“I told him I wanted to be left alone. He went out like a whipped dog. It was a very strange thing. Angelo came in soon after and talked to me for a long time, telling me that Papa had only deceived me to protect me and to honour the dying wish of his wife. ‘Your father is what he is, and your mother knew that when she married him. She thought she could change him, at least that’s what your father says,’ Angelo told me. ‘We all told him you would find out someday anyway. Now it’s happened, and your father is afraid you hate him, Gina.’
“Angelo tried to turn on that old charm, but I knew his hands were as bloody as my father’s. ‘What happened to that poor man downstairs?’ I demanded.
“Angelo said, ‘We were only asking him some questions. We needed to frighten him. I know it looks bad, but I swear he answered our questions, and we cleaned him up and sent him home.’
“‘Liar!’ I screamed, completely losing control. ‘I can see it in your eyes, Angelo! This is nothing but a house of lies! I am such a fool! How could I have been so incredibly blind all these years?’
“I stayed in my room for three days. I wouldn’t see anyone. Consuela left my meals on a chair in the hall. In the night I could hear Papa pacing the hallway outside my door. Finally, I decided what I would do.
“Next morning, I went down to the sun room where Papa always has breakfast, acting as if nothing was wrong. Papa’s expression when I walked in was a mixture of fear and hope. It broke my heart to see it. In many ways, he had tried to be a good father. It didn’t change anything, though.
“Sitting down at the table, I looked out at the grounds, pretty with some freshly fallen snow, and asked Papa how he was feeling. Consuela hurried in with orange juice and coffee for me. I ordered a big breakfast with all my favourite things. Everyone seemed very relieved.
“We made small talk, never referring to what had happened. I spoke of returning to my job in Paris and told him I wanted to pick out some new clothes to take back with me. He asked where I wanted to shop, and I told him Bloomingdales in New York City. Angelo could take me. Papa agreed right away.
“It was easy to convince him that I didn’t have my credit cards with me, because I’d left Paris in such a hurry. Papa reached into his pocket and peeled off five one-thousand-dollar bills. I pouted and said I wanted to buy some special things. He gave me ten thousand in all.”
I whistled. “Ten grand out of his pocket?”
Regina nodded. “He is always doing things like that. He once gave a thousand-dollar bill to a parking lot attendant just because he bowed when Papa got out of his car. You’ll laugh to hear it, but I thought that was the way everyone behaved. He can be so, I don’t know, courtly is the best way to describe it.
“Angelo arrived about an hour later, and we drove down to New York. He asked me what made me change my mind about things, and I told him that I couldn’t change the way my family was, but they were my family, and that was that. He seemed really relieved.
“It wasn’t hard to lose Angelo. He’s a sucker for a pretty face, and I found the cutest salesgirl in that store to help me pick out dresses. Angelo was so busy chatting her up, he didn’t notice me slip out of the dressing room. I’ll bet he got hell from Papa!
“I took a cab to the airport and boarded a plane for London with only the few things I’d bought at Bloomies. When we landed, I hopped the first train for Birmingham—don’t ask me why—and there you have it. I’d booked the B&B online and thought I’d just stay there until I figured out what to do. You know what happened next, although I don’t know how they found me.”
“The computer. If you looked up anything on the internet, you left a trail.”
“But Papa hardly knows how to turn one on!”
“You are naïve,” I said, and she bristled a little. “Your father may not know how to use a computer, but he doesn’t need to. I’m certain his organization has men who know how to use them very well indeed. Nobody can survive in business these days without major computer skills—even the kind of business your father is involved in.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“Bet on it. I wouldn’t use a cash point or credit card for the same reason if I were you.”
“Surely he doesn’t have access to that kind of information!”
“Would you care to put a wager on it? He could.”
Eventually, as we approached Scotland, and the rain which had been threatening during the entire drive finally started falling. In a short time, it had turned to sleet.
“What shitty weather!” Regina observed as I slowed down against the driving onslaught.
“This is Scotland. My friend Angus describes life in Scotland like this: ‘You’re born wet and cold and eventually you die.’”
He’s only exaggerating slightly.
***
We had to pull into the next service area to patch up the repair job on the window. I toyed with the idea of stopping in Glasgow at least to get the window repaired before returning the car to its owner, but the weather report changed my mind. The temperature would continue falling during the afternoon, and more snow or freezing rain could be expected, especially in the Highlands. Argyll starts on the northern edge of Glasgow more or less, but is actually part of the Highlands, and I did not want to be out in wretched weather on some of the roads we had to travel.
Shortly before noon, about fifty miles south of Glasgow, we hit a long line of traffic: a breakdown or accident, no doubt. As we crept forward, sleet, helped along by a stiff north wind, came almost vertically at us and soon covered the road in a slick coating. Driving became treacherous, even at slow speeds. Making a decision, I asked Regina if she wanted to spend the night at Angus’s, since I didn’t want to take the time to drop her in Glasgow. Night came very early at this time of year.
“He has a ramshackle old place north of a town called Dunoon, just over the Firth of Clyde.”
“Does he really have a savage temper?” she asked timidly.
“His bark is worse than his bite. Angus is big and loud, very Scottish, but all bluster. I’d trust him with my life. You’ll like him.” She nodded.
“All right. I wasn’t looking forward to being by myself another night.”
So we skirted around the southern end of Glasgow and turnedwest to Gourock and the ferry to Dunoon. The traffic eased a bit as we made our way along the River Clyde on the A8 through Port Glasgow and the seemingly endless town of Greenock.
I toyed with the idea of stopping for the night and trying to complete the trip in the morning when the weather forecast was better. That way I might also get rid of the girl. I did not wish to become any more embroiled in her mess than I already was.
Then the sleet let up, turning to rain. The ferry was in its slip and boarding at Gourock, and it looked like we’d be able to make it to Angus’s before nightfall.
Only once before had I made a worse decision.
Three
Crossing the Firth of Clyde from Gourock to Dunoon was something I hated to contemplate, much less experience—even on a calm day. The Quinns will never be sailors, if I’m any indication. Look up seasickness in any dictionary, and my photo will be front and centre.
Alternatively, we could have got to Angus’s by driving through Glasgow, up the western shore of Loch Lomond, crossing inland through the pass at Rest and Be Thankful then down the Cowel Peninsula. That was a hell of a long detour, especially in bad weather— compared to a twenty-three minute ferry crossing.
The water, kicked to life by a wind straight from