Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)
Peregrine
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.
*******
Chapter Seven
"This one of your relatives?" Weiss asked. "Because the resemblance is downright eerie."
That was the understatement of the year. The young man in the picture could have been my twin, right down to the cleft in his chin and a shock of sandy blonde hair. Years of flying a desk had darkened my hair and etched permanent frown lines on my forehead, but in my younger years, I lived outside, with a permanent surfer's tan and bleached blonde locks. "Yeah," was all I said, because I didn't know what to say. This picture, hell, this entire night had knocked the wind out of my sails. My mother's family was filled with women and none of the men looked even remotely like me.
"So is he related?" Now that was a very good question. The mystery man had to be somehow connected by blood, but I didn't know who the hell he was.
"I guess." I scratched my head absently and was relieved when Trish popped her head out of the kitchen.
"I threw together some dinner. Come on back to the patio." Her voice was almost gruff and I was quite sure she had seen what we were looking at.
Eric smiled in delight. "Gee, all this and dinner too? Your aunt is quite the host."
An interesting choice of words, but I could see he was serious. Eric vaulted over her coffee table and broke a land speed record on his way to the kitchen. My more sedate pace allowed me to inspect the premises and more surprises awaited me on the other side of that door. Kitchens used to be the center of a home, and I could see Trish had taken this to heart. The room spanned the width of the house and was flanked by double bay windows and French doors that opened onto the garden. Healthy plants thrived in the sunny environment and cheerful pots of geraniums lined the patio. I saw that Eric was already tucking into a steak and was in the throes of conversation with Trish. Good, it would give me a chance to regroup and get my bearings. The floor was patterned ceramic tile and a long island cut through the middle of the room. State-of-the-art equipment, marble countertops, and ample storage space. A wine rack took up one end of the island and I approved of every bottle in the rack. At the far end of the room, a spiral set of iron stairs disappeared into a loft and curiosity almost got the best of me. There was a studio up there and I was dying to see the rest of her work. But my manners reasserted themselves and I turned my attention to the patio.
Trish was laughing over one of Weiss's stories and I watched her for a second from behind one of the French doors, comparing what I knew about her with what I saw in front of me. It didn't make sense. Why wasn't she draped all over him, flirting outrageously and halfway to the bedroom before the cocktails arrived? Even her amusement seemed forced and erected for Eric's benefit, to make him feel at home and not troubled by whatever sorrow filled her heart. Because I could almost taste the sadness that surrounded her like an aura. How I could know this after not seeing her for a dozen years was another one of those questions that kept creeping up on me. And why I chose just that moment to turn my head and stare at her kitchen hearth was another anomaly.
Something drew me away from the door and over to the fireplace on the far wall. The marble mantle was topped by a painting of our family homestead in Fleury. It was exquisitely rendered and I felt a surge of longing so profound that it startled me. My eyes dropped and stopped in mid-stare, caught by the object hanging on a nail. A funeral wreath. Directly over the wreath was an urn, and next to that was a picture of a strapping man and his Porsche. Pain surged in my head and I staggered sideways, the mental gears of my mind clicking like the pincers of a scarab beetle. Before I could fall, a strong set of hands caught my shoulders and steadied me.
"So now you know," Trish said softly, and before I could protest, she folded me in a fierce hug, her thin frame shaking with sobs. For a moment, I stood stiffly, meeting Eric's eyes over her head and staring helplessly, begging for his help. He shook his head and withdrew from the kitchen, leaving me alone with Trish. Alone and forsaken. My heart could not withstand her sorrow and I finally returned her hug as her words rang in my ears.
*******
Peregrine
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions
Vaughn visits his crazy aunt Trish.
*******
Chapter Seven
"This one of your relatives?" Weiss asked. "Because the resemblance is downright eerie."
That was the understatement of the year. The young man in the picture could have been my twin, right down to the cleft in his chin and a shock of sandy blonde hair. Years of flying a desk had darkened my hair and etched permanent frown lines on my forehead, but in my younger years, I lived outside, with a permanent surfer's tan and bleached blonde locks. "Yeah," was all I said, because I didn't know what to say. This picture, hell, this entire night had knocked the wind out of my sails. My mother's family was filled with women and none of the men looked even remotely like me.
"So is he related?" Now that was a very good question. The mystery man had to be somehow connected by blood, but I didn't know who the hell he was.
"I guess." I scratched my head absently and was relieved when Trish popped her head out of the kitchen.
"I threw together some dinner. Come on back to the patio." Her voice was almost gruff and I was quite sure she had seen what we were looking at.
Eric smiled in delight. "Gee, all this and dinner too? Your aunt is quite the host."
An interesting choice of words, but I could see he was serious. Eric vaulted over her coffee table and broke a land speed record on his way to the kitchen. My more sedate pace allowed me to inspect the premises and more surprises awaited me on the other side of that door. Kitchens used to be the center of a home, and I could see Trish had taken this to heart. The room spanned the width of the house and was flanked by double bay windows and French doors that opened onto the garden. Healthy plants thrived in the sunny environment and cheerful pots of geraniums lined the patio. I saw that Eric was already tucking into a steak and was in the throes of conversation with Trish. Good, it would give me a chance to regroup and get my bearings. The floor was patterned ceramic tile and a long island cut through the middle of the room. State-of-the-art equipment, marble countertops, and ample storage space. A wine rack took up one end of the island and I approved of every bottle in the rack. At the far end of the room, a spiral set of iron stairs disappeared into a loft and curiosity almost got the best of me. There was a studio up there and I was dying to see the rest of her work. But my manners reasserted themselves and I turned my attention to the patio.
Trish was laughing over one of Weiss's stories and I watched her for a second from behind one of the French doors, comparing what I knew about her with what I saw in front of me. It didn't make sense. Why wasn't she draped all over him, flirting outrageously and halfway to the bedroom before the cocktails arrived? Even her amusement seemed forced and erected for Eric's benefit, to make him feel at home and not troubled by whatever sorrow filled her heart. Because I could almost taste the sadness that surrounded her like an aura. How I could know this after not seeing her for a dozen years was another one of those questions that kept creeping up on me. And why I chose just that moment to turn my head and stare at her kitchen hearth was another anomaly.
Something drew me away from the door and over to the fireplace on the far wall. The marble mantle was topped by a painting of our family homestead in Fleury. It was exquisitely rendered and I felt a surge of longing so profound that it startled me. My eyes dropped and stopped in mid-stare, caught by the object hanging on a nail. A funeral wreath. Directly over the wreath was an urn, and next to that was a picture of a strapping man and his Porsche. Pain surged in my head and I staggered sideways, the mental gears of my mind clicking like the pincers of a scarab beetle. Before I could fall, a strong set of hands caught my shoulders and steadied me.
"So now you know," Trish said softly, and before I could protest, she folded me in a fierce hug, her thin frame shaking with sobs. For a moment, I stood stiffly, meeting Eric's eyes over her head and staring helplessly, begging for his help. He shook his head and withdrew from the kitchen, leaving me alone with Trish. Alone and forsaken. My heart could not withstand her sorrow and I finally returned her hug as her words rang in my ears.
*******