Chapter Three: Syncopation

Syncopation: A disturbance
or interruption of the
regular flow of rhythm.


May 3, 1969

"Daddy, this is Donald." There was just enough of a pause that Dr. Stewart looked sharply at his daughter. "Donald Mallard. Sorry." She coughed softly. "Lost my voice for just a second." As the two shook hands, she finished, "Edward Langley." Another handshake. "If you will excuse me, I have quite a bit of work to do if we're going to eat dinner at anything approaching a reasonable hour…"

"Lamb chops?" he father asked with hope in his voice.

"Tomorrow night, Daddy. Stasera abbiamo di viaggio per l'Italia—tonight we travel to Italy!" Donald grinned; her Italian was more than passing fair. "Salad and minestrone soup to start. Then lasagna—"

"Lasagna," her father echoed happily. "She makes the best lasagna you will ever eat," he mock-confided to the boys.

"Broccoli alla Romana… Carciofi al Tegame…" She waggled a hand. "Corn on the cob because Denny stopped at the Farmer's Market so I'd better use it today—and, as we have quite the crowd tonight, two desserts: Cassata alla Siciliana… annnnnd… Grandma's Thing."

Donald looked up, startled. "Grandma's Thing?"

Dr. Stewart laughed. "It was a recipe she found in my mother's file. It simply said 'Dessert.' On the back, it was credited to Roxana de la Torrina, a woman my mother knew during the war. Fortunately, the instructions were in English."

"Unfortunately," Elizabeth said, "they were in 'grandma-speak.'" She grinned at Donald. "You know—a pinch of this, a dash of that, a knob of butter, two cents' worth flour... Two cents' worth? Now, that one threw us all. But it sounded so good, I kept making it over and over until Daddy said it tasted like what he remembered. Of course, by then the family was sick to death of the thing."

"I wasn't," her father said staunchly.

"Mm-hmm," she teased, patting his very slight potbelly in passing. "I can tell."

"Off with you!" He shooed her toward her domain and ushered the two students into his private study.

It was a quiet room—once the doors shut behind them, all noise from the rest of the house disappeared—and it was attractive and personable; Donald decided he'd like a room very much like this in his own home. Very soft music played from a Hi-Fi set in the corner—Holst's The Planets: Mars he thought. It smelled of coffee, old books and lemon wax, not an unpleasant combination. Floor to ceiling drapes of a soft green covered an expanse of sliding glass doors that led to a large area of flower-lined lawn. The heavy bookcases—crammed higgledy-piggledy with books—were a medium shade of wood, possibly oak, and made a nice counterpoint to the massive, dark desk of carved… mahogany?

"Good eye," Dr. Stewart noted when Eddie ventured forth a guess.

"My grandfather is an antiques dealer," Eddie admitted. Dealer, hell; he was the dealer for anyone with taste and a sense of fair value and had rebuilt the family fortune pissed away by his drunken father who committed suicide at 30 from shame. Grandfather Langley had instilled a sense of fiduciary responsibility in his son and grandchildren—Eddie might be a scapegrace with regard to romantic foibles, but he was a good student, would prove to be a good doctor, and wouldn't do anything to bring real shame down on his family. Donald reconsidered. Well…probably not.

"A gift from my wife when we moved up here." From his voice it was hard to tell if Dr. Stewart was pleased with the gift or not, but he certainly used it. The desk was nearly buried in papers, files and books. Dr. Stewart sat in a large slat-back wooden swivel chair in heavily varnished blond wood that looked completely out of place with the rest of the room; it looked like a schoolteacher's chair—when questioned, he grinned and admitted that it was. "My father taught high school chemistry until the year he died. This was his chair. It drives my wife crazy because it doesn't match anything… but you'd have to kill me to get this out of my hands. Now—" He indicated two chairs in front of his desk and rubbed his hands together. "I've gone over your files—you're both excellent students, excellent." He smiled. "I couldn't expect less from my grandfather's alma mater."

Donald exchanged a glance with Eddie; they were already a point ahead just from their choice of medical school.

"Hmmm… yes…" Dr. Stewart was running a finger down a list. "Mr. Mallard." Donald looked up. "We have a new project started just this past year. The clinic is still on what I'd call a shakedown cruise. A great deal of outpatient work as opposed to inpatient and hospital stays. It's the Keller Memorial Geriatric Clinic."

Donald tried to not let his surprise show. "Yes, sir." He certainly got along well enough with older people, but Eddie was the pet of all the grandparents—and the elderly patients they dealt with. He didn't know if the patients brought out the best in Eddie or vice versa, but they constantly asked for 'sweet Mr. Langley.'

"You will be working with Dr. Ramona Morton primarily, but she may have you moving about the clinic as needed. They work with the physical problems associated with aging, of course—all the infirmities our great-grandparents never faced because we've gone beyond the manufacturer's original warranty." Interesting way of looking at it. "But they're working on a number of cognitive therapies, things to aid mental acuity so that as we increase our lifespan we aren't left with healthy shells and empty craniums." He sobered for a moment. "I must confess, gentlemen… for me, senility holds a greater fear than death."

Donald could well understand. Yes, he worked well with elderly patients—it was part of his job—but there was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that said, Watch out! This could happen to you! His grandparents on both sides of the family had lived to ripe old ages and been healthy as horses. Grandmother Mallard and Grandfather Kittridge had both passed away in the past half-dozen years, his grandfather having played a full 18 holes of golf just hours before. Both had been intelligent, active and 'all there' as his mother put it. Grandmother Kittridge continued to live alone in Eskbank in Dalkeith, refusing to come live with her daughter in England. Except for a daily to come help with the heavy work, she did her own cooking and cleaning, walked almost two miles daily for evensong and still ran the church's fête and jumble sales each year. (She also still baked the best blueberry scones he'd ever eaten.)

Grandfather Mallard, unfortunately, was not faring so well. Oh, his body was still in prime shape… (Donald's father had been mortified to walk in on Grandfather and the manageress of the local record shop—Grandfather hadn't called him for two days, and he was worried the old man had injured himself. As he had discovered, Grandfather was fine, just fine. (He had never mentioned the story to Donald; it was Grandfather, himself, who had crowed about it at the next Christmas dinner.)) Unfortunately, his mind was starting to go. He frequently went out for a walk and ended up halfway to another town, no idea where he was or where he was going—or why. Tales of travel from all four grandparents and a Eurail pass at 17 had given Donald a lifetime of memories of his own; now his grandfather retreated to a dig in Giza or filming a movie in Buckinghamshire at the drop of a hat and there was no way of telling if it was memory or fantasy.

"I fully anticipate people being able to work into their eighties, nineties, even beyond—within your lifetime." Dr. Stewart considered his comment for a moment. "Possibly even mine." He took a moment to polish his glasses, squinting at them. "I wouldn't mind a cure for presbyopia, myopia and the common cold while we're at it." He put his glasses back on, giving him a faintly Mr. Magoo-ish look. He handed Donald a manila envelope. "All the pertinent details are in there. 7 a.m. sharp Monday morning. You might want to look up the clinic tomorrow—ironic that they're dealing with patients who have memory problems, yet they built the damn clinic where you need a map, two sherpas and a day's rations to find it." He turned to Eddie. "Now. Mr. Langley…"

Donald knew Eddie's grandfather had caused an apprehension of authority figures but he was doing a spectacular job of hiding it. "Yes, sir?"

Dr. Stewart sighed. "As medicine moves forward," he said slowly, "we find ourselves able to diagnose illness and disease whereas a hundred years ago—fifty years ago—the cause of death would be a mystery. No more so than with cancer."

Eddie paled slightly but held his ground. Donald was proud of this occasional thorn in his side; he knew that Eddie had a morbid fear of cancer above all other diseases, and had no idea why… he just knew that when studies turned to oncology, Eddie faltered and it took the collective efforts of a dozen friends to scrape him by with a passing mark.

"As diagnosis becomes more accurate, we discover new types of cancer. It's like an ugly, deadly butterfly—every time you turn around, there's a new name. And the largest upswing over the years…" He looked up from the sheet he was studying. "Pediatric oncology."

Mother of God. He was hitting Eddie with a double dose: his worst fear and his worst nemesis. Unlike Donald, who enjoyed children, got along with children, and was regularly sought out in clinic to help soothe and coax little ones, happy-go-lucky Eddie regarded children as a punishment for those too stupid to practice birth control. He opened his mouth to suggest that Dr. Stewart swap out their duties—then closed it. What a cunning fox. He had their files before him—this wasn't just a clinic assignment… it was psychotherapy.

"Yes, sir." Eddie's words were barely audible. But he plainly knew it wasn't just his reputation on the line—it was the reputation of the clinic program, of Edinburgh Medical School in total. "Yes, sir," he said, a little more firmly. Good lad! Donald wanted to cheer.

Dr. Stewart handed Eddie his own envelope. "7 a.m. Dr. Lewis. He has his students work in pairs, finds it lessens the trauma on both sides of the equation."

The door behind them opened. Donald turned, hoping it was Elizabeth, but was disappointed. The woman who stepped in bore a resemblance to Elizabeth and Patricia—tall, darkly tanned and leggy like Patricia, ash blonde hair an even paler shade than Elizabeth's and attractive like both daughters, but with stiffness that even Patricia would be hard pressed to imitate. He realized that it was due in part to an over application of makeup—and too much time in the sun. He'd seen that tight skin on crofters who had spent years tilling the soil: by forty, their skin was taut, by fifty it was leather and by sixty they looked like raisins in overalls. "Andy!" She stopped short.

"Come in, Julia," he said smoothly. "We were just finishing. Gentlemen, my wife, Julia Stewart. Julia, this is Donald Mallard—"

"Ma'am."

"And Edward Langley."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"They're our last boys from Edinburgh." He actually sounded sad.

She looked at them, confused. "They're early."

Now, that was embarrassing. "No, dear, it's nearly three."

"What? It can't be." She squinted at the mantle clock. Probably one of those who refused to wear glasses, thinking they made her look older—not realizing that her squint was far more unattractive. "Huh. It is." Without another word, she turned and walked out. Very confusing.

Donald caught a whiff on the breeze from the door shutting. No—very drunk. He knew the smell of Scotch whiskey—his grandmother had a small shot every night, 'for pleasant dreams' she said. He had seen plenty of men (and women) from the colleges and universities get completely potted; he didn't understand the appeal of going from an enjoyable drink or two to spending a night in the loo throwing up your shoes. A waste of time, money, liquor and stomach lining.

Dr. Stewart ignored the interruption. "We'll meet here each Saturday for assessment. It also gives you a—family away from home," he said with just the slightest hesitation.

"Thank you, sir. We appreciate it," Donald said, Eddie nodding in agreement.

"I apologize for the mix-up yesterday—and in advance of any further trips. I had planned on little travel this year, since I volunteered to be clinic coordinator, but, unfortunately, I am covering for a colleague who is recuperating from a rather devastating car accident. He'll live," he said quickly. "But he's undergone numerous surgeries and is still making his way through rehabilitation therapy. We've divided his work amongst five of us, so you can imagine how busy he was."

"We understand, sir." Again, Donald spoke and Eddie nodded. Donald had a feeling he was still processing the whole pediatric oncology clinic idea.

"Well, we have some time before dinner…" He gave Donald a wicked grin. "Care for a game of Scrabble?"

Donald thought of Madalena's comment the day before: I am so screwed.

/ / /

"We're going to have to keep you around, Mr. Mallard." Dr. Stewart clapped a hand on Donald's shoulder. Donald managed to not wince; the sunburn had improved overnight, but still hurt. "Drink?"

Probably polite to say yes. "A very light one, sir. I'm still not entirely comfortable driving on the roads here."

"Screwdriver," the doctor prescribed. "Orange juice will be good." He quickly tossed juice and vodka over ice and handed it over.

It was so light Donald could barely taste the alcohol—and the juice was a California specialty, freshly squeezed. He was falling in love with the food.

"Good game?"

He was falling in love with something else, too. He smiled at the vision that emerged from the kitchen: the blue of her cover-up almost matched her eyes, and the claim to 'cover-up' was misleading—he could easily see the shadow of her white bikini underneath. Somehow, that made it even sexier. "Very."

"Who won?"

"Your father."

Out of sight of her parent, Elizabeth grinned broadly and winked. 'Smooth move,' she mouthed.

He hadn't lost on purpose. He had sweated blood through the entire game—not only was Dr. Stewart a great player (now he knew firsthand and for certain where Elizabeth had learned the game), but Donald found himself frequently distracted by little hints of Elizabeth: the faint scent of her perfume in the library, the sight of her walking on the patio… He had found himself unable to spell the simplest words, and Dr. Stewart had pounced on the advantage. Elizabeth had wandered through at one point, looking at the board, and her father had suggested she join the game. She had politely declined, citing work still to be done in the kitchen, and Donald was extremely grateful—he would have been a wreck with her at close quarters and her father only a foot away. Yesterday had been something different, everyone roughly the same age. "It was a tough game," he admitted.

"You can always ask for a rematch," Dr. Stewart suggested.

"Perhaps after dinner," Donald said with a laugh. "Speaking of which—is there anything I can do to help?" Please?

Elizabeth smiled prettily. "Well, Maddie said the next time you'd be put to work—"

"My pleasure." You have no idea.

She gave him a crook of a finger. "Follow me."

As with the day before, he tried not to stare at the lovely shift of her hips and failed miserably. Follow you? Gladly. God, what a glorious sight.

"Okay, I'm good on the lasagna… desserts are mostly ready, I need to make the whipped cream right before we serve and still have to frost the cake... I have water simmering for the corn so we don't have to wait for it to boil… would you chop up the broccoli for me?"

"Certainly." He watched her demonstrate the size she wanted—tiny twigs—and set to carefully slicing.

She watched his cautious moves. "Do you cook much?"

He grinned. "It shows that badly?"

"Well… everyone has to learn sometime."

"Or live on tinned food." He continued to cut two large heads of broccoli into bits while unabashedly watching her. She had a large cone of parchment paper with a toothed metal tip and was decorating what looked like a torte. "What's that?"

"Cassata alla Siciliana. I love it, but it's a pain to make. It's layers of pound cake with this great filling in between—but you have to let it sit in the fridge for 24 hours to ripen." She gave him an amused look. "We're short a couple of hours, but it'll still taste fine."

Good God, she had started this dinner the night before? "You cook a lot."

She shrugged. "I like to cook. And baking relaxes me."

He remembered the chocolate fudge cake from the day before. "May you forever stay relaxed."

She giggled. "Um, okay." The giggles turned into full-fledged laughter.

He couldn't help but join in. "I was just complimenting your cooking." Well—the idea of cuddling in a corner of that silly conversation pit, a relaxed Elizabeth on his lap, was appealing, too.

"Well, thank you, sir." The swinging door pushed in and Mrs. Stewart appeared. "Hi, Mom."

She looked around, slightly befuddled. "What are you making?"

"Dinner. Dessert."

Donald bit back a smile. Perfectly innocent and accurate answer. Just a hint pert. He was all for respecting ones elders, but had the distinct impression that Mrs. Stewart didn't get much respect… and possibly didn't deserve it.

She made a small face at the pots and platters and dishes in use. "I don't know why you have to make such a fuss," she muttered. Yep, a comment like that didn't deserve respect.

"Because I like to cook, Mom. You don't." Elizabeth shrugged politely. "I don't understand why you make such a fuss over playing tennis and golf."

He mother almost pouted. "Well, sweetie, if you'd just try—"

"Well, the same can be said for cooking." She brought a bag of artichokes out from the refrigerator. "As soon as you're done with the broccoli, I'm going to teach you the proper care and whacking of artichokes."

He grinned. "Can't wait."

Mrs. Stewart looked at him in near horror, suddenly realizing he was even there. "Donald is proving an apt pupil," Elizabeth said lightly.

"Oh," was all her mother said. She took a long drink from the glass in her hand. "Oh, uh, Magalen said if you need help to come get her." She turned on her heel and left the room, still looking puzzled.

Elizabeth sighed as she disappeared. "I haven't decided if she can't say Maddie's name correctly—or won't." She turned back to his work. "Excellent." She scraped the broccoli into a bowl, filled it with ice water and set it aside. "Now: chokes."

He grinned. "Lead on, Macduff."

/ / /

With still an hour to go before dinner, Donald helped Elizabeth tidy the kitchen a bit then they headed out to the patio to relax.

Edward was sitting at an umbrella-shaded table, staring off into the distance. Donald chewed his lip; apparently he was still thrown off course by his assignment. He'd made a note to set aside the time tomorrow to have a long talk with Eddie about the assignment. He'd pulled through before—he could do it again.

Madalena was in the pool, arms folded on the cement edge, looking up at Dennys. Behind her, Tish sprang in and out of the water like a dolphin to the amusement of a young man with a mop of black curls and a dark copper tan. "Another brother?"

Elizabeth followed his gaze. "No. That's Gene Addams. Two d's, like the cartoonist. He's a special effects artist—you know, electronic puppets, animation, matte paintings, stuff like that. He's—" There was an uncomfortable look on Elizabeth's face. "He's Tish's fiancé. They're—getting married this summer."

Donald was shocked. No—beyond shocked. Patricia was engaged—and she acted the way she had the day before?

Elizabeth saw his gaze move from Patricia to Eddie then back to her. He tried to school his features into something that passed for polite. He wasn't very successful. "Tish… flirts," Elizabeth said awkwardly. "Gene knows she's not cheating on him…" She lightly tugged Donald's hand and motioned toward the far end of the yard.

"I don't understand—"

"If you knew my sister…" She shook her head. Her embarrassed look was replaced by one of sympathy. "Tish—well… you've met my mom." Now she looked more than embarrassed—she looked mortified. "Mom isn't the most… supportive… person around." From her words in the kitchen, that sounded like an understatement. "Tish used to be Mom's favorite. She could do no wrong… until she started to grow up. Stretch her wings." She stared at the grass. "Escape her cage…" she murmured. "But when you're used to adoration day in and day out, and you don't realize it's conditional on you being a perfect daughter… well…" she trailed off.

"You look for love where you can find it."

"Sort of. She found it in Gene, that's for sure. It's more looking for constant approval. She still needs to feel that every man she meets wants her. Even Eddie." Her eyes flicked up and back down. "Even you." She coughed softly. "I don't think she even realizes she does it—and it's not like it was before. I think the closer she gets to being married, the safer she feels. I was a little surprised how she acted yesterday, but…" She looked up at him with pained eyes. "Please, don't hate her. I know she didn't mean to hurt Eddie if she did. Please. I'm sorry."

"Do you always apologize for other people?" His tone held no rancor.

She thought for a long moment. "Around here… yeah. Sometimes." She sighed. "I know, I shouldn't." He gave her an encouraging look. "I'll try to break the habit."

"And I… will overlook yesterday afternoon. I'll talk to Eddie later on." Maybe it wasn't his assignment that still had him shell shocked.

She gave him a sweet smile and he all but melted. "Thank you." She lightly squeezed his hand. "Oh… are you still interested in going to the Hollywood Bowl? The Moodies?" Nice change of subject.

"Oh, yes. Very much so." Much more polite answer than the war whoop he wanted to let out.

"Good. I'm pretty sure I have tickets—pretty good ones, too. I'm trying to figure out some details about transportation. I can give you a call Monday, if that would be good? I know the dorm number."

He grinned. "That would be great." A sudden scream rent the air and he jumped a full foot in the air. "What in the name of—"

"Peacocks!" she laughed, patting his arm comfortingly. "They run wild—"

Another unearthly scream. If he had to live with this, he'd go mad.

And another scream filled the air. But this one was undeniably human. "NO!"

Donald whirled around. Tish and Gene were scrambling to pull themselves out from the deep end; Eddie had leaped from his chair and was looking around in panic. Madalena was already out of the pool and walking slowly toward Dennys, who backed away from her furtively.

"No!" he screamed again. "Get down! Get down, now!"

Elizabeth was trying to hurry back without looking like she was running. Another bird screeched, and Denny joined in.

"Save him!" His voice was hoarse. "God, save him!"

Donald slipped through the library door and, out of sight of Dennys, doubled back at a dead run. He almost collided with Dr. Stewart coming out of his study.

"Dennys?"

"Yes!"

"Damn."

Dr. Stewart ducked back into his office while Donald continued to the side doors. Elizabeth and Maddie were near Dennys but had stopped approaching. "Denny, it's okay. You're here. You're home," Madalena was saying soothingly. "It's not Viet Nam. Andre isn't here. It's okay. You're safe."

Jesus. Flashbacks.

Donald slipped outside slowly, carefully. He caught sight of Elizabeth's eye and nodded toward Dennys and gave her a questioning look. She nodded, once. "Hey, Dennys. It's Don. Donald Mallard. Let me give you a hand, mate." He approached him cautiously. Dennys looked at him in confusion. "Hullo, Den," he said gently, when he got closer. "Why don't we go inside? Your sister has a great dinner made. It's almost time to eat. Remember, you brought home corn?"

Dennys frowned in concentration. "Corn," he repeated.

"That's right—"

Several peacock screeches carried through the hills, one after another. With a matching scream, Dennys fell to his knees, huddled in a ball.

Goddamned birds! Donald knelt next to him while Elizabeth and Madalena quickly came close. "Dennys, it's okay," he said soothingly. "It's just birds. It's not your mates. Nobody is being hurt. I promise. Nobody is being hurt, and you won't be hurt. It's just peacocks."

Dennys stared at him. "Colonel Gateman?"

He shot a glance toward the girls; two negative shakes. "No, Dennys." He used the tone he took with children in clinic—soothing, but not syrupy. "Donald Mallard. I'm here for two months. In California. You're home. In California. Not Viet Nam."

"Not…?" Dennys shook his head. "Not Colonel Gateman?"

"No, Dennys." He grasped the young man's arms with a gentle firmness. "Donald Mallard. From Edinburgh." A long, drawn-out cry warbled through the air. Dennys stiffened, but Donald didn't let go of his arms. "Just a peacock," he said gently. "Just a peacock."

"Just—" Dennys swallowed. "Just a peacock. Just… a peacock."

"That's right, Den," Maddie said, kneeling next to him.

With a shuddering sigh he leaned over and dropped his head to her shoulder. "I hate those fucking birds," he said.

She wrapped her arms around him tightly. "Me, too, baby. Me, too." She held him there for several minutes, then softly said, "Let's go inside for a bit."

Donald and Elizabeth helped the two to rise. Madalena walked with Dennys, heedless of the water dripping from her body.

Dr. Stewart stood just outside the patio door, hypodermic kit in his hands. "Thank you," he said, voice low. "Dennys… he came home from the service three years ago. The war came home with him."

"I'm so very sorry, sir."

Mrs. Stewart made a noise of derision. "It's a bid for sympathy, Andy, if you—"

Dr. Stewart cut her off by grabbing her drink and slamming it onto the table. Amazingly, the glass didn't shatter. Holding her elbow tightly, he propelled her into the house and out of earshot.

Wow. No wonder Dr. Stewart had hesitated when saying they would be a surrogate family for them. He looked down as his hand was taken into a light grasp and smiled. At least there was Elizabeth.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He smiled down at her. He hadn't had much exposure to shell shock and flashbacks—too bad he didn't have Evan Collins' number at Walter Reed. "Glad I could help. Colonel Gateman—"

"Was his CO."

"He died?"

Elizabeth looked surprised. "No. Well—not when Den was there, and not the last I knew of, anyway. He and Den became good friends—Den used to do spoof songs, you know, like in MAD Magazine? A lot of them were—well, dirty—" He laughed at her look of consternation. "Well, they were! But the guys in the unit loved it. Colonel Gateman said he was a one-man talent show." A peacock cry punctuated her sentence, sounding eerily human. She shuddered slightly. "Andre—I still don't know what happened to Andre, the only time Den talks about him is—well, times like this." She shook her head. "I'm not sure of the story—I think someone had an estate back in the twenties, I think it was, had dozens of peacocks on the property. Either they escaped or were left behind when the owners moved away, but now they run wild in the hills." She managed a smile. "The cops get a lot of calls about people being murdered at two in the morning. They usually tune up in the nighttime."

"My God, how does Dennys get any sleep?"

"Well, the house is actually really quiet. Once you're asleep, you don't hear a thing from the outside world. Dennys—well, you saw him yesterday, he was having a bad day."

He hedged. "I have nothing to compare to—"

"Sorry. You're right. He missed work, he had a sick headache, the kind where you try to throw up your socks and the light from your alarm clock is blinding. He takes medication when it happens, it knocks him out, but then he's loopy when he wakes up."

Donald remembered the lost look on Dennys' face the day before. Between the shadow of flashbacks to war and the headaches, no wonder he looked lost. He was.

"But when he gets one of those headaches, he's more susceptible to flashbacks. And those damned birds are the perfect way to set it off."

"Not to be rude, but—why live here, then?"

She gave him a sarcastic smile. "My mother begged for years to move up here. We lived in Hermosa Beach forever, and she complained that it was 'an artist's colony'—which is what it started out as, true. But PV is like the Beverly Hills of the South Bay—it's where 'the people live, my dear.'" She let out a disgusted noise. "And you've seen her. She thinks Dennys is playing this up for sympathy. Daddy says it's because she can't face the horror of what they all went through over there… what they're still going through over there, what they're still going through over here." She lifted a shoulder. "I dunno… I think maybe having a damaged son doesn't fit in her perfect world."

Donald remembered her description of Tish from moments before: when you're used to adoration day in and day out, and you don't realize it's conditional on you being a perfect daughter No longer perfect son, no longer perfect daughter… what expectation did Julia Stewart place on her youngest child?

Elizabeth seemed to be reading his mind. "Hey, it's like they say—you pick your friends, you're stuck with your family." She smiled gamely up at him.

Until you're old enough to run away from home for good. "Am I a friend?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Good. I want to be." And much more.

/ / /

Donald stayed in the kitchen for the next hour being Elizabeth's more than willing scullery maid; Madalena slipped in to lend another set of hands and to let them know Dennys was resting but would be down for dinner. He was more than a little startled when Madalena wrapped her arms around him and gave him a long, hard hug. "Thank you. From Dennys. And from me." She sighed. "He's really sorry about what happened—"

"Madalena—" Donald stepped back and took her hands, looking seriously into her eyes. "No. Dennys should not apologize for what happened today. Or any time. He has done nothing wrong. And anyone who thinks he should apologize is wrong—dead wrong." Okay, that probably described Mrs. Stewart, but he didn't really give a damn at the moment. And he was pretty sure both young women agreed with him.

Madalena certainly did. "Thank you. Again," she said, clearly meaning his comments. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You're a peach. You can whup my ass at Scrabble any time." She grabbed a stack of plates from the counter and backed through the swinging door into the dining room.

Elizabeth gave him a funny smile. "Agreed. On both counts." She gave him a kiss on the other cheek and turned back to the stove. It was a softer touch than Maddie's quick peck; no dramatic protestation of undying love… but a bloke could hope.


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