by L. N. Carson
“Nobody shortens my name either. I’m Sam to everybody. No Sss or Sa.”
She laughed.
He picked up her hand and kissed it. “There we go. No need to relive your darkest memories today.”
“You’re right. We’re making our own new dark memories at a breakneck speed.”
“We are.”
* * *
Miranda picked at the dry chicken breast on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. All she could think about was Rachel. Where was she? What did she have to eat? What was she doing? Who was this Amelia? She wasn’t the same maid who’d taken care of Rachel during their Easter brunch.
“Are you going to eat your food or play with it?” Irene asked her. “If you’re done, I’ll have it taken away.”
“I’m done.” She put down the fork and pushed the plate away.
“Good.” Irene smiled at Mark. “Why don’t you and I go for a walk in the garden so Miranda and her father can spend a few minutes alone together? I’m sure they have things to talk about.”
“Sure.” Mark took a drink from his water glass before getting up from the table.
He and Irene left the room, and Miranda wondered what she could possibly find to say to her dad. The man sat there at the head of the table in his wheelchair. He, too, had merely picked at his food. That didn’t seem to be an uncommon occurrence—he looked skeletal. Miranda remembered how the man had been larger than life to her and Kathleen…tall, broad, strong. He could slap Mom in the kitchen so hard that he’d knock her into the next room. But she’d get off that living room floor ready to go back and fight. Miranda and Kathleen wouldn’t. When Ed Freemont knocked one of them down, they had enough sense to stay down.
She’d been away from home a long time when she’d finally had Rachel. She hoped her parents had changed…that they’d adore Rachel and be loving grandparents and, somehow, they’d all become a family. But Irene and Ed Freemont were no more doting grandparents than they’d been parents. Like today, they preferred Rachel be neither seen nor heard.
Or maybe it was only Irene who didn’t embrace the role of grandparent. Dad’s condition coupled with the passage of time could’ve softened him.
Miranda got out of her chair and moved closer. “Hey, Dad.”
He lifted his eyes to her face but said nothing.
“You didn’t eat very well,” she said, as she gestured at his plate. “While Mom is outside, is there maybe something in the kitchen I could get for you? Something you’d like better?”
“No.”
Okay, so playing the friendly co-conspirator card didn’t work. “Would you like to see Rachel? I’d be happy to go get her from Amelia and bring her downstairs—”
“No.”
“All right. I just—”
“I said no.” He voice was as cold as his glare.
Miranda got up and wandered into the living room. She didn’t offer to push her father’s chair in there. There was a baby grand between the fireplace and the Palladian window. No family photos adorned the piano or the walls or the mantle. Nothing contrary to the design of the room was on display.
For sure, Irene and Ed Freemont were all about family values. It’s what they’d both campaigned on. And, yet, did the public even know what had happened to the younger Freemont daughter after Ed was paralyzed in an accident that had occurred while he was “cleaning his gun?” That was the story Irene had given the press. Miranda wondered if that was before or after the night her mother had driven to Mark and Miranda’s house, tossed a duffel bag onto the lawn, and ordered Kathleen to get out. The duffle contained everything Kathleen had been allowed to keep. Irene gave the rest of her youngest daughter’s belongings to charity.
She heard Mark and her mother returning, and she hurried back into the kitchen. She was standing by her father’s chair when they came in.
“Did you two have a nice visit?” Irene asked.
“Of course.” Miranda caught and held Mark’s gaze. “We need to get back though. Mark has classes this afternoon, and it’s almost time for Rachel’s nap.”
* * *
Sam continued to digest what Kathleen told him about her life. He’d wanted to express pity or sympathy but felt humor had been his best move. Now he glanced over to find her gazing out the windshield. She wasn’t as closed off as she’d been earlier.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to share your past with me,” he said.
“I’m beginning to get a little peckish.” She grinned. “Telling family secrets must contribute to a hearty appetite.”
He bobbed his head. “I’ve heard that…I believe it was Oprah or Dr. Phil who was a proponent of that belief.”
“Both, more than likely. Family secrets are their stock in trade.” She pointed to a sign advertising a fast-food restaurant up ahead. “Think we could swing through there?”
“Maybe. What’s it worth to you?”
“I can feed you your fries like I’m your very own personal harem girl.” She wagged her eyebrows.
“I like the sound of that. That’s sexy…even better than if we had grapes.” He picked up the phone. “But before we get our food, I’d better call the admiral and tell him we’re on our way. Chin up, harem girl. This ordeal is almost over.”
* * *
Amun-Ra loosened his tie as he answered the call from Hathor. “What’ve you got for me?”
“We believe Atum and Kathleen Freemont got the drop on the Lynchburg DPA agents, and there’s no sign of the Akers family here at their house,” she said. “I did call area medical centers, and Troy Akers was treated in a local hospital emergency room earlier today but wasn’t admitted.”
“Stay put for now in case they come back home. Call me with any news.”
“Yes, sir.”
He ended the call and took a packed overnight bag from the closet in his office. Amun-Ra always had a packed bag or two at the ready.
Taking his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he texted, “Is my transport ready?”
Without waiting for a reply, he called someone else and said, “Atum’s en route to Norfolk. Funding is secure, so don’t worry about that.” He chuckled. “We might not need to concern ourselves with staying in the good graces of the subcommittee for much longer anyway. In a couple of days, I’ll be ready to have you broker the sale.”
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About The Author
L. N. Carson
L. N. Carson worked in the legal field prior to embarking upon a career writing thrillers.
