Willow. Those days we had, the picnic on the boat, those nights, were so special, the memory of them was enough to sustain me until you returned. I thought we'd have a champagne toast to celebrate your coming back, back to me."
I tilted my head.
"Maybe you really are Kirby Scott's son.
Thatcher,"
His smile wilted.
"I mean what I say. Willow. Kirby Scott came here and used words like a magician uses the turns of his hand to distract and confuse and betray," he said sternly. "That's not my intent or purpose."
He looked indignant, hurt, and insulted, Maybe I was being too harsh, I thought.
"In a strangely ironic twist of fate, if what you have been told is true, you and Linden could very well share a similar anger at the world and fate," I suggested,
He considered the idea for a moment and
calmed,
"Yes, perhaps so. I never think of things from his point of view exactly. I guess I should.'
I quickly told him about my conversation with Leo Ross and his references to Kirby Scott, especially his belief that Kirby had introduced Thatcher's parents to the idea of renting my mother's property.
"I don't know. I can't recall any mention of him in that regard, but it might be true. I'll have to ask my father and mother. However. I think I would agree with you that if it is true, he had other than altruistic motives. What a piece of work he was."
"You realize that from what you've been told, you might be talking about the man who is your father. Thatcher.'
He smirked and shook his head.
"If my legal experiences have taught me anything these last few years. Willow, it's that it takes more than blood to bond people. I've represented fathers against sons, sons against fathers, brothers and sisters against each other. everything. I hate to think I might share anything with such a person, even a single corpuscle...
"What are you going to do? How are you going to get to the truth. Thatcher? You can't live in limbo with this, and we can't let it hover over our heads like ominous storm clouds forever."
"I know. I know." he said. squeezing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger as though it all gave him a constant headache. I did feel sorry for him.
Are you going to have a blood test or
something like that?" I asked.
"I'd have to tell my father everything. How can I do that?" he practically cried. "How can I be the one to tell him that my mother was once unfaithful? Even if it was only once." he muttered as far under his breath as he could, realizing that the couple at the nearest table had turned our way.
He looked desperate, distraught. defeated.
"I feel like I'm boxed in, and that is not something I have experienced much in my life."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to make sense out of it all. Thatcher," I assured him, and put my hand out to touch his.
Here I was again, finding myself in the role of cheerleader, with all my heavy baggage to carry.
Daddy once told me it was sometimes a blessing to have other people's problems on your mind— it kept you from fretting too much about your own. Solving someone else's difficulties often brings more pleasure than solving your own. Still. I felt a little bit like the patient telling the doctor he would be fine. Thatcher was the man of action here, the person with all the resources at his beck and call. Who was I to advise him or predict anything?
He leaned toward me to whisper. "I'm tracking him down." he revealed. "You are?"
"Yes. The day of reckoning will come soon." he promised. his eyes sharp with fury.
"How can you ever be sure that such a man will utter a single syllable of truth when you confront him?"
"I've had some pretty tough witnesses to cross-
examine in court. Willow. I'll get the truth," he bragged.
I stared at him, admiring his self-confidence. A successful person had to have a little more confidence than other people. a little more ego, too. perhaps.
When would I have it? Would I ever?
"But let's drop all this. I should have insisted we pretend we've
I tilted my head.
"Maybe you really are Kirby Scott's son.
Thatcher,"
His smile wilted.
"I mean what I say. Willow. Kirby Scott came here and used words like a magician uses the turns of his hand to distract and confuse and betray," he said sternly. "That's not my intent or purpose."
He looked indignant, hurt, and insulted, Maybe I was being too harsh, I thought.
"In a strangely ironic twist of fate, if what you have been told is true, you and Linden could very well share a similar anger at the world and fate," I suggested,
He considered the idea for a moment and
calmed,
"Yes, perhaps so. I never think of things from his point of view exactly. I guess I should.'
I quickly told him about my conversation with Leo Ross and his references to Kirby Scott, especially his belief that Kirby had introduced Thatcher's parents to the idea of renting my mother's property.
"I don't know. I can't recall any mention of him in that regard, but it might be true. I'll have to ask my father and mother. However. I think I would agree with you that if it is true, he had other than altruistic motives. What a piece of work he was."
"You realize that from what you've been told, you might be talking about the man who is your father. Thatcher.'
He smirked and shook his head.
"If my legal experiences have taught me anything these last few years. Willow, it's that it takes more than blood to bond people. I've represented fathers against sons, sons against fathers, brothers and sisters against each other. everything. I hate to think I might share anything with such a person, even a single corpuscle...
"What are you going to do? How are you going to get to the truth. Thatcher? You can't live in limbo with this, and we can't let it hover over our heads like ominous storm clouds forever."
"I know. I know." he said. squeezing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger as though it all gave him a constant headache. I did feel sorry for him.
Are you going to have a blood test or
something like that?" I asked.
"I'd have to tell my father everything. How can I do that?" he practically cried. "How can I be the one to tell him that my mother was once unfaithful? Even if it was only once." he muttered as far under his breath as he could, realizing that the couple at the nearest table had turned our way.
He looked desperate, distraught. defeated.
"I feel like I'm boxed in, and that is not something I have experienced much in my life."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to make sense out of it all. Thatcher," I assured him, and put my hand out to touch his.
Here I was again, finding myself in the role of cheerleader, with all my heavy baggage to carry.
Daddy once told me it was sometimes a blessing to have other people's problems on your mind— it kept you from fretting too much about your own. Solving someone else's difficulties often brings more pleasure than solving your own. Still. I felt a little bit like the patient telling the doctor he would be fine. Thatcher was the man of action here, the person with all the resources at his beck and call. Who was I to advise him or predict anything?
He leaned toward me to whisper. "I'm tracking him down." he revealed. "You are?"
"Yes. The day of reckoning will come soon." he promised. his eyes sharp with fury.
"How can you ever be sure that such a man will utter a single syllable of truth when you confront him?"
"I've had some pretty tough witnesses to cross-
examine in court. Willow. I'll get the truth," he bragged.
I stared at him, admiring his self-confidence. A successful person had to have a little more confidence than other people. a little more ego, too. perhaps.
When would I have it? Would I ever?
"But let's drop all this. I should have insisted we pretend we've
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