PATRON OF THE ARTS
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM
'Your father was on the board, wasn't he?' the reporter asked.
'He served thirty years. Helped raise the money for this building. My mother was active, too.'
He stood silent. Reverent, as always. It was the only memorial of his parents that existed. The airbus exploded far out to sea. Twenty-nine people dead. The entire museum board of directors, spouses, and several employees. No bodies found. No explanation for the cause other than a curt conclusion by Italian authorities that separatist terrorists had been responsible. The Italian Minister of Antiquities, on board, had been presumed the target. Yancy and Marlene Cutler were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
'They were good people,' he said. 'We all miss them.'
He turned, leading the reporter into the Edwards Gallery. An assistant curator raced across the atrium.
'Mr. Cutler, please wait.' The woman hurried over, a look of concern on her face. 'A call just came for you. I'm sorry. Your ex-father-in-law has died.'
SEVENTEEN
Atlanta, Georgia
Tuesday, May 13
Karol Borya was buried at 11 a.m., the midspring morning cloudy and overcast with a lingering chill, unusual for May. The funeral was well attended. Paul officiated, introducing three of Borya's longtime friends who delivered moving eulogies. He then said a few words of his own.
Rachel stood in front, with Marla and Brent at her side. The mitered priest at St. Methodius Orthodox Church presided, Karol having been a regular parishioner. The ceremony was unhurried, tearful, and enhanced by a choir performance of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov. Interment was in the Orthodox cemetery adjacent to the church, a rolling patch of red clay and Bermuda grass shaded by mushrooming sycamore trees. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the priest's final words rang true, 'From dust you come, to dust you go.'
Though Borya fully adopted American culture, he'd always retained a religious connection with his homeland, strictly adhering to Orthodox doctrine. Paul didn't remember his ex-father-in-law as an overly devout man, just one who solemnly believed and transferred that belief into a good life. The old man had mentioned many times that he'd liked to be buried in Belarus, among the birch groves, marshlands, and sloping fields of blue flax. His parents, brothers, and sisters lay in mass graves, the exact locations dying with the SS officers and German soldiers who slaughtered them. Paul thought about talking with somebody at the State Department on the possibility of a foreign burial, but Rachel vetoed the idea, saying she wanted her father and mother nearby. Rachel also insisted the postfuneral gathering occur at her house, and about seventy-some people wandered in and out over two hours. Neighbors supplied food and drinks. She politely talked to everyone, accepted condolences, and expressed thanks.
Paul watched her carefully. She seemed to be holding up well. Around two o'clock, she disappeared upstairs. He found her in their former bedroom, alone. It'd been a while since he was last inside.
'You okay?' he asked.
She was perched on the edge of the four-poster bed, staring at the carpet, her eyes swollen from crying. He stepped closer.
'I knew this day would come,' she said. 'Now they're both gone.' She paused. 'I remember when Mama died. I thought it was the end of the world. I couldn't understand why she'd been taken away.'
He'd often wondered if that was the source of her antireligious beliefs. Resentment for a supposed merciful God who would so callously deprive a young girl of her mother. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her he loved her and always would. But he stood still, fighting back tears.
'She used to read to me all the time. Strange, but what I remember most was her voice. So gentle. And the stories she'd tell. Apollo and Daphne. Perseus' battles. Jason and Medea. Everybody else got fairy tales.' She smiled weakly. 'I got mythology.'
The comment was one of the rare times she'd ever mentioned anything specific about her childhood. The subject was not one she dwelled upon, and she'd made it clear in the past that she considered any inquiry an intrusion.
'That why you read the same kind of stuff to the kids?'
She wiped the tears from her cheek and nodded.
'Your father was a good man. I loved him.'
'Even though you and I didn't make it, he always thought of you as his son. Told me he always would.' She looked at him. 'It was his fondest wish that we get back together.'
His too, but he said nothing.
'Seems all you and I ever did was fight,' she said. 'Two stubborn people.'
He had to say, 'That's not all we did.'
She shrugged. 'You always were the optimist in the house.'
He noticed the family picture angled atop the chest of drawers. They'd had it taken a year before the divorce. He, Rachel, and the kids. Their wedding picture was also still there, like the one downstairs in the foyer.
'I'm sorry about last Tuesday night,' she said. 'What I said when you left. You know how my mouth can be sometimes.'
'I shouldn't have meddled. What happened with Nettles was none of my business.'
'No, you're right. I overreacted with him. My temper gets me into more trouble.' She brushed away more tears. 'I've got so much to do. This summer is going to be difficult. I wasn't planning on a contested race this time. Now this.'
He didn't voice the obvious. Maybe if she exercised a little diplomacy the lawyers appearing before her wouldn't feel so threatened.
'Look, Paul, could you handle Dad's estate? I just can't deal with that right now.'
He reached out and lightly squeezed her shoulder. She did not resist the gesture. 'Sure.'
Her hand went up to his. It was the first time they'd touched in months. 'I trust you. I know it'll get done right. He would have wanted you to handle things. He respected you.'
She withdrew her hand.
He did, too. He started thinking like a lawyer. Anything to take his mind away from the moment. 'You know where the will is?'
'Look around the house. It's probably in the study. It might be in his safe deposit box at the bank. I don't know. He gave me the key.'
She walked over to the dresser. Ice Queen? Not to him. He recalled their first encounter twelve years ago at an Atlanta Bar Association meeting. He was a quiet first-year associate at Pridgen & Woodworth. She was an aggressive assistant district attorney. Two years they dated until she finally suggested they marry. They'd been happy in the beginning and the years passed quickly. What went wrong? Why couldn't things be good again? Maybe she was right. Perhaps they were better friends than lovers.
He hoped not.
He accepted the safe deposit key she offered and said, 'Don't worry, Rach. I'll take care of things.'
He left Rachel's house and drove straight to Karol Borya's. It was less than a half-hour journey through a combination of busy commercial boulevards and hectic neighborhood streets.
He parked in the driveway and saw Borya's Oldsmobile nestled in the garage. Rachel had given him the house key, and he unlocked the front door, his eyes immediately drawn to the foyer tiles, then up the staircase spindles, some splintered in half, others jutting at odd angles. The oak steps bore no evidence of an impact, but the police said the old man slammed into one and then tumbled to his death, his eighty-one-year-old neck breaking in the process. An autopsy confirmed the injuries and their apparent cause.
A tragic accident.
