“How long did he live?” the man asked.
“Five weeks. He didn’t have to suffer for long.”
The lady reached for her husband’s hand and clasped it tightly. “Your mother probably suffered more than he did.”
“She desperately wanted to see him, but later she came to understand that, as usual, he knew what was best. She told me she didn’t think she could have survived watching him die.”
“How did she ever recover?”
“After he died, she was shocked to learn that he’d bequeathed everything to her. Not all those afternoon absences were spent with Ollie Thompson and Brother Calvin. Some were spent getting his affairs in order.” The old man smiled. “Mother was well ahead of her time and put the legacy to good use. As soon as it was practical, she closed the boardinghouse and moved to North Texas, where she started replanting cotton on Mr. Rainwater’s land. Harvested it, ginned it, sold it. Brokered for other planters, too, just like he had.
“A few years later, she used the profits to build a textile plant. She became quite wealthy, and well respected. She received, oh, I can’t even remember all the citations and awards. Outstanding businesswoman, citizen of the year, commendations like that.”
“Remarkable,” the woman said with awe.
“She was, actually.” Again the old man fingered the watch wistfully. “She told me once it had taken a dying man to teach her how to live. Before Mr. Rainwater, she’d been resigned to a life of virtual imprisonment. He freed her. In every way.”
“He was remarkable in his own right,” the man observed. “He died a condemned man when he was blameless. I realize he would have died soon anyway. Still, he made a huge sacrifice for you.”
The old man divided a puzzled look between them, then realized it was they who were confused. “He made the sacrifice for Solly.”
“But … aren’t you …?”
He shook his head.
The woman glanced down at the business card he’d given her. “I assumed … The name of your shop—”
“Is in honor of my brother. My name is David. David Rainwater Barron.”
They looked at him with dismay. “You’re his son?” the woman whispered.
“I am.”
She began crying again, this time with joy. Her husband placed his arm around her. He asked, “What happened to Solly?”
“After moving to North Texas, Mother checked into a school in Dallas. It had a wonderful reputation, and they accepted Solly. It broke her heart to leave him there, but she knew it was best. The language barrier had been broken the night Conrad Ellis was killed. Solly eventually spoke almost normally, although occasionally he would get stuck on words or phrases.”
“Did he remember or ever know—”
“What he’d done? No. Mother never burdened him with the truth of that.”
“Did he ever learn to read, as she’d hoped he would?”
“He did, yes. He grasped mathematical concepts that boggled most minds, and he could construct complicated models of buildings and bridges, but he was never able to direct those skills toward any vocation. Perhaps now, with advanced knowledge and understanding of autism, he could have. But the condition wasn’t even given a name until the mid-forties.
“When he was too old to stay at school, Mother brought him home. He had an aide who looked after him while she worked. He was content until the day he died, suddenly and unexpectedly at age thirty-two of a heart abnormality that no one knew he had.
“We grieved, naturally. But when I couldn’t be consoled, Mother reminded me that Solly had a much better life than she could have dreamed he would, and he owed it to Mr. Rainwater. He knew what would have happened to Solly if anyone suspected him of killing Conrad Ellis. He would have been dragged away and locked in an institution for the criminally insane, probably cruelly abused every day for as long as he lived. In that last shared moment, my father made Mother realize that the only way Solly could have a life was to let him make the sacrifice.”
The couple were quiet for a time, then the man glanced at his watch. “We should go.” He extended his hand, and the old man shook it. “It’s been a fascinating afternoon. We got much more than we bargained for when we decided to stop.”
The antiques dealer rounded the counter and walked them to the door, where the woman spontaneously hugged him, which pleased him greatly.
“Good-bye,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Likewise. Good-bye.”
They had almost reached their SUV when she turned back. “Did Mr. Rainwater know about you?”
He smiled. “Dr. Kincaid was able to tell him only hours before he died. Weakened as he was, he wrote my mother a letter. She kept it with her always, on her person. She was never without it. Never without him.”
Reading the question in their eyes, he shook his head. “She told me everything I’ve told you, but she never shared the contents of that letter. I’m sure the message was far too dear to her to be shared. She was buried with the letter along with the copy of A Farewell to Arms that he’d given her.”
He looked down at the timepiece lying in his palm, then folded his fingers around it tightly. “His watch she gave to me.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sandra Brown is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, including Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; and The Switch. She and her husband live in Arlington, Texas. Visit her website at [http://www.sandrabrown.net] www.sandrabrown.net.