Chapter Nine

Torrie and Iris were long gone by the time Rich wandered out on the porch as a beautiful sunset disappeared and the graying night descended. Estella, ever the manipulator, had joined forces with Iris and together they had begged Rich to convince Torrie to stay for the pot roast supper Lulu had prepared. Torrie had reluctantly agreed, and Rich was careful to give her plenty of space, even when they spent some quiet time with a glass of wine on the back porch as the girls romped in the yard. Rich smiled. He had given Torrie the rocking chair his grandmother always used when she spoke to him out of the clear blue sky or from wherever she was hiding. He refused to sit in it since her first eerie appearance on the porch the day he arrived. The outrageous thought that Torrie might be sitting in his grandmother’s lap gave him a bizarre feeling, even though it was downright laughable, the more he thought about it. He contemplated mentioning Gertie’s ghostly appearances to Torrie, then decided against it. If word got out, people would think he was crazy. Maybe even Torrie would think he went off the deep end.

Later, he and Torrie had gone back to the study to look at some of the journals and papers Marlene had unearthed. Torrie suggested they start at the beginning and look at the very first journals Hilda Redman wrote when she arrived in America and married her husband. They each decided to take one and confer on Wednesday before they started to sift through old papers in the study’s file cabinets. She also suggested they check out the local newspaper articles from the early 1900s.

A feeling of edginess washed over him as he gazed at the rose beds glowing like tiny luminescent bulbs. He needed to discuss the flowerbeds with Torrie. Maybe there was a way she could finish out the summer and fall before uprooting everything.

But Estella was going to be his real problem. Already she was getting attached to the house, her room, the town, and the land. She had even bonded with good-hearted, looney Lulu. Now since she had met Iris, and had a friend her age, it was going to be painful for her to leave.

He knew the feeling well. Each summer he had been dutifully shipped off to live with Grandmother Gertie and Grandfather Matt, and each August he was torn away from the fun-filled, healthy, and warm environment of Hickory Valley and sent back to Texas. Fond memories were often painful ones as well.

Then, in his sophomore year, when it was evident his parents’ marriage was headed for the rocks, Gertie had insisted Rich be transferred to Hickory Valley to finish his last two years of high school in a stable environment. The fighting between his parents had escalated and had become unbearable. Harboring a bucketful of anger, he grudgingly agreed, and it later turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. His grandmother had redirected his anger, insisted he play soccer, and signed him up for a local church youth group. Because he always spent summers in Pennsylvania, he quickly realized it wasn’t as difficult to fit in and be accepted as he had expected. Graduating at the top of his class was a gift he gave back to his grandmother alone for all her patience and hard work. She was more proud of his achievement than he was. She was more proud than even his own mother and father were.

“You know I begged your mother not to make me send you back to Texas after each summer you spent here with me,” a voice said from the rocking chair behind him. “Joyce was adamant it would never happen. If your father hadn’t insisted you come here each summer, she would have packed you up and sent you to some dude ranch or camp for rich kids instead. Luckily, once the divorce proceeding got underway, she was outvoted; and when high school rolled around, I finally got you for good—along with your stubborn Redman attitude.”

Rich flinched and the hair at the back of his neck felt like bugs were crawling up it. “You know, Grandmother, you really have to give me some sort of signal when you want to start a chat with me. Popping up unannounced scares the hair right off my head. Don’t they give specters some sort of warning bell to use?”

“Ding dong! Listen up, Richard Lee Junior. You think it’s fun to fade in and out of your life like I’m a fuzzy radio signal?” The rocking chair began to move. “I see you and Torrie resolved your little differences.”

Rich refused to take the bait. He wasn’t going to talk about Torrie Larson with anyone. He needed time to figure her out. “What do you know about Great Uncle Walt?”

“He went to New York to seek his fortune. He didn’t keep in touch with the family.” She snorted derisively.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” The rocker creaked. “I see you’re contemplating refinishing the floor in the living room and having the room repapered. Have Torrie help you pick out new furniture, or get those wingback chairs reupholstered. I’d stick with a gold color.”

Rich’s voice rose an octave. “You’re serious? You’re dead and you’re worried about the color of upholstery I’m going to be sitting on?”

“Phfftt. There you go, Richard Lee, being impertinent again.” The rocker rocked more vigorously. “Here’s a tip. Look at any old ledgers and bills. There must be something I missed when I went looking for those jewels.” The rocker slowed. “And get yourself a decent SUV to take those kids to the lake to fish and camp. You could use a pair of decent shoes like normal people wear, too.”

“Camping? Surely you’re jesting?” Rich pushed his fingers through his hair and glared at the rocking chair. He’d had enough of camping on the trip up with Estella when rains flooded their tent and all their belongings. There was no way he was subjecting himself to a repeat performance.

“What’s wrong with my boots?” He looked down at his feet and inspected his alligator cowboy boots, then looked accusingly at the rocker.

But it had stopped. A warm breeze swirled around him, and he could swear a soft hand lightly caressed his cheek.