Authors: Darlene Gardner
"Of all the restaurants in Secret Sound, this one is my favorite," Bergie said when they were all seated.
Bergie enjoyed the appreciation that came into Cara’s eyes as she surveyed her surroundings. A wooden railing surrounded a deck with plank-covered floorboards that supported heavy oak tables. In an adjacent marina, the masts of docked sailboats pointed toward the night sky like giant, white toothpicks.
"It’s very pretty," Cara remarked. Whatever else she might have said was cut off by Gray’s snort of laughter.
"Don’t let Dad fool you. He doesn’t like it here because it’s pretty. He likes it because they give you the biggest portions on the coast."
"Nothing worse than going away from the dinner table hungry," Bergie said, laughing. A waitress approached their table. She’d served him countless times before, but the hell of it was he couldn’t remember her name. "Isn’t that right, darlin’?”
“Absolutely,” the waitress said.
“I need something to fortify me before dinner so bring us an order of clam strips and whatever's on tap,” Bergie said. “Hell, bring us a round."
"Just water for me," Cara interrupted.
Bergie wondered if she were one of those health nuts who steered away from all things tasty. Damn if he could do it.
"Make mine a light beer. I’m watching my weight." He said the last as an afterthought, although it would have been more accurate to say he was watching his weight go up. He knew he should be more diligent, but he just couldn’t make himself care enough to stick to a diet.
If it hadn’t been for Gray, he wouldn’t have cared much if he lived or died for going on thirty years.
"I want you to know how much I admire the column you write, Mr. DeBerg." Cara folded her hands in front of her on the table and smiled at him. "It must give you a wonderful feeling of satisfaction to be able to help people like you do."
"Bergie, the name's Bergie. And I don’t do anything more than present facts and let other people do the helping."
"I don’t know about that, Dad," Gray said. "You have a way of phrasing things that really moves people.”
Bergie waved a hand, trying to shrug off the praise, but Cara heaped on some more. "He’s right. You wrote a column about a month ago that was particularly touching. About a teenage girl with leukemia who couldn’t find a bone marrow match.”
"Five or six people from around the country held bone marrow drives for her. Right, Dad?"
Bergie nodded. "All those people concerned about that girl, they’re the ones who deserve to be praised. It gives you reason to believe in the goodness of human nature again, it does."
"What happened?" The question came from Cara, who was leaning forward on her elbows, intent on his answer.
"That’s the subject of tomorrow’s column, as a matter of fact. One of the people who read the column got tested and was a match. Doctors are going to schedule the surgery soon.”
"It must be a great feeling," Cara said, "being responsible for finding a match for that girl.”
Bergie shook his head, and absently fingered the turquoise stone on his bolo tie. "I already told you. I didn’t find her a match. I simply wrote the column.”
"But—"
"But you haven’t told me what you want yet, Cara,” he said, changing the subject.
Gray, usually so difficult to get off his bandwagon, transferred his attention to Cara. "I’ve been wondering that myself.”
"I want information," Cara answered, and Bergie thought she made a point of looking at him instead of his son. "That is, if you don’t mind answering questions on an empty stomach.”
"I'm hungry, dear, not famished." Bergie removed his glasses and wiped them with a napkin. His eyes, he knew, were a washed-out blue, like a garment that had been left on a clothesline too long. He kind of felt that way all over. Dry and used up. "Ask away. I've been wondering what an old man like me can do for a young woman like you."
"I want to know about the Rhett family," Cara said, and he saw her take a breath before she continued in a rush. "I'm a freelance writer working on an article about independently owned small-town newspapers. The Sun has succeeded while so many papers around the country have failed. I thought it would be a wonderful addition to the story."
"If you’re a journalist," Gray cut in, sounding skeptical, “why didn’t you say something about it yesterday?"
Bergie watched her eyes flash, her spine stiffen, her voice sharpen. What was going on here?
"We didn't say more than a few words to each other yesterday,” Cara told Gray.
"Yeah, but—"
"Sounds like a good reason to me not to mention it," Bergie interrupted before they could get into a verbal battle. He sent a warning look at Gray, who clenched his teeth and leaned back in his chair.
"But I don’t understand why you picked me to talk to," Bergie continued, once more at ease. He didn't like conflict of any kind, and he was glad he'd diffused it. "The newspaper's crawling with Rhetts. Reggie Jr. is the publisher, and his brother Curtis is the managing editor. Reggie's daughter Karen is a features writer. Any one of them can tell you more about the family business than me."
"Surely you realize you're part of the story," Cara said. "A bonafide celebrity working at a small-town newspaper."
"Wait a minute," Gray said. "You didn't know anything about my father when you came into the office. You were surprised that he wrote Bergie's Sound."
"You have that wrong," Cara countered smoothly, but Bergie noticed she wouldn’t meet his son's eyes. "I was only surprised that you were trying to pass yourself off as him."
"You tried to tell her you were me," Bergie cut in. "Now why would you do a thing like that, son?"
"I didn't—" Gray began.
"Yes, he did," she interrupted. "But now that I’ve found you, Bergie, it hardly matters anymore."
Bergie couldn't help but chuckle. "You have to admit, though, that it is interesting."
Gray didn't appear to share his belief. His face grim, he lapsed into silence once more. Again Bergie wondered what was going on. He'd been interviewed on plenty of occasions.
"I wanted to start with the publisher, but the newspaper receptionist told me that Reginald Jr. is out of town," Cara said, getting down to business. "Since you've been working at the newspaper for so long, Bergie, I was hoping I could get a little background from you before I talk to the others."
Bergie picked up his beer and took a drink, seeing no reason he shouldn't relate the history of the Rhetts. For the next hour, through the ordering, delivery and consumption of their meal, he told her about Reginald Rhett Sr. The newspaper's founder was a conservative businessman who had made a fortune because he steadfastly resisted expansion until the proper resources were in place.
Then he told her about Reginald’s blood son Reginald Jr., who had been born to his beloved first wife only weeks before she died, and his stepson Curtis, the child of his second wife.
Cara didn’t say much of anything until he got to the part about Reginald Sr. leaving his namesake with his newspaper and his stepson with nothing.
"How sad," she said. "I imagine it left Curtis quite bitter."
"Reginald Sr. died thirty years ago." Gray, who had been quiet for most of Bergie's discourse, finally spoke. Bergie knew why. His son knew Curtis was still bitter over the raw deal he'd been handed — who wouldn’t be after being treated that way? — but he didn’t want that mentioned in a magazine article. "Reginald Jr. gave his brother Curtis the job of managing editor. The paper is where it is today because of that decision."
"True. Very true," Bergie said. "Anybody who knows anything about the newspaper business will tell you that Curtis Rhett is a damn fine managing editor. He's tough, but fair. A man who makes a fine ally." Bergie chuckled. "And, I imagine, a rotten enemy."
Bergie grew silent. His well of stories about the Rhetts was running dry. He didn’t think Cara needed much more background for her project, anyway.
"There's just one more blank I need you to fill in, Bergie." She sat up straighter in her chair before continuing. "I want to know how Reginald Rhett III died."
Bergie’s heart went still, as it always did whenever somebody mentioned the little boy, who had died mere days before the light had gone out of Bergie’s world. He couldn’t think of that time without picturing Maggie, his beloved Maggie, looking at him through eyes made old by pain and suffering. Looking at him as though he could rescue her from anything, even the claws of death.
She’d thought he was her hero, because by marrying him she had escaped an abusive father. In the end, he’d done nothing more heroic than hold her hand as she slipped away. Her face had been ghostly pale, as though her diseased heart had already stopped pumping the blood through her veins, and her hand had been cold. So cold.
"Are you talking about the little boy who was hit by a car thirty years ago?" Gray put down his beer mug with an audible thump.
"That's the one,” she said.
"I don't see how that boy could possibly be relevant to your story," Gray said.
"He's part of the family story," Cara answered. "He would have been next in line to inherit the newspaper if he hadn't died."
"But he did die."
"Nevertheless, an article that didn't mention him would be incomplete. Besides, I asked your father, not you. Bergie, will you tell me what happened?"
The sound of his name pulled Bergie back from the abyss of the past, but he was still perilously close to the edge. Strangely, that didn’t frighten him. More and more, he wanted to dive over that edge so he could search for his Maggie.
"Would you tell me about the accident, Bergie?" she repeated.
Gray started to argue again, but Bergie silenced him with a heavy hand on his arm. His son had never understood that talking about his late wife didn’t hurt any more than thinking about her. And she was never far from his thoughts.
"It’s okay, son. There’s not much I can add to what was reported in the newspaper. The driver didn’t see him until it was too late. It was dark, and Skippy ran right in front of his car."
Skippy!
The blood seemed to seep from Cara's face as another piece of the bizarre puzzle fit into place. She had wondered how she could have a connection with a child who had died almost a quarter-century ago when his name didn't jingle her memory.
But whereas the name Reginald Rhett hadn't meant a thing to her, Skippy rang a bell that clanged to be heard.
"Cara? Are you okay?" Gray's voice slowly ebbed into her consciousness. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
A ghost. A hysterical giggle bubbled in her throat as she wondered if that's what she had seen. If the little boy she'd witnessed flying through the air had simply been the ghost of Skippy Rhett practicing aerial maneuvers. Maybe he'd gone to a circus before he'd died and had been enchanted by the high-wire act. Maybe he'd been practicing to become what he’d never lived to be.
And maybe she had finally cracked, like a walnut caught between the handles of a nutcracker.
"Cara?" Gray prompted, and the world came into focus once again. He was standing, hovering over her like a hard, unyielding guardian angel, and everything about him was startlingly clear. The gray-blue of his eyes. The rich brown-black of his hair. The bronze of his skin.
Her fingers itched to touch him, just to make sure he wasn't a phantom. Gray was gazing at her as though he expected another outburst. The realization sobered her.
"I'm fine," Cara said, straining to regain her equilibrium. Gray regarded her for a moment as though he didn't believe her. Then, finally, he sat back down.
"You gave us a scare, dear girl." Bergie's voice hadn’t yet regained its bluster, and his smile seemed forced. "Show Gray and me some boxes to carry or some bugs to kill, and we're your men. Hit us with a fainting spell, and we don't know the first thing about handling it."
"I wasn't about to faint," Cara denied, but skepticism was thick in the air. Fool, she thought. She was a fool for letting the sound of the boy's name drain the lifeblood from her face, jeopardizing her quest for information. "I'm a little overtired, that's all. I've been traveling, and I never sleep well in hotels."
"I thought," Gray said slowly, his tone accusatory, "that it was something Dad said."
"No." Cara shook her head. "Although it was a terrible thing, I imagine. A boy as young as that being hit by a car." She made her voice deliberately light. "You say he was called Skippy?"
Another zing of recognition jolted her. She couldn't grasp why the name was familiar. She only knew that somehow, somewhere, she had heard it before.
"I suppose the Rhetts thought Reginald was a cumbersome name for a little boy,” Bergie answered, his eyes kind. His son watched her closely, possibly waiting for her to slip and reveal exactly why she was in Secret Sound asking these questions. How could she answer that when she didn't know?
"Was that all there was to the accident?" she prodded. "Just a little boy running in front of a car when it was too dark to see?"
"That about sums it up." Bergie gave a single nod, as though he couldn't imagine what else there was to tell. Cara waited for him to continue, but he was silent.
"I heard a rumor the boy was all by himself when he died," Cara ventured. "Considering Skippy was only five years old, that seems pretty strange."
"What makes you think you can believe rumors?" Gray asked. "Especially when this rumor is almost as old as you are?"
Cara sat as straight as she could manage. She didn’t think she was imagining the sudden chill at the table. For some unfathomable reason, neither father nor son wanted to talk about Skippy Rhett.
"I wasn't saying I believed the rumor," Cara said with as much composure as she could muster. "I was merely asking if it were true that he was alone when he died."
Bergie cleared his throat and stared at her through his glasses. For a long moment, Cara thought he wouldn't say anything at all. She stole a look at his son. Gray’s countenance was as stony as the face of Mount Everest.