Celebration (23 page)

There wasn't one single person in this whole country who knew he was Logan Kelly. Danela knew his name was Logan, but he'd told her his last name was Kilpatrick. Everyone else knew him as Justin Eberhart. He wouldn't have one bit of trouble getting out of the country. When you played your cards close to your chest and kept your mouth shut, there was little doubt you would succeed.

He would leave Danela the money he promised. If she chose to blow it in England, that was her problem. There would be no regrets where she was concerned. The upside to that was he'd fabricated an involved story about Kristine she could never keep straight in her mind. For all her threats about tracking down his wife, he knew she would never follow through. How could she? His tale about Kristine's whereabouts had been so convoluted, she'd need an army of investigators to prowl the Midwest, and in the end they'd only come up dry.

Satisfied with his thoughts, Logan lowered his feet to the floor and closed his desk drawer. He splashed bourbon into his glass and took it neat. Now, all he had to do was go home, eat dinner, screw Danela for a few hours, and return to the office to wait for the banks to open.

Life was looking good again.

 

 

They tore at each other, each seeking that which the other could give. There in the shadows of the exquisitely draped bedroom, away from the bright moonlight, they devoured each other with searching lips and hungry fingers.

When at last sensibility returned, they touched mouths with lips swollen by passion and tasting of salt. The salt of blood, the salt of tears. They lay together with the gentle breeze from the open windows wafting over their slick, naked bodies, feeling warmth where their nakedness touched, and when they sought each other again, it was with gentleness. Their mouths were tender and their fingers caressed.

They were two lovers, rapturous with each other, reveling in that private world known only to lovers.

Gently he embraced her, cradling her head in one of his hands while the other supported her haunches. Backward, backward, he dipped her. Into her line of vision through the open windows she could see the treetops swaying, the star-spangled sky and the shadows growing lighter by the moment. Slowly, deliberately, he bent his head, perspiration dotting his forehead. Closer and closer his mouth came to hers. Tighter and tighter became his hold on her, as if he were clinging to her, desperately cleaving to this moment of time, cherishing it, remembering it, burning it into his memory.

Later, when the lavender shadows lightened the room, Logan slipped from the bed. He stared down at Danela. She was almost pretty in sleep. He needed to remember this moment, for he would think of her in the weeks and months ahead. Then she would fade from his memory the way the memory of Kristine had faded.

Logan felt exhausted. He wasn't a kid anymore. Three go-rounds a night were a little more than he had bargained for. Danela could go all night long, one orgasm after another, and sneer at him when he couldn't satisfy her. Tonight, though, he'd given it his all, and she was sleeping contentedly. From long habit he knew she wouldn't wake before noon, if then.

 

 

At precisely thirty seconds past eight o'clock in the morning, Logan hit the key that would transfer all of Alpine Travel's monies into his numbered Swiss account. A blizzard of numbers appeared on the small screen. Five seconds later the confirmation numbers lit up the same screen. His sigh was mighty as he punched in more numbers and again waited. Good. There was now fifty thousand dollars sitting in his Swiss checking account. Just enough to pay off Danela and pay the more pressing bills that would allow the safari to get under way.

The army of gods that looked after him in time of crisis marched alongside him to the tune of his own personal drummer.

Life was good.

Very, very good.

Kristine stared at the neat stacks of paper covering the dining room table as well as the overflow on the long buffet against the wall. Almost the end of the road. Daylight at the end of the tunnel. Four years of paperwork. Four years of conscientious obsessiveness. If there was such a thing as conscientious obsessiveness.

Kristine leaned back in her chair to stare at Mima Posy and Lela Mae Brown's folders. She closed her eyes to savor the memory of the day she and Jack had gone, as Jack put it, on the road to find closure to what lay in front of her.

“I hope we're doing the right thing, Jack. What if Mrs. Brown thinks we're invading her privacy or doesn't want to talk to us. I wouldn't blame her if she told us to get lost and to get off her property.”

“I can't say I would blame her if she did. We sent her nine different letters. She didn't respond to any of them. Maybe she isn't one of the descendants from the slave list and thought it was all a bunch of bullshit. Christ, I hate those words.”

“No more than I do,” Kristine said through clenched teeth. “I think this is the turnoff, Jack. Those trees are gorgeous. I wonder how old they are.”

“Probably as old as Miss Lela Mae Brown.”

“Mrs. Lela Mae Brown.”

“Do you see a fence anywhere? The postmaster said there was a wire fence with a mailbox. I wonder if he sent us to the right place. Everyone gets mail. Why doesn't Mrs. Brown get mail?”

“He said she got a ‘flurry' of legal-looking letters a while back. I guess those were the ones we sent. Supermarket flyers hardly count as mail,” Jack said fretfully.

“Look, there's a fence, and the mailbox is right where he said it was. The house must be just up the road. I don't see any neighboring houses. Say a prayer or cross your fingers that this is the lady we're looking for.”

“What do you think I've been doing during this whole ride?”

“I'm afraid, Jack. This is the right thing to do, isn't it? What if Mrs. Brown doesn't think . . . What if she takes a shotgun to us ... Don't go so fast, slow down. For some reason, I don't think many people come out here. She might be anxious with visitors. Maybe we should call out or something.”

“Kristine, we're going up on that porch and knock on the door. Do you have all the folders?”

“I have everything. I probably have more than I need.”

“What about the basket?”

“The basket's in the backseat. We agreed to wait on that.”

It was a plain little white house with a small front porch and two rocking chairs. Window boxes sat under the windows and were chock-full of colorful petunias. An ageless dairy crock held luscious deep pink geraniums. There wasn't a yellow leaf to be seen among the emerald green leaves, nor was there a speck of dust on the old fiber carpet or rocking chairs. The windowpanes shimmered. Kristine clenched her fist and knocked on the door.

A spry little lady with a topknot and wire-rim glasses opened the front door, a smile on her face. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.

“Mrs. Brown? Mrs. Lela Mae Brown?”

“I was this morning when I woke up,” the little lady quipped. “Now, how can I help you?”

“We need to talk to you, Mrs. Brown. May we come in? My name is Kristine Summers, and this is Jackson Valarian. Some of your ancestors once worked for my family. Is that introduction acceptable?”

“Mercy, that was a long time ago. Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee?”

“We had some earlier, but thank you anyway.”

“Please, come into the parlor and sit down. I'm sorry my son isn't here. I imagine he's the one you want to speak with. His name is Jonah.”

Kristine opened the top folder in her hands. “No, Mrs. Brown, it isn't Jonah. We want to talk to you. Do you remember your parents or your grandparents talking about those long-ago days?”

“Do you mean when they were
slaves?”

Kristine and Jackson both flinched at the word. “Yes, ma'am,” Kristine said.

“Life was hard for them. It brings sorrow to my heart to talk about it. Are you sure you don't want to talk to Jonah?”

“We can come back and talk to him if you want us to. You see, Mrs. Brown, we . . . I ... my family didn't know ... we thought . . . We want to make it right in any way we can. Didn't you get the letters we sent you?”

“Yes. Jonah said it was some kind of scheme. He threw them away. Were they important?”

“In a manner of speaking. It's all right, though. What Mrs. Summers is trying to say is the Summers and Kelly families want to make restitution. Do you have a family Bible, Mrs. Brown?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly do. My family came from the Summers farm. My grandmama said her family was treated real good. Mr. Summers gave each man a small parcel of land when he married and had children. My own mama told me stories about the manor lady making sure the doctor visited and made certain everyone went to services on Sunday. The children were taught to read and write and didn't have to work in the fields. There was always a gift at Christmastime for each worker and one for each child. As each boy child grew and then married, a second patch of land was given. Today it might not seem fair, but back then it was. I'm not sure what it is you want to do.”

The relief washing through Kristine left her feeling faint. “I thought . . . the records show that children were taken from their families and . . . and . . . sold. That was so barbaric I have trouble trying to comprehend it. We want to find those families and try to make it right. Do you know any of them?”

Lela Mae Brown sat up stiffly. Her lips thinned to a tight line. “I know one family.”

“You do! That's wonderful! Tell us where they live. Please, Mrs. Brown. We want to help. This isn't some cockamamie thing we're doing here. We have tons of files and letters and those . . . awful . . .
lists
. We can help. I know we can. Where does the family live?”

“Right here in Richmond. Mima's people came from the Kelly farm. She has her own family now. She had five uncles and two aunts that were taken away. Mima's mama was the only one who got to stay on. She said her grandmama just laid down and died when that happened. But before that, her grandmama did something no one knew about. Her and Joisa, her husband, made a deep gash that resembled a cross on the sole of each child's foot so it would leave a scar. For identification purposes later on. Later on never came. How can you make that right?”

Jack leaped from the chair he was sitting on. Kristine watched in awe as he danced around the room. She thought that at any given moment she'd have to peel him off the ceiling. “What is it, Jack?”

“We have four of them, Kristine! Four people responded saying one of their ancestors had a cross scar on their foot. Four out of six, Kristine!”

“Yes, I remember now. Thank God. We've been sending out letters, Mrs. Brown, for the past few years, and one of the questions was, did any member of your family have any noticeable scars, marks, or anything that would help for identification purposes. Four letters came back with what you just said, a large cross on the ball of the foot. Three men and one woman.”

Kristine burst into tears.

Lela Mae Brown dabbed at her eyes with the hem of a pristine white apron. “I think I'll make fresh coffee now. What will you do for Mima?”

“Whatever she wants,” Kristine said. “We'll send her grandchildren to college and their children also. We'll buy them land for their own houses if they don't already have it.”

“Mima needs a new wash machine. She could use an electric icebox. She's too old to be toting ice like she does.”

“We can do that today or tomorrow. Does she have a big family?”

“Big as mine. I have nine children and twenty-six grandchildren. Mima needs to have some eye surgery for her cataracts. Can you take care of that, too?”

“Yes, ma'am, we can,” Jackson said.

Kristine felt a head rush. “Can we see your Bible, Mrs. Brown?”

Lela Mae dried her hands on her apron. Her fingers were knotted with arthritis, Kristine saw. Her touch was reverent when she accepted the worn, tattered Bible. Jackson crowded next to her, almost swooning at the written words in the front. “May I please copy this down, Mrs. Brown.”

“Don't you be fixing to try and take my Bible, young man. It goes to my firstborn son when I pass over.”

“I would never do such a thing, Mrs. Brown. I feel privileged that you're even letting me look at it. I just want to copy the names and the dates. What a help this is going to be.”

“What can you do now, Miz Summers?”

“I can send all your grandchildren to college for free, Mrs. Brown. When they marry and have children of their own, there will be a fund for them to go to college. As for your nine children, a piece of land, a house, an annuity. We'll work it out. Is there anything you want? Isn't it lonely living way out here by yourself?”

“Do you mean like a fairy wish?”

Kristine smiled. “Yes, like a fairy wish.”

“Well, a new truck for Jonah would be nice. He's my youngest. He drives across the states. He takes care of me and helps out his brothers and sisters. It has to be one of those trucks that has eighteen wheels. He'd be married by now, but he has too many obligations. He's a good boy.”

“I can do that,” Kristine said happily. “Will the weekend be soon enough?”

“Mercy, yes.”

Lela Mae poured coffee. “Why are you doing this, Miz Summers? That's going to be the first thing Jonah is going to ask.”

Kristine told her the story, sparing nothing. “It was wrong. People need to know where their family rests. I want to be able to sleep at night. I want to be able to look in the mirror. All I can do is apologize for my husband's family and what they did. In the scheme of things, an apology means nothing. In Las Vegas there is a saying—money talks and losers walk. I have the money, so it's up to me to do the right thing. Somewhere along the way, I may run out of money, but I want you to know I will work until every last single person is accounted for and taken care of. If it takes me a hundred years, then it will be up to my children to carry on what I started. I want you to believe me, Mrs. Brown.”

“I think you can call me Lela Mae.”

“Will you call me Kristine?”

“Yes I will!” Lela Mae said smartly.

“I got it all, Kristine,” Jack chortled.

“I'm going to leave my card with you, Lela Mae. When your son comes home, tell him to call me. The only other thing we need is Mima's address.”

At the door, Lela Mae put her thin arms around Kristine. “God bless you, child.”

“He already did. He brought me here. Thanks for the coffee. If you wait just a minute, I want to go to the car. I brought something for you. It's something I want to give you from my heart.” Kristine returned in minutes with a Yorkie pup named Missy. She held it out, her eyes pleading with the old woman to accept it. “She has impressive papers. She will love you unconditionally, Lela Mae.”

“Mercy, mercy, mercy.” The old gnarled hands reached for the tiny pup, who immediately started to lick at her face. “I think she likes me.”

“I suspect she does. Here are her papers. There's enough dog food here to last for two months. She's up-to-date with her shots and in perfect health. This is her favorite blanket and toy. Just take good care of her.”

“I always wanted an animal that was my own. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, Lela Mae.”

“Drive with the angels now, you hear. I always say that to Jonah when he starts out,” Lela Mae said as she nuzzled the little dog against her neck, a look of pure rapture on her face.

Kristine smiled as she patted Lela Mae's shoulder. “My guardian angel sits right here all the time,” she said, patting her own shoulder. “She watches over me. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be here. We'll talk again, Lela Mae.”

“I don't know about you, Kristine,” Jack said when they were driving down the dusty road, “but I think I could walk on water right now.”

“I was just thinking the exact same thing, Jack. Next stop, Mima Posy's house.”

It was midafternoon when Jackson stopped the car on another country road similar to the one Lela Mae lived on. It was a pretty lot, Kristine thought, with old oak trees that dripped Spanish moss. The lawn was green and well tended with flower beds chock-full of Gerber daisies every color of the rainbow. A small vegetable garden, as neat and well tended as the flower beds, could be seen on the side of the small clapboard house.

A giant of a woman stood on the front steps, her hands clasped in front of her. In a voice that rang clear out to the car, she called, “Don't come any farther unless you have business here.”

“We have business with you, Mrs. Posy. Lela Mae Brown gave us your address. We need to talk to you. May we come up on the porch?”

The woman moved to the side to allow Kristine and Jackson to climb the steps. “Sit!”

Mima Posy remained standing. “And you are?”

“I'm Kristine Summers, and this is Jackson Valarian. We need to talk to you.”

“I'm listening, Kristine Summers.”

In a halting voice that hinted at tears. Kristine went through her story a second time. She ended with, “What my husband's family did was wrong. I can't undo that. What I can do is provide for you, your family, and your grandchildren, and if you know of any other families, please tell us. We have something to give you, but we don't have it with us. Please listen while Jackson explains it to you.”