Perfect Family (45 page)

He followed her into the restaurant, and she was relieved to see so many people there. She felt safe in a crowd. Still, she asked for a section where she could keep an eye on the door. She wanted to see who came in. She knew she would memorize every face.

Ross wolfed down the pizza. Alex, she recalled, had liked it, too, but he'd been more concerned with business. Business that had turned her world upside down. She couldn't help but think how everything had changed in little more than a month. A family. An inheritance. Danger. And Ross.

Life had been so simple then. She hadn't realized how simple. And safe. She wondered whether she would turn back the clock if she could, and realized instantly she wouldn't. You never won anything if you didn't take risks.

It had taken her until now to discover that. She hadn't really lived until now. She'd just marked time.

If only she knew the source of the risks
.

She took a bite of the pizza and thought of Alex again. Could he have anything to do with this? He knew where she lived. The burglary happened only three days before he'd showed up on her doorstep. Perhaps he'd been there longer than he'd said. She tried to remember the burglar. He'd been tall, bulkier than Alex, but that could be deceptive.

Where had he been when she'd been run off the road near Sedona? She'd just left him. He could have climbed back into his car and followed her. But her assailant had been driving a car, not a sports vehicle.

“Jess?” Ross's expression was concerned.

She fought to keep her expression neutral, then she rested her elbow on the table and used her hand to prop her chin. “Something is worrying you,” she said, “and it's connected to the book.” She paused. “I know you said that whatever you're withholding doesn't involve me, that it's not your secret to divulge.” She continued in a spurt of words, “But whatever is connected to that book occurred fifty years ago. How can it hurt anyone today?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he didn't say anything. He didn't deny it. And that hurt. She wanted to trust him completely, to wash away that last lingering doubt. Not that he would hurt her. She wouldn't be here if she believed that. But he was playing some part in this, and that small missing piece could possibly complete the picture.

She pushed away her plate. She realized he wasn't going to answer.

Maybe this afternoon she would have her own answers.

The waiter came with the bill. Frustrated with him and determined to show her independence, she reached for her handbag. Ross shook his head and had a credit card out before she could dig down deep enough for her wallet. As she started to protest, he silenced her with a question. “Have you seen anyone?”

Startled, she replied, “What do you mean?”

“Your eyes have been glued to the door. See anyone who looked interesting?”

She shook her head.

“They're missing great pizza then. You were right. I've never tasted better.”

“Don't do that,” she said.

He looked puzzled. “Don't do what?”

“Don't think you can change the subject so easily.”

He didn't reply. Instead, he looked out the window until the server returned with his card. He signed the receipt and stood.

She watched his face carefully, then stood stiffly. “Would you like to see the shop?” she asked.

His expression lightened and he seemed to relax. “Yes,” he said simply.

Avoiding any contact with him, she stood and led the way to her store next door.

He had known the questions were going to come up again. She couldn't let it go. But then he probably wouldn't be able to, either. Still, he hated that doubt in her eyes. He particularly despised himself for being unable to alleviate some of her fear. If only …

But there were no
if only
s. He had no options. He'd come to Atlanta with her because he wanted her safe, but also because he knew she was going after that damned book. He had to know what was in it, to limit, if possible, the damage. He knew he was endangering any future with her, but how could he build anything on the funeral pyre of someone he loved?

Apprehension twisted his stomach as he followed her into the bookstore next door to the restaurant. Events were moving downward like an avalanche. He just didn't know who was going to be swept down with them.

He did know he wasn't eager to see Sol again. He'd felt the man's antipathy and knew he'd seen something he didn't like, that he'd sensed that Ross wasn't being entirely honest. The fact that Sol was right didn't help at all.

The shop was narrow, with books lining both walls and every available inch of space. He saw Jess visibly relax as she entered and headed toward the back, where Sol sat. Halfway across the store, a young man was unpacking volumes. Jess stopped, stooped, and looked at them, her hands running over the books, and he felt the outsider, a role he'd felt so many times before. This was
her
place. Her
world
.

The Clementses had torn apart everything it represented, everything she'd had before Sarah had launched her search for her brother. Jess had been happy. Content. Safe. Most of all, safe.

A lump filled his throat. She obviously loved this shop, and Atlanta, as much as he loved every inch of the Sunset. Sol knew that.

Sol stood and came over to him. “Forgive the musty smell,” he said.

“I like it,” Ross said simply.

Sol looked a little surprised.

Ross wanted to say something sharp, something like, “I do read.” He wondered whether Sol
wanted
to think of him as little more than an illiterate cowboy because then he wouldn't be a threat. He could literally feel Sol's protectiveness.

And he had reason for it, Ross thought as he tried to mask his uneasiness. No one had been honest with Jess, not even him. Damn. He wasn't used to worrying about people. And now he was nearly frantic with worry about two people with conflicting needs. How could he sacrifice one for the other?

He looked at his watch. Three more hours. Three more hours before they discovered whether there were answers to a fifty-year-old mystery. An ugly mystery. A tragic mystery that could have tragic consequences.

Jessie seemed to notice his discomfort. “I'll show you around a bit more,” she said. Then turned to Sol. “Will you be there this afternoon?”

“I wouldn't miss it,” he said.

She nodded. “Be careful. I think we were followed.”

“Rob will be here with me,” he said, “and he'll tend the shop this afternoon.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

Sol had at least thirty years on Jessie, but Ross still felt a knot of jealousy bunch in his gut. He knew it was as much for her life here as it was the man himself. Then he harnessed it as he'd harnessed such feelings in the past, fencing them in someplace where they couldn't hurt. Much.

Ames Fuller's studio was in the basement of a large, rambling Victorian house in an old residential section of Atlanta. The street was full of restored homes with stained-glass windows and elaborate gingerbread trim. She realized immediately, however, that Ames's home was protected by a state-of-the-art security system. A high, ornate wrought-iron fence surrounded the house, and the gate featured an intercom. Only a buzzer would admit a visitor.

She knew why. Ames had a priceless collection of old books and he often sold them from his home.

Jessie was sure they had lost anyone who might have tried to follow them. Ross had driven this time, twisting and turning, shooting through yellow lights. With her directions, he'd even circled through the nearby zoo's labyrinthine roads, emerging out of one of its seldom-used service roads. But she took one last look around. No dark sedan.

She pressed the button, identified herself, and was buzzed in. Someone could probably climb the fence, but the windows had the kind of wrought-iron work that substituted for iron bars.

Jessie felt her heart pound as she was admitted by Ames, who had a satisfied smile on his face. Sol was already there. He looked worried.

“I found what you were looking for,” Ames said. “Come with me.”

He led the way downstairs to a room flooded with powerful recessed lighting. One wall was lined with bookcases made of some kind of metal and protected by thick glass cases. Inside were leather-bound volumes.

A worktable sat in the center of the room, a stool in front of it. She saw her book there. It was open at the back, a piece of parchment-type paper next to it, along with the back inside cover page of the book.

Ames picked up the thin parchment. “I found this under the cover,” he said. “It's so thin no one would notice it unless they had reason to look.” He paused. “It had your name on it, so I didn't read it.”

A kind of dread, an inevitability, filled her. She wasn't sure now that she wanted answers. She looked at Ross. His face was tense.

She picked up the letter. The ink was fading, but she recognized her father's scrawl. She had to strain to read it. He'd never been good at penmanship. A lump settled in her throat as she remembered how difficult it had often been to decipher his writing.

Jessica
,

I don't know whether you will find this letter. Part of me wishes you will. Another
…
well, you'll understand when I finish
.

I had hoped you would never need to sell this book. Since you've found this letter, I suppose you did. Only a dealer would notice the back cover. And so I am, finally, leaving you a legacy
.

It is a mixed one, for at last you will know your true roots and the events that led me to abandon them. Please do not judge me harshly
.

Your real name is Clements. I was one of six children born to Hall and Mary Louise Clements in the Sedona area of Arizona. I helped manage the family ranch until 1950, when I discovered that one of my brothers, Heath, had stolen family money and planned to leave Arizona with my wife. I won't justify what happened next. I found them in our family's cabin. I had a rifle with me, and I threatened to use it. He tried to take it. It went off, and the bullet hit him in the heart. Lori, my wife, attacked me, accused me of murder. I pushed her away. She fell and hit her head on the stone fireplace. She was unconscious when I left, but I knew she would go to the police. I couldn't think of anything but running
.

One of the two people I loved most was dead; the other hated me. I feared the family's reaction, the humiliation and scandal I had brought to them. To be honest, I also feared the law. I couldn't bear the thought of a cage
.

My brother had used the stolen money to buy bearer bonds
—
and a partnership
—
in a new company. Before he died, Heath told me he'd hidden the bonds and that the location could be found in the primer. When I left the cabin, I picked up his briefcase on the way out, knowing I would need money and suspecting he had some of the stolen money with him. Instead, I found the book
.

The bonds had no value then, and I discounted the possibility that they would ever have any. Then several years ago I happened to hear someone mention the name of the company and I realized it had succeeded beyond anyone's dreams. I've been following its progress ever since, and I expect those bonds are now worth a great deal of money
.

I discovered the location of the bonds on the inside of the back cover. They are buried under the hearth of the fireplace in the family cabin at Oak Creek. There is a loose stone there, a cache where Heath and his twin and I used to hide treasures
.

I wish I'd had the courage to tell you earlier, but I could never force myself to reveal the truth about your father, to see even more disappointment in your eyes. I allowed the days to go by. And now, coward that I am, that I have always been, I know I'll never have the words
…

Perhaps some day you will find this letter and return to the family what belongs to them. I know Heath meant them to have the money
.

I leave it to you to redeem both of us
.

And forgive me
.

Always remember, I loved you
.

Jon Clayton (Harding Clements)

April 1988

Jessie stared at the date. It was the month she'd turned sixteen. He must have written it before he'd given it to her on her birthday. The line on the page blurred from the sudden moisture in her eyes. Then she read it again.
One of the two people I loved most was dead; the other hated me
.

But Lori died that day. Had her father been mistaken? And he said nothing about a fire. If his brother had died of a rifle bullet, then wouldn't a coroner have discovered it, and called it by an ugly name? Murder?

Her father wasn't very old then. A little younger than she was now. She couldn't even imagine what had gone through his mind that day. The panic. Fear. Grief. Betrayal.

She felt that grief now. She wished she'd known. Maybe she could have done something …

“Jess?” Ross's voice. She felt the concern in it.

Wordlessly, she handed it to him.

She watched his face as he read it. No surprise there. Her heart sank precipitously. She wanted surprise. Shock.

It would have been there if he'd not already known at least a good part of the story. But there was none. He'd known about her father. He'd known that he had killed his brother. He'd known that Harding had left his wife alive.

She struggled for an explanation. Perhaps her father had been wrong. Perhaps Lori had died from the fall. But then what of the fire? Surely since her father was confessing murder, he would have confessed to it all.

Not my secret to tell
. Ross's words.

Yet it was the key to much that had happened. It had to be. Betrayal ate at her. She almost doubled up with the pain of it. Ross had known she suspected that her father could have murdered both his brother and wife. Instead, it had been an accident, and he'd left his wife alive. And Ross
knew
.