Aftermath Read online

  My insides did a little flip over his compliment. I said, “You’re not that old.”

  “Old enough to be your…well, um, what other questions do you have?”

  “Who’s the richest person in town?”

  “That would be David Stark, the author. Maybe you have heard of him?”

  “You’re the second person to ask me that. Is it like his tagline or something?” I waved away the rhetorical question as he shook his head. “I guess David Stark made his fortune without taking on all the debts my father did. Maybe Dad should have tried his hand at horror fiction instead of business.”

  Mr. Pearson evened up one stack of documents and put it in his briefcase. “With all due respect to Mr. Stark, he employs one person to manage his schedules and correspondence, and even in these modern times he receives enough paper fan mail to help justify the local post office remaining open with a couple of staff.” He pointed to my set of papers. “Your father’s businesses employ 3,000, not just three. Most of those 3,000 have families, whose standard of living has benefited mightily from that employment. We love and protect our local celebrity, of course, but who do you think has been more important to Graylee, Georgia?”

  I glanced at the ceiling, figuring the master bedroom was directly above us. “It’s a shame Graylee didn’t protect him, too.”

  He hung his head for a moment, as if absorbing a physical blow. I started to apologize for the cheap shot—which seemed to have become my specialty lately—but he said, “You are right, certainly. It is a shame from which we will never fully recover. But now that you are here, I hope we can make amends and put the tragedy behind us as much as possible.” He cocked his head. “You still have yet to ask me a serious question.”

  “If you were me, what would you do first thing tomorrow?”

  He nodded his approval. “Introduce yourself to the managers at the various enterprises, who will be eager to make presentations about the products, customers, suppliers, and competitors. Get the 30,000-foot view of things.”

  It was good advice, and I thanked him for it. “I don’t want to drop in unannounced,” I added. “Do you have a list of people I can call to get on their schedules?”

  “I have already made the arrangements,” he replied, giving me a mischievous smile that made him look like my contemporary instead of my father’s. “My paralegal, Timothy Bladensburg, will pick you up at 9 a.m. tomorrow and be your driver and escort.”

  “I hear the sound of dimes stacking up.”

  “All part of the service, Ms. Wright.”

  After moving two large suitcases from the car into the house, I inspected the kitchen. The spotless refrigerator and freezer had been cleared out, but I found plenty of canned and packaged goods in the cupboards. I put together a small spaghetti dinner—mindful of how my metabolism had seemed to slow down the instant I’d hit the big four-oh—and ate in the huge dining room while I worked on a grocery list. Fork against plate, water glass against wood tabletop, every sound seemed to echo within the massive space and emphasize my solitude.

  First dinner prepared in my new kitchen, first things to put in the dishwasher, first night in the big hunting lodge on the hill above the little town. Alone not for the first time, of course, but feeling lonelier than I had since my mother passed away when I was nineteen.

  For more than two decades, a string of men had kept that feeling at bay. I’d thought each of them had the potential to be The One, and I stopped at nothing to demonstrate my worthiness. So many heartbreaks, but, when Andy had proposed, I assumed I would never be forsaken again.

  Now my worst fears revisited me: lonely, abandoned, unattractive, unloved. What I jokingly called The Four Horsewomen of My Dating Apocalypse. If only they were a joke. I’d been imagining them for so long they almost had become real, stalking me with a relentless clop of hooves, creak of saddle leather, and an endless string of taunts.

  Thoughts of them always made me paranoid. I recalled that glimpse of the young man in the woods, the stranger watching me. Snatching up my pad of notes from the dining room table, I found the alarm instructions Mr. Pearson had given me. I memorized the code and activated the security system. Not that it had saved my father’s life, but maybe it would enable Graylee’s top cop to bag another bad guy.

  What I needed was to hunker down under the covers with plenty of TV and cell phone distractions. I knew which bedroom I definitely wasn’t moving into; I wasn’t even sure when I could force myself to clean up the smashed porcelain in the master. Since I was downstairs, I explored those guest wings first, starting with the west side. A large oak door with honest-to-God iron bands gave way to an ultra-feminine sitting area, bedroom, and bath, everything done up in pastel colors, dust ruffles, and pillows galore. In fact, if any of my dad’s dinner parties had turned into an orgy, there were more than enough pillows to go around. The east wing contained a similar suite but with a floral and lace theme and doilies everywhere.

  The upstairs suites featured bedrooms and living areas also heavy with chintz. It was no wonder Mr. Pearson had skipped those during the tour—most men would consider them fluffy versions of hell. They were too girly even for me. Worse, my belongings now heading South in the moving van didn’t go with anything in those rooms either.

  It was weird. Who had brought a woman’s touch to all of the guest suites and why did that decor extend only to those rooms? It was as if Dad had hired Ernest Hemingway and Laura Ashley to decorate his house, and they flipped a coin to see which rooms they would design.

  Considering the proximity of the second floor suites to the master, I eliminated those sleeping options. That narrowed my choices to the east and west wings downstairs: lace versus pillows. I had to admit I wasn’t the sort of person who relished beautiful sunrises streaming through my curtains while I tried to steal another ten minutes of sleep, so my only real choice was the west wing pillow orgy.

  After piling about twenty of those suckers in a corner, I had enough room on the queen-size bed to open each suitcase and start filling the walk-in closet, wardrobe cabinets, and shelves. Cluttering the bathroom came next. I then prepared for bed and used some of the dozen remaining pillows to prop myself against the headboard so I could watch TV, exchange some Facebook and text updates with my friends, and make notes on the remaining pages of the lawyer’s legal pad.

  On the final sheet, I bulleted a list of people I wanted to visit after the meetings Mr. Pearson had arranged. It would be a good idea to start over with Paulina O’Shea and meet some of the other business owners before public opinion hardened against me. The post office staff might be helpful to know, as would David Stark, assuming Mister “Maybe You’ve Heard of Him” received visitors.

  I glanced yet again at the ceiling, thinking of the slaughter that had taken place upstairs. At the top of my list, I added the chief of police.

  CHAPTER 3

  A steady rat-tat-tat woke me, as if a woodpecker were trying to dismantle the house. I had slumped down in bed while watching TV and lay buried under an avalanche of pillows. As the rapping continued, I realized someone was knocking at the door.

  According to my cell phone it was 9 a.m. sharp. Damn—it must’ve been the paralegal. I staggered out of bed, pulled on yesterday’s clothes, and clipped up my hair. The polite but insistent knocking continued unabated. Time was money, and this guy was on the job. He would bloody his knuckles before long.

  Blessed with a good memory, I recalled the security code and disabled the alarm system. However, I was still a New Yorker, so I also checked the peephole my father had installed. A twenty-something, African American man in a suit stood on the other side, his hand a blur against the wood.

  When I unlocked and opened the door, he took a step back. Tall but way too skinny, he would’ve looked better with another thirty pounds on him—and, for me anyway, another thirty years. He adjusted the knot in his already-perfect tie and
checked the time on his cell phone. “I’m Timothy Bladensburg,” he said with a faint Southern lilt, his voice just above a whisper. “Mr. Pearson said I should be here at nine.”

  “Sorry, I overslept. Can you give me maybe thirty minutes to get ready and gulp down some coffee and cold spaghetti?”

  After only the briefest pause, Timothy said, “How about twenty minutes while I reschedule your visits, and then I’ll take you to breakfast at the diner?” The paralegal’s voice still had not become louder, so perhaps it was just the way he talked. His neck was so slender, maybe only a little air could get out at a time.

  I put a hand on my hip and gave him a smirk. “Pretty cocky, making a counteroffer to the woman who owns Graylee.”

  “Yes, ma’am. With you being a New Yorker and all, I thought you’d appreciate a little moxie.” He glanced at his cell phone again. “Nineteen minutes, or sixty seconds less for breakfast.” He smiled. “Your choice.”

  “Give me the full twenty, and I’ll skip a third refill of coffee.” Remembering my manners, I added, “You want to come in while I get ready?”

  Timothy took a half step back, eyes widening in apparent horror. So much for my attempt at Southern hospitality. “No thank you, ma’am. I’ll wait in the car.” He indicated a blue Hyundai sedan that was nothing fancy but sparkled in the sunshine, freshly washed and waxed.

  “Okay, but stop calling me that. I’m Janet.” I put out my hand.

  “Tim.” Long, thin fingers with a warm and confident grip. Nice to see that some young people still bothered to master the art of the handshake. Before our first Wall Street interviews, my classmates and I had rehearsed ours for a solid hour.

  He looked at his cell phone again, but I cut him off. “I know, I’m going to have to order my breakfast to go if I don’t get moving.” I waved, closed the door, and got ready for the day. Attention to hair and make-up meant just a soapy washcloth in the odiferous places and extra deodorant.

  Nineteen minutes later, I was dressed for my meet-and-greets in a pantsuit and medium heels, all conservative neutrals and earth tones so I didn’t scare the locals. Thinking about my encounter with Paulina, I set the alarm, exited as a warning beep sounded, and also locked the door.

  Tim pocketed his cell phone as he hopped out of the sedan. He opened the back door for me, but I dodged around the hood and dropped into the shotgun seat. When he climbed in beside me, I said, “None of that chauffeur stuff.”

  “Yes, uh…Janet,” he replied in his soft voice, mouth turned down. Clearly, I wasn’t following the script he’d envisioned.

  The day was going to be stressful enough without having my guide annoyed at me. Either I could keep my mouth shut—a proven impossibility—or I needed to establish some common ground. A show of solidarity. Glancing around, I spotted the awful lawn jockey and pointed it out to him. “I swear I’m going to have that thing removed ASAP. Don’t you just hate it?”

  He shrugged. “No more than the mammie cookie jars in Ms. O’Shea’s shop.”

  “I didn’t see those. She must’ve put them away to make room for the Christmas stuff. How much do the cookie jars bother you?”

  He started the car and eased us across the pea gravel of the courtyard, saying, “No more than that lawn jockey.”

  My conversational gambits were going down in flames. I decided on a new tack. After we were heading toward town on the smooth, curving macadam, I said, “Look, I want to fit in around here, but I don’t know the local customs. Can you tell me what I did wrong when I invited you in? Was it something a woman isn’t supposed to do when there’s a man at the door? Is it a racial thing?”

  “None of that,” he murmured. “The house…not that I’ve ever been in it, but…I’m just more comfortable in my car.”

  “You don’t think it’s haunted, do you?” When I said this, he glanced at me and I gave him wide, scary eyes and a witchy wiggle of my fingers.

  Tim shook his head. “You sure are different from your old man, meaning no disrespect to him, of course.”

  That got my attention. I asked, “How well did you know my dad?”

  “I saw him around town sometimes, but I don’t think he even knew my name. Your father wasn’t the kind of person who mixed with the common folk.” He gestured at Main Street as the car bumped onto concrete and we coasted past the Denny’s. “You weren’t very old when you left here, right?”

  Interesting question—it meant he knew I’d been born in Graylee. I wondered if Mr. Pearson had asked him to do some research on me. Easy enough to find out. “My parents divorced when I was five,” I said, “and my mom took my brother and me to live in Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?” He looked puzzled and then his mouth snapped shut, a sound louder than his voice and the perfect accompaniment to my trap being sprung.

  Not letting on, I said, “Well, Acworth, northwest of the city.”

  He nodded, probably not even realizing he did it, as I confirmed the fact he must’ve already discovered. His next question sounded genuine. “Did you come back sometimes, like to spend summers with your father?”

  “Nope, never saw him again. He didn’t pay child support, but my mom didn’t take him to court—he was out of our lives for good.”

  Tim signaled and pulled into a just-vacated diagonal parking space near a diner. A Christmas mural similar to the one that had drawn me into Paulina O’Shea’s gift shop decorated the large front window. Judging by the number of cars and trucks out front, this eatery was at least ten times more popular than Denny’s, where I’d noticed only two vehicles were parked.

  I unslung my seat belt. “Do you lock up?”

  “What for?”

  “That’s what I thought.” I beat him to the diner door and held it open for him.

  He shook his head. “That ain’t right. What are you trying to do?”

  “I don’t like to be waited on. Besides, my mom taught me that the person who gets to the door first is the one who holds it.” I inhaled the aromas of fresh baked goods, fried onions, and strong coffee. “Tim, I can stand here all day enjoying the smells of breakfast, but we probably only have twenty-three minutes left.”

  He checked his cell phone. “Twenty-four.” Shaking his head, he walked past me.

  Two dozen diners, all white, looked us over as Tim led me to a table along one paneled wall. The place didn’t go pin-drop silent, but apparently a young African American man dining with a forty-year-old white woman still drew stares in small-town Georgia. As soon as we sat, an old couple nearby made a big show of folding up their newspapers, slinging some money on their table, and leaving. Others examined us with unabashed curiosity.

  I needed to ease off—I could afford to be the eccentric Yankee heiress who decided to move into the big house on the hill, but Tim had to live among the people of Graylee and eventually practice law for them if he planned to stick around. “Sorry,” I told him. “It’s not going to help you if I act out.”

  He ducked his head and flipped over the plastic menu in front of him. “It’s not that, and it’s not a race thing. I’m just used to being a pariah.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “Not really.”

  A waitress who looked like she’d worked there since the Civil War came over with a glass coffeepot. Doris, according to the cursive red stitching on her uniform. A gold necklace with a dainty crucifix showed against the skin below her wrinkled neck. She said, “Morning, Ms. Wright. Hey, Tim. Y’all having a lovely day?”

  It was going to be hard to get used to everyone knowing me on sight. In the Manhattan Starbucks I’d gone to twice a day for years, they always asked me what name to write on my cup. I thanked her and ordered black coffee and, reluctantly, a vegetable omelet. Damned metabolism.

  Tim said, “The usual, please.”

  Doris filled our mugs. “Of course. Billy started on it when y’all walked in
.” She headed back to the fry table and chatted with the middle-aged cook. Thank goodness Tim wasn’t a pariah to everyone.

  I cupped the thick ceramic and took a cautious sip. Hot, slightly nutty, and electric with caffeine. If Billy made the coffee, I’d officially fallen in love with him. After taking a longer drink, I asked, “Did my father come in here a lot?”

  Tim said, “I guess so. Until he brought in the Denny’s at his end of the street.”

  Maybe he used to eat at all hours and hadn’t wanted to go far for a meal. His own personal restaurant—and now mine, I supposed. “Given their history with minorities,” I said, “it probably isn’t your fave. They were never big on serving pariahs.”

  That earned me a smile at least. It looked like he wanted to talk about it, but then he stopped and cleared his throat. In a louder voice than usual, full of fake curiosity, he asked, “So, where were we? You said you were ten when you went to New Yor….” He trailed off and his eyes closed, followed by his fists. I wondered if he wanted to beat his own forehead with them.

  Not letting him off the hook, I said, “We hadn’t gotten there yet. I was ten when my brother, Brady Jr., died trying to outrace a train at a crossing. He was seventeen and apparently drunk.” Having told him another thing he no doubt already knew, I felt compelled to add more, to get him to see me as a person, not just a research and babysitting assignment. I waited until he looked at me. “I worshipped him. It wiped me out, but it hit my mom even worse. She never recovered.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Tim said. He looked as mournful as he sounded. At last I felt like we were talking to each other authentically. No more pretending, no games.

  I said, “Thank you. It’s a nightmare, one you can’t wake up from. Mom and I moved to New York—Long Island to be specific—right after that.”

  He drank some more coffee. “Did you like living up there?”

  “It was okay. The winters sucked, no surprise, but Mom slowly came back to life after we settled in, and that made it better.” I put my menu back in the metal rack attached to the table edge. “She’d just started to go on dates and show her old sense of humor when cancer got her. I think it was all the stress.”