Waiting for Sunrise (22 page)

25

Trinity, South Carolina

Gilbert Milstrap sat behind a paper-strewn desk. His secretary—a middle-aged woman named Mary Ann Dexter—stood on the opposite side, fists planted on ample hips. “I don’t know how in this world you expect to succeed in business with a mess such as this.” She shook her head. Gilbert swallowed a smile while he wondered if she used an entire can of hair spray in the mornings before showing up promptly at eight o’clock. The woman wore her dyed honey-blonde hair like a football helmet; while her face appeared to go from left to right, her hair didn’t move one iota.

Gilbert spread his hands over the clutter. “I don’t know, Miss Mary Ann,” he said with a smile. “Somehow I just make it work.”

She leaned over and made a show of picking up files and slapping them into new stacks. “No, what you’re doing is making it
into
work for me. More work, I might add. I deserve a raise if I ever deserved a raise.”

Gilbert leaned into the soft leather of his executive chair. He laced his fingers together and formed a pillow out of his hands for the back of his head. “Ah, what would I do without you?”

Mary Ann straightened, one file still held firmly between the fingers of her right hand. “A question I ask myself all the time. In fact, where you’d be without me in your office and Martha in your kitchen is . . . well, I’ll tell ya. You’d be working under somebody’s car in your daddy’s shop on the outskirts of Trinity. That’s where you’d be.” She added the file to the last of the now neatly formed stacks. “See how much better this is? Now you can make heads or tails out of things.”

Gilbert chuckled again. “But Sergeant, I was making heads and tails before you walked in here.” He leaned forward, picked up the manila file Mary Ann had just set down. “You must admit, I’ve turned one little service station café into quite the business venture. Let’s see now . . .” He shook the file toward his secretary, who had tilted her head to the side and cocked a brow. “
This
is the file on the new location in Augusta.” He returned it to the stack before holding up his hands to demonstrate his ability to count. “Gilly’s Café—famous for Martha’s homemade pies and out-of-this-world country-fried pork chops—is now in . . . one, Florence; two, Summerville; three, Savannah; four, Charleston; five, Columbia; six, Rock Hill; seven . . .” He eyed the file. “Augusta; and of course, eight, here in Trinity.”

“You sound like a commercial.”

He clapped his hands together. “I am, dear Mary Ann. I am. If I don’t toot the horn, who will? Do you think the Colonel took his chicken idea from a service station to what it is today by keeping his work to himself?”

“Humph. I don’t know about chicken, but I’m making a fresh pot of coffee. Want any?”

He reached for the Gilly’s Café coffee mug sitting on the desk near a shoe-box-sized phone with multiple lines. “Why not.”

Mary Ann took the cup with a playful jerk. She marched toward the door separating their offices, mumbling all the way.

Gilbert decided to toy with her. “What was that, O Lady of the Unemployment Line?”

She turned. “I said between your children and your restaurants, you’re practically a small country. That’s what I said.
You
want to fire me now? ’Cause I know a good lawyer who’ll prove I’m right.”

Gilbert held back none of his laughter at the words. “Oh, Mary Ann.
You
are the mess.” He wagged a finger at her. “That’s what you are.”

Mary Ann turned toward her office just as her office phone rang. “Maybe that’s Colonel Sanders now wanting to share a billboard with ya.” This time she raised both brows. “I’ll be back shortly with some fresh coffee.”

Gilbert blinked as she closed the door behind her. He stood, stretched, and walked toward a bookcase where framed photos in various sizes lined one shelf. Some were school photos of the kids. A few were candid shots of family outings. One was a recent Olan Mills of the whole family. He picked it up, blew away imaginary dust—as though Mary Ann would allow such a thing in his office—and looked at the menagerie. Three sons—ten-year-old Greg, six-year-old Kenny, and five-year-old George, whom everyone called Georgy, except Pammie, who called him Georgy-porgy, much to his chagrin. Pam was the oldest of the girls at nine, followed by Donna, who would be two in November and who was held by her mother.

“Pats,” he said. “What happened to the sparkle, babe?” He stared at his wife’s image in the photograph. She’d managed to smile, but it hadn’t reached her blue eyes. At one time, they’d shone as though the sun had burst from within them. But over the years, they’d become dark. Lifeless. In spite of all the life she’d brought into the world.

For a while, little things helped. His being home more often, time with her brother, her parents, her friends. His sister Janice had practically bent over backward for her, adding their kids to her own for outings, and Rayette called daily just to make her laugh. But lately, nothing had worked and everything had gotten worse. Her sleep patterns were off. She often woke in the middle of the night gasping for air. While the house remained spotless, she couldn’t seem to find anything. And dinner was whatever Martha cooked at the Trinity café and he brought home.

After Donna’s birth, Gilbert had talked to Patsy’s doctor about her worsening condition. While he appreciated the good doctor’s medical knowledge that “some women get a little depressed after giving birth,” Gilbert felt it was something more and that his wife needed something beyond the vitamins and sleeping pills she’d been prescribed.

In the last year, he could hardly take a two-day business trip without her crying, begging him not to leave her, as though it would be forever. She’d even accused him a few times of having another woman in each of the towns where Gilly’s was located. Nothing could be further from the truth, but nothing he said truly satisfied her either.

Mary Ann’s voice through the phone’s intercom system interrupted his thoughts. “Gil, a Walter Bonfield is on the phone for you. Line one.”

The call he’d been waiting for. Gilbert returned the photo to the shelf as he said, “Thank you, Mary Ann.” He walked to the desk, picked up the receiver, and punched the blinking box with LINE ONE stamped across it. “Gilbert Milstrap.”

“Mr. Milstrap? Walter Bonfield here. You left a message for me about a week ago?”

“I did . . . I was . . . well, I was hoping to meet with you in person as soon as possible. At your office or . . . somewhere?”

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “If you’re picturing Sam Spade in a dark and shadowy office located on a street in some sleazy side of town, you’re way off. My life isn’t film noir. I work out of my cheery little home here in Charleston. I have a wife and three kids to support. And I’m way more handsome than Humphrey Bogart ever dreamed of being.”

Gilbert nodded. “I understand. So, where should we meet then?”

“Your place here in Charleston not on the table of possible places?”

Gilbert sat in his chair and scooted closer to his desk. “I’d prefer to keep this out of my business affairs.”

“All right. When will you be back in Charleston?”

Gilbert flipped the pages of his desk calendar. “Next Wednesday.”

“There’s a place on Bay Street that serves a real good cup of coffee. We could meet about three? Four? Whatever is open for your schedule.”

“Do they serve breakfast?”

“Yes, sir, they do at that. Got some real good pancakes.”

“How about I buy you pancakes then Thursday morning?”

“Sounds good.”

Gilbert looked frantically for a scratch piece of paper, but with everything now in neat stacks, it was impossible. He pulled the calendar to him, picked up a pencil, and wrote the name and the address of the restaurant as Bonfield gave it. “Got it,” he said. “What do I need to bring? Anything in particular to make this thing go fast?”

“Anything you have. Birth records, birth dates, names—full names are best. Last known address, that kind of thing.”

Gilbert sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot . . . but I’ll be happy to give you what I’ve got.”

“The less you have, Mr. Milstrap, the longer it’s going to take. I won’t lie. That could run into some money.”

Gilbert laid the pencil beside the calendar. “Money, I’ve got, Mr. Bonfield. It’s answers I need.”

Gainesville, Florida

A week after Freedom 7 made its historical launch, Billy entered Attorney Morris’s office at exactly five minutes till two. He could feel sweat forming rings at the armpits of his white button-down short-sleeved shirt. But for a moment, he wished he’d brought a jacket.

Albert Morris kept an impressive office. There wasn’t a stick of modern furniture like in so many businesses these days. Books filling the shelves were obvious treasures. The furniture was thick and highly polished. Tiny sofas in the sitting area of the reception room were overstuffed. Matching winged-back chairs were arranged by twos or fours within the long expanse of the room, which hummed. A glance to his left and he spotted a window air-conditioning unit.

Everything smelled like vanilla and there was no receptionist, which he found odd.

A glass-beveled door at the far right of the room opened. A young woman—not much older than Billy—stepped from beyond it and into the room. Her hair was long and blonde and it bounced in a curl just above her shoulders. She wore an orangey-colored dress tied off by a sash at her waist and shiny black heels that clicked on the hardwood floor beneath them. Halfway to him, she stopped. “May I help you?”

For a moment, Billy felt taken aback. “Ah . . . I’m here to see Mr. Morris. I’m Bil—William Liddle.”

She smiled brightly. “Yes, Mr. Liddle. Have a seat.” She motioned toward the nearest tiny sofa. “I think you’ll find this settee is very comfortable.”

Settee
.
He’d never heard of such. “Thank you, ma’am.” He sat, but on the edge where it wasn’t so comfortable after all.

“Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait? A co-cola?”

Billy wiped his palms along the knees of his best pair of church slacks. “A co-cola would be nice.”

“On ice?”

“That’d be nice too.”

Minutes later the pretty young woman returned with a glass filled with crushed ice and a small bottle of Coke. “Here you go,” she said. “When you’re done with the bottle, just return it to me.”

For a crazy moment, Billy pictured the girl hauling empty cola bottles to the store for the pennies they brought. He swallowed a smile. “I’ll do that.”

“Mr. Morris is ready to see you now,” she said. “You can bring your glass and bottle with you.”

Albert Morris stood from behind his desk when Billy entered the opulent office filled with dark wood, heavy drapes, and more thick books than Billy thought possible to read. When the attorney extended his hand in formal greeting, Billy had to set the bottle and glass down but struggled to find a place. Mr. Morris looked to a table sitting next to a leather wing-back chair and said, “There’s coasters right there. Help yourself.”

An awkward moment later, a wet-handed Billy shook Mr. Morris’s hand. They both ended up looking at their palms, then rubbed them together and laughed.

“Sit, Billy, please,” Mr. Morris said, all the while returning to his own chair. “My goodness, look at you. How long has it been?”

Billy tried to smile but he wasn’t sure it took. “I’m not sure, sir. Graduation, maybe?”

Morris nodded. “Probably so. Of course, we saw quite a bit of you when you and Frank were in school. Not to mention when Frank broke his leg and you visited with him nearly every day at the hospital. That was a fine thing you did, Billy. Frank’s mother and I will always be grateful.”

Billy busied himself pouring the Coke into the glass. It fizzled and popped, making Billy all the more thirsty. “How is Frank, Mr. Morris?”

“He’s doing well. He’s up at Duke, you know.”

Billy took a sip of his drink; the fizz tickled his nose and the liquid stung as it went down this throat. “Yes, sir. I heard that.”

“What made you decide against college, Billy? If I remember correctly, you could have had your choice.”

“Um . . . yes, sir.” Billy returned the glass to the coaster before shifting in the seat so he faced forward. “A lot . . . a lot had to do with Mama . . . and Daddy, of course. Which is why I’ve come to talk to you.” He glanced around the room. “Although . . .” He wasn’t sure how to finish verbalizing his thoughts.

Albert Morris glanced around the room with him. “Although?”

“Mr. Morris, I have to be honest. I need legal advice and I need help, but I’m not sure I can afford you.” Billy choked out a laugh, hoping to keep everything friendly.

The attorney with the full head of short-cropped hair and thick brows arching over handsome features—even to Billy’s way of thinking—leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, allowing the ankle of one to rest on the knee of the other. “Why don’t you tell me what you need, Billy. Let me decide if you can afford me.”

Billy pondered long enough to collect his thoughts. “Mr. Morris, you know about my father . . .”

Albert Morris nodded. “I do.”

“And you know I’m marrying Veronica Sikes next month.”