One True Heart (13 page)

Beau loaded his one bag and his old guitar in the trunk of the rented car. He told Martha Q and Mrs. Biggs good-bye while hugging them both twice. He'd spent four days in Harmony watching his father sleep. Beau had done what he'd come to do. If his father had said one word to him he would have been surprised. He wasn't sure if Melvin Yates couldn't talk or wouldn't. At this point it didn't much matter which. That longed-for father-son talk didn't look like it would happen.

Walking away from Winter's Inn, Beau decided it would probably be a long time before he came back. He'd driven the moonlit roads with a girl named Trouble and neither of them had talked of a future. They hadn't even bothered to exchange cell phone numbers or e-mails.

The time they'd spent together had been more like a dream than real, and he thought it best if they left it at that.

As he drove the streets of Harmony one last time before he headed out to the airport, he was tempted to stop by the bank, but he didn't want to see Ashley L. Powers. He'd rather keep the dream named Trouble. Her father would probably
have him barred from the bank if he even knew she talked to him. Beau might be something in Nashville, but he was nothing but a preacher's wild kid in Harmony and always would be to most folks here.

Maybe someday he'd send her tickets to one of his shows. But even if Ashley came, she wouldn't be the one he was looking for. He wanted the girl who'd stopped his heart one night when she'd pulled his hand from her shoulder to her breast. He wanted the wild child who'd taken her father's classic car out for a joy ride. He wanted Trouble.

Beau drove onto the airstrip an hour early and visited with Derwood while he waited on his plane. The old pilot was full of stories, and Beau had the feeling if he hadn't been there the guy would have simply talked to himself. He had frightening tales of Vietnam and brave accounts of flying through storms. He was always the hero in the stories, saving folks from dying and reuniting loved ones home. He even told one story of how he saved the whole Matheson clan during a tornado. They were trapped in their basement and would have starved to death if he hadn't flown out there.

Derwood watched the county from the air, and his view was often surprising. He told of planes flying in low just before sunup and landing on an old dirt road. Beau was only half listening when the old guy added, “You know the place. Out there near where you and that little lady of yours used to park in a red convertible.”

“What girl?” Beau asked, more to see what Derwood knew than to deny it.

“I don't know. I can't see faces from that high up.”

“Well then, how did you know it was me?”

Derwood giggled. “I didn't until just now. We ain't got that many long-haired men around here. If I see you two out there again, I'll dip low and wave. If there's a bright moon, you'll see me.”

“You do that, Mr. Derwood,” Beau said, knowing that he'd never be back again. “If I don't wave back, call the cops because I'm being kidnapped.”

Derwood didn't know Beau was joking. He nodded and
raised two fingers as if he were a Boy Scout swearing an oath.

Beau's phone rang and he jumped to answer it. Talking to Derwood made him feel like he needed to take a motion-sickness pill. The man went up and down in thoughts faster than a stunt pilot.

“Beau here,” he said as he walked a few feet away.

“Beau, it's Dr. Spencer. Are you coming in this morning?”

“No, Doc, I'm on my way home. Plane should pick me up in a few minutes.”

There was a long pause, and then she said, “I think you'd better come in. We're losing your father.”

For a moment Beau wanted to say that he lost his father a long time ago, but he just nodded as if the doctor could see him. Finally, he said, “I'm on my way.”

With a wave to Derwood, Beau climbed back in his car and dialed his agent. “Cancel the plane, George. I won't be heading back today,” he said, without bothering with hello.

“The pilot just called in to say they had a problem with their inspection and hadn't left Nashville yet. I'll call him back and tell him not to bother. I'll also call the car company. Want to tell me how long you're staying?”

“No idea,” Beau said in a business tone. He and George hadn't had time to become friends. “A few more days. But when I get back, I'll want to try out a few new songs with the band.”

The agent's voice relaxed. “That's what I want to hear. I don't care where you are as long as you're writing.”

Beau rolled his head from side to side, trying to relax. “I'll call you when I'm headed home and you can get the band ready to work. There's something about this place. It's almost like I hear melodies in the air.”

“Whatever works.”

Both hung up without saying good-bye.

Beau barely remembered driving to the hospital or parking the car. It was like a moment went by and he was standing alone in the hallway outside surgery. No one seemed to
know anything except that his father was behind closed doors fighting for his life. For a man who'd talked of what a great day it would be when he'd walk through the Pearly Gates he seemed to be fighting hard not to reach his goal.

Finally, Dr. Spencer came out. She looked tired and sad. The news wouldn't be good, Beau thought.

“Where's your mother?” she asked.

“My stepmother,” Beau corrected. “I have no idea. I thought Ruth might be in with my father.”

The doctor shook her head. “I called her a few minutes before I dialed you. I left her a message to get back to me as soon as she could.”

“Tell me what's going on. I'll explain it to her when she gets here.” Beau didn't plan to wait for her to show up. Knowing his stepmother, she was probably cleaning house. That was all he ever remembered her doing. She cleaned and cooked and waited for his dad to come home. When he did, she'd fill Melvin's plate and he'd eat at his desk or in front of the TV.

“Do you have any other kin?” the doctor asked.

“No, none that would come. My father cut himself off from what family he had years ago.”

She straightened. “Your father had another heart attack almost an hour ago. We rushed him to surgery, but we weren't able to save him. He passed away a few minutes after I called you. I'm so sorry, Beau.”

Her words were caring, and something she'd probably repeated many times, but they were no comfort. There was a river of things he needed to say and even more he needed to hear his father say. Words he'd never hear.

“Thanks, Doc, I'll try to find my stepmother. If she comes here, ask her to wait, then call me, would you? I don't want her to be alone.”

Dr. Spencer gave him a caring look. “I understand.”

Beau turned and almost ran from the hospital. He drove toward his father's house, thinking that he'd get through this and never come back to Harmony again. In a few days this life he'd hated so much would be behind him, but first he
wanted to be kind to Ruthie, who had seen far too little caring in her marriage. He'd always felt the woman married the preacher and had to live with the man.

The house was unlocked and everything looked exactly as it had when he'd left years ago. He walked through the rooms half expecting to see his father asleep in his recliner or working at his desk off the dining room. No one. Somehow in the days he'd been in the hospital the echoes of his father's booming voice had settled into an eerie silence.

Beau crossed the street to the little church his father had pastored for twenty years. The place was locked up tight.

He circled the market and drove downtown. Unless they'd traded cars, which was unlikely, his stepmother had vanished. She'd known her husband was dying, or at least that he was close to death. The doctor had tried to call her. If not home or at the church or on her way to the hospital, where could she be?

Finally, Beau stopped in front of the bank. He needed an ounce of balance right now and he could think of only one person who might provide it.

Very few people were in the bank. Two tellers were looking busy with their backs to the lobby. A young woman, with three little children holding on to her skirt, waited. Two of the kids were making sounds just to listen to them echo off the high walls.

Beau walked straight to the vice president's office. No one seemed near to try to stop him. Scrooge must be out to lunch. The loan officer gave him the creeps, but Beau couldn't put his finger on exactly what he hated about the jittery guy.

He pushed past the open door of Lark's office and closed it before turning around.

Ashley L. Powers stood slowly. Surprise and alarm reflected in her face. He was obviously someone who didn't belong in this orderly world of hers.

He didn't move but guessed she could see the worry in his eyes. The pain. The fear. She moved around her desk and came toward him.

Beau swore he wouldn't cry for a father who hadn't loved him. He promised himself he wouldn't fall apart, but when she reached him he grabbed her and held on tight. He didn't know if she'd heard about his father or if she just felt his pain, but she returned the hug.

For a long while she just held on. Slowly his nerves calmed, his heart slowed. He could do this. He could face whatever happened next. All he needed was her near for a few minutes. He wasn't sure who started talking but he knew he did most of it. They held each other until his world settled.

“I have to go make arrangements,” he finally said.

“I'll pick you up tonight. We'll drive.” She brushed a tear he hadn't seen fall from her cheek.

He smiled, remembering the old pilot who flew in moonlight and almost said,
Just you, me, and Crazy Derwood
.

“Tonight,” he echoed as he pulled away and walked out of the bank without looking back.

An hour later he found his stepmother sitting in her backyard. He pulled up a rusty folding chair and just kept her company for a while.

Finally, she said in a voice she hadn't used in a while, “He's dead, isn't he?”

“Yes.” Beau wished he could think of some words of comfort, but she didn't look like words would matter.

She appeared so tired, like a woman worn out in body and soul. “Will you make the funeral plans?”

“I will if you want me to.”

“I do.” She waited awhile before she began to organize. “He'll want his black suit and a white shirt. Any tie will do. You pick it out. The service can be tomorrow if Mr. Wright can work it in the schedule. The church secretary will call all the parishioners. I doubt many will come, it being a weekday.”

Beau added, “I'll let the paper know anyway and order flowers.”

She shrugged as if neither thing he suggested was important. “Buy him a plot in the new section of the cemetery.
They're not as expensive. He'll want no headstone, but a marker would be nice. Tell Mr. Wright that we won't need a family car; I'll just ride out with you. I've spent years listening to him complain about how folks waste money on burying.”

“Should I buy two plots? One for you?” He hated asking, but he didn't want to make a mistake.

“No. As soon as I get my things together, I'll be moving back to Kansas. I don't need to stay around for anything and I wouldn't want to be buried here. When my time comes, I've got a plot by my parents' graves.”

“This house is yours,” Beau said. “I paid off the mortgage. If you want to, you can stay here for a while or sell the place. Either way, this house is yours.”

She shook her head. “I don't want it. I don't want anything. He always said when he died he didn't plan on leaving anything to me or you. He said he'd leave it to the church. Only all he left was bills.”

“I don't want the house either,” Beau echoed. “How about I offer it to the church?”

“I think that would be the right thing to do.” Ruthie finally faced him. “Beau, you were a better son than he had a right to ask for. The trouble between you and him was on his shoulders, not yours.”

Beau stood and slowly folded down by her side. He held her gently as if she were thin glass and might shatter. “Thanks for being kind to me,” he whispered.

Part of him expected her to cry, but she didn't. She just patted him on the shoulder a few times. “You go set up the funeral and I'll go pack. If it's all right with you I'd like to just have a graveside service.”

Beau knew his father would have wanted the works. Open casket, church full of flowers, folks crying, a long line of cars slowly snaking to the cemetery. But his father wasn't here. “I think a graveside service would be nice,” he said.

They walked back inside as the warm air cooled and clouds crowded across the sky. Something had changed inside as well. The house seemed cold, void of color, a place
where no one lived. It was no longer a home; maybe it had never been.