Three days later, with the evening orchestra of crickets and cicadas around her, Sandra May sat on the porch of their house. . . . No, her house. It was so strange to think of it that way. No longer their cars, their furniture, their china. Hers alone now.
Her desk, her company.
She rocked back and forth in the swing, which she'd installed a year ago, screwing the heavy hooks into the ceiling joists herself. She looked out over the acres of trim grass, boarded by loblolly and hemlock. Pine Creek, population sixteen hundred, had trailers and bungalows, shotgun apartment buildings and a couple of modest subdivisions but only a dozen or so houses like this—modern, glassy, huge. If the Georgia-Pacific had run through town, then the pristine development where Jim and Sandra May DuMont had settled would have defined which was the right side of the tracks.
She sipped her iced tea and smoothed her denim jumper. Watched the yellow flares from a half dozen early fireflies.
I think he's the one can help us, Mama, she thought.
Appearing from the sky . . .
Bill Ralston had been coming to the company every day since she'd met with him. He'd thrown himself into the job of saving DuMont Products Inc. When she'd left the office tonight at six he was still there, had been working since early morning, reading through the company's records and Jim's correspondence and diary. He'd called her at home a half hour ago, telling her he'd found some things she ought to know.
"Come on over," she'd told him.
"Be right there," he said. She gave him directions.
Now, as he parked in front of the house, she noticed shadows appear in the bay windows of houses across the street. Her neighbors, Beth and Sally, checking out the activity.
So, the widow's got a man friend come a-calling . . .
She heard the crunching on the gravel before she could see Ralston approach through the dusk.
"Hey," she said.
"You all really do say that down here," he said. " 'Hey' "
"You bet. Only it's 'y'all.' Not you all.' "
"Stand corrected, ma'am."
"You Yankees."
Ralston sat down on the swing. He'd Southernized himself. Tonight he wore jeans and a work shirt. And, my Lord, boots. He looked like one of the boys at a roadside tap, escaping from the wife for the night to drink beer with his buddies and to flirt with girls pretty and playful as Loretta.
"Brought some wine," he said.
"Well. How 'bout that."
"I love your accent," he said.
"Hold on—you're the one with an accent."
In a thick mafioso drawl: "Yo, forgeddaboutit. I don't got no accent." They laughed. He pointed to the horizon. "Look at that moon."
"No cities around here, no lights. You can see the stars clear as your conscience."
He poured some wine. He'd brought paper cups and a corkscrew.
"Oh, hey, slow up there." Sandra May held up a hand. "I haven't had much to drink since . . . Well, after the accident I decided it'd be better if I kept a pretty tight rein on things."
"Just drink what you want," he assured her. "We'll water the geranium with the rest."
"That's a bougainvillea."
"Oh, I'm a city boy, remember." He tapped her cup with his. Drank some wine. In a soft voice he said, "It must've been really rough. About Jim, I mean."
She nodded, said nothing.
"Here's to better times."
"Better times," she said. They toasted and drank some more.
"Okay, I better tell you what I've found."
Sandra May took a deep breath then another sip of wine. "Go ahead."
"Your husband . . . well, to be honest with you? He was hiding money."
"Hiding?"
"Well, maybe that's too strong a word. Let's say putting it in places that'd be damn hard to trace. It looks like he was taking some of the profits from the company for the last couple of years and bought shares in some foreign corporations. . . . He never mentioned it to you?"
"No. I wouldn't have approved. Foreign companies? I don't even hold much with theU.S.stock market. I think people ought to keep their money in the bank. Or better yet under the bed. That was my mother's philosophy. She called it the First National Bank of Posturepedic."
He laughed. Sandra May finished her wine. Ralston poured her some more.
"How much money was there?" she asked him.
"Two hundred thousand and some change."
She blinked. "Lord, I sure could use it. And soon. Is there any way to get it?"
"I think so. But he was real cagey, your husband."
"Cagey?" she drew the word out.
"He wanted to hide those assets bad. It'd be a lot easier to find if I knew why he did it."
"I don't have a clue." She lifted her hand and let it fall onto her solid thigh. "Maybe it's retirement money."
But Ralston was smiling.
"I say something silly?"
"A four-oh-one K is where you put retirement money. The Cayman Islands isn't."
"Is it illegal, what Jim did?"
"Not necessarily. But it might be." He emptied his cup. "You want me to keep going?"
"Yes," Sandra May said firmly. "Whatever it takes, whatever you find. I have to get that cash."
"Then I'll do it. But it's going to be complicated, real complicated. We'll have to file suits in Delaware, New York and the Cayman Islands. Can you be away from here for months at a time?"
A pause. "I could be. But I don't want to. This's my home."
"Well, you could give me power of attorney to handle it. But you don't know me that well."
"Let me think on that." Sandra May took the barrette out of her hair, let the blond strands fall free. She leaned her head back, looking up at the sky, the stars, the captivating moon, which was nearly full. She realized that she wasn't resting against the back of the porch swing at all but against Ralston's shoulder. She didn't move away.
Then the stars and the moon were gone, replaced by the darkness of his silhouette, and he was kissing her, his hand cradling the back of her head, then her neck, then sliding around to the front of her jumper and undoing the buttons that held the shoulder straps. She kissed him back, hard.
His hand moved up to her throat and undid the top button of her blouse, which she wore fastened—the way, her mother told her, proper ladies should always do.
(to be continued)
Read by Alice Ren
