No Way Home

  Special thanks to my aunt, Ann Jambriska, who gave me the idea for this story, and to Jane Berkey, Don Cleary, Susan Moldow, and my husband, Art Bourgeau, for their considerable guidance in the telling of it.

  To Jane Berkey—agent, friend and fairy godmother

  Published by

  DELL PUBLISHING

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Publishing Group Inc.

  666 Fifth Avenue,

  New York, New York 10103

  Copyright © 1989 Patricia J. MacDonald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  ISBN: 0-440-20665-0

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Chapter 1

  FOR THREE DAYS RUNNING the weathermen on the Nashville TV stations had been warning of a “storm watch” in middle Tennessee. And everyone in Cress County knew they weren’t talking about a little rain coming. It was tornado weather, and country people weren’t fooled by that network doubletalk. In order to forestall panic, the TV news never mentioned the word tornado until one had actually been sighted. But fast as a tornado traveled, by then it was too late anyway.

  From the afternoon shade of her front porch, Lillie Burdette scanned the sky uneasily for a faraway funnel of dust and wind. Usually tornado weather came earlier, in late August. It was a little freakish this last weekend in September, but it was impossible not to recognize it. The air was humid and utterly still. Everything you looked at seemed unnaturally sunlit, and yet the sky was hung low with dark clouds. It was hot as blazes, but, now and then, a cold breeze would trickle over your skin and make you shiver.

  Across the road from Lillie’s front yard was a field, bounded by a split-rail fence, and an old horse liked to graze there. Normally the sloe-eyed beast would plant itself in one spot and scarcely lift its lazy head from its nibbling. Today the old farm animal paced the fence, head up, eyes fearful, as if it too were watching the skies.

  Animals could always sense it, Lillie thought. It made them restless. She herself had never actually seen a tornado hit. She’d felt the rustle and seen the blackening of the sky that preceded it. And, as a child, she’d always hoped one would come, just for the thrill of it. Like all the other kids, she’d heard the tales of those who had survived one. Bessie Hill, who was old, used to tell about the one time she was alone in the house and a tornado struck. It was evening, and all the lights had gone out, as so often happened in Cress County given wind or rain. She’d decided to get into bed, since she had no lights, but after a while a huge gust blew her front door open, latch and all. She rushed out to the living room to try to push the front door closed, and when she was in the living room the twister lifted up a tree in her yard and put it right through the roof and her bedroom ceiling.

  I must be getting old, Lillie thought with a shiver. I’d rather it didn’t come anywhere near here anymore. A car passed by slowly, and the occupants waved. Lillie shielded her eyes with her hand and waved back, even though she did not recognize the passersby. It was customary, in Felton, Tennessee, to greet those you met, whether or not you had ever been introduced. There were more cars than usual today, passing on the road between her front yard and her neighbor’s field across the way. But that was normal for a Founders Day.

  Another Founders Day. She could remember attending that early-autumn celebration for the last thirty years, ever since she’d been a child of four. It was like marking another year of your life gone. I suppose that’s probably it, that, and the weather, she thought, trying to account for the melancholy mood which had been with her since she awoke, anxious and sweaty that morning, in time to see the first pale streaks in the sky. Another year gone and somehow the day never held the pleasure, the excitement, it had when she was young.

  “Mom, your timer dinged.”

  “Oh, thanks, honey,” Lillie said. She picked up her watering can and dumped the last of its contents into the impatiens that hung in a basket under the rafters of her porch. “Could you do me a favor and pop those layers out of the pans. That’s what I had it set for.”

  “Okay, in a minute. First, tell me how I look.”

  Lillie lowered the watering can and turned toward the front door. The face of her daughter Michele appeared suspended, like a luminous moon, behind the screen. Michele reached down, pushed open the door, and wedged the hoop skirt she was wearing through the doorframe.

  The hoop sprang open and Michele twirled awkwardly out onto the front porch. Her long, shiny brown hair separated over her narrow shoulders and met the puffed sleeves of the old-fashioned dress. The rose-pink of the gown was too deep a color for her, and she did not fill out the lacy decolletage, but her eyes were bright with pleasure at her image of herself, and the skirt rustled pleasantly as she bounced it around her.

  Lillie’s spirits rose at the sight of her. “You look beautiful,” she exclaimed. “You found it.”

  “Well, I could hardly miss it,” said Michele, “hanging on the door to my closet.”

  “But it looks perfect on you,” said Lillie. She reached down and plucked at the skirt, fluffing it out. “You look like a dream.”

  “I feel kind of stupid in it. And it’s so hot. I can’t believe they wore these things all the time in the old days.”

  “It’s not usually this hot Founders Day,” said Lillie. “I wish this weather would break. It makes everybody irritable. You know, this hoop skirt actually belonged to my great-grandmother—”

  “I know, I know,” said Michele, who had heard the old story about a hundred times, “and your grandma made this dress for you for the pageant when you were my age.”

  Lillie gazed at her daughter. The rose-pink had been shrewdly chosen for Lillie by her mother to emphasize the dark hair, cherry-stained lips and cheeks, and creamy complexion characteristic of some Southern beauties; her coloring made her look like something plucked from a chocolate box. Her mother had always prided herself on her eye for clothes and makeup. But it had been her grandmother, now long dead, who had lovingly stitched the dress for her. And now she felt an ache of happiness, akin to pain, to see her own daughter in that special dress. Her healthy, clear-eyed child, whom the doctors had said would not live to leave the hospital on the day she was born.

  She did not understand the medical terms the doctors hurled at her as she lay recovering from Michele’s birth in her hospital bed. A sympathetic nurse told her as gently as possible that her infant daughter would probably need a series of operations on her heart. The first weeks after Michele’s birth were just a blur of anguish to her now. She remembered a frantic ambulance ride to Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville, where a team of doctors operated all night on her baby. And then life formed into a pattern that would hold for years—a pilgrimage from one faraway hospital to another, one specialist after another, following an elusive trail of hope that had finally led to health, to normalcy, by the time Michele had reached her teens.

  Michele held the bodice of the dress out in front of her in two dainty points. “I don’t exactly do it justice,” she observed ruefully.

  Lillie smiled. Michele would always be on the small, fragile side. It was a legacy of her illness. But she was sturdy now, no longer frail. “Don’t complain,” said Lillie. “You never have to worry about getting fat. And with your cheekbones, you’ll probably end up in a fashion magazine someday.”

  Michele grimaced but was pleased. She tossed her hair back off her shoulders. “I’m bringing my shorts to change into as so
on as the dumb pageant is over. It’s so sticky today.”

  “I know,” Lillie said fretfully. “That sky looks mean.”

  Michele’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Maybe there’ll be a tornado.”

  “Well, don’t sound so darn pleased about it,” said Lillie. “Now scoot. In the house. I’ve got to get those layers out.”

  “Oh, I forgot about them,” said Michele, sweeping into the house in front of her mother, feigning annoyance as she gently lifted the skirt and hoop up so she could walk. She perched on a kitchen stool, fussily retying the bows on her sleeves as Lillie put her cake together for the picnic supper.

  The back door opened and Pink Burdette came into the kitchen. He was dressed in a pale-green plaid jacket and tie, despite the heat. He was a large man whose waistline had gotten away from him now that he was in his mid-forties. His round, even-featured face was damp, and there was perspiration visible through the thinning strawberry-blond hair on his scalp. His glance fell on the cake Lillie was fixing. “What’s this?” he asked in mock amazement. “Don’t tell me we’re giving food away. People could be paying good money for this.”

  “Look at Michele. Doesn’t she look nice?” Lillie said, ignoring the jibe at her catering business. Pink had never wanted her to work, and he kept up a running line of jokes about it to mask—unsuccessfully, Lillie thought—his uneasiness.

  “Let’s see,” Pink said.

  Michele slid awkwardly off the stool and twirled around for Pink’s approval.

  “Right pretty,” said Pink. “Just like Gone With the Wind.”

  “Are you and Grayson about ready to go?” Lillie asked her husband.

  “Yeah. I’ve just been out there tossing a few to Grayson. Warm him up for the big game. Goddamn, it’s close out there today.”

  “Why don’t you leave off the jacket?” Lillie asked, although she knew the answer in advance.

  “There’ll be people there I do business with,” Pink replied. “I think they prefer to see a man looking a sight more dignified.”

  He walked over and tasted the frosting on the bowl. “Up, wait a minute. I think I owe you a quarter for this.” He winked at Michele, who made a face. She had heard all the jokes before. Unlike Pink, she thought it was neat that her mother had a business.

  “We’d better be going,” Lillie said purposefully. “Why don’t you call Grayson, see if he wants a ride.”

  Pink walked to the back door, opened it, and called out. “Son, come along. That team needs you over there to shape them up.” He turned and announced, “He’s coming.” Then he turned back and gazed out the door until Grayson appeared and glided in past his father.

  Grayson was actually Grayson Jr., although Pink had acquired his homely nickname in the cradle and no one, it seemed, had ever dignified him with the use of his given name. He vowed that his son would not meet the same fate, and he resisted using even the shortened version of “Gray” for his boy. He need not have worried. From the first, Grayson’s elegant name suited him, and remained unsullied by pejorative nicknames. Despite the heat of the day, Grayson’s uniform did not appear to be damp, and his thick, wheat-blond hair fell softly on his broad, clear forehead. He blinked his deep blue eyes a few times, to adjust to the relative darkness of the house, and then staggered backward, clutching his head.

  “What is this?” he cried out. “A fairy princess.”

  “Shut up, Gray,” said Michele.

  “Michele is in the pageant,” Lillie said.

  “And you,” Pink said earnestly, locking the back door and approaching his son, “are going to lead that team to the all-county championship today. Anybody who is anybody in this county is going to be there today. That includes the president of the bank, who just happens to be chairman of the Rotary scholarship committee.”

  “Oh, Pink, for goodness sakes,” Lillie exclaimed. “He’s only a sophomore. He doesn’t need to be worrying about scholarships yet. Besides, the game is supposed to be fun.”

  “Lillie,” Pink said patiently, “in case you haven’t noticed, this is the game we’ve been working toward all summer. This is it. If we win this one we’re all-county champions. Not to mention that Sterling Grisard, the bank president, just happened to play Grayson’s position when he was on the Felton team years ago.”

  “Well, sir,” Grayson said, “I do mean to win.”

  “You go up to Sterling after the game and introduce yourself. I’ll be there to kind of smooth the way. We want him to know who the team’s star player is.”

  Grayson nodded and flicked the ball lazily back and forth, hand to mitt, as Pink outlined his plan.

  “Why does everything have to have a hidden motive?” Lillie asked. “Here, Michele, take this cake to the car.”

  Pink buttoned his snug sports jacket carefully. “We are only talking about being friendly and sociable, and presenting ourselves in the best possible light.”

  Michele picked up the cake gingerly and held it away from the rose-colored gown. “What if he loses?” she drawled.

  “Catch, Michele,” said Grayson, pretending to toss the ball at his sister.

  Michele started and then wailed, “Grayson,” but there was only feigned distress in her tone. At fifteen, Grayson Burdette was already the kind of boy that any girl, even his own sister, enjoyed being teased by. Grayson laughed, pleased with his joke, and tossed the ball into his own mitt, the muscles in his forearms working visibly under the olive skin covered with silky down.

  “Yessir,” said Gray. “I believe I’ll just walk right up to Mr. Grisard, introduce myself, and tell him that I am the son of the busiest little caterer in Cress County, and his bank lent my mama the money to get started with.” He winked at his mother.

  “Don’t say that!” Pink exclaimed.

  “He’s teasing,” Lillie said. “Come on. Michele, are your clothes for changing in the car yet?”

  “I have to get them,” Michele replied.

  “Well, go on then,” Lillie said. “The pageant is on first. You best be there on time.”

  “Will you take this, Gray?” Michele asked, holding out the cake plate to her brother.

  “Sure,” he said, tucking his mitt under his arm. “Hurry up.”

  Although the site of the festivities was less than a half a mile away, they would never have thought of walking. In Cress County the sight of an adult walking down the road, unless he was carrying a gas can to or from a service station, was virtually an indication of mental illness. Pink kept his five-year-old Oldsmobile in mint condition, always washed and waxed, and it did stand out among the old pickups and battered sedans parked by most of the partygoers in the grassy field that served as a lot near the entrance to Briar Hill. They all got out of the car and stood for a moment, absorbing the festive atmosphere and sighting familiar faces. Then they started up the incline toward the Briar Hill House.

  Despite its modest name, the mansion at Briar Hill was the pride of the town of Felton. The Briar Hill plantation had been one of the largest in Tennessee, but after World War I the family had been unable to keep the house, and no one who could afford to buy seemed to want to settle there. The old plantation house and grounds had gone steadily to seed until some ambitious town councilmen managed to reclaim it some years back and make a park out of it. The grounds were large and well kept by local volunteers, but the centerpiece was the house, which boasted pillars, balconies, climbing trellises, and French doors as well as a relatively new paint job. The town could not afford to restore the inside of the house, so various workmen had collaborated on rehabbing it to suit the needs of the many local groups that met there through all the months of the year in which central heating wasn’t required. Their practical improvements included covering the old wooden floors with inexpensive burnt-orange carpeting of a particularly durable fiber, installing a cafeteria complete with folding metal chairs and long tables, and furnishing the rest with donations from people’s homes and catalog pieces acquired after green stamp drives. Although the
rooms of the old mansion bore little resemblance to the elegant salons of its antebellum glory days, the Briar Hill House was once again the seat of county society.

  Lillie led the way through the open doors of the mansion into the cool, dark vestibule. She looked down at her watch. “What time does the pageant start?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” said Michele. “I have to go and line up.”

  “We’ll get a seat,” Lillie said. “Give this cake to one of the ladies in the kitchen when you pass it. And have fun.”

  Greeting friends and acquaintances as they passed, Pink led the way to the grand ballroom, which had been filled with rows of metal chairs facing a wooden platform that served as the stage. Pink found three seats together at the end of a row and they all sat down.

  Every year the pageant was the official kick-off of the day’s festivities. It was always the same from year to year —a short little play wherein boys dressed as Confederate soldiers and girls in antebellum gowns gave a loose reenactment of the founding of their hometown. Felton’s founding actually predated the Civil War by many years, but recorded history of the place was scant, and everyone preferred the costumes of the Civil War era. Besides, no Southern celebration was truly complete without some evocation of the Confederacy, which, despite what most Northerners might be content to believe, was still cherished as the glory of the South.

  The appearance of the high-school music teacher, Gay Jones, at the upright piano signaled the beginning of the pageant. A collective sigh emanated from the crowd as the first chords of “Dixie” were struck.

  Lillie, who was wedged between Pink and Grayson, sat forward in her seat, straining to see Michele as the high-school girls streamed onto the stage in their gowns to the appreciative murmurs of the audience. Lillie waved to Michele, who just rolled her eyes and looked away from her family. Out of the comer of her eye Lillie saw Gray tug at the flounce on the gown of Allene Starnes, a pretty, redheaded girl in his class, as she passed by. Allene blushed, pretended to glare at him, and nearly stumbled on the steps leading to the stage. The boys came on stage from the other side, resplendent in their Confederate uniform reproductions.