Дэвид Балдаччи - The Guilty

In their place had been planted longleaf pines that could tolerate drier conditions and were a native species. They ran in columns eighty feet high on both sides of the pebbled drive that curved in several stretches before straightening as one approached the house.

THE WILLOWS.

Robie saw that name on the mailbox.

And then below that the name ROBIE was painted in neat white letters. He could envision his perfectionist father painting every one of them using a ruler to get the spacing exactly right.

He turned his rental down the drive bracketed by the majestic longleaf pines that had canopies enormous enough to block out the sun.

As he turned into the straightaway he could see it.

Willow Hall was a majestic antebellum mansion built when James Monroe was president of the United States. Six columns supported the high, long front porch as well as the upper porch. That same architectural feature ran down both sides of the manor and also on the back verandah. Chimney brick stacks rose from the slate roof, and black shutters bracketed the five front windows, three up and two down with the lower ones on either side of the front door.

Parked in the circle in front of the mansion was a dark blue late-model Volvo station wagon with a booster seat in the back.

Robie stopped his car and climbed out.

A few moments later a woman about Robie’s age rushed out of the house, a small boy on her right hip. She wore high heels and nearly tripped going down the plank front steps before regaining her balance. She was tall, and though probably normally lean, still carried some of the baby weight in her torso. Her swirl of blonde hair just touched her clavicle. She had sunglasses on and a large bag slung over her left shoulder. She fumbled in the bag for her car keys.

“You need some help?” he asked.

She froze and looked over at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

She had found her keys and he could see that she gripped them so that one was protruding between her fingers, as a weapon. His father had probably taught her that, because he had showed Robie how to do the very same thing.

Her speech and lack of an accent told him that she was not native to Cantrell, and probably not even Mississippi.

He looked over her shoulder at the house. “This place brings back memories.”

“Why?”

“I dated a girl who lived here once. Laura Barksdale.”

She used her free hand to nudge her sunglasses down a bit to get a better look at him.

Robie was not as tall as his father, but the two did resemble each other. Everyone had always said the son took after the father.

His personality more closely tracked his mother. At least he thought so.

“Who are you?” she said again, but Robie could tell in her look that she had noticed the resemblance to his father.

“Will Robie,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Well, I guess technically I’m your stepmother, Victoria.”

Robie took a step forward and looked at the child who hadn’t said a word, but was staring at Robie with one of his fingers in his mouth. As he gazed at the boy Robie saw features that were very familiar. He saw his father. He saw himself. And he also saw some of the woman in the little face.

“Yours?” he asked, indicating the child, though he thought the answer plain enough.

“Yes, and your father’s, which means he’s your stepbrother.”

“ Technically, ” added Robie. “How old is he?”

“Ty is two, but he’ll turn three in just a couple of months.”

Robie stiffened a bit. “Ty?”

“His full name is Tyler. But we call him Ty.”

Robie flinched again. Tyler was his middle name.

She noted this apparently, because she said, “Will Tyler Robie. That’s your full name.”

“Did my father tell you that?”

She suddenly looked uncertain. “No... I saw it somewhere.”

So Dad never talked about me. Robie was not surprised by this. But he named his son Tyler.

It wasn’t a family name. His mother, he’d learned, had named him Will, after her beloved uncle. But Robie’s father had selected the middle name. He told his son it was the name of a man he’d served with in Vietnam. He said he’d been the toughest sonofabitch he’d ever known. He later told his son he wanted him to be just as tough. Robie had obviously failed at that. At least in his father’s eyes.

“We didn’t know you were coming here,” she said, interrupting Robie’s thoughts.

“That’s because I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You know about your father, then?”

“I went over to the jail and waited. Apparently, he didn’t want to see me. Is that where you’re going? The jail?”

“I’ve already been this morning. I’m taking Tyler to the doctor and I’m running late.” She looked uncertain again. “You look like your father, but can I see something to prove you are who you say?”

He took out his driver’s license and showed it to her.

He said, “My dad has a scar on his back. Shrapnel wound from Vietnam. It’s in the shape of a backwards J. He has one gold tooth in the back, bottom row. And he’d take two fingers of Glenlivet over a beer any day.”

She smiled. “He got the scar fixed with plastic surgery and the gold tooth with a synthetic implant. But he’d still take the scotch over the beer.”

“Good to know.”

Victoria glanced over her shoulder. “Look, you’re welcome to stay here until I get back. Priscilla is our housekeeper. She can see to you if you’re hungry or anything.”

“That’s okay. I would like to take a look around. I have someplace to be at five, but after that I’d like to meet with you if that’s okay.”

“Where have you been all this time, Will?” she blurted out.

He didn’t answer right away. “Living my life.”

She looked down at the pebbled drive. “I guess you’re surprised he has a wife and young child.”

“No, not really. He was obviously living his life, too.”

“He never said what happened between you two.”

“I would imagine not. He’s a private person.”

“I have to go, but I’ll call Priscilla from the car and let her know you’ll be around. And after your five o’clock thing, why don’t you come back here for dinner?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I never do anything I don’t want to do, you’ll see that about me soon enough. Say seven thirty? I’m not from around here, but I can cook a damn good southern meal if I choose to.”

Robie nodded. “Okay, I’ll see you then.” He looked at Tyler. “You said you’re taking him to the doctor. Is he okay? He doesn’t look sick.”

“Ty has some... challenges,” she said, gently pressing down a cowlick on the boy’s head and giving the spot a kiss. Then she strapped her son in the booster, climbed into the driver’s seat, and kicked up some pebbles as she sped off.

Robie watched them go for a bit and then walked the grounds of the Willows. He remembered the place as being meticulously maintained, because the Barksdales had come from money and Henry Barksdale had worked hard at maintaining his ancestral home.

Robie’s father had obviously kept the grounds in excellent condition. A few features had been added, like a swimming pool, a stone pavilion, and a fenced-in kitchen garden.

Whether the Barksdales had done this after Robie left Cantrell, or his father had, or some owner in between, he didn’t know. He still couldn’t understand how his father had come to own such a place. Even in Cantrell, where the cost of land and living were preposterously low, this place would not come cheap to own or maintain.

He stood at a spot near a stacked rock wall at the rear of the property. He took in a lungful of air, and the briny smells from the nearby Gulf filled his nostrils. Growing up here he hadn’t thought there was any other kind of air.