Copyright 2000, 2006 by Elizabeth Delayne
"Mr. Davidson with the Tahoma Group wanted to discuss some ideas with you about their new project face to face. Do you have any idea when you'll be back in New Orleans?"
"I don't know, Miles," Erica sat on the hood of her rental car. She looked out across the quiet, lush field and dense forest that stretched out in a breathless display. She was at Dan Harmone's land, alone now. It was a place of sweeping landscape of hills and trees, running creeks that led to a small lake where the camp would be centered. They'd spotted deer, and the tracks of beaver and raccoons.
It was insane how excited one man could get over raccoons.
She'd asked Dan if she could stick around for a few days. She could get some sketches, research local legends and architecture … and deal with … everything else before she faced her mother in New Orleans.
She waited for Jonathon's call. He hadn’t answered his phone, so she’d left a message on his voice mail—and asked him to check the New Orleans's news before he called her. She wasn't sure she could explain at this point. She wasn't entirely sure she knew what to explain.
"I have a list I'm going to email you."
"Another one?"
Erica grinned despite herself.
"Dan gave me the names of several camps and administrators that carry on programs and are designed physically like the one he wants. Make the appropriate contacts and set up appointments over the next two to three weeks, if possible for a tour of the camps and a run down of administrative ideas. Most are on the east coast, but one's in California and another's in Oregon. Other than that, I want to stick around here for a few days and get a grip on the land."
"What's there to get a grip on out there? It's just a bunch of trees, isn't it?" Miles asked. "It's not like you've got to get your hands dirty in farm land digging and planting."
"You're just a city boy."
"I've never denied it."
Erica laughed despite herself. "I promise to send you in my place on my next trip to New York."
She scrolled down her PDA and frowned over the few appointments that were already scheduled. "See what you can do about Mr. Davidson. Our relationship with Tahoma is fairly established; otherwise, get us scheduled in three weeks. And I know I need to meet with Mr. Boiston in Sacramento on Thursday. I haven't forgotten. In fact, see if you can work a visit to that camp in California around that. And—" her cell phone beeped and she sighed. "I've got another call. I'll get back to you. Look for the email tonight, okay?"
"Erica—promise me you're okay, first."
"I'm okay."
”That’s what your mother said.”
Even though the call waiting beeped again, Erica paused—and hoped. Maybe there was nothing to be worried about. “Is she really?”
”You know Lillian. Nothing gets in the way of business.”
His tone was off, and she could tell he was troubled, but if Miles couldn’t make her mother talk, Erica wasn’t sure she could either. She hung up quickly and accepted the new call.
"You okay?" Jonathon asked without preamble, echoing Miles.
Erica leaned back against the windshield, watching the white clouds waltz across the blue sky—and for the first time all day felt her muscles slowly relax. She closed her eyes, pictured him … pictured what it had been like to be with him.
Before.
"I don't know how I feel."
"Where are you?"
"Upstate New York." She nearly laughed. What would he say if he knew she was out in the boonies, in a field, alone with nature? That was more his image.
"Are you heading home?"
"I don’t know … I’m not sure I’m ready to go home, to face the reporters and the questions and the town. Not for a few days, anyway," she gave into her weakness and closed her eyes. "I don't know what to do."
”You probably don’t have to do anything. Most of what you’ve heard from the press is just speculation. The case has been closed for twenty years. It’s not like the answers are going to jump out anytime soon. If you take a few days, none of that will change.”
”But they wouldn’t open it if they didn’t have a lead.”
”They’ll open it if they have probable cause. You’re father’s death isn’t what started the new investigation.”
”Are you sure?”
”That’s what my sources say. Haven’t you talked to your mother?"
"No. I’ve started to call, several times. I don't know what to say. Jonathon, I . . ." she worked through the words in her mind, fighting against the memories she had yet to face.
Images, horrible, dark and hateful images fought for a place in her consciousness. She was afraid to think or to feel for too long, afraid that if she did the images would unroll into a horrible reality.
"There are some things that happened … I think happened … right before my dad died …. I always told myself that they were dreams … just dreams. It's thrown me off.”
Even though the sun shined warm, she still felt cold. So very cold. “I don't know how to process it. I remember my parents having a fight. I remember a … it was like a riot. I remember the masks, the white, the flames," she cut herself off and sat up abruptly, opening her eyes to keep stop the sudden flux of images. "I don't think I can deny that there's some truth to what the papers are saying."
She stared out at the land that surrounded her. There was peace here. Calm. Nothing like the winds that blew so wild in her emotions.
"I'm not sure I can call my mom until I've faced what I can remember. She's always hated the KKK. It’s hard enough to think of my father … being like that," and in the quiet, with Jonathon seeming so close, she said what she'd been afraid to think for the past twenty years. "Jonathon, I'm not sure I can go home until I can face that it could be my mom that killed him."
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