The Burden of Truth

By Valerie R. Drees

Every family has secrets. Some never come to light. For if they did, they would have devastating consequences. When long-held family secrets are uncovered by Tori Daniels, she realizes this. They are not her secrets to tell. That is the burden of truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Jun 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463112205

Valerie R. Drees

Valerie R. Drees worked for many years buying interior design materials for a bank in California. This career was followed by one teaching World History at Mayfield Senior School in Pasadena, California. Upon her relocation to Virginia, Valerie taught European History as well as English as a Second Language at Tidewater Community College. This, her first novel, represents her entry into the career she has always longed to pursue full time, writing.

Book preview

Valerie R. Drees worked for many years, buying interior design materials for a bank in California. This career was followed by one teaching World History at Mayfield Senior School in Pasadena, California. Upon her relocation to Virginia, Valerie taught European History as well as English as a Second Language at Tidewater Community College. This, her first novel, represents her entry into the career that she has always longed to pursue full time, writing.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my husband, Clayton J. Drees. Thank you for your support and patience through all of my process.

Valerie R. Drees

THE BURDEN OF TRUTH

Copyright © Valerie R. Drees (2018)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, institutions, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s cataloging in publishing data

Drees Valerie R.

The Burden of Truth

ISBN 9781641821254 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641821278 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781641821261 (E-Book)

The main category of the book—Fiction/Thriller/Suspense

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank the early readers of the manuscript who caught the first round of goofs: Jean Birnie, Jenny Christensen, Elly Drees, and Denie Brand.

Chapter 1

Friday, July 14 (Happy Bastille Day!) 1989

(Hey! The two-hundredth anniversary)

Dear Brian,

I haven’t flossed. I mean, I can’t even remember when the last time was, I guess January or so…and it’s July. The hygienist is going to yell at me in her soft southern way, while her probe punishes me. I deserve it. She even gave me the flat-ribbon, waxed floss last January. Maybe she won’t remember. I meant to be a good girl. I even kept it up for a day or two. Jeez, I know this is going to hurt. I’m thinking, Lady, I really, really could care less about your golden lab puppy, or your six-year-old son. Why do you inflict your diarrheic blather on me, without mercy, while you’re whittling away at my gums? Why do I pay you to abuse me this way? Life is bizarre. I wouldn’t be jotting down this letter right now if Tonya Torquemada (no, not her real name) hadn’t been called away to the phone – in the middle of my dental exam!

Bri, I wish you were here, well, not HERE here (in the dentist’s office), but closer than a whole ocean away. No one appreciates my perspective on things around here. I saw a T-shirt in a catalog; I almost bought it for you. Don’t worry, I didn’t. It said: Eat right. Exercise. Die anyway. Perfect, eh? No one else I know here thought it was funny. See what I mean? No one has a sense of humor anymore. When did irony stop being funny? I’m surrounded by such apathy. I’m going to have to finish this letter at home.

***

Uh, home now and no letter from you in the mail. Are you ever coming back? ‘Course, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I saw Jerry last week, by the way. He had some young, studly type with him. Looked like steroids to me. I stopped to say hello, and ‘wonder stud’ actually yawned at me while Jerry lied about how marvelous his life is now. Young people have no couth. Man, you are well out of that one, my friend. Jerry looks like hell. Doesn’t look like he’s slept since you left. Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.

Are you finding any more juicy stuff for the shop’s shelves? I’ve gotten one box from you so far; it didn’t say 1 of… any particular number, so I’m assuming it’s the only one you’ve sent. I liked everything in it, especially the Byron, of course. I may selfishly keep that. Like I need more on our shelves, but the collector in me runs deep. How about next time I get the England trip? Fair is fair, right?

Speaking of trips, it’s beginning to look like I may have to visit California. That sounds like I’m going to hate it. I don’t think I will, that is, if I go at all. I mean, it’s been such a long time since…well, anyway I think I could do it, if it comes to that. See, I got this call last week from a producer person who said she was interested in optioning (and, trust me, I have no idea what that actually means) Gathering Clouds for a TV movie on her network. I know, I know, I didn’t tell you last Sunday when you called. Well, partly it was because I’m a coward. I knew you’d be all over me about it and partly, I needed some quiet time to let the idea seep in; a book, wholly my own work, becoming a movie on TV. I didn’t think that would ever be an option. [Suppose that’s what it means?]

I’m only telling you now because I can’t decide how I feel about it. So, okay, I’m ready; how do WE feel about this? [Call, don’t write. It takes too long.] Before you get too far along, let me mention a key element, I mean, a reason I’d even consider it. I would be involved in the teleplay, or so she promised. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but it sounds like they can’t butcher it without my knowledge. I told her I can’t do anything without first speaking to my agent. That didn’t make her happy, but hey, her rush isn’t mine, and I really don’t care that much. I didn’t write it to make money or be a movie. Bri, it still feels kinda weird. She seemed worried I might be talking to someone else, and she tried to pin me down about exactly when I could come to California to talk about it in person. I got vague at that point. I think I said something like, We’ll have to see. I promised to call her Monday.

Oh, Brian, why are you gone when I need to see the expression on your face? (!) Even when you call, I won’t be able to tell how you really feel until I see the lines around your eyes, or see if your left brow arches, and whether your right dimple twitches, and if they do, when (?), at what point in the telling? And, of course, if I could see you bite your upper lip, well then, I’d really know what you think about all this! Anyhow, that’s about it for me.

From your general silence and too-cheery disposition on the phone last Sunday, I suspect all is not wonderful for you. Jeez, was I insensitive in mentioning Jerry? I guess I’m having trouble understanding what you’d see in him in the first place. Someday, when it’s less painful, I hope you’ll tell me. Or, at least, I hope you’ll tell me I’m right to suspect you had a desperate case of the lonelies, and he was just…there. It makes me sick to think such a…well, you know what I would say, creature could have the power to hurt you! He’s lucky I didn’t shout out rude and obnoxious names from a block away when I first spotted him, uh…them, on Henry Street. By the way, I think his new ‘friend’ was his TA from last semester. I sort of remember having seen him – a grungy blond, big-body type – that day I picked up your briefcase from your campus office at the end of May. Remember when you asked me to fetch it because you needed me to mail your British Library ID card? Well, when I was unlocking your door I heard voices down the hall. I peeked in on my way out and saw ‘stud muffin’ sprawled on Jerry’s sofa. What’s the matter with Jerry? He just never seems to learn from his mistakes, no matter how catastrophic. Wasn’t it about three years ago, the mess with that sophomore soccer player? Anyway, I remember thinking Jerry looked very uncomfortable, no actually, I think pissed-off. Like I said, if Jerry hurt you, I hope he and his pale paramour…well, you know. I’m just glad that you are well out and away from it! Though, if distance is your healer, I miss you terribly.

Speaking of campus stuff, a letter arrived yesterday at the shop for you from the Department. I went ahead and opened it, ’cuz I knew you’d ask me to when you next call, and this way you get more time to think it over. They want you to teach three classes in the Fall: two British Lit. 200-level, and one Poetry Comp. 300-level as an overload. They need to know by August 1 if you’ll do it. Before you decide, let me finish the bookkeeping for June. But a gut feeling: I think we cleared a fairly good profit again. I’ll know shortly. God, Bri, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we’re actually going to succeed as entrepreneurs? Somehow, I never thought of us as capitalists. Must be culturally imbued. Oh hell, maybe it’s dumb luck.

I better stop writing now, or this letter will get too weighty for UPS delivery! Call. Write. Damn, just get your butt back here. These months without you to kick around suck. As ever –

Love, Tori

***

She carefully proofread the letter, all the while harboring second thoughts about sending it. Maybe she should call instead. Maybe she should only talk about the shop or, at the very least, just mention the Fall semester teaching load. In the end, with a tiny sigh, she slipped the neatly handwritten letter into a UPS cardboard envelope, just in time for the 3:00 p.m. pick-up.

Tori was glad it was a slow Summer Friday with only a couple of customers an hour so far. The hygienist had really done her handiwork and three aspirin were barely making a dent on the ache in her jaw. At least, I have no cavities, she thought. Comforted by the fact that she wouldn’t have to go back until next January, she giggled to herself and said aloud, "And, I most certainly do not intend to floss. Take that Torquemada-lady!"

Margaret paused as she passed the office door, What? Did you say something to me? she asked, tucking a bun-sprung long wisp of bunny-gray hair behind her left ear.

Hah, no, Mags. Oh, but as long as you’re here, are there any more unpaid bills lying around? I’m closing the books on June and things look so good it scares me. I keep thinking there’s something I must be forgetting. Is there some semi-annual thing: a tax, or maintenance expense, or license fee, or… Tori would have continued but Margaret was laughing.

What’s so funny Mags? Tori looked so serious that Margaret tried to stifle her amusement.

It’s just that you have gone through this same ritual for the last, oh I don’t know, seven or eight months, or so. Why can’t you just accept it? We’re a hit! The one thing this town needed was a fine, English-style, second-hand bookstore with a cozy little café, all under one roof. You and Brian gave it to us, and we are appropriately grateful, Margaret explained matter-of-factly.

Tori smiled, Okay. I’m trying. It’s been a weird week so far. If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll run this deposit over to the bank. Oh, and before I forget, a guy from Crane’s called early this morning to say our order will be delivered this afternoon. He was very apologetic. They were waiting for the Earl Grey and Formosa Oolong. He promised that next time they would ship a partial, and not hang-up the whole order. And, let’s see, Tori scanned the desktop for any other wayward tidbits. Finding nothing to report, she finished, Jeez, I guess that’s it. Maybe I’ll play this afternoon – if you don’t need me.

It sounded more like a question, Margaret thought, so she answered it, Really, it’s dull around here just now. Go do something significant, like… seeing the wary look on Tori’s face, Margaret simply finished with, Oh, you’ll think of something.

Tori rolled her tan faux leather chair away from the massive oak partner’s desk she and Brian co-habited. As she rose to her feet, she slowly stretched her arms over her head, releasing her hair from its ponytail as her hands worked their way back to her sides.

Maybe I’ll take a walk, she announced to Margaret, who by this time was only half listening, as she moved away to help a customer down at the far end of the long oak counter that ran at a right-angle a few yards from the office door. We are so lucky to have good ol’ Mags, Tori thought. Then she smiled, knowing Margaret wouldn’t appreciate the epithet. She only tolerated Mags because it came from Tori. Brian always called her Margaret, ever since they had worked together at the College. But then, it never occurred to Brian to give people nicknames. Tori was only ‘Tori’ because he’d not known it wasn’t her full name for months – by then, it had stuck. Her father occasionally had called her ‘Little Sis’, but that was strictly family insider stuff, originally courtesy of her much older siblings who had only ever called her that from the start.

It looked like rain as Tori emerged from behind the heavy oak framed door of her bookshop. No matter, she never had an umbrella with all its spines intact anyway. Thick battleship-like clouds were forming directly overhead, and a wind strong enough to reveal the backs of tree leaves whipped her along as she made her way to the bank in the middle of the next block, on Prince George Street. "Yup, that’s what I like about Virginia, it has real weather," she mumbled to herself. It isn’t even too hot, for July, and a good rain might relieve some of this humidity, I hope, she thought, as she entered the bank.

Tori took a quick look at the two deposit slips and the check before handing them all to the teller. The check, drawn on the Dust Jacket Bookshop and Café, was for just over three thousand dollars. Half was destined for what Brian called the maintenance account. It was building nicely and would stay socked-away for that rainy day when the roof actually leaked. Funds were also deposited to that account monthly, ever since Brian’s thirtieth birthday, from a trust set up by his late grandfather, Carson Sage. The overall amount coming from this trust varied from year-to-year because it was based on a percentage of the annual profits of Sage Publishers. The other half of Tori’s deposit today would go directly into the profit account, that amazing little fund that proved she and Brian weren’t nuts. Tori smiled at the teller.

There was something so satisfying about having an idea that actually happened in real life and was more than paying for itself, at last. Tori had certainly had her doubts the first three years, especially the first year and a half, when the place was a money-pit, sucking the bucks up like a Hoover. By the fourth year of their bookshop and café enterprise, things had begun to turn around. Brian never had any doubt that they would make it work. Even so, neither of them gave up their paying jobs; Brian, teaching Literature, Poetry, and Drama courses at the College, and Tori, freelance writing and publishing as much as possible. Both of them invested every spare dime they had in the shop.

Her banking finished and not a drop of rain yet; Tori cut through Merchants’ Square, headed for a walk along Boundary Street. There were quite a number of people milling about, browsing shop windows, munching ice cream cones, or sitting on benches while surreptitiously breaking off hunks of fudge from the brick in their innocent-looking white paper bags. Such a guilty pleasure was definitely not to be shared. Most of these people had that sated, after-lunch look. In an hour, maybe two, they would wend their way to Scotland Street, to that big, white house on the corner, the one with the quaint bookshop and the great coffee, and huge selection of teas. They rarely left without a slice of pie, or cheesecake, or perhaps a couple of scones under their belts, and a book or two, maybe some artsy Ex Libris stickers, a gift box of pastel floral print notecards by a local artist, or a sepia-toned print of the colonial capital of Virginia.

Tourists. From early May through October, like locusts, they swept through town. Some few residents griped and moaned, especially about the loud, smelly tour buses, but Tori and Brian and all the other merchants, the museum keepers, and the purveyors of colonial amusements welcomed the invasion, counted on it.

As she walked, Tori tacitly admired the tidy cottages, with their manicured English gardens behind squared-off boxwood hedge fences with white picket gates; each gate equipped with its colonial ball-and-chain wrought iron closer. She often let herself imagine what it must have been like to live here two hundred or so years ago. Even though much of the town was a re-creation, thanks to the Rockefeller millions, it was a carefully accurate attempt at living history, right down to the re-enactors in mid-18th century drag. On quiet Winter mornings, with only the rare tourist in evidence, the town could be almost eerie in its colonial authenticity.

Winter. How many Winters was it now? Five? No, six. I’ve lived here six years, the sound of her own voice stopped Tori in her tracks. She checked the math in her head; yes, it was six years ago that Brian convinced her to join him here in Williamsburg. Amazing, she murmured, and then added softly, I haven’t been back to California once in all that time. Maybe now… A memory she could not quite grasp, slid back into the void at the edges of her mind and Tori involuntarily shuddered. She looked around to find she had walked much further than she had intended. Bassett Hall lay sprawling to her right and the colonial Capitol building was visible on her left. She had nearly circumnavigated the old town. A quick turn, back-tracking on Francis Street, and a right onto Blair Street, then rounding the corner in front of the Capitol, and she was now on Duke of Gloucester Street (known to locals as DoG Street), as the first rain drops fell.

All around her people scurried into shops and taverns, dodging the drops. Tori ambled. She sucked in the refreshing scents of lavender, a variety of herbs and the smell of green, now overlaid with ozone. She remembered it had been her first impression of Virginia on that initial visit in the Summer of 1982. The place was so beautifully green, made more startling when contrasted with southern California’s browns, tans and tawny yellows. Ah, but it was getting a little hard to see as the rain now, quite suddenly, came down in great sheets, making rivulets on her glasses. Tori was soaked to the skin, but refreshed rather than cold.

The roofline of the big, white house she and Brian shared was just discernible above the trees, two long blocks up Henry Street, then onto Scotland. What a house! What a mess! Tori shook her head at the memory. Brian had begun negotiations to buy it a couple months after Tori’s Summer visit: a massive mock-Victorian monstrosity that had survived the Rockefeller colonial-izing because it was off the main thoroughfare. It had three full floors with two separate staircases to the second floor and one to the third, which had once been an attic, complete with fanlight windows in the two gables and four dormers across the front roofline. It also had a full basement. There had been a small over-grown and weed-choked garden in back, as well as a freestanding three-car garage which faced the side street. The rear of the property was all enclosed by a high brick privacy wall that ran along the perimeter on three sides. It had certainly been quite a home in its day, circa 1910, but when Brian discovered and fell in love with it, the place was just this side of condemned.

The house had been Brian’s principle persuasive tool, luring Tori to Virginia permanently. It was the argument that ultimately worked, though certainly not his only motive. Having purchased the thing, he had become stymied on how to proceed to renovate it. His energies and finances had been exhausted on the quest to acquire it. It had needed no small amount of cajolery to coax an advance of sorts, in pounds sterling, from his fraternal grandmother, Claire Sage, his own funds having fallen woefully short that first year in Virginia – with his inheritance from her husband, Brian’s late grandfather Carson Sage, still about a year away. Despite a fairly decent salary at the College, there were still some graduate school debts as well, so he’d taken on additional classes and some tutoring too, leaving little time to work on his ‘fixer upper’, let alone his own writing. But Brian was not one to let an opportunity slip by while awaiting a sunnier fiscal climate. He had scheduled a Christmas visit to Winchester and managed in less than a week to convince his grandmother, Claire, to invest in his dream with enough ready cash to close the deal. It was one of Brian’s gifts, this transparent and unabashedly sincere, ever so gentle but relentless persuasiveness. One always knew the lay of the land with Brian, that he wanted something and that he would get it. Yet, to date, he had allowed only Tori to probe some of the layers below.

The house purchase had been a done deal by early January in 1983, leaving Brian with a manageably small enough monthly mortgage payment, but completely cash-poor. So, to save on rent elsewhere, Brian then moved in, more like encamped – with a bed, TV, stereo, microwave, and such other vital paraphernalia of late-twentieth century man – all set up about six feet from the walk-in fireplace in the front parlor, along with its twin in the study, the only sources of heat in the house that Winter. That first one had been a long, cold, and particularly snowy season. Dreams of restoration as he wandered from cavernous room-to-room, floor-by-floor were all well and good, but then what? Yes, he had rescued a real ‘white elephant’ from certain extinction, but he had no plan for the use of so much space and no concept for how it could one-day pay for itself. From the pictures Brian had sent, with actual sight unseen, Tori had suggested the place might make an excellent bed and breakfast inn, since it had been a small hotel in the 1930s. Good idea, but the city council did not favor it. The area was inundated with hostelries of every sort. Still, the property had been zoned for commercial use even though it had been a private residence in the decade before its abandonment. The whole project had begun to overwhelm him by the time Brian asked Tori