Sins of the Fathers (20 page)

Katharine knew how Miranda felt. Who in America doesn’t feel helpless when developers invade their community, followed by men on bulldozers whose macho delight is to push over as many trees in a day as possible? When Katharine herself saw a formerly wooded lot clear-cut for building, she felt like calling down God’s vengeance upon them with curses like, “May your houses never sell and your children go hungry in the streets.”

Miranda’s pain vibrated over the phone.

“I am so sorry,” Katharine told her sincerely. “Dr. Flo doesn’t want that property developed any more than you do, but she had no good reason not to sign for the graves to be moved. There is one possibility, though. We got a package of old letters from Agnes, which she mailed before she—died.”

No point in bringing up speculations about Agnes’s death.

“It’s possible that there will be information in there that will give Dr. Flo a claim to that clearing, as well as to Agnes’s house. If she has any leverage to stop or even postpone Burch’s bulldozers, I’m sure she will use it.”

Miranda sniffed. Katharine could see her pushing back that sweep of hair. “Why would she own any of Bayard Island?” Her voice was doubtful, but a sweet note of hope had crept in.

“We don’t know. But there’s a mystery about her family being buried there at all. These letters might explain the mystery. You sit tight, all right?”

Katharine had no idea what it meant to “sit tight,” but those words still calmed her children when they presented her with a problem she needed time to work on.

Miranda gave an enormous sniff. “Okay. Thanks. I’m sorry I bothered you ’n’ all. Well, I better go. A customer walked in.”

Katharine was waiting for Dr. Flo when the phone rang again. “Grand Murray Station,” she muttered as she went to answer it.

“I know it’s almost time for Tom to get there,” Hasty said in a rush, “but I wanted to thank you for dinner last night. That was fun.”

“It was. And thanks for putting together the computer. I’ve been using it this morning trying to find Mallery the Pirate.”

“Any success?”

“Not yet, but I’m still hopeful.”

He laughed. “If you find an American pirate who lived and sailed after the Civil War, you let me know. I keep telling you, there’s no such creature.”

“I’ll let you know. Would you prefer your words with salt or without?”

“Preferably with more of that clam sauce you made last night. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”

“Maybe while you were up with your family last week?”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe then. When does Tom get in?”

If he hadn’t asked, she would never have told him. At least that’s what she told herself. But he had, and she had never been good at lying to Hasty. “He’s not coming.” She explained, leaving out the Saturday night party and stressing that Tom was staying at the request of his ailing boss.

“So when does he get his sainthood merit badge?” Hasty asked sourly.

“Sometime tomorrow night. Listen, I do have to go. Dr. Flo is coming over to read letters she received from Agnes, the woman who died.”

“How about dinner tonight, since you’re all on your own?”

She was trying to come up with one good reason to say no to a harmless dinner—and finding her mind strangely blank—when she was saved by the bell. The doorbell.

“Dr. Flo is here. I can’t talk right now. But we may want to have supper together and discuss all this. Let me have a rain check.”

She hung up quickly, but thought his last words were, “It’s not raining.”

“What a lovely place you have here!” Dr. Flo exclaimed. Katharine was surprised, because from pictures she had seen, the Gadney estate was larger and much more ornate. “And look at the proportions of these rooms. You all must be so happy here.”

“We have been,” Katharine agreed, “but good proportions is about all the rooms have to offer right now. It’s still a bit chaotic.”

Scarcely glancing at the disorder in the other rooms, Dr. Flo paused in the archway to Katharine’s new study. “This is absolutely delightful. It is where you work?”

Katharine was pleased, for Dr. Flo was the first nonbiased woman to see it completed. When she described the room’s transformation, the professor nodded. “I used to tell my students that every woman needs one space in her home that is entirely hers, where she can escape to recharge her spiritual and mental batteries. You will do good things here.”

Katharine laughed. “So far all I’ve done is order online towels and look up the Mallerys.”

Dr. Flo patted the monitor. “That was a baptism for your genealogical future.” She held out a priority mail envelope. “Is this where we’ll look at what’s in here?”

“We can spread out better in the breakfast room.” Katharine led the way. “The dining room is still such a mess that I cleaned off this table to work on.”

Dr. Flo settled herself in a chair and tore the envelope open. “Here goes.”

The first thing she pulled out was a legal-sized document. She scanned it briefly. “This is a copy of the deed Agnes mentioned. There’s a note attached.” She read the note silently, then handed it to Katharine.

Written in a neat, schoolteacher hand that seemed incongruous for such a large, forceful woman, the letter was dated the morning of Agnes’s death.

Only the signature looked like Agnes, sprawling across the page in strong dark letters.

Dr. Flo fished in the bottom of the priority mail envelope and brought out a small tan bank envelope. “She wrote down the name of the bank and its address on this.”

Katharine was scanning the deed for the pertinent paragraph. “Here it is. ‘In the event that the Morrisons choose to leave Bayard Island or die without issue, the property—’” she omitted the legal description of the property “‘—and the house standing thereon shall revert to the descendants of my childhood friend, Claude Gilbert…’ Here you are!”

Dr. Flo reached for the deed. “It actually says Claude Gilbert?”

Katharine pointed to the line. Dr. Flo continued to read. “‘…descendants of my childhood friend, Claude Gilbert, formerly of Bayard Island. If such descendants cannot be found, the property will revert to the Bayard Bluff estate.’ Oh, my!” Her voice held wonder.

“Just what you always wanted,” Katharine teased. “An unpainted house with a view of a slough, your own nanny goat, a few chickens, and who knows how many palmetto bugs? Not to mention man-eating mosquitoes, a sky so big it could fall on you and mash you, and Burch Bayard nagging you to sell every day of your life.”

“How much do you think he’d pay?” Dr. Flo sounded as if she was speaking thoughts aloud rather than replying to Katharine.

Katharine was shocked. “You wouldn’t sell to him!”

“I might. I don’t want to live there, as you graphically pointed out.”

“You could give it to the state for a park.”

“I’m not giving anything to anybody right now. This could be a godsend.”

“God wouldn’t give you land like that to sell to a developer.”

“That’s how little you know. God knows what I need, and right this minute, a liquid asset is something I could really use.”

“But—?” Katharine stopped and simply stared.

Dr. Flo bent her head and closed her eyes. One finger traced a design on the tabletop. It took Katharine a moment to recognize it as a dollar sign. Finally Dr. Flo came to a decision.

“Let me tell you a story about a princess who became a frog.” She clasped both hands in front of her and spoke as if she were beginning a classroom lecture. “Have you ever heard that every woman is one man away from welfare?” She waited for Katharine to nod. “That worked backwards for me. I was born with two gold spoons in my mouth, as you probably know. Daddy left a small fortune and Mama’s daddy left a considerable one. There are advantages to being the only grandchild in two families. Maurice made good money, too, so we lived well.”

“And gave a lot of money away,” Katharine reminded her. The generosity of the Gadneys had been legendary.

“Yes, but we still had far more than most people want or need. Because I had the degree in business, I managed our money, with the help of a good broker. We were all set for a wonderful retirement and a blessed old age.” She stopped.

Katharine didn’t break the silence. If Dr. Flo wanted to finish the story, she would. Katharine wasn’t certain she wanted to hear the end, anyway.

At last the professor heaved a sigh that seemed bigger than she was. “After I retired, Maurice took a course on investing. He got so enthusiastic, he decided he wanted to manage our money for a change. He even asked me to cash in my whole 403-B plan. Like a fool—and because I loved him more than I loved money—I did.” Her last dropped to a whisper. “There was so much money, you see. I never imagined it could disappear so fast.”

This time she waited to make sure Katharine was listening. “But it did?”

Dr. Flo nodded. “He didn’t know what he was doing, you see, and it was the time of the great tech stock bubble. He was like a little boy, making thousands of dollars in an hour. I warned him, ‘Honey, you know tibias, not technology,’ but at that point, nobody could tell that man a thing.” She came to an abrupt stop and pressed one hand over her mouth. “I should not have said that. I have sworn I won’t bad-mouth him now that he’s gone.”

“You lost a lot?”

“Eventually, everything we had.”

At Katharine’s cry of dismay her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It’s over and done with now, but when I found out, I thought I’d go crazy. He hid it from me for a long time. When I’d suggest that we buy something or other to diversify our holdings, he’d spout his latest economic hero to me and tell me it had been years since I’d studied business. Me—who inhaled the
Wall Street Journal
every day and read economic journals like they were scripture. Still, like I said, I loved him and wanted him to strut his stuff. Besides, everything he spouted made sense if you applied it wisely. He just didn’t know how to do that. I discovered that he had tried stocks, bonds, even real estate, but everything he touched turned to dirt. Our house was paid for, but he took out a big mortgage, arguing that it had gained so much value since we bought it that we ought to be investing that money instead of sitting on it. Some very sound economists think that way, so while I personally believe a paid-up house makes money for your future, I agreed. When he lost all the money from the mortgage, though, he finally told me how bad things were. Then, instead of keeping the little bit we still had, he started day trading. He cut back his practice to afternoons, and every morning he’d sit at his computer trying to figure out what to buy and what to sell. Then he’d put on his coat and go to the office to make more money to lose.”

Her voice grated with sorrow. “Since he died, I have wondered whether he had a gambling addiction we never suspected or whether he was in the early stages of dementia.” Her lips trembled. She pressed them together for a moment, but the pain in her eyes would not be contained. “I kick myself daily for not stepping in to stop him. I am convinced that what gave him that heart attack was worry over how we were going to live the rest of our lives.” She pressed one hand to her lips and blinked back tears.

Katharine was reeling. If that could happen to the Gadneys, it could happen to anybody. And Dr. Flo was right—it gave new meaning to the old saying that every woman is one man away from welfare. “But surely you had something left,” she protested. “I mean when you say it was all gone—surely you at least had his life insurance.”

“I had some through Spelman, but he didn’t carry any. We had no children and I had plenty to live on if he died first—or so we thought. We agreed years ago not to spend money on premiums we could donate to worthy causes. It all made sense back then. Later, it was too late.”

“So how are you living now?”

Dr. Flo managed a sad smile. “Frugally and by faith. After he died, I went back to my broker and we decided this old dog was going to have to learn new tricks. I sold the house—and the furniture, and the exercise equipment, and his car, and most of my jewelry, and even most of my clothes. How could I have spent so much to cover my body? But when I was done selling, I had enough to buy a condo outside the perimeter, where things are cheaper. It’s a studio so small I can stand at one wall and practically touch the one across the room, but it’s paid for. The condo, Social Security, and God are what I have left to see me into my old age. I am coming to appreciate the power of that phrase in the Lord’s Prayer: ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ That’s what I ask for these days.” She reached out and covered Katharine’s hand with hers. “I haven’t told many people this, so I’d appreciate it if you would keep it confidential.”

Katharine put her other hand on top. “Of course, but do you really have enough to live on?” As soon as the words were out, she flushed. “I’m sorry, I asked without thinking. I don’t normally pry into people’s finances, but I handled the money for two aunts and got used to asking them questions like that. You are beginning to feel like family.”

Dr. Flo gave her a grateful smile. “You, too. That’s why I wanted to tell you. And yes, I have enough to live on if I’m careful. However, I know very well that I am one crisis away from disaster. Some days I get wobbly kneed thinking what will happen when I need to repair the car or fill a cavity. That’s something people with credit cards and a cushion in the bank don’t understand about people on the bottom of the financial ladder. An unexpected expense means less food or heat. It’s also nice to have enough for a little luxury once in a while—a nice piece of meat, a good haircut, enough to take a friend to lunch. Our spirits need those things. That’s why I said that this land could be a gift from God.”

“And from Claude Gilbert.” Katharine added.

Dr. Flo laughed. “Absolutely. Pretty soon I’ll be talking to him like you do your daddy.”

As she tried to take it in, Katharine was flooded with shame. What must it have cost Dr. Flo to eat salads while she wolfed down full meals with dessert? And no wonder she wore native skirts, cotton tops, and plastic flip-flops. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I couldn’t. Our world—this world—” she gestured to indicate Katharine’s house, her yard, places where the prosperous take beauty and comfort for granted “—is a world of reciprocity. We can go for weeks without spending a penny because somebody else is providing banquets, lake cottages, concerts, and plays. But we pay them back. Now I go almost nowhere, because I can’t accept favors I can’t repay. I loved going down to Jekyll with you, but I hated not being able to take you out to dinner…”

She took two deep breaths and looked out the window until she could trust her voice again. “That’s why the prospect of owning eight acres of Bayard Island is not at all unpleasant. And I have to admit, in spite of Agnes’s hopes for me, if it turns out I really own it, I will probably sell to Burch. When the rubber of your principles meets the road of need, you do things you never dreamed you would.”

Katharine needed something to do. She rose and filled a pitcher with tea, arranged a plate with cookies and another with lemon and mint, then stood looking at the snack with humility. There was no reason on earth why she should have so much and others so little. In spite of the rhetoric, Tom didn’t really work any harder than Anthony, or the men who carried away her garbage, or people who flipped burgers. He had invested wisely—both his money and his own talents—and added to what his parents and grandparents left him, but other people had smoothed his way. Nobody rises in the world unless somebody smooths the way. And she? She had come along for the ride.

Help me to share!
she cried wordlessly.
Show me how to share with sensitivity.

“I made these for Tom,” she said as she set down the cookies. “Since he’s not coming home, I’m glad you’re here to eat some.”

Dr. Flo smiled. “Me, too. They look delicious. And I really am trying to learn how to accept things graciously. That’s a lesson I never had to learn before. But we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves here. We don’t know if I have any claim on that land whatsoever. Shall we see what else Agnes sent?”