My Brother's Crown (4 page)

“Looks good,” I said.

“It does indeed,” Nana replied, her eyes glowing. “Your grandfather would have been so pleased.”

Though early details were sketchy, the pamphlet had ostensibly been created by one of our forebears or at least someone close to them and then passed down through the Talbot family, father to eldest son, for something like eleven generations over a span of more than three hundred years. It had become the property of my grandfather upon the death of his father back in the 1950s, but from the moment Granddad inherited it, he let it be known that the pattern would be broken upon his death. Rather than pass it down to my Uncle Finley, the eldest of his three sons and the father of my cousin Danielle, Granddad announced that he would be donating it to a museum instead. He felt that the time had come for the pamphlet to belong not just to one person at a time but to the whole world.

Uncle Finley agreed with the decision, and together he and Granddad chose the most appropriate recipient, the National Museum of American History, which was part of the Smithsonian in Washington, DC. Now the time had finally come to add the pamphlet to their collection.

In three days, at a Saturday ceremony during our annual Talbot family reunion, this priceless document was going to be handed over to the museum as a gift from the descendants of Emmanuel Talbot, the first of our male ancestors to come to America in 1704.

“What do you think, dear?” Nana asked. “Does it seem to have maintained its integrity since the last time you saw it?”

Before answering that question, I took a closer look, eyeing the front and back and then carefully opening it just a bit to turn the pages one by one till I reached the end. Its few small flaws had been there
before, and otherwise it looked great, exactly the same as when it was authenticated and locked away in this vault four years ago.

“Seems fine. There's no degradation that I can tell. Between our custom, state-of-the-art casing and the controlled atmosphere of the storage vault, it looks like it's held up really well.”

“I never doubted that it would.”

Finished with it for now, I returned the pamphlet to its casing and sealed it shut, and then we were on our way.

We found Blake standing not far from the wall of double-locked boxes, his stance wide and his hands clasped behind his back. Looking at him now, I supposed he was quite handsome.
If
you went for that type.

“Ready to go?” he asked, flashing us an absurdly perfect smile.

“Not so fast,” I said, for some reason feeling a surge of irritation. Who knew what kind of damage this behemoth's ignorant carelessness might wreak on our priceless but incredibly fragile treasure? Maybe he could protect it from being stolen, but that still didn't mean we could just toss it in the car and take off. There was the temperature problem, for starters, which I'd just begun to explain when he cut me off.

“Yes, ma'am. While you ladies were in the viewing room, I brought the car around and have it cooling to exactly sixty-four degrees. According to the portable hygrothermograph I brought along, the humidity's running about thirty-nine percent, which is slightly higher than optimum but shouldn't prevent us from moving forward, considering that we'll be at the house in under an hour even with traffic. As for the UV issue, I assume that's taken care of by the case itself, correct?”

I nodded, feeling simultaneously impressed and even more irritated than before. I was glad he was prepared to take care of the temperature issue, but did he have to be so smarmy about it?

“Have I forgotten anything, Dr. Talbot?”

I hesitated, almost wishing he had so I could bring him down a notch. “Just tact,” I heard myself say, once again startled by my boldness. Never one to be snarky with strangers, I couldn't imagine where this was coming from.

Nana shot me a look of disapproval.

“Kidding,” I said, though I hadn't been, not really. I met Blake's eyes, which held a look not of offense but amusement. He maintained my gaze until I looked away, realizing maybe I was the one with the more egregious behavior this time.

“Would you like to carry it?” I asked in a nicer voice, hoping to bury the hatchet.

He shook his head. “Actually, if it's safe to turn it vertically for a few minutes, I'd rather you put it in your bag till we get to the car. Hide it in plain sight, so to speak.”

“Sure, whatever you think is best,” I replied, glad my transformation into a professional-looking businesswoman had included trading out the small, raggedy purse I usually carted around for this elegant and roomy leather satchel.

We headed out after that, reaching Nana's Mercedes without any problem. And though I wouldn't be riding along with them, I climbed into the back so I could hand over the case in a less visible way. From there I watched as Blake helped Nana into the front, his strong hands surprisingly gentle as he supported her by the arm. It wasn't until she was in and the door was closed and he was moving past my window that the bottom flap of his suit jacket flipped back for a moment to reveal a startling surprise. At his hip was a black leather holster containing a gun. My stomach dropped as an old, familiar image filled my mind.

The body, just lying there on the cot.

The knife, buried in the chest, nearly to the hilt.

The blood, pooled on the ground below in circles of deep maroon.

I may have been only nine at the time, but even now, at twenty-eight, I still had a distinct aversion to all kinds of weapons—knives mostly, but guns and other types too—and likely always would. At the moment, just the sight of a firearm in such close proximity made me queasy.

“Can I give you a ride to your car?” Blake asked, startling me as he slid onto the driver's seat. I hadn't even realized he'd gone around to the other side or that he'd opened the door.

“No,” I said, too quickly. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my
pounding heart as I added, “Thanks, but no need. I'm parked just a few blocks over.”

He eyed me strangely. “How about driving together? Did you want to follow us?”

“No, I'm good. I… I'll meet you there.”

Flustered, I reached for the door handle and was about to give it a pull when he asked me if I was forgetting something. I turned and stared at him blankly.

“The document?” he prodded, a slight smile on his lips but a hint of concern in his eyes.

“Oh. Right.” I could feel my face burning as I fumbled with the latch on my bag, got it open, and pulled out the case.

“Here,” I said, holding it toward him until he took it from me. “See you at the house.”

Then I gave Nana's shoulder a quick squeeze, got out, and walked away as fast as my legs would carry me.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Renee

N
eeding time to think, I decided to drive the local roads northwest to Nana's rather than hop on I-64. That way I could ease more gradually into the inevitable, into what was really bothering me.

And I knew exactly why the sight of that gun had nearly generated a panic attack. It was because things were already heightened for me thanks to the knowledge of what I had to face next, what I always had to face when I came here: that first look at the “Dark Woods,” as my cousins and I called it, where the long-ago “Incident” happened. Located next to my grandparents' house, the woods' proximity made it an inevitable part of coming here, a tangible presence and constant reminder of a trauma we'd rather forget altogether.

But the woods wouldn't let us forget. What happened had happened there, and as long as we wanted to visit our loved ones who lived in the house next to it, there was nothing we could do about that.

At least the woods and the estate were separated somewhat by a wide and impassible drainage gulley. Then again, all it took to get there was to walk toward the rear of the property and look for the wooden footbridge near the tennis court. That was how we'd always gone exploring
as kids every year—my three cousins and I—over the footbridge and into the woods and all the way along the winding path to the old hunting cabin, where we loved to play house and pretend we were pioneers.

Not that we ever did it again, of course, not after it happened. Didn't go there, rarely talked about it with anyone else, didn't even like to look that direction, but there was no escaping its presence. Though the terrain in this part of Virginia was flat, in our minds the Dark Woods loomed large in the distance, like an avalanche about to give, or Mt. Vesuvius churning near Pompeii.

My cousins and I had not been victims of a crime back then, but we had been witnesses to one within the very cabin where we'd always gone to play. Ever since, for me, the challenge when returning here was in facing the initial sight of those woods, yet again, without letting the memories it awakened completely unnerve me. What other choice did I have, really? I couldn't stay away from my grandparents, nor from the annual Talbot reunion, which was always held here. And at least it had become a little easier with each visit—correction, with each visit that didn't include having a gun suddenly appear mere inches from my face.

I just needed to pull it together, put things back in perspective, and remind myself that what happened was a long, long time ago. There was much to do before tomorrow night, when the first families would begin to arrive for the reunion, and I was responsible for an important part of it this year. Surely I could find within myself the calm and reason that permeated every other area of my life except this one.

I turned up the radio, cleared my mind, and tried to focus on my breathing as I drove. Soon I did begin to feel better. It was nearly four o'clock by the time I reached the James River, and I crossed over it as slowly as I could, taking in the view on both sides. Less than five miles to go.

I exited the highway onto Huguenot Trail, happy as always to follow the pathways of my ancestors, and drove west, parallel to the river, enjoying the lush terrain that enveloped me. After several miles, I spotted the sign for Willow Lane and slowed for my turn. Other than the one home on the corner, there would be nothing else on Willow except
for the Dark Woods—which started directly behind that house and ran for nearly a mile—and then, after that, the Talbot estate.

Clenching my teeth, I made the turn and kept going, driving past the corner house. Only once I was fully out of its sight did I slow down and pull over to the side of the road. I sat there for a long moment, preparing to confront the inevitable.
You love coming here
, I told myself in a quick pep talk.
You just need to deal with the memories as usual and then you can move on
.

Finally, I turned and looked. To my relief, the sight didn't feel any more traumatic than in previous years, despite the incident with Blake's gun. I guess the older I got, the better I understood that this place had nothing to do with what happened. It was just the setting, just the backdrop, nothing more than a collection of trees and brambles and brush. It had not been the one to wield the knife, nor the one to do what had come after. Feeling much better, I took a deep breath and started off again, continuing forward until the driveway of the Talbot estate came into view.

The house wasn't visible from the road, but it was obvious just from the elegant entrance that it had to be nice. And it was. Set back amid towering yellow pines, the stately redbrick home appeared after rounding the first curve on the drive, and its beauty caught me anew every time I saw it. A three-story Colonial, the house featured a large white portico at the front door, tall shutters at each window, and a row of dormers along the roofline. Twin chimneys rose from each end of the structure, flanked by a glass solarium to the left and a four-car garage to the right. Behind that garage, though not visible from here, were a guesthouse, pool, and huge yard beyond. Way out back was also a tennis court and the ever-present footbridge to the woods, though I wasn't going to think about that now.

I drove all the way around to the garage and parked, pulling to a stop behind several other cars. After turning off my rented Impala, I sat for a long moment, thinking through the rest of this day. It was time to get down to work, and though I would have dearly loved nothing more than to change into something comfortable first, I knew there would
be other people around, which meant I couldn't exactly trade out my skirt for a pair of sweats lest I give Nana heart palpitations.

As I walked to the front door, I remembered yet again that this would be the first Talbot reunion since my grandfather's death. Ten years older than Nana, Granddad had been ninety-two when he died, but he was sharp as a tack all the way to the end. He was an amazing man, and his absence this weekend was definitely going to be felt. Tears filled my eyes at the thought, but I managed to blink them away. No mascara smearing allowed, I reminded myself.

At least Nana seemed to be holding up well. I found her in the kitchen, talking with the caterer about tomorrow night's dinner. The reunion was structured the same way each year, with immediate family coming on Thursday evening around six, sharing a big meal together, and staying in various bedrooms throughout the main house and the guesthouse. Considering that “immediate family” included four generations of Talbots, it was a miracle we could all still fit.