Lies We Were Told

By Leslie MacDill

“You’re only as sick as your secrets,” so the saying goes.

When Aidan MacEwan paid a visit to the local LDS temple for some light family research, he discovered the accuracy and gravity of that adage. While there is a thread of truth woven throughout the ‘official’ story of his parents’ courtship and romance, the fabric of the remaining tapestry is called into question and quickly begins to unravel.

First-time novelist Leslie MacDill calls upon first-hand knowledge and a compelling Scots-Irish ancestral history to give us "Lies We Were Told," recounting the exploits of Aidan MacEwan, an American in search of his lineage who unearths dark secrets, beginning with his deceased father, that stretch back over two hundred years. Each revelation illuminates the deception that surrounds previously unquestioned family stories involving a half-brother he thought long dead (who is anything but) and a step-mother of Jewish descent whose early passing was likely hastened by a broken heart.

The investigation lures him to Great Britain and Northern Ireland in search of the family he never knew - where he is forced to confront his own devils and demons, in this world and beyond, aided by a Caribbean healer, her granddaughter, and a ginger-haired inamorata with probable paramilitary ties. Danger and passion both await the American, who treads an unfamiliar path in the land of his ancestors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie MacDill
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985768201

Leslie MacDill

One acquaintance said of him, "You're like Forest Gump, only smart!" - and that description isn't too far off the mark. The unquenchable thirst for knowledge has led Leslie MacDill down a spiritual path that includes esoteric Tibetan healing medicine, Zen Buddhism, advanced energy medicine and shamanism, and into wildly divergent career choices like driving an 18-wheeler and working as a judicial assistant. However, a long-smoldering love affair with music was ignited the moment Leslie heard Sing, Sing, Sing from Benny Goodman's 1938 Carnegie Hall concert playing on the family hi-fi as a child; he still has the three-LP set. Over the years he further indulged his passion by becoming a professional touring musician, an on-air disc jockey, and collecting an extensive library of music. Fellow Tallahasseean Linda Hargrove could easily have been referring to Leslie when she penned the title track of her 1973 album, Music Is Your Mistress. Despite being a self-proclaimed "Air Force brat," Leslie left the bosom of the South only briefly, the first three years of life, when his father was deployed to Okinawa, Japan. Educated in parochial and public schools, he lived through and participated in this nation's time of great social upheaval, the Sixties, made all the more difficult given his limited worldview as a military dependent. That life changed radically, however, when his father retired from the Air Force and returned to civilian life in north Florida. Leslie is an alumnus of Florida State University but also attended Huntingdon College in Montgomery, AL, (where he was a member in prominent standing of the anti-fraternity group Fly Delta Jets) and the University of South Alabama in Mobile, AL. Eschewing traditional social organizations, he has also been a member of the New Orleans Mardi Gras Krewe of Pontchartrain and the Tallahassee Parrotheads Club. In addition to being a devout foodie, the author is an accomplished cook and connoisseur of coffee, red wine, and usquebaugh. He performs onstage whenever the opportunity presents itself, employing an African-styled ashika drum and another that was hand-hewn from the limb of a hardwood tree by a fellow Reiki master.

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Lies We Were Told

by Leslie MacDill

Copyright © 2012 by Leslie MacDill

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Greater London

Northern Ireland

Awknowledgements

Author Bio

The summer sun soared like a round, white kite overhead, its warmth bathing the determined features of the man strolling west on the spit of land between Sarasota and Longboat Key. Aidan could scarcely remember the last time he had walked the two-and-a-half-mile necklace of roadway, bridges, and pearls of sand between Tamiami Trail and the Gulf. In his late twenties? Maybe. Regardless, it was an entire lifetime ago.

Salt air filled his spirit with welcome and comfort. Gray-white sand and shards of white shell ground beneath his sandals. Cars and motorcycles moved along the ribbon of concrete to his left as pelicans and gulls glided over the bay’s blue water on his right.

Approaching from the direction of the beach, a young woman attired in alabaster shorts and matching bathing suit top effortlessly pedaled her bicycle, also milk-white, toward him. As she drew nearer he found it impossible to pull his eyes away, awkwardly aware that he was staring. In contrast to the pale bike and clothing were her olive complexion and dark hair; the eyes - with the very same glasses; and her smile. If he didn't know better... but that would be impossible. She had been gone for years.

The bike rolled to a stop directly in his path, filly-like legs stretching down in practiced tip-toe balance. Aidan was sure beyond any doubt… it was her! Filled with joy, though unable to speak, he ached to reach out and touch her… grasp her hand in his. The logic center of his brain overrode the impulse and froze him to the spot.

The smile that triggered memories of her Grandma Cooper's wild blackberry cobbler spread across the flawless face. Imperceptibly tilting her head to one side and smiling innocently, she inquired in the voice etched onto his heart forever, Aidan, how did I die?

A massive volume of air rushed into his lungs suddenly as steel-blue eyes flashed open.

* * *

Greater London

A city the size of London is like a silent, ominous fog that slinks in from the sea - cloaking every soul. The American went unnoticed even as he recorded mental images of the smallest details in his surroundings. The interior of the pub smelled of age and tradition. Cigarette and pipe smoke were as much a part of the woodwork as the grains in the planks themselves. Aidan had the impression that his hand would sink into them like clear spring water. The tempting fragrances of midday fare overcame those of spilled ale and whiskey despite the certain knowledge that there had been rivers of libation that flowed over and under the tables, chairs, and floors since the pub’s opening. Broad windows framed in wood and brass were flung open and overlooked the thoroughfare, flanked by curtains of hunter green. Few customers, if any, paid attention to the pedestrians and automobiles passing back and forth at a harried pace. This was a world where time rode at anchor, where men and women came to forget. Please check your worries and troubles at the door.

Amid the laughter and prattle, one could hear tongues originating throughout the world. The conversations that did take place in English bore very different stamps - the south, thick with hard labor and burden, alongside accents from Scotland and Ireland, melodic and punctuated with joy and passion. Mostly the palaver was laced with local flavor, comfortable and polite, falling easily upon the ears. Aidan hadn’t been in London but a day or so, though his ears were quickly learning to differentiate the dialects in the same way one might if they traveled from the United Kingdom to the States. Like a rich and sweet trifle, his Southern homeland was layered with distinctive accents that told the discerning ear whether the tongue took its rise from the Ozarks or the Great Smokies, Tennessee or Virginia, South Carolina or Kentucky. Thusly, states sharing a common border bore accents broadly apart.

Years ago he learned to appreciate the stouts and ales of his ancestors, and today he nursed a pint of Guinness beside which sat an empty shot glass, the perfume of Tullamore Dew drifting up to his nose. Hell, he mused, if Gordon doesn’t show up, at least I’ll have a bit of a glow on. If he does, I’ll need all the courage I can summon.

Nearly two in the afternoon, Gordon MacEwan should arrive at any moment - or not at all. Aidan didn’t truly expect him to appear. Not one of the letters, emails, or calls had been answered. When he finally committed to making the trip to Great Britain, he corresponded with Gordon’s daughter and wife in hopes they would be able to persuade him to meet, but now it was solely up to the 63-year-old entrepreneur.

Aidan had no idea if he would even recognize him. He was, after all, only a half-brother. The American had no inkling what Gordon’s mother, Rebecca, looked like. Was she as beautiful as he imagined? What color was her hair? His father, and Gordon’s, was quite a handsome devil - nearly a twin of Clark Gable it was oft said. Surely Gordon’s mother had been a stunning woman to land him. Still and all there were no pictures of her in any of his family’s records, and information on the internet was scarcer than hens’ teeth. Would they look alike, he and Gordon? Would Gordon be pasty English or ‘Black Irish?’ Aidan’s mind flipped through the possibilities for the umpteenth time. Surely Gordon, by virtue of his Celtic name, should look more like his paternal ancestors, the sons of Ulster. Aidan and his sister had taken the traits - the dark hair and blue eyes – Scots-Irish. Each time a new customer entered the pub Aidan looked them over quickly, unsure of what or who he was looking for.

As the middle-aged man bore down on the pub his pace slowed. Gordon weighed the pros and cons of continuing on past the front door or stepping through it into God only knew what. To pass by, however, was not the way to conduct oneself, especially in the world of business and finance. Regardless of what was at stake the least one could do was hear the other party out then walk away from the table if need be. Still and all… this was huge. It carried more risk and a greater possibility for altering his life than any business deal he had put together thus far. This person named Aidan, this American, was looking for something the nature of which could upset the very calm, well-ordered life Gordon had worked so diligently to create for his loved ones. Yet Daphne and Lydia were the very parties urging him to meet the person now representing himself as his half-brother.

As far back as he could remember he had been told that his mother, Rebecca, married an American just after the war. Gordon’s father, despite being born and raised in Illinois, had crossed the border between the two countries to join the Royal Canadian Air Force before the United States’ involvement in the war in Europe. He remembered hearing the romantic tale of their meeting – the dashing American and the auburn-haired Englishwoman who was completely taken by the courage to sacrifice his own life for her country. Mac was a Flying Officer who was billeted not far from where Gordon now lived and where she was then working in her father’s antique shop. During the war the bases nearby brought countless new customers through the doors and much needed pounds sterling to the coffers, but none caught her eye quite like the American. His dark, curly hair and blue eyes sat atop a tall, lanky frame - about which was snapped the RCAF officer’s uniform. A mustache the width of her smallest finger separated his strong, Celtic nose and his smile, which was immediately disarming and turned her stomach quite into jelly. Like most of his fellow Canadians, Mac had no accent. In a group of her countrymen, however, his tongue slipped effortlessly into the local intonations. And he was ever so clever! Mac’s intellect and sense of humor were quick as a wink, always two moves ahead of everyone in the room regardless of the circumstances. Gordon’s mum remarked more than once that he had inherited his father’s double-edged sword, though it wasn’t until later that he gained a full understanding of her allusion.

What generated the most intense anger in Gordon, however, was the knowledge that whenever Rebecca mentioned the American, as he was known for much of Gordon’s life, she became downhearted and distant. And each time she slipped into melancholia the young man felt that he was little more than a constant reminder of the blackheart who broke his mother’s spirit and left her with a young child in post-war Britain. And yet here he was, just a few steps away from the pub where the American’s other son, Aidan, would be waiting. For what, for God’s sake? Gordon couldn’t possibly imagine what his estranged half-brother hoped to achieve - some Yank pop-psychobabble notion of closure? Rubbish! That’s what he told his wife and daughter when the whole matter came to light. It’s all a lot of rubbish! People who live in the past shouldn’t bother those who are comfortable in the present! What good could come of meeting the son of the bastard who broke his mother’s heart? Rubbish!

Aidan looked up once again as bright light bathed the pub. Like an eclipse, a large figure passed rapidly across the threshold. His middle-aged eyes couldn’t adjust to sudden increases or decreases in light levels the way they once had, but he barely made out that the person entering the pub was male and approximately the same size as he as well. Struggling to focus more quickly, the efforts were thwarted by pupils that took their own sweet time. In the meantime Gordon navigated his way to the bar, removing the camelhair topcoat in the process. He leaned over and spoke in a low tone to the barmaid while she rinsed a pint glass in each hand, I’m looking for an American. The barmaid glanced over in Aidan’s direction, Well, you’re in luck. We just happen to have one! Although he’s a bit too polite for your average Yank. Then she looked directly at Gordon’s face, God blind me! He looks like you!

Aidan turned when he heard those words and, for the first time, looked into the eyes of his half-brother, and his father, and himself.

Neither man moved. Seconds melted into minutes as practically every pair of eyes in the pub moved back and forth between the two. In the background Van Morrison crooned about a wonderful night for a moon dance but all ears strained to hear what the two men in the center of the pub would say. After a barely-audible Holy shit, Aidan stood and walked over to the bar. His legs weighed tons when covering the space between the table and his half-brother. As he drew close, Aidan extended an open right hand, but Gordon straightened and fixed his gaze on the American. Aidan let his hand fall. Gordon MacEwan?

Yes, actually. I assume you are Aidan.

I am.

Shall we sit down and get this over with?

Aidan expected a cool reception so he wasn’t surprised by Gordon’s choice of words. They threaded their way back to his table and took their seats. The other patrons resumed their own discussions like they’d seen this uncomfortable dance before – which they had. An American tracing ancestral roots to the UK was as commonplace as afternoon tea. Some first meetings were occasions for joy while others played out much as this one had.

Gordon spoke first just as Aidan settled into his chair. Look, old boy, I don’t know what you’re looking for or hope to find but what’s done is done. I’ve arranged to have one of my staff help you with your research, but I’ll thank you to leave my family and me out of this. We share the same paternal genes but that is where this little adventure ends. Lots of American and Canadian lads came through the bases here in England during the war and left their DNA behind. Some married, most didn’t, but the long and the short of it is that your father, and my biological father, courted my mother during the war, married her when it was over, took her to the States, then threw her away in the dust bin when he was through with her. My mother is gone. Your father and mine died in 1976. So let us both make this as painless as possible for all concerned. As I stated earlier, one of my staff will help you with your research but I won’t allow you to disrupt my family. He looked directly at Aidan, Are we clear?

Aidan felt scolded by his big brother, which was partially true. After pausing to take a sip from his pint and collect his thoughts, he fixed his gaze on Gordon and replied, When my second son was born my mother insisted I name him Gordon. When I asked why, she told me it was Dad’s dying wish. The reason she gave me at the time was that the McEwans of County Antrim, Northern Ireland, were part of the Gordon clan. Of course I fulfilled his wish; his full name is Austin Gordon MacEwan. It wasn’t until I began looking into our ancestry that I found out about you, Gordon, and I realized that I had been duped into giving MY son YOUR name. I can only assume that my mother knew about your mother and you, but I just can’t for the life of me imagine how she must have felt about Dad’s request. That’s how much she loved him. However, that wasn’t the only lie I was told within the confines of the MacEwan family. The romantic yarn that was spun throughout our childhood described in great detail my Mom, who was a WAC during the war, chasing Dad all over Europe because she was so smitten with him. There was no mention from either of them of anyone else, and yet recently I discovered that my father was most likely already engaged to your mother. So that makes my Dad a real son-of-a-bitch and my Mom a slut and a home-wrecker. Now, Gordon, that’s obviously not how I remember them growing up, but that is the stark reality of their beginnings. Please understand that I have no intention of causing your family any pain, but both of my parents passed away with a whole trunk full of secrets that I’m trying to untangle. I know there are old wounds here on your side of the ocean. How could there not be? But there are just as many on mine. They aren’t just my wounds either. When I started sifting through my memories with this new information as part of the filter, some things started to make a lot more sense. Like why my mother was never welcome in my father’s parents’ home but yours was.

The older brother had been listening quietly, then said, Yes, we visited them in Illinois several times. I was very close to my paternal grandparents growing up.

The younger of the two spoke, Gordon, I think each of us has pieces to the other’s puzzle. I will of course honor your wishes and those of your family at all times. I’ll also be as discrete as possible so as not to disturb your professional reputation, but please let me… help me… get to the bottom of this.

Gordon rose slowly and made his way back over to the bar where he ordered a Highland Park 18-year old scotch, neat, for himself then turned and asked of Aidan, What is that you’re drinking, old boy?

Tullamore Dew, Aidan replied.

Bollocks! Am I to have an Irishman being nosey parker then?

Aidan smiled and returned volley, Half of your blood is the same as half of mine, Gordon. Maybe we should settle on wine.

As long as it’s none of that upstart California swill, Gordon shot back, but managed a grin.

When Gordon returned with the whiskies the men saluted one another and sipped from their glasses while exploring common ground, their love of fine wine and food. At length Gordon looked at his younger brother and said, I’d better get you over to meet Daphne and Lydia. They probably think I’ve killed you and disposed of the body by now.

* * *

Gordon maneuvered the forest green Jaguar into the garage and lowered the automatic door. Aidan uncoiled from his seat and stood erect in the large space. In the States people piled their garages to the ceiling with possessions or junk as the case may be, but Gordon had every item either hung or stacked neatly, and most were labeled. Obviously there was an obsessive-compulsive streak alive in the genes, though Aidan suspected it was from his stepmother’s side. Gordon came around the rear of the vehicle and gently touched Aidan’s left shoulder, guiding him toward the door that led into the home. Aidan grinned shyly and walked toward the opening, stopping just before the entrance. Gordon leaned over his shoulder, You’ve come this far. Might just as well open one more. Aidan’s right arm reached for the knob. The instant before his fingers touched the brass, however, the door swung open quickly.

Aidan’s eyes were bathed in golden light as Gordon greeted his wife, Daphne. Behind her slightly and to one side was a younger version of Daphne, a very attractive young woman Aidan took to be Lydia, standing with eyes wide and mouth agape. Daphne rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Aidan. Though his arms hugged her in return actual words took the time forming in his mouth. He tried to come up with what the wife of a half-brother would be called. Failing that, he held tightly and said how grateful he was to be finally meeting her.

Lydia hung back. She was startled to see how much like her father this Yank looked. He was years younger, to be sure, but he was also every inch a member of their clan. Mother was laughing one moment, crying another, hugging the whole time. Father looked over and shrugged in resignation. Lydia smiled.

When at last Mother released her… half-uncle?... she stepped forward and put out her hand. Hello, I’m Lydia.

Aidan immediately comprehended the formal manner in which she wished to be greeted, thus he reciprocated by extending his hand. I’m Aidan MacEwan. I think we’re related, Lydia.

They smiled broadly and shook hands, but Aidan surprised everyone by wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her several inches off the floor, and saying, I can’t thank you enough! Then he kissed her cheek. Judging by the startled look on her face when he set her feet back on the floor, Aidan was sure he broached some British rule of decorum. Lydia’s eyes were flung wide and her mouth formed a silent ‘o.’ Mother gently touched her shoulder and said kiddingly, People in the States say thank you with a tad more enthusiasm than to what you’re accustomed, don’t they dear?

Before she could answer Aidan offered an apology, I’m terribly sorry, it’s just that I’m so thrilled to be here, and I sure wouldn’t be if it hadn’t been for you, Lydia. None of this would have been possible! I really, truly cannot thank you enough!

So you said! Lydia was gathering her wits.

Gordon stepped in and put his hands on Aidan’s shoulders. We’re going to get him back to his room at the Inn, and then I’ll return to the office. I have a conference call this afternoon that I cannot miss.

Yes, Aidan agreed, and I need to get organized.

You will join us for dinner, I hope, Daphne said in a way that left little room for debate or decline.

I’ll give you a call when I see how it’s going. I may have avoided jet lag, but I still need to get myself sorted out. Aidan was not accustomed to being invited to dinner; and why, for crying out loud, had he used the term sorted out?

Do try. It would mean so much, Daphne implored with eyebrows slightly tilting upwards.

Right, then! Gordon’s voice heralded his growing impatience.

Aidan gave Daphne and Lydia a quick final hug and began moving toward the door through which he had come. When he looked back over his shoulder he noticed that both women were smiling, tears beginning to well up in Daphne’s eyes. In one crystalline moment he sensed that a fragile container of emotion had been shattered. He felt it too, but Gordon seemed impervious, guiding Aidan through the door and back to the car without so much as a word.

Inside the soundproof Jag, however, the elder looked over with eyes of icy steel, I won’t allow you to harm them in any way - you do know that. It was not as much a promise as a threat.

Aidan was momentarily shaken but remained calm as he replied, As I would allow no one to harm my family, Gordon. That’s not the reason I came.

Right. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. My wife and daughter mean the world to me and I would crush anyone who would hurt them.

No misunderstanding, Gordon - none whatsoever. Aidan wondered why Gordon felt compelled to impart such a stern warning. Was it a carryover from how their father had treated Gordon’s mother? If not, from where did this anger and mistrust come?

Brilliant! Let’s get you back to your lodgings then! Gordon started the car and the cylinders began to purr like the predatory cat for which it was named – a cat that was surely lurking within the driver as well.

* * *

Aidan turned the key in the lock and heard the old mechanism’s metallic slap, acknowledging his request. Calling upon his limited knowledge of mid-twentieth century locks, the device was likely original equipment in the large residence that now served as a bed and breakfast. He suspected the owner’s family had in all likelihood subdivided the structure just after the war in order to make ends meet as a boarding house or perhaps to put up relatives who lost their homes during the bombing. Renovations had been made since that time to upgrade the structure for commercial use, but the door locks were original, each with its own long, aged key. From their communications, he gathered that Daphne was a close friend of the owner’s family and had negotiated a monthly rate that fit within Aidan’s budget. The duration of his stay was designated open-ended, however the owner required a two-week notice when his project was set to wrap up.

In addition to a comfortable bed, his room consisted of a sitting chair with a reading lamp alongside, a desk with a small lamp upon it, two nightstands (a lamp on each), an ensuite bathroom, and the crowning glory – a fully operational gas heater/fireplace! Aidan could already envision long, cold days and evenings sequestered with his work, warmed by the blue flames and the rhythmic whoosh of the gas. A corner room, there were three windows - one behind the desk, one over the bed, and another in the bathroom, high enough to allow light while preserving the modesty of its occupant. To store his clothes, there were a bureau and a standing chest, half of which was a mini-closet of sorts to hold his few hanging garments. Although Aidan wasn’t well-versed in the names of individual pieces of furniture, he seemed to recall once having heard something similar referred to as an armoire.

There had been a television in the room but he had it removed; he would be working, not on vacation. In its stead he set up a compact sound system that was linked to his laptop via Wi-Fi and a corresponding full terabyte hard disk’s worth of music. The disk came across the Atlantic in his carry-on, too valuable to risk being damaged or lost with the other luggage. On that one hard disk, Aidan had often said, lay his entire life in music, beginning with a 1958 copy of an album by The Kingston Trio which included, Tom Dooley, Sloop John B, and Scotch and Soda. Those timeless treasures were now stored with the likes of Buckethead, Jerry Jeff Walker, Jacqueline Du Pre, Miles Davis, DJ Shadow, Joni Mitchell, Buddy Guy and Dream Theater. Truly, if musical genres were colors Aidan would have in his hand ample hues with which to paint the Sistine Chapel. Thousands and thousands of LPs and CDs were stored in his head and on the hard disk. Music was the one thing no one could ever take away from him. Not ever.

He turned on the laptop and set the music to ‘shuffle.’

* * *

When Gordon MacEwan returned to the building that was home to GJM Holdings he stopped by his assistant’s desk to retrieve messages and take in what had transpired during his absence. With a few slips of paper in hand he stepped into the office and closed the door. Shuffling through the notes he quickly selected the one he had been anticipating all morning. The number indicated international long distance, 01, in America. Glancing back and forth from the touch pad to the paper, Gordon carefully selected each number and waited.

The voice on the other end was concise and business-like, Murano.

Mr. Murano. Gordon MacEwan returning your call.

Mr. MacEwan. I appreciate you getting back to me so quickly. I have an update for you.

Yes, please continue.

It seems Aidan MacEwan has a bit of a checkered past. Not felony checkered, mind you, but certainly not Sunday school material either.

Go on.

Well, I had to pull some strings to get his military record, however I think you’ll find it somewhat interesting.

Oh?

Yes, according to the file he enlisted in the US Navy in the early ‘70s during the last years of the Vietnam War, probably to avoid the draft, and despite being granted a Top Secret security clearance he only remained for a total of ten months and twenty-six days. The discharge is Honorable, but the code on his DD Form is ‘Unfit for Military Service.’ Then he drops off the grid until 1973 when he contacted the Israeli consulate in Miami to become a member of the Israel Defense Forces, the IDF, during the Yom Kippur War. Our intelligence community, of course, denied the Israelis access to him due to the sensitive nature of his training in crypto communications, and they subsequently put a tail on him - which he was able to elude.

I see. So he was attempting to become a soldier of fortune? A mercenary?

That’s the way it would seem, sir, yes.

Continue.

All right. Well, he bounces around a lot, that’s for certain. We’re looking into what might have triggered his actions, but something sure turned him into a human ping-pong ball. He’s in a rock and roll band; he’s in college on a scholarship; he’s working construction; he transfers colleges; he gets into the radio business; he gets married. Now, all of that happens in the space of just a few years. That is not normal. Don’t worry though. We’re talking to people who knew and remembered him, so we’ll unravel this thing.

Yes, I’m sure you will. You will keep me posted I trust?

Yes, sir. Would you prefer I call with any information we turn up that is pertinent, or compile it into a report?

I would like to be contacted the moment you uncover anything I should know about, Mr. Murano. I would additionally like a hard copy for my files.

No problem. There is one more thing that sent up some red flags, Mr. MacEwan.

Yes?

We turned up a woman in Mobile, Alabama, who remembers him from the period during which he attended the University of South Alabama. She’s married to a very prominent and influential person now so she spoke with us only on the condition of keeping her name confidential.

Of course.

"They were in some of the same classes at the university and she remembers him quite well indeed. She was very interested in going out with him romantically but he demurred. She said she even offered to marry him and have her father take him into the family business. I think her exact words were something to the effect of, I told him Daddy would take him in as a partner and build us a home with a pool."

I take it, then, that this woman in question is not the most attractive?

Quite the contrary, sir. Even by today’s standards she’s absolutely stunning! But what she said after that just didn’t make any sense.

Go on.

She said she truly admired his wit and good looks, but that Mr. MacEwan seemed to be on a path of self-destruction and she wanted to save him from himself. He was drinking and drugging a great deal and preferred the company of a female student who was also an admitted prostitute.

Well, well.

It gets even more peculiar. According to the prostitute, who is still living in Mobile as well, she and Mr. MacEwan were only good friends and ‘drinking buddies.’ He never expected anything from her like other male friends. She said he was the best listener in her small circle of friends. She could tell him anything and everything, and he never passed judgment.

So in your professional opinion, is he a homosexual?

No. We’re turning up a great deal of evidence that that was not an issue, but he did seem to be just like our source said, on a path of self-destruction. Needless to say, we’re looking into why that may have been and whether it might still be the case.

I see. Yes, do try to get to the bottom of it. I want to know what makes him tick.

Count on it, Mr. MacEwan. I have sources in law enforcement, the military, and on the street. Leave it to me.

Thank you, Mr. Murano. My colleagues in the States said you were the best and now I understand why. I look forward to our next talk.

You’re too kind, Mr. MacEwan. I’ll call soon.

Gordon replaced the phone on its cradle slowly. I knew there was more to this than meets the eye. What is this American up to?

* * *

Aidan began to organize himself. A legal-size notepad was placed on the nightstand closest to the side of the bed where he would sleep, which was always the right. Upon the notepad was placed a burgundy Mont Blanc pen, his favorite. Many nights when he laid awake, disjecta membra would come zipping through his mind and he wrote them down. Sometime later he would go back to those old pads and discover some golden nugget that would have been lost forever were it not for the placement of the pad next to the bed. It could be a phrase, a word, a look, a song… anything. There were somewhere in the neighborhood of six legal pads filled with those little bits of his universe.

Upon the desk where the laptop was already situated he set the two manila folders that contained his research to date, each filled with articles printed out from the web, prints and copies of historical documents, and documents he obtained from governmental agencies on both sides of the Atlantic. Those two folders told the unabridged story of Betty and Mac - their military records, court documents, and various U.S. Census forms. There were also documents related to Rebecca and Gordon - ships’ records that revealed mother and child crossing the ocean several times, showed Gordon listed as a U.S. citizen and Rebecca a citizen of the United Kingdom, and their address of destination the same as that Aidan knew to be his father’s boyhood home in Illinois.

However, historical records were only the canvas upon which those lives were painted. In order to breathe life into the illustration it would be necessary to introduce brushes made from grief, love, betrayal, lust and pain. The pigments were even now being unveiled for their true hues, and others, once lost, applied. Aidan brought passionate reds of every shade to the palette; Gordon presented greens and a myriad of grays; Mac was black and white - it had always been so; Betty offered blues of every layer, hidden and exposed. Rebecca was as yet unknown - as were Daphne and Lydia. This trip offered Aidan the opportunity to uncover what had been until very recently a complete mystery. There were innumerable questions to ask of Gordon and Daphne about Rebecca. But would they unmask?

* * *

After his shower Aidan called downstairs to the front desk to inquire about a package he shipped to the Inn before leaving Florida. Advised that it had not yet arrived, he asked where he might procure a bottle of liquor. The female voice at the other end of the line inquired if he was looking for an offie.

Pardon me?

An offie, sir. A store from which to purchase the bottle and then transport it elsewhere for consumption.

Well, yes. That’s precisely what I had in mind.

It’s shorthand for off-premises or off-license, I believe.

That makes sense.

Well sir, the closest location would be the market on the same street as the Inn. Not far, mind you. Just step out the front door and turn left.

Thank you. That was the answer I was hoping for. My legs could use a good stretch.

They have a good selection and fair prices as well, said the very capable young lady.

I’ll take a short walk then. Thank you! You’ve been very helpful!

My pleasure, Mr. MacEwan! Let me know if there is anything else you require during your stay with us.

Aidan bid good-bye and let the sound of her voice waltz around in his head a while longer. Her accent quickened his heart, though he did not imagine for a minute her intentions were anything more than those of a well-trained hospitality employee. Still… he was such a sucker for a British, Irish, Scottish, or Australian accent in a woman. I guess I’ll have to get over THAT pretty quickly, he remarked jokingly to himself. The American dressed and set out in search of the offie.

The young desk clerk’s instructions proved indeed accurate. Some fifteen minutes after stepping out the front door Aidan closed in on the grocery market that also housed a liquor store. Finding his regular brand of bourbon, Buffalo Trace, proved to be all but impossible however, so he settled for Maker’s Mark, the best of what was available in the shop. The gentleman behind the counter educated the American regarding the obstacles to introducing a wide variety of brands in the UK, namely the pubs needed to generate enough demand before the distributor would carry the label in the retail establishments. Bars and pubs typically had a limited number of controlled pouring mechanisms and there was stiff competition for those highly coveted slots.

You learn something new every day, Aidan pleasantly remarked as he was paying for the purchase, a bottle of bourbon and two of French wine. He decided on one white and one red - in case he took Daphne up on her offer of dinner. With any luck, sir, replied the shopkeeper.

On his way back to the Inn, Aidan absorbed the scenic view of the neighborhood. It was a mixture of residential homes and those that had been converted to small businesses. What was particularly noticeable was the nature of the grounds surrounding the buildings. Nearly all of the foliage was in impeccable condition, as if Monet had come through and painted the plants and gardens himself. The American didn’t know the names of many of the plants other than roses and hydrangeas, but there was no shortage of variety. There were vine-covered arbors and walls, plants tumbling over brick fences and walkways, and birds flitting about merrily immersed in the foliage. Conspicuous in its absence, however, was the American lawn to which he was accustomed. To Aidan it was a most welcome change.

As he entered the Inn, the comely young clerk stopped him and said she had received a message while he was out, which she summarily placed upon the counter. Aidan opened it and read quite simply, Dinner promptly at 6:30. Hope you like lamb. Please do try to come. Daphne. It did not appear to be in the handwriting of the clerk, which he noticed was angular and straight. The lines of the note were fluid and open.

Aidan supposed that Gordon dictated the punctuality of mealtime, although he had little to base his supposition upon other than the stern nature he had already encountered. Still undecided as to whether he would dine with Gordon, Daphne and Lydia or not, he was nevertheless glad he had picked up a pinot noir from Cote d’Or. It would go well with lamb. He thanked the young clerk and took his leave to the room.

* * *

Daphne tied up the two racks of lamb loin chops with cotton twine. Singing softly, she formed the crown from the racks and brushed them with a sauce she prepared from butter, rosemary and garlic. While covering the exposed bone tips with foil, she allowed herself to gaze into the future and hoped that this would be a wonderful opportunity for all of the MacEwans.

One of Gordon’s favorite meals was a crown roast of lamb. Perhaps his lance-like suspicious nature could be dulled somewhat by the tenderness of the repast. He had been against this project from the very beginning and she hesitantly understood his reasoning. Rebecca had been so devastated and heartbroken by Aidan’s and Gordon’s father that she never remarried, or even considered it. She had instead poured herself into being both mother and father to him. Her brother, Gordon’s uncle, had seen to it that he wanted for nothing. Gordon attended the Quainton Hall