The Secrets of Rosa Lee. Jodi Thomas

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      Lora’s car still sat in the middle of the street as she opened the door to the old Altman house and hurried inside.

      Air, cold and stale, closed around her. A wisp, thick as a sigh, rushed past. Escaping. She had the feeling she’d be wise to do so, as well. This place, or more accurately the grounds behind the house, held nothing but bad memories for her. She’d just as soon turn her vote in now to demolish the landmark. Anything, even a vacant lot, would be better than having this old mansion shadow Main.

      Lora blinked, trying to adjust to the filtered light shining through dirty windows. Dark paneling, rotted in spots. Dusty floors. Silence. She fought the urge to turn and run but remembered her mother probably still waited outside and decided even a haunted house would be preferable company.

      The floor creaked when she stepped into a wide hallway with doors on either side. Stairs rose from the back wall of the entry. Huge bookshelves, too large for vandals to steal, lined the corridor as if guarding long-forgotten secrets. A surprising dignity reflected in the room’s architecture, like an old soldier still standing proud in the uniform of his youth.

      Lora forced another step, telling herself she’d already lived through hell being married to Dan for three years. What else could happen to her? He’d taken everything except her car, and he would have gotten that, too, if it hadn’t been in her father’s name. Dan had made it necessary for her to quit her job without references. He’d fought until she’d had no option but to do what he knew she hated most—to return home. He’d learned, in the law school she’d worked to send him to, how to cut deep and once he was set up in a practice, he’d cut her out of his life.

      Straightening, Lora smiled. She might be down but she was a long way from out. What could one houseful of old stories do to her? She wasn’t some frightened fifteen-year-old. She was a battled-scarred divorcée.

      At slumber parties when she’d been small, girls had told stories of how old Rosa Lee would kill any man who set foot on her property and cut him up so she could dribble his blood over her roses. In Lora’s current state of mind, she didn’t consider Rosa Lee’s actions all that terrible.

      “Hey, lady,” a low male voice echoed through the passage. “This the place for the committee meeting?”

      Lora fought down nerves as she spotted a kid, maybe late teens, leaning against the banister. Half his body stood in shadow, but nothing about the half she saw looked good. Dirty jeans, worn leather jacket, hair in his eyes.

      “It is,” she answered. “Why?” She thought of adding, “Shouldn’t you be out robbing some quickie mart?” but held her tongue.

      He shifted, stepping more into the light. The chain that held his wallet in place clanked against the rivets running along the seam of his jeans.

      Lora held her ground. He was a few years older than she’d thought, a little more frightening. A three-day growth of beard darkened his chin. Angry gray eyes watched her, studying, judging, undressing her. If she’d been in Dallas, she would have reached for her Mace. But Clifton Creek didn’t have muggers, she reminded herself.

      “I’m on the committee.” He turned, showing more interest in the house than in her. His hands spread wide over the paneling and caressed the grooves in the wood. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like inside here. One of the guys I spent a weekend in the drunk tank with says his grandfather told him they sent all the way to Saint Louis for the carpenters on this place. Had to bring most of the wood out on wagons.”

      Lora forced her heart to slow. So much for her mother’s idea of it being an honor to be on one of the mayor’s committees. They appeared to be emptying the jails in order to fill the chairs.

      “I’m on the committee, too,” she said needlessly. No one would be in this old place at ten in the morning unless they’d been asked to serve. “I’m Lora Whitman.”

      “I know who you are.” He moved a scarred hand over the top of one of the massive hutches, dusting away layers of dirt. “I’ve seen you around.” He didn’t look up as he spoke. “You came back after your husband took you for a ride.”

      Lora shrugged, not surprised even the town’s under-belly knew of her troubles. Keeping up with everyone was more popular than sports in this place. But she did resent his comment that made her sound as if she had been no more than a horse Dan had saddled up one day and then turned out to starve when he had gotten where he wanted to go. Which, in retrospect, was accurate.

      She straightened, leveling the kid with her gaze. “That’s right. He took me for everything, and I had to come back here to work for my father.” She had no idea why she was telling this thug her life story. Maybe she just wanted to get the gossip straight for a change. “I was on my way to being an advertising executive with one of Dallas’s big five, and now I’m fighting to keep the salesmen from putting their kids in every commercial we shoot at the car lot.”

      The youth surprised her by saying, “Well, at least you got an old man to run home to. And don’t knock those ads. Some folks like seeing the kids. I remember seeing you in a few of your daddy’s ads when you were little.”

      She studied him more closely. “Do I know you?”

      “Billy Hatcher.” Thankfully, he didn’t offer his hand. “I was in middle school when you were a cheerleader your senior year. I liked to watch you jump.”

      Lora fought the urge to slap him. She tried to picture him as a half-grown boy watching her but had no memory of him. “I don’t jump anymore,” she snapped.

      “Too bad.”

      He grinned, and she controlled the longing to slug him this time. Much more conversation and she’d be a killer by noon. “Great!” she mumbled, “I’m on a committee with a sex-starved bully.” This might prove no different from her marriage.

      “Hello?”

      They both turned as a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like a Navajo blanket stepped through the door. “Are you both here for the meeting?”

      Billy shrugged, but Lora offered her hand. “Yes,” she said, thankful to have someone, anyone, else in the room. “I’m Lora Whitman.”

      The woman’s smile lit her makeup-free face. Her eyes sparkled with excitement behind thick glasses. “I’m Sidney Dickerson, history professor from the college. Isn’t this the most exciting thing in the world?” She pulled off the poncho and tossed it over the banister. “I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about the adventure we’re embarking upon.”

      Lora caught Billy Hatcher’s gaze and realized they had something in common after all. Neither of them agreed with the professor.

      As Sidney moved into what appeared to have been the dining room to set up, three more people entered. Lora knew the Rogers sisters and greeted them warmly. They spoke to her as if she were still their student in grade school. Between the two sisters, she’d bet they knew everyone in town. There hadn’t been a wedding or a funeral in forty years the old maids hadn’t attended. She wasn’t surprised when Miss Ada May Rogers took over the introductions.

      “Lora, dear, do you know the new Methodist minister?” Ada May motioned with her hand for him to move closer. “This is Reverend Parker.”

      Lora nodded, knowing anyone not born in Clifton Creek might be referred to as “new.” СКАЧАТЬ