Weekend Warriors (Sisterhood #1)(8)
Myra borrowed a line from her favorite comedian. “Then we’ll have to kill you,” she said cheerfully. “So, are you in?”
“God help me, I’m in.”
Chapter Two
Eight months later
Lightning ripped through the darkness, a crazy-quilt of fireworks in the sky. Thunder sounded like a sonic boom as the worst storm in five decades slaughtered the state of Virginia. Vicious waterfalls of rain reduced visibility, forcing the procession of vehicles to a halt.
The lead car’s brake lights came to life as the driver waited for the electronic gates to swing open. In mid-swing, an arthritic limb from one of the three-hundred-year-old oaks crashed downward to land on top of the electrified fence of Myra Rutledge’s McLean, Virginia, estate.
The occupants of the cars shivered as the limb sizzled and crackled, flames shooting upward to meet the savage lightning attacking the night.
One by one, the cars proceeded to inch forward only to stop when the lead car sounded its horn and ground to a stop because the opening wasn’t large enough to drive through. Doors swung open, rain-clad figures huddled, arms waving, their shouts carried away on the gusty, hurricane-like winds.
A piercing whistle, the kind heard at ball games, shrilled in the stormy air. “Back up one at a time. Give me enough room and I’ll take down the gates,” a voice ordered with authority.
With visibility at zero minus, the occupants of the cars did their best to follow the order. Bumpers and front ends collided as a blast from the last vehicle in the procession of cars came to life with a savage bellow.
The eighteen-wheeler driven by Kathryn Lucas skirted the cars with long years of expertise. With a mighty roar that matched the rolling thunder overhead, she crashed through the massive iron gates. “God, I always wanted to do something like that,” she chortled gleefully. “Oh, Alan, I wish you could see what I just did. If it wasn’t for this big rig, we’d all still be sitting outside those monster gates. Can you just see that ancient Rolls or the Benz tapping those gates! I swear those gates are made of something besides iron. I wouldn’t be surprised if I did some serious damage to this fine vehicle. I love you, will always love you. Remember that, Alan. This is Big Sis signing off.” Talking to her late husband always made her feel better. Believing her husband was still with her in spirit gave her great comfort. It didn’t mean she was nuts, or that she was losing it. All it meant was she felt better and she was sharing with the only man she ever loved or would love in the future.
The portico as well as the old farmhouse was awash with light, beckoning warmth and safety to the drivers of the vehicles. The Honda Civic, the customized Jag, the BMW and the Benz lined up in formation and parked two across. The ancient Bentley parked behind the eighteen-wheeler.
Umbrellas were raised only to sail upward in the sixty-mile-an-hour winds. The five women sprinted toward the light spilling from the main doorway that was being held open by a tall, stately looking woman: Myra Rutledge. Rain poured through the open doorway, soaking the beautiful heart of pine floor. “Welcome to Pinewood,” she said.
Charles Emery used all his shoulder power to shove the monster bolt into the lock position on the solid oak door. The bolt, the lock and the door itself dated back to the days when the slaves were routed through Pinewood to the underground railroad.
“Come, come. We have dry clothes for you all,” Myra said as she handed out thick, luxurious towels that were as large as bath sheets along with a flat, white box containing candles.
“The power will probably go off soon and there seems to be something wrong with the generator that lights this part of the house, so we’re going to be using candlelight until we can get the power working. Take any room at the top of the steps. Follow me, please,” Charles said.
The moment the women were out of sight, Myra lowered her body to the third step from the bottom of the breathtaking circular staircase. Her gnarled hand reached out to touch one of the polished oak spindles. She remembered all the times her daughter had whooped her way down the bannister, Nikki right behind her. They had both continued to do it in the years to come. It was all so long ago. Two years since that fateful day when her daughter had been killed. An eternity. Tears gathered in her eyes. She wiped at them angrily.
Now, it was payback time.
Myra looked around the foyer that was half as large as the church she worshipped in.
There was no life here, no indication anyone truly lived here. Suddenly, she wished for flowers, huge bouquets of colorful Shasta daisies, green plants, cacti, anything to take away the museum-like look of the house. Flowers these past two years hadn’t been a priority.
The chandelier overhead flickered, thanks to the rickety old generator. A moment later the only light to be seen came from the candle in Myra’s hand. She wished now she had listened to Charles and replaced the generator, but in the scheme of things, generators hadn’t been a top priority in her life these past two years either. She’d been too busy grieving, living in a cocoon of pure hell.
“We’re coming down, Myra,” Nikki shouted from the top of the stairs. “Hold the candle high!”
Myra thought she heard a giggle from one of the women and then, in the blink of an eye, Kathryn Lucas was whooping her pleasure as she slid down the polished bannister, her candle straight in front of her, Nikki behind her. Long years of practice allowed Myra to reach out one long arm to break the younger woman’s fall. Nikki slid expertly to the floor and was on her feet a second later, a wide smile on her face.