Rebecca's Legacy
By Betty Thomason Owens
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Chapter 1
April 5, 1947
Springfield
“Are you crazy? My father’s going to kill me.” Amy Emerson stood near the edge of the dock. One hand shading her eyes, she searched the placid surface of the water from Hammond’s Inlet to Kettle Creek. “How could you let this happen?”
“Aw, quit your caterwauling. The skiff’s tied up over there.” Howie Thompson nodded toward a stand of willow trees near the lake shore. “We’ll be back way before your daddy gets home.”
Amy propped her hands on her hips. He’d lied about the boat drifting away? She wanted to give him a piece of her mind. Why did she put up with him, anyway?
He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. One stray lock fell over his dark brown eyes, giving him a rakish look. Kind of like a young Clark Gable. He sent her a sideways grin, replaced his cap and set off toward the water. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Now, grab your stuff. Let’s roll.”
Amy stared at his back as he climbed into the boat. He was well aware of the effect his looks had on her. Not just her, but any female within sight of him. She returned to the bench where she’d left her jacket. After tying on a scarf to protect her hair, she draped the jacket over her shoulders, and followed him, brushing at tears behind his back. She refused to let him see her cry. He’d tell all her friends she was soft.
She wasn’t soft. But she was at the end of her father’s patience and had no intention of garnering more punishment this close to graduation.
Howie slapped the water with an oar, sending a shower of droplets into the air. “Your taxi awaits, your majesty.” He didn’t even attempt to help her into the skiff.
She hopped in and settled onto the seat, barely grabbing hold in time to avoid a river plunge as he set off. She pierced him with an icy glare. Wretch.
He didn’t even look at her, just leaned into the oars and sped them across the smooth surface of the placid water.
Amy lifted her chin. Let him be that way. Had he really expected her to be easy? Warmth flooded her cheeks at the memory of his embrace. She’d been flattered by his attentions, honored by his singling her out. And all the time, he was just trying to get her alone so he could take advantage of her. Well, he hadn’t been successful. How could he believe she was that kind of girl? She wanted to sink into a heap and cry her eyes out. Instead, she kept her lips in a tight line, her chin jutted in defiance. If he thought she was ice before, he was in for a deep freeze now.
The more she thought about it ... how could he even try something like that? Knowing who she was? Who her father was?
***
She insisted Howie drop her off around the corner from the house. He seemed a little too happy to be rid of her. Well, she didn’t care. Not one little bit.
After passing through the hedge on the far end of their property, Amy stood still, taking in the scene. Her little brother, Bobby, sat on the back steps. He tossed a baseball into the air, then caught it neatly in his leather glove. There was no one else in sight.
He glanced up at her approach. “Somebody’s in trouble.” He sang the words, never missing a beat with the ball.
Dread raised the hair on her neck and arms. “You hush.” She closed her eyes and forced her nerves to calm. “Who’s home?”
He caught the ball and held it in front of his face, as though examining it for flaws. “Dad’s home already. He’s been asking for you.”
She trotted to the kitchen entrance. Bea would cover for her.
“Hiding in the kitchen won’t do any good. They already know you’re AWOL.” He chuckled then threw the ball high and caught it.
Amy ignored his teasing laughter and crept into the mudroom off the kitchen, where a wonderful aroma greeted her. Quietly, she hung her jacket and scarf on a hook before peeking through the door into the kitchen.
Bea, her back to Amy, sang as she kneaded dough.
Amy didn’t want to startle the woman, but she had to get past her to the back stairs. “Psst!”
Bea shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Land sakes, Miss Amy, you gave me a start.” She wiped her fingers on a towel. “Where you been? You know your folks are all upset.”
“Which is why I’m laying low.” Amy slid past the table, headed to her room.
“Ain’t gonna do you any good. They are already on the lookout.”
Amy rounded on her. “I’m a grown woman.”
Bea chuckled, grabbed the dough and slammed it against the table top. “You’re almost grown. Still living under your daddy’s roof, Missie. He calls the shots. You may as well march on into his office and apologize straight up.” She grabbed a potholder, pulled the oven door open, and peered into the interior. After stabbing at something with a fork, she closed the door and laid the potholder and fork on the table, glowering at Amy. “You go on now. Go see your daddy and make things right.”
Amy sniffed. It wouldn’t matter, he’d still be mad, and Mother would act all hurt. Amy was in trouble again, and for what? A complete bust of an afternoon.
Dad was reading. After a short pause in his office doorway, waiting for him to look up, Amy stepped inside. She’d throw herself on his mercy, turn the whole thing somehow. But how?
He glanced over the top of his reading glasses. “Come in, Amy. Close the door, please.”
Closing the door was bad. That meant he planned to chew her out. Her stomach all aflutter, Amy faced the door as she closed it. She crept to the nearest chair, the most uncomfortable one in the room. As usual, it creaked when she sat. Hands folded in her lap, she raised her chin and squared her jaw. Where could she travel to this time? What place could she allow her thoughts to carry her, to give his words less effect?
“I’d appreciate it if you’d look at me, Amy, when I speak to you.”
She glanced up. Had she already missed something? “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have none of that fanciful daydreaming. I have something to say, and I want you to hear it. Do you understand me?”
She nodded.
“You’re a grown woman, Amy. Too old to be running wild.”
She straightened. Was he really acknowledging her adulthood?
“At your age, when a young woman runs with … certain … types of boys, she gets talked about.”
Gossip? That’s what this was about? She was well aware folks gossiped about her. Probably why Howie thought he could—
“Amy? I feel I’m losing your attention again.”
“No, sir. I heard you.”
He tapped the desk with his forefinger. “Until graduation, other than school and church attendance, you are confined to the house and grounds.”
Her jaw went slack. No! “No, Dad, the prom—the parties—you can’t be serious.”
He gave a shrug. “I can, and I am.”
She lowered her voice. “But the prom … I already have my dress.”
“But you haven’t made a date, have you? You haven’t said a word about it. Neither has your mother. Therefore, it’s not too late. I’m sorry for it, but a little humiliation might be good for you. You can save the dress for another time.”
To her great chagrin, tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. With trembling fingers, Amy swiped them away.
Dad shook out a handkerchief and handed it across his desk.
Amy used it to staunch the flow. When she looked up, he was watching her, his face stern, unmoved by her display of emotion. She cast about for some way out of this. Was there no chance of appeal?
“I’m sorry, Dad. I came in here to apologize for being late. I … had no idea … how late, really.”
He held up his hand. “Spare me your lies, Amy, I’m not in the mood.”
“But, what can I do, then? H … h … how can I make it up to you?”
His gaze burned into hers. Oh, he was angry. Maybe the maddest she’d ever seen him.
She’d crossed a line this time. Fresh tears threatened at the thought of no prom, no pre-graduation parties, no … anything. Socially, her life was over. Kaput.
The clock chimed the half hour. It was nearly time for dinner.
He released a sigh and sat back in his chair.
She raised her eyes to his. What did that mean? Was it a repentant sigh? Would he back down? Oh, if only for the prom! She touched the handkerchief to her lips. Maybe she could bargain?
“We’re not finished with this discussion, Amy. Go upstairs and get ready for dinner. Don’t be late.”
She rose. “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.” She reached for the doorknob.
“Leave the door open, please.”
She nodded and scooted past the door toward the stairs, hoping to make it all the way to her room without seeing her mother. She could not endure Mother’s disapproving expression. Disappointment that her daughter hadn’t turned out a perfect little angel like the characters in those books she wrote.
Amy sniffed at the memory of the Betsy Taylor mysteries. An entire set of books that still brought in royalties, even after being on the market for ten years. Yes, her mother was an author. She’d made a name for herself. Well, so had Amy, but not in a good way, apparently.
In her horribly neat room, Amy closed the door and began at once to disrobe. She kicked off her shoes and left her school uniform in a heap at the foot of her bed. After splashing water on her face, she stepped into the ample walk-in closet and chose a beige skirt and white blouse. Though she didn’t feel like wearing them, she fastened an obligatory string of pearls around her neck.
Everyone dressed for dinner at their house, and you never knew who was going to show up. Maybe Grandpa and Grandma, or some business acquaintance of her father’s.
Only a year or so ago, their table might have been graced by a couple of Jack’s friends, some of them quite good-looking. The memory pierced her heart. Her beautiful older brother had been injured in the war. After his recovery, he had reenlisted and been assigned to a peacekeeping force in the south Pacific.
Mother had been devastated. Dad wouldn’t talk about it for a long time.
Amy tried not to think about it. Along with the memory of a certain handsome football player who’d stolen her heart, then thrown it away. Mother and Dad hadn’t approved of him anyway. They tended to look crosswise at all her male friends.
She pulled open the door and walked out of the room, without a backward glance, knowing she’d left a mess for Paulie to clean up. On the way down, the clock began to chime. She scurried to the dining room door, where she paused for a moment to collect herself. Deep inhale. Exhale. Lift your chin, be a queen. She stepped inside the room.
Mother smiled in her direction as if everything was fine. “Darling, you remember Matthew Wordsworth, don’t you?”
Amy’s glance careened into a smoldering blue gaze. His oh-so-handsome face hid a puritanical soul. Well, if it isn’t Mr. Fuddy-Duddy. She offered him a sweet smile and batted her eyelashes. “Of course, I remember.”
***
Keeping a tight rein on his expression, Matt Wordsworth watched as the little actress made the most of her late entrance.
Bobby jumped up and pulled out a chair for her.
She sat there, fingering a pearl choker, looking almost regal. When her mother had introduced him, the princess barely made eye contact with Matt. Oh, she was good. He had to give her that.
As the meal progressed, he continued to observe her. She was a beauty, and boy, did she know it.
“Matthew, is it true you’ve accepted an internship at Sanderson?” Mrs. Emerson touched her lips with a napkin as she awaited his response. Easy to see where Amy got her looks, although the daughter’s dark hair and eyes more resembled her father’s.
“Yes, ma’am. I start in June.”
“Wonderful.” Her lovely smile never faltered, even with the uneasy something churning beneath the surface of this polite little dinner.
He examined the other faces in the room. Bobby polished off his mashed potatoes and requested more. That boy had no hidden agenda.
Robert Emerson took a sip of water and set his glass down a little too hard. “I think he’ll fit in well at Sanderson. He’s goal-oriented, and his life experiences place him far ahead of his peers.”
Matt sliced off a bite of steak and dipped it in gravy. “Oh, I don’t know about that. But I do have an inquisitive nature that has served me well.”
“What are your interests outside of work and studies, Matthew? Music? Sports?” Mrs. Emerson’s face reflected an honest interest, beyond polite conversation.
“Yes, to both. I play piano, so I do appreciate good music. And I’m interested in all kinds of sports. I’m not overly athletic myself, but I love to watch.”
Mr. Emerson tore off a bite of bread and buttered it. “We have that in common. I was never much of an athlete, either. Nothing like a good football game, though. And Bobby’s an avid baseball player. Loves the game.”
Matt smiled at Bobby. “What position do you play?”
Both Bobby’s eyebrows arched toward his hairline as he eyes widened. “I like first base, but most of the time, they put me in the outfield.”
“Because you’re good at catching those fly balls.” Mr. Emerson gave the boy a warm smile. One that quickly disappeared as his gaze moved to his daughter’s face.
Matt watched with interest. Yes, the source of the unrest had just been narrowed down to the princess and her daddy. What grave misdemeanor had she committed to earn such displeasure?
He barely suppressed a smile. Boy, would he love to know the answer to that question.