Chapter 1

 A dense fog suffocated the dawn. It seemed I could reach out and touch Rachel’s headstone, yet I was underneath the cemetery’s arched stone entrance two hundred yards away. A bird, a radio speaker, my mind, something from above, kept reminding me of my grandmother’s philosophical mantra. “Live and learn and die and forget it all.” I’m sure my dead wife had forgotten everything, but had she discovered forgiveness? Had she forgiven herself for long ago sins, and had she forgiven me for failing to protect her?

The fog lifted and I realized I was in that netherworld between dreaming and awakening, moving my lips but barely sounding the words. “Oh Rachel, why kill yourself over something that happened half-a-century ago?”

I rolled onto my right side and opened my eyes, semi-surprised. The digital clock on Leah’s nightstand reads 3:58 AM. It’s early morning, Saturday, and it has happened again. For the eighth straight week.

Last night I conducted an experiment. I abandoned mine and Rachel’s master bedroom and slept upstairs in our daughter’s room, thinking this would break the two-month established pattern. It had not. I awoke at the four o’clock hour entangled in the same dream clawing my way to a peace and happiness I knew I’d never find.

Other than the editing of my writings—natural for myself, Lee Harding, Yale Law School professor—my first thought every Saturday morning had been this question about my departed wife. It had been almost a year since I found her hanging from an overhead beam in the basement. Her successful suicide had followed her failed attempt via pain pills six months earlier. That was when she’d told me why she wanted to end her life.

I tossed the covers aside and sat along the edge of Leah’s bed. Rachel’s abortion at age 16 was a secret, at least to me. Somehow, I had chalked it up to youthful indiscretion; that’s the short and simple way to restate how I’d adjusted. For Rachel, it was impossible to digest. Or to cast outside her psyche.

I slipped my feet inside my house shoes and exited Leah’s bedroom, grabbing a quick gaze inside Lyndell’s bedroom across the hall. Oh, to go back in time, to happier days, the house bustling with mine and Rachel’s two teenagers, both adopted but happy when we moved to New Haven in 2000 and bought this house.

I did not linger. I descended the stairs, eager to take a shower in the master bathroom before driving to the cemetery. Although I had made progress, this pattern was more than habit. It was an addiction. For the first ten months after Rachel’s suicide, I began each day visiting her at Eastwood Cemetery, always arriving before dawn. Now, and for the past seven weeks, I had painfully reduced my fix to once per week, still arriving every Saturday before sunrise. The next expected step in my therapeutic recovery would be a once per month visit, but I doubted that would ever happen. Neither of us could survive with such infrequent injections: her dose of trust and loyalty I gave her, and my dose of practical needfulness she gave me.

***

I opted to skip the shower. The house was cold. So was I. It had been an unusually warm fall in New England, and I had not yet switched the unit to HEAT. It was time for cooler, if not colder, weather. I was inside our walk-in closet searching for warmer clothes when I heard my cell vibrating. I returned to the bathroom and grabbed my iPhone, face down on the granite vanity. It was odd my mother-in-law was calling so early. It was only 4:20.

“What’s wrong?” I said, knowing the news could not be good. I normally did not skip a cordial greeting.

“A good morning to you, too. I knew you would be up.” Since my student days in law school in the late 70s, I had been an early riser. Rachel and her mother were close. Rosa’s voice, always pleasant, always proper. Like Rachel’s. Both women had been English teachers.

“Sorry. Morning. I have been up for a while. Are you okay?” Rosa and Rob, in their mid-eighties, retired Southern Baptist missionaries, spent most of their married lives in China. They now shared a three-room suite at Bridgewood Gardens, an assisted living facility in Albertville, Alabama.

“I’m fine. We’re fine. Lee, I know this is short notice, but would you have some time to meet, maybe this morning?” It confused me. I live in New Haven, Connecticut. That’s a long way from the Yellowhammer state. I was unaware my in-laws had been planning a trip.

After an unnatural pause, I said, “sure.”

During the next several minutes, Rosa declared she and Rob were about an hour away, in New Rochelle, New York. Two days ago, they had felt “smothered” and planned a road trip, including a visit to see me. It had been too long. Almost a year, to be exact. The weekend we buried Rachel. Before Rosa ended our call, she said, “Lee, there’s also a legal issue we need to run by you.”

I suggested they come to the house around 7:00 but Rosa would not have it: “I don’t want to rekindle those memories, and practically, I don’t want you scurrying around to tidy up the place.”

I’d agreed and first recommended Denny’s on Sawmill Road, then changed my mind to Bella’s, my local favorite. It was downtown New Haven, near the law school. Although it made for a longer drive for us all, the food would be much better.

***

The drive to Eastwood Cemetery was only two miles, something Rachel had thought important when she insisted we purchase our burial plots. I would always believe it was more than coincidence she had demanded we complete our “pre-planning” four months before her death.

I turned left and slowed my speed to five miles per hour before passing beneath the rock archway. Beyond the entrance was sacred ground, according to Gordon, the head caretaker of the twenty-seven acres. The gently rolling hills with intricately aligned rows of headstones always reminded me of a game of dominoes, even though any toppling could not start the process given the widely spaced graves.

Even with minimal light, I could see Gordon already busy. He was loading his lawn mowers, weed eaters, and an assortment of tools on his work trailer when I passed the maintenance shed on my right. We exchanged waves, though I doubted he could see mine.

Rachel’s grave was on Gethsemane Trail. Eastwood had used the Bible as its only source for naming the perfectly designed pathways. The major routes, the tributaries—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—formed a square, two running east and west and two north and south, all lying as a circumference on the outer reaches of the twenty-seven-acre tract. The trails sprouted from the tributaries and generally ran east and west.

I drove north on Luke and turned right on Gethsemane. Rachel’s grave was in the middle, on the upper side of the trail. I exited my Tahoe and removed the lawn chair from inside the rear hatch. The sun was just coming up when I positioned myself to the right of the headstone, just outside the stone foot-markers to Rachel’s plot. The thick grass was reaching for the sky. Gordon, the barber, would be along before noon with clippers and shears at the ready.

“Good morning, Rachel Anne.” She always hated me for verbalizing her middle name. I mostly honored her request while she was living, but now I wanted to be mean. Sort of. Since I would not dare cuss her or figuratively give her a beating, I resigned to the dastard-like greeting.

She did not respond but continued her early morning duties. I had always had a vivid imagination, and now was no different. I pictured the tall brunette scurrying around the kitchen before another day of teaching high school English, no doubt spreading an extra layer of mayonnaise on the sandwich she would eat at her desk while reading essays or developing lesson plans.

“You’d be proud of me.” I wondered if other husbands, widowers they’re called, visited their wives’ graves and talked to them as though sitting hand in hand in low slung chairs in burning sand watching the ocean waves roll forward.

“Why?” she said, tossing her silky hair to the side as her eyes stole a glance my way. She filled her Yeti with another cup of coffee, grabbed her lunchbox, blew me a kiss, and waited anxiously for my reply as she opened the back door to the deck.

“I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings. With the interviewing.” My good friend, twenty years my senior, Bert Stallings, head of the law school’s civil torts department, had long promoted women’s rights. Rachel, while living, was not a big fan, but she was happy I had expanded my social network, something I had trouble doing ever since my childhood friend, Kyle Bennett, had gone missing in tenth grade.

“Good.” Rachel was off to Amity Regional High School without asking a single follow-up question.

I poured a cup of coffee from my old green Thermos. I had loved Rachel since the ninth grade. That was my secret. It was not until we were both in college that I shared my early high school infatuation.

It had happened suddenly, at first sight. It was the first day of school, a hot and muggy August morning in Mrs. Stamps’ English class. I’m sure I was a distant planet to the smart sounding girl sitting across the aisle and one seat forward. Probably, I was an undiscovered planet. Rachel was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Later, at the midmorning break, I learned from Kyle that she and her brother, along with their missionary parents, had returned from China for a two-year furlough.

It was six years later, at the University of Virginia, that we had our first conversation. We both had been students living in Charlottesville for a year and a half, wholly unaware of the other’s presence, before our chance meeting in the Student Union. Rachel always called it a miracle. Less than a month later, we had our first date. By the end of summer, after our sophomore year, we married.

Another old memory arrived. During our ninth and tenth-grade years, I never generated the courage to talk to Rachel, much less ask her for a date. Eleventh grader Ray Archer had latched onto her by the second week of ninth grade. That was 1968. Now that I think about it, Rachel and family returned to China shortly after Christmas of tenth grade. No doubt breaking Ray’s heart.

My right leg suddenly cramped. Instantly I stood. The remains of my Thermos spilled onto the ground. I walked twice around Rachel’s grave to relieve the pain. I hated getting older. It was awful to be sixty-six, not that I was in poor health, but because of the mental pressure. I simply could not shake my guilt. Although Rachel had consoled me after her failed suicide attempt and surprise confession, I still strongly believed I was at fault. I should have helped the woman I had fallen in love with at first sight. It was my fault she had not found peace during those stressful six months before she toppled the chair beneath her noose. These guilty, gut-wrenching feelings were like what I had felt when Kyle had gone missing. My firm belief was that I had failed my best friend. After his disappearance, I was alone. I am alone now after Rachel’s suicide. The bottom line is, neither Kyle nor Rachel could trust me as a friend.

I stood for the longest next to Rachel’s headstone. Facing east, I felt the rising sun as though I was two feet from a heat lamp. I removed my hat, keeping my eyes closed. Until the depressing thoughts attacked. I reopened my eyes when the image appeared: toppled chair, rope, the limp body of the woman I loved, the one who kept me at a distance. My dead wife’s secrets proved we had never been truly intimate.

I returned to my lawn chair, this time facing west, and removed the Sand Mountain Reporter from my leather binder. Rachel insisted I read the obituaries from our hometown newspaper. It was Thursday’s edition. As usual, it was thin, two sections, maybe ten or twelve-pages total.

Local deaths were always on page 3. I turned there automatically as usual, hardly glancing at the front page. I started at the top. Rachel insisted I read every one. Aloud.

“Norma Jean Silvers of Douglas, passed away peacefully at home on Sunday, November 1, 2020. She was 93 years of age.” After reading Norma’s civic and social club memberships and leadership roles, I skipped her education, employment, and religious history. I hoped Rachel didn’t mind. The SMR could get rather windy.

Jorene Horton was up next. I lost my place when my iPhone rang. It was probably Rosa reminding me to bring the book she had asked me to mail. That was nearly a month ago, and I was still searching for it in Rachel’s library.

I stood and removed my cell from my front left pocket. It was Gordon, probably using the old Samsung I’d given him Labor Day as a birthday present.

“Hey my friend. Sorry I didn’t stop to chat when I arrived.”

“Not’s a problem. I see’d you and hope you’s well.” Gordon was humble, the most decent person I knew. He had been caretaker at Eastwood since he was a teenager. I did not know how old he was now, but he’d told me the only time he’d been away from the cemetery was during the “big war.” Although I had never seen it, Gordon lives alone in a little cabin through a patch of hickory trees on the northwest corner of the cemetery, out-of-sight from the intersection of Matthew and John.

We talked for at least five minutes before he asked if starting his mower would upset me. He promised he would be almost out of earshot and would start on the far east end of Gethsemane. Of course, I did not mind.

I would have invited him over for a cup of coffee, but I was all out, and I was only halfway through the obits. I wished him well, but he’d already ended our call.

I checked the time before pocketing my iPhone. It was 6:16. Dang, I had to go. I folded the newspaper and tucked it inside my binder. “Sorry Rachel, I know you’ll understand my rush. Mom and Pop are in town. We’re meeting for breakfast. I sure wish you could join us.”

Chapter 2

I was late for breakfast, even though it had taken less than ten minutes to drive to Bella’s in downtown New Haven. I found my in-laws in a corner booth and kissed Rosa on the cheek, apologizing profusely. Rob’s smile-less face appeared angry, semi-confirming my belief he blamed me for his daughter’s death.

“Sorry, I spent too much time looking for your book.” The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a “loan” to Rachel several years ago. She’d encouraged me to read it, but I’d stuck with my law books and novels instead. The Lutheran preacher’s autographed book was given to Rosa in the late sixties by the author’s twin sister, Sabine Leibholz, at a Christian conference she had spoken to in Berlin. I don’t recall how Sabine had received signed copies of her brother’s books twenty-plus years after the Nazis hung him in 1945.

“Rachel would have prized it. And protected it. It’s there, in her library, somewhere.” I said, embarrassed, knowing my failure to find would be one more reason for Rob’s disgust. 

Rosa, at eighty-five, was still attractive and elegant. Like Rachel, she had high cheekbones. Unlike my wife, Rosa wore a constant smile. Her happiness was always on display, which amplified her refined facial structure.

“I’ll keep looking, but you know you’re always welcome to visit. Why don’t you two follow me home and stay a few days? I’m sure you’ll find your book.” I said, looking at Rosa, and avoiding Rob across the table.

“We can’t. I want to be in Boston by sundown.” Rob laid aside his laminated menu, his voice unusually gruff.

The server came and took our orders. Rosa and I opted for oatmeal and fruit. Rob stuck with Southern tradition: eggs, biscuits, grits, bacon and sausage, and a large orange juice. The young girl left, and an older man appeared to refill their coffee cups. I turned mine upright: “Half a cup, please.” I’d already had enough caffeine.

***

Rosa didn’t contest Rob’s plans, instead stayed on safe ground. “How do you know about this place? Did you and Rachel come here?”

“No, but she would have loved it, with these booths nestled against the walls, the long counter with evenly spaced stools. Even these laminated menus.” I handed mine to Rosa for her to store with the others inside the wire rack next to the salt and pepper shakers.

“So, how did you find it?” Rob jumped in. I’d ignored Rosa’s first question.

“It’s about a twenty-minute walk to the law school. I’d parked across the street at Edgewood Park, not noticing Bella’s at first. That was before Rachel.” I paused. “Died. She was after me about exercising. Said I needed to abandon the faculty parking lot and take a long walk, both before and after my workday. I took her advice and have been parking across the street ever since. I come in here for dinner if I work late.”

Neither Rob nor Rosa responded. The silence grew stressful. Finally, the server delivered our food.

With a mouth full of food, Rob surprised me. “We need some legal advice. That’s why we’re here.” The latter statement wasn’t a surprise. The former was. Randy, their son, Rachel’s younger brother, and my brother-in-law, was also an attorney. Rob had always called on him, although the need for legal advice was rare for a missionary couple.

I shouldn’t have responded with my disinterested tone. “Where’s Randy?”

“Hiking. Again.” Rob stuffed a whole slice of bacon in his mouth. Randy had recently retired as general counsel for a large construction company in Chicago. He’d always had a passion for the outdoors. 

“Appalachian Trail?” I was aware he’d made the fifteen-hundred-mile trek at least twice. Rosa offered her pineapple. “Thanks.”

Rosa held out her palm and stopped Rob from speaking. “Rob’s mad at Randy. He took Celia with him.” Celia was the twenty-five-year-old daughter of the construction company’s chairperson and majority stockholder. She’d snared the fifty-nine-year-old Randy at a company picnic three years ago. This had cost my brother-in-law his marriage. The two lovebirds were now living in the Winnebago Randy had purchased with the bonus he’d received at retirement. I guessed it paid to sleep with the King’s daughter.

“What’s your legal issue?” I asked, thinking it would detour the conversation away from a dissertation on adultery. 

Rob took the bait. “You ever heard of eminent domain?” The server returned and took another order for bacon. I wondered how long it would be until my father-in-law died of a heart attack.

“I have. Studied it a little in law school forty years ago.”

“They’re going to take it unless you do something.” Rob was good at confusing statements. I’d heard him preach enough to know that.

“Who’s they and what are they taking?” I switched plates, pushing my oatmeal away and pulling my fruit forward.

Rosa offered help. “The City of Boaz is condemning our house on Thomas.”

“You mean the Hunt House?” Rob’s rich banker brother, a bachelor all his brief life, had left the historic home for Rob and Rosa. That was in the early sixties when Randall died. He had died of a heart attack at age forty-four. I wondered if he loved bacon.  

“You know in our will we give that place to Rachel and Randy. I’m about ready to cut Randy out and leave him a dollar. You can have Rachel’s part, shit, the whole place. If you can save it.” Obviously, Rob opposed his son’s shacked-up lifestyle.

“Why is the city wanting your property?” I knew little about real estate law and virtually nothing about the doctrine of eminent domain. But I recalled it prevented the government from using the condemned property for private purposes.

“Damn Ray Archer and one of his mega-centers.” I almost blew out a mouthful of cantaloupe. Sweat spread across my forehead. Ray Archer was the only person in the world I hated. It was impossible not to blame him for Rachel’s death half-a-century after he got her pregnant.

Rosa noticed how upset I was. “See, I told you this was a bad idea.” Rob stared while Rosa talked. I didn’t hear her last three statements. 

“Can we stop it?” Rob kept going as though Rosa wasn’t present. “I’d love to kill the son-of-a-bitch but I’m afraid of prison. He took Rachel from us. He’s not taking the only home in the states she knew.” I’d never heard him cuss.

“While she was growing up.” Rosa was always clarifying Rob’s broad statements.

I took a sip of water. “How would I know?” I said, staring at Rob.

“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?” I had forgotten what an asshole Rob could be, even if he didn’t normally cuss. In my world, it didn’t seem to fit a Southern Baptist Missionary.

“Sorry to not be clairvoyant. I need more facts, and a lot of time to research, but my guess is that the City’s attorneys have fully explored this.”

“You better hurry. There’s not a lot of time. Word is the city has already asked a court to sanctify its offer. From what I hear, the bulldozers will start before Christmas.” I could have asked Rob a dozen questions. But I didn’t. Instead, I pondered Rob’s reasoning to reject the City’s offer. It could be the money, but I’d bet it was simple revenge.

“We’re the only holdouts.” Rosa added, offering her pears and kiwi slices. I declined, wishing for Pepto Bismol instead. “They’re taking the entire block, from Thomas to Sparks, from Brown to Darnell.” 

I could picture the entire block, surrounded by these four streets. “Dang, aren’t there a dozen or more houses, and what about the church?”

“Julie Street Methodist. It’s already in need of extensive repairs. It’s a blessing to the members. They’re going to build a new facility.” Rosa always looked for the good.

“How much is the city offering for your place?” The amount should be a sizable sum. The giant home was a landmark, included in the Historic Register. A man named Whitman built it in the 1920s, I believe. His family sold it to a Dr. Hunt, maybe in the late forties or early fifties. I recalled Rachel saying her Uncle Randall had bought it at an auction and she, Randy and her parents, had first lived there in the late sixties when they returned from China on furlough.

“Half a million.” Rob interjected, having finished his food, and was now devouring the rest of Rosa’s fruit. It couldn’t be the money. Rob was out for revenge.

“That seems like a fair price, maybe above market, but I’m just guessing.” I figured Ray Archer could afford twice that amount. After Rachel died, I did a little research. I had hoped to discover the son-of-a-bitch had terminal cancer, or a shark had eaten him. My findings were the opposite. In his thirties and forties, Ray had built a profitable chain of stores that served triple duty: pharmacies, groceries, and housewares. He’d later bought out his brother and then sold the entire chain to Walgreen’s, for somewhere around a billion dollars. Since the late nineties, Archer’s focus was on a development known as Rylan’s. It’s a chain of farm and ranch stores structured like Tractor Supply. The only difference is that Ray includes them in a much larger development of stores, none of which are owned by him. Obviously, Rachel’s abortion had affected her much worse than her teenage lover.

After the server and Rob exchanged paper and credit card, my attention waned. My in-laws reported in much detail what Rylan’s was all about. Thursday, they visited one while passing through Knoxville, Tennessee. My thoughts turned to Boaz, Alabama, when Rob began describing Ruth’s Christ, a Christian bookstore idea Ray was trying.

I hadn’t returned to Boaz since 2002 when Rachel insisted we attend my thirty year high school reunion. It was her graduating class too, if she’d stayed past Christmas of her tenth-grade year. Instead, she and her family were in China for the May 1972 ceremonies.

That 2002 weekend was also the first time I’d ever been inside the Hunt House. It was Rachel’s idea. She had only lived there a year and a half but felt the need to visit her upstairs bedroom. The Kern’s had long leased the place to a woman named Barbara. I forgot her last name. She had converted the place to a bed-and-breakfast.

The place was magnificent, unmatched architecture for Boaz, anywhere really. It was a brick Craftsman-style home. I particularly liked its tiled roof and porch with heavy brick columns. I think I recall exposed rafter ends, and rectilinear fireplace mantles. Inside, I recalled three floors with a ton of built-ins and even a secret passageway or two. 

“Lee, Lee Harding, are you listening?” Rob had raised his voice. I don’t know why he said my full name. Rosa was patting me on my right hand.

“Huh? Sorry, I was daydreaming, I guess. What’d you say?” My listening skills were declining.

“You’ll help us?” Rob’s question was mostly command.

I hesitated, but felt I had little choice. It really wouldn’t be that difficult. And I could do it from here, the law school, assuming Alabama was like every other state. Now, they all keep court records online. “I’ll investigate it. At least check out the City’s court filing. Maybe talk to the city attorney.” Rob sat straighter, leaning a little more towards me, maybe expecting me to assure him of a coming victory. It was important that I keep him grounded. “Rob, there’s probably little I can do to stop the demolition.”

Without framing his thoughts, Rob blurted: “Give’em hell, that’s all I ask.” I didn’t respond. So much for keeping Rob grounded.

Chapter 3

Inside her bathroom, upstairs, Lillian removed the sales tag from a new jogging suit. She laughed to herself, returning the scissors to the top drawer, and stealing a quick glance in the large mirror above the vanity. “Oh boy, I needed that,” she whispered to herself. “Aging is a bitch.” She was naked other than a bikini bra and panties. Stepping into her sweatpants, she moved closer to the mirror. Gone were the firm boobs and abs. Gone was her curvaceous figure of long ago. Even her bright blue eyes were growing darker, sadder. “I need to jog for sure, maybe begin with a daily walk down Skyhaven Drive. Sixty-six is not too late for some radical change.” Again, whispering aloud, then standing mum. She imagined it would take weeks before she could jog back to the Lodge from the foot of the Drive. Hate was the only word she could think of to describe how she felt about the Lodge and Skyhaven.

After dressing, she combed her silky brown hair (Camilla, her hairdresser, hid the gray) and heard the front door chime. Ray’s voice thundered and floated upwards throughout the great room and its twenty-four feet ceiling. It also slithered through the opened bathroom door. “Let’s have a drink.” She knew he had been at Attorney Wright’s office all day with the real estate closings, even though it wasn’t necessary. Archer, Inc. was leasing the property from the City. 

But she didn’t want a drink. She’d rather, well, what? Take a jog? A walk would be more practical. Anything except playing happy with Ray. A second before announcing her declination, Lillian heard a second voice.

“How about some bourbon? We deserve an entire bottle.” It had to be Mayor King. He, like Ray, had spent all day in Guntersville, just to make sure none of the property owners got cold feet. They hadn’t. All had gone as planned. Attorney Wright had even said he was certain Judge Broadside would grant the City’s motion. Clearing the way to acquire the Hunt House.

“Jack and Coke, okay?” Ray’s favorite. Lillian eased to the bathroom door. If he stayed downstairs, he couldn’t see her. She wondered if he knew she was home. But how could he? An hour ago, she had dropped off her Lincoln Aviator at Alexander Ford for service and to investigate that strange grinding noise when she braked. Kyla, her friend, had driven her home and had left only a few minutes ago, after coming inside to borrow Lillian’s copy of Grisham’s new book.

“Where’s Lillian?” Ted didn’t care for Ray’s wife, but he certainly cared about privacy.

“She must still be with Kyla. She’s not here. Her car wasn’t in the driveway or garage.” Ray said from the bar, ice cubes clattering.

“Is she liking this place any better?” Ray had shared Lillian’s dissatisfaction over their move six months ago from their home in Country Club. He knew it was the Lodge’s history. Two years ago, local entrepreneur and City council member Wiley Jones was murdered upstairs inside his study. Lillian was standing less than twenty-five feet from where it happened. A door on the other side of her bathroom led inside a walk-in closet and on to another door and secret room, one Mr. Jones had used as a private office. His wife, Linda, had found him tied to his desk chair, his brains everywhere.

“Not really. I’m hoping the renovation of Wiley’s hideaway will solve the problem.” It will, Lillian thought, anything to have her own space: large bath and bedroom with private balcony, and the huge hideaway where she could read and scribble. And anything to avoid sleeping with Ray in the giant master bedroom downstairs.

Lillian eased through the bathroom door onto the landing. She peeked over the railing and saw Ray sitting in his favorite chair with Ted standing, backed up to the dormant fireplace. She quickly retreated when she imagined Ted’s eyes looking straight at her.

“We still set to sign on the fifteenth?” Ted was excited. Ray’s in-progress development was the City’s fifth major project since he’d become mayor in 2016. Old Mill Park, the new recreational center, the downtown renovation, and the high school’s Fine Arts Center were the other four (although the school board was due more credit for the latter). Once completed, Ray’s development, Rylan’s, with its thirty retail stores, would be the most expensive investment in Boaz since the outlets in the late 80s.

“Probably. My attorney’s reviewing the lease agreement. He says it’s imperative we wait until the city acquires the Hunt House. None of my cajoling has changed his mind.” The attorney wasn’t the only holdout. Ray himself had no interest in going forward unless he controlled the entire block.

“That’s nearly two weeks. Rob will sign the deed. He’ll have no choice.”

“You’re assuming the Judge will get on board.”

“I don’t think he has a choice either. I assume you’ve been reading the community anger from the Reporter’s article. Lillian had read every letter to the editor and Facebook comment since last Thursday’s newspaper. She was angry the Sand Mountain Reporter had been so open about Rob and Rosa’s opposition. Many online commenters expressed their thoughts with vitriolic terms: “the Kern’s don’t love Boaz”; “they are greedy”, and on and on with the same negative theme. But Lillian knew the true reason Rob was so adamant, even if every other citizen except Ray didn’t have a clue. Now that Ray’s mother was dead, the group who knew about Ray and Rachel’s pregnancy and abortion grew even smaller: Ray, his semi-senile father, Rob and Rosa, and possibly Lee. But he was just a guess. The group’s remaining member was herself, but that was her secret.

For the next several minutes, Ted responded to Ray’s question concerning additional parking. The mayor was confident the city would find the funding needed to acquire the block due west of Rylan’s. The deteriorating property contained one abandoned residence and three buildings whose glory had long passed. Built in the mid-fifties, Cox Chevrolet, and Jack Oliver Ford had once been the heartbeat of North Main Street. Now, the crumbling buildings barely survived. The old Ford place was now a warehouse of sorts, mostly junk. A Hispanic church and a Mexican restaurant leased the two Cox buildings from an out-of-town great-granddaughter. Making the City more ‘American,’ as Ted described it, had been a vibrant but unspoken goal of the four-year mayor.

Lillian got bored and retreated inside the bathroom. She lowered the commode lid and sat. She could still hear voices but was free of words. The two egoists were reviling for many reasons, least of which was their hypocrisy. She wasted thoughts comparing the Sunday Ray with the every-other-day Ray. Chairman of Deacons and Men’s Sunday School teacher at First Baptist Church of Christ. That’s Sunday Ray. Chasing women and money was the every-other-day Ray.

Finally, a Crimson Tide ring tone erupted. It had to be Ted’s cell. Ray normally set his to vibrate. Another minute, more voices, and the front door chime. Lillian rose and walked to the landing. Both men were walking outside. This was her chance. She hurried down the winding staircase, across the great room, and out the back door. A few seconds later, she descended eight steps, turned left to the patio and outdoor kitchen, and sat in a chaise lounge.

***

Lillian dialed Kyla, but the call went to voice mail. Before the Facebook APP opened, Ray descended the back porch stairs.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“Kyla dropped me off. I came here to read and enjoy the view.” Lillian kept a novel or two in a bottom cabinet next to the char grill. The Lodge, constructed of cypress wood, river rock, and glass, sat perched atop the highest point in the county, just beyond the dead end of Skyhaven Drive. The valley below was all forest. It had been a brilliant fall. Red, yellow, brown, and orange still glowed, even glistened, for miles and miles.

“I’ll grill some steaks.” Ray said, walking to the refrigerator, satisfied with Lillian’s response. 

“Sounds good. I’m hungry. If it’s okay, let’s eat inside. I’m freezing.” It was early November and one week into daylight savings time. It would be dark in twenty minutes.

Lillian’s cell beeped with a text notification. “I’m putting up groceries. Will call in a few. I hate Walmart.” Kyla had seen the missed call. 

“Wait thirty minutes. I’m about to eat dinner. With Ray.” Lillian responded, regretting not having her car, but resigning herself to an evening spent upstairs, talking with her childhood friend.

Kyla Harding was Lee’s younger sister. By one year. Lillian and Kyla had been virtually inseparable until she went away to college and a career in marketing. Six weeks ago, the Coca Cola corporation executive retired and returned to Boaz, to Kyla and Lee’s home place. It had been a tough decision for the never-married Kyla. Not that she didn’t love the cozy farmhouse, barn, and pond centered on forty acres off McVille Road. It was the death of her and Lee’s parents that haunted her. No one, especially an eighty-five-year-old couple, should die in a car wreck.

“You want a salad?” One good thing about Ray was his cooking skills. He fashioned himself a chef. The Lodge’s outdoor kitchen was another reason he’d bought the Lodge. It provided a powerful daily temptation. The kitchen’s semi-circle design displayed a combination of cypress cabinets and ten stainless appliances: two stoves, three grills, an offset smoker, a warming cabinet, a double-door refrigerator, a single door freezer, and a custom designed ten-foot steam table. The lone non-stainless grill was a Blackstone. This eccentric home setup had always motivated Ray to keep a generous supply of pork, beef, chicken, fish, and lamb either fresh or frozen. When he was in town, he grilled something every day, some days he even cooked breakfast on the Blackstone.

“Caesar’s. With Vinaigrette.” Ray nodded his head and turned his attention back to the steaks. The days were long gone when she would have gotten up and walked over and wrapped her arms around the tall and dark-haired man with muscular arms and ribbed abs. Now, it wasn’t just the extra pounds and semi-bent back (post, 2 surgeries). It was the barren desert that lay between them. Lillian pushed aside memories of Ray’s multiple affairs and her own midnight investigations.

Inside, after the rib-eye and salad, and a painfully slow glass of white wine, Lillian excused herself to read and walked upstairs. If she had to hear more about the Rylan’s chain, she would puke.

Lillian lay across her bed, opened The Pelican Brief, and adjusted her reading lamp. It was John Grisham’s third novel, first published in 1994. Darby Shaw was an amazing woman, albeit wholly fictional. Three weeks ago, Lillian had started re-reading her favorite author’s novels. She had already read A Time to Kill and The Partner. It would take her months before she’d need A Time for Mercy, the latest novel she’d loaned Kyla.

It was almost seven-thirty before her cell vibrated. “Hey girl, thought you’d forgot to call.” Lillian laid Pelican aside and stood. The jogging suit was hot. She walked to the doorway and flipped on the ceiling fan.

“Sorry, the goat man came. I thought he was coming tomorrow. He was half-drunk, but I love my Nubians.” 

“What?” Lillian wasn’t a farm girl and didn’t understand or appreciate Kyla’s interest in country life. She’d spent forty-plus years in a Buckhead suburb.

“That’s the breed. Anglo-Nubian.”

“How many did you buy?” 

“Five. Four females, all pregnant, and one male. They’re beautiful and adorable. Like pets.”

“What color?”

“The male is mostly black. One female is solid brown. The others are a mix of brown and white spots. They all have pendulous ears.” Lillian didn’t ask.

“And you’re really going to milk them?” Lillian remembered visiting Kyla’s home and farm during their high school days. Then, Kyla was naturally smart but country, an outdoor, tom-boyish girl with a distinctive southern twang. Now, and most all her years since college in Atlanta, she was cultured, exuding confidence with her coherent speech, anything but a slow drawl.

“And make cheese.” The sounds that followed Kyla’s statement had to be the bleating of goats.

“You still outside?”

“I’m headed in. I’m leaving them in the barn’s hallway. You should come see them tomorrow when I let them out to pasture.”

“Don’t forget, I’m hoofing it. I’ll be climbing the walls by Friday, assuming my car’s ready by then.”

“I can come get you. Oh, this’ll pick you up. Guess who I talked to?”

“George Clooney? Did you give him my number?”

“Ha. Not George, but the next best thing. For you that is.”

“And who would that be?”

“My brother.” Kyla had always thought Lillian and Lee would get back together. They had dated in the eleventh grade and gone steady throughout their senior year. The bust-up had occurred during Lillian’s freshman year in Tuscaloosa at the University of Alabama. Ray Archer had swooped in and snatched her up, promising a leisure life with travel, money, and none of the headaches of working. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, calling Lee at the University of Virginia and giving him the news. Looking back, it was the worst decision Lillian had ever made.

“Is he retiring? Coming to see you?” Lillian crossed the room and opened the sliding door to the balcony. She needed some cool air. The moon cast its soft light across the narrow porch. She took three steps and looked skyward. The full moon was so close she could touch it, so she imagined.

“Don’t you wish?” Kyla and Lillian shared every secret, well, almost everyone. For sure, through the years, Kyla had listened to her best friend, as her marriage crumbled. To start, the sex had been passionate and frequent, but without intimacy, it was only a quick thrill. Kyla knew Lillian had stayed for the money, not the love. Anyway, what would she do now? She had never worked a day in her life, although there had been that tenth grade Christmas job at Fred King’s, a clothing store in downtown Boaz.

“Is he any better?” Kyla had shared how devastated Lee was over Rachel’s suicide, that he was seeing a counselor, and spending most of his time teaching, advising students, and researching. Except for Saturdays, he was rarely at home.

“Maybe a little. I’m hopeful. He called to ask if Rachel had loaned me a book, one by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. You know, the Lutheran preacher who the Nazi’s hanged during World War II.”

“I think there’s a copy in the church library, but I’ve never read it.”

“No surprise there. I’m hoping this is a sign Lee is rekindling his love for Jesus. His searching for this book is encouraging.”

“It’s probably not what you think. I doubt he’d change his mind. Lee’s too smart.” Lillian remembered her and Lee’s high school conversations, and his surprise she believed the Jesus story.

“Oh, please. Let’s not go there.”

“Alright but tell me when Lee’s going to pay you a visit.” Lillian’s mind was flying at warp speed, trying to figure out a believable way for her to pop in after Lee arrived.

“I don’t see that happening. You know he hasn’t been to Boaz since 2002, our thirty-year class reunion.” Even though Kyla was a year younger than Lee, they were in the same grade. She academically had been smarter than the very smart Lee, skipping third grade to join her brother, Lillian, Rachel, and a hundred others in the class that would change the world. Or so Mrs. Sims, the high school counselor, had claimed.

 Kyla and Lillian talked and giggled another forty-five minutes before Ray pecked on her closed bedroom door. “I’ve got to go out. Do you need anything?” Lillian stood and semi-panicked, remembering she’d flipped the lock. She knew he’d be mad if he tried the doorknob. Even after their agreement, he was always in the mood. Charming, he thought. 

“No, I’m good. You be careful,” she said as she slowly unlocked and pulled open the door. Ray’s aftershave wafted inside the bedroom, drawn by the draft from the balcony. “I’m talking with Kyla.” Lillian whispered and pointed to her upheld iPhone.

Ray gave her that curled lip of a smile and delivered his usual salutation as he descended the stairs. “Don’t wait up for me.” 

A smart-ass remark almost followed. Lillian kept it to herself. She had wanted to say, “Tell Karen, or Cindy, or Brenda, whoever she is, that she can have you.”

Lillian closed her door and returned to the balcony. And Kyla’s patient ears.

Chapter 4

I was in no mood for a salad. After one look, I closed the Styrofoam lid and stuck it in the fridge. Rachel and Gina my teaching assistant for ten years, had conspired against me. Mesclun greens, an assorted mix of lettuce, are high in vitamin A and C. Late this afternoon, I’d asked Gina to order me an Angus Burger from Bella’s. The salad was unrequested.

I returned to the kitchen table and ate my burger. Since Rachel’s death, this had been my Monday night routine: leave my office, walk twenty minutes to Bella’s, pick up my takeout order, and drive home. The twice a day walk was becoming as bad as the Mesclun greens, tomatoes, red onions, olives, and peppers. Gina had made it even worse with that damn balsamic vinaigrette. I made a mental note to set the rabbit food on her desk first thing in the morning.

The Bears were just receiving the Patriot’s opening kick when I sat in my Lazy boy in the den. Like my feelings toward the salad, I wasn’t much in the mood for football, but I knew it was the best sleeping pill I possessed. Like last week, I’d rest here most of the night, turning the TV off when I made my predawn trip to the bathroom.

Nick Foles threw an interception on second down. I liked the 6-foot 6-inch kid, but he was a slow-starter and prone to turn-overs. And he didn’t have Mitch Trubisky’s running and scrambling ability. I muted the sound when a Lumen dating commercial appeared. That seemed an odd choice for the NFL.

A dating APP for those over fifty. It would have been more natural to think of myself, but strangely, my mother-in-law came to mind. It might be because the older woman, jogging, reminded me of a much younger Rosa. My broken promise also came to mind.

Saturday, after exiting Bella’s, I’d promised Rosa I’d take another look for her second most treasured book, after the Bible, of course. I’d spent the balance of Saturday mowing the yard the last time for the year and reviewing several emails from my friend and associate Professor Stallings. Mostly, I’d moped around the house and napped. I spent yesterday at school, prepping for this week’s lectures.

***

I switched off the TV and headed to the basement. My guilt gave me no other choice, even though I’d prefer a very long nap.

The fifteen minutes I spent Saturday morning before meeting Rob and Rosa for breakfast, were the first time I’d made it more than halfway down the stairs since Rachel had killed herself. There were simply too many reminders of my beautiful and brilliant wife.

She had aptly named the twenty-by-twenty-foot space “The Cave,” after we’d moved here mid-summer 2000. By the following January, she’d secured a job at Amity Regional High School and hired the carpenter husband of the school’s secretary. The man, Carlton I believe, had done an excellent job building and installing hundreds of feet of shelving on the four walls inclusive of a built-in desk. A few months later, Rachel had Carlton return and build waist-high cabinets topped with a basic Formica countertop. She naturalized the room by hanging a dozen landscape paintings along the unobstructed paneled walls above the countertops.

Other than a single, chain-pull bulb dangling from the center of the room’s ceiling, the only other light was a three-foot double fluorescent hanging low above her narrow desk and secured by the shelf above. Just like Saturday, I’d brought my flashlight to scan the fully stocked shelves.

After pulling the chain and flipping the fluorescent toggle switch, I sat at Rachel’s desk. Her chair was cloth, maroon-colored, and cheap. It was mobile, with a set of three rollers attached to the base. The seat and back were soft and adjustable. I tried to recall the last time I’d seen her sitting here. I fought sadness and a low rumbling portent of sickness when I recalled it was less than two weeks until the first anniversary of her death. It was the day after Thanksgiving, truly Black Friday. I literally shook my head, refusing to go there.

I rolled her chair back from her desk and switched on my flashlight. I pointed it to three shelves above her desk. Nothing but literature, textbooks and teaching guides, one set for each year she’d taught English at Amity Regional.

I stood, realizing I needed to conduct my search methodically. Each shelf deserved special attention. Before departing Saturday, Rosa had shown me an Amazon photo of Bonhoeffer’s book, including a colorful cover. However, according to Rosa, the book itself was solid gray other than the author’s name and book title on the spine, which were in a light-colored gold. Rosa remembered packing the book and bringing it along while traveling. She thought the cover had gotten torn during a return voyage from China and that she’d kept it tucked inside the book when she’d shipped it to Rachel a few years ago.

My plan was to work from top to bottom, shelf by shelf. I’d start in the far corner at the front of the house. But first, I needed something to stand on. Rachel’s rolling chair would be an accident waiting to happen. My body was stiff enough as it was, even considering my most recent two-mile walk. I made a quick trip upstairs for the stepstool stored in the utility room closet.

The top two shelves contained nothing but works of literature, single and multi-volume. There were works of many famous authors: Jane Austen, William Blake, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, John Donne, and dozens more, all neatly arranged with their spines flushed to the edge of the wood shelves. The stepstool was unnecessary. Thank goodness. With the flashlight, I could easily see the titles, even though they were two feet above my head.

This changed three-quarters of the way down the second shelf. Rachel had stacked the books horizontally, from bottom to top. Some stacks were tightly wedged, leaving at most a hair’s distance from the last one to the underside of the next shelf. But there was a problem. Even though the spine of each book aligned perfectly, Rachel had pushed each row farther back, making it harder to read each stack’s first few books, given the depth of the wooden shelves. I climbed onto the top run of the stepstool and continued using my flashlight. If I heard trickling water, I’d think I was in a cave.

Again, no luck. I conducted my second scan of the seven stacks, seeing only one gray-sided spine, The Mill on the Floss, by George Eliot. It was next to the bottom on the last stack before the ninety-degree turn toward the backyard. I lowered myself to the first step and paused, quickly returning to the top rung. I held my flashlight out as far as I could. There was something beyond the last horizontal stack. It couldn’t be a book, but given my angle, my brain foisted a figurine. Probably one of the Heavenly hosts Rachel collected. The intersection of these two shelves, tucked virtually out of sight, seemed an odd place to feature the harp clad angel. Especially one captured behind a thick bookend that began Rachel’s self-help book collection.

I should have been more careful stepping off the stool. The sole of my right foot slid off the first step. I think I would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed a bookshelf. Unfortunately, I dropped my flashlight. It broke and was dead the second it hit the floor. I walked upstairs and found an older one in the pantry, but its batteries were too weak to be helpful.

It took fifteen minutes to walk to the garage and extract the portable tripod light-stand from a tangled web of Christmas decorations, ancient sections of gutter, and a rotting, unfolded tarp. I consumed most of this time replacing two halogen bulbs.

The Patriots were up by ten when I passed through the den. I carefully descended the stairs, clumsily tilting the tripod to my left overhanging the basement floor. I don’t know why we never installed an outer handrail.

I plugged in the tripod and focused before climbing onto the stepstool. Removal of the last horizontally stacked literature hardbacks, half-a-dozen self-help paperbacks, and the heavy book end required three round trips down and up the stool. These efforts cleared my way to Michael the Archangel (per the tiny gold label at its base). I was careful to hold the ceramic being in one hand and hold on to the bookcase with my left as I again descended the stepstool. At Rachel’s desk, with the aid of her overhead light, a small key hanging like a backwards necklace around Michael’s neck caught me by surprise.

After removing the tiny key, I tugged on Rachel’s top left drawer. It opened freely. I had always known she kept copies of IEP (Individual Education Plans) for the dozen Special Education students scattered across her roster. She was always serious about each person and their individual learning. The drawer was empty, but I tried the key, anyway. It didn’t fit.

Now, I was curious. I made a quick trip to the utility room upstairs for an extension cord. I moved the tripod to the basement front and focused both lights towards the third shelf. For the first three feet, literature continued. Then there was what appeared to be geography. The upright spine of the first, rather thick book read, “LONDON.” These continued for another two dozen international locations, although two were American cities, Chicago and New York. I adjusted the tripod again and saw that Biographies were next. As far as I could see, each of them was by a famous author, virtually repeating the names of the writers from shelf one and two.

I felt something was odd. But that’s nothing new for me. And most every attorney I suspect. Law school, law practice, and especially law teaching, caused an almost biological gene mutation. The gene for “Distinction.” Or better understood, “Hairsplitting.” I retrieved the stepstool and sat gazing at Rachel’s bookshelves, focusing on the third row from the top, and more particularly the city volumes. After five minutes, I concluded Rachel misfiled them. No wonder lawyers aren’t the life of a party.

However, Rachel was an organizational nut. She was anal about everything: her kitchen, the laundry room, her flower beds, everything school related, not even considering our bedroom closet. For example: clothes categorized by days of the week, and color coordinated. It got worse, the first week of the month, Wednesday’s dominant color was green, second week, red. But everything somehow ignored the garage. She said that was my domain and insisted I keep the roll-ups closed.

There had to be a reason Rachel inserted the city volumes where she had. The only reason had to be a connection between the LIT writers and their domicile, or possibly where they had been born, if different. I moved the stool closer and balanced myself on the second step. I removed LONDON, surprised it wasn’t heavier. My shock came when I saw the small keyhole on the far-right edge of the front cover. LONDON wasn’t really about London, it was a locking book safe, a place where you store (or hide) stuff.

I retreated to Rachel’s desk. The florescent light highlighted the front cover. It was an expert painting of London Bridge, or Tower Bridge, I’m not sure. But after close inspection, one thing was certain, the safe was well crafted and durable.

Of course, I had to try the key. This time it worked. I opened the hinged cover, surprised again. Inside was a slightly smaller book embossed on the soft red cover with “Diary.” I looked inside at the front page. Rachel (I assume) had printed on the From and To lines: “07/01/69 through 12/31/69.” I almost closed the lid and returned LONDON to its third shelf home. Instantly, I recognized the time. It was the final six months she had lived in Boaz, the fall months being our tenth-grade year. I didn’t know for sure, but I believe the 31st was the day Rachel and her family flew from Atlanta to Miami, where they took an ocean liner to Hong Kong.

***

Instead of returning LONDON to its home, I removed the Diary and walked upstairs. After muting the TV, I sat in my Lazy Boy and closed my eyes. Was I really going to jump off this cliff? I couldn’t imagine any narrative that would relieve my pain. After a long minute of pondering, I opened my eyes and turned to page one. My plan was to read a few paragraphs, hoping Rachel’s words were light and happy, simple accountings extracted from her slow-paced days living in the Hunt House with little brother Randy, and a mom and dad who were busy sharing their China adventures with a host of local churches.

Rachel’s first entry was July 3rd. She had printed “World Events,” and underlined it, then listed “1. Prince Charles became Prince of Wales.” And “2. Car crash. John Lennon and Yoko Ono admitted to hospital.”

Then my dear wife started a new section, also underlined, “Local Events.” Other than watching the train and going to Phil’s Pharmacy on Main Street for a cherry-coke float, not much else happened.

Rachel was sporadic in her journal postings. I continued to peruse and saw the same categorization of events on each of her four July entries. The most interesting international event occurred on July 20th: “Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the moon. Ray and I watched it on TV at his house.”

I noted she spoke often of a girl named Jane. I didn’t recall such a person. Penciled boldly at the bottom of the July 30th entry was “Miss Ray.”

I kept reading but was growing bored fast. Glancing at the TV, the Bears were making a comeback. I didn’t need the volume to know that. On August 3rd, “Ray returned.” Rachel didn’t say where he’d gone, but took half a page, making a point she could have made in two words. “Missed Ray.” It was hard to say, looking back fifty years, whether it was love or lust that she had longed for.

This was disgusting on several levels, none of which I intended to explore. I hastened my scan. The once or twice week postings were all basically the same; they all concerned either Jane or Ray. I noted an odd word at the end of each entry, “close.” I didn’t have a clue. My first guess was that Rachel was expecting her return to China, that it was close, or was rapidly approaching. By now it was mid-August and school, tenth grade, was in full swing. Nothing interesting was happening on the world stage, but locally Rachel was enjoying Friday night football and times with Ray. “Close.”

Enough. I closed the Diary and set it on the end table. That’s when I noticed what looked like a wooden Popsicle stick two-thirds of the way inside. I couldn’t resist. The bookmark wasn’t a Popsicle stick, it was wider, like those flat wooden object’s doctors used to stick down your throat and ask you to say “ahh.” Written in dark pencil along one side was October 11, 1969. The identically labeled entry started on the left side of the journal. Rachel’s first words, before international news or local events, were, “I’m two months pregnant.”

These four words weren’t really news, but they were. After Rachel’s first suicide attempt 18 months ago, she’d finally confessed to this, and a later abortion. What was news was the details, the context of her entire ordeal. These specifics meant she had gotten pregnant around August 11th, 1969.

I kept reading, assuming I’d happen upon Rachel’s declaration that she had an abortion; it was a fact she and her family had left for China shortly before January 1, 1970. No abortion before their departure would mean the baby would be in its twentieth week. I now wish I’d taken a different tack when Rachel made her confession. Instead of refusing to ask questions—something diametrically opposed to every fiber of my being—I now could kick myself. My next thought was a shocker. Contrary to what I’d assumed, what if Rachel had not had her abortion until after she and her family arrived in Hong Kong? I knew I was correct in concluding that she had simply said, “when I was in the tenth grade, I got pregnant and had an abortion.” Her statement was certainly open to multiple interpretations, especially the time frame.

I fell asleep in my Lazy Boy after reading Rachel’s Thanksgiving weekend entries. There were two, and they were routine. Ray this, Ray that, Jane this and Jane that, half a page about America’s first settlers and their happy meal with the Indians, and finally, a summary of a Walter Cronkite segment: “Betsy Aardsma, 22, student, stabbed and murdered inside the Penn State University library while doing her schoolwork.” Another certainty, Rachel consistently watched the CBS Evening News.

It was 4:45 a.m. when I awoke and had to pee. I made a dash to the bathroom, flipped on the coffeemaker, and returned to the den. I wanted to finish Rachel’s reporting before showering and leaving for the law school.

The first entry since her Thanksgiving accounting brought back a mix of happy and sad memories. She dated it the fifteenth of December and covered two weeks of activities. It was one of Rachel’s longest postings. Friday the twelfth was the Boaz Christmas Parade. During that entire week, freshmen through seniors had built floats. Tenth graders conducted operations from a warehouse across from the Hunt House. I’m pretty sure the property was owned by the Young Supply Company, a hardware and construction materials outfit beside the railroad track. I couldn’t help but recall Kyle Bennett, my closest and best childhood friend. We were both shy and behind-the-scenes type of guys.

If it hadn’t been for the two of us, our Santa with reindeer float would have never materialized. The other students who showed up, other than a girl named Lillian (that’s a different story), were goof-offs and were more interested in flirting and sharing a nightly bottle of Jack Daniels someone had absconded from a parent, than doing any actual work. The float, complete with a high-quality PA system (a loan from First Baptist Church of Christ via Ray Archer’s father), propelled us into a second-place finish.

Kyle and I had attended the parade and watched from the second floor of Fred King’s Clothing Store (Lillian worked there part time and gained access via permission from the owners). As the last high school band and float disappeared, Kyle and I started our return walk to the warehouse. Halfway there, Kyla, my sister, approached and said Mother had ordered us home. “Now.” I think she had somehow caught wind of the drinking and smoking at the warehouse. I argued I had promised to help remove and return the PA system. About that time, Mother, out of the blue, appeared and enforced her order. Kyle told me not to worry, he’d take care of things. That was the last time I ever saw my best friend.

The first three sentences of Rachel’s fourth paragraph literally made me yell in horror and disbelief. “Ray shot and killed Kyle after the three of us dropped the PA system off at the church. Kyle knew too much and was sure to talk. Ray made me hide his father’s pistol at the Hunt House while he disposed of Kyle’s body.”

This had to be a joke. Rachel’s words read so normal, even trite. Her tone did not differ from a description of the turkey and dressing meal she and her family enjoyed Thanksgiving Day.

I was out of time. I laid the Diary on the end table and headed to the master to shower and dress. Professor Stallings and I planned our 7:00 AM meeting a week ago. I made a mental note to unlock and inspect the other book safes when I returned home tonight.

Chapter 5

Lillian slept until 7:00. After peeing, she slipped on her housecoat and descended the stairs for coffee and a bowl of cereal. She’d forgotten Ray would be home. He had told her yesterday he was going to prepare the prime rib for tonight’s deacon dinner before going to his Main Street office. He was frying bacon when she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning. Want some eggs?” He knew she hated pork. He also knew she didn’t like chatter or any other noise so early.

“Cereal.” A one-word answer was sufficient. Then she changed her mind. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Which one?” The bacon was almost burnt.

“The SUV. You know I can’t drive a stick shift.” Ray’s 1972 Corvette was still in mint condition, stored in the detached garage next to the bay filled with a Honda four-wheeler, a John Deere Mule, and an assortment of other deer-hunting gear. He knew Lillian’s driving limitation but liked to make her talk.

“When will yours be ready?”

“Hopefully Friday.”

“You can. Be careful.” He was being extra generous, probably a little guilty about something. But he was right to caution Lillian. The Suburban was big and wide.

“Thanks. I will.”

Lillian filled a bowl with her favorite cereal, picking out a few raisins to eat while they were dry, and poured a half-glass of milk. She would wait for coffee until after her shower. Since Ray was in the breakfast nook, she retired to the dining room.

The separation didn’t last long. She was pouring her milk over the Raisin Bran when Ray entered carrying a Southwestern Omelet. “Mind if I join you?”

Since Ray pressed, Lillian figured this was as good a time as any. “Sit and let’s talk. I’m moving to the Corbett place.” This was a house and ten acres Ray had purchased after Betty and Tommy Corbett had moved to Nashville to finish out their days, closer to their two daughters and their families. For the past year, Ray’s renters had been prompt and dependable, but that had changed a week ago when he had taken the long route to the mayor’s house and saw a Ryder moving van backed up to the front porch. The law had been on Ray’s side given the eighteen months remaining on the lease, but Ray had chosen not to pursue the matter. He preferred staying out of court.

Now, with Lillian, he was defenseless, dependent solely on his charm. He chuckled to himself, realizing that card didn’t have a hand to play. Maybe the facts would work. “You know you lose everything if you file for divorce.”

“Ray, I know the prenup by heart.”

“It’s no different if you lure in a cohabitant.” That was an odd way to put it.

“We can negotiate some more. You owe me for what, three or is it now four affairs?” Ray’s weakness for the opposite sex was Lillian’s ACE. She’d played that hand perfectly in the middle of selling the pharmacy chain. She’d threatened to go public with Ray’s philandering. That wouldn’t have caused the sale to fail, but it would have caused a big hit to Ray’s reputation. He valued it nearly as much as his girlfriends. That’s when Lillian had insisted she receive $50,000 every time he had an affair. He’d quickly agreed, even suggesting an amendment to their prenup. In addition, Ray had promised to stop his philandering and swore to be truthful if, by chance, he ever strayed again.

“It’s three. I’ll pay you by the weekend.” Ray stood and as he returned with plate and cold food to the breakfast nook mumbled to himself, “there’s a point Lillian’s not worth the bother.”

Lillian knew it was four. She’d followed the old Reagan saw, ‘trust but verify.’ Thanks to local PI Connor Ford, she had the philanderer dead to rights, inclusive of audio, video, and stills, not to mention the receipts she’d found scattered about in Ray’s favorite hidey-holes.

***

By 10:00 AM, the weekly women’s Bible study had ended. Lillian attended every Tuesday morning, not for spiritual guidance but to get out of the house and to hear the local gossip.

She and Jane walked together to their cars. It was Jane’s way to check in, private and in person, on the reserved Lillian.

“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” Jane asked, reaching inside her purse for keys.

“Sorry, I have some errands to run, but thanks anyway.” Lillian fibbed. She loved the smart and sometime sassy old maid who knew the Bible better than the pastor. It was true Jane had never married, but she wasn’t old. In fact, she was the same age as Lillian, 66, and that was still young by today’s definition. Jane was tall and thin with piercing green eyes. She always wore a cross-cropped dark red wig that came a few years ago after two rounds of chemo. The two had been best friends from first grade through middle school, but it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Lillian had never fully forgiven Jane for being disloyal when Rachel Kern moved to Boaz during the summer before ninth grade. Jane’s excuse for favoring Rachel during that eighteen-month period was God, or more accurately, God’s will. Nearly as important was Jane’s desire to please her Master.

“You know you can talk to me. When you’re not taking part, then you’re troubled.” Jane said, confusing Lillian. She rarely said anything during the Bible study. If she was going to talk fiction, she preferred the John Grisham type. “Oh, I forgot. I saw you and Ray last night in Guntersville.”

“Uh?” Lillian knew this wasn’t true and almost asked questions.

“I was driving south and had just crossed the bridge into downtown. You two were headed north. Huntsville? A late dinner?” Jane opened her Impala’s door and turned to Lillian, expecting an answer.

“Cotton Row.” Again, Lillian fibbed. “Have you ever been?” Jane would never eat at a place that served alcohol. “Later,” Lillian said with a smile, and walked to Ray’s Suburban.

***

Lillian dropped by Y-Mart for coffee. After showering and dressing, she’d chosen to ignore coffee and avoid another encounter with Ray, who was cleaning the kitchen when she exited the Lodge.

Two older teenage boys nearly ran her over as she entered the convenience store. They gawked at her from head to toe. Before the door closed behind her, she heard one of them say, “damn, now that’s a hot old lady.”

Lillian headed for the coffee station with mixed feelings. She knew she hadn’t aged as rapidly as many of her friends. Take Jane, for instance. Lillian’s dark brown hair was silky as ever. And the new bras she had found at Victoria’s Secret gave her boobs that younger look, lifted tight, firm in the imagination, from a distance. But pretty and sexy was vacuous, just thoughtless lust, not anything like genuine romance. Not that she knew anything about that, other than from the clues she picked up from her constant novel reading.

Three containers of Hazelnut creamer and four Splendas. Perfect. Lillian paid her bill and walked outside. The two boys were at the gas pumps. The hood raised on their old Chevrolet pickup. One was pouring in a quart of oil. This one, average height but lean and muscular, cocked his head at her and smiled. His dark hair, red and yellow flannel shirt, and work boots reminded Lillian of Lee Harding. Oh, to go back, to know what she knows now.

Lillian turned to suppress her imagination. She dug seventy-five cents from her pocketbook and bought today’s Sand Mountain Reporter. She walked to Ray’s Suburban, crawled in, almost spilling her coffee in the driver’s seat, and locked the door. An old habit.

She took a long draw on her sweet and nutty coffee before placing it in one of two cup holders behind the gear shifter. She unfolded the newspaper. On the front page, below the fold, was a color photo of Kyle Bennett with a related article titled “Reward Doubled.” Lillian knew it was Kyle’s tenth-grade class picture and not his ninth. She could tell by the red football jersey he was wearing. Red and not crimson. She remembered like it was yesterday. All the new football jerseys had arrived late, just days before the opening game with Guntersville. The delivery had caused quite a stir since the jerseys were red and not crimson and gray. With little choice, Coach Hicks had kept the red jerseys and created quite a stir, more so as the season went by with no change. A year later, Hicks redeemed himself at a preseason pep rally and bonfire by tossing the god-awful reds into the flames.

Lillian first scanned the article. She knew the story well. The city had never forgotten the missing teenager. Neither had his twin brother Kent, who now was offering half a million dollars for information that led to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Kyle’s disappearance and death. Even though the police didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone murdered Kyle, what other conclusion could a reasonable person draw?

The article summarized the story. Lee and Kyla Harding and their mother had seen Kyle just after the December 12th, 1969, Christmas parade. The police questioned all three, raising no suspicion. Lee and Kyla had said Kyle was going to the Young Supply Warehouse at the corner of Thomas Avenue and Brown Street to help dismantle the tenth graders’ float and to help Ray Archer return a borrowed PA system to First Baptist Church of Christ.

Ray had admitted Kyle and Lee Harding had promised to meet him at the warehouse and help with the PA system, but neither had shown up. Rachel Kern had alibied Ray’s whereabouts the entire evening until shortly before midnight. She helped him remove the PA System, including delivering it to the church in his pickup. Afterwards, the two drove to a secluded spot-on Cox Gap Road, a property owned by Ray’s father. There, they’d built a campfire and roasted some marshmallows, and spent two hours staring at the stars and the full moon.

Kent now lived in Houston and was a multi-millionaire. After receiving an aeronautical engineering degree from Auburn University in 1976, he spent ten years at NASA. Next was twenty years with Boeing in Seattle. In 2006, he had formed K2, Inc., a high-tech firm that manufactured satellites and drones for the U.S. military.

Lillian refolded the newspaper, took another draw of the still-steaming coffee, and headed east on Mill Avenue. She wanted to see Kyla. At the McVille and Beulah Road intersection, Lillian remembered that night. Lee, Kyle, and she had watched the parade through the windows upstairs at Fred Kings. Kyle was always quiet, but that night he was preoccupied. She and Lee had teased him, accused him of having a secret girlfriend, suggesting she was so ugly he didn’t have the courage to expose her. Now, Lillian pondered Kyle’s response to an off-color question Lee had asked while the Albertville High School cheerleaders and majorettes danced and twirled on the street below. “Courage can be deadly. Sometimes stupid and scared is the wiser path.”

Turning left into Kyla’s long driveway, Lillian pondered whether Kyle’s words had been his feeble attempt to ask for help.

Chapter 6

Professor Stallings was sitting at his secretary’s desk facing the hallway when I exited the third-floor stairwell. He was on the phone, and I was ten minutes early. He motioned me inside and through a wooden arched doorway that led to his giant office in the corner.

I nodded and smiled and settled into a leather armchair facing the large metal desk that was at least fifty years old, likely present when he’d become an associate professor in the early seventies.

Bert Stallings, now approaching eighty-seven years old, was the heart and soul of Yale University’s Law School. He’d shared different aspects of his storied life with me ever since I’d arrived in 2000. He and his wife, Mary, now deceased, had frequently dined with Rachel and me at our home. Although he was an excellent teacher, his claim to fame (my phrase, not his) was his work on behalf of women’s rights. His most notable case was Roe v. Wade, the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that gave women the exclusive right over their bodies. The Court held women had the unfettered right to have an abortion if it took place during the first trimester of the pregnancy. That forty-seven-year-old case was a world away from the current religious and political environment.

Recently, the Republican controlled Senate had confirmed a far-right winged woman to replace the heroic Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The new justice adamantly opposed a woman’s right to choose. Thankfully, there was Bert Stallings and his exceptionally talented team, who had the courage and humanism to fight the religious takeover of the highest court in the land. I was excited and honored Professor Stallings had asked me to take part. Although limited, it was an honor to play a small behind-the-scenes role in defending the right of every woman to choose what to do with her own body.

While waiting on Bert to end his phone call, I thought of Rachel and what I’d told her at the cemetery Saturday morning. It was only a tiny fib. “I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings with the interviewing.” I had already made my decision, but it would be today before I officially agreed. Sometimes I split too many hairs. Rachel would understand what I had meant by “agreed.”

“Good morning, Lee, so nice to see you.” The man had the energy of a forty-year-old. His head full of gray hair declared he was much younger than three years shy of ninety. He patted me on the back and made his way into a chair equally old as his desk.

I smiled. My eyes glinted as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky. Bert always had the bank of windows along the outer wall open, even in the hottest weather. Today, it was in the upper forties with a stiff breeze. Papers fluttered at the right corner of his desk.

“I just talked to Connie Dalton. She’s open to your call. I told her it would be within a week.” Bert held a yellow sticky note across his desk. I leaned forward in my chair and took it. It contained Connie’s name and two phone numbers. The word “Montgomery” was at the bottom.

A week ago, Bert had called me to his office and provided a quick summary of what he was planning. He asked me to locate and interview as many women as I could, and not just any woman. Bert provided a written profile. The women had an abortion in the past ten years with a story that relayed the importance of late term procedures to end the life of their baby. Bert wanted me to assemble a bank of data that supported his position that not only was Roe v. Wade properly decided, in fact, it didn’t go far enough. Somehow, he knew there was a case to be made for certain abortions after the baby was beyond the first trimester in age.

“One question,” I said. Before I could ask, Bert’s secretary walked to his desk and laid a note in front of him.

“Sorry Lee, I need to take this call.” He scribbled something on the back of a card. “Send your reports to this email address.”

I stood, accepted his note, and gave an affirmative nod. Professor Stallings is a busy man.

***

I always feel guilty when I use over thirty minutes of my law school day on personal business. It’s not rational since, while at home, I often think of case or statutory law that applies to upcoming lessons.

Today, I didn’t have but two classes, so I added a heavy dose of guilt to my already gigantic pile. I spent at least four hours researching the current status of Alabama’s law dealing with the doctrine of eminent domain. At 4:30 p.m. Eastern Time, I phoned the Marshall County Circuit Clerk’s office and spoke with a soft-spoken woman named Edith. Of course, she didn’t know me from Eve’s hamster but was cordial, respectful, and eager to answer my questions.

Normally, a lawsuit isn’t necessary when a city or state invokes its intent to take property from private landowners. Even if they oppose the taking or believe the government agency isn’t offering fair market value, negotiations themselves resolve the issues. It’s only when the property owner refuses to sell that the government makes use of the court system’s power.

This was happening in the City of Boaz vs. Rob and Rosa Kern. My in-law’s adamant opposition (it was mostly Rob) had left the city no choice but to file a civil case: CV—2020—194837. I’d asked Edith to read the Case Action Summary. The city had filed its lawsuit on October 9th. A private investigator by the name of Buddy Hutton had served the Complaint and Summons on my in-laws the morning of the eleventh. Rob, without counsel, had responded less than a week later with a handwritten note adamantly, often rudely, opposing the City’s action. The Circuit Court Judge, Waymon Broadside, had ruled on October 18th that Rob’s filing would serve as the Defendant’s official Answer.

What surprised me was the Judge had set a hearing for a week from today, November the seventeenth. A further surprise came when Edith, acting as though she was my paralegal, relayed the judge had issued a tentative Order. I wasn’t familiar with the details of the Alabama Rules of Civil Procedure, but this act seemed odd.

Edith, at my request, read the tentative Order. Basically, it said unless the Defendants could show cause why the City’s taking was illegal or its offer understated the property’s fair market value, the Court would grant the Plaintiff’s requested relief. In short, it would grant the City of Boaz fee simple ownership in the Thomas Avenue property known as the Hunt House upon payment of $500,000 to the Defendants. It was clear the only way to stop the ownership transfer was for Rob and Rosa to provide a valid reason (“show cause”). If they did, the Court would be in error to grant the City’s request.

With this information in hand, I left the law school at 5:00, skipped takeout from Bella’s, and drove home. I had two things I needed to do. The first was to call my in-laws with an update. Then, focus on the subject I had done my best all day to keep suppressed at the back of my mind: Rachel’s diaries.

Chapter 7

The house was hot when I arrived home. I walked to the thermostat in the den: eighty degrees. Sophia, no doubt. The pleasant and trustworthy Hispanic woman had been our housekeeper for over ten years. Rachel had met her at school and determined she was the hardest working of the high school’s four custodians, and with her large family, was interested in a little extra money. The only thing negative, if that’s what you call it, was that the polite, shy woman was extremely cold natured.

From the beginning, we had granted her permission to turn up the central heat. Apparently today, she had forgotten to return the setting to its usual sixty-eight degrees. One would think dusting and vacuuming, along with all the other chores Sophia completed every Tuesday, would keep her body toasty warm. I opened a can of Chicken Noodle Soup and set it to simmer while I walked to the master and changed clothes. Jogging shorts and a tee-shirt were proper attire for the tropical weather.

I let my laptop boot-up while my dinner finished warming. I also dialed Rosa’s cell phone (Rob hated them). No answer. I left a message requesting a callback tonight if convenient. I suspect they found a Baptist church in the back hills of New York or Pennsylvania that was holding an all-week revival. Of course, this was just a guess, but certainly not out of the question.

Since Rachel died, I had abandoned my desk in the master and used the table in the breakfast nook for household business, including online bill paying, and responding to personal emails. The latter had dwindled to a small trickle, my sister Kyla notwithstanding. Mainly, I used my laptop on the weekends to review the coming week’s lesson plans and to read relevant law. Law, law, law. I guess I shouldn’t feel so guilty when I occasionally spent time at the law school on personal business.

I poured my soup and crumbled some crackers. Unsurprisingly, an email from Kyla was waiting. Ashamedly, I almost didn’t open it. For the past two weeks, all she wanted to talk about was Harding Hillside (Mom’s idea from the 50s when her and Dad bought the farm), plans for a large garden next spring, and a growing fetish for Anglo-Nubian goats. I guess a forty-plus year executive had earned the right to “return to nature,” as Kyla described her in-progress transformation. Apparently, she had done well for herself financially because she had paid me $125,000 cash for my share of Harding Hillside after Mom and Dad died. My one-year younger sister could afford a few Nubians.

“Good evening to my favorite brother.” Kyla’s email had arrived ten minutes before I’d driven into the driveway. She had picked up where she had left off in her Saturday correspondence: a barrage of reasons I should fly to Alabama and stay with her over the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend. The main reason was to get me away from New Haven and away from 58 Ansonia Road in particular, since time was fast-approaching the one-year anniversary of Rachel’s suicide. Kyla had ended her plea with an argument that I should be the one who reviewed and inspected Dad’s clothes and personal items to determine what goes to Goodwill and what travels to New Haven.

The subject of Kyla’s second paragraph never failed to sicken me in a way nausea never had. It was Kyle Bennett’s 1969 disappearance. She referenced an article in today’s Sand Mountain Reporter (I wouldn’t receive the Tuesday edition until tomorrow at the earliest; probably Thursday). I clicked on a photo Kyla had taken of the brief article. Seeing Kyle sitting in front of a white background in his football jersey carried me back to the moment after the parade, the moment we’d separated and I’d gone home, and he’d gone on to what I now believe was his death.

I read how twin brother Kent was upping his reward offer to half-a-million dollars and that he, with the City of Boaz, was planning a memorial of sorts, an event to honor the life of young Kyle. The date surprised me. Black Friday, the Friday after Thanksgiving, the twenty-seventh. It was to be held at Old Mill Park and would feature songs by Mountain Top Trio and long-delayed eulogies from a few of Kyle’s closest friends. Kent had located the three founders of the once-famous band that had formed in the eighth grade. Until his death, Kyle had been their business manager and events coordinator.

I ate another spoonful of soup and closed my eyes, considering how I felt about traveling to Alabama and attending Kyle’s memorial service. I recalled the decision I’d made a year ago. Kent and the City had attempted this event last year, on the fiftieth anniversary of Kyle’s disappearance. That was before the completion of Old Mill Park. The city had arranged the use of the football field, but for several reasons, including Kent’s emergency trip to one of his plants in Japan, the planning had evaporated. My decision last year not to attend had only added to the guilt I always felt. I decided I was halfway open to attending when the house phone rang.

It was Sophia apologizing profusely for leaving the heat set so high. I told her not to worry. I thanked her for washing my bedclothes and for, as always, making the house smell so clean. “It’s my secret spray.” She said in broken English, although she’d lived in America for over twenty years. Sophia also apologized for losing my place in my book. At first, I thought about the Lawrence Block novel laying closed on my nightstand with bookmark inserted. After two more sentences, I gathered she was referring to Rachel’s diary, the one I had left open, face-down on the coffee table. I had forgotten to hide it this morning before leaving for work. Sophia said it had closed when it fell to the floor, and she didn’t know what to do. Again, I told her not to worry about it. I recalled Rachel saying Sophia could barely read.

I stored my bowl and spoon in the sink and checked on the diary. I returned to my laptop and Kyla’s email. After writing a long paragraph on the therapeutic benefits of closure (her subtle argument for me to travel to Boaz), she referred to another article, one in today’s Huntsville Times I could access via their website. The title, “There’s More than One Way to Skin a Cat,” showed it might be a funny story about a young boy or girl overcoming a speech impediment or outsmarting a playground bully, or a newly discovered Amazonian method of preparing a wildcat for boiling. But I was wrong. And shocked.

I didn’t visit the website but read Kyla’s abbreviated summary instead. The Times investigative reporter had assisted an associate with the Tennessee Sentinel in uncovering a scheme between Knoxville’s mayor and two councilmen, and the developer of Rylan’s, an expensive thirty-store shopping center in the heart of downtown. The scheme involved an elaborate kickback plot. “Wholly unfounded,” was the response from the lawyers for Ray Archer, the mayor, and councilmen. “The evidence will vindicate our clients.” Oh yeah, I bet that’s the truth. Ray’s coattail had gotten caught up in criminal conduct. No surprise there.

I chose not to think about Ray Archer except to wish him a future in prison. Instead, I read Kyla’s last paragraph. It was another long one.

It was almost a blow-by-blow accounting of Lillian Archer’s morning visit. The word ‘scheme’ returned to the forefront of my mind. Kyla had always liked Lillian more than Rachel. Of course, sis had never said this in so many words, but she didn’t have to. I can recall Kyla’s advice to me as we sat next to each other in the Boaz High School auditorium during our Baccalaureate service. “You need to ask Lillian to marry you. Long distance is a relationship killer.” By this time, the University of Virginia had granted me a full academic scholarship, and Lillian had committed to pursuing her dream of becoming a professional cheerleader. She had decided a few months earlier she was going to try out for the Alabama Crimson Tide cheer squad.

Lillian had liked the goats and Kyla’s new front porch swing. In fact, over a Tuna-salad lunch, the wife of Ray Archer had asked about me and whether my sister knew if I was coming to Kyle’s memorial. I must admit; it was good to hear, albeit secondhand, that the beautiful Lillian Bryant, my high school girlfriend of almost two years, had admitted she had made a big mistake in choosing Ray over me.

***

I didn’t tarry thinking about Lillian, given my overwhelming guilt at failing to protect the two most important people in my life: Kyle and Rachel. I sure didn’t need to add to the pile by fantasizing, albeit honorably, about the wife of Ray Archer.

Now, to Rachel’s diary. After deciding against reading them chronologically, I made a quick trip to the basement, returning with ROME. This one was after Rachel’s overdose, the period from April 25, 2019, through November 27, 2019. I sat in my Lazy Boy and flipped to the very last page. It was odd Rachel had written her last entry the day she hung herself. She had been rather terse: “I’m tired of living and hiding my past.”

I read and reread the words a dozen times, yielding nothing but a sense of failure and awareness that I could not give Rachel the peace and hope she deserved. A better person would have been capable of protecting his wife from anything and everything, especially her past. For a second, I became angry. The past. So what? Many people have horrible pasts but live fulfilling lives. It reminded me I was about to embark on a journey to learn about other women who had experienced late-term abortions. What was it about Rachel’s teenage abortion that kept her mind so shackled? It seemed Christian beliefs made this chain around her neck so much worse. Ironic. Wasn’t Christianity all about forgiveness? Yet Rachel, the one who was so open about her faith and Jesus’ promise she would spend eternity in Heaven, struggled mightily. Maybe she open-armed believed Jesus had forgiven her for all her sins yet could not forgive herself.

Rachel spent the first ten days following her failed suicide attempt at Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital. The impressive facility was seven miles from home and a mile and a half from the law school. I had spent every hour the staff would allow at Rachel’s bedside.

After they discharged her, Rosa and Kyla moved in. Until now, reading Rachel’s words, I thought the two-week period was happy and helpful. “I know they mean well, but they are visual reminders of my past.” This statement ended Rachel’s May 16th entry.

The following day, Kyla and Rosa drove away after Rachel insisted she was fine, needed some space, and had a duty to her students (Rachel never returned to teaching). Somehow, my dear wife convinced her mother and sister-in-law that she had learned her lesson.

The next entry was three pages, the longest I’d read so far, including last night. Rachel was reliving a nightmare. Below, I summarize what she had written.

After leaving Boaz at the end of 1969, the plan had been for Rachel and her family to return in two years to the Hunt House for another furlough. That had changed when Randy had moved to New Hampshire to attend the infamous Phillip Exeter prep school (its alumni include people like Mark Zuckerberg, David Eisenhower, Jay Rockefeller, and eighteenth-century Daniel Webster). This would be Randy’s ninth grade year. Rachel’s interest and ultimate decision to move to Charlottesville to attend the University of Virginia also played a role in two things.

One was Rob and Rosa’s decision to skip furlough and move to Taiwan. The second was their decision to lease the Hunt House to Barbara McReynolds and allow her to convert the historic home into a bed-and-breakfast.

What made me question last night’s conclusion that Rachel had been joking about hiding Ray Archer’s pistol, was a statement buried in the final paragraph of the May 27, 2019, entry: “I wish I had somehow traveled to Boaz to better secure the pistol, but Dad had bought my airline tickets and even more important, controlled my allowance. I simply didn’t have the funds. But maybe that’s like a lot of things I worry about that never happen. I doubt Barbara will ever have a reason to notice the board above the doorway at the top of the rear stairwell.”

I almost returned to the basement to grab BERLIN. I suspected it contained additional details concerning the hidden pistol since the time frame included the early January 1970 travel and the family’s first six months of living in Hong Kong.

But I stayed put and questioned why Rachel would write about something that happened so long ago. She was recovering from her overdose and what would naturally be a traumatic ten days in a psych ward. Now, looking back, I wondered if journaling was a way to convince herself she needed to get it all out one final time and finally forgive herself (not only for her abortion but, damn, for obstructing justice). Of course, it is uncertain whether Rachel ever forgave herself. What seems likely is she never could forget. Why else would she hang herself less than six months after her first failed suicide attempt?

Somehow, I fell asleep pondering a single question. A vibrating cell phone awakened me at 10:30. It was Rosa.

“Hello” stumbled from my lips.

“Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“That’s okay. Can you put your phone on speaker where I can talk to you and Rob?” I’d much rather talk with my mother-in-law.

“I’m listening.” Rob responded, gruff as ever. They were a step ahead of me.

I spent at least ten minutes summarizing my legal research and the details of my phone call to the Clerk’s office. My in-laws were unaware of next Tuesday’s hearing. Rob accused the city and the court of conspiring against him. He had a few choice words for Judge Broadside. I tried to convince Rob (Rosa seemed willing to do whatever I suggested) his best option was to take the half-million dollars. I confirmed he had verified the value with a local appraiser. After Rob cooled down and the conversation crawled to silence, I expressed my sympathy and apologized for not being able to do more.

That’s when Rob asked an embarrassing question. “What about our house being a national treasure?” I admitted to myself that I had failed to consider the Hunt House and the National Historic Registry. That issue, an exception to typical eminent domain law, was missing from all the cases I’d read. Something else I kept to myself. I had only read Alabama law.

“I’m not sure if that applies to your case, but I’ll check on it tomorrow.” I said, feeling like a D level law student.

“You do that.” I could see Rob waving his hands in frustration. He must have stepped away from Rosa’s phone, but I clearly discerned his words, “and he calls himself an attorney.”

Rosa apologized for Rob’s comment and behavior. We exchanged a friendly salutation and said our goodbyes. Before I could return my iPhone to the end table, she called again and said she meant to tell me that Rob had spent $250 consulting with a New York attorney. One that Randy somehow found. The man, the New York legal eagle, had advised Rob to use the Hunt House’s historic status as a defense. He said that at a minimum it would throw a wrench into the court’s timetable.

Again, Rosa and I said goodbye. I sat dumbfounded and shook my head sideways. No wonder I stopped practicing law almost twenty years ago. The pressure of being thorough, of being right, was relentless when the lawyer has a client’s livelihood or life on the line.

Chapter 8

I slept horribly. Every time I’d close my eyes, the current edition of the American Bar Association’s law journal would appear. On its cover was a picture of me in an orange jumpsuit. The caption underneath my photo was, “America’s Worst Attorney.” Apparently, the punishment for violating a lawyer’s duty of competence to his client was now a long prison sentence.

As the digital clock clicked to 4:30, I gave up. After showering, dressing, and eating a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal, I headed for the law school. No lawyer likes to be embarrassed. As I made the twenty-minute drive, I secretly hoped the New York legal eagle was only a sparrow.

By 6:30, I’d concluded Rob was smarter than I’d ever imagined. He had been correct to question whether I was a real attorney. My WESTLAW search had produced six cases that addressed the National Registry (officially named National Register of Historic Places), and eminent domain. Each case had wound up in federal court except one. I ignored it and concentrated on the other five. After reading two cases, I realized I had been wrong. Embarrassed or not, as an attorney, I had to follow the truth wherever it led.

The case whose facts were closest to the Hunt House was out of the seventh circuit (Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin). It originated in South Bend, Indiana in a state trial court but was quickly moved to federal court. The National Registry was the issue that gave the Feds jurisdiction. Ultimately, the property owner lost but the appeals court’s reasoning turned on the fact the real estate had once been a commercial warehouse.

I kept looking. One case I’d initially skipped now looked promising. It had originated in Macon, Georgia, which was part of the Eleventh Circuit. Alabama is also in this circuit. My interest was not because of the Court’s ultimate ruling. It was the attention it had given to a temporary injunction. What made the analysis so powerful was that it was controlling law. Since I hadn’t found a single case on my issue that had made it to the U.S. Supreme Court, I had to depend on a lower federal court’s ruling. Any other analysis and ruling on temporary injunctions could be used, but they would only be persuasive authority, not controlling. Of course, all federal circuits might think the same way on this issue, but I didn’t have the time, nor interest, to chase that rabbit.

However, I was curious enough to review the only case I’d found where a state appeal’s court had considered the National Registry’s effect on a local municipality’s eminent domain action against a private landowner. It originated in Dubois, Wyoming. The property was Twin Pines Lodge, on Highway 287, the heartbeat of downtown Dubois. It was built in 1913 and operated for years as a hotel. The thing I liked most about this case was the unquestioning viability of razing the Lodge and constructing a mega-mall, including three restaurants and forty other stores. But the learned Wyoming Supreme Court justices gave a long and inspiring opinion including two pages weighing the importance of the past and comparing it to expected profits in the future. History won. I particularly liked the last sentence of the paragraph addressed to the National Registry: “The National Register of Historic Places included Twin Pines Lodge for one simple reason: to preserve and protect our past. Economic progress is too high a price to pay to lose physical proof of the rough and tumultuous journey we’ve trod to get us where we are today.”

I printed a copy of Twin Pines Lodge vs. City of Dubois. It felt more than persuasive. I was ashamed to admit that all I had really wanted to find this morning was some legitimate way to slow down Judge Broadside’s ruling. For the first time, I realized the Hunt House was a national treasure. Losing it to another shopping center, one in existence simply to generate a few more sales tax dollars for the City’s till was clearly too high a price to pay. Even if the citizens of Boaz didn’t realize it.

But there was another issue I had to address before I could draft and move for temporary injunctive relief. I wasn’t a member of the Alabama Bar. Thankfully, each state had a procedure to resolve my problem. It’s called Pro hac vice. These Latin words mean, “for this occasion.” It is a legal term for adding an attorney to a case in a jurisdiction that does not license him, in a way the attorney does not commit the unauthorized practice of law.

I quickly searched the Alabama Bar’s website and wasn’t surprised by its rules. I had to associate with an attorney who was already a member in good standing with the Alabama State Bar. Then, that attorney had to file a verified application for my admission to practice. It was a lot to ask of another attorney. I’d need to find one who didn’t have a conflict with the City of Boaz, one who wouldn’t require me to travel to his office for a personal interview before he would agree to our association.

Thankfully, I already knew who I would call. And, even better, his office was in old downtown Boaz. Micaden Tanner was a high school classmate. Although we had not been close friends, I always sensed a mutual respect. I hadn’t seen him since graduation in 1972, but I had talked with him once. It was the year 2000 when I was working for the U.S. Department of Justice in Washington, D.C. He had called to ask the name of the best Assistant U.S. attorney to talk with in the Civil Rights Division. We had promised each other to stay in touch. Promises we both had neglected. Until now.

Fortunately, I reached him on my first attempt. Unfortunately, I was running out of time before my 8:00 AM Torts class, and Micaden was ten minutes from having to depart for a motions docket in Calhoun County. After exchanging pleasantries, I went for the jugular. “I need to associate with a local attorney in a case against the City of Boaz.”

Before I could go further, he responded, “the Hunt House?” He didn’t pause for my acknowledgment. “The sons of bitches respect nothing or no one unless it lines their pockets.” I liked a straight shooter, even if I didn’t fully understand his bold statement.

I confirmed I needed authority to represent Rob and Rosa Kern in their defense of the Hunt House. “I’m hoping you don’t have a conflict.”

“No. Never. I’ve always represented the little guys, those who don’t have a chance in hell against the big boys. But I must warn you. How long has it been since you lived here?”

“Early August 1972, right before I moved to Charlottesville, Virginia. Why?”

“As long as you keep David and Goliath in mind, you’ll be okay.”

I didn’t question his analogy, since his secretary came in and announced his need to leave for Anniston.

“After I’m admitted, assuming Judge Broadside approves my application, I want to move for temporary injunction.”

Again, Micaden was quick to jump in. “I’ll have Tina email you the application. Complete and return it to me ASAP. I’ll have it on Judge Broadside’s desk by noon if you do your part. Talk later.” The line went dead without a goodbye. I too disliked chit-chat.

I grabbed my Prosser, Wade, and Schwartz tome and headed to my 1L Tort class. Mostly, 1L’s (first-year students) spend their time on the law school’s first floor, 2L’s on the second, and 3L’s on the third. Administration sandwiched my office between two smaller classrooms and was easily accessible to 3L’s and professors alike. Although I enjoyed teaching the more advanced classes, after Rachel died, I’d requested permission to teach introduction to torts. There was something special about witnessing a mental toddler transform into a hair-splitting adult. It was as beautiful as observing the caterpillar-to-cocoon-to-butterfly process.

After class and interacting with a couple of students, including answering a false imprisonment hypothetical, I returned to my office via the stairwell. Rachel would be proud.

It took less than half an hour to print the Pro hac vice application and return it to Micaden’s secretary. I halfway expected her to call with at least a clarification question or two. She did not.

I spent the rest of the morning with Lauren Araya, a 3L, having a problem with the essay she was writing for the Yale Law Journal, the student led publication.

At noon, I ate my sack lunch and closed my eyes. I semi-dozed twenty minutes before my iPhone alarm sounded. This practice had become valuable.

For the next three hours, behind a locked door, I read and graded case briefs written by my Appellate Advocacy students. Naturally, all 3L’s. The best students always impressed me with their ability to set out the Statement of Facts in narrative form.

At three-twenty, Gina tapped on my door and whispered she had an emergency. I took a break and learned her daughter had suffered a broken tooth during soccer practice.

I whisked her away right as Professor Stallings stuck his head inside my open doorway. As usual, he didn’t tarry. He stayed just long enough to learn I had called Connie Morgan but had to leave a message. I took the liberty of succinctly stating she might lead to another prospect.

At four fifteen, once again my iPhone sounded. This time, it was a phone call from Micaden’s office. I answered, assuming there was a problem. “Lee, is now a good time to talk.” I affirmed. “Okay, hold for Mr. Tanner.”

Tersely, he said: “Good news and bad news. Shit, I’m getting windy. Judge Broadside approved your application and is demanding we both appear at next Tuesday’s hearing.”

I felt woozy. I’m glad I’m not the fainting type. All along I had failed to consider real life law practice in the South. Why can’t Alabama judges make conference calls or even online video exchanges, especially with attorneys living a thousand miles away? “Gosh, are you kidding?” I already had my answer. Micaden wasn’t the kidding type.

“No. Be glad you’ve got a cushy teaching job. Judge Broadside is hell on wheels. It was your motion for temporary injunctive relief that raised his dander.”

“How did he know that? That motion hasn’t been drafted.”

“Trust me, it’s better I forewarned him. Why else would you be getting in the case? Shit, you have to do more than kiss the city attorney’s ass.”

Micaden had a point. I had nothing to say except thanks.

He quickly responded with, “Send me a copy of your draft motion. If possible, have it here early. Tomorrow.” The line went dead. My high school classmate certainly wasn’t a chit-chatter, but he clearly wasn’t passive.

Damn, what had I gotten myself into?

Chapter 9

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 a double header. 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 dry her dampened hair, 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 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.”

“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.

Chapter 10

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 visit 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.