It rained in late afternoon the evening of the open house, a cloudburst that washed the dust from the grass and leaves and left a measure of coolness in its wake. It was just as well; Blest had no air-conditioning.
There was also no electric light in the cavernous rooms, since the utility company had declared the old wiring in the house unsafe. Anna had ordered hundreds of candles and filled the chandeliers, then brought in every candelabra and candlestick she could beg or borrow. She had envisioned the house in the blaze of candle glow, but discovered that there was a vast difference between her modern conception of such a thing and what might have been considered bright light in the old days. At least the gentle flames concealed the worst of the dust, and cast a romantic sheen across the age-speckled mirrors and cracked plaster of the walls.
Rip’s fear and Anna’s secret nightmare, that no one would come, was laid to rest within the first half hour. The cars began arriving while the long summer twilight still lingered, and continued until well after it was dark. How much of the attention was due to rampant nosiness and how much due to Anna’s efforts and her mother’s intervention, she neither knew nor cared.
She stood beside Rip in the receiving line, introducing people and whispering names he should know. She also passed tidbits of information in a steady stream, such as who was married to whom, who lived where and did what, who had children and who didn’t.
Several familiar faces appeared as the evening advanced: Sally Jo and Billy Holmes with their two children, many of the business people they had met at the civic club luncheon, even King Beecroft and his wife Patty. Carrie DeBlanc, magnificent in an animal print caftan, was one of the later arrivals. She slinked toward them like a two-hundred-pound femme fatale, her appraisal as blatant as Mae West at her most incredible.
“Honey, honey,” she moaned to Anna as she gave her a big hug, “you’re killing me with this man. Hide him quick, before I’m tempted to grab something to squeeze.”
Anna laughed as she emerged from acres of silk folds. “I’d be careful if I were you.”
“You mean he’s liable to grab back? Be still my heart!” Releasing herself and turning to Rip, she spread her arms. “Hello, gorgeous. Where would you like to start?”
“I don’t quite know,” Rip answered, pretending to study the situation in spite of a heightened shade of red under his bronze-tinted skin. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“And meant to be, sugar,” Carrie crowed as she folded him into the silken tent of her embrace.
After that icebreaker of a greeting, the evening took on a momentum of its own. Rip greeted everyone who passed before him with an unaffected naturalness that made Anna’s heart swell with pride. If he was at all nervous, there was no way to tell. He smiled and shook hands, made inquiries and wry observations with people who had been school friends or to whom he had spoken lately about the house. To the occasional question, he made easy answers without a trace of hesitation or suggestion of arrogance. For all that anyone could tell, he might have been born at Blest and lived there all his life; he was every inch the successful and urbane gentleman-owner.
Anna took little credit. She might have fed Rip history and statistics on Blest at every opportunity, but much of what he knew was due to long hours spent with Papa Vidal and to his affection for the place which sparked his interest.
He had dressed for the evening without advice from her, wearing a new gray suit paired with a cream shirt and a silk tie in a subdued pattern of dark gray, brown and cream. His cuff links were simple gold buttons, his shoes butter-soft black loafers. He had asked her to be certain his tie was straight, but that was all.
He should have looked like a banker, subdued and uniform, but the simple attire set off his dark hair and coppery bronze skin to such perfection, and he wore it with such confidence, that he stood out as a presence, someone of intrinsic importance. It didn’t hurt, either, Anna thought, that he was easily the most handsome man in the room.
It was astonishing how proud she was to stand beside him in her rose chiffon and antique garnets, to be the one to lean close with a low comment or touch his arm to gain his attention for yet another introduction. She was aware of the murmur of conjecture about them but recognized, too, the glances of rueful envy that were cast her way by the female guests. It almost seemed Rip’s past gave him an unexpected attraction, like a reformed pirate appearing in polite company.
On Rip’s other side was Papa Vidal, dressed up in his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, one of such vintage that it had a Zoot-suit stylishness of its own. It had been a struggle to get him to agree to stand with them to greet the guests; Anna had only managed it by suggesting privately that it would be a fine gesture of support for Rip. Actually, it had been Rip’s idea to include him. One of the main reasons for restoring the house was the murals, he had said, and what better way to make that plain than to have Papa Vidal as a star attraction.
The maneuver turned out to be a master stroke. Papa Vidal knew everyone who was anyone and was easily able to put names to people when Anna failed. Better than that, it was the elderly painter whom the media zeroed in on when they appeared.
Where the television crew came from or who had called them, Anna didn’t know. They seemed on the trail of a human interest story, perhaps the perennial favorite of the prodigal son. It didn’t matter, for Rip turned their attention almost immediately toward Papa Vidal.
The elderly painter played it up like a pro, too, ignoring the cameras as he smiled and nodded with courtly aplomb, speaking to friends and neighbors who passed in front of him. Part shy artist, part sly showman, he seemed to revel in the attention.
Once Anna caught a glimpse of something white peeping from the elderly man’s suit coat pocket. It was Henrietta, poking her head out for a quick look. She put a hand on Rip’s arm, indicating the Silky chicken with a discreet nod. He glanced in that direction, then gave her a conspiratorial grin and wink. The warmth and secret pleasure of it, there in the middle of everything, sent heat spiraling through her body. The dark gold of his eyes deepened, growing more intense. The muscles of his forearm tightened under her fingers. She drew a swift breath through parted lips.
Then someone just stepping through the front door spoke to her and took her free hand. She turned reluctantly to greet the guest and the moment vanished as if it had never been.
It was a short time later that Anna glanced through the wide-open door and saw her mother coming up the front steps. She was wearing black lace and a militant expression. At her heels was Judge Benson.
Anna felt Rip stiffen beside her. Turning slightly, she took his arm, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow in a casual gesture of solidarity. Then she waited for her mother to reach them with all the fatalism of a general watching an opposing army take the field. It could have been her imagination, but it seemed the noise level of the crowd lowered to an expectant hush.
Matilda Montrose crossed the threshold, glanced around at the milling guests, the subdued lighting and the camera crew filming the huge mural that dominated the hall. Her gaze rested on Rip, standing steadfast in the entrance as master of Blest. Then she fastened her attention on Anna and moved toward her with heavy steps.
“Congratulations,” she said in brittle approbation. “It appears your little party is a success.”
It was a valiant effort, even if somewhat less than gracious. Anna felt the rise of compassion as she realized how much effort it had taken for her mother to make it. What had prompted her to come, she wasn’t sure—whether curiosity to see what had been done to Blest thus far, dislike for being left out of what might be the social event of the summer, the need to see if anyone really would show up, or an impulse to support her daughter. It didn’t matter. She was there and that was enough.
“Thank you so much,” Anna said simply as she reached out to her.
A spasm crossed Matilda Montrose’s face as she drew back from the swift hug. She turned toward Rip, and for an instant, it seemed she might say something cutting, might yet make a scene of the kind she had enacted at the steak house. Then Judge Benson was beside her, urging her along out of the way of the next arrivals coming up behind them. Anna’s mother gave her hand to Rip, briefly touching his fingers before moving quickly past him. She summoned a neutral smile and greeting for Papa Vidal, then she moved on.
It was done, over. Anna released the breath she was holding. Beside her, Rip did the same. He covered her hand with his for an instant, then released her. And the evening went on.
The stream of guests finally dwindled to a few stragglers. Anna, Rip and the man of the hour, Papa Vidal, were able to abandon their posts. With that, the affair picked up speed.
Champagne disappeared in astonishing quantities due to the warm evening. The boiled potatoes topped with sour cream and caviar, the smoked oysters in bacon, the crab rolls, honey chicken on skewers and a half dozen other delicacies provided by the caterer were well received.
Clusters of people crowded around the different murals, exclaiming and making knowing comments about perspective and shading, whether they knew anything about them or not. Papa Vidal, standing before his hall mural, faced the bright television lights and gave an interview as if he had been doing it all his life.
A short time later, Rip mounted the first step of the stairs, using this vantage point for a small speech of welcome. With one hand in his pocket and the other holding a champagne glass, he stood at ease while he outlined what he hoped to accomplish with the restoration of Blest, and how he expected it to benefit Montrose and the business community. He saluted Papa Vidal and his work, and spoke of the artistic heritage of the region. He thanked the firms and individuals who had signed on as part of the project. Finally, he gave special credit to Anna for her encouragement, expertise and continuing aid in re-creating Blest as it had once been. He ended in a graceful toast to Montrose and the future.
Anna led the applause; she couldn’t help it. She knew how much those few words had cost Rip, knew what it meant to him to stand there in the midst of so many of the people who had once condemned him and receive their approbation. Her smile was a little misty as he descended the step and came toward her.
“God, but I’m glad that’s over,” he said in heartfelt thankfulness. He tipped back his glass of champagne and downed at least half of it in a single swallow.
“You were wonderful,” she said sincerely. “I think you impressed them.”
“The house impressed them, also the champagne, and maybe the money.” The derision was plain in his voice. “Because of all that, they’re willing to tolerate me.
“Don’t sell yourself short, or the people in this town,” she said, holding his gaze. “They know where you came from, so they understand what you’ve done, what you’ve overcome. You were so young when it all took place and it was long ago. A few may not be able to get it out of their heads, but most of them genuinely honor your courage and hard work and wish you well.”
As Anna said those words, she found she really believed them. A part of it came from what she felt inside, but a lot of it was picked up from the attitudes of those milling around them.
“Anna,” he said in some urgency, “about our agreement—”
“Not now,” she murmured, though reluctantly. With a nod, she indicated the television reporter approaching from behind him, cameraman in tow.
“Mr. Peterson,” the woman said briskly, her eyes bright and her smile a cover for the avid interest in her eyes. “This is quite a story, your rise from prison inmate to plantation owner, one I’d like to develop further. I wonder if we could get you to repeat your remarks for the camera? And also answer a few questions?”
Anna could feel Rip tense, then he relaxed again as if at some silent command. His dark gaze commanding, he mouthed a silent pledge to her. “Later.”
“Later,” she repeated, though her smile was strained. She was worried about him, about what he would say and how it would be interpreted, but there was nothing she could do.
“Don’t fret,” a deep voice spoke up from behind her. “He’ll have them eating out of his hand, including that young woman with the microphone.”
It was Judge Benson who had walked up to join her. She turned to answer him. “I hope you’re right.”
He gave a comfortable nod. “No doubt about it. He has backbone and style. Charm, too, and he’s not afraid to use it.”
Yes, Rip certainly had charm. She had succumbed to it, hadn’t she? Anna murmured something politely appropriate.
The judge gazed at his drink a second before he went on. “Matilda was afraid she’d done the wrong thing, calling the manager at the TV station to alert him to this turnout of yours, but I told her not to worry, it would be fine. I think she sees that now.”
She met his gaze in a long moment of understanding before she said, “I think you may be right.”
“He’ll go far, mark my words.” The judge reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. “Here’s a little something to help him on his way. Not much, but I think he’ll see the value. You give it to him and tell him to come see me when he gets the chance.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice tight as she stared down at the heavy square of cream paper she held in her hand. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
The judge patted her hand, then walked off. She let him go without a word. The envelope was heavy with import. She knew exactly what it was without looking. It was her release, her salvation, her freedom.
It was Rip’s invitation to join the Bon Vivants.
“Don’t give it to him, Miss Anna. Just don’t do it.”
That advice, spoken with quiet urgency, came from Papa Vidal on the morning after the open house. Not that Anna needed it. The temptation to get rid of the invitation had been with her since the night before, when the judge had put it in her hand. She had tucked it away, waiting for a good time to tell Rip. None had presented itself, or at least none she wanted to take. She’d carried the envelope home with her for the night, telling herself she would return to Blest first thing this morning and hand it over in a more private setting. Then she’d run into Papa Vidal on the drive.
“He’ll find out,” she said in tentative tones. “Somebody will mention it to him—Judge Benson or maybe Mother, since she arranged it. Then what?”
“Be too late,” the elderly man said promptly.
“He would know I tricked him. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Yes, ma’am, it would be, Miss Anna. Make everything right for the first time in a long, long while.”
Was it sadness and remorse she saw in his fading eyes, or just recognition of the world’s basic unfairness? Did he know something about the situation, or only feel for Rip? Tilting her head, she asked, “Why do you say that, Papa Vidal? What’s so wrong?”
“Lots of things,” he answered, looking away with a vague air. “Lots of things in this life are all mixed up. Some can be put right, some can’t. This one now, it preys on my mind. I’d like to rest easy about it You know the way—it’s all in your hands, Miss Anna.”
Age and a tendency to melodrama—that was all there was behind Papa Vidal’s urgings. If only it was as simple as he seemed to think. Her smile was wistful as she said, “Rip might hate me.”
“If you think so, you don’t know Mist’ Rip. Could be he’d be glad. Could be he’s hopin’ no invitation ever comes his way.”
If she kept the news of his acceptance in the Bon Vivants from Rip, he would hold her to her word. She could allow herself to be pressured into marriage.
It would all be so easy. Rip would have what he wanted, and she would have, just possibly, what she had always needed.
“Oh, Papa Vidal, I don’t know.”
The old man sighed and scratched his head, then reached into his pocket to soothe Henrietta as if petting the chicken might quiet his doubts. “You’ll do what you think best, I guess. But first—first I got something I want you to see.”
He turned and walked away along the drive, back toward the outbuildings behind Blest. Anna watched his retreating back. What was he up to now? There was only one way to find out.
She glanced toward the motor home that still sat on the lawn, but there was no sign of movement. It seemed Rip might still be sleeping after his late night and the work of cleaning up after the party. It was Sunday morning, after all, and no workmen would be showing up. With reluctant footsteps, she followed Papa Vidal.
He was headed toward the schoolhouse, she saw after a moment. By the time she reached it, he was already inside.
The schoolhouse had one main, open room where classes had once been held. Beyond that was a pair of cloakrooms and a storeroom, while in the back was a sitting room and bedroom where the teacher had been housed in the old days. Everything had been torn apart for the refurbishing. The laths of the walls were exposed where plaster was being replaced, grit crunched underfoot from the sanding of the ancient oak floor and antique desks were stacked haphazardly in one corner. Papa Vidal ignored the clutter and debris, heading for the blackboard that stretched across the rear wall of the big room.
Installed some time after the turn of the century, when the schoolhouse had been part of the local school system, the blackboard was made of real slate and stretched from a level low enough to be reached by elementary children to the high ceiling. It made a fine surface for the mural Papa Vidal was in the process of painting.
The subject was the family cemetery, as he had told Anna earlier. Its image, sun-glazed and serene, lay on the smooth slate, capturing the weeds and fresh green grass waving over the graves, headstones leaning and covered with lichen in the shade of the cedar and the iron fence lurching in drunken dignity around it Ghostly figures played there: a mother nursing a newborn while seated on a raised tomb, an elderly couple rocking side by side, a pair of children that Anna recognized as twins who had died of diphtheria some time in the late 1890s. It was perfect—a rich representation so uncannily lifelike it seemed to catch and hold the spirit and heart of eternal rest.
It was also disturbing, however. Then she saw why.
Rip stood outside the fence, gripping the iron railing. His figure was not quite finished; his expression had been left blank. Nevertheless, he seemed to be staring into the cemetery’s far corner. Something was there, an ethereal mist that slowly evolved into a figure, a ghost leaning against a plain marble marker with the figure of a white, semitransparent deer at his side.
The ghost was Tom, nonchalant and faintly defensive. He watched Rip with friendship and gratitude in his face. Regret was also imprinted there, and distant sorrow that his friend could not enter this place of peace and freedom from care that he had found. On the marker where Tom stood was his name and a date traced in delicate, shaded strokes of paint as if chiseled into the marble.
Anna wasn’t aware of moving, hardly knew what she did or intended until she stood before the mural and reached out with trembling fingers to touch the lines of that fatal date. It was that day, sixteen years ago, when Rip had robbed a service station and her brother had disappeared. As she lifted her hand again, her fingers were wet. The lettering was fresh, as if that portion of the mural had just been completed that morning.
Anguish began in her mind and spread, achingly, to her heart. She closed her eyes tight against the press of tears, clenching her hand into a slow fist at the same time. Papa Vidal moved to her side, touched her shoulder with a shaking hand. She felt its frail weight, his intent to offer comfort. But there was none to be found, nothing that would ever take away the ravaging grief that tore at her.
Opening her eyes, she turned a blind and wavering stare to the elderly painter. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispered. “Tom’s dead, has been all these years. And Rip killed him.”
A short sound came from behind her. It was a sudden exhalation, as if from a blow. She turned though she knew what she would find.
Rip stood in the doorway. His hair was tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it in lieu of combing it. He had obviously dressed in a hurry for he wore jeans but no shirt and sneakers without socks. His face was white as death.
He had heard her, knew she thought him capable of murder. The knowledge lay in the pain-scourged darkness of his eyes. Still, he did not move, said not a word in defense. He simply watched her as if memorizing every line and plane of her face, every flicker of emotion that marked it. The sunbeams that fell through the windows so she could feel them dancing in her hair. Every breath she took.
“No, ma’am,” Papa Vidal answered in a positive quaver. “Mist’ Rip never killed him. Mist’ Tom, he shot his own self out of shame for taking the money. He shot himself right here in the graveyard, here at Blest where he’d been happy. Left a note, he did, asking me and Mist’ Rip to see him buried and not tell a soul how or why he died. Put the money back where it came from, he said—he didn’t mean to take it. Don’t never let anybody know, he said. And we did it We did it ‘cause we loved him and didn’t want to shame him. But the price was high. It was sure enough high.”
It was long seconds before the gentle words the old man spoke formed themselves into images that had meaning. Anna turned her gaze to Papa Vidal’s ancient, wrinkled face. Tears tracked down the grooves in his cheeks like the slow trickle of water along a dry branch after a drought.
“Oh, Papa Vidal,” she said, as her own eyes filled. Reaching out, she put her arms around him, holding him close.
“Wasn’t me who was hurt the worst,” he said, patting her back in an awkward attempt at reassurance and comfort. “Mist’ Rip, he was the one they caught tryin’ to do what was right, tryin’ to put that money back. They caught him, but he never told. I would have, but he said not. So I did my best for him. I testified how I’d seen Mist’ Tom driving past when I never seen a thing, told how I thought Rip was a good boy who made a bad mistake and meant to undo it.”
She drew back, searching his face since she couldn’t bring herself to look at Rip. “Surely he didn’t have to take it so far, didn’t have to go to prison? There was the note, wasn’t there? You could have shown it to the judge.”
“The note was there all right,” the elderly black man said with pained scorn. “I took it to Tom’s mama, and I told her the truth. She took that note and torn it up, men she called me a lyin’, senile old fool.”
Her mother. Her mother had known, but had refused to believe. Matilda Montrose preferred to have people think her son had mysteriously vanished rather than confess what he had done. She refused to accept that he was imperfect, that he had died rather than face his parents with his weakness and faults.
But that wasn’t all. Anna’s mother had chosen to allow an innocent boy to go to prison rather than besmirch the name of her precious son or her family.
She should have guessed, Anna thought. She knew what Rip was like, how he had been with Tom and with her. She knew his loyalty and his need to prove it, understood the streak of nobility that made him put friendship and honor before himself. She, of all people, should have guessed what he was capable of doing. Also what he could never have done.
Anna had shown better judgment as a child. She had recognized the warmth and generosity of spirit that he hid beneath the faded clothes and hands made greasy by honest work. She had seen, and been drawn to them.
Anna didn’t want to face Rip, couldn’t bear to see the condemnation in his face. She was no better than her mother. For a brief moment, she had believed he killed Tom.
She had failed him. She had also failed herself, failed to understand her own heart and mind, to recognize that she had loved him years ago and still did. More than that, she had failed Tom, who never would have wanted Rip to take the blame that had been his alone.
She had to acknowledge her guilt, had to let him know how sorry she was for doubting him, how much she regretted everything that had been done to him. With her heart in her eyes and bitter grief in her heart, Anna forced herself to turn.
Rip wasn’t there. The doorway was empty of everything except the bright, unrelenting sun which shone where he had stood.
“Go find him, Miss Anna,” Papa Vidal said as he stepped away from her and bent to pick up a paintbrush lying across a bucket. “I got me a paintin’ to finish.”
It was all the urging she needed. She left the old schoolhouse and walked back toward Blest, though she didn’t go inside. Skirting the bulk of the main house, she reached the front drive. She paused a moment, glancing toward the cemetery. A movement under the big oak just this side of it caught her attention. She set off in that direction with sure, steady steps.
Rip was sitting against the huge tree trunk with his knees drawn up and his wrists resting on them. She stopped in front of him, studying the taut lines of his face, the stiff set of his shoulders. Then she knelt beside him. Moistening her lips in a nervous gesture, she sought for the right thing to say. Nothing seemed to fit, nothing was ever going to be enough.
This time, she had no candy bar to ease his hurt She had only herself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, since that was all that was left.