Chapter 3
Carolyn Collins walked along the winding path through the woods of her brother's estate. The path she was on was part of the enormous nature trail and program that Quentin funded, out of his own pocket, for the local schools to field trip to. Many times, Quentin met the school children at the bus, believing that personalizing the experience would make it all the better. The tall pines and oaks that towered over Carolyn were not the least bit intimidating, as they had been on the Collins Estate in Collinsport, but more friendly and welcoming, swaying gently with the passing breeze as a sort of hello.
She bent down gracefully, and scooped up a handful of wildflowers that she believed would look rather nice in an arrangement with a few roses on her coffee table at home. Suddenly, Carolyn stopped, hearing footsteps behind her. She turned around to see a man, slightly taller than her, with light brown hair, and a mustache, that, oddly enough, did not seem to fit his face. "Oh, hello," she said to him, with a bright smile.
"I haven't startled you, have I?" he asked.
"No, not at all." She saw him staring at her, as if she weren't telling the truth. "All right, maybe just a little."
"I'm sorry about that. I too enjoy long walks on this nature trail. I hope to cover all 15 miles before I check out of the hotel. Quentin Collins seems like a really wonderful man, to have built such a glorious estate."
"Yes, he is. My brother always did have a knack for building illustrious living areas. But not all of this was his work. His wife and I chipped in a little to," she winked at him.
"So you're Carolyn Collins then? Mr. Collins' sister?"
"Oh yes, forgive me. I seem to have lost my manners. May I ask who you are?"
"Of course. Ian Shepard, hotel guest. Had I known I was going to run into someone as prestigious as yourself, I would have dressed better," he said, looking down at the clothes he was wearing. A long sleeve white shirt, with a pull over blue vest, along with tan khaki's and tennis shoes.
"That would not have been necessary. I'm dressed casually myself. Are you enjoying your stay here Mr. Shepard?"
"Ian, please, and yes I certainly am. The meals served in the dining hall are exquisite. I've never tasted anything like the stuffed salmon."
"I have to agree with you. Betty can do wonders with any type of food. You speak of my brother and his establishment as if you admire it. Do you?"
Ian Shepard blushed. He did not want to admit that he truly did admire the estate. Maybe it wouldn't have been as much an admission as it would be a manipulation. "I have to say that the estate is wonderful, and that your brother must be very business savvy. I hope to be that way some day."
Carolyn eyed the man as if she didn't want to believe him, but was forced to, for some reason. "Well, it seems you truly do admire my brother. Perhaps I could take you to meet him? He is always willing to meet with guests. Maybe you could pick up a few tips from him?"
How to politely decline. Ian knew that what he had stated would have caused Carolyn to suggest meeting her brother. What she didn't know however, is that they had already met, and Quentin did not seem to like him all that well. "Oh, I couldn't impose. I'm sure he has many other things to take care of today, rather than meeting with an everyday guest."
"Forgive my frankness here Ian, but you certainly could not be an everyday guest. As high as the prices are here, and as exclusive as this estate is, you must be wealthy enough to not have to worry about money ever again."
"Forgiven, and quite right. I am quite secure financially, however the money I do possess is not of my own creation. I inherited it when my late uncle passed on. You see, I would rather build my own fortune than have it handed to me. I'm not sure if you understand that or not."
"I do. Our family has been wealthy for years and years, and I often wonder where I would be had I not been born into this family." Carolyn lifted the flowers she had picked up to her nose and sniffed them lightly. "If you are to shy to meet with my brother, could you at least escort me back to the hotel?" Carolyn batted her eye lashes for extra effect. She found this man rather attractive, and even though she was in her mid forties, that didn't mean that she couldn't pursue someone.
"I would be delighted," Ian said. Carolyn walked up to Ian and linked her arm in his. Soon they were off down the path.
Later that day, Quentin had traveled to town. Crystalville was not a small town by any means. Located within the town limits were more than several stores, with a large variety of items for purchase. One fourth of the town was dedicated to the Farmers Market, to which Kathleen had made a trip earlier that day. Quentin enjoyed traveling to the town, feeling that it kept him in touch with the local people so that he wouldn't be sucked into void in which most semi and full-fledged celebrities lived in.
Quentin's favorite spot to stop was one of the smaller establishments in the town. A small café called Martinique provided the richest coffee Quentin had ever passed through his lips, as well as scrumptious finger cakes. A small table in the back is where Quentin would escape to, often times diving into a book or reviewing the latest business news. At first the locals were surprised to see the man they only knew from pictures in the café, but soon the grew accustomed to his presence, and he wasn't bothered.
Quentin didn't know what had singled this café out, and what drew him to it. Perhaps it was the name-Martinique-the island from which Angelique, the witch turned angel who had helped him to escape Lucifer's grasp in Collinsport, originated. Maybe it was the smallness of it that reminded him of the Blue Whale, a small tavern that he used to frequent in Collinsport (However Quentin did not visit the Blue Whale for the same reasons he now visited Martinique). It may have finally been because of the realness it brought to the world. It kept Quentin humble, kept him close to the people. He didn't want to be forgotten.
The waiter, Phil, brought Quentin's cup off coffee and a few lemon flavored finger cakes. They were Quentin's favorite. Quentin picked up the local paper, The Crystalville Daily, and unfolded it. He scanned the front page and flipped through, scanning each following page for anything interesting before he got to the business section, which he always read cover to cover. However, an article stopped him this time, an article that sent his draw dropping. The headline read 'Ian Shepard Found Dead In Apartment, Police Say It was Homicide'. Ian Shepard? The same Ian Shepard that he had seen this morning in his office? The same Ian Shepard who was now walking through the door of Martinique?
Quentin looked around from behind the paper and spotted Ian. Against his better judgment, he waved Ian over. Ian seemed unwilling at first, wondering why the man who had sent him away earlier was now waving him over to talk, but Ian figured maybe Quentin had come to his senses about what he was told earlier. Ian strode up to the counter and ordered a large coffee, black, with a hint of cream, and then gallantly walked over to Quentin's table.
"Mind explaining this to me?" Quentin said, folding the paper in half so that the article was face up to Ian, and throwing it down on the table.
"Sure," Ian said, as Phil the waiter brought his coffee over. "See, you think that's me they're talking about, don't you?"
"You know, you're pretty smart for someone who says dumb things," Quentin retorted. "Of course that's what I...." Quentin started, but realizing that he was yelling, he toned it down to a whisper and repeated, "Of course that's what I think!"
"I thought so. You see...and you're never going to believe this....there's two Ian Shepard's in this town. There's me, Ian Michael Shepard, and then there was him, Ian James Shepard. I believe there is a picture on the next page," Ian said, pushing the paper over to Quentin. Ian lifted the cup to his lips and sipped lightly, being careful not to burn his lips and tongue with the hot liquid.
Quentin grabbed the paper, a disbelieving look on his face. Unfolding the paper and flipping it over, his jaw dropped once again. It wasn't the Ian Shepard who was sitting in front of him. It truly was someone else. Quentin looked at Shepard with a disapproving eye. "I've lived alongside the supernatural long enough to know that you could've tampered with this picture by merely touching it. And you're hole story about there being two Ian Shepard's in this town is a little to convenient."
"I thought you might say that. If you don't believe me, go over to that table," Ian pointed across the café to a table on the other side, "and look at that paper. Now I couldn't have tampered with the entire release." Ian sipped the coffee in his cup once again and then replaced it onto the saucer sitting on the table.
Quentin stood and walked across the café and picked up the paper on the table Ian had pointed to. He flipped through the pages quickly only to find the same picture that was in his own newspaper. Quentin walked back over to his table and sat down quietly, seemingly defeated. "I still don't believe you. You could have tampered with the entire print of papers, or you could have sent your magic across the room to change that paper as well. I'm not quite sure because I am not aware of your entire history yet, but be warned. I will know everything there is to know about you soon enough."
Ian looked at Quentin disapprovingly. "I'm afraid, dear friend, that living in Collinsport for as long as you did has tampered with your mind. Yes, you suffer from paranoia, thinking that the supernatural exists all around you. Next thing you'll be telling me is that your wife is a witch your sister is a psychic, and you're a werewolf. Or that you're older cousin from some other country is a vampire. If you want my advice, and mind you, you don't have to take it, go home and get some rest. You've been sitting in front of your desk for far to long, and you haven't had a proper break in quite a while."
"Yes, rest," Quentin said wearily. "I have to get some rest."
"There's a good lad. Now don't you worry about the bill, I'll take care of it," Ian said, patting Quentin on the back as Quentin stood. "Just go home and straight to bed. Pleasant dreams," Ian smiled at Quentin as he left.
"Yes, dreams," Quentin repeated, nearing the doorway and then walking through it and out onto the street.
Carolyn Collins walked along the winding path through the woods of her brother's estate. The path she was on was part of the enormous nature trail and program that Quentin funded, out of his own pocket, for the local schools to field trip to. Many times, Quentin met the school children at the bus, believing that personalizing the experience would make it all the better. The tall pines and oaks that towered over Carolyn were not the least bit intimidating, as they had been on the Collins Estate in Collinsport, but more friendly and welcoming, swaying gently with the passing breeze as a sort of hello.
She bent down gracefully, and scooped up a handful of wildflowers that she believed would look rather nice in an arrangement with a few roses on her coffee table at home. Suddenly, Carolyn stopped, hearing footsteps behind her. She turned around to see a man, slightly taller than her, with light brown hair, and a mustache, that, oddly enough, did not seem to fit his face. "Oh, hello," she said to him, with a bright smile.
"I haven't startled you, have I?" he asked.
"No, not at all." She saw him staring at her, as if she weren't telling the truth. "All right, maybe just a little."
"I'm sorry about that. I too enjoy long walks on this nature trail. I hope to cover all 15 miles before I check out of the hotel. Quentin Collins seems like a really wonderful man, to have built such a glorious estate."
"Yes, he is. My brother always did have a knack for building illustrious living areas. But not all of this was his work. His wife and I chipped in a little to," she winked at him.
"So you're Carolyn Collins then? Mr. Collins' sister?"
"Oh yes, forgive me. I seem to have lost my manners. May I ask who you are?"
"Of course. Ian Shepard, hotel guest. Had I known I was going to run into someone as prestigious as yourself, I would have dressed better," he said, looking down at the clothes he was wearing. A long sleeve white shirt, with a pull over blue vest, along with tan khaki's and tennis shoes.
"That would not have been necessary. I'm dressed casually myself. Are you enjoying your stay here Mr. Shepard?"
"Ian, please, and yes I certainly am. The meals served in the dining hall are exquisite. I've never tasted anything like the stuffed salmon."
"I have to agree with you. Betty can do wonders with any type of food. You speak of my brother and his establishment as if you admire it. Do you?"
Ian Shepard blushed. He did not want to admit that he truly did admire the estate. Maybe it wouldn't have been as much an admission as it would be a manipulation. "I have to say that the estate is wonderful, and that your brother must be very business savvy. I hope to be that way some day."
Carolyn eyed the man as if she didn't want to believe him, but was forced to, for some reason. "Well, it seems you truly do admire my brother. Perhaps I could take you to meet him? He is always willing to meet with guests. Maybe you could pick up a few tips from him?"
How to politely decline. Ian knew that what he had stated would have caused Carolyn to suggest meeting her brother. What she didn't know however, is that they had already met, and Quentin did not seem to like him all that well. "Oh, I couldn't impose. I'm sure he has many other things to take care of today, rather than meeting with an everyday guest."
"Forgive my frankness here Ian, but you certainly could not be an everyday guest. As high as the prices are here, and as exclusive as this estate is, you must be wealthy enough to not have to worry about money ever again."
"Forgiven, and quite right. I am quite secure financially, however the money I do possess is not of my own creation. I inherited it when my late uncle passed on. You see, I would rather build my own fortune than have it handed to me. I'm not sure if you understand that or not."
"I do. Our family has been wealthy for years and years, and I often wonder where I would be had I not been born into this family." Carolyn lifted the flowers she had picked up to her nose and sniffed them lightly. "If you are to shy to meet with my brother, could you at least escort me back to the hotel?" Carolyn batted her eye lashes for extra effect. She found this man rather attractive, and even though she was in her mid forties, that didn't mean that she couldn't pursue someone.
"I would be delighted," Ian said. Carolyn walked up to Ian and linked her arm in his. Soon they were off down the path.
Later that day, Quentin had traveled to town. Crystalville was not a small town by any means. Located within the town limits were more than several stores, with a large variety of items for purchase. One fourth of the town was dedicated to the Farmers Market, to which Kathleen had made a trip earlier that day. Quentin enjoyed traveling to the town, feeling that it kept him in touch with the local people so that he wouldn't be sucked into void in which most semi and full-fledged celebrities lived in.
Quentin's favorite spot to stop was one of the smaller establishments in the town. A small café called Martinique provided the richest coffee Quentin had ever passed through his lips, as well as scrumptious finger cakes. A small table in the back is where Quentin would escape to, often times diving into a book or reviewing the latest business news. At first the locals were surprised to see the man they only knew from pictures in the café, but soon the grew accustomed to his presence, and he wasn't bothered.
Quentin didn't know what had singled this café out, and what drew him to it. Perhaps it was the name-Martinique-the island from which Angelique, the witch turned angel who had helped him to escape Lucifer's grasp in Collinsport, originated. Maybe it was the smallness of it that reminded him of the Blue Whale, a small tavern that he used to frequent in Collinsport (However Quentin did not visit the Blue Whale for the same reasons he now visited Martinique). It may have finally been because of the realness it brought to the world. It kept Quentin humble, kept him close to the people. He didn't want to be forgotten.
The waiter, Phil, brought Quentin's cup off coffee and a few lemon flavored finger cakes. They were Quentin's favorite. Quentin picked up the local paper, The Crystalville Daily, and unfolded it. He scanned the front page and flipped through, scanning each following page for anything interesting before he got to the business section, which he always read cover to cover. However, an article stopped him this time, an article that sent his draw dropping. The headline read 'Ian Shepard Found Dead In Apartment, Police Say It was Homicide'. Ian Shepard? The same Ian Shepard that he had seen this morning in his office? The same Ian Shepard who was now walking through the door of Martinique?
Quentin looked around from behind the paper and spotted Ian. Against his better judgment, he waved Ian over. Ian seemed unwilling at first, wondering why the man who had sent him away earlier was now waving him over to talk, but Ian figured maybe Quentin had come to his senses about what he was told earlier. Ian strode up to the counter and ordered a large coffee, black, with a hint of cream, and then gallantly walked over to Quentin's table.
"Mind explaining this to me?" Quentin said, folding the paper in half so that the article was face up to Ian, and throwing it down on the table.
"Sure," Ian said, as Phil the waiter brought his coffee over. "See, you think that's me they're talking about, don't you?"
"You know, you're pretty smart for someone who says dumb things," Quentin retorted. "Of course that's what I...." Quentin started, but realizing that he was yelling, he toned it down to a whisper and repeated, "Of course that's what I think!"
"I thought so. You see...and you're never going to believe this....there's two Ian Shepard's in this town. There's me, Ian Michael Shepard, and then there was him, Ian James Shepard. I believe there is a picture on the next page," Ian said, pushing the paper over to Quentin. Ian lifted the cup to his lips and sipped lightly, being careful not to burn his lips and tongue with the hot liquid.
Quentin grabbed the paper, a disbelieving look on his face. Unfolding the paper and flipping it over, his jaw dropped once again. It wasn't the Ian Shepard who was sitting in front of him. It truly was someone else. Quentin looked at Shepard with a disapproving eye. "I've lived alongside the supernatural long enough to know that you could've tampered with this picture by merely touching it. And you're hole story about there being two Ian Shepard's in this town is a little to convenient."
"I thought you might say that. If you don't believe me, go over to that table," Ian pointed across the café to a table on the other side, "and look at that paper. Now I couldn't have tampered with the entire release." Ian sipped the coffee in his cup once again and then replaced it onto the saucer sitting on the table.
Quentin stood and walked across the café and picked up the paper on the table Ian had pointed to. He flipped through the pages quickly only to find the same picture that was in his own newspaper. Quentin walked back over to his table and sat down quietly, seemingly defeated. "I still don't believe you. You could have tampered with the entire print of papers, or you could have sent your magic across the room to change that paper as well. I'm not quite sure because I am not aware of your entire history yet, but be warned. I will know everything there is to know about you soon enough."
Ian looked at Quentin disapprovingly. "I'm afraid, dear friend, that living in Collinsport for as long as you did has tampered with your mind. Yes, you suffer from paranoia, thinking that the supernatural exists all around you. Next thing you'll be telling me is that your wife is a witch your sister is a psychic, and you're a werewolf. Or that you're older cousin from some other country is a vampire. If you want my advice, and mind you, you don't have to take it, go home and get some rest. You've been sitting in front of your desk for far to long, and you haven't had a proper break in quite a while."
"Yes, rest," Quentin said wearily. "I have to get some rest."
"There's a good lad. Now don't you worry about the bill, I'll take care of it," Ian said, patting Quentin on the back as Quentin stood. "Just go home and straight to bed. Pleasant dreams," Ian smiled at Quentin as he left.
"Yes, dreams," Quentin repeated, nearing the doorway and then walking through it and out onto the street.