Copper Snake: A Novel

By Gloria H. Giroux

In post-WWII San Diego, Ben Prescott, an unhappily married lawyer, begins an affair with Aly, a mysterious young woman whose beautiful face hides a dark, dangerous core. When their relationship ends badly, Aly begins a vicious campaign to destroy him and everything he holds dear. Ben doesnt know it, but her actions will have devastating impacts for decades to come.

As Ben tries to salvage whats left of his world, Aly aggressively pursues her dreams on her own terms. Her depraved lust for revenge cannot be sated by ruining Bens life; Aly wont stop until generations of his familyincluding Zack and Alex, the two sons he had with Alypay as well. As she raises Bens sons, even she has no idea that they may be the catalysts for her downfall as well as for the redemption of two families.

Passion, regret, hate, love, and vengeance that crisscross a continent for thirty years finally collide in a serpentine showdown between a woman who would stop at nothing to gain her desires and the men whose lives she has inexorably altered. Those who survive will have to redefine a future that no one could ever have foreseen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450290388

Gloria H. Giroux

Gloria H. Giroux was born in North Adams, MA. Raised in Hartford, CT, she graduated from Bulkeley High School, the University of Connecticut and the Computer Processing Institute subsequently embarking on a double career of IT and writing. The author of nineteen fiction novels, Keene Retribution is homage to a special place in her life in New England. She currently lives in Arizona where she is working on her next book.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

Dallas, August, 1951

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

San Diego, December, 1951

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

July 3, 1952

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Nogales, Arizona

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco, June, 1966

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco, September, 1981

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Tucson, Arizona, May, 1983

Also by the author

Fireheart

Whitefire

Firesoul

This book is dedicated to

Mom, my inspiration for all things

Uncle Bruno, who was always there, although I didn’t realize it for far too long

Daddy, who I wish I’d known better and longer

Tucson, my brother, who will always be so despite the sadly wide chasm

PROLOGUE

Dallas, August, 1951

Alyssa Desiree Larrabee was not the name that she had been given at birth. She had eliminated forever that original appellation from her heart and mind, as she had erased the first eighteen years of her life without batting an eye when she caught the 5:45 Greyhound out of Biloxi. With just a few necessary clothes and essentials stuffed into a World War II duffel bag, she randomly selected a first, middle and last name from the various signs, posters and graffiti that she viewed from her seat at the rear of the bus. By the time the Greyhound had pulled into the station at Dallas, she was as comfortable with the name as she had not been with the one that her mother had bestowed upon her at birth.

Aly—as she had decided to call herself—stepped off the bus and assessed the situation. She had had just enough money to get this far, and knew that the extra seven dollars and sixty-two cents stashed in the duffel bag would not get her much past the next two days, let alone to Los Angeles. Her options were slim to none for acquiring an adequate amount of money in a short time. She decided to make the most of her obvious assets, and surveilled the area. Her cold green eyes lit upon a well-built young cowboy who was obviously waiting for someone else to disembark. By the look on his face, whoever it was was late, or just not coming. Perfect. She headed towards the target.

Rafe Braddock was royally ticked off at his errant fiancée for leaving him waiting over two hours in the damn bus station. They had fought over her relatives—again—and she had boarded the first bus to Fort Worth to stay with her stupid sister, Lou, and Lou’s six screaming, snotty kids. That was the same number that Laurie-Jean wanted, a number at least five times too high by Rafe’s count. She had called him that morning with a honey-sweet voice of apology, and said that she’d be coming in on the 7:30 bus. It was 9:50, and the bitch was nowhere in sight.

He brushed a thatch of unruly black hair from his eyes and exhaled loudly. He lit his fifth Camel of the hour and silently told Laurie-Jean to go straight to hell. As he turned to leave he collided with a damned knockout of a girl, a cool-looking beauty with strange green eyes and the silkiest-looking, deep auburn hair that he could ever recall seeing. He felt oddly tongue-tied, and searched for words of apology, but before he could speak, she did.

Can you tell me where the Silver Spur Motel is, sir? she asked in a soft, hesitant voice. She pronounced ‘sir’ as ‘suh,’ and he was glad he was standing in front of a good old southern gal instead of one of those cold, arrogant Yankees.

Sorry, ma’am? he said, grinning.

The Silver Spur Motel. Do you know where it is? It’s supposed to be close to the edge of town, but I don’t know the exact address, and … She trailed off, and he detected a slight glint of moisture in her eyes, and a lost look on her lovely face.

Rafe shrugged. Ain’t none around here named ‘Silver Spur,’ ma’am. You sure you got the name right?

The girl looked confused and very vulnerable. Rafe felt a familiar urge well up inside of him, but also an unfamiliar feeling of protectiveness for the child-like beauty beside him. Alone, in a strange city, unable to find a motel that probably didn’t exist, and looking to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, tops.

She bit her lip and thanked him for his time and started to leave. When she turned, he saw that her hair was halfway down her back and was thick and shiny. Beautiful. He impulsively started towards her and grabbed her arm.

Hey, wait up. You want something to eat? Maybe a hamburger and coffee?

The girl turned back towards him in what he failed to recognize as a deliberate movement. She had a half-smile on her face that immediately turned into a pleasant, full, yet tentative smile. She didn’t even try to disengage her arm from his firm grip. He took this as a positive sign and grinned at her.

Say, what’s your name anyway? Mine’s Rafe.

Hello, Rafe, she replied smoothly. Call me Dee.

She handed her duffel bag to him and looped her left arm in his right one. They walked several blocks to a greasy spoon that Rafe frequented, and he was soon amusedly engrossed in watching her indelicately wolf down a plate of ham, home fries and eggs, and two cups of coffee. She also ordered two doughnuts and some sausages, which she said she couldn’t finish, and which the waitress had to wrap up for her to take with her. Aly placed the doggie bag carefully in her duffel bag, and smiled an inviting smile at Rafe. He slid out from opposite her and sat down beside her as she finished the last of her coffee. He lightly brushed her hair away from her neck and began to tentatively nuzzle her soft ear as he whispered his plans for the rest of the night. He took her silence for assent, never noticing the emotionless stare that bored into the empty booth opposite them.

He ran his rough hand up and down her bare arm, pressing himself against her side provocatively, fully expecting that she would become excited by his experienced foreplay. Rafe considered himself pretty damn good in the lovemaking department, as she would soon find out for herself. When she finally drained the cup, he kept his arm around her shoulders tightly and pulled her up with him, tossing a couple of bucks on the table, grabbing the duffel bag with his free hand, and leading her out of the shop.

They stopped at a closed liquor store, where Rafe rapped on the side door until an irritated store owner finally opened the door to yell at the insistent, late customer. He stopped when he saw that it was Rafe, who was one of his most frequent patrons. After a brief conversation and the changing of money from Rafe’s hands to the store owner’s, Rafe and Aly continued their walk down the street along with the three bottles of cheap whiskey that the money had purchased.

Aly waited outside of the motel as Rafe paid the clerk for one night. He came out of the office dangling the room key, a leering grin on his face. She forced herself to smile her enthusiasm, and minutes later she found herself in a small, cheap room, staring at the sagging bed and the peeling wall paint. She barely had time to take stock of her surroundings before he was on her, kissing and groping and licking at her like some damn dog.

She allowed herself to be mauled, finally pushing the eager man away as she motioned towards the whiskey bottles. She helped him consume most of the first one, barely swallowing any of the burning liquid herself as he downed most of the bottle. She left him swaying in the middle of the room, the nearly empty bottle in his hand. She started to slowly remove her clothes. He watched her silently, unmoving, as she stripped down to bare skin. A slow grin spread across his face as he stared at the beautiful, naked creature before him. He took a long swig from the bottle, emptying it, and tossed it onto a frayed chair in the corner of the room. He moved towards her, reaching her just as she switched off the light near the bed. He felt her grasp the old Army dog tags he wore around his neck, and pull him down onto the bed.

Aly left the Buckeye Motel at seven the next morning. She had a full stomach from the meal that the cowboy had bought her the night before, and from the doughnuts and coffee that she had just finished and charged to Rafe’s room.

She was also carrying the seventy-five dollars and change that she had taken from his wallet and pockets; his watch; his dog tags; his new flannel shirt; several clean new pillow cases and towels; and a sheet that she had taken from the motel room.

She had left behind three empty bottles of whiskey, a dead-drunk young man, and the remaining vestiges of the person she had once been. She headed towards the motel office and pushed open the screen door. The temperature in this unseasonably hot month was already edging its way up into the eighties, and the clerk was reading his newspaper in his damp T-shirt. He looked up at the latest girl that Rafe had brought to his motel. He gave her the once-over smirk that he usually reserved for the out-of-town chippies that passed through his world on an hourly basis.

Do somethin’ for ya, honey? he drawled, the double meaning coming through his words clearly.

Aly pointed to the phone, and he made her wait a long moment before grunting his assent and returning his attention to the sports page. She picked up the phone and carried it as far away from the man as the cord would allow. She looked at the piece of paper she held in her hands, the piece of paper she had also taken from Rafe’s wallet, and dialed the number written on it. The phone at the other end of the line rang four times before a woman answered.

Aly asked to speak to Laurie-Jean, please. She could hear the woman call to her sister, who came to the phone less than a minute later. Aly confirmed that she was talking to the right girl, then told Laurie-Jean the location and address of the motel where she could find her beloved, unconscious, whoring fiancé—if she could wake him up and wash off the stink of another woman.

Laurie-Jean started shrieking at Aly, who smiled to herself, then carefully replaced the receiver on the hook. She returned the phone to its original location, near the lecherous, red-neck clerk, and left the motel office with a bang of the screen door. She thought of the things that that fool Rafe had made her do for her lodging and food, and her heart raced with a satisfied feeling as she crumpled Laurie-Jean’s phone number into a tight ball and threw it into the dry Texas dirt.

She walked to the nearest highway, stuck out her thumb, and was soon again on her way west.

BOOK ONE

PREY

CHAPTER ONE

San Diego, December, 1951

The Christmas season had heightened Ben Prescott’s depression, in stark contrast to the effect that the holiday was supposed to have on young husbands and fathers. He watched the flurry of buying and merrymaking activity that was rife in San Diego at that time of year, and felt uncomfortable that he was not responding in the expected manner. Ben was usually quite successful in maintaining the appropriate air of cheerfulness and stability expected of a rising young lawyer. He had a beautiful, healthy wife and family, the beginnings of a solid law career, a new home in one of the better parts of town, and a good chance of becoming the latest member of the Rancho Del Rio Country Club if Jeff’s recommendation proved fruitful.

But Ben felt—had always felt—that something was lacking, that something else should be there to make him feel really complete. He had no idea what it was, or if it even existed.

Until that temperate day when he walked into the lounge of the country club and looked up to see the waitress who stood poised to take his order. She was more than beautiful, and less—her face was striking, and once he saw it he knew it would never leave his mind, even if he never saw her again.

Aly stood with exaggerated patience, ready to take the drink order of the man who had just sat down at one of her tables. The appreciative look was nothing new to her, but for some reason she felt herself silently returning his interest. He was a good-looking blond, perhaps in his early thirties. He had the most striking, unique blue eyes that she had ever seen. They were slightly slanted, and set above high cheekbones and a square jaw. He was dressed conservatively, a gray suit and vest that fairly shouted respectability. His hair was newly clipped, and his fingernails short and even. He was the perfect picture of an upstanding businessman. Still, she could sense something below the surface, something that she found stimulating but dangerous, because she could not totally categorize him as she had other men to uncanny perfection.

She moved her long, slender fingers up and down the order pad she was holding, waiting now with a genuine patience for the man she had decided was out of the ordinary to give her his order. She was pleased at the resonant, masculine quality of his voice when he spoke. It excited her.

Scotch on the rocks, please, and would you check with the bartender to see if Jeff Mason has left any messages for Ben Prescott? Thank you.

She smiled to herself, wondering if he had interpreted her interest and found a none-too-subtle way of letting her know his name. If so, he had just made the first move in the direction that she had just decided to take. She flashed her brightest grin at him.

Yes, sir, I’ll check and be right back.

Ben watched her move away in a swift, graceful motion. No wasted movement there. He thought he detected just the barest trace of a southern accent in her speech, but perhaps not. He felt a stab of guilt at his quickening pulse. Katie and the boys would be anxiously waiting for him to get home for dinner, although by that time the twins would have already been fed and put to bed. Everything a man could want, he thought, and not nearly enough.

He checked his watch and gave the lounge a cursory once-over. He was searching for Jeff Mason, his old college buddy and the man who was sponsoring his entrance into the country club and the front door to the cream level of society. Suddenly, he was startled by the appearance of his drink in front of him. The waitress stood quietly poised over him. She had an apologetic look on her face.

I’m sorry, sir, but no one by the name of Jeff Mason has left any messages. Is there something else I can get for you?

No, thank you, he answered quickly. This is fine. She smiled, gave him a brief nod, then walked over to another table whose occupants were impatiently trying to wave down a waitress to take their order.

Ben sipped at his drink, then decided to wait five more minutes for Jeff before leaving the club. He played idly with the swizzle stick while he stared vacantly through space. He was reluctant to go home, and wondered how much the pretty, unaffected smile had to do with it. And how much the perfect housewife, kids and upper-middle-class home awaiting him had to do with it.

Ben finished the drink and threw two dollars on the table to cover the bill and the tip. He walked towards the bartender to leave a message for Jeff, and saw her standing there, waiting for another order to be filled. Aly pretended to not notice him as he approached, but the surprise racing of her heart almost gave her away. He noticed nothing. He stood next to her, both of them waiting for the bartender, who was just mixing the drinks. He gave her a quick smile, and she took her cue.

Is there something else I can get for you, sir? she asked. Definitely a trace of the old South, he thought. He shook his head.

No, thank you. My friend doesn’t seem to be coming, and I’m late for dinner already. I wanted to leave a message for him. I don’t suppose you’d have a piece of paper handy?

Rafe. She smiled, and ripped off a blank order sheet, turning it over to the unprinted side. She held out her pen, and he took it from her hand, almost touching her, but not quite. As he scribbled a fast note she watched him carefully, taking in the details she had missed the first two times around. The richness of the suit he was wearing. The gold college class ring. The very way that he stood and moved. His innate respect for her, despite her status as a lowly waitress. She had noticed the wedding ring on her very first glance—it was the thing that always drew her eyes when she felt an interest in a man. It meant nothing to her, but it gave her an edge as to how she should play her hand, and she was generally on the mark. As she would be with this man.

Ben finished the note and she held out her hand for it. Their fingers met for a split second, but he drew his hand back too fast when they touched. She made the most of this opening.

Are you sure you can’t wait a little longer? If your friend is a member of the club, perhaps I could find out any numbers where he could be reached. I’d hate to see you leave if there’s a chance he’ll show up soon.

Ben hesitated. He really needed to be in this club if he was going to further his ambitions, and Jeff was the hot-tempered type who would be unreasonably angry if he believed that Ben had waited an improperly short amount of time before leaving. That, and the fact that Ben wasn’t too anxious to get home, anyway. He made an uncharacteristic what-the-hell decision.

Maybe I will stick around a little longer. Is there a more private table where I can wait and have another drink?

She gave him a conspiratory move of her hand and went over to the manager. After a moment of whispering, she returned to Ben and beckoned him to follow her. She led him to a small, secluded table far from the entrance to the lounge, and said she’d return with another drink. She didn’t ask him if he wanted the same Scotch, and his acquiescence to her assumption gave her a quick thrill of power—the feeling that she had found to be the most sexually stimulating. She was the most comfortable when she could manipulate someone—anyone—if only as an end in itself. Once she had established that manipulation could be done, she knew all the next moves.

Aly decided that the next move as far as this man was concerned was to put him at his ease, while managing to garner as much information about him as she could. When she returned with his second drink, and he had thanked her, she began.

Um, if you don’t mind my asking, Mr.—I’m sorry. I’m really bad with names? That would give him a minor balloon-bursting as far as self-importance went. Make him think that he hadn’t made as much of an impression on her as he had. That would give her the upper hand.

Prescott. Ben Prescott.

Mr. Prescott. Have you been a member of this club for very long? The manager didn’t seem to be very familiar with you? As I plan to be.

I’m in the process of joining. That’s who I was supposed to meet here tonight, my sponsor. Have, ah, you worked here very long, Miss? He hoped his interest in learning her name wasn’t too obvious.

Larrabee. Aly Desiree. Alyssa, really, and no, I’ve only been working here close to a month. But I do love this part of California and plan on making my home here. I’m from the south, originally.

Ben smiled. I thought I detected a bit of southern belle in your voice. He had put on a slight, mock southern accent, enunciating the word ‘I’ as ‘Ah." He let it barely pass through his mind that he should never exhibit such familiarity with anyone on this initial an acquaintance.

Aly’s mouth tightened for a brief second. Not exactly a belle, Mr. Prescott. Just a dumb old southern girl.

Ben was taken aback by her strange tone and the fact that she immediately excused herself and strode off to take another customer’s order. He wondered what he had said wrong, and determined to correct—or apologize for—whatever it was that had seemingly upset her.

He was halfway through his drink when Jeff Mason entered the lounge and spotted his friend. Ben caught his eye and waved him over to the table. Another waitress appeared and took Jeff’s order as the two men settled down to talk.

Sorry I’m late, Benj, Jeff said airily, but old man Richter was raving on and on about the Davis case and I couldn’t escape. Christ, that old Kraut should’ve been put out to pasture at the start of the war. Seems almost unpatriotic where he winds up heading an even more solid firm during the past ten years than he ever had before the Little Corporal started killing our boys. Jeff’s drink arrived, and he tossed down half of it in one long swallow.

Ben winced inwardly, but remained silent. Part of getting ahead, as he had begun to realize, was to prostitute yourself as much as was required to any given situation. In this case, it was failing to defend a really decent old man who had given him a start in his career, but was now on the way out. And Jeff was on the way up. If Ben was alone in life, he would probably not even be here trying to get into a country club he really didn’t give a rat’s ass about. He certainly wouldn’t have stood still for the ‘old Kraut’ remark. But he had too many responsibilities to do just that. Katie and the kids, and all of the things that went along with family life. The things that he was having a hard time convincing himself that he really wanted, and that he knew he could never abandon. Good excuses.

Ben swallowed the last of his drink as he let Jeff go on and on about the latter’s trials and tribulations of getting to the top and being recognized for the exemplary lawyer and person that he knew he was. Ben tuned out most of the diatribe, especially after he caught sight again of that beautiful waitress. He wanted to apologize to her for whatever he had said to upset her. It looked like he wouldn’t get that chance tonight, since Jeff wanted to continue his one-sided conversation at another favorite watering hole. Jeff tossed a dollar on the table to cover his drink, no tip. Ben protested that the drinks were on him and handed Jeff back his dollar, then put a five-spot down, indulging his guilt in a large tip.

Aly watched as the two men left the lounge. She was on her break and was cooling off from the stuffy atmosphere of the club with an icy Coke. She cocked her head thoughtfully, as she felt an unexpected stab of disappointment that Prescott hadn’t come over to pursue the attempted apology she had deliberately cut off when she left his table. She had set the situation up very carefully, and had no doubt that she could maneuver him into a more familiar conversation once she could get his confused apology for ‘upsetting’ her. She absently stared at the lounge door through which he had just left, and let her lips move slowly around the rim of the Coke glass. She moved the glass back and forth across her lower lip, unaware that she was being watched by the club manager. He watched her for another moment, curious as to the motivation behind the sensual action, then walked over to her.

Aly frowned as her concentration was broken by an unwanted touch on her arm. She did not like being touched by anyone, and certainly not by the creep who was her immediate superior. He inclined his head towards the ‘Employees Only’ door, and she followed him into the empty room that housed the lounge personnel’s coats and personal belongings. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a contemptuous frown.

I think you should be a little more circumspect in the way you comport yourself during working hours, Miss Larrabee, he said in his typical condescending, annoying nasal tone. That little exhibition of loose behavior—

What? she exclaimed as an overwhelming feeling of loathing for the inconsequential little cretin washed over her in a wave.

Such behavior will not be tolerated in this establishment. If you want to exhibit the manners of a bitch in heat at your job, I suggest you try one of the bars off Broadway, or perhaps one of the massage parlors on the strip. A second such incident here will allow you to take advantage of that opportunity. Do I make myself clear, Miss Larrabee?

Yes, you do. You bastard. Aly clenched her fists and swallowed her fury. Later.

Fine. Now that your break is over and then some, you can go back and continue with your duties. And plan to stay an extra hour to make up for the time it’s cost both of us to have this little conversation.

We’ve only been in here two minutes! Aly exclaimed angrily. I’m not putting in an extra hour with no pay for that!

Broadway, Miss Larrabee? he said coolly.

Aly held her tongue and silently promised herself that Clyde Shaffer would be very, very sorry about this. And that she wouldn’t have to put up with his crap much longer. He turned sharply on his heel and left the room, and she followed him back to the lounge. Tim, the bartender, watched them re-enter the lounge, and knew that she had been raked over the coals by the little prick. All of the employees had been so at one time or another, but Shaffer liked to pick on the pretty young waitresses more than on anyone else. Perhaps their attractiveness intimidated him, since he surely didn’t have a chance in hell of ever going out with any of them. He gave Aly a sympathetic smile.

I can just imagine, babe. Want to cool down some later at my place? I make some mean Margaritas and tacos.

I have to work an extra hour to ‘make up’ for the lost time it took that son of a bitch to lecture me, she spat out. Her cold eyes disquieted him, but she was a hell of a lay, and he had every intention of making the most of this opportunity.

Christ. Well, that’ll give me a chance to go home and get a head start on dinner. How about it?

Aly looked at him and hesitated only a moment. Perhaps his lean, young body was just what she needed to wash away the bad taste of Shaffer’s rancid closeness. At any rate, there was no reason not to, and it would save her the cost of a meal. She gave Tim her brightest smile and said she’d be at his place by seven. He grinned back at her and turned to fill an order for another waitress.

Aly glanced once more at the door of the lounge. He’ll be back.

CHAPTER TWO

Nicky was sprawled in front of the television, watching his favorite program, The Gene Autry Show. He was wearing the ever-present cowboy hat and six-shooters, and the rapture on his face as he watched the celluloid world of cowboys and horses brought a smile to Ben’s lips as he watched from his easy chair. Ben and Kate had toyed with the idea of getting him a pony for his seventh birthday, which was coming up in a few months. But, they decided that it was too impractical and expensive this year. That was Ben’s take on the matter, at any rate, since his wife tended to spoil and dote on their oldest son to the extent where almost anything and everything that he wanted was provided. Ben loved the boy, too, but his unspoken, guilty and true devotion really lay with the pair of sleeping, identical twin sons tucked safely in their crib upstairs. He loved to hold them, to touch their sweet-soft skin, and make them smile, and just watch them grow day by day into the beautiful children then men he knew they’d be.

Nicky was a good little boy, too, but he wasn’t, well, perfect the way his golden-blond, brightly blue-eyed, sweet-dispositioned brothers were. Ben felt guilty about his tendency to pick on every little imperfection that his firstborn seemed to have. The nondescript, dirty-blond hair, the freckles, the pale blue eyes, the meek nature—everything. He too often made excuses to not perform the same fatherly functions for this ordinary child that he lavished on the babies. He was all too aware of and promised himself to correct the growing tendency that he had developed somewhere along the line to berate Nicky for the slightest perceived infraction. Kate rarely witnessed these occurrences, and when she did they fought bitterly, and he’d promise to stop, and didn’t.

Ben always felt guilty about the fact that he just didn’t love Nicky the same way that he loved the twins. After he yelled at Nicky, and the child would stop crying—if he cried at all—Ben would hug him fiercely, and it seemed as if the child loved him just as much as ever. Someone had once told Ben that the outstanding thing about children is that almost no matter what you do to them, they will still love you and need you. But lately, Ben had found Nicky a little more distant, and the boy would tense up or pull away from him when he tried to hug his son. He exhibited a self-preservative wariness about his father that saddened Ben, but didn’t seem to matter as deeply as it should.

But tonight was what could be called an almost perfect family evening. Kate’s dinner of cooked-just-right lamb chops and baked potatoes, Nicky’s restrained table chatter, and the fact that he didn’t miss seeing the twins before they were put to bed made him feel very mellow and content with life. He still had the picture of her face in his mind, but right now it seemed ghost-like and insubstantial in light of the reality of cooking smells, television noises, and the expanding career horizons that Jeff had reinforced during their conversations at the club and Johnnie’s Grill. Maybe they should get Nicky that pony after all, since money didn’t seem to be much of an issue in the very near future.

Ben? came Kate’s melodious voice from the kitchen. Honey? Do you want some more coffee?

What? No, nothing. I’m fine, thanks.

Kate was drying her hands on a dish towel as she entered the living room. Where have you been? I asked you three times about the coffee. Is anything wrong with Jeff or the club? You seemed so quiet when you got home. Kate was generally a patient person, but his failure to respond, and the fact that his mind obviously wasn’t on his wife, as it should have been, irritated her. She knew that the next remark would stand a good chance of starting a fight, but at this point she didn’t care.

You really didn’t seem yourself when you got home, you know. You were even nice to Nick. Quite paternal, actually, she ended coolly.

The child in question deepened his concentration on his television program and studiously avoided turning around to view his parents. He had heard it all before.

That was uncalled for, Kate. Especially in front of the boy, Ben answered as he felt his own temper rising.

‘The boy,’ as you call him, has a name, dear. Try using it sometime. She finished drying her hands and turned towards the kitchen, removing the frilled apron as she pushed through the swinging door. Ben watched her leave silently, then turned back to face the intense eyes of his son. Nicky slowly shifted his gaze back to the television, and Ben went back to reading his paper.

He forced himself to become engrossed in the newspaper stories, but his mind didn’t register a single word of the various world and local stories that populated the paper. His eye caught a brief story about the Rancho Del Rio Country Club’s efforts to raise donations for a new children’s ward at a local hospital. The mention of the club jarred his memory about the lovely girl he had met there. He couldn’t help comparing her with Katie, and he found his regimented, dependable, demanding wife coming off a poor second, when he knew that she shouldn’t.

Nicky’s television show ended and the boy got up to go upstairs and take a bath before getting into bed. As he mumbled a soft goodnight and started to leave the room, Ben called out to him.

Hey, kiddo. How about giving your old man a kiss before you hit the sack?

Nicky hesitated, unsure at this unexpected affection from his father. He ran to Ben and gave him a quick peck and tight hug, then sprinted out of the room. Ben smiled, and thought that maybe the pony wasn’t out of the question for this next birthday after all.

Katie was sitting in front of her vanity, massaging a flowery-smelling cream on her hands as part of her nightly ritual. Ben watched her from the bed. She studiously ignored his gaze and kept her eyes on her own reflection in the mirror. She really is a fine-looking woman, Ben thought. Her shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair fell in soft waves around her face, although during the day she wore it pinned up, in a very severe twist. Her light blue eyes were framed by long lashes that she enhanced with just the right touch of mascara and occasional eye shadow. She sat up straight and made careful, long strokes with her hairbrush—exactly one hundred times per night to keep her hair in perfect shape.

Kate had come from one of the premiere families in La Jolla, and from day one she had been groomed to be the perfect wife and mother. Her parents’ efforts had all been geared towards this moment in time when she would be married to a successful man, and be a leader in the ‘right’ layer of society. She would make the most of this opportunity, even if it meant putting up with a husband who disappointed her with his failure to comprehend just how lucky he was, and what was truly important in life. She would at least make sure that her son was given all of the advantages of their station, and that his life would follow the proper course that she would map out for him.

For all three of them, actually. She always found herself adding the twins on as afterthoughts. Although she did love them, Nicky was her pride and joy, her firstborn, and, as such, special. It infuriated her that Ben didn’t treat the boy better, but once she accepted the fact that his preferences and priorities didn’t align with hers, she determined to make up for his paternal deficiencies with an extra dose of motherly love.

She had stretched out her nightly rites as long as possible. She turned off the vanity light and slipped into the double bed she shared with her husband. She had preferred the situation that her parents had found quite satisfactory for their own marriage—twin beds—but Ben had insisted on one bed. She didn’t think that it was worth debating, and she had acquiesced with a show of sincere preference for the situation. She believed that Ben believed that she was happy with their conjugal proximity, and that concession would serve to get her something that she might want in the future. Her mother had taught her such truisms about the opposite sex, and Kate was fast following her parent’s footsteps in her clever manipulation of such matters.

Kate turned off her light and lay in darkness beside her husband. No more than a few moments passed before Ben turned towards her, and ran his hand up and down her bare arm. She tensed for a second, then relaxed and allowed him to continue. When he moved closer and started to nuzzle her neck, she felt a resigned knot in her stomach. When he moved on her and began, she closed her eyes and pictured each and every detail of the party that she would give once they had been accepted into the country club. He never knew that the yes, yes she whispered fiercely belonged to the rehearsed dialogue that she was practicing for the party.

Kate lay sleeping quietly as Ben moved the covers back carefully and got out of bed. He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at his tired reflection in the mirror, and wondered what her body would have felt like straining against his own in real passion instead of the rote gyrations that characterized his marriage. An unformed idea was pushed to the back of his mind as he stared at the mirror image and contemplated the courses of his life that had led up to this dissatisfying point.

Ben gave his reflection one last, long look before he let out a deep sigh and turned off the light. He quietly slipped into bed beside his sleeping wife, and thought about tomorrow. And about her.

CHAPTER THREE

On May 19, 1920, Mamie and Christopher Prescott welcomed their fourth and last child into a noisy household comprised of the doting but headstrong parents, a World-War-I-veteran uncle, three older sisters, one cat, and, now, the brand new baby boy, Benjamin George Prescott. Mamie and Christopher were desperate for a boy after three daughters, plus one dead in infancy, and two miscarriages. They were relieved and grateful parents who were determined to provide this answer to their prayers with every amenity their working-class budget would allow.

The Prescotts lived in a small, cramped, single-family home a few blocks off Grand Avenue in Queens, New York. The houses on this street, as on most of the nearby streets, were built either abutting one another, or separated by a space only minimally wide enough to slip in an empty envelope. They were designed to look like little gingerbread houses, with high front stoops, and sloping, angular designs bordering the front doorways. The driveways to the one-car garages—when there were garages—were only about as long and as wide as the cars for which they were designed. Those who chose to park their cars within the confines of the garage were required to execute the most delicate of maneuvers to keep from scraping the sides of their precious automobiles. Through diligent, careful saving and spending, the Prescotts had not only managed to purchase the small home, but were also one of the few families on the block that also possessed a shiny, black Ford.

Christopher Prescott and his brother, George, had gone into business together after the war ended, and their two-year-old automobile servicing and repair business was booming. George had sustained painful and ultimately disabling injuries during his tour in France, and was forced to move in with his older brother and his family. This permanent arrangement proved beneficial to all concerned, since the younger Prescott brother also functioned as a built-in babysitter to the ever-pregnant and harried Mamie. The woman always felt her spirits sag when George limped off to work at the garage and left the full burden of household chores and demanding children to her frantic ministrations.

Ben, or Benjie, as he was often called, spent his early childhood years in a noisy, loving, nurturing environment that was punctuated with the typical brother-sister and friend-friend fights all too characteristic of youth. He and his closest friend, Adam Naday, spent many hours together attempting to get out of chores, playing stickball and jacks, and exploring the neighborhood cemetery two blocks down. The cemetery was an expensive Jewish burying ground surrounded by a high, wrought-iron fence that proved too much of a temptation for the neighborhood children. During any given day the groundskeepers would chase at least a dozen giggling boys and girls out of the graveyard as they muttered curses about the disrespectful youth of the time.

Ben was anything but disrespectful, however, and found an odd but comforting stillness and peace about the place. He had a curious fascination with the names, dates and inscriptions carved into the weathered stones. As the years passed and the cemetery grew in populace, Ben felt an indefinable, disturbed sentience about the crowded inevitability of not only the graveyard and its occupants, but also about the parallel growth in his neighborhood and the city itself. New York was becoming a swelling, burgeoning entity replete with every color and creed of person under the sun, in conjunction with the apartment buildings, stores, museums, schools, crime and noise associated with the teaming metropolis.

Although his parents, uncle and two of his sisters thrived on the crowded urban lifestyle, Ben and his oldest sister, Frances, were of a quieter, gentler temperament that cried out for a smaller, more open, and less crushing atmosphere of living. The brother and sister enjoyed their rare excursions into one of the city’s parks, or the trip to Coney Island, where they could put down a blanket on the sand and spend the day in wordless communication as they ravenously read their library books and dreamed of their grown-up lives. Frances doted on her youngest sibling, and went out of her way to find books for him and take him to the different cultural places abounding in the city. With Frances’s encouragement, Ben developed an interest in criminology, fueled by the flamboyant capers of the twenties’ criminals, and the idea of becoming a lawyer took hold early and never diminished. To this end, Ben spent long, hard hours at his schoolwork, and rarely acquired any grade less than ‘B’ in any subject.

The stock market crash of 1929 and the subsequent Great Depression brought considerable changes to the Prescott household. There was no longer any money for extras, such as trips to the city. Mamie struggled to at least maintain the few dimes that it would take to send the children to an occasional movie. She adamantly refused to withdraw this luxury from her children, and Christopher soon gave up the battle to his headstrong wife. Ben especially loved the gangster movies, and Frannie generally acquiesced to his taste in cinema, with an occasional diversion to a sappy romance. All four children pitched in diligently and found whatever odd jobs they could to supplement the family income. Mamie took part-time work as a domestic in well-to-do homes in the city. It seemed that some of the wealthier families refused to sacrifice amenities such as maid service. This provided a scant few dollars a week to women such as Mamie, who needed the work and didn’t mind getting down on their hands and knees to scrub floors, or to wash and iron other people’s clothes. The wages were far less than they should have been, but times were hard, and any money was welcome.

Ben sold apples and swept up for elderly women and men several streets down. Frances waited tables at Sam’s Deli and fended off the titular Sam’s romantic advances. Elizabeth and Caroline ran errands and did freelance typing. Christopher and George struggled to keep their business open, but after a couple of years the battle was lost, and both men soon joined the long line of unemployed men who were queuing up at five o’clock in the morning for the few day jobs available.

By cutting corners in every conceivable way, and bolstered by the strong bonds of love and family that had always been there, the Prescotts managed to survive the Depression intact as a family. The home they owned was blessedly salvaged due to the early mortgage repayment about which Christopher had been so adamant. Things were definitely looking up by the time Ben graduated high school and prepared to enter a city college on a well-deserved scholarship. The rumblings of Europe, Hitler and Japan were still only a bare echo in the distance.

Elizabeth and Caroline married as soon as they graduated high school, each to a longtime sweetheart who had a steady job. The first Prescott grandchildren came a scant ten and eleven months, respectively, after the small weddings. With only Ben and the steadily working Frances at home, the household was in much better financial straits. Ben managed to hold down two jobs in addition to his heavy college load, but he still allowed for spending some time with his quiet, devoted older sister.

The world fell apart for the Prescott family as it did for so many other families on December 7, 1941, when the country was catapulted into World War II. Ben was in his last year at college, and like all of the young men in the neighborhood felt compelled to suspend his dreams for the moment and join the Army in defense of his country. Only a very determined, concerted effort by his pleading mother and sister convinced him to reluctantly hold off for a few more months. His father and uncle made their disapproval clear, though, since both believed that the only acceptable thing to do was to join up immediately. Ben, however, saw matters a little more clearly, and was guiltily reluctant to sacrifice the career path on which he had decided simply to appease his father and uncle. He felt that a few months wouldn’t harm the war effort, but even so the guilt in waiting preyed on his mind every moment of every day until he was able to act on his patriotic desires.

Ben was not the only young man who felt this way, and his graduating class in May of 1942 had a considerable number of men who were bound for boot camp the next day. Ben had decided to join the Navy, where his uncle had served, and after a tearful good-bye to his family, he was on his way to one of the main east-coast naval training centers. A few weeks later Frances received his first letter, along with a picture of her too-young, smiling brother in his white uniform, his beautiful blond hair shaved to the skull, and a perceptibly sad look to his blue eyes. She carried it around with her for the duration of the war, pressed between the pages of a small bible to which she frequently referred on his behalf.

Ben soon found himself on a battleship in the Pacific Ocean, living on the edge daily in cramped, uncomfortable living conditions. He forced himself to put all of his past plans out of his mind and concentrate on surviving the homesickness, constant advent of enemy fire, too little sleep and decent food, and a very uncertain future. His only solace was the stream of letters from home. They were rife with cheery news about the people and places he knew, but as the war dragged on, the letters changed in tone to one of almost artificial cheer. Ben spent long hours reading and re-reading the letters, trying to see between the lines. He could see that the war was taking a very real toll on the home front, with gasoline and food rationing, the influx of women workers in the defense industry, and the extra jobs that his family members had to take to simply make basic ends meet. He agonized over being unable to help except with his own ‘cheery’ letters. He longed for an end to the tragedy and war, and swore that he only wanted a peaceful, productive, settled home and job for the rest of his life. Deep down inside of him, however, something responded to the danger and excitement of the war. He pushed this undesirable emotion to the back of his mind and soul, and concentrated on just doing his job on the ship, and dreaming about the future.

He had almost come to terms with himself and his needs when he received that letter from Frannie on a late December day in 1943. Time stopped, and he couldn’t even move his arms or legs as he lay in his bunk and read her tear-stained pages detailing the automobile accident that had taken the lives of their parents and uncle that one icy, snowing day on Grand Avenue. Ben felt hollow and empty, aching for himself as much as for the decent, loving people that no longer existed in his world.

He felt empty and alone, but these feelings lasted only for the few moments between his reading of the devastating words and the onslaught of Japanese fire that had begun to pummel the ship. Ben was thrown from his bunk and crashed to the deck below. He was temporarily blinded by the blood flowing down his face and into his eyes from a deep gash on his scalp. He managed to stem the flow long enough to scramble up and push his way through the throngs of yelling, frightened swabbies towards his station. He never made it. Another volley of relentless fire ripped through the hull and sent hundreds of scraps of flying steel towards Ben and his fellow sailors, who were making their way aft. He felt a blinding pain in his side and shoulder, then nothing until he woke up four days later in a Navy hospital at Pearl.

Ben sustained multiple injuries, including the scalp wound, a deep piece of shrapnel in his rear right shoulder, and a broken arm and leg. The doctors said that the leg was badly damaged enough to warrant his discharge from the service, and cautioned him to expect that he would never walk right again. Had he not received the letter from Frances before the attack, he would have put up a fight to regain his strength and stay in the Navy, but he just didn’t care any more. He wanted out, and he wanted to try to build that peaceful life whose promise had sustained him.

Four weeks later he was well enough to return stateside, and he was transferred to the naval hospital in Coronado, where he spent two months recovering and recouping his emotional stability. He and Frances spoke on the telephone and exchanged letters, but he felt a strange lethargy about their past life, and made a decision to not return to New York. Frannie tried bravely to understand and support him, but she was obviously hurt that her brother wouldn’t be coming home. She would stay in the little house in Queens forever, with her older, devoted new husband, Sam. It would be a long time before Ben would see his favorite sister again.

Ben was discharged as expected. He spent a good deal of time at the hospital on an outpatient basis as he used their therapy rooms to regain the use of his arm and leg. He proved the doctors wrong and regained almost the entire use of his leg, although he had a very slight, almost imperceptible limp, especially during rainy days. During his stay at Coronado he had started to explore and like the San Diego area, which was in sharp contrast to the life and city in which he had grown up back east. The warmth, the ocean, the mountains, and the style of living were all tantalizing to a man who needed peace, as Ben did. He decided to stay, at least for awhile.

His desire for a career in the law hadn’t really diminished during his naval service, but necessarily it had been placed on a back burner as the day-to-day struggle for existence had taken precedence. He looked around for a suitable and relatively inexpensive law school, and when he found one, he endeavored to gain admittance. He found his way blocked by a lack of funds and a few missing college classes required by the curriculum as prerequisites.

The former problem was unexpectedly solved by Frances, who sent him his share—and, unbeknownst to him, her share—of their parents’ small nest egg. The three missing classes would be addressed by entry into a summer class program, and by June of 1944 he was starting to look forward to life again as he threw himself into a rigorous daily regimen of summer classes, physical therapy, and preliminary studying for law school courses. Ben started to enjoy his life, and thrive.

He was slightly older and much more experienced in life than the majority of his classmates, and this set him apart. He didn’t really mind, as the solitude enhanced his dedication to his goals. He met a rather aggressive second-year law student named Jeff Mason, who was participating as a teaching assistant that summer, and the two struck up a casual friendship. Ben shied away from a deep friendship as much because of Jeff’s self-centered conversations as from the fact that he had escaped the necessity of the armed services due to an influential father who had no intention of letting his only son endure the hardships of war. On the one hand Ben envied Jeff for being able to keep out of the hellish war, but on the other hand he resented his new friend’s cavalier attitude. Nevertheless, the two men managed to establish a pleasing but undemanding relationship that benefited Ben. Jeff threw tidbits of information out to his friend regarding the ins and outs of law school, and Ben devoured this information for future reference. In the long run, the informal bond did help his scholastic efforts by keeping him from making some of the mistakes to which first-year law students were prone.

Jeff served one other important function in Ben’s life as well. He came from one of the well-established, upper-class families in San Diego, and as such had entry into the more elite circles. He was engaged to one Claire Reynolds, a Harlow-blonde beauty who was scheduled to become Mrs. Jeffrey Mason in a very short time. Jeff invited Ben to the wedding, and after the ceremony introduced him to one of Claire’s closest friends and bridesmaids, Katherine Nichols. Ben was polite to the young lady, but took no particular interest in her at that moment. He failed to notice her look of keen interest, and excused himself after a few minutes of inconsequential chitchat to walk about the carefully decorated yard overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Claire’s family had a magnificent home in La Jolla, and had used their expansive back yard for the reception.

As Ben was enjoying the peaceful view, he felt a gentle touch on his arm, and turned around to see Kate Nichols smiling up at him. She was a good six inches shorter than his five-foot-ten frame, but he still felt at a disadvantage in these unfamiliar surroundings.

Are you enjoying the reception, Mr. Prescott? she asked in a solicitous, melodious voice. I see you’ve discovered the beauty of our ocean. Does it compare with the Atlantic? Jeff said you were from the east. I’ve never been there.

Ben smiled. It doesn’t compare, Miss Nichols. It surpasses. At least the views of the Atlantic that I was privy to. Does your family home have the same view?

Very much so. We live two doors down. Claire and I have been friends all our lives. She held out the bouquet of flowers. See? It’s even expected that I’ll be next in line. Claire made sure that I caught it. What do you think, Mr. Prescott—do I stand a chance of making it down the bridal path? She gave him a coquettish smile, and Ben felt faintly flattered that she was flirting with him on such a short acquaintance. He decided that it wouldn’t hurt to flirt back, and cocked his head in an appraising manner. She wasn’t the obvious beauty that her friend Claire was, but she had soft, gentle features, highlighted by an aquiline nose that fairly shouted her breeding. Her hair was ash-blonde, and although it was currently pinned up under her bridesmaid’s hat, he assumed that it would fall well past her shoulders. She had a light spray of freckles across her nose, and they were not quite hidden by the well-applied makeup. He could easily picture her twenty years from now, looking much the same as she did today, every bit as aristocratic and somehow untouchable. Yet she was desirable, if only as an obvious contrast by her very social stability to the shifting, crazy world he had so recently vacated. He smiled at her.

More than just a chance, Miss Nichols. I would say that any man would be lucky to have such a lovely young woman as yourself. He paused for a second, then thought, Why not?

Without sounding too forward on such a short acquaintance, Miss Nichols, would you like to go for a drive with me sometime? I haven’t had the opportunity to see much of the north coast area, and since you’ve lived here all your life, I would think you’d be the perfect guide.

I’d love to, Mr. Prescott. And the name’s Kate.

Ben. Would tomorrow be too soon?

Tomorrow, Ben, would be just right. Pick me up at ten and I’ll have a picnic lunch packed. Two houses down, remember?

She threw a smile back at him as she returned to the reception, and Ben couldn’t believe his luck. Now, if he could just find a car … Christ—a drive, and I don’t even have a car. Great start, Benjie. Ben watched a grinning, joking Jeff make his way over to him through the throng of wedding guests. Jeff gave his friend a knowing smirk as he tossed his head in the departed Kate’s direction.

Looks like we made points with the little lady, eh, Ben? When are you going to see her again?

"Well, tomorrow. I hope. I asked her for a drive, but neglected to take into account the sad fact that I don’t have a