were the only ones who saved me from breaking down after Joan died. And I intend to hang around and do the same for you.' As if to illustrate, he turned off the engine and solicitously came around to open her door. 'Now, what's this I hear about you taking a trip?'
'Oh, so Daddy told you.'
'Yes. St. Thomas, he said. I think it's a wise idea.' They went in the front door of a house that could only have been described as gracious. Rachel led the way through a slate-floored entry, which came alight beneath a
brass and crystal chandelier. Then she 33 switched on a lamp in a living room decorated in ice blue and touches of apricot. A quilted floral sofa was fronted by a pair of bun-footed Victorian chairs, the grouping centered around a marble-topped table holding five blue candles on five gold candlesticks of staggered heights, a pair of brass giraffes, and a brandy snifter filled with potpourri. Every piece of furniture in the room looked as if it had just been purchased that day. The regal tiebacks on the windows were hung so perfectly they might have been advertisements for an interior decorator. The carpeting was so lush their footsteps left imprints in its ice-blue nap.
And the house smelled delicious. Rachel not only scented it with crystal snifters of potpourri, but left tiny open cedar boxes of crushed rose petals on end tables, hung pomander balls in her closets, tucked stems of herbs into gold cricket boxes in the bathrooms, and hid delicate organdy sachet pillows of Flora Danica fragrance amid her personal garments in the bureau drawers.
That lavish touch was repeated in the careful selection of each item in each room. It was the home of a woman accustomed to luxury.
Marshall studied Rachel as she stood in the middle of the painfully neat living room, rubbing her arms.
'You know, Rachel, you don't have to worry about money. The check from Owen's life insurance policy should be here by the time you get back.'
Marshall was an insurance broker, and he had seen to protecting both Rachel and Owen with adequate coverage years ago. Also, he was that kind of man-careful, a long-range planner, one who did things at their appointed time and kept life's business affairs in impeccable order. He would, he had assured both her and Owen before Owen died, keep an eye on Rachel's affairs and be there to advise whenever she felt she needed him. Having made the promise, he was certain to keep it.
'I'll drop by now and then to make sure things are working okay-the pool cleaner and the air conditioner. You know how things have a way of breaking down when you're gone,' he offered. That was Marshall, all right. He kept everything of his own
in sterling condition, from his clothing to his 35 grass, and it was often joked about in their social circle that when and if he sold his property, he'd come back to reprimand anyone who dared let it fall into disrepair.
Rachel fondly placed her hands on his forearms. 'You don't have to worry about me, Marshall. I can take care of myself.'
'I know you can. But I promised Owen.'
'But the furnace won't break down, and the pool will keep filtering, and… and…' Suddenly Rachel was immensely glad to have Marshall there, a living, breathing entity who knew how dreadful it would have been for her to face the empty house alone at this moment.
She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling, but tears spilled, nonetheless. 'Oh, Marshall… oh, God…' Her chest felt crushed as he took her into his arms, gently, consolingly. 'Oh, thank you for coming home with me. I didn't know how I was going to face it alone.'
'You don't have to thank me. You know that.' His voice was gruff against her hair. 'I loved him, too.'
'I'll… I'll be all right in a minute.'
'Take it from me, dear, you won't be. Not in a minute, or a week, or even a month. But whenever you need somebody, all you have to do is call, and I'll be right here.'
Before he left, Marshall walked through the house to make sure everything was safe and sound. Watching his tall form walk away, she thought, Whatever would I do without him? He was as steady as Gibraltar, as dependable as taxes, and as sensible as rain. Owen said before he died, 'You know, Rachel, you can rely upon Marshall for anything.'
She had wondered at the time if Owen was hinting that he himself might choose Marshall for her… if and when. But Marshall wasn't that sort. Not steady-z-you-go, polite, socially adept Marshall. He was simply the kindest man she knew, and one with whom she'd shared the most devastating of human experiences not once, but twice.
But when he was gone, she still faced the desolation of going to bed alone. The house seemed eerie, especially the bedroom she and Owen had shared. When she'd donned her nightgown, she crept instead
to one of the guest bedrooms across the hall, 37 lying stiffly upon the strange-feeling mattress in the dark- unmoving, for a long time. Rachel had been propelled from one necessity to the next for so long, putting off the awesome need to cry. But there was little else she could have done, with no children to take over the burdens. It was the thought of children that did it at last. The dam cracked, then buckled, and when her tears came, they struck with the force of a tidal wave. She gripped the sheets, twisting in despair, sobbing pitifully into the dark. The racking sound of those sobs, coming back to her own ears, only made her cry the harder.
She cried for all the pain Owen had suffered, and for her own powerlessness to help him. She cried for the dream-filled girl she'd once been, and the disillusioned woman she now was. She cried because for almost two decades she'd been married to a man with whom she'd had a comfortably staid marriage when what she'd wanted was occasional tumult. She cried because in one split second she had looked up at a man's face across a quiet graveyard, and that tumult had sprung within her when it was her husband who should have caused it to surface all these years. She cried because it
seemed a sin to admit such a thing to herself on the very night of his funeral.
And when her body was aching with loss and desolation, she cried for Owen's child, which she'd never conceived.
And for Tommy Lee's child, which she had.
CHAPTER TWO
On the fourth morning following the funeral, Tommy Lee found little to smile about. He awakened sprawled on the sofa, still wearing a tweed sports coat, trousers, and tie, a foul taste in his mouth, and a head beating like a voodoo drum. Gingerly he rolled over, sat up, and nursed his tender head.
Upstairs things were a little better. The sun was already up behind the dogwoods and cedars and came cascading into his east bedroom and bath, bringing the sounds of spring birds from the trees.
Naked, he brushed his teeth, then straightened to study his reflection in the generous mirror above the vanity. His conclusion was the same as ever. You got to lose some weight, boy. You got to slow down with the women and spend a little time on healthier
activities. 39
But somehow he never did. Somehow the beer was always too cold to refuse, and the women too warm. Life had its compensations.
But out of the blue came the thought of Rachel, svelte and graceful, not an ebony hair out of place, smelling sweet, still beautiful. What would she think if she saw him this way?
Angrily he spit, drew a mouthful of water and tilted his head back while rinsing, spit again, but avoided looking in the mirror while he tossed his wet toothbrush onto the vanity top and flicked on the radio. From its speaker, WWWR announced it had been serving Franklin County and Northwest Alabama since 1949. Then a strong female voice musically advised Tommy Lee to 'Blame It on Love.'
The hiss of the shower cut her off in mid-word.
For three days he'd resisted the urge to drive past Rachel's store, but when he arrived in town later that morning he gave in, passing his own office and continuing north along Jackson Avenue, the main drag of town, until he came abreast of a small dress shop
on the left. Above the door hung a crisp sign bearing a distinctive stylized lily and the word 'Panache.' He recalled when she'd first opened the place, ten years ago, that he'd looked up the word to find it meant 'dashing
