Lisa Jackson - Secrets and Lies

Rachelle couldn’t stand to see her mother’s pain any longer. Nor could she listen as Jackson’s character was destroyed even further. She left the kitchen and slammed the door of her room behind her. But she felt sick as she flopped on her twin bed and stared across the room to her sister’s empty bunk. She flipped on the radio and tried to get lost in the music of Billy Joel, but through the thin walls of the cottage, she could still hear her mother softly crying.

God, please help us all. And be with Jackson. Oh, Jackson, I wish I could see you… .

Rachelle squeezed her eyes shut. She refused to break down and sob, but tears slid down her cheeks and she had to bite her lower lip to keep the moans of despair within her lungs. She wouldn’t let her mother or anyone else in town see how much she hurt inside. She would abide the stares, the whispers, the pointed fingers and the knowing snickers, because she knew that she and Jackson had shared something wonderful, something special.

Let the gossip-mongering citizens of Gold Creek make it dirty. Let the damned Clarion, the newspaper where she had worked two afternoons a week and from which she had been fired, tear her reputation to shreds. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she and Jackson would never let go of the unique bond that held them together.

Was it love? Probably not. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. But someday, if things worked out, and the circumstances were right, if given the chance, she and Jackson could fall in love. In time. And together she and Jackson would show everyone that what they’d shared was beautiful. He’d prove his innocence, the town would forgive him and everything would work out.

It had to.

BOOK TWO

Gold Creek, California

The Present

CHAPTER FIVE

RACHELLE SHIFTED DOWN and her compact Ford responded, slowing as she took the winding curves of the road near the lake. From the wicker carrier propped on the back seat, her cat growled a protest.

“We’re just about there,” Rachelle said, as if Java could understand. But how could he?

More than once Rachelle herself had questioned the wisdom of this, her journey back home. She told herself it was necessary, that in order for her to be happy as David’s wife, she would have to resolve some problems that were firmly rooted in Gold Creek.

But now as she approached the lake where all the pain had started, her skin began to rise in goose bumps and she wished she were still asleep in her walk-up overlooking San Francisco Bay.

She shivered a little. The summer morning was dark, the last stars beginning to fade. Her headlights threw a double beam onto the rutted road and she flipped on the radio. Bette Midler’s voice, strong and clear, filled the small car’s interior and the words of “The Rose” seemed to echo through Rachelle’s heart.

She flipped to another channel quickly, before the words hit home. She’d heard the song often in the days after Jackson’s arrest—the days when she, along with he, had been branded by the town. The lyrics had seemed written for them and the lonely melody had only reminded her that aside from her family, only Carlie had stood by her.

Carlie.

Where was she now? They hadn’t spoken in three or four years. The last time Rachelle had heard from her, she’d received a Christmas card, two weeks into January and postmarked Alaska. Most of the other kids had stayed in Gold Creek. A few had moved on, but the new generation of Fitzpatricks, Monroes and Powells had stayed. Even Laura Chandler, the girl who had never once spoken to Rachelle since the night of Roy’s death, had married into the Fitzpatrick money by becoming Brian Fitzpatrick’s bride.

The soft-rock music drifting out of the speakers was better. No memories of Jackson in a Wilson Phillips song.

She parked her car near the bait-and-tackle shop on the south side of the lake and knew in her heart that she’d come back to Gold Creek because of Jackson, to purge him from her life, so that she could start over and begin a new life with David.

The thought of David caused a pucker to form between her eyebrows. She told herself that she loved him, that passion wasn’t a necessary part of life and that romance was a silly notion she’d given up long ago.

David sent her flowers on all the right days—straight from the florist’s shop each birthday and Valentine’s Day. He took her to candlelight dinners when he deemed it appropriate and he always complimented her on a new outfit.

A stockbroker who owned his own house in the city and drove a flashy imported car and knew how to program a computer. Perfect husband material, right? What did it matter if he didn’t want a baby or that his lips curved into a slight frown whenever he caught her in a pair of worn jeans?

She shoved her hands into her pockets. Though the lake was still thick with mist, several boats were already heading into the calm waters, and fishermen were hurrying in and out of the old bait shop. Built in the twenties, it was a rambling frame structure that still had the original gas pumps mounted in front of the store. A bell tinkled over the threshold as customers came and went and the wooden steps were weathered and beaten. Rusted metal signs for Nehi soda and Camel cigarettes had never been taken down, though the lettering was faded, the paint peeling.

“Like stepping back in time,” she told herself as she followed a trail past the store and into the woods. From this side of the lake, once the haze had disappeared, she would be able to look to the north shore, where the estates of the wealthy still existed. The Monroe home and Fitzpatrick “cottage” would soon be visible.

Rachelle wasn’t superstitious. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Nor Indian lore. Nor psychics, for that matter. She’d never had her palm read in her life and she wasn’t about to have her chart done to find out about herself.

And yet here she was, standing on the shores of Whitefire Lake, the source of all sorts of legends and scandals and ghosts that were as much a part of the town of Gold Creek, California, as the Rexall Drug Store that stood on the corner of Main and Pine.

Hopefully she’d find answers about herself as well as this town in the next few weeks. And when she returned to San Francisco, she’d be ready to settle down and become Mrs. David L. Gaskill. Her palms felt suddenly sweaty at the thought.

And what about Jackson?

Jackson. Always Jackson. She doubted that there would ever be a time when she would hear his name and her heart wouldn’t jump start. Silly girl.

Rachelle tossed a stone into the lake. The first fingers of light crept across the lake’s still surface and mist began to rise from the water. Like pale ghosts, the bodies of steam collected, obscuring the view of the forests of the far shore.

Just like the legend, Rachelle thought with a wry smile. Impulsively she knelt on the mossy bank, cupped her hands and scooped from the cool water. Feeling a little foolish, she let the liquid slide down her throat, then let the rest of the water run through her fingers. She smiled at her actions and wiped the drops from her chin. Drying her hands on her jeans, she noticed, in the dark depths of the lake, a flash of silver, the turning of a trout, the scales on its belly glimmering and unprotected, as the fish darted from her shadow.

She felt a sudden chill, like winter’s breath against the back of her neck, and the hairs at her nape stood. She knew she was being silly, that the old Indian legend was pure folly, but when she looked up, her gaze following an overgrown path that rimmed the water, she saw, in her mind’s eye, a figure in the haze, the shape of a man standing not twenty feet from her.

Too easily, she could bring Jackson Moore to mind. She imagined him as she’d last seen him: dressed in a scraped leather jacket, battered jeans and cowboy boots with the heels worn down; his thumb had been hooked as he started toward the main highway. The look he’d sent her over his shoulder still pulled at her heartstrings.