Down and Dead in Dallas, page 13
“What’s Dr. Rossi say?” Dr. Laura Rossi ran the medical clinic for the Park, and Jackson had no doubt Darby had discussed Caroline with her.
“Not much,” Darby said. “She is at a disadvantage. She’s met Caroline in the village, but she’s never seen her as a patient, so she doesn’t have a baseline frame of reference. And, for some reason, Chaplain Goodman has his session files with Caroline password protected.” Darby frowned. “I’ve had the best hackers in the business working on breaking into them since you called, but so far they haven’t been successful. I can’t explain why. They do say they are close.”
“You think the answer to what’s happened to her memory is in those files?”
“I’m hoping so.” Darby poured herself another cup of tea from the delicate pot. “But I’m not counting on it.” She sent Jackson a knowing look. “Chaplain Goodman wigs out about privacy. Quite often, the only records that exist on his sessions are in his head.”
Understandable. He’d been the pastor at a mega church until his wife left him and filed for divorce. He’d lost her, his kids, and his church. Natural, to be private after going through something like that. Jackson sat down and folded his knees, then braced his arms on them. “Has he called in yet?”
“Not yet.” Miss Emily answered. “He’s still communing. They say it might be another day or two.”
“Did anything unusual happen here that spurred her to leave the Park?”
“So far as we can tell, not a thing,” Miss Emily said. “Lucas checked everything. Her cottage is undisturbed and in good order. The people in the village said she seemed fine. No one knew she was gone. Everything appears to be business as usual.”
“Perplexing.” Jackson sighed.
“Confounding. We couldn’t determine exactly when she’d left or how she did it without been seen on a single monitor, which has Lucas in an uproar, as you can well imagine.” Miss Emily turned thoughtful. “Clearly, we have to keep her here until we hear from Dr. Goodman.”
“Easy enough to explain, with the associates’ meeting just two days away.”
Miss Emily nodded. “We’ll put her back in her cottage and monitor. Maybe being at home will trigger her memory.”
“Maybe so.” Jackson hoped something did. “If you’ll tell me her favorite places, I’ll take her to them. Something here is bound to spark her recall.”
“That’s a great idea, Jackson.” Darby agreed. “Meantime, I’ll see if we can speed up those records and get Chaplain Goodman to call home.”
“You’ll spend a lot of time with her, of course,” Miss Emily said. “She’s probably feeling very much like a fish out of water. That kind of uneasiness doesn’t encourage her to remember anything.” She shifted to look at him. “You haven’t slept since leaving Dallas, I expect.
“No ma’am. There’s been no time.”
“I understand. Abigale’s got your room ready and waiting for you.”
Abigale was on the housekeeping staff. “Great.” Miss Emily had no idea how much having a home to come to meant to Jackson. Or to Rose. “First chance, I think I’ll give Nell a call and see if she has any advice.”
“Caroline’s therapist in Dallas?” He nodded and Darby grimaced. “Good luck with that. She never responded to our record’s requests. We sent three. Could you ask her for them?”
“I will, for whatever it’s worth. She might have purged them. She’s a little paranoid about releasing any information,” Jackson said. Dr. Nell Richmond had counseled Caroline from the time she left Martin until Jackson had taken her out of Dallas. She’d brought Caroline to Jackson for help.
“Her input could be helpful,” Miss Emily said. “I wonder. Did Caroline have memory lapses during her time in Dallas?”
“None were mentioned to me.” Jackson rubbed at his neck. “I’ll have to ask.”
“Well, learn what you can, my boy, but be careful not to reveal too much,” Miss Emily said. “With all the associates coming in, we’ll be a target-rich environment.”
It was hush-hush, but the sixty associates had agreed to franchise operations. Final discussions and the formal vote was the reason for the meeting. “I will do my best.”
Caroline returned, looking a little pale, and Jackson stood up. “Ready to go home?”
“Home?” She looked confused.
“To your home here, my dear,” Miss Emily said. “Your cottage.”
“Oh… right. Yes. Yes, I’m ready,” Caroline stammered. “Thanks for the tea and the conversation, Miss Emily. You, too, Darby.”
“Our pleasure, my dear.”
As they departed, Mr. Jenkins stood waiting beside the front door. He passed Jackson a white box.
“Thanks.” Jackson said.
With a curt nod, Mr. Jenkins stepped back and opened the door. Its hinges creaked, clearly annoying him. They walked outside, and the door closed behind them.
Speckles stood waiting at the foot of the sidewalk in the circular drive, holding open the carriage door. Jackson passed him the box. “We need to make a pit-stop by the footbridge.”
“What for?”
“Lucas said. Part of the refresher course,” Jackson explained. “Then to Caroline’s cottage.”
“All righty, then.” Speckles tucked the box in the crook of his arm and swallowed, his mouth clearly watering. “Thanks for remembering my cookies.”
Jackson nodded, then climbed inside and took his seat beside Caroline.
She dropped her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Why didn’t you tell him Mr. Jenkins—?“
“Shh!” Jackson shushed her. “Speckles hears that and he’ll squash them under the carriage wheels.”
“Or feed them to Buttercup.” Christine grunted. “I know, I know. It’s best to stay out of the feud.”
Jackson wholeheartedly agreed. “Exactly.”
Chapter 18
At the footbridge, Christine squinted past the hot afternoon sun, up at the bronze statue. “I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it,” she told Jackson, who stood to her left. “It must be eight-feet tall and an arm-span wide.”
“A little over that,” he said. “I guess Darby wanted to be sure no one could miss it.”
“It’s highly unlikely anyone could miss this.” Christine shifted a little so the monument blocked the stark sun, then read the words…
* * *
Life shapes and defines us. When experiences are positive, we embrace them. When they are not, we bury them, shutter, and become whole. But little shuttered remains shuttered. Past secrets surface and torment. We try but fail to break free, and being imprisoned steals our present and future.
Some so tortured seek traditional help, gain new insights and wisdom, and successfully put the past to rest. Some die never realizing their potential, robbed of their destinies and peace. Others cobble together a life, but remain haunted by their pasts and their unrealized dreams.
And still there are others. Those deemed helpless and hopeless, condemned to stumble forever through their darkest night.
These are the lost souls. Abandoned and forgotten by all to remain lost with their misery. Or so it was…but it is no more.
An ordinary woman refused to forget the Lost. Though it cost her mightily, she welcomed them here, met their challenges and her own, and she discovered an extraordinary thing:
Pasts may be horrific. Trials may be incredibly risky and dangerous and outcomes riddled with uncertainties, but with faith all things are possible, and with God no one is ever truly lost, without hope or help, or forgotten.
Embracing that discovery, she became a bridge between the Lost and these truths. That revealed another truth:
We are all someone’s bridge.
And that is the secret of secrets at Sampson Park.
* * *
Christine blew out a long, slow breath. “Beautiful.”
“Gives me chills, every time,” Jackson said.
“Darby did this, talking about Miss Emily, didn’t she?” Christine could almost hear Darby’s voice, as if she were speaking the words chiseled into the bronze’s flat face.
Jackson nodded. “But truthfully, it could have been written by just about everyone here.” He shrugged. “Everybody feels the same way about her.”
Miss Emily had built this Park as a refuge. Her refuge, then opened it to others. “What happened to her, Jackson?”
“I can’t say. You’ll need to ask her, though don’t expect her to tell you. She might, but then again, she might not.”
“Well, whatever she had to endure to dream all this, I know one thing for certain. She’s using her life to make a difference. Her Park has changed lives.” Christine had been here for hours, not days or months, and she was certain she’d never be the same.
“Thousands of lives.” Jackson’s eyes shone overly bright.
He wasn’t kidding about being emotionally moved by the bronze. Of course, only those dead as doornails, wouldn’t be moved. But for someone broken… powerful. Christine sniffed.
“Ready?”
She nodded, still too caught up in her thoughts of standing where Caro had once stood, reading the words she’d read. “How long do most people stay here?”
“As long as they like.” Jackson waited for her to get into the carriage. When he was settled in, he added, “Some stay a couple months. Some stay forever.”
Christine thought about that. Buttercup whinnied, and Speckles made a clicking noise—her signal to go. He headed toward a rise. “Is that where the cottage is?”
“The village,” Jackson said. “There’s a fork in the road ahead. Your cottage is that way.”
“Ah.” Christine relaxed, a little lost in her own thoughts. The absence of computers and modern conveniences like electricity would drive her crazy in a couple days, much less forever. She’d starve to death without take-out and a microwave. And yet there was something special about the stillness here. The quiet. Shutting out the busy-ness and noise of everyday life outside the Park made a person inside it more introspective.
Maybe it wasn’t really that different here. Maybe their thoughts talk to people all the time. Maybe they can’t hear themselves think over the barrage of noise in their lives. Overstimulation could do that.
Here, the noise level dropped. One could hear. Think. Wonder. Christine had thought more about her life in the last few hours than in the last five years. Whether that turned out to be a blessing or a curse remained to seen.
They followed the fork in the road and headed down a row of cottages painted in pastel colors. Speckles halted in front of a pale pink one trimmed in white. A low picket fence surrounded it, and it had a wide front porch with an inviting swing. Its seat was full of soft cushy pillows.
“You planted a lot of flowers,” Jackson said. “I don’t remember them being here before. And I like all those pillows on the swing.”
Christine killed air plants. If not for her service, every green thing in her house would be gasping its last breath or dead. Caro had the green thumb.
Jackson stepped down from the carriage to the ground, then extended his hand. She took it, and stood beside him at the foot of the walk to the porch.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Speckles said.
“It looks like a postcard,” Christine admitted.
Speckles grunted. “It looks like a home.”
She had to agree.
“Thanks for the ride, Speckles.” Jackson nodded.
“Thanks for the cookies.” The old man gave Jackson a toothy grin. Sprinkles of powdered sugar marred his livery jacket and caught the sun.
Speckles had snitched cookies on the way. Christine loved that.
“Ready to go inside?” Jackson asked but didn’t move, clearly leaving the call to her on whether or not she needed more time.
She nodded, only half-holding her breath.
Chapter 19
From first glance, the cottage enchanted Christine.
The front door opened into a living room dominated by a plush sofa and a rocking recliner. Both held lots of little pillows in bright, light colors. The living room abutted an eat-in kitchen with an intimate table for two. Christine walked through, noting the appliances were high end, the stove was gas and the fridge was electric! She smiled. Apparently, Miss Emily had drawn the line on some modern conveniences to make sure residents were able to cook and didn’t starve.
Jackson cracked open the fridge door. “Fully stocked.” He lifted a package of chicken breasts. “Why don’t you explore the rest of the place and I’ll rustle us up some dinner.” He grinned. “I’m sure you’re starved. It’s been a couple hours since you’ve eaten.”
Her stomach growled. “Are you sure you’re not reading my mind, or something? How do you know what I’m thinking and feeling, and that I’m hungry?”
“I can’t explain it,” he admitted. “Hasn’t happened to me before, but I just know.”
Attuned. That pleased and frightened her. Did he just know she wasn’t Caro, too?
She left Jackson in the kitchen. The sounds of banging pots followed her back into the living room and on into a wide hallway. A bath stood tucked into the center of the house, and a large bedroom on the back. It was decorated in soothing colors. Sea green and cream. Caro’s favorites. Touches of her were everywhere. That comforted Christine.
She paused at the window to look outside. Close, in Caro’s yard, more flowers and flowering shrubs, and beyond her lawn, row upon row of something growing… an enormous garden. It had to be a community garden, it stretched far beyond the cottage’s lot lines. Caro probably loved working in it. She’d had a mini-garden at home, and a micro-garden on her balcony in New York.
Looking up, Christine glanced up to the underside of a wide deck. Stairs led down from it to the ground, ending at small stone patio. What was up there?
An unnoticed door opposite the bath snagged her eye. It opened to a narrow staircase. She climbed the stairs. The top landing emptied into a single large room, full of windows all across the back of the cottage. The lighting was fantastic, and the room was filled with canvases and paints. A radio sat on a canvas-draped tabletop. Caro, breaking the rules? The radio was contraband. Lucas would have a fit if he knew it was there.
And Caro had returned to painting.
Shocked, Christine’s jaw dropped loose. So far as she knew, Caro hadn’t touched a brush that wasn’t of the basting variety since marrying Martin. A cluster of six easels stood on the far end, facing the front of the cottage. They were separated in groups of three. Christine moved to examine the canvases placed on them.
The first three paintings were timid, angry, and monotone. The remaining three were stunning landscapes that exploded with color.
A flood of unexpected tears threatened. Caro, Christine realized, was healing.
An easel set apart and unnoticed caught her eye. She moved in front of it, recognized it as a self-portrait, then examined it. Her hair was red, not blonde, and chopped short, more sawed-off than styled. Most interesting was her jaw. Sharp angles and hard planes, it appeared rock-hard. In case the viewer missed that telling sign, she’d accentuated another indicator they couldn’t miss: her raised fist.
Dark and bold letters left her message permanently etched on the bottom right. “Victory.”
Overcome, a sob shuddered through Christine and tears of gratitude slid down her face.
Caro had reclaimed herself, and her life.
Half an hour later, Jackson bellowed. “Caroline, dinner!”
Having had a really good cry, Christine hauled herself out of the lone chair on the upper deck outside Caro’s studio. She locked the sliding door behind her and headed down the stairs, stopping at the bathroom to splash her face.
She drenched her cheeks with cool water at the sink, then blotted her face dry. Her eyes were a little red and her skin splotchy, but not too bad.
“Caroline!”
“Coming.” She finished up and then went to the kitchen.
On seeing the table set, she gasped. “You’re kidding me.”
“Pour the wine,” Jackson said, still at the stove.
He’d found a frilly apron and put it on over his black t-shirt and jeans. Took a confident man to pull off wearing a frilly apron. She smiled and filled two glasses. “Anything else?”
“No, we’re ready.” He filled their plates, then brought them to the table.
The spicy smells awakened her senses. “Mmm, glazed chicken, fire-roasted tomatoes, shaved petite squash and porcini mushrooms.” She identified the items. “You did all this while I was upstairs? Wow, Jackson. It looks terrific and smells even better.”
He flushed. “It’s no big deal. I’m a chef, remember?”
“Maybe not to you, but I can’t cook. It’s huge to me.” She sat down and they began to eat. From the first forkful she had to resist the urge to mumble, “I’m in love.”
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Terrific.” She motioned with the tines of her fork. “I love these mushrooms.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“Do you bake, too? If so,” she grinned, “I love brownies.”
He laughed. “I’ll note that, too.”
The implication he’d cook for her again had her ecstatic. “Any time you need a taste tester, I’m up for the job, Jackson.” She smiled. “You’re very good.”
“Rose paused her college education to send me to chef’s school,” he said, as if that explained in all. “That’s what we always called it.”
“You wanted her to never regret it.”
“Honestly, I wanted her to be proud of me.” He lifted a shoulder. “Rose hates to cook. Matthew spares her most of the time, unless he’s frosted about something.”
“I don’t like it, either.”
“Darby said you cook all the time.”
Caro. Not her. Caro did that. “Only when I’m seriously stressed. Otherwise, I hate it.”
“I see.” Jackson grinned, keeping it light. “I’ll remember. If I ever see you reaching for a pot or pan, I’ll know you reaching your limit is on the near horizon.”
