’s on the phone in the bedroom, talking to her agent. She was up to the wee hours again last night, working on those wedding layouts. Wants to get them in order, so she can have a few days to concentrate on…other things.”

Dillon slammed his cup down, his head coming up. “She’s not leaving, is she?”

Martha placed her hands on the back of her own chair. “I honestly don’t know what her plans are. But she will eventually have to get back to Savannah, of course.”

Worried, Dillon said, “She didn’t mention anything about a new assignment—I thought she’d be staying a while. But then, I’ve been a bit preoccupied since the wedding.”

Martha sat down, then patted his hand, a look of tenderness entering her eyes. “I sure am sorry it all had to come to this. Imagine, Wildwood being sold at auction.”

“Yeah, it’s a raw deal.” Dillon willed himself not to panic. Right now, he didn’t really care so much about Wildwood. Surely, Isabel wasn’t planning to leave yet?

He glanced at Martha, saw the sympathy in her eyes. It wouldn’t take much more of her grandmotherly persuasion before he’d fall into the woman’s arms like a baby and babble out all his fears and frustrations, namely that he was about to lose both his home and the woman he loved.

This was supposed to have been simple, he thought, his bitterness coming back to provide a nice warm cloak that effectively blocked out Martha’s caring attitude. He should have been the same old cynical Dillon Murdock, well on his way back to Atlanta by now. But he was no longer that man.

Now, he was having to deal with all these new emotions, such as panic and pain, and a fierce need to go grab the phone away from Isabel and tell her agent to get lost.

“Why don’t you relax, son?” Martha said as she refreshed his coffee.

“I can’t,” he quipped. “I’m a Murdock, remember? We have a hard time dealing with the truth.”

“And the truth is?” Martha asked gently.

“I don’t want her to leave,” he blurted out. And immediately turned red with embarrassment at the admission.

But from the look of understanding and concern in Martha’s eyes to the warmth of her hand covering his, Dillon knew he could tell this woman anything and she would neither condemn him nor judge him. Martha Landry was not self-righteous or full of overblown pride.

And she proved it with her next statement. “See there, that wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

He had to smile then. “No, I guess not.” And he did relax, in spite of the news he had to tell them. Then he started talking. “You know, Mrs. Landry, I’ve never had this kind of stability, this kind of honesty in my life. In fact, my family’s ability to hide the truth has been a carefully calculated form of denial. And the worst sort of hypocrisy.”

“Because you all smoothed things over?”

He nodded. “Behind closed doors, that’s where the real show started—the condemnation, the name-calling and the badges of shame, the humiliation of knowing I’d never be able to live up to Murdock standards—and Eli was usually the master of ceremonies.”

Martha looked thoughtful. “Well, now
he’s
going to be the brunt of scandal and rumors and condemnation.”

Dillon took a sip of coffee, then lowered his head. “Yes, and at one time, I would have relished that. But now, it doesn’t bring me any pleasure or peace. Instead, it makes me sick to my stomach.”

“You look defeated, son,” Martha said, giving him another gentle pat. “Is it as bad as it sounds?”

“Worse,” he replied, impatient to get this part of the ugliness over. Taking a deep breath, he gave Martha a direct look. “Which is why I came by. I really need to talk to both you and Isabel.”

“About what?” Isabel said as she entered the room, clearly surprised to find Dillon sitting at her kitchen table.

Dillon stood up, a worried expression on his face. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied. “You don’t look too hot.”

“I don’t feel too hot,” he admitted as he slumped back in his chair. And he gained no satisfaction from noting the dark circles underneath her eyes. Although she looked as lovely as ever in her sleeveless khaki ankle-length shirtdress, with her long hair still damp and unruly from her shower, he could tell that she, too, had had another rough night.

Isabel watched him watching her. Unable to take the heat from his eyes, or the feeling being in the same room with him brought over her, she tried to stay rational. But he obviously had more bad news. Heading straight for the coffeepot, she asked over her shoulder, “Did you find out anything else about the auction?”

Dillon waited for her to join Martha and him at the table. “More than I want to know.” Rubbing a hand over his unshaven face, he sent Isabel a beseeching look. “My brother has gone and got himself in one big mess.”

Martha automatically handed Isabel a fat slice of warm brown apple cake. “Eat something, honey.” Then, turning back to Dillon, she asked, “Is he really going to let the bank auction off part of Wildwood?”

Dillon looked down at his near empty coffee cup. “He doesn’t have any choice. Technically, the bank now owns the land, since he defaulted on the loan they issued a few years back. If Leland doesn’t get a good bid from the auction, he’ll just slap a For Sale sign up and get rid of it that way.”

“But the auction’s quicker,” Martha stated, nodding her understanding.

“Yep.” Dillon drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes never leaving Isabel’s face. “I’ve gone over the books—took half the day and night just trying to decipher what all Eli
has
done. My brother’s recordkeeping is haphazard at best. I can’t seem to find the title to this place.”

Isabel’s heart went out to Dillon. She could tell this was killing him inside. All his hopes had been dashed with a cruelty that must have felt like another slap in the face from his cold, condemning brother. Feeling guilt all the way to her soul for not at least warning Dillon about Eli’s problems, she had to look away from his sharp, unrelenting gaze. She couldn’t face him this morning. Especially when she knew he’d be so hurt and angry if he found out she’d kept this from him.

Changing the subject with lightning swift accuracy, Dillon gave her a pointed look. “Are you leaving, Issy?”

Looking up, Isabel ignored the knowing expression on her grandmother’s quizzical face. Nervous, she rammed a fork into the aromatic cake sitting in front of her. Not that she was hungry, but she had to at least look natural and unaffected. “I called in to check with my agent about any upcoming bookings, and I’ve been offered a lucrative assignment from a southern life-style magazine. They want me to do some work on a few tourist spots around Georgia. The magazine’s based in Atlanta and I’ll have to go there to meet with the editors, but—”

She stopped as Dillon’s dark brows shot up like twin question marks. “Oh, yeah? Well, I guess you have to do what you have to do, right?” Before she could explain, he rushed on. “I understand. I have a business to run myself. Luckily, I’ve got very capable managers holding down the fort, but sooner or later, I’ll have to make a quick trip back to Atlanta.” As if he were talking to himself, he added, “And there’s really no reason for you to stay here any longer, right?”

Isabel glanced at her grandmother and saw the questioning expression on Martha’s face. Dillon thought she was leaving. And he didn’t want her to go. Touched, she sat there looking across at his handsome, confused face.

But when she tried to speak, he only held up a hand. “Before you go, I think you ought to know something.”

“Oh?” She gave him a look that spoke of both hope and regret. “What’s that, Dillon?”

Dillon willed his drumming fingers to a shaky quiet. Then, glancing from Isabel’s questioning eyes to her grandmother’s curious stare, he said, “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but…it’s about the auction.”

“What?” Isabel said.

Dillon let out a defeated sigh. “The auction includes the plantation house, of course, and about fifty surrounding acres of land.”

“The wildflower field,” Isabel said, the sick feeling in her gut growing worse by the minute. Well, Eli might not have wanted the auction, but he’d be getting his revenge, anyway. If he couldn’t wipe away the wildflowers with a mower, he’d watch them become trampled by the highest bidder.

“Yes, that, too.” Dillon sat up, ran a hand through the straight, shiny locks mashed against his forehead, then plunged ahead. “And, well, it also includes something else—”

“This house,” Isabel finished, her anguished gaze slowly lifting to his face.

Dillon nodded his head, his hand reaching across the table to grasp hers. “Yes, Isabel. The bank is going to auction off your home as part of the package.” Giving Martha an apologetic glance, he added, “Leland tells me that once that happens, you’ll have about thirty days to vacate the premises.”

Isabel stomped up the path that wound through the wildflower field, with Dillon hot on her trail. “How could Eli let this happen? How, Dillon?”

Not waiting for a response, she paced back and forth, her eyes moving over the serene yellow faces of black-eyed Susans and the lush carpeting of blue phlox. Even the flowers looked wilted and dejected today, their fate sealed right along with Isabel’s.

“I can’t believe this is happening! What has my grandmother ever done to deserve this? She’s worked for your family most of her life, and now this?”

“Isabel, stop,” Dillon said as he stood in front of her to halt her pacing. When she tried to step around him, he reached his arms out to grab hold of her shoulders. “Stop.”

“I can’t stop,” she shouted, her eyes bright with bitter tears that she refused to let fall. “I’ve got to do something to help my grandmother. Dillon, she has no other place to go. She’s lived in that house since my grandfather died over twenty years ago, since my parents died. I just can’t—”

Dillon pulled her into his arms. “I know and I’m sorry. And I promise you this—I’m going to fight this with every breath in my body.”

Isabel fell against him, drained and defeated. “I can’t believe Eli has let it come to this.”

Dillon patted a hand on her lush hair, then kissed the top of her head. “I intend to question him on it, believe me.”

Pulling away, Isabel gave him a scrutinizing glare. “And what can you do, other than fight with him again? He wanted both of us gone, and now, because of his greed and mismanagement, my grandmother will have to leave, too.”

Dillon held her by her arms, forcing her to listen to him. “I intend to do plenty. I’ve racked my brain all night and half the morning about this, and I’ve come up with some options.”

She lifted her chin, her eyes widening. “Such as?”

“I’d rather not discuss it just yet. I want to talk to Eli first.”

Pushing his hands away, she said, “Fine. That’s just fine. You still can’t trust me enough to level with me, can you, Dillon?”

“What?” He placed a hand on her bare arm, tugging her back around to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”

Isabel gave him an openmouthed look of disbelief. “Isn’t it obvious? You aren’t ready to tell me how we’re supposed to get out of this mess? How can I possibly stay calm when I don’t even know what’s going to happen to my grandmother? Why can’t you just trust me and let me help you?”

Dillon plopped down on the ground, mindless of the buzzing bees and colorful butterflies he’d startled away from the fragrant flowers. “It’s not about trust, Isabel. I’m trying to keep you out of this. You shouldn’t have to be involved in the ugly dealings of the Murdock clan.”

Glaring down at him, she said, “But I am involved. I’m involved all the way around. I’m involved because of my grandmother, I’m involved because I came back here in the first place, and I’m especially involved because of…because of—”

“Because of me,” he finished just as he lifted a hand to pull her down beside him, his expression daring her to try and get away.

No,
she wanted to shout,
because of my own stupidity. Because I didn’t listen to Susan and tell you the truth.
Dillon thought this was all his fault, but he was so wrong. And now, she didn’t know how to be honest with him. She was so afraid she’d lose him forever.

So she stayed silent, then fell down on the soft cushion of flowers, scaring a pair of squawking blue jays out of a nearby camellia bush.

“I tried to warn you,” he said on a low, husky voice. “I tried to tell you that I’d only bring you misery.”

“
You
didn’t do this,” she retorted, her fingers busy plucking the petals off of an already crushed variegated petunia.
And I tried to warn you, but not in time.