CHAPTER ONE of Descendant
Jordan steered her BMW convertible onto the narrow paved road, the last turn before she reached the driveway of the Kacy plantation, her family's summer home in Hanover County, Virginia, the tomato capital of the South.
Branches of towering oaks criss-crossed over the narrow lane, making a welcoming arch over the home stretch. Cicadas buzzed and frogs belted tunes from the swamps on either side of the road. They were feeling the change in the energy floating through the air—chirping and squawking as though in anticipation of something. Lines of sunlight flashed over the car through gaps in the canopy overhead, stealing focus from the sounds in the background.
Jordan inhaled deeply in the humid air and pushed her sunglasses back into her blonde hair. The stress of her exams for her Bachelor's in linguistics finally began to melt away. She was free for the summer. Free to work in the garden, hang out with her father, go horseback riding and maybe arrange a long hike in the Appalachians with her friends.
Jordan's eyes dropped to the clock on her console. Her dad should be waiting for her by the time she arrived.
As though on cue, her phone chirped from its holder. Allan Kacy, a state senator to most, “Dad” to Jordan. She pressed the ‘answer’ button on her steering wheel.
"Hey, Dad." She was unable to keep the grin out of her voice. "I'm less than five minutes away."
"Hi, Jordy," came Allan's throaty bass through her car’s speakers. "I'm running behind. Got caught up with a lobbyist this afternoon and I’m still stuck on an issue with her."
"Daaaaaaaad."
"I know, I know. I'm almost done, I promise. I'll be hitting the road shortly. Can't wait to see you."
Jordan slowed the convertible as she approached their driveway and steered the car up to their aluminum mailbox. She opened the box and caught a week’s worth of flyers and newspapers as they tumbled out. "Want me to start a fire?" she asked him. She tossed the load of mail onto the passenger’s seat and her eye caught on a white delivery notice. She picked it up and scanned it.
"It's June, baby. Is that really necessary?"
"No, it isn't. But you know how cozy it makes the place. Hey, there's a delivery for you at the post office. Did you order something?"
The phone went silent.
"Dad?"
"Um…"
Jordan laughed. "What is it this time? A helmet from the Boer War, or a pair of boots worn by General Marshall?" Allan was a collector of war memorabilia. There was an entire upstairs room at the plantation dedicated to his obsession. If you were brave enough to quiz Allan on either WWI or WWII trivia, you'd better be prepared to settle in for a long night.
"Wait till you see it," Allan said and his voice sounded totally different. Younger. Full of life. "It's a beauty. I was lucky to find it, actually."
"Sounds expensive," Jordan said. "You only say that when you've spent more than a grand." Jordan hit the remote fastened to her sun visor and the wrought-iron gates began their slow, squeaky separation. She eased the convertible through the narrow entrance and down the long, potholed driveway. "Still don't get why you didn't become a history prof, Dad."
"There's no money in teaching history," Allan scoffed.
"Well, not our kind of money," said Jordan as she pulled up in front of their towering heritage home. "But you might have been happier."
I'm not unhappy, Jordy. But I do have to go. I'll catch up to you soon, okay?"
"Kay, Dad. See you in a bit." Jordan hung up and frowned. Allan wasn’t happy, actually; he just didn’t want to admit it to his daughter. Going into politics had been his father’s decision, not his own.
She took her earpiece out, threw it into her bag, grabbed the stack of mail and got out of the convertible. Taking the front steps two at a time, Jordan paused to sniff the wisteria that had a stranglehold on the fat marble columns gracing their front porch. She used her key to let herself in through the wide double doors. She crossed the foyer, purposefully stepping on the squeaky floorboard and smiled at the familiar sound. She tossed the mail on the huge round table in the center of the room. Fresh peonies—multi-colored and fragrant—stood in a large crystal vase in the middle of the table. Jordan leaned over the table to take a whiff. Cal, their groundskeeper, had probably left shortly before she'd arrived. He always set out some impressive bouquet whenever Jordan and Allan were coming to the house. He could do anything with plants and kept the Kacy plantation manicured all by himself. It was a full-time job.
Jordan slipped into the small bathroom that was tucked under the wide, curved staircase and took out her contacts. Her eyes were instantly grateful for the fresh air. Her reflection in the small mirror went blurry and Jordan fumbled in her bag for her glasses case. The world came back into focus as she put on her trendy specs with the black frames. It was impossible for her to navigate the world without either them or her contacts.
She went through the broad archway into the sitting room—a massive space filled with clusters of antique furniture and a big fireplace. An antique crank gramophone sat on a table under a window, its brass parts gleaming. Jordan’s mother had loved antiques and, according to Allan, the gramophone had been one of her favorite pieces.
Jordan heard the fire crackling before she saw it or felt its heat.
"You beauty, Cal," she said to the elderly fellow who was still down on one knee in front of the fire, rearranging the logs with a poker. Cal was a small, wiry man with dark brown eyes and deep laugh lines. He’d been keeping the grounds for the Kacy family since Jordan was in diapers and knew that she loved to have a fire in the parlor in the evenings.
He looked up and winked. "Miss Kacy," he nodded. "How did your exams go?"
"Really well; thanks, Cal. It's nice to find you still here. How's the wife?"
His phone dinged from the front bib of his denim coveralls. "Impatient," he chuckled. "I'll be heading out now. Just didn't want to leave the fire unattended." He got to his feet stiffly, and scratched his forehead. "Allan working late?"
"Seems so," said Jordan, coming to stand in front of the fire. "He'll be along soon. You go home. Have a good weekend." She reached out and squeezed his arm. "Thanks for the fire."
He touched a finger to the brim of his cap. "Welcome. Have a good time with your pa."
Jordan stood watching the flames and chewing her lip for a while after Cal left. Her eyes drifted to the mantel, where a collection of family photographs stood, becoming artifacts of history. Her mother's face smiled down from the cluster of images, impossible to ignore with its otherworldly beauty: accepting a bouquet after winning the Miss Virginia pageant, in a debutante dress, bare-shouldered and with an arm looped through the elbow of Jordan's grandfather, Declin Richard Kacy. Tantalizing in a strapless cream gown with dusty-pink tea-roses at the nape of her neck, Jaclyn had the kind of face and figure only found in magazines and on movie screens. A tall and leggy brown-eyed blonde, with high cheekbones and a pouty mouth, she had won several pageants, modelling contracts and even the role of spokesperson for an environmentally-friendly beauty brand. When Jaclyn, the sweetheart of Richmond, met Allan Kacy at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new children's hospital, they seemed destined for a happy ending and a house full of exquisitely beautiful children, living along stately River Road—or at least nestled somewhere in the West End.
Jordan selected one of the photographs and took it down—the black and white portrait of her mother in the antique silver frame. She gazed into the dark brown doe-eyes and frowned. "What happened to you, Mom?" she whispered. It was the defining question of Jordan's youth.
Jaclyn had disappeared when Jordan was not yet three and Jordan no longer knew if the faint memories she had of her mother were real or figments of her imagination. A long-familiar pang struck Jordan in the heart and her throat closed up, more with sadness for her father than for herself. But still she wondered, what kind of woman would she have been if she had been raised with the help of her mother’s hand? Jaclyn had been beloved. Allan had only ever spoken of her wit, her wisdom and her sweetness.
There had been no note, suicide or otherwise. There had been no signs of a struggle and no body had ever been found. Jaclyn's Porsche had still been parked in the garage, the engine cool. Her bike still hung on the rack along with Jordan’s and Allan’s. Her luggage was stowed in the attic; all of her clothing was still hanging and folded in her closets. The only indication that Jaclyn was gone had been the open back door. The old plantation property had miles of forests and farmland to the west and south, swampland to the east and the interstate to the north. How far could she have gone when leaving the house on foot? The property’s old well was covered with a concrete slab and the large pond at the rear of their yard had been dragged three times over.
According to Allan and the investigator leading the missing persons case, it seemed as though Jaclyn had literally disappeared without a trace. The only factor the investigators had to go on was that Jaclyn was still struggling with fairly serious post-partum depression.
So where did that leave the Kacy family?
"Nowhere, that's where," Jordan muttered, putting the photograph back on the mantel.
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