by Ian Hamilton
“I should be able to remember something, but there’s nothing,” he muttered.
“Nothing where?” Anne asked.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“A few seconds. Can I join you?”
“Sure,” he said. “I was looking at the photos Georgie gave me.”
“When I saw what your mother wrote on the back, I felt like crying,” Anne said as she came over to stand next to him.
“Because she referred to me as Bonnie Jack? Please,” he said derisively.
“Why would you say that?”
“If she really loved me, she would never have done what she did. You heard Moira and Georgie; she was trying to survive that monster we met two days ago. Yet she saw fit to leave me with him. She didn’t just abandon me; she tried to turn me over to him. What would have happened if he’d taken me? Why does no one think about that?”
“You’ve had more to drink,” Anne said.
“So what. I also had a nap. My mind is functioning just fine.”
“And you’ve decided not to help Georgie,” Anne said. “I can tell by the way you’re talking about your mother. And I can see it in your eyes — those eyes that won’t look directly at me.”
“How can you possibly tell what I’m thinking?”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
He brushed past her and walked to the window. “Pike called. The Baxters want one and a half million dollars to let Georgie off the hook.”
“That’s a lot of money. But we have it, and more if we need it.”
“One and a half million dollars to help a woman we’ve known for just four days?”
“She’s your sister.”
“So she says. How do we know that McPherson really was her father?”
“What does that matter? There’s no doubt about her mother. When I met Liz and saw those pictures of Jessie when she was young, I saw our Allison, and I knew. You can’t be that blind.”
“Maybe I am.”
“I want to change the subject,” she said abruptly. “What does Pike say we get for a million and a half?”
“Supposedly Georgie gets off the hook. But who really knows? The Baxters could come back for more.”
“You say that without much conviction. Does Pike think they might?”
“He’d get them to sign a contract saying they won’t. Six months from now it could be worth nothing.”
“Or it could stick.”
“Jesus, Anne, why are you pushing so hard for this?”
She walked to the window, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her face into his back. “When I was lying in bed, I was thinking about our children and the family we’ve created. Family was something I was missing until I met you. Where would we be without our kids or each other? Now we have a chance to expand that family, and we’ll all be the better for it if we do. Jack, I like these people.”
“But they’re hardly real family.”
“I don’t understand you. You had a hole in your life that you sought to fill by coming here. Georgie had one in hers that she wanted to fill by finding McPherson and you. Moira was a disappointment and McPherson was a disaster, but so what? Things may not work out with Georgie and Harry, but we shouldn’t let money get in the way of trying.”
“Anne, we’re talking about a million and a half dollars.”
She pushed back from him and stepped away. “Is this really about the money?”
“What are you getting at?
“I don’t think you can forgive your mother for abandoning you, and I don’t think you can reconcile your pain with the feelings Georgie has for her. Are you really prepared to turn your back on Georgie just because the two of you have differing views about your mother? Because if you are, you’ll be doing to her and Liz what your mother did to you — and with much less reason.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Jack, don’t make me ashamed of you. I don’t think I can live with a man I’m ashamed of.”
33
Jack and Anne’s Pan-Am flight from Prestwick landed at Boston’s Logan Airport at three in the afternoon. By the time they’d cleared Customs and retrieved their luggage, it was four and rush hour was underway.
They had slept off and on for most of the flight, exhausted physically and emotionally by their last days in Scotland. As their limo crept towards the Callahan Tunnel under Boston Harbor, Jack said, “We’ll be at least an hour, probably longer, getting to Wellesley.”
“There’s no rush. We have no plans except to get caught up on sleep,” Anne said.
“I’m so tired I can barely think.”
“You have two days at home before you have to go back to work.”
“That isn’t something I’m excited about.”
“The two days at home?”
“No, going back to work. It’s always been my domain, my sanctuary, and now I don’t know what I’ll find,” he said. “I’m afraid that story in the Tribune, and the way I handled it, has taken a toll.”
Anne started to say something comforting and then stopped herself. The limo was in the tunnel now, crawling forward in its eerie light.
“I thought at least one of the kids might have come to the airport to meet us,” he said. “I looked for them when we walked into the arrivals area. It was disappointing not to see anyone.”
“I was watching for them as well, but that was a bit much to expect. We changed our schedule at the last minute, and they all have active lives in other cities.”
Traffic was bumper to bumper as they emerged from the tunnel. When their limo finally reached the Mass Pike, however, traffic became less congested and they started moving slowly and steadily towards the western suburbs.
They drove past Allston, Brighton, and Cambridge. When they reached the Watertown-Newton exit, Jack said, “Every time I go by here I think of Martin and Colleen. Over the years, that’s thousands and thousands of times. You don’t realize unless you stop to think about it just how much of your life is filled with thoughts about your family, alive and dead.”
“I know. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about our children,” Anne said. “And on the plane I thought more than once about Georgie and Liz. I hope they’re okay.”
“Pike is confident that the Baxters will stick to the deal. I trust his judgement.”
She reached for his hand. “It was good of you to change your mind.”
“In the end, it was the right thing to do.”
“Excuse me,” the driver said as they passed Newton, “do you want me to take the Wellesley exit and Route Nine or the Weston exit and Route Thirty?”
“Take Nine. I know it’s slower, but I rather want to see the town. It will make me feel like I’m really home,” Anne said, and then turned to Jack. “That’s the route the kids always want me to take when they come home.”
Traffic wasn’t bad, and ten minutes later the limo made a right turn at the train station onto Cliff Road. Jack directed the driver towards Pierce and the final turn onto Monadnock. As their house loomed into view, Anne gasped and reached for Jack’s hand. “That’s Brent’s car in the driveway. He must have driven up from New York.”
The limo pulled into the driveway, and Anne’s hand was on the door handle before it came to a full stop. She jumped out and started running towards the house. When she reached the steps, the front door opened. Brent stood in the opening, with Maggie next to him. Behind them she could see Allison and Mark. Anne stood there frozen, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Welcome home!” Brent shouted, and the others joined the chorus.
Anne began to cry in earnest. Her children clambered down the steps and surrounded her. Allison pulled her in close and hugged her. Anne was sobbing now, her shoulders heaving.
Jack approached, carrying their
bags. He put them down when he reached the children. “You surprised us,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
It took a while for the family to untangle and file into the house, where they gathered in the kitchen, taking their usual seats on the benches around the pine rectory table.
“We made a cheese plate, there’s cold white wine in the fridge, and Mark brought a very fine bottle of Scotch,” Allison said.
“Why don’t we save it for later,” Anne said, still teary. “Your father and I had so much to drink in the past week that we’re about ready to float away.”
“As true as that is,” Jack said, “I will try Mark’s Scotch.”
“Oh. In that case, I will have some wine,” Anne said.
When Mark and Maggie got up to get the drinks, Allison said, “Tony is sorry he couldn’t make it. His schedule is jammed.”
“We understand. We didn’t make it easy with our flight change.”
Drinks were poured and distributed. Brent lifted his glass. “Cheers, and welcome home,” he said.
Everyone drank, but then an awkward silence fell over the table. The children looked at each other questioningly, and then Maggie asked loudly, “Who’s going to start?”
“I guess we should,” Anne said after a slight hesitation.
“What’s been going on?” Mark asked.
“Your father and I had an adventure,” Anne said. “To call it a trip doesn’t do it justice, but we’re here now, safe and sound, and Dad isn’t in jail, so I guess everything worked out in the end.”
“Tell us all about it,” said Allison.
“I’d like your dad to do that.”
For the next half-hour Jack described their visit with Moira; their excursions to his mother’s grave and the Glasgow movie theatre; the first meetings with Harry, Barbara, and Georgie; and Georgie’s stories about McPherson’s treatment of their mother. When he mentioned Liz, Anne interrupted. “I have a photo of her. Let me show you,” she said, getting up from the table and going over to her handbag. She handed it to Brent. “What do you think?” she asked.
“It looks like Allison when she was younger,” he said.
“But it isn’t. It’s Liz.”
“Let me see that,” Allison said. She stared at the photo, looked away, and then returned to it. “Oh my god, that hair. I didn’t think anyone had hair like mine.”
“She’s an actress, and quite talented. She’s part of the ensemble at the Pitlochry Festival this summer. Dad and I are going back to give her some support,” Anne said. “It would be terrific if you all could join us. But if you can’t, you’ll get to meet her anyway. We’ve invited the entire Scottish branch of the family to come stay with us for Thanksgiving.”
“It’ll be crowded, but we’ll find a way to fit everyone in,” Jack said.
“Your father has some other photos, but I think he should save those for later,” Anne said as Liz’s photo was being passed around the table. “Why don’t you pick up our adventure where you left off.”
“Before I start, I’d like to get another drink.”
“Me too,” Brent said.
After fresh drinks were served, Jack picked up the story. “I need to tell you about Atholl Malcolm, Georgie’s husband.” He then recounted the story of Malcolm’s business practices, his flight from Scotland, and Georgie and Liz’s subsequent humiliations.
“It turned out that Malcolm had stolen about five million dollars from the Baxter brothers,” Jack said. “They hadn’t been able to locate him and had no hope of recovering their money until they saw the story about me in the Tribune.”
“They wanted you to pay what Malcolm owed? Five million dollars?” Brent asked.
“That’s right.”
“They asked you directly?”
“No, the approach was made through Georgie,” he said. “They threatened to hurt her if I didn’t co-operate. Duncan Pike knows the Baxters, and when I asked him if he thought the threats were real, he said it was likely they were.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“No. We were told that it would only anger the Baxters and place Georgie and Liz in a vulnerable position. So I decided to forego the police and do a deal with the Baxters, through Pike,” Jack said. “We closed it yesterday.”
“Are Georgie and Liz safe now?” Allison asked.
“We think so, or at least Pike does. And I was telling Mom in the car that I trust his judgement.”
“Thank goodness,” Allison said.
Anne smiled at her children. “So that was our adventure. What do you think?”
“Amazing,” Allison said. “And I can’t get over that picture of Liz.”
“I have other pictures, but before I show them to you, I’d like Dad to show you one.”
Jack looked at her questioningly. “The one of you and your mother at the beach,” she said to him.
He went to his blazer where it was hanging on a hook and took the photo from his pocket. He sat down before giving it to Allison.
Allison stared at the photo, looked at her father, and stared at it again. “I look so much like her it’s eerie,” she said.
“You do. She was a pretty woman until life turned against her,” he said.
“And Dad, you were such a handsome little boy,” said Allison.
“Turn over the photo and read what’s on the back,” Anne said.
Allison read, “ ‘July 1931, an outing to the Irvine shore with my Bonnie Jack.’ ”
“He’s Bonnie Jack now,” Anne said. “That’s what his mother called him, that’s what Georgie calls him, and that’s what I’m going to call him — whether he likes it or not.”
“Bonnie Jack,” Allison said, and then looked at her father. “Dad, what do you think? I know you hate your other nickname. Can you live with this one?”
“Anything is better than Bloody Jack,” he said.
34
They lay wrapped in each other’s arms, her breath gently tickling his neck.
“I’m so tired I can’t sleep,” Jack said.
“Me too. What are you thinking?” Anne asked.
“I’m thinking about the kids. Did you notice that not one of them doubted we’d done the right thing by paying off the Baxters to leave Georgie and Liz in peace?”
“I wasn’t surprised.”
“And no one asked how much I paid. Plenty of people would have been angry about part of their inheritance being given away like that.”
“We didn’t raise selfish children.”
“You mean you didn’t raise selfish children.”
“You did your part, Jack. Stop being so hard on yourself.”
He was quiet for a moment as he assessed her words.
“And there are people who would have been mortified to see their father’s name and picture splashed across the front page of a tabloid, because he killed an old man in a pub. Our kids took it all in stride.”
“They know what kind of man you are, and they’re all proud of you.”
“They wouldn’t have been if I’d left Georgie and Liz to the mercy of the Baxters,” he said. “And you know that was what I was intending.”
“You were confused, that’s all. You would have made the right decision eventually.”
“I’m not so sure. If you hadn’t forced the issue . . .”
“Jack, please stop,” Anne said. “You were tired, you were drinking, and you’d been through an emotional wringer.”
“Even if all that is true, I can’t help feeling that the weakest part of my character took over,” Jack said. “I remember telling Georgie and Harry on the way to meet McPherson that I’m too often selfish, too often self-absorbed. And that’s how I was acting until you intervened.”
“All I did was remind you about the man you are.”
“Don’t yo
u mean you reminded me about who you believe I am?”
“If you say so.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. The bottom line is, you scared the hell out of me.”
“How?”
“You said you couldn’t live with a man you’re ashamed of,” he said. “Tell me, would you have left me if I hadn’t helped Georgie?”
“What do you think?”
He hugged her tightly. “I thought you would. That’s why I was so scared.”
“Then let’s leave it at that.”
Acknowledgements
My father’s life was the genesis of this book. Abandoned by his mother in a movie house as a boy, he kept the fact that he had a sister a secret for more than fifty years. He informed the family — including my very surprised mother — at a dinner. A few months later, he flew to England to visit the sister. It did not go well, and he never saw her again. But over the course of that meeting, she informed him he had two other siblings, a full sister and a half sister. He eventually met with them, and with his full sister he managed to establish an arm’s length relationship.
Transforming my bricklayer father into an insurance executive was my way of providing him with a voice for the feelings he could never express.
Jack’s use of the U.K. National Health Service as a source of information to locate his sister Moira (or anyone else) is not something I believe — especially in these years of privacy protection — the NHS would respond positively to. I’m not sure it was that way in 1988, and my father’s quite specific recollection was of writing a letter to the NHS seeking information about his sister, and of getting a reply that led him to her. Whether or not his description of events was accurate, I decided to maintain his memory of it.
I have written more than fifteen books in two crime/thriller series, but I did not approach writing this novel with any sense of confidence. Obviously, I knew I could finish it, but I wasn’t sure it would be of the quality I wanted. My wife, Lorraine, is usually my first reader, but for this book I added another: Douglas Gibson, Canada’s editor emeritus. Doug graciously agreed to read the first draft and give me his opinion. What I wanted — rather presumptuously — was an answer to the question “Is the book worth publishing?” If Doug had expressed any reservations, I would have put the manuscript in a drawer and left it there. Instead, he was complimentary, as was Lorraine, and the book was sent to my publisher, House of Anansi, where another Doug (Richmond, my editor) accepted it for publication.
