expression on Zoltan’s face, only smooth blankness. Then her grandfather’s voice again. “Yes, I remember the Halloween you carved a pumpkin to look like me. You nearly burned the house down.”
Rebekah heard herself say, “Yes. I still have a picture of the pumpkin, and you’re standing behind me, your hands on my shoulders. I have so many photos of us together over the years. Of course, I came to see you as often as I could in the sanitarium. I loved you. Grandfather, I will love you until I die. I know this sounds strange, but are you well now?”
The distant deep voice seemed to laugh. “Yes, Pumpkin, of course I’m well. I’m always well now. There is no more pain since I died—well, there was hardly any even before I died. I remember you were such a brave girl, never left my side during those long, final earthbound hours. You held my hand until I was able to depart my tedious life.”
She remembered, too clearly, the shock, the pain, and the relief, too, when he drew his last breath. Dr. Lassiter, a kind, attentive man, had stood beside her, touching her grandfather’s other hand. “John is at peace now,” he’d said when it was over, and she’d finally known what that old chestnut really meant.
Rebekah said, “Yes, I remember. What is it you want to tell me, Grandfather?”
3
A pool of deep silence filled the still air. Suddenly, there was a touch, feathery soft against Rebekah’s skin. She heard Zoltan’s voice, lower now, almost a whisper. “Do you remember me telling you stories about my best friend, Nate, the adventures we had as boys, the stunts we pulled, how we were always getting the strap from our dads?”
“Yes, of course I remember. I grew up on your stories. I was always thrilled. I repeated many of them over and over to you in the hospital, hoping maybe they’d help you wake up, but you couldn’t. I hoped you would at least hear them and know you weren’t alone.”
“Yes, I heard you, Pumpkin, and I thank you now. As you know, Nate was smart, but like I told you, he wasn’t so smart there at the end. Ah, what a long time ago that was. I don’t think Nate’s here, and I have looked for him.”
She wanted to ask him where he was, but instead said, “Nate Elderby—yes, I remember, he was a big-time lawyer. I heard Grandmother tell one of her friends his second wife was a sexpot who married him for his money, a good thing since the sexpot, Miranda, had the IQ of lettuce. I remember she laughed about him and his wife, but you never said a word. But why are you asking me about him, Grandfather?”
“Did you know Nate never called me Methodist until nearly the very end, right before he went out fishing on Dawg Creek and got himself drowned? I remember what he said the last time I saw him: ‘Methodist, it’s no good any longer, you know it. I have to get out, or it’s over for me.’ Three days later he was stone-cold dead.”
“Why are you telling me this, Grandfather?”
“It’s important, Pumpkin. He failed with the wrong client and knew they would try to get back at him. He wanted to leave the country, wanted to leave as a rich man, very rich. He wanted his share.”
Rebekah said, “His share of what?”
“His share of the treasure from that story I told you, the story we called the Big Take.”
How did Zoltan know about the Big Take? Rebekah waited, but he said nothing more. “You mean that adventure story you kept telling me about the treasure you and Nate managed to steal from the evil sheikh’s caravan because he was going to use it to make war against his people? I remember you changed it, embellished it, every time you told it to me so I wouldn’t forget. Are you saying it’s true, Grandfather? The Big Take really happened?”
“Yes, the gist of it was true. I knew at the time you didn’t believe what I told you was real, only another story to entertain you. But remember how I swore you to secrecy? Of course you do, you’ve kept all my secrets ever since you were a little girl. I wondered if I shouldn’t have told you, you were so young. It was my legacy to you, yours alone, and there was time enough, I thought, to let you know it was true.