A rickety wooden gate opened into a small graveyard where Clate would sometimes hide from his father when he was in a violent, drunken rage. Irma had taken him out once to show him where she would be laid to rest, in a shaded plot between her husband, who'd died in World War II before they'd had any children, and her parents. The visit had been one of her ways of impressing upon her recalcitrant, angry student that life was short and death certain, and he'd best make good use of his time and talents. Irma Bryar had always operated more on gut instinct and example than whatever educational theory was currently in vogue during her long life and career. She did whatever she thought was right, and whatever she thought might work.
Her grave was covered with fresh dirt, flowers all around, wilting in the strong afternoon sun. Clate could feel the sweat dripping down his temples, matting his shirt to his back. He keenly remembered Irma's disappointment in him when he'd left town before graduating, a disappointment coupled, not incongruously in her own mind, with an uncompromising faith in him. His mother had just died. His father had been too drunk to come to her funeral. There was nothing to keep Clate home. He had no money. Eventually he'd earned his G.E.D. and gone on to college. He seldom returned home. Irma put him on the mailing list for her church newsletter and issued an open invitation for him to stop by her house and have iced tea with her on her porch.
He hadn't often enough, and now it was too late.
Wild daisies swayed in the hot breeze over in the small, oak-shaded field that would, in time, provide ground for more graves. Clate walked into the tall grass and picked a handful, their long stems turning his palms green. Bugs that he'd barely have noticed as a kid found him, buzzing in his ears, lighting on his neck, his hair. Ignoring them, he ducked under the low branch of a huge old oak and made his way without thinking, without feeling, to his mother's grave.
He used to pick wildflowers for her as a small boy, and he could remember, even now, the sense of urgency he'd felt as he scooped up handfuls of daisies, black-eyed Susans, dandelions. He'd wanted to make her happy. It wasn't until years later, long after he'd buried her, after he'd become a wunderkind of Nashville business, that he understood his mother had spent her short life trying to fill an abyss that couldn't be filled, that his flowers were just one more thing that had gone into the void. She couldn't be happy; she wouldn't. There was nothing he or anyone could do.
"Peace to you, Mama," he whispered, still feeling a stab of that desperate five-year-old who'd wanted, needed, the reassurance that Lucinda Jackson was happy. She'd been just thirty-two when she'd died. Younger than he was now.
He left her the daisies, went back to Irma Bryar's grave for a final good-bye, then headed out through the gate, across the churchyard, and back into his car.
He didn't breathe again until he was out of the church parking lot and onto the main road.
But he couldn't stop himself from glancing in his rearview mirror.
A man in his early fifties stood at the edge of the graveyard, watching the expensive car head out of town. Clate didn't stop, didn't even slow down, although he knew the man was his father.
Clate Jackson didn't stay in Nashville for four days as he'd estimated. He stayed for three. This Piper knew because she and Hannah were standing out on his terrace when he returned, discussing the night her parents had been lured to their deaths.
Alone, Piper could have scooted back to her property before he was any the wiser, but with her elderly aunt at her side, there'd be no escaping. They had heard an engine out front, assumed it was Tuck, then heard a curse from the kitchen. Now there were sounds of locks being unlocked, the back door banging open. Piper deliberately kept her back to the commotion because to have looked around would have indicated she was aware she was doing something wrong.
"Just let me do the talking," she said in a low voice to her aunt, still absorbed in memories of mooncussers who would deliberately lure boats onto sandbars and treasure and paying no attention to the man who'd bought her house. She had insisted his No Trespassing signs didn't apply to her. "Do not mention buried treasure."
A shadow fell over them. "I see you've yet to learn the difference between mine and thine."
Piper knew he was addressing her, not Hannah. She could tell by his tone, a husky mix of drawl and fatigue that somehow made her feel warm, despite the persistent drizzle and the cool breeze off the water. Hannah glanced back at the man she believed she'd summoned north, then raised her eyebrows at Piper and smiled with satisfaction. Obviously Clate had passed muster, not that Hannah had had any doubts he wouldn't.
"Oh, hello." Piper gave her hair a flip, a transparent attempt to look unchagrined. "I didn't realize you were back."
"I take it you only trespass when you think no one's around."
"Be dumb to try it when I knew you were home."
Even so, she'd tried to persuade Hannah of the folly of venturing onto posted land. What if Clate had asked the police to swing by his place from time to time while he was gone? After the Stan Carlucci incident, it wouldn't be in her best interests to get caught trespassing. But after two days of Piper dragging her heels, her aunt's patience was worn thin. She wanted her treasure. She was convinced of the accuracy of her restored memory.
Piper kept her tone light, as if she didn't believe she'd done a thing wrong. "You haven't met my aunt yet, have you? Hannah, this is Clate Jackson. Clate, my aunt, Hannah Frye."