Chapter 11: THE SUGAR SHACK
Ron and Hazel Stryker lived a few miles from Follyfoot in the outskirts of the former village of Tockwith, now a thriving township. The lovely but small Tudor-style residence Ron'd inherited from his father'd been replaced by a succession of ever-larger residences as their family had swelled to five children. Their current domicile was a Bauhaus-inspired monstrosity of rectangular boxes and cubes jammed together at odd angles on multiple levels. Built in the 1930s on ten acres of what was then pastureland, the house was deemed an unholy eyesore until the trees and foundation plantings surrounding it had grown sufficiently to hide it from public view. Older residents of the community had forgotten it existed and newer ones weren't even aware it ever had.
The Strykers just happened to be in the market for a new home and would never have seen this one except for a desperate under-quota estate agent unlocking the massive gates in the privacy fencing and leading them up the long winding drive. The house was in excellent condition despite having been vacant for several years. The agent was about to apologize for having the temerity to offer such a hideous pile when the husband gave the wife a slap on the rump and a squeeze around the shoulders while announcing, 'This is IT, honey... this is our sugar shack!'
The astounded agent thanked his lucky stars, the agency was grateful to be divested of the white elephant, and the Strykers had their dream home. Of course, neither Ron nor Hazel'd ever been accused of possessing an overabundance of good taste. It did have a very nice garden, Dora was later heard to observe.
The Strykers had taken their après-dinner digestifs to their 'Florida Room'... an imported architectural feature that combined elements of a traditional solarium with a glassed roof, screening and louvered window walls. The panels that had been opened during the afternoon were now closed but the lingering scents of autumn-blooming roses remained.
Outside, an irregularly shaped infinity pool overflowed its natural sandstone perimeter at one end to feed a cascading freshet that wound its way to the bottom of the garden. Next to the pool and enclosed in a gazebo with sliding Plexiglas panels that afforded protection during cold-weather months, a Jacuzzi hot tub wafted tendrils of steamy vapor into the air.
Ron'd just gone out to check the hot tub, which was coming up nicely and would be at optimum temp by the time their cramp-avoidance hour was up. He'd gone upstairs to change into his bathing costume while Hazel'd been penning a short list of instructions for their housekeeper to find in the morning. Then she'd gone up to put on one of today's purchases—a thong bikini that would've had her best friend and sister-in-law, not to mention her own daughter and three daughters-in-law, blushing crimson. Certainly not an item any of them would even consider flaunting in public.
Hazel pirouetted in front of her husband. "Tell the truth now... does this make me look fat?"
Ron took a long draw on his Cuban Cohiba® Behike™ and exhaled a slow blue spiral upwards. He'd given up cigarettes decades ago but was allowed one cigar per day (per doctor's orders and wife's demand… and not in the house). This was the time of day he chose to enjoy it.
"Like the backside of a pregnant cow... broad as a barn door... big as a stranded whale at low tide..." he declared straight-faced. "Why, I'd bet your rear end could be seen from space!"
There was a microsecond of stunned and outraged silence before Hazel smacked him across the ear with the rolled-up copy of Vogue magazine she'd been holding.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!"
"I'll give you pregnant cow!"
Hazel Marie Donnelly Stryker at fifty-seven was as trim and slim as she'd been at fifteen when they'd first met. The woman never gained an ounce though she ate like a docker. Ron, on the other hand—who'd been thin and wiry as a youngster, had started fluffing out in his thirties and it'd been a running battle ever since to keep his paunch (what Hazel referred to as 'a shed for his tools') under control. And his once luxuriant red hair had not only turned grey but had mostly turned loose. He was painfully reminded of that fact every time he viewed his best friend and blood-brother-in-law's thick, brushy salt-and-pepper crop. At one time he'd even thought of getting a hairpiece... until he saw Donald Trump on the telly looking like an orange-pancaked clown with a hunk of moldy fox fur glued to his pate.
Ron gave his wife an evil leer and waggled his eyebrows. She in turn struck a seductive pose and licked her lips lasciviously. After almost forty years of marriage, which they'd be celebrating next month, the Strykers still unabashedly enjoyed an active, inventive and mutually satisfying love life. Very often, after Mrs. Sullivan had departed the premises for the day, doors and garden gates would be deadbolted and swimsuits would come off. The Stryker children all knew better than to invade their parents' home unannounced at any time of day.
Two hours later they were still playing footsie in the hot tub. Ron didn't ride much these days and hours on horseback the previous day had almost done for him... but not quite.
"What've you got laid on for tomorrow, darling?" Hazel asked. "Jason and Sarah are dropping off the kiddies in the morning and we're keeping them overnight. I was thinking you and I might... "
"Sorry, luv... Steve asked me to ride along with him to Kingston after lunch to take a look at some boat at Hull Marina." One of the benefits of Ron's deferred higher education was that he no longer sounded like a street tough. Occasionally, however, traces of his original accent surfaced. He sighed dramatically. "But I suppose I could stay home and help you look after them instead." Mrs. Sullivan had Sundays off.
"As if!" Hazel shot back. "No. Your grandfatherly services are surplus to requirements. I'm paying Evan's girls to play nanny for their cousins so they'll be here to do the heavy lifting and running after. They've taken up babysitting as Arlene decided they could well start earning their own money for clothes and makeup. Apparently they're raking it in hand over fist. Competent sitters are in high demand."
"That's all right, then. Oh dear, dear, dear... we seem to have run out of wine! Might as well go in. Oh... by the way... don't say anything to Dora about the boat. Steve seems to think boating would make a nice new pastime for the two of them in their advancing age. It's meant to be a surprise for their anniversary..."
Thinking Hazel was going directly upstairs, Ron in his terry robe padded to the kitchen and flung open the doors of their Sub-Zero® Pro 48™ built-in fridge to peruse the contents.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" Hazel demanded, standing directly behind him with hands on hips.
"Looking to see if there's any of that pud left from yesterday. I'm feeling a mite peckish."
"There isn't and you couldn't possibly be... it's only been three hours since dinner."
"A biscuit, then, just one?" Ron pleaded.
"No. You don't need one. And don't think you're going to sneak that Mars bar you thought you had hidden in your sock drawer, either. It's not there anymore."
"You're no fun," Ron pouted. "On the other hand..." He gave her a come-hither look.
"You've had quite enough of that as well. I need my sleep. Those girls will wear me out tomorrow."
"I thought that's what you had nannies for?"
"Enough. Come upstairs and get your bath."
"Yes, dear."
An hour later the Strykers were still awake... and not because they'd found something more interesting to do. With no prospect of horizontal aerobics on offer, Ron'd donned his usual sleeping attire of wifebeater vest and voluminous silk boxer shorts, tonight's pair featuring a repetitive design of leaping trout. Hazel was seated at her dressing table in a camisole-style satin nightie, giving her hair the customary one hundred strokes. Ron'd flopped on the bed, crossing his ankles and resting his clasped hands over his belly. After several minutes of silence, he suddenly spoke.
"I think Steve might be having an affair."
Hazel dropped her brush and nearly toppled off her stool. "Whaaaaaaat?!"
"I said I think Steve's..."
"I heard what you said... but what... how... why would you think that?"
"He's been acting funny for the past week or so. Not himself at all. Yesterday was bad enough but today he was especially moody. Like the weight of the world's on his shoulders."
"Ooooh... especially moody, is it? And that would be a drastic departure from normally moody?" Hazel retrieved her hairbrush from the floor and resumed grooming... fifty licks more to go.
Ron ignored her sarcasm. "I'm serious. Something's going on with him. Didn't you notice at dinner?"
"Why don't you just ask him?"
"Maybe I've got it all wrong... maybe it's Dora having the affair. You never know what women of a certain age are capable of."
"Careful there!" his wife warned.
"Oh... I don't mean you... I know you would never cheat on me."
"Sure about that, are you?" she said mischievously.
"Of course I'm..." Ron abruptly choked off in mid-sentence and turned his head to look at her as if seeing her for the first time.
"What's the matter?"
"I... erm... I suddenly remembered something..."
"Remembered what?"
"I don't know... it was like flying back in time, just for a second there... something about the week Steve proposed to Dora... there was someone else... who was it? And you and him... you'd been drinking... I was in trouble... oh damn, it's just not coming back to me! Do you remember, hun... what happened that week? We've never talked about it, have we? Now that I think about it, none of us have ever talked about it."
Hazel felt a chill envelope her as if the air conditioning, which she knew was switched off, had unaccountably turned itself back on. She very deliberately set the brush on the table and climbed onto the California-king-size bed, settling cross-legged at the foot and out of Ron's reach. She was still limber enough to do that, thanks to thrice-weekly workouts with her personal trainer.
"Ronnie... dearest... what's brought this up now?" she wheedled. "Sounds like you've had a flashback..."
"Is that what they are?"
"They? You mean... you've had others?"
"A few, yes... just recently. It's very odd."
"Why haven't you told me?"
"Didn't seem important... it's not like I can remember what I remembered well enough to describe it to you. It just happens... and then it's gone."
"I see. Well, maybe it's time for a check-up... just to, you know... rule out anything. I'll ring Dr. Ellingham's surgery tomorrow and see if he can slot you in."
"I'm sure it's nothing... I feel fine... it's a little disorienting, is all," he admitted. "But getting back to Steve and Dora... I can't visualize either of them running around... but... didn't you notice at dinner how off they both were? He kept giving her odd looks and she hardly spoke to him. Come to think of it, Jesse was a bit off his feed as well... kept looking from one to the other as if they were aliens just landed from the moon. You're around Dora more than me... have you noticed her acting weird lately?"
"Not really, no," Hazel lied. "Maybe they've just had a little squabble over something. Remember when Jesse used to come over and ask to spend the night with Jason because he was afraid of the fussing?"
"Yeah... but I thought they got over that years ago."
"Perhaps while the two of you are out and about tomorrow, you can work on drawing him out. But don't be too aggressive about it, Ron. And Ron, if he does bring something up, please do try to be courteous and attentive. Might be best to leave the clowning at home for once, eh?"
"Who? Me?"
"Yes. You. You're supposed to be Steve's best mate so act like it and don't ridicule or criticise."
"And what about you?"
"I'll be seeing Dora at the gym Monday, as usual, and then we're getting our hair done and doing lunch. I'll see what I can come up with. Maybe they could join us at Quantro's for dinner that evening and we can both keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Will that suit?"
"Fine. Sounds like a plan."
Hazel lay awake long after Ron'd drifted off. She, too, had been worried lately—about Dora's recent state of mind. She had been acting rather jumpy and Hazel could plainly see from the circles under her friend's eyes that she'd not been sleeping well. On several occasions Hazel had tried to winkle out the problem but Dora'd not been forthcoming other than to mention she'd been having unusual dreams—both nighttime and daytime. The two'd shared so many secrets over the years that Hazel didn't want to believe something was so wrong that Dora couldn't bring herself to confide in her. The idea of an affair—on either Steve's or Dora's part—hadn't even remotely crossed her mind. Whatever... Hazel judged that the Rosses wouldn't be up to dining out even though it might be a welcome respite from a houseful of guests... but she'd ask.
Even more alarming was Ron's bringing up that particular week in their past. It was too true that none of them'd ever discussed what, exactly, had gone down back then. Hazel'd not only been present but an active party to those pivotal three days that'd concluded The Week That Wasn't... and she remembered with diamond-bright clarity every minute detail.
She had always been aware that she was under some sort of constraint that prevented her from talking about it, although she didn't entirely understand how or why. On a subconscious level she also knew that Dottie was under the same prohibitions, which was why she'd never attempted to bring it up with her. And now... after forty years...
Sleep wouldn't come. With a grunt of irritation, Hazel slid out of the bed and poked her feet into her Runaway Rabbit® Classic™ bunny slippers. After checking to be sure Ron was dead to the world, she slipped on her Juicy® couture hooded velour robe and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where she poured herself a goblet of blackberry wine and picked up her Apple® iPhone™ 90 from the counter before wandering through the sliding glass doors out to the pool deck. Settling into a patio chair by the light of the half-moon, she keyed up the phone and reviewed the voice and text messages that had accumulated throughout the evening hours. Unlike many people, Hazel refused to be ruled by her cell phone or feel obligated to respond to every summons. Often hours would go by before she bothered to check messages or return calls. It made other people crazy and afforded her a somewhat childish sense of autonomy.
Most of the messages were inconsequential and she deleted them one by one. But sure enough, there towards the end was a text from Dorothy confirming Hazel's suspicions that something was seriously amiss: Urgent u call! Meet soonest! Lady E enroute!' Hazel frowned, recalling that Dottie'd kept trying to get her attention during dinner but there'd been too many people milling about and too much commotion, and then Hazel and Ron'd left immediately afterward. She couldn't call the old lady at this time of night, of course. It would have to wait until first thing in the morning. And then she'd have to devise some way of meeting with her surrogate mother without alerting Dora... perhaps she could go fetch her back for lunch? But no, the children would be here...
Donnelly had not been Hazel's surname at birth. As far back as she could remember she'd been in care or, when older, given over to the same county orphanage Steve'd called home years earlier. Three couples'd taken her in on trial as a potential adoptee and had returned her to the orphanage with the explanation, regretfully submitted of course, that she simply wasn't suitable.
When it seemed no one would ever consider making the skinny, resentful and sullen girl part of their family, in had stepped the Donnellys. Oh... they'd tried their best over the year they'd kept her, but they'd made too many mistakes—the first and irrevocable one being letting her know that not only was she not their first choice, but the only choice the now desperate orphanage management was willing to offer. The Donnellys, as most adoptive parents, had wanted a new baby but hadn't qualified because of their advanced age. They weren't prepared to deal with a damaged child already thirteen years old. Hazel'd run away again and again, refusing to adhere to their rules. The official adoption had gone through, but shortly afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly had with great relief surrendered her back to the court as an 'incorrigible juvenile.' That time, she'd not been returned to the orphanage but remanded to a juvenile reform facility.
Recognizing that no couple in their right minds would consider taking on a fourteen-year-old delinquent, the kindly and dedicated social services caseworker on whose desk the girl's file'd landed came up with an alternative. Dorothy Corbett'd once been Steve Ross' caseworker and had kept up with his progress simply as a matter of personal interest. At first she'd despaired of his ever fitting into mainstream society, but all that had changed after he'd settled in at her good friend Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks' little farm in the country. Perhaps that sort of environment would be beneficial to her new ward? Also, Mrs. Corbett knew that another teenage girl not much older than Hazel lived there—the Colonel's niece… mild-mannered, educated and a good role model for the younger one. And so Hazel'd finally found a home and a family at Follyfoot. Not easily, at first—but then nothing worth having ever is.
Not until she had children of her own did Hazel come to truly appreciate how much of a trial she'd been not only to the Donnellys and the others before them but to the residents of the farm. If anyone had forecast for her then the life she was now living, she would have laughed at them and called them rude names.
Hazel'd never been interested in finding out anything about her birth parents. She hated them. Period. Her allegiance was firmly vested in the Colonel, Slugger, Dora, Ron and Steve, and later in Dottie and finally in Lady Elayne. Until that week that no one was supposed to remember, she'd been merely an acquaintance of the American woman on the next estate. Lady Elayne'd started taking a greater interest in Hazel and including her in luncheons and other occasions. The friendship had deepened further once Dora was involved in wedding plans and too busy to visit Butler Hall as often as she used to.
It was from Lady Elayne that Hazel'd learned of her chequered antecedents. Though not exactly a witch, her ancestry was decidedly Otherworld, which was almost as good as, according to Lady Elayne, who'd sounded out the young girl's interest in the possibility of coming into the Society as a novitiate. Hazel'd initially accepted the offer but soon found she'd no time to continue her training, what with her own impending nuptials and a baby on the way. Eventually her membership'd transitioned to inactive status although she still paid her dues and kept in touch mostly by way of Dottie and Elayne. Hazel'd kept carefully concealed for forty years this aspect of her being... and wasn't about to come forward at this late date. No one outside the Society—neither her husband nor her children—had any inkling of her true heritage.
But what Hazel'd learned couldn't be unlearned.
Before rejoining her husband in bed, Hazel rummaged in her walk-in closet for the innocuous shoebox containing a tissue-wrapped white satin brocade robe and a wand, cleverly disguised as a telescoping stainless-steel pen-size laser pointer with a bright green display. She slipped the pen/wand in her robe pocket, reminding herself to hunt up some fresh triple A batteries tomorrow, and returned the box to its former position—hidden in plain sight among scores of Manolo Blahniks, Kate Spades, Michael Louboutins, Jimmy Choos, Dianne von Furstenburgs and Lilly Pulitzers. Not for nothing was Hazel Marie Donnelly Stryker known as Yorkshire's challenge to Imelda Marcos.
REDEYE RUMINATIONS
"Maybe you're right, Elle, about us getting older and losing our skills, our powers of observation... I don't understand, either, why neither of us could see what was right under our noses all along. As Madeleine's mother and Rowan's grandmother, I should've looked into Rob's past more thoroughly... as soon as I knew she was pregnant... if nothing else than to make sure there were no abnormalities that'd carry over to the child. He used to come out to the ranch regularly to visit his son, when the boy was too young to travel alone, and we never found anything even remotely objectionable about the man..."
"Aside from bein' married an' knockin' up your sixteen-year-old daughter..."
"Aside from that," Sally agreed, "But then Rowan started going to him for visitation so I've not seen much of Rob in the past ten years. I don't know why I never made a connection between his face and Steve's."
Elayne made shushing noises. "No reason why you should've... you were only around Steve for a few days back in 1974 an' Rob didn't show up until... what... 1994 or so?"
"Babies never arrive at a convenient moment, do they?" Sally mused. "Not even forty years after the fact! Why couldn't this have come up after we'd sorted out our problem?"
"No point worryin' ourselves into a tizzy... it'll all work out in the wash. It'll have to—them kids're are meant to be together an' my futurevision's never been wrong. Well... almost never. Has Madeleine told Yvonne anything about our family's... uh... peculiarities?"
"You do realize, don't you, that she and I haven't been on the closest of terms in many years? And now she holds me accountable for the way Rowan relates to her... he treats me as if I were his mother and Maddy was his big sister. She was never around... first it was high school, then college... and then Bernard and I encouraged her to go on to graduate school and go for a doctorate. Now, of course, she's got her career..."
"She should be grateful, if anything. If'n you hadn't a raised that young 'un for her, she wouldn't a never got there."
"I did what I believed was right at the time. Still do. But to answer your question, yes, I suggested it might be a good idea to prepare the Rosses. For once she agreed. She plans on telling Yvonne while they're on the plane Tuesday night—not all of it, mind you, and not all at once... just enough to get her started thinking about it. How well do you know this woman? How is she liable to react?"
Elayne gave this a few minutes' thought before answering. "Yvonne's a practical, down-to-earth sort a gal but she's still got a lotta Old Country in her—them Norwegians, ya know, they come over here with a double buttload a superstitions. I'm thinkin' she's just skeptic enough to not discount the possibility of our existence even if her rational mind rejects it."
"Sounds promising, then. Another thing Maddy and I agreed on is that we both think Rowan should shoulder the responsibility of explaining us to Pallas."
"What does Rowan really feel about all this?" Elayne asked shrewdly.
"All things considered, he's remarkably adept at moving between cultures and managing to blend in wherever he happens to find himself at any given moment."
"That ain't what I asked. That poor boy's fixin' to be dropped on his head into yet another alien culture. Believe me, them Brits ain't nuthin' like us!"
"Yes, I know, Auntie... I've been there, remember?"
"But you was just a visitor... you didn't live there for years like me."
"Keep in mind we've had few opportunities for discussions regarding the recent turn of events, since Rowan's not living at home anymore. But I believe he's mature enough to tolerate yet one more ingredient in his cultural pie. He's always accepted the explanation that neither of the Camerons had any living relatives back in the UK and that's why so little was known about them. He's not happy that his father lied by omission—by never having told him about being adopted. He understands that if he'd never met Pallas, none of this information about the Ross connection would've ever surfaced. On the other hand, because of the prophecy he also understands why it had to. We—Bernard and I—question whether what he feels for the girl right now is truly love or just resignation to fate and obligation to duty. In retrospect, I think perhaps Madeleine was right in that I should never've told Rowan about the prophecy at all. Then he would've known in his heart right away if Pallas were the right one."
"No use cryin' over spilt milk, Sal. Besides, bein' in love makes ya crazy an' then ya end up in divorce court. I'll take a solid partnership, mutual respect an' a good prenup over love any day."
"Don't be too hard on Maddy, Elle. She's doing the best she can now, trying to make up for lost time. It was a trade-off... either drop out of school to care for him and be an unskilled reservation rat the rest of her life, or let Boo and me have him so she could finish her education. She had... has... too fine a mind to have let it go to waste, marrying one of her cousins and having a houseful of babies like a lot of the girls did back then. Things are different now... with our own school and so many young people going on to college, learning to live in the outside world and deciding to stay there. Not that that's a bad thing, of course. There's only so much land to go around so this way the population remains stable. Madeleine won't be coming back and I'm afraid Rowan won't be, either... but I suppose that's to be expected. The best and brightest ones leave."
Elayne was silent for perhaps an entire minute, then abruptly segued into, "Damned Internet! Folks know way more than they oughta as it is. Any ole body can come along an' poke their nose in your bidness these days! If it warn't for that genealogy craze wouldn't nobody know nuthin' 'bout that baby's daddy!"
"Language, please!" Sally reminded. "And keep your voice down. Some people are wanting to sleep now. The Internet and the genealogy craze wouldn't have mattered anyway, once Madeleine and Yvonne realized they had a situation, not just a coincidence. Eventually they would've pieced that puzzle together although it would've taken months instead of weeks."
"I 'spose Bernard's got his opinions about this mess," Elayne snorted.
Sally paused, unsure whether her aunt asking a question or making a statement, having never approved of her mate. Except for that one occasion when Elayne had been obliged to request his assistance, she was normally dismissive of his existence. For his part, Bernard was wary of witches in general—other than his wife—and particularly terrified, or so he'd always claimed, of Elayne in particular.
"I can't speak for Boo. I'm sure Rowan's gone to him for advice but whatever they discussed remains between them. When Rowan was home recently, Boo took him along with a couple of the other boys up in the mountains for a few days. I didn't ask what they did up there, but I probably don't want to know anyway. They are what they are."
"Bernard's still foolin' with that nonsense? At his age, he's liable to run hisself slap outta energy, get stuck an' not be able to change back! Then you'll be a pore ole widder like me!"
Unamused, Sally gave her a long level look. "I suppose that could happen... someday... but not for a long time yet."
Elayne was shaking her head negatively. "Like I tole you an' I tole all your gal young 'uns, y'all should stick with your own kind an' not mate outside the tribe. No good ever comes of it."
"You did... eight or nine times, as I recall, and that seems to have worked out all right."
"Yeah... but that's different... they was Normals an' I knew I'd never have any young 'uns a my own," Elayne responded sadly. "We keep outbreedin' like this, in another generation won't nobody have no powers an' our kind'll die out... just like the dinosaurs."
"Well then, if you believe that—and unless you've looked into the future lately and seen otherwise—I'll take that to mean there's an excellent chance Rowan's and Pallas' children will be Normals."
"Or not."
At that moment Elayne noticed that the corpulent passenger in Seat A-3 had leaned so far in their direction she was in danger of falling into the aisle.
"Sumpin' I can help you with, honey?" she trilled sweetly. "Wanna know how to turn that three hundred pounds of ugly lard sittin' next to you into a toad? It ain't all that hard..."
"Elayne, please!" Sally shushed her.
"Well, I never!" The startled woman withdrew into her seat like a snail into its shell and held a magazine up to her face while pretending to ignore them... but not before shooting a speculative glance at the morbidly obese gentleman snoring at her side.
"Yeah... I'll bet you ain't never!" Elayne muttered.
"Stop! I mean it! You're embarrassing me!" Sally was trying hard not to giggle. "And mind your vocabulary... please!"
"Sorry." Clearly Elayne was not a bit sorry.
Cabin lights were dimmed for the benefit of those wishing to sleep away the duration of the flight. Attendants distributed blankets and pillows. The two women resumed talking in muted tones for another hour or so until eventually they, too, drifted into the arms of Morpheus as the great iron bird carried them through the night.
Distance from JFK International Airport to Heathrow International Airport: 3,459 miles