Author: Richard L. Fricks

I was only semi-surprised there was no security checkpoint at the entrance to the park. The only sort of inspection was an older man and woman who stood ten feet inside the open gate. They stared at me warily. From head to toe. I guess they didn’t approve of my outfit. Neither did I, other than for 58 Ansonia Road, New Haven, Connecticut, aka home.

After my plane landed in Birmingham, I tired of my suit. I found a men’s restroom and changed into my favorite jogging shorts and a Bella’s tee-shirt the owner had given me for my faithful patronage. I didn’t know how Charlie and Jeannette (per their name tags) viewed my Yale Law School hooded jacket, the one I’d pulled on in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.

Finally, Jeannette spoke, “welcome weary traveler.” I don’t know how she knew. “Are you here for the gospel singing or to assist with the Nativity scene?” Charlie turned toward the amphitheater when a band started, ‘Love Lifted Me.’ He quickly drifted away.

“Thanks, but I’m looking for my sister. Kyla Harding’s her name. She’s working the refreshments table.”

“Never heard of her.” At least the woman had good ears.

Before I could ask for directions, Jeannette revealed her skills as a food critic. “Try the Deviled Egg Pie. Brenda’s the bomb.” There was too much here to unpack, so I ignored it other than making a mental note to ask sis about Brenda’s infatuation with the Devil.

I finally clawed directional help from the delightful blue-haired Jeannette.

As I walked away, she literally hollered at me, “hey hiker.” I’d forgotten I’d changed into my comfortable brogans. “Here’s your ticket.”

Long story short. I retraced my steps. The sleek looking red and green ticket offered free admittance to the community wide Thanksgiving meal hosted by First Baptist Church of Christ. The green side, in bold, simply said: “Community Celebration. God is Good.” On the bottom right corner, not so big and bold, were the words, “See over.”

On the red side were details concerning the day and time (Thanksgiving Day, 12:00 noon), location (the Family Life Center at the corner of Sparks and Elm streets), clothing requirements (long slacks, a loose-fitting shirt or blouse, and clean shoes), cost (zero), and one request (after eating, please stay for a short devotional).

I smiled and tucked the ticket inside my coat pocket, thinking I’d give it to Kyla. Maybe she would invite someone, but that didn’t seem likely, although she could ask that nice man who had brought her those five Nubian goats. The goat man.

Thankfully, I’d be alone, eating my pre-ordered meal from Bella’s, sitting comfortably in my Lazy Boy, watching the Detroit Lions mangle the Houston Texans. The Lions? Not likely. That was before I remembered my promise to Kent.

***

There were two pavilions. Given the crowd, I could see the rooftops of both, but Jeanette hadn’t been clear which one was the refreshments site. I passed several vendor tables on my left and quickly decided each of them was promoting a particular church organization: WMU (Women’s Mission Union); GA’s (Girl’s in Action); RA’s (Royal Ambassadors); Awana (Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed), and on and on.

A new band was being introduced at the amphitheater. This caused several people blocking the sidewalk to sidle onto the grass in anticipation of their brand of music. Now, I could see the first pavilion. Not my target. From a hundred feet away, it appeared to be the work base for the nativity scene project. One man was using a skill saw to rip a sheet of plywood while another held it. Two other men were supervising, with backs leaning against brick columns.

I continued toward the second pavilion and recalled Wednesday’s conversation with Micaden Tanner after his secretary had emailed final approval of my motion. His willingness to talk had come as a surprise, given our earlier encounters.

He’d opened the door by stating, “Lee, I hope you’ve not set your sights too high. It’s doubtful your motion will do much good. At most, it might delay the inevitable for a couple of weeks.”

I’d asked why he felt that way. Funny, his explanation had started with these two damn pavilions. Initially, the plans had called for true pavilions, not the two tiny structures that housed male and female restrooms with a porch out front, maybe a twenty-four-foot square. Hardly big enough for a family reunion.

Micaden had said the same thing had happened with the amphitheater. “You know it’s not truly an amphitheater.” Again, what started out in the architectural plans as a sloping, semicircular seating gallery had dwarfed into a small concrete stage maybe two feet off the ground, with no sloping, and no seating. It required fans to bring their own lawn chairs to sit on the level ground in front of the little stage.

By now I could see sis buzzing back and forth behind three long tables, handing out cellophane-wrapped brownies, fudge squares, and peanut brittle. The Deviled Egg Pie was nowhere in sight.

I waved when she looked my way and kept walking, still in disbelief at what Micaden had claimed: Ray Archer had made a million dollars on Old Mill Park. Somehow, he had gained ownership of the real estate that once housed Boaz Spinning Mill. This had taken place just a few months before the groundbreaking. Micaden supposedly had a keen nose for rats. He believed the City of Boaz was in dire financial straits, mainly because Ray Archer was a double-dipper, one enabled by an untrustworthy mayor.

***

Kyla saw me staring when I was ten feet away. She was in process of handing a very obese middle-aged woman a small paper sack stuffed with goodies she certainly didn’t need. Sis gave me a circular wave and asked, “are you planning on sleeping in the barn?”

I kept walking, laughed, then reached out my right hand to shake since she was standing behind the tables. It was best since I wasn’t much of a hugger. “I didn’t expect to come to the revival when I changed clothes in Birmingham.”

“You look tired. Here, have a cookie.” She held out a rice Krispie square wrapped in cellophane. I guess ‘cookie’ covers a lot of ground. “Oh, before I forget. Your key.” Kyla said, reaching into her tight blue jeans. I took it and stuffed it inside my jacket beside the red and green ticket.

Kyla had put on some weight since I’d seen her a year ago at Rachel’s funeral. But my tall, red-headed, younger sister was still cute, not pretty, just cute. I’d always loved her freckles.

Suddenly, “Victory in Jesus” exploded from the stage. The voices were vaguely familiar. “How long do you have to work?” I asked, gathering data to estimate when I needed to be home. Per my iPhone, it was nearly 8:30 PM.

“Ten, I think.” I could barely hear above the ramped-up sound system. Kyla pressed her emerald eyes into mine and asked, “do you remember Mountain Top Trio?”

I thought for a minute. I semi-yelled, “from high school. A few years younger than us?”

Kyla nodded affirmatively and walked around to the front of the table beside me. The sweet seekers had suddenly disappeared after ‘the old, old story’ began. We exchanged hugs, me reluctantly, and she whispered in my ear, “the group singing is second generation, sons of the three we knew.” We both slowly spun toward the stage, each leaving a hand around the other’s waist. I was rarely this chummy.

Then I heard a voice behind us. It was one I’d never forget. “Kyla, where’s the last box of peanut brittle?” Again, sis and I made 180 degree turns, this time without the sibling affection. Standing behind pie slices, fudge squares, cookies, and a dozen other sweet delectables stood Lillian Bryant. For a second, I saw the younger version, the silky brown-haired girl with bluish-green eyes, built better than any fashion model. In my imagination, L (that’s what I called her during the second half of high school) was seventeen and we’d exchanged our first kiss.

After what seemed like an hour, a man I hadn’t noticed asked, “do you have any more peanut brittle or not?” My mind quickly slotted the well-dressed man into the impatient category.

I reentered earth’s atmosphere, now aware that Kyla had walked behind the tables and was scavenging through a stack of boxes piled haphazardly on yet another makeshift table.

Until sis found the missing Brittle, the two-way staring between L and me didn’t stop. I guess it was our way of digesting the past half-century.

Kyla gave L a nudge and said, “that Brittle-seeker wants to know if you’ve seen Ray.”

Lillian finally gathered herself, turned, and responded. “I thought he was with you. Didn’t you two eat at The Shack?”

“We did, but he said he was coming here to the festival.” The man dressed himself in an expensive navy-blue suit and a still tight-around-the-neck yellow and green-striped tie. He was wearing a pair of black, high-priced shoes. I think they were Oxford Leather’s.

“Mr. Ted, you should know by now Ray Archer is a little unpredictable. He might be out evangelizing.” I couldn’t tell if L was being sarcastic. Years ago, that had been a favorite past-time.

The exchange between Mr. Ted and L got heated. I was glad Kyla suggested we take a walk. “That was Mayor King. If you were wondering.”

“I take it they’re not best of friends.”

“Right on.”

Until I boarded Flight 2867, I hadn’t realized how tired I was. The past three days had been a whirlwind. Besides the all-nighter I’d pulled Tuesday to draft and refine the motion for a preliminary injunction in Rob and Rosa’s case, I’d completed dozens of tasks to prepare for my trip to my hometown. Planning my travel was anything but simple.

Initially, I was shocked by Micaden’s news that Judge Broadside required my physical presence in his courtroom next Tuesday. The shock turned sickening when I learned a Friday flight from my local airport to Birmingham would take fourteen hours, including a six-hour layover in Philadelphia and five hours in Charlottesville. That had been unacceptable, which precipitated a two hour plus drive to Boston Logan Airport for a fifty-six-minute stop and layover in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Thankfully, I’d slept during most of the flight time and didn’t have any trouble navigating Birmingham’s airport or at Enterprise picking up the Ford Explorer I’d previously booked. My drive to Boaz was uneventful, almost pleasant, as a twinge of mental excitement evolved as I expected to see Kyla and visiting Harding Hillside, my home for the first eighteen years of my life.

***

In Boaz, I turned left at McDonald’s and drove west on Hwy. 168. A mile further, I found Piggly Wiggly. The grocery store was a landmark in my hometown, although it moved across the street to its present location a few years ago. In fact, I started my work life in the old building, bagging groceries. That was the fall of my junior year. I lasted three days but cannot recall why I quit. It might have had something to do with Lillian Bryant, the gorgeous classmate who made me forget the equally gorgeous Rachel Kern.

I parked and walked inside for chips, bread, Bologna, milk, cereal, and a large box of Pop Tarts. Something had forever addicted Kyla to brown sugar. A few groceries were the least I could do since my little sister had offered to house me during my five-day stay. When I phoned her yesterday, her initial surprise turned to quasi-anger when I announced my plan to stay in Guntersville at the Hampton Inn. I changed my mind two minutes into her sermon on why brothers stay with sisters when they come to town and hadn’t seen each other for a year.

I paid the cashier and returned to the Explorer. I laughed to myself when I recalled I had seriously considered driving from New Haven to Boaz. As often happens, one memory leads to another. The last time I’d made the thousand-mile, eighteen-hour drive was in 2002 with Rachel to my thirty-year high school reunion. We’d left a day early, stopped halfway in Charlottesville, Virginia, and spent several hours the next morning exploring our college day haunts.

I popped the hatch and stored the groceries. The blare of gospel music erupted from across the street. It quickly became distracting, even disconcerting, probably because that’s where Rosa had said she and Rob would be when I arrived. One of the many calls I’d made yesterday had included my mother-in-law. It was our second conversation. Rob, on speaker, had consumed the first, thanking me for filing the motion and then quizzing me about my plans if Judge Broadside rejected our request.

During mine and Rosa’s second call, I shared my idea of visiting the Hunt House when I arrived. I’d asked about a key. That’s when Rosa said she’d leave it on the front porch under a flowerpot containing a yellow mum. She’d also said she and Rob would be at Old Mill Park. The City of Boaz and First Baptist Church of Christ, Rob and Rosa’s home church, were hosting a dual-purpose event: a gospel concert at the amphitheater while the Keenagers, assisted by the Fusion youth group, were constructing the largest Nativity Scene in Boaz history.

An old and decaying document came to mind: the U.S. Constitution. I would find no wall of separation between church and state in this north Alabama Jerusalem.

***

I drove to the Hunt House on Thomas. Thankfully, Rosa, maybe Rob, left the driveway gate open. It felt like I’d just driven inside a prison. The thick, equally spaced steel rods were at least ten feet tall. I stopped before entering the carport.

I exited the Explorer and realized how close I was to the park and the raging music. It was one small city block south of where I was standing.

It was crazy in a way for me to be here, especially tonight. Why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow? Or never? Even though I’d made some phone calls during my drive from the Birmingham airport, Rachel’s diaries were front and center of my mind. 

Of course, that wasn’t the main reason I’d come to Alabama. I hadn’t made that decision at all. Judge Broadside was the reason I was here. Unjustified and unnecessary. There simply was no good reason to take me a thousand miles to say a few words to support Rob’s motion. If it had been up to me, I would have waited until Christmas and visited Kyla under the ruse I wanted to see what she’d done with our home place.

Then, it hit me. I couldn’t wait until Christmas. I had to be here for Thanksgiving, well, the Friday after Thanksgiving.

I looked under the flowerpot. No key. Oh, that’s just swell. Luckily, there were other mums positioned on each of the five front porch steps. I wondered why Barbara had left them.

Around noon yesterday, Gina had checked my law school email and noticed one from Kent Bennett asking me if I’d speak at Kyle’s memorial. Two other things were happening around that time. I was engaged in completing the motion for temporary injunctive relief (sorry Micaden; I was late), and Bert Stallings had appeared inside my office. Midst everything, I’d told Gina to tell Kent I would be honored. Dang, I’m not as sharp as I used to be.

And there was no key anywhere. I started over with my search, thinking I could have missed it. Again, even being extra careful, no key. “Damn,” I said aloud. Sorry Rachel.

I did what I should have done to begin with. I tried the front doorknob. No luck.

The same resulted when I walked around the house to the back door. I stood at the top of the stairs and looked over the large backyard, almost completely shrouded in darkness even though there were a couple of back porch lights shining from the houses facing Sparks Avenue.

Even though I had always wanted to visit this place, there had never been a good time. Barbara McReynolds had operated her bed-and-breakfast from before I graduated high school. After Rachel and I married, I’d suggested a few times we make reservations and come spend a weekend as guests. She had acted as though I wanted to travel to North Korea.

As I started walking back to the front porch, around the opposite side of the house from before, my iPhone vibrated. I removed it from my pocket. It was Kyla.

“Hey sis.” The first thing I heard was “Amazing Grace” in the background.

“Where are you?” Even a rather dull person would put this simple puzzle together. Kyla had to be at the park.

“I’m at the Hunt House. I thought you would wait for me at home.”

“Lillian wouldn’t take no for an answer. She threatened to drag me here if I didn’t come, kept saying she needed my help to serve refreshments.” I didn’t buy my sister’s excuse.

“You haven’t by chance seen Rosa, have you?” I said, surrounded by darkness other than the soft glow spawned by my iPhone. I had tried to call and remind my sweet mother-in-law she had forgotten to leave the key. But the call had gone to voice mail.

“That’s why I’m calling you. She and Rob had to leave, rather quickly. She gave me a key to give you when you arrived.” I hadn’t heard the voice in the background asking Kyla who she was talking to since my freshman year at college. It was Lillian Bryant, Archer.

“Well, I’m here and need that key. Can you walk it over?”

“Sorry bro, I’m a little busy. You wouldn’t believe how Baptists like their sweets, including tea.” I could only imagine.

The last place I wanted to go was Old Mill Park. Not that I had anything particular against it. If it was desolate. But moping around with a bunch of church folks wasn’t my idea of an enjoyable evening. “That’s okay. I’ll just head home. You left me a way in?”

“Dang, I knew there was something I needed to do before leaving.”

“No problem. I’ll sit on the front porch and wait. You stay out as late as you want.”

“Don’t be that way. Come. Do it for me. You will see some folks you haven’t seen in years, probably decades. You remember Jane Fordham, don’t you?” Kyla’s voice lowered to a whisper, “And, I’m sure you’d enjoy seeing Lillian.”

I doubt I’ll ever know why Kyla’s last statement was so appealing. There was no way I was interested in another woman. Heck, I’d never be ready. Rachel was my one and only, even though she had lied about having an abortion when she was still a kid. More to the point, why in God’s name would I give a second thought to Lillian Bryant? I quickly thought of two reasons not to. She’s married and she dumped me half-a-century ago.

***

I almost crawled inside the SUV and drove away, forgetting the key and my desire to visit Rachel’s room. But I didn’t. I walked past the silver Explorer and to the sidewalk. Before I turned left, I stopped and looked across the street.

Now, there were eight small townhouses facing Thomas Avenue. Then, in 1969, when I was in high school, two-thirds of the entire block was consumed by Young Supply Company. The warehouse the Jenkins’ had loaned my tenth-grade class to build our Christmas Parade float was long gone, except in my memory. The Company sold construction materials from a building beside the railroad track: Mann Avenue and Brown Street. I can still see stacks of cement blocks scattered about between the warehouse my class borrowed and a two-story building within the same block. Then, it was an office. I think, recalling the Company operated a concrete plant. But I’m not sure. I turned back to my left and walked. My thoughts returned to float-building, Kyle, Rachel, and Ray Archer.

After fifty feet, I looked both ways and crossed Thomas Avenue. My route to Old Mill Park was easy. I’d turn right in front of where Dr. Hunt had his medical office and walk Darnell Street to East Mann.

“Hey, can I have a word?” To my left, I saw a man much younger than me headed my way. He was coming from a vehicle parked in the rear of Julie Street Methodist Church.

“What do you need?” Boaz wasn’t New Haven, but there were no boundaries for evil people and sinister scams.

“Is that your vehicle?” He was pointing toward the Explorer as he crossed the street, walking faster now. I’d already concluded the man would be much stronger than me. He was about six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds, likely more. I could tell his midsection was flat, even with his loose-fitting jacket.

“It is. What’s that to you?” Rachel always said, ‘it’s not always what you say, but how you say it.’ My six words likely fell within both what and how categories.

At first, I thought the man was about to give me the middle finger as his arm rose and semi-pointed. Fortunately, his action transformed into a ‘come on over’ invitation followed by announcing his name and position. “I’m Dan Brasher, pastor of Julia Street Methodist Church.” He was calm, collected, and polite. After he mentioned Barbara McReynolds and her departure yesterday, I filled him in on who I was. It didn’t hurt that Dan knew Rob and Rosa. After we shook hands, he said, “It will be unfortunate for the city to lose the Hunt House.”

I assumed I knew where Dan was going, so I changed the subject. “From what I hear, what’s happening with this block is a godsend to you and your flock.” I admit, the ‘God’ phrase was sort of tease, a test to see how deeply delusional Dan was. Rachel would be disappointed.

“It couldn’t have come at a better time. Our hundred-year-old building is almost dead.” He eased his hands inside his coat pocket. The air was chilly, and the wind was picking up. I stayed silent. And waited. “You think the others will take the deal or walkaway?”

Dan’s question confused me. “Uh, what are you saying? I thought everything was a done deal. Except for Rob and Rosa and the Hunt House.” A loud, jacked-up truck approached from Brown Street. Dan and I stepped out of the way and onto the sidewalk towards Dr. Hunt’s old office.

“The closings took place last Monday. Mine, I mean the church’s deal, is complete. Money is in the bank. New building plans are almost complete. The other nine sales are contingent.”

“Contingent on what?” I doubted if the city had paid those sellers.

“It was a strange deal. You may not know but before the city got involved, Ray Archer, the developer.” Dan paused. “Do you know Ray Archer?”

“No.” I lied. Sort of.

“Anyway, Mr. Archer approached everyone on the block and made an offer. Let me just say, offers that were significantly higher than any local realtor could imagine. But here’s the kicker, no one except us, the church, accepted Archer’s offer.”

“Why?” I asked, knowing that money is the most persuasive invention of all time.

“I don’t know how other locals feel, but folks on this block don’t like Ray Archer.”

“Why?” These three letters were always relevant.

“You can thank your father-in-law for that.”

“Why?” This didn’t make sense. Seemed like it would be the opposite.

“I don’t know, exactly, but he single-handedly soured the deal. I would love to know what he told them.” The same loud truck returned. This time going in the opposite direction. It slowed but didn’t stop.

I fast-forwarded our conversation. Kyla was waiting. Christmas was coming. “And that’s when the city got involved.”

“Yep.”

“But I’m still confused. What is the contingency?”

“Folks on this block are ignorant of a lot of things, like the rest of us, but they certainly aren’t stupid. However, we can’t say that about city officials. For a reason I don’t understand, the mayor and council gave the landowners an out. To be frank, I smell a rat.” A car horn blared from the Church’s parking lot. “I better go. My wife’s probably freezing. I have the keys.”

I wanted to encourage, maybe even insist, Dan take care of his wife like he never had before, but I withheld my thoughts. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same to you. I enjoyed our talk.” Dan turned to leave, as did I. In three steps, he semi-yelled. “Oh Lee, I know that Ray Archer is still working the crowd. He’s privately making higher offers, tempting the property owners to walk away from the city’s offer.”

Without speaking, I acknowledged Dan’s statement with a thumbs-up.

Lillian was still in bed when her iPhone rang. She unburied herself from three layers of covers and reached toward the nightstand, knocking over a bottle of water. Thankfully, she had tightened the cap.

It was Donnie from Alexander Ford. It was five past seven. “Your car’s ready. Pete stayed over last night to finish up.”

“Thanks.” Lillian’s voice sounded like a man’s. “What was wrong with it?”

“Right rear rotor, had to replace it. You shouldn’t ride your brakes.” Lillian wasn’t aware of this tendency but didn’t comment on the advice.

By now, untangled and standing, her mind caught up with reality. She didn’t have a way to get her vehicle. Ray left yesterday around noon. An emergency of sorts. In Knoxville. He had driven his Suburban, leaving only the Corvette which Lillian couldn’t handle, given its manual transmission. Ray wouldn’t return until late afternoon, at the earliest. “Is there any way you or one of your guys could deliver my Aviator? I live on top of Skyhaven Drive, at the cypress lodge.”

By 8:00 AM Lillian had dropped Tank, a short and wide kid of maybe twenty, off at Alexander Ford and paid her bill. Six hundred forty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents seemed a little much, but she knew nothing about brakes and rotors. At least she had wheels. Better still, she’d used Ray’s debit card.

Most any other woman would have enjoyed spending the past two days at home, especially one as large and beautiful as the Lodge, not considering the view that competed vigorously with the Smoky Mountains. However, Lillian wasn’t just any woman. She was rarely content, except maybe when she’d find just the right novel, one with mystery and, of course, romance. Since marrying Ray, she’d always felt unfulfilled. She always regretted dropping out of college after Ray’s proposal and abandoning her dream of becoming a Crimson Tide cheerleader.

Lillian loved her Lincoln Aviator. It was the Black Label Grand Touring model. Black, of course, with tan leather interior. It was the most comfortable vehicle she’d ever owned. It was her first SUV, and Ray had bought it for $51,000 a year ago, not quibbling over the extra $1,000. Lillian guessed she was worth it. Not Lillian, but Becky Brownfield.

The irony was double headed. If Ray hadn’t introduced Lillian to private investigator Connor Ford one Sunday after church, she would never have obtained photographic proof of Ray and Becky’s affair. The real irony, if that’s what you call it, is that it was Lillian who’d hired Becky to seduce Ray. It was a long and interesting story involving the naïve Jane Fordham. The good part was that Becky was cheap, as in cost, willing to exploit Ray’s weakness for a mere $5,000.

Lillian turned right out of Alexander Ford’s parking lot and drove south on Highway 431. She was a day early, but that would give her an opportunity to inspect while the cleaning crew was still on site.

To Lillian’s surprise, Ray had not resisted her decision to move to the Corbett place. He’d even agreed to pay for the sprucing up. Two men and one woman from the city’s street department had moonlighted for Ray and Mayor King for years. They’d started yesterday morning, Veteran’s Day, an off day. Everything should be clean by late afternoon. Lillian figured today’s early morning rain had kept the three from their day-job duties.

Like Kyla’s, the Corbett place had a large pond. Lillian liked hers better, since it wasn’t in front of the house. Even better was the barn. Unlike Kyla’s, the barn was a hundred feet behind the one-story cabin. The barn had burned shortly after Ray bought the place and he’d rebuilt it much improved. Lillian loved the gambrel roof.

Lillian turned right on Alexander Road and saw the driveway to the left. Three vehicles consumed it. She parked along the road in front of the cabin. One man was vacuuming the yard with one of Ray’s John Deere mowers. That job would need repeating in a few weeks. The two giant oaks weren’t finished shedding.

Another man was on the porch, washing a large picture window to the right of the front door. Lillian waved to the man on the mower and walked to the cabin. The gray-headed window washer was humming “Amazing Grace” and didn’t hear her clear her throat. He also didn’t notice as she opened the storm door and walked into a large pine-paneled den.

Lillian could see the kitchen through a wide, arched opening. A matching entranceway was to the right, in the far corner of the den. She suspected the kitchen was one large room having a choice of entrances and exits, including one at the backside of the cabin.

Lillian heard a noise. A woman talking, or was she singing? Whatever it was, the noise was melodious. It was coming through another doorway, this one likely leading to the cabin’s bedrooms. Lillian stepped forward to a short hallway and saw the fireplug shaped woman standing inside a ceramic bathtub. She had ear buds and a caulk gun. Lillian knocked hard on the door, finally grabbing the attention of the woman with short, curly, and pinkish hair.

“Shit, you scared me.” Faye, according to her name tag, jerked out the ear buds with her free hand.

“Sorry, I’m Lillian. Looks like you guys are doing a good job.”

“Oh baby, what would I give to be in your shoes. This place is the bomb. And damn, me and Eddie could make some fine music on that gigantic bed.” Faye apparently had no filter.

“Bed?”

“It’s the biggest king I’ve ever seen.” Faye dropped the ear buds and pointed to my left. “Down the hall.”

The tube of caulk needed replacing. Faye stepped out of the tub and squeezed past Lillian.

The cabin’s main bedroom was a third the size of hers at the Lodge. The bed was enormous, almost consuming the room. Ray’s renters must have left it.

After exploring the kitchen and small utility room off the back porch, Lillian spent an hour exploring the barn and sitting in a swing beside the pond twenty feet from a long wooden pier. She wondered what roamed beneath the pond’s surface. Maybe she could learn to fish; she considered whether she could fish and read at the same time. Forget fishing. What a place to read a novel. Thoughts of starting over were scary, but also exhilarating. Living alone and maybe taking a class or two at Snead State Community College felt like heaven on earth.

A shrill noise from behind her silenced Lillian’s imagination. She stood and turned toward the cabin. Faye had reached inside her Nissan Sentra and blown the horn. She was now waving. “We done. Take care.”

Lillian returned the wave and couldn’t help but feel sorry for the short, stout, and pink-haired woman who seemed too damn happy.

An involuntary phrase erupted. “Faye don’t need no Aviator. She’s got loving Eddie and their melodious music.”

***

The early morning rain reappeared, forcing Lillian to return to the cabin. She entered through the back porch and found a set of keys on the kitchen counter. Underneath was a note scrawled across a paper towel. “If you want to sell the king call me.” Below, Faye had printed her name and phone number. Lillian couldn’t help but smile and flirt with a dream as she verified the keys. There were five in all: two for the front door and two for the rear. She guessed the fifth was for the detached garage behind the cabin.

After making sure the back door was secure, Lillian grabbed a handful of paper towels from a roll beside the sink and headed to the front porch. She locked the wooden door and used the towels to keep her hair dry, stumbling when she stepped off the short sidewalk onto the freshly mowed grass. When she reached her stylish and expensive SUV, Lillian glanced at the spot in the driveway where Faye had parked her silver Sentra.

As Lillian turned left onto Cox Gap Road, she whispered a question to herself: “if I hadn’t married Ray, would I have wound up like Faye?”

At Highway 431, Lillian dialed Kyla to ask if she had time for a visit. The sister of the only man she had ever truly loved had seemed troubled last Tuesday when Lillian had dropped by.

“Hey you.” Kyla answered on the first ring.

“I’m coming to see you if that’s okay.” Lillian assumed Kyla would be home. “What do you want for an early lunch? My treat.” She was approaching Taco Bell on the right.

“Sounds great. I’ve been missing you.” Lillian heard voices in the background, ‘next.’ “You’re welcome to come anytime but I’m waiting in line at the Courthouse. Not sure exactly when I’ll get back. Make yourself at home; the keys are where I told you.”

“You got a case or something?” Lillian turned right onto McVille Road beside Boaz Chevrolet.

“Homestead exemption. Why can’t things work like they’re supposed to? ‘Next.’”

“My favorite question.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can. I think they’re about to call me back. Make yourself at home.” Kyla ended their call as Lillian passed WBSA on her left.

As she drove, the thought of returning to a former life sent a chill down Lillian’s spine. She couldn’t decide what it meant. Was it fear or hope? Whatever it was, it included a gallon of regret. Lillian reminisced about visiting Lee and Kyla’s home place, where they had grown up, and she and Lee had spent many an hour during their last two years of high school. Memories of Lee’s bedroom flooded her mind, along with the pond and the barn loft. Oh, the barn loft. How could she forget their favorite spot: soft hay and sexy hands? She had never forgotten how alive and in love Lee had made her feel, and it really wasn’t about sex. It was how he’d traced the lines and curves on her face and neck and whispered his sweet and sensuous words. The man always had the right words.

An Alabama Crimson Tide ringtone blared from the Aviator’s console. Lillian favored the vibration setting. Why she’d changed it last night, she didn’t know. Boredom probably. She didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t in her contacts.

“Hello, this is Lillian.”

“And this is Jane. Hi L.”

“Oh, hi.” Of all people, Lillian now regretted answering. She’d given up sexy words and sensuous touches to speak to the Bible woman.

“I’m headed to the Hunt House and thought of you and Kyla.” Jane wasn’t making any sense.

“Okay.”

“Do you want to join me?” Lillian could barely hear over the loud country song in the background.

“Why?”

“May be our last chance.” Jane turned the volume down a notch. “Barbara’s finished packing and is leaving early afternoon. I’ve heard the place could be rubble by sunset.” Jane was often wrong and had a penchant for drama. Lillian knew from Ray there were some unresolved legal issues before the bulldozers did their thing.

“I’m headed to Kyla’s.” Lillian regretted her announcement.

“Bring her too. We’ll make it a memorial of sorts, for Rachel. It can be a reverse cloud of witness’s type of thing.” Now that was confusing.

“Kyla’s in Guntersville. Barbara doesn’t care?” Rachel’s room had enamored Lillian, Jane, and Kyla. Third floor, exotic wood floors, walls, and ceiling, built-in bookcases with a hundred cubby holes. And don’t dare forget the narrow stairway that led to the kitchen.

“Not at all. She said I could stay as long as I want, just lock the door when I leave.” The volume increased. ‘You’re one of them girls I wanna put my lips on.’ Jane was unique. Everything was about God and the Bible, except for her country music. To Lillian, the contrast of interests was astounding. WQSB and sex-slurping songs vs. God’s Holy Word.

“I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Lillian turned around at Shiloh Country Store and pressed hard on the accelerator. Reminiscing was coming easily today.

It was her last visit to the Hunt House. It was December 12, 1969, after the Boaz Christmas Parade. Rachel had invited her, Jane, and Kyla for one final spend the night party. She’d instructed everyone to arrive at 10:30. By 1:00 am, Rachel still hadn’t arrived. Jane, Lillian, and Kyla were tired, tired of sitting on the giant front porch and waiting. Rachel and Ray must have gotten distracted. And where were Rob and Rosa?

Lillian had always wondered about that night.

***

Ray walked across the gift shop to the maitre’d’s podium and asked for the corner table along the rear wall if available. It was. After sitting down and giving the server his drink order, he again read Ted’s text from five minutes ago. “I’m just about to leave the lawyer’s office. Should be there by 7:00. Sorry.” Per Ray’s iPhone, it was now 6:25.

The Shack wasn’t Ray’s favorite restaurant. Even though the food was excellent, the owner was an asshole, just like his father. At least the old man was dead. Ray’s drink arrived. When the server left, he held his glass up as though offering a toast, and whispered, “To Wiley Jones. Thank God you’re dead.”

Wesley Jones, the son and current owner, a former attorney with the U.S. Justice Department, was getting stinking rich. Ray simply didn’t understand. Maybe if dear old Wiley had left lawyer-turned-restaurateur a chain of these Cracker-Barrel type joints it would be more believable.

The only reason Ray hated Wiley was because he had won the city councilman’s election five years ago. What galled Ray was that he had fared so badly, losing by over thirty percent.

The server returned, and Ray ordered another glass of Chardonnay. But all was not bad. Even though Wesley was now completing the balance of Wiley’s second term, if he hadn’t died, Ray wouldn’t own the Lodge. Linda, Wiley’s wife, had been eager to sell, virtually running away from the haunted house. Not openly, but secretly, Wiley’s death brought pleasure. Murdered seemed an innocuous way to put it. In fact, Wiley’s killing was execution style in his own bedroom, in the secluded room beyond the walk-in closet beside the upstairs bathroom. The one attached to Lillian’s bedroom.

Ray steered his mind toward his wife and keeping her close. That looked better from the outside. Man and wife together, same house, happy. A loving couple.

Ray heard Ted’s voice, one recognizable anywhere. “Damn, that man loves torture, the slow kind.” The mayor was two tables away trying to flag a server.

“The attorney?” Ray hated lawyers.

“Yea. He took nearly three hours to tell me the city will probably go bankrupt if we don’t do your deal.” Ted said, ordering a glass of wine and a double Bourbon.

“Shit, I didn’t realize it was that bad.” Another server came and took their food orders. “Two large rib-eyes, baked potatoes, salads with ranch dressing. Shrimp as the second meat.”

“Thanks, I’m starving.” Ted and Ray always ordered the most expensive entrees. The city always paid. Business. Ted shared the attorney’s details. “It’s the twenty-five million we’re in debt for the park and the rec center.”

“Debt can be a killer if not properly structured.” Ray was a financial genius. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that five years ago he’d sold his pharmacy chain for a sneeze short of a billion dollars.

“The monthly nut is a quarter million. It’s eating our lunch.” Ted’s drinks arrived. He downed the bourbon in one gulp.

“That takes a shit-pot full of sales at five percent.”

“You’re telling me.” Ted loosened his pink and green tie and held out his wineglass. “To the future. I’m tired of the past.” Ray and Ted toasted.

“Speaking of the future, did Vince say if anyone had backed out?” Ray hadn’t wanted to think about it. All nine real estate contracts had already closed. With one unsatisfied contingency. Per agreement, the Birmingham attorney who represented the nine landowners had negotiated a rare provision: in exchange for a price reduction of fifteen percent, the property owners had twenty business days to decide whether to kill the deal. And the real twist was if all nine bailed, the city would withdraw its intention to go forward with the eminent domain action.

“Not yet. Rob’s son-in-law has thrown a monkey wrench into our plans.”

“You talking about Lee Harding? What dog does he have in this fight?”

“According to Vince, around noon today, Mr. Harding moved for temporary injunctive relief.” The food arrived and Ted paused long enough to take a bite of everything.

Ray started with his steak. He always ate one thing at a time, then moved on to the next item. “That has to be their Hail Mary finale.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Vince said he did a little research after receiving notice of Lee’s filing. According to him, the grounds aren’t frivolous. There’s precedent for it. The Hunt House has been on the National Register of Historic Places since the mid-nineties.”

Suddenly Ray was no longer hungry. He laid down his fork and knife and pushed back his plate. He knew the entire project depended on buying the Hunt House, and that time was of the essence. “Let’s up the offer.”

“At first, I thought the same thing. Who in their right mind wouldn’t instantly accept a half million dollars for that old heap of bricks? But listen. Our problem may be bigger than you realize. Guess who our Mr. Harding has associated with?”

“You know I hate the guessing game.” Ray grabbed the passing server and ordered a double Scotch.

“Micaden Tanner.”

“Oh, hell.” Ray said, closing his eyes and shaking his head sideways.