Chapter 1

HE WATCHED HER . . . with clinical interest.

And he wondered why he felt so removed.

The object of Mac Carlin’s intense scrutiny was Alice, the woman he’d been married to for eight years. He felt like a sneak, a Peeping Tom, watching her.

Mac’s index finger automatically rose upward to adjust his aviator glasses, which were slipping down his nose.

How was it possible, he wondered, for this woman to spend eight solid hours sleeping between lace-bordered satin sheets, and then wake up with every blond hair still in place? There was color on her high cheekbones and a smudged line under her lower lashes. And not one, but two diamonds winked in each ear. Her lips were a glossy deep pink that matched the polish on her exceptionally long nails. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the nails were artificial. He wasn’t sure about the glossy pink lips either. It had been awhile since he’d kissed his wife or even looked at her up close.

The peach-satin creation that swirled about her was one he’d never seen before. He knew that it must have cost as much as two good suits from an expensive tailor.

Once he’d thought her delectable as a bonbon. He’d wanted her, but the only way he could have her was to marry her. Which he did, the day he graduated from West Point. Crossed swords and all.

To his mind, Alice now more closely resembled a shellacked mannequin, and her personality, if she’d ever had one, was brittle and artificial.

When he’d first met Alice Summers at a pool party ten years ago, during his third year at the Academy, she looked like the girl next door. She’d been a flirt, a tease and a virgin. She told him in no uncertain terms that she was a “good girl” and didn’t “put out” for anyone. He’d done everything but howl at the moon in his desire to have her, but she wouldn’t even let him put his hand near her breast, much less inside her dress. He couldn’t really remember now, but he thought that back then he’d respected her for holding out.

Marriage to Alice had been, and still was, the biggest disappointment of his life. Alice’s idea of sex was: I give you something and you give me something back. What he had to give were material offerings: a new fur jacket, a gem, a trip, a sports car, trinkets, elegant handbags, lizard shoes, anything so long as it was expensive. With every promise of a new treat, Alice performed. Once a week. If he held out in the gift department, once every two weeks. If the check from his trust fund was slow in arriving, every three weeks.

It took him a full year before he got it through his head that he was buying his wife’s sexual favors, and another year before he realized Alice had married him for his money. He couldn’t recollect anything about the third and fourth years, but he did remember the fifth year because he’d asked for a divorce. Of course she’d said no, after she’d had a good laugh. “Do whatever you want, darling,” she’d said, “but please, be discreet.” He’d never touched her again, until a few months ago when he’d gotten stinking drunk and literally dragged her into his bedroom. He hadn’t raped her. You couldn’t rape someone who was dead from the neck down. In fact, he remembered her exact words: “Just do it and get it over with.”

The next day he’d volunteered for Vietnam. He managed to pull the same strings his father had pulled to get him stationed at the Pentagon. His father, Supreme Court Justice Marcus Carlin, had more strings to yank than a hot air balloon. It had worked for him just the way it worked for his father. Captain Malcolm Carlin was to depart the United States of America in two days. He felt like cheering. Maybe he would, after he told Alice.

Mac leaned against the wall. Alice hadn’t yet noticed him. Maybe, he thought, she hadn’t put the startling green contact lenses in her eyes yet. Cat eyes. All she needed was a tail.

For the thousandth time he wondered what it would take to make Alice give him a divorce. He’d already offered her the house in Palm Springs, the chalet in Aspen, this monstrous house in McLean, Virginia. He’d even offered her his prize stallion, Jeopardy. She’d laughed and said, “It’s not enough.” He’d raged, demanding to know what was enough. “Put a price on it, Alice.”

“Some day, Mac, when your father goes to that big courtroom in the sky,” she’d said, “you will be an incredibly wealthy man. When that happens we’ll discuss it, and not a moment before.” She’d stunned him with that. He’d called her a ghoul and she’d laughed again, a weird, tinkling sound that gave him goose bumps.

What bothered Mac even more was his father’s blindness with regard to Alice. The old man thought she was right up there with sliced bread. On those occasions when the old man needed a hostess, Alice willingly played the part, which gave her a perfect entrée into Washington society.

Mac had no illusions about his father, none at all. Marcus Carlin was a lecher, if a discreet one—a good ol’ boy, salivating, geriatric, ass-pincher.

The old man was as fit and trim as a frisky pup. He still worked out, jogged three miles every morning, had the wickedest backhand at the country club and could belt down a half bottle of Old Grand-Dad and never blink an eye. He was also the youngest Supreme Court judge on the bench.

Mac sighed. Time to get on with his day. He glanced at his watch. Just enough time for a quick cup of coffee and another minute to tell Alice he was leaving. He wondered now for the first time what his wife was doing up at the ungodly hour of seven-thirty. He allowed his eyebrows to shoot upward in surprise.

“To what do I owe this early morning breakfast?”

“It’s too early for humor, Mac,” Alice murmured.

Once again Mac wondered how she managed to talk without moving her facial muscles.

Mac poured his coffee into a fragile little cup, which looked like it belonged to a child’s tea set. He shrugged.

Alice looked down at the piece of dry toast on the gold-rimmed plate. Would it stay down if she nibbled on it? She rather doubted it. Panic coursed through her. She knew what was wrong, and she didn’t need a pelvic exam or a urine test to confirm it. She was pregnant. The whole idea was so repulsive, so abhorrent, she almost gagged. A baby wasn’t in her plans—not now, not later, not ever.

Last night in the privacy of her bathroom she’d wadded two towels into a ball and slipped them under her nightgown to see what she would look like with a protruding stomach. Her father-in-law would be delighted. Mac would be delirious. But she had gagged.

She needed to give her condition a lot of thought. It was only nine months out of her life. She’d demand a trip to the south of France, where she’d live out those months so that none of her friends would see her stomach grow fat.

“Dieting again?” Mac said, stalling for time.

Mac was such a disappointment to her. She’d expected wonderful things from him, and he hadn’t come through. He was still a captain working at the Pentagon. Nothing prestigious about that. He did look dashing in his dress uniform, but otherwise he didn’t stir her in any way.

“You should think about dieting yourself, Mac,” she said. “You look like you’ve put on a few pounds.” It was a lie, she thought sourly, he was as fit as his father.

“Alice, I have to talk to you about something, and no, it cannot wait. I’m leaving for Vietnam in two days. I volunteered. We’ll have time away from one another, and when I get back, if I still feel the same way I do now, I’ll file for a divorce. I want that clear and out in the open. If you still refuse, I’ll simply walk out.”

Alice raised her green eyes guilelessly and smiled. “I’m pregnant, Mac. So it’s hardly the time to think about divorce. Or for you to be going off and leaving me. Well, say something.”

He did, but it wasn’t what he intended to say. “Did you tell my father?” A baby. The thought was mind-boggling.

Alice’s brain raced. What did that mean? Did he suspect? “What a perfectly silly thing to say. Of course I didn’t tell him. You’re the first one I’ve told.”

“I’m having lunch with Dad. I’ll tell him. He’ll look out for you while I’m gone.” Jesus Christ! Of all the things in the world she could have sprung on him, this was the worst.

Mac found himself staring at his wife. She was beautiful, cold, and brittle. He now realized, of course, that he’d never loved her.

Alice’s long nails tapped on the dining room table. “How long will you be away?” she asked in a disinterested voice.

He didn’t want to tell Alice he would be in Vietnam a year, so he shrugged.

“Be sure there’s enough money in the account to take care of things. I don’t want to have to beg your father for handouts. I think I’ll go to France and have the baby there. I’m sure you have no objections. Of course, I’ll need enough money to rent a villa. And I mean carte blanche, Mac,” she said warily.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mac said sarcastically. He saluted her smartly before striding out of the dining room.

Alice wrinkled her forehead. She hadn’t counted on Mac’s being gone for the birth of the baby. The manicured nails tapped on the shiny surface of the dining room table. When Plan A doesn’t work, switch to Plan B. Or C or D.

While her mind raced, rejecting, sifting, collating, Alice’s eyes raked the dining room she’d inherited from Mac’s father. After their marriage the judge had turned over the Carlin homestead to Mac and moved into a house in the Georgetown section of Washington.

She remembered that day so well. She’d walked through the house, awed at the magnificence of it, but she couldn’t imagine Mac, as a little boy, scampering about the huge rooms. He certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to bounce a ball on the old, polished wood floors, or to slide down the banister of the splendid staircase. She’d only given the Carlin ancestry, which graced the walls, a cursory glance. They were history and had nothing to do with her.

She had never changed anything in the huge colonial mansion, because to do so would have angered Marcus Carlin, and if there was one thing she vowed never to do, it was to upset her father-in-law. In the beginning the heavy, antique furniture depressed her, but once she made it her business to learn its value, her attitude changed. Now she had it all catalogued, right down to the last silver spoon.

She’d also had her jewelry catalogued and appraised, which comprised all the fine pieces she had weasled out of Mac and her father on her birthdays and Christmas. She had the neck for diamond chokers, and just the right earlobes for the three-carat clusters that once belonged to Mac’s grandmother. Her wrists were slender and graceful enough for the several diamond bracelets she constantly wore. She had a total of seven valuable rings, so valuable that Marcus Carlin insisted she keep them in a safety vault, but it annoyed her that she and Mac had to pay the outrageous insurance premiums on them. Once she’d had to cancel a trip to the Virgin Islands because premiums were due. The following day she’d taken her entire jewelry box to Marcus Carlin and with tears in her eyes told him that she and Mac couldn’t afford to keep them. The judge had immediately written a check. Mac and his father had serious words over that incident. She and Mac had had serious words too.

Alice looked down the length of the cherrywood table, which was set with two magnificent arrangements of fresh tulips and greenery. It would seat sixteen comfortably. She fancied she had an eye for beauty, but none impressed her as much as her own. She presented a lovely picture sitting there at the head of the table in her elegant dressing gown, and she knew it. The fine crystal, bone china, and sterling silver inspired her eyes to sparkle. The Irish linen cloth and napkins felt like satin in her hands. Her eyes turned to the sideboard, where an elegant silver service stood. All this now belonged to her, the mistress of Carlin House.

And she was fucking pregnant.

The birth alone would be worth a palatial estate in Hawaii. Or perhaps a chalet in Switzerland. She did love to ski. Then again, she loved the sun.

The Carlin money was so old, it was moldy. It had been made in tobacco and cotton, which was another way of saying the sweat, blood, and tears of slaves. There was so much of it, it boggled her mind. And she wanted it. All of it. If she couldn’t have it all, then her child would get it. Either way, it would be hers.

On her way up the majestic stairway that led to the wide, central foyer, with its decorative balcony, Alice vaguely wondered, and not for the first time, about her feelings toward Mac. He’d certainly given her everything she’d ever asked for, even the family home. He’d grumbled about accepting it, of course, but in the end he’d given in, because he thought it would make her happy. And then he’d taken her around the world, again, to make her happy.

Alice removed her dressing gown and hung it carefully on a scented hanger. She wanted her own maid, someone to pick up after her, but so far that little treasure had eluded her. A cook, a housekeeper, and a gardener were all she had. Now, though, with the baby coming, she was almost certain she could cajole a personal maid out of her father-in-law. She would also have to give some thought to a nurse and a nanny.

An ugly look crossed Alice’s face as she ran her hands over her flat stomach. Soon it would bulge like a watermelon, and she’d have to wear those damn tent dresses. Maybe she could have Dior whip up something that wouldn’t shriek pregnancy.

Today was one of her nothing days, a day when she could sit and read, drink a mint julep, watch television, or go shopping. She hadn’t been shopping in two days. By now Garfinkle’s would have new merchandise. A day for herself. Or she could read a book on pregnancy, the one the doctor had given to her last week. As if she wanted to read about a uterus, ovaries, and the birth canal. Just the words were enough to make her heave.

She could have stopped by her father-in-law’s office and invited him to lunch to tell him the news, but Mac had already planned lunch with him. Better to let the judge come to her. Much better.

Poor Mac. Poor, poor Mac. Where had it all gone? She pulled on a sheer nylon, careful to keep the seam straight. She wasn’t certain if she had ever loved Mac. She rather thought she had, in the beginning. But maybe it had only been his dashing cadet uniform, his potential, his background, and all that wonderful, old, crackly, green money. Mac and his family were everything her family wasn’t. Her father was a landscaper, her mother a nurse. They’d lived in a square little house that was manicured and pruned, so much so that it screamed at you when you walked up the flagstone walkway to the little front porch with its two wicker chairs. She’d never wanted for anything. She’d had everything the other youngsters had, possibly a little more, as her mother worked. She’d had her own car at seventeen, a spiffy Pontiac with real leather seats. She’d even been popular in school, a cheerleader, and she had sung in the school choir because her voice was high and sweet. By the time she left for Syracuse University, she knew she never wanted to return to Rockville, Maryland. Instead she wanted to find a rich husband and get married as soon as she finished college.

The secret to anything, she thought as she twirled in front of the smoky mirror, was planning. For her anyway.

She had a plan now. It was committed to memory. Later, at some point, she would decide it was time to put it into effect.

Poor Mac. Poor, poor Mac.

Alice climbed behind the wheel of her Mercedes sports coupe for an exhilarating day of shopping at Garfinkle’s.

 

IT WASN’T UNTIL Mac parked in the lot nearest the Pentagon’s Seventh Corridor entrance that he started to wonder if Alice would deliver a girl or a boy. A baby! Son of a bitch!

It wasn’t that he didn’t like babies. In fact, he loved kids. As an only child, he’d often been lonely growing up and had always wished for a house full of siblings. He knew he’d make a good father if given the chance. He debated a full minute about the strings he’d pulled to get transferred out. He could pull them again and have his orders changed. If he wanted to. But he’d made a commitment and he would stick to it. Alice would survive as long as she had a housekeeper, a butler, a chauffeur, a cook, and round-the-clock nurses.

Mac Carlin turned more than one head when he strode down the corridor to the office he shared. He was tall, well over six feet, and he carried himself like a commanding general. The Academy did that to a man. Chest out, chin in. People called him handsome. He saw himself as clean-cut and all-American. He had the kind of bright blue eyes that women loved, and sinfully long eyelashes that swept upward and matched his unruly dark hair, which he threatened to brush-cut every time it fell over his eyes. He also had a sense of humor. He could laugh at himself and was fond of playing practical jokes on the secretary, Stella, who took it all with good grace.

Stella thought of him as a son and brought him cookies and brownies from home. She was Polish, and once in a while told him a silly Polish joke. She also told him, over and over, that if he wasn’t happily married, she could fix him up with one of her hundred cousins. Captain Carlin always laughed, but he never said he was happily married.

Stella wiped her eyes. She was going to miss him. How handsome he looked, she thought, as he strode past her desk and winked at her, something he did every morning. She pretended to swoon, as she did every morning. It was a standing joke between them.

The buzzer on her desk sounded. “Stella, will you get Phil Benedict on the phone for me and call my father to confirm our lunch date? By the way, you look beautiful today. That husband of yours must be treating you right.” He chuckled.

Stella beamed. “Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it right away. Stash always treats me right, Captain.”

“That’s because he knows a good woman when he sees one,” Mac joked. He was going to miss Stella and her sweet, homely face. He was going to miss a lot of things.

He thought about the baby while he waited for his old roommate to come on the line. He’d miss the birth, the first bottle, and everything that came afterward. Would Alice send him pictures? Out of sight, out of mind. He’d have to discuss that with his father.

Mac’s fingers drummed on the desk. The ease with which Alice had announced her pregnancy puzzled him. She’d made it clear early on that she didn’t want his children, even though she’d said otherwise when they were dating. Once she’d made the rash statement that she couldn’t wait to cook a meal for him. He was still waiting. Alice couldn’t boil water, much less cook a meal. Sometimes he wondered how she got herself together in the mornings. This whole thing was confusing, to say the least. The Alice he knew would have demanded he find a doctor to perform an abortion. She would have ranted and raved and blamed him. The Alice he knew would have thrown a fit at her circumstances, and more so when she found out he was leaving for Vietnam, but even that hadn’t bothered her.

“You son of a bitch, I just heard!” Phil Benedict hissed into the phone. “I want to go too!”

“Sure you do and sure you want to leave those twins and that cute little wife. Don’t shit me, Benny.”

“Sounded good, though, didn’t it?” Phil laughed. “Personally, I think you’re nuts. Let the marines go. They come by that kind of stupidity naturally.”

“I need to put some distance between me and here, that’s all. The thing at home, it’s not getting any better. My old man is leaning on me real heavy. I hate staff duty. This is nowhere to be, Phil, and we both know it. By the way, Alice told me she was pregnant this morning. Before I delivered my news.”

“But . . . You told me . . .”

“Yeah . . . Yeah, but I never told Alice,” Mac said tightly. “Since I exercised my conjugal rights one night when I had too much to drink, she thinks I’m responsible . . . or she’d like me to believe I am.”

Phil Benedict whistled. “Hey, why don’t you pull some of those awesome strings your father pulled the first time around?”

“I thought about it and decided against it. This is something I feel I have to do, Phil. I don’t want to deal with Alice and her pregnancy now.”

The faceless voice on the other end of the phone was silent for a moment. “I understand, Mac. Is there anything I can do, anything you want me to take care of while you’re. gone?”

“Write to me. I have a feeling I won’t be getting many letters. Alice said she’s going to rent a villa in the south of France and have her baby there.”

Phil whistled again. “Hey, you know what I always say, it’s probably meant to be. Listen, I can meet you for a drink after work if you want. We should at least shake hands and all that crap. You can tell your wife you had a flat tire.”

“The hell I will. I’ll say I stopped for a drink with the best friend a guy ever had. Sadie’s, right? Five minutes past five okay with you?”

“I’ll be there.”

Mac looked at his cleared desk. There really was no need for him to be here. He had his orders, and his time was his own. Something had prompted him to come in today, possibly the luncheon with his father. Marcus Carlin was the kind of person you had to make an appointment to see. Marcus Carlin didn’t believe in time off.

From childhood on Mac had always had to play the part of a little soldier for his father. He’d done it to please him, and when he pleased his father, his mother smiled. In his formative years he’d never said more than “yes, sir” and “no, sir” to his father. A regimented life, according to the judge, built character. So first there was boarding school, then prep school, and then the U.S. Military Academy and his commission in the army. “Ten years,” his father had said, “ten years and you’re out and headed for a bright future in politics.” Well, his goddamn ten years were almost up, and he didn’t want to go into politics, and Vietnam was his one and only chance to show independence from his father. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t come back, and he’d never have to go into politics. Or he could take off and disappear when he mustered out after his tour of duty in Nam. The coward’s way out, he thought miserably, although in his gut, he knew he was a coward only when it came to confronting his father. Otherwise, nothing cowed or frightened him.

Where Vietnam was concerned, the old man would surely expect him to come home with every medal the army had to offer. Once, that is, he got over the shock of Mac’s decision.

Mac’s stomach rumbled ominously. A grimace of pain stretched across his face. Once the judge heard about Alice’s pregnancy, he would have a press release scheduled by three o’clock. It would be full of saccharine and bullshit.

Mac pounded his clenched fist down on the shiny desktop. A pencil skittered to the edge, teetered, and dropped to the floor. Dust particles swept upward. They reminded him of the sawdust in a carnival. He’d run away with a local fireman’s carnival when he was twelve. The carny people had hidden him for two months. That two months had been the happiest time of his life. He’d loved eating with the Fat Lady and all the roustabouts. His only concern was his mother, who was in failing health. He’d called her once from a pay phone to tell her he was safe, but he hadn’t told her where he was. The worst part was being found by state troopers and taken home. His father hadn’t done anything normal like taking a belt to his behind. Instead, he’d banished him to his room without a radio. The only reading material he was allowed to have was Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and a book consisting of maps of the entire world. His punishment was to learn the spelling and the meaning of every single word in that dictionary. Every night for a year his father quizzed him. Weekends were spent drawing maps and penciling in remote places, half of which he couldn’t pronounce at twelve years of age. To this day he could close his eyes and pinpoint any place on the world map. It was his personal nightmare.

Still, he didn’t start to hate his father that year. The hatred started two years later, when he found out that his father was having an affair with a diplomat’s wife. He thought he was being a good son when he returned home from the city and told his mother about seeing his father with a strange woman. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the awful look on her face. Two weeks later Elsa Carlin packed her bags and returned to her home in Charleston, leaving him behind. The old man had handled it by pensioning her off like a servant. His mother had taken the money too; she’d marched out of the house like a soldier, her head high, her eyes brimming with tears. How cold her face was. He had thought then that the hatred in her eyes had been for him. Even now he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t. What he did know now was that he was responsible for breaking up their family.

They’d never divorced, and his mother had died five years after she left. A coronary. The old man had given out some kind of piss-assed statement about his wife having had a breakdown and, good husband that he was, he had insisted she return to her family, where the atmosphere was conducive to a complete recovery. In the meantime, he and his son would manage to get along on their own. From that day, his father had totally ruled his life.

Now it was time for a change. When he got back from Vietnam, he would be mustered out and take his place in the civilian world. Then he could do whatever he wanted. He could get his divorce, provide for Alice and the baby.

His bottom line was his personal happiness. He wanted to be loved by someone, and he wanted to love that person in return. He wanted to watch sunsets, to walk in the rain, to discuss his old age, to raise a family born out of love with a partner he loved.

Maybe it would happen. Maybe it wouldn’t. Right now he had a luncheon to attend with his father, and then a year to serve in Vietnam.

 

MARCUS CARLIN WAS every bit as imposing in his Saville Row suit as he was in his black judicial robes. His peers described him as formidable. Friends called him distinguished. Women said he was magnificently handsome and they plotted and schemed to be seen with him. The President of the United States considered him capable and austere. Media reporters treated him with deference, while they mumbled and muttered among themselves that yes, he made good copy, but not good enough to lose your job over. Most of them had come close to the unemployment line when they’d taken his political dossier to their chiefs just as he was about to announce his entrance into politics. Publishers and television network presidents immediately descended on his home and suggested to him, as friends, that he should withdraw from the race. In his study, over Havana cigars and Jim Beam whiskey, he agreed to do exactly that.

With his political ambitions in ashes at his feet, Marcus Carlin got drunk and slept on the Persian carpet that night. When he awoke with a colossal hangover the following morning, he decided all the media were his enemy. But if he’d had to pay their price this once, he wouldn’t pay it a second time.

Now his son Mac would do what he, Marcus, hadn’t been able to do, the elder Carlin thought. There were no skeletons in his son’s closets. The boy had promised him ten years in the army. He had one to go, and then his hat would go into the ring for the governorship of the state of Virginia. With Alice at his side, the beautiful, dutiful wife, they would make a perfect couple. The idol-loving public would go wild over them, he was sure. He’d make sure, by orchestrating their private lives and feeding tidbits to the hungry press. Once he whet the public’s appetite, he would have the election in the bag.

Marcus rarely smiled, but he smiled now. Mac would be a figurehead, and he would be the power behind his son. It would be almost as good as being governor himself.

Judge Carlin stepped from his chauffeur-driven stretch limousine, and within seconds was ushered to his favorite table at the rear of the room. Almost immediately a drink was set in front of him. He nodded when a copy of the Washington Star appeared on the table. Carlin allowed himself one quick glance around the room. There was nobody of importance there. Not that it mattered. He rarely spoke to anyone, and he never invited anyone to join him at his table if he was lunching or dining alone.

He did like being seen with his son, however. Although they didn’t look much alike, Marcus felt he looked as youthful as Mac, and he wanted people to notice that. As far as he was concerned, the only sign that he was older than Mac was his hair, which was gray, while his son’s was dark chestnut, almost black. The judge was fit and trim, weighing exactly 180, which was also his son’s weight. He had blue eyes, like Mac’s, but his own were calculating and shrewd, where Mac’s were trusting and open. They both had the same straight nose and the same cleft in what one reporter called a Grecian jaw. Fully clothed, Marcus Carlin could easily pass for a dashing forty-eight, thanks to a skilled plastic surgeon in Switzerland. When associates commented on his youthful appearance, he gave the credit entirely to a line of vitamins he said he took religiously. But he also worked out regularly, played tennis and squash, and jogged three miles every morning. However, he never wore shorts or short-sleeved shirts. Marcus didn’t want any observe-ers to see what he detested about himself—loose, flabby skin. For that, he hated his son’s rippling, muscular thighs and hard biceps.

The judge sensed rather than saw his son approaching. Sensed because he noticed the slight rustle of moving chairs, was aware of craning necks and a soft murmur of voices, especially from the women. Mac was almost as distinguished in his captain’s uniform as the judge was in his English-tailored suit.

“Dad, good to see you,” he said, slipping into his chair.

Marcus wondered with annoyance how his son could be so unaware of the stir he was creating. He himself was always attuned to the effect of his own entrances.

Mac reached for his glass of wine, which appeared as if by magic. His father was lighting a cigarette, and Mac wanted one too. He waited a moment to see if his father would offer him one from the crocodile leather case, but he didn’t. His father never offered anything.

“How’s everything over at the Pentagon?” the judge asked in a bored voice.

Mac watched the perfect smoke ring rise and then waft toward him. He brushed at it impatiently. He didn’t like the Jockey Club, because it was one of his father’s favorite restaurants. He also didn’t like his father’s narrowed eyes or grim jaw. Mac’s heart fluttered. Had the old man somehow gotten wind of what was going on? It was unlikely, he decided, since he’d learned to play the game almost as well as his old man.

Mac leaned back in his cane chair, a picture of nonchalance. He took his own cigarettes from a pocket, a crumpled pack of Chesterfields, and lit up. It amused him when his smoke ring circled the judge’s head. Rather like a halo. He thought he could see little tufts of hair resembling horns on the sides of his father’s head. He found himself grinning. “Things are about the same as they were yesterday and the day before that. I don’t sit in on policy-making decisions.”

“By your choice,” the judge snapped.

“Yes, by my choice,” Mac said quietly.

He wasn’t going to miss his father at all. How could you miss someone you were never allowed to know, to get close to? He could feel his eyes start to spark when a bowl of French onion soup was set before him. He detested onion soup. He waved it away, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t going to touch the cobbler’s salad either. He could almost picture the grilled salmon steak that would be forthcoming shortly. His father’s favorite meal; his guests too, like it or lump it. He’d seen people force down food, stifle their gagging impulses, just to impress his father. He’d done it himself, and all he’d gotten for it was acute indigestion. But not today. Not ever again.

Mac lit a second Chesterfield, then drained his wineglass and signaled for another. His father’s eyebrows shot up. One drink at lunch was his father’s motto, two for dinner. All things in moderation. Mac gulped at the dry wine.

Judge Carlin dabbed at his lips. He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

He’s worried there might be specks of spinach on his teeth, Mac thought.

“Just spit it out, Malcolm, and let’s see what we can do with it,” the judge said, patting his lips a second time.

Mac crossed his legs and fixed his stare on his father, across the table. “I volunteered for Vietnam. I leave the day after tomorrow. My orders are carved in granite, if that’s your next question.” He signaled for a third glass of wine.

“You did what!” the judge hissed.

Mac smiled. He wondered how his father did it: his jaw had barely moved, his lips hadn’t parted, but the angry horror was there for anyone to see. “You pledged me ten years, Malcolm. An honorable man doesn’t go back on his word.”

“I’m not going back on my word. One year in Vietnam will finish up my time in the service. I’m giving you exactly what I promised. When I get back, if I get back, we’ll discuss the second part of my career,” Mac said tightly.

The salmon steak arrived just as Mac knew it would. He waved it away. Today there were two sprigs of parsley on the plate.

The judge leaned across the table, a ghoulish look on his face. The other diners were supposed to think he was smiling. It was such a neat trick, Mac thought, being able to talk and not move your lips or jaw. “This is about the most stupid thing you’ve ever done. I’ve pulled strings, I’ve called in favors, and I’ve gone out of my way to get you a comfortable job in the Pentagon. Now you toss it all aside.”

“I’m not needed here, and I hate staff duty,” Mac replied. “I want to contribute.”

“Do you have any idea of what’s going on over there?” the judge demanded. He didn’t wait for a response, he never did. “You don’t have to go. Let someone else go.”

“Father, I am the someone else. I’m not going to change my mind,” Mac said firmly.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you know what’s going on over there? Well, do you?”

“I’m in the army, for Christ’s sake, of course I know what’s going on over there. I hope to make a difference. At least I’m going to try.”

The judge laid his fork down across his plate next to his knife. Now he’s going to tell me all the things on his mind, Mac thought, all the things that are important right now, more important than me. He sat back and fired up another cigarette.

“I have a lot going on, Mac. I don’t want to have to worry about you, and contrary to what you believe, I will worry. They’re yellow-eyed weasels, and they don’t fight the way you’ve been taught. There are no rules over there. You’ve learned jungle warfare from a book. The real thing is nothing like what you’ve been taught.

“LBJ told me himself he had a meeting with Premier Nguyen Cao Ky on the seventh. Ky said his government would never deal with the Viet Cong. They talked about economic and social reforms to win the war against the communists. We both know that’s bull. This war will be won or lost by force of arms. That’s why I prefer you stay stateside. I don’t want to stand by your casket the way I stood by Chester Nimitz’s. Do you hear me, Malcolm?”

“I don’t want your blessing,” Mac said firmly. “I just want your support. I need you to tell me you understand why I’m going over there.”

Judge Carlin picked up his fork and poked at his salmon. It was the most Mac would get. There would be no words, no pat on the back. He would finish his lunch. Mac found himself grinning.

“What’s gotten into you, son?” the judge asked.

Son. Mac couldn’t remember the old man ever calling him son. It was always Malcolm or Mac around his friends. It was too late for words like son. It was too late for a lot of things. He steeled himself to maintain the outward show of respect that was demanded of him.

“Jesus, Dad, I’m supposed to be a goddamn combat leader. They couldn’t wait to change my orders. They need me over there. I’m going. Do you want to say good-bye here or stop by the house? You will keep an eye on Alice for me, won’t you? Maybe this will take the edge off things. Alice is pregnant. She told me this morning. I’m not changing my mind. She wants to go to France and have the baby there,” Mac said cooly.

The elder Carlin snapped his lips shut. He hated having his judgment questioned. He never backed down. Never. And now, on top of everything else, a brat! That wasn’t in his plan. He didn’t like children, never had liked them. He tolerated Mac because it was expected. It was wholesome. It was the way things were done. But he didn’t have to like it.

“You could have asked me first.”

Mac laughed, a loud guffaw that made the other diners stare at the two good-looking men dining alone. “When? As I was unzipping my pants, or when Alice couldn’t find her diaphragm? I guess there was a minute there when I could have called you.” His laugh sounded bitter. For once, he noticed, the old man actually looked embarrassed.

“That’s not what I meant, and you damn well know it,” the judge seethed. It was a shock and he hadn’t been prepared for it. Then again, a baby, a toddler, would look good when he announced his son was going into politics. Mac was better looking than Jack Kennedy. Alice had the same kind of savoir faire as Jackie Kennedy. Maybe a stint in Vietnam would add to the political flavor of things. Providing Mac came home a hero. He gave voice to the thought.

Mac winced. He’d known the old man would think of it. “Well, hell yes, Father, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said mockingly. “You will keep tabs on Alice, won’t you?” He waited for his father to nod, then said, “Then you won’t mind if I skip dessert. My sweet tooth runs toward apple pie, not rice pudding. And I don’t like chicory in my coffee.”

“Your mother must be rolling over and over in her grave,” the judge muttered.

Mac could feel the beginnings of a heat flush on his neck. He wasn’t going to get suckered into that game. The old man always pulled out his mother as a last resort.

Mac stood, every eye in the room on him. “I guess this is good-bye, sir,” he said quietly.

There was little the judge could do but extend his own hand. Mac crushed it. “Good-bye, Malcolm. Make me proud of you.”

“You bet, sir. Yes, sir. Right, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” Mac fired off a snappy, mocking salute to his father before he strode from the restaurant.

And that was the end of that.

Outside in the brisk air, Mac inhaled deeply. He’d wanted the old man to slap him on the back. He’d wanted some encouraging words. Wanted, but never expected.

He started to walk; it was the only thing he could think of to do to get rid of the knots in his neck, the tension in his gut. Maybe a long walk in the brisk air would heal his heart.

He wandered aimlessly, up one street and down another; until he didn’t know where he was. Not that he cared at that moment. He walked until he was almost numb with the cold, then he hailed the first cab he saw. Forty minutes later he climbed into his own car and headed for his and Benny’s favorite bar. Their favorite because Bill’s Bar and Grill was the only place that served them when they’d been underage.

As he was locking his car, Mac surveyed Pennsylvania Avenue. Not much traffic. The bar would probably be empty. He could sit in the back and nurse his misery until Benny arrived. He stared at the garish neon sign that burned twenty-four hours a day. It looked like a sleazy, ramshackle tavern from the outside, but it was clean inside, warm, and full of camaraderie. The clientele, for the most part, wore three-piece business suits and Brooks Brothers shoes. There were no fistfights here, and the place didn’t smell like stale beer and cigarette smoke. It was, in his opinion, a class operation. Sadie Switzer ran the place. There was no Bill. She had named it, she said, after her only true love, who had left her high and dry when he found out she was pregnant. Sadie was fond of saying she kept the exterior shabby on purpose in case old Bill ever decided to come back and ask for a part of the profits.

There was a picture of Bill on one of the walls; it doubled as a dart board. Sadie gave free draughts to anyone who hit Bill’s nose dead center. During Mac’s senior year in prep school he’d practiced throwing darts every evening, but he’d used a picture of his father for a target. He’d gotten a vicious kind of pleasure out of plucking out the old man’s eyes and shredding his nose. Jesus, he’d used up a whole week’s allowance having pictures of his father blown up just so he could mutilate them. The day Sadie got tired of serving him free draughts, she asked him how he got so good at throwing darts. He told her. She’d hugged him, tears in her eyes. It was the best hug he’d ever had, sweet and motherly.

Warm, lemon-scented air wafted toward Mac when he opened the door. He blinked several times till his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

In a way, coming to Sadie’s was like coming home. He felt comfortable both here, in the bar itself, and upstairs in her four-room apartment. When he was younger, Sadie had never let him drive even after just one beer. Serving him when he was underage was one thing, but letting him drive under the influence of alcohol was something else.

If there was such a thing as a beautiful bar, then Bill’s Bar and Grill was beautiful. The bar was solid mahogany with a shiny brass rail, which Sadie polished herself. There were always bowls of pickled eggs as well as nuts and pretzels on the bar. The stools were made of matched, polished mahogany that smelled lemony and clean. The cushions were real leather and swooshed when you sat down. He’d always liked the sound. He also liked the oak floor, which was washed and waxed every night, even on Christmas Eve. The tables and chairs were also made of oak and were bright with polish. Green and white checkered cloths covered the tables. Sadie insisted that this was because Bill was Irish and his favorite color was green. Once in a while, especially on St. Patrick’s Day, she placed green candles on the tables and served green beer. It took him almost two years before he figured out that Sadie still loved Bill and would take him back in a heartbeat if he should ever walk through her front door.

Mac sat down at the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud. His eyes scanned Sadie’s memorabilia wall. Snapshots of patrons and their families covered it, but by invitation only. One did not, ever, sneak a picture onto the wall. To do so meant instant banishment. When Sadie decided you were worthy enough, she would casually mention that it was time for a picture. Mac had waited almost a year before she asked the bartender to snap a picture of him and her standing together outside the bar with the neon sign behind them. There were all kinds of pictures of Sadie on the wall, usually taken during one of the bashes she was famous for, but there were no pictures of Sadie posing with anyone but Mac. He’d puffed out like a peacock that day, and still did when he thought about it.

As he sipped his beer, Mac decided that someday he would do something really nice for Sadie in return.

Her scent arrived before she did. Mac sniffed appreciatively when she walked into the bar from the kitchen.

“Mac, honey, no one told me you were here.” She smiled, walking around the bar. “Is anything wrong?”

The concern and worry on her face made him force more lightness into his voice than he felt. Sadie already knew he was going to Nam, she’d been the first person he’d told. “No, not at all. I’m meeting Benny here, and I wanted to say good-bye. I just had lunch with my father.” He swigged from the bottle and shrugged at the same time.

Sadie Switzer was a tall woman, five-eleven, and she carried her height regally. She wore the best clothes, always had her hair expertly coiffed, and her makeup was so professional that it looked as if she wasn’t wearing any. Her hair was naturally white, and she refused to color it. “An old broad like me, come on,” she’d say. “I’m sixty-five. If I change myself, Bill won’t know me when he finally decides to look me up.” She was pretty, with eyes as green as grass and a straight little nose that she twitched when she was annoyed. But it was her smile, all crinkly and warm, that attracted people to her. In turn, she knew everything there was to know about her customers and their families, their pets, their in-laws, and she dispensed advice like a professional psychiatrist.

She sat down on the bar stool next to Mac. “Ginger ale,” she said to the bartender.

“You’re lookin’ good, Sadie.” Mac chuckled.

“I should, it took me three hours this morning to get myself together. God, I didn’t think I was ever going to get old. Then one day I woke up, and there I was, an old broad. I think it was the same day I realized Bill was never going to come back here for me.”

He had it, the nice thing he could do for Sadie. Find Bill.

“Where did he go, Sadie?”

“He said he was going to San Francisco, but that was a lie. He just didn’t want me to find him. He didn’t want a kid, that’s what it was all about. For sure he wasn’t father material, but at the time, I wasn’t exactly mother material either. I would have learned, Mac. Honest to God, I would have learned. I wanted that baby more than anything in the world, because it was part of Bill. When I miscarried, I wanted to die. I kept myself going all those years by convincing myself Bill would eventually start to think that he had a son or daughter and want to see his flesh and blood, but it never happened. I didn’t care after that, and I let myself go—physically and mentally. Then you walked in here, angry and belligerent, with a chip on your shoulder. It would have been my son’s birthday, if he had lived. Me and you, we hit it right off. I didn’t even give a damn if I got arrested for serving you, you being underage and all. Kid, when you invited me to West Point for your graduation, there wasn’t a prouder person in the world. You screwed up by getting married, but we aren’t going to talk about that. Swear to me you’re going to write to me at least once a month.”

“I swear—every two weeks. I wrote you when I was at the Academy, didn’t I?”

“That was different, you were lonely. You’re going to a hellhole. I can read, Mac. It’s all jungle over there. Once a month will be fine. But in the meantime, I would like to know why you’re doing this.”

Mac signaled the bartender for a second beer. “I have to get out from under. I need some time, some space. The old man took it rather well, all things considered. He ordered me to come back a hero.”

“It figures.” Sadie snorted. She would never forgive the judge for the way he treated his son. Neither would she ever forget the humiliating way he’d looked at her at Mac’s graduation. She didn’t like Alice either, and she had tried to steer Mac in other directions, but he’d been stubborn. If she’d had her way, she would have taken him to a high quality cathouse and turned him loose, but she didn’t have any say. It was a real pity; now Mac was shackled to someone he didn’t love with no way out.

“And your wife?” she asked gently.

“Ah, my wife. Well, Sadie, this morning my wife told me she’s pregnant.” He hated the pitying look in Sadie’s eyes. He took a long, hard pull at the beer bottle, almost draining it. “Say something, Sadie.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

Sadie was wearing a raspberry-colored silk blouse with a cream-colored skirt and beige pumps. A slender strand of pearls adorned the front of the blouse, Bill’s one and only gift to her.

She felt tears prick her eyes. She loved this boy—this young man, she corrected the thought. She felt his pain, had always felt it, and somehow she always knew when he was going through a bad time. She’d called his home for a while, but Alice usually managed to forget to give Mac her messages. When she couldn’t reach him at the house, she called the Pentagon. It was her mothering instinct, she said, which she’d never gotten the chance to nourish until Mac came along.

“A baby is a wonderful thing for two people, Mac. Perhaps it will cement your marriage.” She didn’t believe it for a minute.

“I’m going no matter what, Sadie,” Mac said glumly. “I have to do this—for me. If I don’t, what the hell kind of father am I going to make? Let’s not talk about this, okay? It’s my last night to howl. Me and Benny. The TFB kids. Remember? You christened us.”

“The Trust Fund Boys. Yes, I remember,” Sadie said softly. “I think that’s the only time in my life I made a bad judgment call. I apologized to both of you.”

“Yes, you did, and we took it real well, Benny and me.” Mac’s voice was beginning to slur. He was on his fourth beer. “Benny’s okay. My best friend. He’s happy, did I tell you that?”

“Uh-huh. How about some coffee, Mac, and a sandwich? Let’s go upstairs before you start giving my place a bad name.” She almost laughed then at the way Mac snapped to attention. He removed his uniform blouse, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He stood back and pitched his visored service cap toward the bar. It landed neatly on two bottles of Bombay gin. This time Sadie did laugh as she linked her arm with his.

In Sadie’s apartment, Mac leaned back in the comfortable chair and did his best to concentrate on her favorite show, Dark Shadows. It was four o’clock, so he still had an hour to kill until Benny arrived. Sadie was right. He needed to sober up before his best pal in the whole world arrived.

Sadie set down a plate of thick sandwiches full of every cold cut known to man. “I put lots of mustard and mayo on, just the way you like it.” Three pickled eggs and two sour pickles, along with some potato chips, completed Mac’s meal.

“Alice never makes me anything. The cook does it,” Mac mumbled as he chewed obediently. “Thanks for bringing me up here. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass you. I shouldn’t have had all that beer on an empty stomach.”

“It wasn’t me I was worried about, it was you, Mac.”

“I know, Sadie,” Mac muttered as he gulped the last of the coffee. He was more clear-headed now and he felt less woozy. “Did I tell you I’m going down to Charleston tomorrow on an early flight? I want to see my uncle Harry before I leave. I didn’t tell my father I was going. Shit, I didn’t tell Alice either. I should call her now and tell her I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Now, that’s a thought.” Sadie grinned.

Mac laughed. “I said I should, I didn’t say I would. Alice . . . Alice doesn’t care.”

From long experience, she knew it was time to steer the conversation in another direction. “You haven’t been to your mother’s home for a long time, have you?”

“The last time I went was when I was in high school. It was pure rebellion. My father forbid me to go, so I sneaked out at night and hitchhiked. I was kind of proud of that. My uncle Harry thought it was cool. He hates my old man, but then, my old man hates him too.”

“What about you, Mac, how do you feel about your mother’s side of the family?” Sadie asked carefully. This was a touchy subject with Mac. A look of pain crossed his face and she felt sorry she’d asked. “Listen, kiddo, that’s none of my business, and I’m sorry I asked. Shoot, the program’s over. Did Jonathan declare his love for Josette?”

“If he did, I didn’t see it. You have to stop watching this crap, Sadie.”

“I watch Huntley and Brinkley, what more do you want?”

“What I feel about my mother’s family isn’t the issue, it’s what they feel about me. I guess you could say I’m persona non grata where they’re concerned, but my father is at the bottom of it somehow. My uncle Harry is a strange man. I’ve always had this feeling he wanted to like me, did like me, but something held him back from showing it. Maybe he’ll welcome me and maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll tell me why my mother turned her back on me and left me with my father. I think it’s time I knew. If he won’t tell me, then I’ll have to live with it.”

Sadie’s eyes sparked. “Mothers don’t leave their children unless there’s a reason that’s so . . . God, it would have to be something monumental to make me leave a child. Mothers just don’t do that, Mac. Look, I know you saw your father with a chippie and you told your mother. That’s not it. There’s more to it. She probably knew all along your father fooled around. If that was the case, then for sure she would have grabbed you and taken you with her. Maybe you should leave it alone.”

Mac snorted. “That’s what I’ve been doing all along. Now it’s the right time. I might not get another chance. My old man is certainly never going to tell me what went on, so what other choice do I have?”

She shrugged her shoulders, bunching the slender strand of pearls between her breasts. “Listen,” she said brightly, “how about a slice of cheesecake? I made it myself.”

“I’m stuffed. Thanks anyway. Look, Sadie, don’t feel you have to babysit me. Go downstairs if you want. The early birds will be out in full force. Send Benny up when he gets here.”

Sadie smiled, and Mac thought her one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen. She was even prettier than he remembered his mother being. “If Bill calls, bang on the floor.”

“You got it.”

 

THE ROOM WHERE he waited was a Bill room, Mac had decided long ago. A shrine, for want of a better word. It wasn’t that it was an uncomfortable room in any way. It was more like an expectant room, a room waiting for one of its occupants to return. Somehow Sadie had managed to pull everything together in the narrow space so that it was comfortable and cozy. In the winter there was always a fire going in the fireplace and the scent of popped corn in the air. Bill, Sadie said, loved to pop corn, and they used to fight over what Bill called the “fluffies,” those first kernels that popped high and white and were crunchy and delicious. In the summer, huge clay pots of flowers decorated the hearth and’called attention to the rogue’s gallery over the mantel: pictures of Bill fishing, pictures of Bill on the first day of hunting season, Bill in his best suit on Easter, Bill sleeping in a folding chair at the beach, Bill in a wraparound apron, flipping pancakes. All the frames were identical, which made him think Sadie had bought frames by the dozen. Over the mantel was a huge oil painting of Sadie, painted when she was twenty-five. Whoever the artist was, he’d captured her perfectly, Mac thought. Sadie had the warmest, softest, kindest eyes he’d ever seen. The smile on the portrait was just as warm, soft, and kind.

The carpet was thick, almost ankle deep, a pure wheat color which was picked up in the drapes covering the long, narrow windows. Threads of bright orange and deep hunter-green shot through the drapes and were again picked up in the sofa cushions, which seemed to be crafted from the same color dye as the carpet. Two chairs, one a recliner, the other a rocker, were side by side at the far end of the room. At the foot of the recliner was an ottoman covered in brilliant orange. This chair, Bill’s chair, was like new, still unused. Sadie’s headrest, on the other hand, was punched in and the seat cushion dented from hours of use. The small piecrust table separating the chairs supported a lamp, an ashtray holding a pipe, and Bill’s glasses. Next to Bill’s chair was a magazine rack filled with copies of Field and Stream, Bill’s favorite magazine. The magazine rack, a twin of Bill’s next to Sadie’s chair, was filled with copies of Redbook, McCall’s, and Ladies’ Home Journal. All of the magazines were still glossy, never read. It was no fun to read alone, Sadie said, because there was no one to discuss the articles or stories with. It was all part of Sadie’s dream. Underneath the triple windows a pool table with balls racked and cue sticks at the ready waited for Bill. The balls were always clean and shiny, with never a speck of dust. To the left of the pool table was an entertainment center. A stereo system, television, and record rack. Bill liked Big Band music. Sadie had every record ever made. To the right of the entertainment center was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with all of Bill’s favorites. All classics, all bound in beautiful leather. On the lower shelf were Sadie’s books, novels of suspense and mayhem. Her favorite author in the world was Erle Stanley Gardner. They looked new too, but that was because Sadie never bent the spines of her books. She’d cock the book at a weird angle, lean toward the light and read. She never turned down the corners of the pages either. Bill had a thing about book pages, she’d said. He wouldn’t even read the paper if someone touched it before he did.

Early on, Mac and Benny had decided that Bill was a royal pain in the ass.

Mac’s eyes drifted to the coffee table in front of the sofa with the soft pillows; it was extra long, custom made. A bowl of fruit, the latest issues of Field and Stream and Redbook, along with a dish of Spanish nuts, waited.

Rage rushed through Mac. He wanted to smash the room, to rip and gouge everything in his sight. He’d had the feeling before, and it always left as quickly as it surfaced. All of this was by Sadie’s choice. If she wanted to live in a fantasy world, who was he to say she should or shouldn’t? Downstairs she was as normal as everyone else. Probably more so. The tension in his shoulders eased.

It was a room, and that’s all it was.

It was dark outside, Mac realized. He switched on the lamp and closed the draperies, loving the way the room took on an even cozier atmosphere when the fireplace at the far end was lit.

“Mac, you here?” Benny called from the foyer.

“In here,” Mac responded.

“Sadie said to put these in water. She said there’s a vase in the bottom of the sink. Good to see you, Mac,” Benny said, slapping his friend on the back. “I called you a couple of times over the past month, but Alice said you guys were busy. So I said shit on you and waited for you to call me.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Mac said with friendly sarcasm. “Let’s get those flowers into a vase, and then I want to talk to you. There’s something I want you to do for me while I’m away. Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m not hungry. I eat a big lunch because Carol is such a lousy cook. We don’t have a cook the way some people do. What do you want to talk about? We can do two things at once.” Benny grinned.

For some reason, Phil Benedict would do anything Mac wanted, and that included letting him call him Benny. He’d deck anyone else. He was tall, pencil thin, with big ears and reddish hair the color of ripe wheat. Light brown freckles danced across his cheeks and nose. His eyes were soft, warm, mellow; Mac called them cow eyes. Benny always retaliated by saying they were good enough to get him the prettiest girl in New York City. He had a dashing, sporty grin which lit up his whole face. Benny was a good friend, a caring friend.

“I want you to find Bill Trinity for Sadie.”

“You want what!”

“You heard me. I’m going to give you a check, and you hire a private dick and tell him to find Bill. Snitch one of those pictures off the mantel. With what we both know, maybe we can give the guy enough to come up with something. I don’t care what it costs. Don’t tell the dick that though. Make him earn his money. Whatever it takes, do it. The only thing is, if it turns out he’s dead, don’t tell her. If they find him, I want you to go to him, wherever he is, and talk to him before you bring him back, providing he doesn’t have a wife. Then I want you to beat the living crap out of him for running out on Sadie.”

Benny’s freckles bunched up. “Are you sure we should be sticking our noses into Sadie’s business?” he asked worriedly. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” he added hastily. “Have you given any thought to him not wanting to come back? Jesus, Mac, it’s been a hell of a long time. I can’t force him.”

“When you tell him the way it is here, he’ll come. Sadie said he loved her, and women know these things.”

“It’s probably going to take forever.”

“So what? You aren’t going anywhere but back and forth to the Pentagon.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Benny asked with an edge to his voice.

“It means I’m getting edgy. I guess I didn’t tell you I’m going down to Charleston tomorrow. I kind of want to see my uncle Harry again.”

“Is this the same Uncle Harry who never wanted to see you or talk to you after your mother died?” The edge in his voice was rougher now, almost jagged.

“That’s the one. I’m gonna ask him some questions.”

He looked nasty, Benny thought, which meant he would be like a terrier with a rat between his teeth. He also wondered why his friend had waited so long to visit his mother’s old home. He knew for a fact Mac had only been there twice in his life, and he’d been too young to remember one of those times.

“If it’s something you gotta do, then you gotta do it,” Benny said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He carried it to the Formica table and sat down. Mac joined him.

“Look, I don’t want to get into all that family jazz. I wanted us to have a friendly visit so I wouldn’t feel so damn bad about leaving you behind. I figured we’d reminisce about the good old days, belt a few beers, and then shake hands. I screwed up. Sorry about that, Benny.”

“This coffee is fine; my stomach’s been out of whack for a week or so. I think I have an ulcer. Beer would kill me right now. Besides, how in the hell could we reminisce downstairs in the bar with all that racket going on?”

They talked for a long time, Benny doing most of the talking. Mac plucked an orange from the luscious bowl of fruit on the table. Benny watched as his friend ran his thumbnail up one groove and down the other, his thoughts everywhere but on the subject at hand. Finally, their conversation slowed and disappeared into a depressing silence.

“Goddamnit, this is turning into a wake,” Mac said sourly after a few moments. “This might be a good time to clap one another on the back and head home. Me to Alice, and you to your happy little family. Jesus, I envy you, Benny, but at the same time I’m happy for you. Can you understand that?”

“Sure. Look, Mac, why don’t you go home and make some sort of peace with Alice?

“Did I ever tell you the only time Alice and I had good sex was the night before her beauty parlor appointment? On Thursday nights she didn’t worry about her hair getting mussed up. That’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it, Benny?”

“Yeah, it is, Mac,” Benny said, straightening his tie. He felt like crying for his friend. “Listen, let’s go downstairs, hug Sadie, and shoot two darts at your old man’s snoot. Winner buys drinks for the entire bar.”

“Dead center on his nose. You never even came close. It’s a sucker bet, but I’m game,” Mac said tightly.

Sadie watched the two favorite men in her life walk over to the dart board. She immediately reached under the bar for a picture of Judge Carlin, blown up three times its original size. She personally thumbtacked it over the bull’s-eye and moved back. Tears glistened in her eyes when Mac squared his shoulders before pulling on his cap. This was something new, she thought. Mac never attacked his father when he was dressed in what she referred to as full regalia. Benny either.

The room grew quiet. A dart game required everyone’s full attention.

“You first, Benny,” Mac said, stepping back.

Benny felt the urge to cry again. Mac had been right, he’d never even come close to hitting the judge’s nose. Usually he got him high on the cheekbone or low on the chin. He squinted, crossed his fingers on his left hand as he said a silent little prayer. He threw.

Sadie’s eyebrows shot upward. “Dead center, Mac. You can see the hole real clear.”

Mac waited for the round of applause to quiet down. He adjusted his cap at a rakish angle before he stretched his neck muscles. He didn’t wind up, didn’t stare at the picture the way he usually did. He threw.

Sadie expelled the long breath she was holding. “You hit the same hole, Mac. Now it looks like there’s a pimple on his nose.” No one laughed. They weren’t supposed to.

“Two rounds of drinks for the house, Sadie. Benny’s buying one and so am I.” He ripped the picture off the dart board and handed it to Sadie, along with two twenty-dollar bills. Benny forked over the same amount.

“I’ll . . . guess I’ll see you around, Sadie,” Mac said in a choked voice.

Sadie bit down on her lower lip. “I’ll be here, Mac. Write, okay?”

“You bet. Allow extra time for the mail, you know . . .”

“I will. I’ll write once a week and send you packages. Come here, you big lug.”

The bar grew suddenly noisy, the juke box blared “The Witch Doctor” as Mac folded Sadie in his arms. “Thanks for everything,” he whispered. Sadie struggled from his arms and ran upstairs. To cover the emotion of the moment, Mac playfully punched Benny on the shoulder before he shot off a salute that was so professional, Benny blinked. His own was sloppy in comparison.

“See you, Benny.”

“Yeah.”

When Benny left Bill’s Bar and Grill, there was no sign of Mac or his car. He cleared his throat three times before he could take a normal breath. “Fuck you, Judge Carlin,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

 

MAC GARAGED THE car. It was a clear February night and extremely cold. Overhead, the sky was black and sparkling. So many stars. He wished, the way he always had when he was a boy, for peace within himself. He always wished for the same thing when he saw the first spring robin. He’d never told anyone, not even Benny.

He entered the house through the kitchen door, but he didn’t stay long in the kitchen. Once it had been his favorite room in the house. It was the place where his mother took him to give him sugar cookies and milk. Sometimes in that room, she told him stories about giants and kings and queens. Now it was for him a tidy, sterile area where food was prepared by a woman whose name changed monthly.

Alice was sitting on the sofa with her legs curled under her. She looked pretty, Mac thought, but she evoked no emotion in him. She wore a mint-green peignoir with lace ruffles. She had one in every color imaginable. He craned his neck to see if she had on matching mules with feathery tendrils. She did. Benny’s wife, Carol, didn’t own things like that. She wore a pink flannel robe with a belt and slipper socks. He knew because he’d seen her once when one of the twins was sick. He’d stopped by to give Benny a ride to work so she could keep the car that day. The house had smelled like perked coffee and fried bacon.

“Alice,” he said curtly.

“Mac,” Alice said without taking her eyes from the television screen. The Man From U.N.C.L.E was her favorite show.

“I need to talk to you, Alice. Now. I have to be up early. I’m going to Charleston, and from there on to the West Coast. I want to discuss a few things. Are you listening to me, Alice?”

“I can hear every word you’re saying, Mac. What do you want to talk about?”

Mac walked over to the television set and turned it off. He stood with his back to the screen and faced his wife. “I want to know how it is you got pregnant when you used a diaphragm?” He asked though he knew that diaphragm or not, the baby couldn’t be his; he wanted to know how she would explain it.

“What an insidious thing to say. You wait here and don’t you dare move. I’ll be right back.” She was off the sofa, her peignoir flying behind her, the heels of her mules clicking on the polished floor. She was back a second later with a plastic pouch in her hand. Her face was triumphant. She led her husband over to the table lamp, from which she removed the shade, and held the round piece of rubber against the light. A minute hole appeared as a bright little spot in the latex. “I knew you would say just what you said, that’s why I didn’t throw this away. It’s not my fault!”

“Isn’t it going to bother you being alone in a strange country? If you stayed here, at least my father could look after you. All your friends are here.”

“Friends? I don’t want them to see me looking like a blimp. I want to hide, don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand.” He remembered Benny’s wife and the way she had trundled along, waddling like a duck, up until the day she delivered. She constantly made jokes about her appearance, and she had let him put his hand on her stomach when the baby kicked. He’d been awestruck, as awestruck as Benny. Benny had worn a sappy expression for the whole nine months. He’d loved the way his wife looked. But then Benny and Carol were in love.

“It’s not important for you to understand. As long as I do, that’s all that’s important. Anyway, why are you going to Charleston? What did your father say?”

“I want to see my uncle Harry, and my father didn’t seem too interested in becoming a grandfather. I asked him to keep an eye on you. As for money, I took care of everything.”

“I want enough, Mac. Make sure you understand that.”

“I understand, and I said I provided for you. Now, I want to talk about us.”

“Not again, Mac,” Alice said wearily.

“Yes, again. Because I’m not happy, and I don’t see how you can be happy. I don’t love you, Alice. I want you to think about this marriage. I meant what I said this morning. When I get back, we’re going to discuss a divorce seriously.”

Alice felt a flutter of panic. He sounded different than he had this morning. She believed he meant what he said. Where would that leave her? Out in the cold with a kid, that’s where.

“I never understood what it was you wanted from me, Mac,” she whined. “Tell me now. If I’m supposed to think about this while you’re away, I have to know what it is you think I did wrong,”

“I wanted you to be, a wife,” Mac said coolly. “Do you know that in our entire marriage, you never even made me a cup of coffee?”

Alice’s laugh was shrill. “Listen, Mac, you were the one who hired the cook. You said you didn’t want me to do anything but be here for you. That’s exactly what you said. And that’s what I did. I got used to this way of life to please you, and now you tell me you’re going to take it away from me when you get back? No you’re not. I’ll fight you. I’ve made a life for myself, and I’m going to keep it, and that’s all I have to say about it,” Alice snapped. “Is there anything else?”

“Only this.” Mac seethed. “If the baby is a girl, I want it named after my mother. If it’s a boy, I want it named after me, not my father.”

“Fine, I agree. Is there anything else?” Alice asked coldly.

“Good-bye, Alice.”

“Good-bye, Mac.”

Mac fumed all the way up the steps. The television set was already back on.

 

ALICE REACHED FOR the little notebook she had stuffed under the cushion when she heard Mac’s car in the driveway. Her skin positively itched and the tips of her fingers tingled. Her heart took on an extra beat at what she’d done between the hours of five and seven. She forced herself to close her eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten. Her eyes snapped open on the count of ten. If anything, she was even more excited. She tried again; this time her eyes circled the room, trying to focus on something that would relax her.

This was her room. She’d decorated it herself in all the colors she loved, brilliant, flamboyant fabrics, eye-watering carpet, and glass and chrome furniture. The pictures were a mishmash of color and brush strokes by unknown artists in outrageous gilt frames from a bygone era. Because she didn’t like the idea of a wood-burning fireplace, she’d cajoled and whined until the elder Carlin permitted her to change it to gas. Now the flame was constant and her stark white walls didn’t have sooty smudge marks all over them.

She took another deep breath. She had work to do. She had decided it was time to look into numbers that equaled assets. If he went through with his threat of a divorce—and she didn’t believe for one minute that he would—then she’d need records of everything to give to her attorney.

As far as she knew, Mac hadn’t put her name on anything, so there were no joint assets. There was no ours, only his. But, Mac had said he was going to leave her power of attorney. All she had to do was weep and wail, and the judge would come across with what she wanted.

A delicious feeling filled her when she opened the little notebook. She’d had to write small to get everything down on the square little pages. Bank account numbers, balances, property deeds, exact locations, the cusip numbers on the stocks, the bond balances, the dates on the trust fund. She’d been startled when she saw the bank record, and was stunned to find out Mac was the recipient of two trust funds: one from his mother and one from an aunt. She’d actually had to close her eyes and put her head between her knees when she saw the amount of money the funds generated. And four full pages of assets. My God, she hadn’t known there was that much money in the world.

Damn, where was the power of attorney? She hadn’t seen it in the desk. She brightened momentarily when she remembered Mac had had lunch with his father. He’d probably given it to him. Mac was thorough. If he said he was going to do something, then he would do it.

The Princess phone was in her hand in a flash. Should she call the judge to confirm it? She would wait until tomorrow, she decided. She didn’t want the judge to think she was money-grubbing.

She stuffed the notebook under the sofa cushion. Tomorrow she would retrieve it and lock it away in the bottom drawer of her jewel box along with some of the heirloom jewelry the judge allowed her to keep in the house.

She was nervous now. Had she put everything back into the manila folder just the way she’d found it? Guilt made her uncurl her legs and rush to Mac’s study. The huge brown envelope was gone. She ran to the hall to see if it was on the table in the foyer. It wasn’t. Where in the hell was it? she wondered irritably. It must be in Mac’s room. She crept up the steps, careful to make no noise. She opened the door a crack, then waited until her eyes became accustomed to the moonlight. Mac’s bags were packed and standing by the door, as they had been earlier that day. There was no folder, no envelope on the wide triple dresser.

Alice watched her husband for a long moment. She felt a second rush of guilt. How vulnerable Mac looked in sleep. She had a sudden urge to run over to the bed and kiss his cheek, but squelched it.

She hated thinking about Mac; it made her feel disloyal. After all, he had been good to her. Why wasn’t she happy? Why couldn’t she be like Benny’s wife? Was she as self-centered and selfish as Mac said? Why couldn’t she give back a little? Mac wasn’t all that bad; in fact he was kind of nice as far as husbands went. If he were only more aggressive, more motivated, she might feel differently.

She wished she loved Mac. She liked him. But then, she didn’t know anyone who was in love with their husband.

When the phone rang at eleven o’clock, Alice was so startled, she almost fell off the sofa. She picked it up on the second ring.

“Hello,” she said in a froggy voice.

“Congratulations, my dear,” Marcus Carlin said.

“Thank you, Marcus,” she replied. “Is that why you’re calling so late? Mac is asleep.” She should ask him now about the power of attorney, she thought.

“I’ve been thinking all afternoon, Alice, and I’ve decided the south of France is not the place for you to be all alone. No, I want you to stay right here. I can’t imagine what Mac was thinking to allow you to go traipsing off to France. The boy is just too indulgent where you’re concerned.”

“But, Judge—”

“There will be no buts. I would be derelict in my duty to allow you to go. I know what’s best for you. It’s settled—you’ll stay right here. We don’t want to take any chances with the new Carlin heir, now do we?”

Alice’s eyes narrowed. She wanted to tell the old coot to go fuck himself. She really meant to say it aloud, but what came out of her mouth was, “As usual, you’re probably right.”

“I knew you’d see it my way. I know Mac will be relieved. What do you think about him going to Vietnam, Alice? He’ll come back a national hero.” He didn’t wait for her response, said, “Tomorrow will be trying for you. I’ll come by in the evening and have dinner with you. Seven-thirty. Have the cook prepare a leg of lamb. Give her the night off. We’ll have some sherry, I’ll read some Robert Browning, and you’ll forget about Mac for a little while.”

Alice swallowed past the lump in her throat. She knew what that meant.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good night, Marcus.”

Alice crunched the pillow at her side into a ball. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks. “Nobody gets it all,” she muttered.

 

IT WAS STILL dark outside when Mac walked down the steps and carried his bags out through the kitchen. He looked longingly at the coffeepot. There was no time. If he was lucky, Benny might have two cups ready when he stopped by to pick him up.

His guilt vanished when he pulled to the curb outside Benny’s split-level house in Alexandria. He grinned, seeing his friend walk out the door with two cups of coffee in his hands. Behind Benny, Carol waved at him. Jesus, some guys had all the luck.

In the car, Mac gulped at the coffee. “You don’t know how badly I need this.”

“Yeah, I do. Listen, you son of a bitch, you better come back all in one piece.”

“Hey, the old man gave me orders to come back a hero. Let’s not fuck this up, Benny. We went through it all last night.”

“Yeah, but what about that old man of yours? What if he comes down on me about . . .” He patted the thick brown folder on the seat.

It was the power of attorney, and Phil Benedict was the name on it. Phil, Mac had decided, would take care of his fortune until he returned. It was his slap in the face or kick in the gut to his father and wife, his final act of defiance.

“There’s a sealed letter in there with my father’s name on it. All you do is hand it over if he so much as says a word. Don’t take any crap from Alice either. That’s another way of saying turn a deaf ear to all her demands. She gets a check the first of the month. If she decides to go to France, then you simply pay the bills.”

“You sure you want me to keep your car?”

“Hell, yes, let Carol drive it so she won’t have to drive you in in the morning. Everything’s in the glove compartment, including a letter that says I’m giving you permission to use the car. The insurance has been paid for the year. No problems there at all. You’ll be doing me a favor by driving it.”

Mac pulled to the curb in front of the airport. “You’re probably the best thing that ever happened to me, Benny. I don’t think there’s another person in the whole world I trust the way I trust you. Sadie, maybe, but that’s different. I’ll see you.”

“Yeah,” Benny said, clapping him on the back.

When Benny pulled away from the curb, he felt as if he had left part of his life behind. “He’s got it together now, this is the first step. Be happy for him, Benedict,” he muttered as he moved with the early morning traffic flow.

IT WAS EXACTLY eleven o’clock when Mac drove his rental car through the gates and down the long poplar-sided driveway to the white-pillared plantation house his mother had grown up in. He stopped the Ford and rolled down the window. It was unseasonably warm. A black-winged fly and a mosquito buzzed through the open window. His mother told him once there were wetlands behind the house that bred all kinds of things. Snakes, she’d said, a devilish light in her eyes, and rats bigger than tomcats. He remembered shivering at the thought. She hadn’t liked living here in the big house with the huge white columns, but she hadn’t told him why. The only thing he knew for certain was she’d loved her brother Harry and the cook, a Negress named Maddy. He’d met each of them only twice, but he remembered them as if he’d just met them yesterday. Maddy was dead now, and Harry was in his eighties.

In the morning sunlight and at this distance, the house looked magnificent, but he knew that it would be full of dry rot. He sat hunched over the wheel trying to see everything all at once. The low brick wall that was so perfect for laying on and staring at the stars was still there, listing slightly, but intact. To his right was another low brick wall, with an iron gate that led to the azalea garden. Film companies still came to shoot footage there, and in April brides paid handsomely to be married in the formal garden. His mother and father had been married there. He’d seen the pictures.

Every year, no matter what, his mother said, a fresh coat of paint was slapped on the mansion. Usually around the first of February, before the weather got too warm and sticky. Obviously, Mac thought, the painting had been done already, for the mansion was blinding to the eye.

The veranda was wide and full of lush green ferns. Maddy used to bring them out each morning and take them in in the afternoon. The ferns were old and never died off, his mother said. He wondered if the swing was the same one his mother sat on when she was young. How sad that he didn’t know this side of his family. He’d been forbidden to come here, and he couldn’t help but wonder why in his rebellious years he’d only tried once. He knew this house and grounds as well as he knew his own house in McLean. He remembered every single thing his mother had ever told him, and he’d studied the pictures in the family album.

Mac got out of the car. He knew if he walked to the left he would come to the wash house and the stable that had been converted to a six-car garage. If he walked to the right, he would see the smokehouse and caretaker’s cottage. Around the side of the house, in front of the kitchen door, would be an apron of cobblestones. He wondered if the wash lines were still strung between the angel oaks. The old slave quarters were down a little hill from the back of the house. They’d been maintained and refurbished because the plantation was a historical building.

Mac was heading toward his left when he stopped in his tracks at the sound of a shotgun blast. “That’s far enough,” a voice roared. “This would be a good time to announce yourself, young man.”

“Captain Malcolm Carlin, sir,” Mac shouted. “I’m Elsa’s son. Is that you, Uncle Harry?”

“I’m Harry. Come closer so I can have a look at you.” Mac obliged but stopped ten feet away. “Why are you here, young man?”

“I came to see you. I’m leaving for Vietnam tomorrow. I . . . wanted to say . . . hello and good-bye.”

“How old are you?” Harry demanded.

“Thirty-one, sir.”

“You’re too late, boy. The time to come here was when you became a man. You’re ten years too late. Now, get back in that car and head out to wherever it is you’re going. You’re more Carlin than Ashwood. An Ashwood would have been here the minute he came of age.”

There was nothing for Mac to say to that. He watched the shotgun come up level to his chest. The old man had the spookiest eyes he’d ever seen. At that moment, Mac swore his uncle could see into his soul. The shotgun crept up another inch or so.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find a way to do it. I did try once. I don’t know, maybe I didn’t want to hear you tell me what I’ve come now to hear.”

“What would that be?” the old man asked brusquely. His hand on the shotgun was steady. His left hand hitched up his pants.

“I want to know why my mother left me behind and didn’t keep in touch with me. My father said she wasn’t capable of caring for me because she had a mental disorder. Did she ever talk about me? She never even sent me a Christmas card,” Mac said in a stricken voice.

“You hold on to your britches, laddie. Your mother did nothing but talk about you. There were many presents, many cards and letters written every day. I know because I mailed them myself. But it’s up to your father to tell you why he did the things he did. I don’t want anything to do with him or you. If you had real Ashwood blood in you, you would have come to your mother.”

“For God’s sake, Uncle Harry, I was only a kid. I thought my mother didn’t want me. She just up and left. If she sent letters and presents, I never received them. I thought she blamed me.”

“You don’t fix blame on the one thing in the world you love,” Harry said tightly.

“That’s why I didn’t understand the trust fund. I knew I had one, but I didn’t know the extent of it until I turned twenty-one. I didn’t understand about the fund from Aunt Rita either.”

“Your mother fixed that too. You’re a rich man, Mr. Carlin, thanks to Ashwood ingenuity.” Harry lowered the shotgun. Suddenly he looked tired and ill. He waved his free arm about. “This will eventually go to you, the whole hundred acres. The whole ball of wax, as the young people say. Elsa made me promise. Easy promise to make, since there were no other heirs. Come back and see me when you finish up with the war. If I’m still alive, we’ll talk then. Good-bye, Mr. Carlin.”

Mac stood with his mouth hanging open. The meeting was over. He got back into the rental car and took a last, long look at his mother’s old home before he backed out of the long driveway. He felt as if he’d been slammed in the chest with a full round of buckshot.

He drove aimlessly, his eyes looking for landmarks that would lead him to the graveyard—his last stop.

It was well past noon when Mac drove through the monstrous gates of the Calvary Cemetery. He drove carefully along the narrow brick road lined with magnificent angel oaks dripping Spanish moss. If cemeteries could be called beautiful, this one was gorgeous, Mac thought crazily. His eyes zeroed in on the caretaker’s cottage, which seemed an exact replica of a Hansel-and-Gretel fairy-tale house.

The door opened with a loud swoosh, and a man dressed in a white three-piece suit emerged. The fedora he wore was made of white felt with a scarlet and green band around the crown. Mac thought it early in the year to be wearing white, but he really didn’t know. Alice was the one with the fashion sense. He climbed out of the car and met the man halfway down the brick walk.

“Malcolm Carlin,” Mac said, extending his hand. “Can you tell me where the Ashwood plot is?” He felt embarrassed. It was a hell of a thing that he had to ask a total stranger where his mother’s grave was. And he had no one to blame but himself. He could have come here any number of times if he’d really wanted to.

“Hilary Carter,” the caretaker drawled. A cigar found its way to his mouth. Mac fired up a cigarette. They blew smoke in one another’s faces. He was a stranger, and the South didn’t take kindly to strangers. The suspicion and annoyance on Carter’s face angered Mac.

The caretaker hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets as he rocked back on his heels to get a better look at Mac. “I see Ashwood in you. That can only mean you’re Elsa’s son. You were just a sprout when we lowered her. I remember you.”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you’d just—”

The caretaker lifted a manicured hand, complete with clear nail polish, and pointed to his left. “Walk down around the curve and to the right of that angel oak, where the moss is dripping to the ground. It’s a prime plot, the best in all of Calvary. There’s three plots left: one for Harry, and I suppose one for you and one for your wife or child. It’s spelled out on the deed. Paid in full, if that’s of interest to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carter,” Mac said, stamping on his cigarette. He knew without having to look over his shoulder that Carter bent down and picked up the butt. This place was so tidy, it made his skin crawl.

When he came to the Ashwood plot, he wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that roared through him. His eyes filled and his shoulders shook. He squatted down, his eyes level with the chiseled words. ELSA ASHWOOD. BELOVED DAUGHTER. WIFE. LOVING DEVOTED MOTHER. Mac bit down so hard on his lower lip that he tasted his own blood.

“He told me you didn’t want me. He said you left me behind because I would get in your way. For a long time I believed him, and when I stopped believing, I was too ashamed to come here. Benny’s mother said parents love unconditionally. She and Sadie are the ones who convinced me that you must have had a reason for what you did. It’s all mixed up in my mind, Mama. First I had to forgive you, and then . . . I needed to know you forgave me. I tried to call you those first years. I even wrote you a letter, but it came back, addressee unknown. I guess I had the wrong address on it. Father whipped me good for that. I just want you to know I wanted to come; I just didn’t have the guts to do it. It’s not important anymore for you to forgive me. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Listen, you have to know something,” Mac said in a strangled voice. “I hate that bastard. I mean I really hate him.

“So far, Mama, there hasn’t been a whole hell of a lot in my life for you to be proud of. This is my turning point. I’ve coasted because it was easy. I didn’t want to make the effort. It was all this hatred I’m still carrying around, and I don’t know how to unload it. Uncle Harry said I was ten years too late. He was wrong, I’m eighteen years too late. I should have run after you that day and hung onto your skirt and made you take me with you. That’s what I should have done, what I wanted to do. I’ll be back, Mama, you can count on it.”

Mac shook down the creases in his pants. He wished he had a handkerchief. He put his knuckles to his eyes the way he’d done when he was a kid. Carlins didn’t cry, his father always said. Bullshit! He turned and would have toppled his uncle Harry if Harry hadn’t stiff-armed him. What the hell was his uncle doing here? He shouldered his way past his uncle, his eyes on Hilary Carter, who must have been watching all the time.

“Boy?”

Mac stopped and turned. “I have a name, Uncle Harry. If you want to call me, then call me by my name,” he snapped. He didn’t need this crap, this intrusion into . . . his what? His grief, his misery, his shame.

“Malcolm.” There was a soft chuckle in the old man’s voice. Mac reacted to the sound. His mother used to chuckle the same way. He thought it one of the happiest sounds of his childhood. It was a warm, cozy sound, which seemed to wrap itself around the small boy he was.

“Did you follow me here to say good-bye or are you just curious by nature?” Mac asked, an edge to his voice. It was the voice he reserved for his father.

“Both. I brought something for you. It’s in the car.”

“The old family crest?” Mac asked bitterly.

The chuckle was back in Harry’s voice. “Better than that. Follow me out to the main road and pull over. Hilary’s the local gossip, and I see no reason to give him something to talk about.” He slapped Mac on the back as they strode past the caretaker.

“Y‘all have a good day now, y’hear?” Carter called after them.

On the shoulder of the road, Mac got out of his car. His uncle was lifting a box from the trunk of his own car. It was cardboard and tied with string. It wasn’t heavy, Mac noticed. His eyes were full of questions.

“This was your mother’s. When we packed up her things, this was kept separate in case . . . you ever decided to come for a visit. Elsa said we weren’t to seek you out. She said if you ever came here under your own steam, I was to make the decision to give or not to give.”

“What is it?” Something of his mother’s. He felt light-headed.

“Books,” Harry said succinctly.

“Books,” Mac said stupidly. He’d expected something . . . meaningful. But he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. His mother loved reading. She’d read to him almost every night of his life until she left.

“When the war gets bad . . .” Harry let the words hang in the air.

Mac was already opening his flight bag. It took him five full minutes to arrange, shove, and squash his belongings to make room for the oversized shoe box. He snapped the bag closed. It made a loud sound. Now he had to turn and face his uncle and thank him. He wondered what had made him decide to come all the way out here. He voiced the question and prepared himself for a tongue-in-cheek answer.

“Didn’t want you going off to that place you’re going to without something of your mama’s. She’d never forgive me. I’ll be joining her one of these days, and she did love to ask questions. It’s a wise man who has answers.” He allowed himself a small smile. Mac grinned. “The other reason is you came here to visit her. If you hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have given you the box. Now that makes sense, doesn’t it?” he demanded fretfully.

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“You look like your grandpa Ashwood. Spitting image, I’d say.” The thought seemed to puzzle him. “See Elsa in you too. You come from good stock, bo—Malcolm.”

“Half of me is Ashwood, Uncle Harry,” Mac said gently.

“The best half,” the old man cackled, and slapped his thigh in delight.

Mac stretched out his hand and the old man crushed it a second time. Mac winced, exerting as much pressure as he could. He thought he saw approval in the watery old eyes.

“I’ll be back.”

“I believe you will, Malcolm. You give those . . . what do they call those people where you’re going?”

“Vietnamese.” Mac grinned. “You aren’t going to tell me to come back a hero and all that jazz, are you, Uncle Harry?”

“Hell’s bells, no. You’re an Ashwood. You’ll distinguish yourself. Ashwoods always distinguish themselves.” The laughter bubbling in Mac’s throat died when he realized the old man was serious.

“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t like this place, did I tell you that?”

“I kind of figured, Uncle Harry.”

“Well, sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t. Right now, I don’t like it. It’s always here, waiting for me.” He pursed his mouth into a round O of disapproval before he got into his car, jerked it into gear, and drove off without a backward glance.

Mac wore a smile all the way to the airport. He turned in the rental car, checked his bags, and headed for the nearest restaurant. He had a three-hour wait for his flight to California, where he would board a military flight to Vietnam.

It was time for Mac Carlin to soar, time for the dream to come alive.