A Matter of Betrayal: A Story Based in True Events

By Patti Massman and Susan Rosser

The Vietnam War; a war in which the government betrays its people, the military betrays its soldiers, the soldiers betray those they are assigned to protect...and one woman betrays her best friend. A collage of real events, A Matter of Betrayal illustrates the impact of the Vietnam War on two strong-willed women.

These women's lives and the lives of all Americans are ripped apart by the turbulent 60's and the Vietnam War, taking 30 years to heal.

The daughter of a four star general, Jenny leaves behind her sheltered life for the front lines of a war no one understands. Among the incomprehensible horrors, she discovers love and then great pain as the man she loves becomes a casualty of war. Upon her return to the "world," she is betrayed by her best friend and forced underground to protect her daughter and her own true identity. Music becomes Jenny's tool for survivalthe way back to herself.

Kick is also an army brat and Jenny's best friend. She takes another road leading away from the rigid world of her military parents. Without an ounce of Jenny's idealism, she opts to tackle New York. A would-be photographer, she dives into the underground pop art and drug scene, hoping along the way to snag a rich husband who will give her the security and status she longs to possess. Debased and broken by the heir of an industrialist family and driven by jealousy, she betrays her best friend, her husband and herself.

Only when the truth comes out, as it does through Jenny's grown daughter as she returns to Vietnam to find her father, can the waters calm and real healing begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 2, 1999
• ISBN: 9781469770833

Patti Massman

Born in Los Angeles, Massman moved with her family to Reno, Nevada to be closer to her father's two casinos-one in Reno and the other in Lake Tahoe. Living in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, Massman's natural athletic abilities led her to snow skiing, barrel racing her palomino, water skiing and golf. She spent a semester of her junior year in high school in Gstaad, Switzerland, where she became fluent in French and raced on her school's ski team. After attending college in Colorado and transferring to Boston University, Massman graduated with a B.S. in Communications and went to work for a Hollywood public relations firm, and then a theatrical agency. Jumping to "the other side" in 1984, Massman co-authored the New York Times best seller, Fling, with Pamela Beck. A few years later, in 1989, they wrote Rich Men, Single Women, which was made into an ABC movie-of-the-week and produced by Aaron Spelling. The following year Massman and Rosser co-authored Just Desserts, and began their nine-year journey to Betrayed.Massman, a volunteer for Children of the Night, a shelter for sexually exploited children, divides her time between Los Angeles and Telluride, Colorado. Massman, like Rosser, has two grown children who help keep her sane.

Book preview

A MATTER OF BETRAYAL

A NOVEL INSPIRED BY TRUE EVENTS

by

Patti Massman and Susan Rosser

to Excel

New York San Jose Lincoln Shanghai

A Matter of Betrayal

A Novel Inspired by True Events

All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 1999 by Patti Massman and Susan Rosser

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by toExcel Press,

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

620 North 48th Street

Suite 201

Lincoln, NE 68504-3467

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 1-58348-741-7

ISBN: 978-1-4697-7083-3 (eBook)

While many of the characters and situations in this story were inspired by

real people and events, this is a work of fiction. Names, dates, and locations have

been changed for dramatic purposes.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE (1974)

PART ONE (1967)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART TWO (1984)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PART THREE (1988)

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

EPILOGUE (SOON AFTER THE GULF WAR)

To Judi Cassidy Bramlett and Jeanne Kinzer Drewsen

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ASIDE FROM FINALLY seeing this book in print after nearly a decade, the most rewarding aspect of writing it was getting to know all the interesting people who so graciously shared their lives with us during the research stage. We thank Harlan Steinberger for his crash course on what Venice Beach was like during the 1970s and for introducing us to the buskers who passed their hats on the Boardwalk back then. General David Bramlett proved not only an invaluable source about soldiers in war and our host at West Point, but became a treasured friend. Lt. Colonel Rixon let us take a peek at the workings of Fort McNair in Washington D.C. Thank you to Lt. Colonel Gregory Lowe, whose keen recollections of being posted in Heidelberg and personal feelings about the relationship between military officers and their offspring gave us the clearest picture possible. And to all the others at Fort Campbell who let us into their lives, including: Burt Tackaberry and Sonia, Cynthia, and Patti Anne Alda. Many thanks to former Air Force pilot, world-class athlete, and friend, Daniel P. McLean, whose stories enlightened us about being a military brat at a time when values were changing and it was hip to challenge the old guard; to Betty Kinzer for teaching us the protocol of military life as she lived it in an earlier era; to our friend, Tiana Alexander Silliphant, Vietnamese film maker and actress, whose journey from Hollywood back to Hanoi in the early 1990s clarified postwar Vietnam for us; to George and Anne Allen, both Vietnam War correspondents, who generously gave a civilian angle to our story; and to Mary Nguyen who taught us what it was like to be an Amerasian growing up in the United States. We were fortunate to be invited to watch the inner workings of Music City from the front row. Waylon Jennings and Jessie Colter made time again and again for us in their frenetic schedules. Mike Gursey and Stan Moress opened up every door in Music City. Thanks to Sam Louvello, who gave us free range to snoop backstage at the Grand Ol’ Opry; to Snuff Garrett, who has no equal when it comes to knowing country music and the people who make it; and to Amy Kurland, owner of the Bluebird Café, who suffered our endless questions with great forbearance. Thanks to Dean Miller, who taught us what it feels like to be starting out in the music business, even with a dad who’s a legend; to Alison Cariaga, who took us behind the scenes of Nashville’s music industry; and Darren Briggs who was so cordial to us at Tree Publishing. And we can never forget the rest of the crew in Nashville who make the music happen: Al Shiltz, Buddy Emmons, Dora Burkette, and Kim Morrison. Our colorful legal expert was Richard Sherman, who walked us through his world of litigation. We also are grateful to him and his ebullient wife, Andrea, for their unending hospitality while we slogged around Jackson Hole in the snow in May. Another informative Jackson resident was Dale Butts, who shared with us his stories about the denizens of the Tetons. Thanks are due him and the volunteers of the Jackson Chamber of Commerce, as well as those who assisted us at the Jackson Hole Public Library. The spirituality of the Lakotas found its way into our story through Sue Wolf. A big debt of gratitude goes to Shearon Monson, whose vivid dream helped turn ours into reality, and to Iris Dugow, who let us borrow freely from her experiences in television. Thanks to Valerie Holvick for her fond remembrances of college life at Mills. We can never repay Mimi Le Himmelman, our eyes and ears to the South Vietnam of the late sixties and early seventies, as well as our tireless critic who improved every draft of our manuscript with her razor-sharp insight and unique sensitivity. We are indebted to our dear friends, Madeline Red-stone and Cynthia Berenson, who blew the dust off our manuscript, read it, and told us we weren’t allowed to file it away again! Giant hugs to the men in our lives—Bob Rosser and Peter Neuwirth—for putting up with our compulsive editing, often throughout the night. To our kids: Julie, Jon, Brent, and Michael who came of age while we continued to rewrite. To our mothers, Anne Schwartz and Thelma Maltz: the generals of our families. It’s been a pleasure working with Dana Isaacson and Kenzi Sugihara at iUniverse, our door to the future, as well as with David Dunton of the Harvey Klinger Literary Agency. We thank our publicist, Joe Marich Jr., for his hours of service beyond the call of duty, as well as for his sage advice on how to tune up our tale before setting it loose on the public. And last, but not ever least, to Harvey Klinger, our literary agent, who amazes us every day, and who still doesn’t know the meaning of the word can’t.

PROLOGUE

(1974)

THE WOMAN WHO called herself Justice Dakota climbed through the window of her bedroom onto the tar-papered roof of the building next door, a decaying structure like so many others that had been neglected along the Venice Beach Strand. Although she had claimed this space as a private patio, Justice picked her roosting spots carefully, certain that like the walls below, the roof was as fragile as thin ice on a lake. If her apartment weren’t located on this stretch of beach, it would qualify as a tenement on the verge of eroding into a rubbish heap. While parts of Venice were in a period of rebirth, the trend had-n’t reached her neck of the woods, and the rent was still affordable for a single mother struggling to make ends meet. From her living room only the unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean was visible, not the rotting stucco or the narrow dank hallway. That vista was priceless to Justice, who drew from it both solace and inspiration for her incipient songwriting career.

She sipped from a mug of strong coffee while relishing her one allotted cigarette of the day, gazing out at the sun-dappled water on this early August morning, the lack of human activity allowing her to hear the crashing of waves more than a hundred yards away. The repetitive sound that relaxed her would soon be no more than background noise for roller skaters, bikers, joggers and sightseers dodging one another along Ocean Front Walk.

A speckled pigeon flapped its wings and took off from the ledge as she exhaled a plume of smoke in its direction. She often shared this dubious aerie with any number of the birds that caa-cawed and swooped in lazy circles along the waterfront, leaving their droppings on the roof right next to her ashes. Their deposits were like organic monuments, built up over the years into interesting patterns and shapes, attesting to the birds’ presence. All traces of her presence blew away with the first good breeze. That was exactly how she liked it. In a way it defined who she was: the woman who could just pick up and disappear, like ashes in the wind.

She doused the smoldering butt in the remains of her coffee, then made her way back inside. Her daughter was sitting at a folding table, her bowl of Cheerios pushed aside, replaced by a piece of butcher paper and a jar of finger-paint.

Struggling to get the lid off, Daisy thrust the paint at her mother. Do this for me, please.

Justice tapped the lid against the kitchen counter, then gave it a twist. Here you go. Five minutes, then you have to get dressed. I’m going to jump in the shower.

Every once in a while the water pressure in Justice’s apartment was almost normal, and this morning was one of those times. It felt delicious to stand under the pulsing jets. I’ve got the single mama blues…and holes in my shoes…but what do I care, if I get gray strands in my hair…I’ve got you, babe. Move over, Sonny and Cher, Justice thought, lifting a phrase from their hit song and fitting it into her own. The sound of her husky alto bounced off the cracked tiled walls of her steamy shower. Waitin’ tables all day in a Venice Beach café…ain’t the best gig…but it helps feed my kid…so what do I care if I get gray strands in my hair…I got you, babe … These silly lyrics would never make the charts, but they sure captured how she felt as she hunched forward to let the hot water pound against the small of her back. My back might be breakin’ and my fingers might be achin’ …

Mama! Look what I did, Daisy chirped, pulling aside the plastic curtain, cutting off Justice mid-lyric. A spray of water shot onto her and the floor.

Mercy! You’ve painted your hair!

Now we both have red in our hair, the five-year-old squealed, careful not to touch the gooey gobs of red finger-paint she had streaked through her bangs.

Daisy Dakota! Justice moaned. What am I going to do with you?

The broad smile Daisy had worn as she dashed into the room disappeared in increments, like a drawing on a magic slate when the cellophane covering is lifted. Don’t you like it, Mama?

Honey, you can’t go around painting your hair. Daisy looked crushed. But it’s nothing to pout about. I know what! Come in here with me, and let’s shampoo it out together.

Still pursing her lips the way Justice often did when upset, Daisy shrugged her shoulders, then reluctantly slipped off her nightie and climbed in.

Shut your eyes a minute. Justice soaped Daisy’s hair for her, unable to keep a straight face as cascades of red suds swirled down the drain.

Trying to talk through her closed lips, Daisy muttered, I wanted to look more like you.

Justice sighed. Did all mothers go through this, or was it merely their special circumstance? She knelt down in the cramped space so she could look her daughter in the eye. Pushing Daisy’s hair back off her forehead, she said, I love your beautiful, black hair. We don’t have to have the same color.

But why is mine so straight, and yours gets all…all, you know, wavy?

I’ve told you and told you, but I’ll tell you our little secret again. You look more like your father than you do me.

I wish I could see him, Mama.

At the forlorn sound of Daisy’s voice, Justice felt hollow in the pit of her stomach, as she always did whenever Daisy voiced such longings. She kissed the top of the child’s head, then replied emphatically, I do, too. But you know he’s in a faraway place.

Heaven?

Remember how we talked about the soldiers fighting in the country where you were born?

Uh, huh.

And that we don’t know if your father’s in heaven or still in Vietnam?

Oh, yeah. But I want green eyes like yours, not brown. And freckles on my nose like you have, too.

Justice began the little game she had created to placate Daisy when she was a toddler. How many fingers on your hands?

Ten, she said on rote, and I have ten toes like you do, too. I don’t want to play that baby game anymore.

Okay by me. We’re in a hurry now anyway. And since you’re such a big girl, you can dress yourself. She wrapped Daisy in a towel and sent her out of the bathroom with a pat on her behind.

***

As Justice applied her makeup, she thought about the sudden change in Daisy’s attitude. Some of it could be attributed to Quinn Reynolds’ influence. This was the third weekend in a row that Daisy would get to pass the hat for Quinn, a street musician who had become more than just a regular customer at the diner where Justice waitressed seven days a week. He had swaggered into the restaurant four months ago, fresh from Canada, and he didn’t go unnoticed by her—or any of the other waitresses. The girls were intrigued by his self-confidence and dark good looks; all of them but Justice vying for his attention. Perhaps that’s why he singled her out, eventually showing up at all the haunts she frequented. With the passage of time, she learned that he was more than bluster; he had musical talent to spare. As attracted as she was to his way with both women and song, she was as adamant about not getting involved with him. She said they could be friends, though she was as wary of friends as she was of lovers. Justice had circled the wagons around her emotions. However, she wasn’t impenetrable, although she often wished she could be made of stone, hard to the core and with no feelings. It was her own physical needs that did her in finally, and she hoped she wouldn’t rue the night the wagons parted and let him through. She was constantly vigilant for signs that he was getting too serious, wanting more than she could give. So far, he was playing according to her rules. And he certainly had a way with her daughter. In fact, Daisy had become one of his most adoring fans.

While Justice worked her double weekend shift, Quinn let Daisy collect tips from people who stopped to listen to him sing. Having become one of the most popular buskers on the boardwalk in a very short time, he always drew a large crowd. And Daisy’s perfect pitch voice and gamine-like presence had unwittingly turned her into an added attraction. What had started out as free baby-sitting on Quinn’s part, was now a paying gig for Daisy.

Daisy returned to the bathroom looking like a little Gypsy, with her dusky skin and doe eyes, dressed in a sarong, tank top and carrying a babushka in her hand, all tie-dyed in different colors. The same artisan who had taught her to tie-dye had taught her how to braid. Today she had tried the technique out on her hair. The result was a lopsided trio of pigtails, one of which seemed to grow out of the second braid like a cowlick. Justice complimented Daisy on her effort. Indeed, she was growing up. It made Justice both proud and uneasy because it was obvious that she couldn’t continue to keep their daddy talks simple. Was it only a matter of time before her good intentions backfired? She’d made Daisy wary of anyone who asked too many personal questions, creating a cocoon for the two of them. Theirs was a world of invisible walls. What Justice hadn’t considered was that she might erect one between Daisy and herself, as well. She’d seen the look in her daughter’s eyes this morning when she evaded her questions. Yet, Justice couldn’t stop herself from dissembling. It was for Daisy’s own protection.

Let’s be twins, Justice suggested. She had woven beads through her damp curls. She took the last couple of strands and deftly added them to Daisy’s braids, as if a few beads would bond them where features wouldn’t.

***

By the time the Dakotas reached Quinn Reynolds’ niche near Rose Avenue, the more laid-back section of the Strand where a musician had a better chance of being heard, some of the entertainers were already into their acts. Mimes and jugglers were in abundance this Sunday, working the crowds on the boardwalk and the beach. Quinn’s amps were in their usual spot, but he was-n’t yet open for business.

At the moment he was reclining on his elbows on a straw mat, face turned upward toward the penetrating sun, apparently trying to enhance his already dark good looks, as he sunbathed in velvet bell-bottoms and a Nehru shirt opened to his navel. Beside him on the mat was a stranger sporting a Fu Manchu mustache, a pair of shades, and a frizzy ponytail. He was tuning Quinn’s acoustic guitar, which he cradled in his lap.

Who are you? Daisy indignantly asked the man, as if he were horning in on her territory.

Quinn’s eyes fluttered open at the familiar voice. His face creased into a grin.

Who’s he? Daisy’s question was targeted at Quinn, but her eyes were still glued skeptically on the stranger.

Justice and Daisy, meet Lloyd. The buddy I blew into town with.

Good to meet ya both, Lloyd said, getting up to shake hands. I crashed at Quinn’s pad last night but didn’t get much sleep. The guy kept on talking about the two of you all night.

Lloyd took off for ‘Frisco about the time I moved out to the beach. We had alotta catching up to do. He chucked Daisy under the chin.

She backed away. Am I still working with you today, Quinn?

You bet. He swooped a captain’s hat from the mat, topping off his costume as he adjusted it over a mass of black curls.

Don’t I need that? Daisy asked, pointing to the cap.

You sure do. How we gonna get rich if you don’t pass my cap? He took it off and tossed it to her. Daisy stuck out her hand, but it sailed past. Instinctively, Justice reached out and snared it just before it hit the sand.

Damn, I love a woman with good hands! Quinn said, before giving her a good morning kiss.

When I get older, I’ll have good hands, too, Daisy promised solemnly.

Still holding onto Justice, Quinn reached out and tickled Daisy’s side. I’m sure you will.

She squealed, wriggled away, then snuck in and tried to tickle him back.

Sometimes when Justice watched Quinn and Daisy clown around like this, she wasn’t sure which one was the bigger kid. Are we a family? her daughter had asked the other night after he and Daisy had shared a can of Spaghetti-O’s and watched a re-run of I Love Lucy before Justice tucked her into bed. It broke Justice’s heart to say no, they were not. For years she had told Daisy that it didn’t matter that there was no husband or daddy in their home, insisting that she was all the family Daisy needed because she loved her more than anyone else in the world. It was a catechism that was being put to the test, and she worried that the first-grader was starting to find it empty.

While Daisy had been intent on checking out who Lloyd was, the man’s focus seemed to be on Justice. You look real familiar, he finally said.

I look like everybody.

Everybody should be so lucky, said Quinn.

She blushed, then said, I don’t know any Canadians, except for Quinn.

He’s not from Canada, Quinn offered, continuing to horse around with Daisy.

Oh. Where are you from?

Actually, I’m from just about everywhere. Army brat, he explained.

Man was too smart to lose his ass in ‘Nam, Quinn shot over his shoulder.

Lloyd shrugged. Canada sounded like a better bet. He was staring hard at Justice now. I swear we’ve met.

The mere mention of the word army sent a chill down Justice’s spine. She tried desperately to envision Lloyd with a crewcut, clean shave and no dark glasses. There was a good chance that their paths had crossed. For all she knew they could have been neighbors on some post. I’m sure not!

Hey, babe, don’t bite his head off over it. Quinn tried to tickle her, as he had Daisy. She moved away. Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? I told you you need me around more.

Maybe without these. Lloyd removed the glasses.

Her eyes immediately went to the purplish birthmark just below his left eyebrow. The blood drained from her face. He was a childhood friend of her cousin Chip, another army brat. She remembered the other kids making fun of him. Justice prayed there was nothing in her expression that gave away the fact that she’d recognized Lloyd. She shook her head no. Nice eyes, though, she eked out, struggling to compose herself.

Quinn took Justice’s hand. He stared into her face, trying to figure out what was happening. She returned his penetrating gaze with a blank stare. You feeling okay? he asked.

Hey, I’m fine, she protested with a small laugh. The truth was she wanted to bolt and take Daisy along with her. Maybe you should go to work with me today, honey. Quinn hasn’t seen his friend for a long time.

Let her stay. Lloyd and I will have plenty of time to hang out. He’s had it with ‘Frisco. We’re planning to team up here.

Say, Justice. You could add some class to our act. Quinn says you’ve got a nice voice.

I have zero ambition to be a performer.

Well, I hear you write some pretty good stuff. Maybe you’ll come up with something for us, and we’ll all get famous together.

She started to lead Daisy away, saying, So far nothing but waitressing’s keeping a roof over our heads. And if I don’t get a move on it, we’ll be sleeping in my car.

Been there, Lloyd said congenially.

Please let me stay, Mama! Daisy shrugged out of Justice’s grip.

Justice was trying to think of how to avoid Lloyd later, but taking Daisy to work wouldn’t endear her to her boss, any more than it would endear her to her daughter. She relented, agreeing to see them all back at this spot at six.

***

Claiming to have a bad headache, Justice arranged for Daisy to be picked up by the woman who lived across the hall. Daisy also had forgone her pre-bed routine of reading with Justice and allowed her mother to put her to bed early without a fuss. In truth, Justice’s head was throbbing, the result of a full-blown anxiety attack. There was no way to deal with Lloyd’s sudden appearance on the scene other than to suddenly disappear.

She paced the living room, unable to sit quietly and think things through. She stopped and stared at the room, a place she’d turned into a home with very few resources. Most of her belongings were of flea market vintage. Some of the furniture pieces she had worked on for weeks, stripping and refinishing herself. She rubbed the arch of her bare foot along the smooth finish of the coffee table, reminded of the long hours that had gone into sanding it, and how proud she had been of the results.

On the wall across from a sofa with several errant springs hung two posters of Broadway shows. An assortment of record jackets from her favorite folk singers were grouped on the wall behind her. Additional LP covers of rock, country and soul singers were stored in a wicker basket next to a cinder block bookshelf. Justice had been planning to tack up new ones on the wall in the morning. She was also supposed to drop off a set of sheets she had finished monogramming for an upscale linen boutique on Main Street where she earned extra money doing embroidery part-time. In The Morning…an innocuous phrase, but one that held new meaning for her. Tomorrow she and Daisy would be…like ashes in the wind.

Justice rationalized that leaving was a good thing; there were limitless possibilities out there for her and Daisy. Who was she kidding? She had despised the nomadic life-style of the army, but here she was living it herself, only without the vast support system the military afforded. Daisy was the only thing that centered her, yet even she couldn’t prevent the panic attacks. Justice was forced to keep one step ahead of anyone who might recognize her, put two and two together, and take her daughter away.

She opened the bedroom door a crack to check on Daisy. Her daughter stirred at the light but did not awaken. Nothing was more precious to Justice in the world than this child. Justice would work wherever she had to to support the two of them. She’d run and run and run, if need be, not to lose her.

Shutting the door again, Justice went into the kitchen to do the dinner dishes. Unlike furniture, dishes were easy to pack, to stow in her car for the trip to a new life.

The apartment’s kitchen was not much bigger than the closet-sized bathroom, but Justice spent much of her time there. Late at night when she resisted sleep, she stole into this room, sat on the floor with the door closed and played her guitar for hours. Lately, this cozy space had become her love den, as well.

As she ran her soapy hands over the dishes and pots, she thought back to that first night she and Quinn had been together. Illuminated by a vapor lamp, for hours he’d stood on the Strand two floors below her apartment. He serenaded her with his guitar, intent on breaking her resolve to resist his romantic overtures. She wasn’t the only one to beg him to go away. Some of the neighbors threatened to call the cops. When that didn’t do any good, they promised that if he didn’t make himself scarce in a hurry they would personally rip out his vocal cords.

It’s all Justice’s fault! he replied. She’s driving me nuts!

Give the dumb schmuck a break! someone on the first floor yelled up.

Quinn added, The only way you’ll quiet me down, Justice, is to invite me up.

He was as bothersome as a tick and as irresistible as a hot fudge sundae. At last he had won.

You can all go to sleep now, she’d finally said. This lunatic has finished for the night.

He gathered up his equipment, stuffing his guitar into a case, dragging amps and wires behind him in his haste to get inside before she changed her mind.

Suddenly afraid that Daisy, who had slept through Quinn’s serenade and its attendant ruckus, might wake up now that he was inside the apartment, Justice motioned him away from the apartment’s one bedroom and into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

Where Justice normally spent hours making meals and music, that night she and Quinn made love on the cracked linoleum floor. Two months had passed since the cocky tenor wormed his way into this kitchen, then her heart and her life. After Daisy had asked if they were a family and she’d said no, she began to think about it in earnest. Could she afford to let herself have a truly intimate relationship? Something with permanence? The answer was Lloyd showing up, unexpected, shaking her growing complacency like an earthquake that leaves a chasm where solid ground once existed.

Justice opened the window above the sink. The smell of brine wafted in from the sea. Waves invisible in the moonless night broke in a pleasing, comforting repetition on the shore. She closed her eyes and listened for the calming rhythm, but even this unthreatening motion of the universe didn’t soothe her tonight.

Descending further into her troubled state of mind, Justice hoisted herself up onto the counter. From a high shelf she brought down a metal box with a combination lock. She opened it, pushing aside a journal she’d started in Hawaii when she and Daisy were in a holding pattern, waiting for…just waiting, as it turned out. Under the journal was a yellowing letter, the last communication she’d ever had from her mother. Justice didn’t need to read the letter; she knew it by heart. But she reread it anyway, flagellating herself with a past she’d fought hard to obliterate. When she finished, an aching loneliness overwhelmed her, a hopeless feeling that made her feel adrift and pointless. She startled herself with sobs she could not stop. Collapsing against the sink, she muffled the noise with the dishtowel until the need for release subsided. She latched once more onto the soothing repetition of the waves outside.

She had expected to have to deal with Quinn tonight. He hadn’t come by after all. Maybe she’d angered him earlier by her curt behavior, then not showing up to fetch Daisy. She hated to leave him without a goodbye, but she’d done it to others before. Justice splashed water onto her face, dried the last of the dishes, and shut the window.

Shedding her robe, she fell naked into bed. She staved off sleep worrying not only about making her get-away but about the incident with the finger-paints. Daisy’s curiosity was increasing about the differences in their features. She’d told the child time and again that her father had been an important Vietnamese diplomat who had become separated from them during the war, and no one knew if he had lived or died. Justice should merely have said he was dead. Equivocate with a child, give a child hope, and you’re asking for trouble down the line. Justice knew it was only a matter of time before they moved one too many times and Daisy rebelled. She would insist on knowing why. Knowing more. Knowing everything! Justice prayed she would never have to reveal the truth about Daisy’s parentage.

She hadn’t considered the complications and consequences when she made the decision to arise de novo as Justice Dakota, a persona constructed from her imagination, putting an end to Jenny McKay. This new being had no parents, no siblings, no ties. She chose the name Justice because that’s what she wanted in her life, and the surname Dakota because it was the only state she had never traveled through with her father! Changing her identity was easy. Living it was hard.

Late at night, after the memories of Quinn’s lovemaking faded, and Justice felt alone and vulnerable again, or her work on her lyrics and tunes went sour and she despaired about her lack of talent, or her expenses mounted, or someone like Lloyd showed up, Justice would crawl into bed and shut her eyes, praying for oblivion. A deep sleep descended rarely upon her. In the dark, Justice couldn’t help but see the truth like a beacon mocking her as it guided her back to a past that sat upon a craggy promontory waiting to dash her against its rocks with every black thought and terrifying nightmare. Tonight, as on so many other nights, she lay comfortless in her bed, planning her next move, her next escape, her next beginning, and knowing that someday she and Daisy would have to face who she was and what she had done …

PART ONE

(1967)

CHAPTER ONE

JENNY MCKAY STEPPED lightly down the parquet steps into the ballroom of her father’s home. The military gala taking place in this Bavarian mansion overlooking the Neckar River in Heidelberg, Germany, was in full swing. An army orchestra played dance music, and at least two hundred formally dressed guests were socializing. Outside, the patio was ringed with muted lighting, and the pathways that wound through the formal gardens were similarly aglow.

She was the late arrival to the ball, normally a faux pas in the rigid military world of her important parents, but tonight she was forgiven because her flight from California was several hours late.

Jenny glided through the room in a strapless, hunter green ball gown her mother had made and had spread out on the bed as a surprise, as she often had when Jenny was a child. Her father was often away and her mother would fill the empty nights sewing. Like a visit from the magic-fairy, Jenny would wake up some mornings and find a new outfit waiting for her on the foot of her bed.

The full, organza skirt and cinched waist gave her an hourglass figure, and she was acutely aware of all the men who turned to stare and nod in her direction. Feeling spunky in spite of jet lag and post-midterms exhaustion, she put on a glowing smile, threw her shoulders back, and enjoyed the powerful moment. No fraternity party could compare to this, she thought, happy to be back in her parents’ milieu. Her father was the Commander in Chief of the United States Army in Europe, which put her in the coveted center of the social whirl.

Her mother intercepted her. Eleanor McKay was a handsome brunette in her late forties, increasingly fretful about the gray in her hair and the mid-life spreading of her middle. You’re here at last. She embraced Jenny with arms encased in white gloves to her elbows. Have you seen Betsy?

Betsy was the younger of the two McKay siblings. She intercepted me at the front door and dragged me upstairs. I felt bad leaving her pouting about not being old enough to attend the party.

You were the same way at twelve. Then, it wasn’t such a big deal. Our houses were smaller. We couldn’t keep you out of our hair.

Jenny laughed, a vibrant, carefree sound.

Her mother’s eyes twinkled. Turn around and let me get a good look at you in that gown. I was worried it wouldn’t fit. I know how thin you get from the stress of exams. She reached out toward Jenny’s neck. I see you found my pearls.

Betsy insisted, Jenny said, blushing. I hope it’s okay.

Sometimes Betsy just takes over, I swear. I worry that all of this at such a young age has jaded her somehow. She gestured, as if to take in the enormity of the estate over which she presided. She has no frame of reference like you do. She never had to learn how to make three pork chops feed four people.

Thank goodness.

Darling, don’t be flippant. Having a bowling alley and a movie theater in the basement with first-run films flown in can certainly skew one’s outlook and turn a perfectly good child into a…a…holy terror.

Well, we certainly can’t have any of those in the McKay household. I’ll set her straight while I’m home.

Thank you, dear. Eleanor relaxed finally, apparently grateful for another hand to help with the mothering, if only for a couple of weeks. She resumed daintily sipping her champagne cocktail.

Mother, in case I fall asleep out on the dance floor, I want to thank you for having everything ready for me tonight. The fog in San Francisco was awful. Missed my connection. I almost didn’t get here at all.

It would have been a shame to miss out on this party.

Her mother meant it would be a shame to miss out on all the eligible bachelors floating around in their Mess Dress Blues. Where’s Daddy?

Last I saw him he was talking with Senator Swain from Oregon. We have several other leaders in the Senate here tonight, she said, pointing them out.

Isn’t that Colonel Davenport standing with one of them? Jenny asked, as she scanned the resplendent room for her father.

Yes, it is. Didn’t I tell you he’s on your father’s staff again?

No. But it would be just like old times if Kick were here, too. Kick Davenport had been Jenny’s best friend when they were teenagers and their fathers were stationed together at Fort Campbell. They hadn’t seen one another in years.

Unfortunately, you’re going to get your wish, darling. I’ve heard through the grapevine that that hellion is due in town tomorrow on her way to somewhere or another.

Mother! Stop being so tough on her. Her mother’s snippy attitude about Kick had resulted from the girl’s proclivity toward hi-jinks. Living on army posts was a fishbowl experience. Jenny had learned early on that a child of an officer who had his sights set for the brass ring was expected to deport herself properly at all times. If she didn’t, she risked ruining her father’s reputation and short-circuiting his career. Her motto eventually became: Don’t Get Caught. She was mostly successful, her transgressions the slap-on-the-hand variety like climbing out her bedroom window at night to go visit friends. Kick Davenport was a different breed altogether. She would concoct outrageous plans, set them in motion, then step back and watch the chaos unfold. Jenny’s father used Kick as an example of how an officer’s unruly offspring could destroy his military future. He said Colonel Davenport was a good soldier and a smart man, but largely because of Kick he would never make general.

The orchestra switched from a fox trot to a Strauss waltz just as Jenny’s silver-haired, distinguished father returned to the ballroom. A girlfriend of hers had once remarked that if Central Casting ever had a call for a general they would have sent William McKay. Her father had little money, but he had power. In their world that counted even more. Jenny was proud to be his daughter. Spotting her, he immediately stopped talking and pointed her out to Senator Swain. Even at ease with his hands crossed behind him at the waist, his demeanor was formal. She waved at him. Although they hadn’t seen each other in many months, he merely nodded back in the brisk, rigid way he comported himself in public. Some daughters might have wilted under such a muted response. But Jenny could read him better than that; she could see from the sudden jutting of her father’s strong jaw and the ever-so-slight expression of satisfaction on his face that he really was delighted to see her. His bemedaled chest puffed up with pride.

I’m going over to see Dad. Maybe he’ll even let go of the Senator long enough to dance with me.

If anyone can get him on the dance floor, it’s you, dear. Then don’t disappear. I’ve got a slew of interesting dance partners lined up to introduce you to. Jenny didn’t doubt it. Nothing would please her mother more than to see her carry on the family tradition by marrying a budding army star. Her father always had the pick of the litter, so to speak, to fill openings on his staff. The room teemed with clean-cut military academy and college ROTC graduates who, given the opportunity, would jump at the chance to vie for the hand of General William McKay’s daughter.

***

Haloed by the smoke from her Gauloise cigarette, a brand she had developed a taste for since settling in Paris last year to study photography, Kick Davenport posed just outside the leaded glass doors that led from the manicured gardens of the McKays’ estate back into the ballroom she’d escaped a short while ago. The estate technically wasn’t the McKays’, not in the same way her friend, Sabrina Goodhill, could boast of her family’s homes, several of them handed down from generation to generation. Kick had learned a lot about life outside the military since befriending Sabrina, a free-spirited American heiress enrolled but who rarely stepped inside their Left Bank art school. Kick sensed almost immediately that being Sabrina’s sidekick could be as important to her future outside the army as being friends with General McKay’s daughter had been inside it. The hunch proved true beyond all her expectations. Through Sabrina, Kick witnessed firsthand the difference between owning and borrowing. The McKays might have airplanes, private railroad cars and automobiles dedicated by the army for their personal use, in addition to this massive estate, but they were just perks that came with the job. One day it would all be gone.

Besides, even while the McKays enjoyed such frills the price was constant accountability. Owning was better. Infinitely better. Wealth bestowed a Teflon quality on a person’s life. Wealth eliminated consequences. To be free from consequences was her goal. No yesterday. No tomorrow. Only now. You could be whatever you wanted, do whatever you wanted. Nobody’s opinion mattered but your own. That was the power owning bestowed.

If Kick owned the Rudy Gernreich dress she was wearing tonight, rather than having borrowed it from Sabrina (without her permission), she might have felt more at home in the skin-tight, hot pink leather gown and undaunted by the raised eyebrow stares that greeted her when she made her entrance into the ballroom about an hour ago. Instead, she’d let the silent, judgmental put-down from her parents’ peers get under her skin. She’d been surly to the couple of soldiers who dared to ask her to dance, refusing their overtures, preferring to wait on the sidelines for Jenny McKay’s arrival. Jenny was late, and Kick had had to stand there and be stared at like a freak. She’d ducked outdoors and hidden within the shadows of the shrubbery. It was astonishing how fast being back in this military milieu could undo a year of coming into her own and remind her of what she still wasn’t.

Kick’s grudge against the army had long been a litany that she could recite by rote. She had become the sum of her grudges, unable to control her resentment or stop wishing for retribution for all the slights she felt she had been dealt practically since birth. For years she had raged against the father’s sperm and mother’s egg that had joined to make her, an offspring who possessed too much spirit to be brought up in a world that was regimented down to the length of each blade of grass that formed the front lawn. Her mother’s delicate beauty was rendered bland from so many years of fitting in.Her intelligent, brave father was ultimately undone by his own lack of elan. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, was how she saw his career. Nearing retirement, her father would never pass through the eye of the needle and be rewarded with one general’s star, let alone four on his epaulette like Jenny’s father. He would retire to some planned community and disappear altogether, one of the nameless multitudes. If only he had Sabrina’s parents’ money or one iota of General McKay’s charisma.

Stubbing out her cigarette with the toe of her stiletto ankle strap sandal, Kick reluctantly wandered back into the ballroom, grateful that her life had become so far removed from this prissy, antebellum society. She spied Jenny on the crowded dance floor. Still the perfect army deb in her frilly formal, her eyes locked like radar on her partner’s as she flirted and floated in his arms. God, how Kick detested these chivalrous creeps with crew-cuts, all looking more starched than their shirts!

It had been a mistake to stop in Heidelberg on her way to visit Sabrina at her family’s villa in Capri. This detour had been to weasel some extra money for the trip from her father, but all she’d gotten out of him so far was the same tiresome lecture for having burned her bra and her bridges. Kissing an art scholarship to Colby College goodbye, she’d thrown away a fully paid for education in favor of what her father rudely referred to as some whim to study photography in Paris. With no financial help from her parents, she was living hand-to-mouth as a part-time photographer’s assistant while studying and trying to sell some of her own work. She had been stupid to think that her father would help finance a jaunt to Italy! The fact was, she would have been long gone by now and could have avoided regurgitating her grudges and the pain that came with it if her mother hadn’t remarked what a coincidence it was that Jenny McKay was arriving tonight for spring break, getting in the dig that if Kick had stayed put at Colby, she’d be graduating from college in June, too. After all these years, her father was once again on General McKay’s staff. As in the old days, her mother couldn’t resist the temptation to compare her to Jenny; as always, Kick came out on the short end of the stick.

Jenny. She was as close to a sister as Kick had ever had. It seemed like only yesterday that the two of them were gawky teenagers with braces and blemishes, clinging to one another as they sobbed goodbye and swore to stay in constant touch, no matter where in the world their lives took them. Although they had written long letters to one another at first, their lives picked up speed and took diverging turns. The correspondence had dwindled in size and frequency, then stopped. How could Kick leave town without seeing Jenny first? Unprepared for a formal ball, she had nothing in her suitcase to wear but the slinky Gernreich she was delivering to Sabrina; the dress was still undergoing alterations when Sabrina had characteristically taken off for Italy on the spur of the moment. Striking a pose in front of her mother’s full length mirror after zipping herself into it tonight, Kick decided she looked good enough to be on the opposite side of the camera from which she normally stood. Her competitive nature took over. She simply could not pass up the chance to show off to Jenny how sophisticated she’d become. However, among the conservative formals and frilly strapless gowns, her chic look was mocked rather than admired. Instead of feeling smug, Kick simmered, feeling like a fool.

***

So when do you leave for Vietnam? Jenny asked the soldier with whom

she was now dancing. It seemed