that’s where I failed her. If she…If I had brought her here to the big house, she would have been raised by servants. At least with the Hendersons she had a normal life. She wanted for nothing, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
Sarabess had said these words so often, they sounded truthful to her ears. She struggled to cry. She whipped the handkerchief past her eyelashes as she watched Rifkin carefully. She needed him.
“Too bad you couldn’t pay the Hendersons to love her. When are you going to factor in Trinity’s trust fund?”
“The fund has nothing to do with this. The Hendersons did love Trinity in their own way. They are plain, hardworking people. They’re not demonstrative. That doesn’t mean they didn’t love Trinity. They raised her for fifteen years. There was feeling there. Even as sick as he was, and living with that woman, Harold told me they were heartbroken when Trinity ran away. Harold would never have lied about something like that.”
Rifkin watched the little brown bird as she dived into the fern with a piece of string in her beak. Preparing her nest for her young. That’s how it’s supposed to be, he thought. Even the birds know about motherhood. “Were you brokenhearted, Sarabess? Did Trinity’s running away affect you in any way?”
He was just saying words, words he’d said hundreds of times. It was a game, pure and simple.
Sarabess drew a deep breath as she fingered her pearls. “No. It barely registered. I was still mourning Emily. Nothing registered. Nothing.” Such a lie, she thought.
“I have to leave now, or I’ll miss my tee time.”
“Well, a tee time is certainly important. Even I understand that. Run along, Rifkin. Enjoy your golf game,” Sarabess said, in an icy voice.
Rifkin refused to be baited. He waved as he descended the steps. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Sarabess wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she bit down on her bottom lip instead. Her eyes filled again. Everything Rif had said was true. Tomorrow she would think about everything he’d just said. Everything she’d been thinking about for the past fifteen years. Tomorrow. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.
Today was Emily’s day. Today she had to go to the cemetery to talk to Emily.
Tomorrow was another day. Rif would come around; he always did.
Chapter 2
Crestwood, South Carolina, population 27,855, was a pretty little town with sidewalks, tree-lined streets, cozy shops with colorful awnings, homey window displays, white benches underneath the ancient trees that shaded the streets like giant umbrellas, and old-fashioned lampposts. There was a town square with a bandstand where the town fathers stood at attention to view the seven yearly parades.
On the Fourth of July, the picnic kicked off at the bandstand, covered with flags and banners. The children of Crestwood decorated the entire square for Halloween in the hopes of winning the grand prize, which was a double-decker ice-cream cone from Elmo Mitchell’s drug store every Saturday afternoon for a full year. Santa Claus and his elves came to town in a horse-drawn sleigh on wheels the day after Thanksgiving. It was said in the Crestwood Record that every resident in town turned out for the event.
Just about every citizen of Crestwood said their town was the prettiest in the whole state. As far as anyone knew, no one had ever disputed the claim.
The main street in Crestwood really was named Main Street. Parson’s Bakery had the best croissants and peanut butter cookies. Elmo Mitchell served the creamiest ice cream, which came from the Windsor Dairy. John Little of Little’s Hardware had every garden tool and gadget known to man. John even kept a barrel of peanuts sitting by the white bench outside his store for those who wanted a handful to munch on as they did their daily shopping. Eva’s Tea Shop sported double tubs of bright pink petunias at each side of the pristine white Dutch door. It was hard to pass Eva’s and not stop for a frosty glass of sweet tea and a cucumber sandwich on fluffy white bread made by Eva herself at the crack of dawn.
Visitors to Crestwood, and there were many, said that the nicest thing about the little town was how everyone knew everyone else and that they felt a real sense of place when visiting. When the visitors left the sleepy little town, most, if not all, agreed that Crestwood was more small-town America than the fictional Mayberry of television fame.
Jacob Forrest, “Jake” to everyone in town, walked down the tree-lined street to the end of the block, turned right on Richardson Avenue and continued on to the offices of Forrest & Forrest & Granger. There was no Granger these days, just the elder Forrest and Jake.
Jake hadn’t always practiced law with his father here in Crestwood. Fresh out of law school, he hadn’t wanted to return to Crestwood, where, according to him, they rolled up the sidewalks at eight o’clock in the evening. He wanted some nightlife, some razzle-dazzle inside and outside the courtroom. So, he’d headed for Atlanta, Georgia, and had done a three-year stint working as an assistant district attorney before the nightlife and the razzle-dazzle lost their allure. After leaving the DA’s office, he joined a small criminal defense law firm in Albany, Georgia, where he spent five years before deciding to return to Crestwood.
With little or no crime in Crestwood, both senior and junior Forrests mostly dealt in real estate closings, deed filings, speeding tickets, wills, and the like, which left time for fishing and golf in the summer and skiing in the mountains in the winter.
Jake walked up a flower-lined walkway to a one-story building constructed of old Charleston brick. Every morning Jocelyn, the receptionist, polished the brass plaque at the entrance. The high shine allowed Jake to see his reflection. He grinned the way he always grinned. He grinned now as he opened the door and walked into the cool reception area. He waved to Jocelyn, and said, “It’s getting hot out there.”
“It’s only June, Jake, it’s going to get hotter. Your father has called four times. He said to call him. He should be on the ninth hole by now.”
“Did he say what he wanted?” Jake called over his shoulder. Like he really cared what his father wanted.
“Now, Jake, you know better than to ask me that. But if it will make you feel better, no, he didn’t say what he wanted. Your twelve thirty is due any second now. Stacy,” she said, referring to Jake’s secretary, “went to Eva’s. She said everything you need is on your desk. Call her if you need anything.” The plump, grandmotherly receptionist winked at Jake.
Jake tossed his briefcase on one of the client chairs as he shrugged out of his lightweight suit jacket. He jerked at his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Seventy-seven-year-old Clara Ashwood, his twelve thirty appointment, didn’t stand on formality. He looked down at his appointment book. Clara wanted to change her will. Again. She’d changed her will the week after Christmas, then again in April. He wondered what happened this time. At Christmas she hadn’t liked the presents her children had given her. In April, two of her six children hadn’t shown up for Easter dinner, so she’d changed it again. As far as he could tell, Clara was on schedule. Clara was his favorite client.
Jake looked at his watch. He had five minutes before she was due. Did he have time to call his father? His father was always succinct, especially if he was on the golf course. He pressed in the numbers, waited, then his father’s voice came on.
“Jocelyn said you called,” Jake said by way of greeting.
Instead of responding to his son’s statement, Rifkin asked
