He hung up after a very brief conversation and scribbled something on a notepad, then tore out the sheet and handed it to her. “Here’s the address. He’s waiting for you.”
“Is it far from here?” Quinn asked as she looked at the address.
“It’s in the Garden District. A half-hour ride, at least. I take it you’ll need a cab?” Brett buzzed the intercom and spoke to the receptionist. “Hey, Shirley. Call Ms. Allenby a cab, will ya?” He hung up and turned back to Quinn. “The cab should be here in about ten minutes. Good luck with Dad.”
“Thanks,” Quinn replied and got up to leave. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“Eh, likewise, I’m sure,” Brett answered with a sly grin. She was sure he was having fun at her expense. “Give my best to the queen,” he added, confirming her suspicions. That little wanker!
“I’ll be sure to do that next time I’m invited for tea,” Quinn replied with a forced smile and walked out of the office.
“You can wait in here if you like,” Shirley said. “It’s getting toasty out there. Lived here all my life, and still can’t get used to the infernal heat. And it’s only April.” She sighed.
“Thank you, but I’ll wait outside,” Quinn replied. It would be wiser to remain in the air-conditioned office, but she just wanted to leave. A few minutes in the muggy heat wouldn’t kill her.
By the time the taxi arrived nearly half an hour later, Quinn was sweating and regretting her decision to wait outside. The air conditioning was barely working, so she rolled down the window and allowed the breeze to caress her face as the car made its leisurely way through congested lunchtime traffic toward the Garden District. She suspected the driver, hearing her accent and realizing she was a foreigner, had decided to take the scenic route since she’d have no idea if he drove in circles for an hour. He finally stopped in front of a brick mansion, its impressive wrought-iron gates, a bronze letter B proudly displayed within a circle of cast-iron leaves. A security camera positioned atop a brick pillar turned its eye on her when she rang the bell.
The gates slid apart silently on well-oiled hinges. Quinn walked up the drive, which was flanked by a lush lawn and flowering shrubs that she thought were azaleas. The three-story house resembled an English manor house, though it looked fairly new.
A small, dark-skinned woman opened the door and invited Quinn to come in. “Mr. Besson is expecting you,” she said. “He’s out back, on the lanai.”
The housekeeper led Quinn down a tiled corridor and through a huge modern kitchen toward a sliding door that led to the back garden. It was an oasis of leafy plants and gurgling water that cascaded from a waterfall into a decorative pond. Quinn saw the white and red glimmer of koi fish as they passed close to the surface, making the water ripple and shimmer in the sunlight. A large in-ground pool just beyond the pond sparkled in the sunshine, and several large umbrellas shaded clusters of empty beach chairs. There was a bar area and a small stand off to the side, which Quinn knew from past experience was reserved for a DJ and his equipment. Seth Besson clearly liked to entertain in style. Quinn looked around, but didn’t see anyone.
“He’s over there,” the housekeeper said. She directed Quinn off to the right, where a shady gazebo housed two deck chairs with a low table between them. A man in a T-shirt and shorts reclined in one of the chairs, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. “Ah, Mr. Besson. Your guest is here.”
The man jerked awake and sat up, wincing in pain at the sudden movement. He pushed up his cap and smiled at Quinn, making her breath catch in her throat. Was this man really her father?
“Hi. Seth Besson. Please make yourself comfortable. Dolores, bring us something cool to drink. Or would you prefer a pot of tea? I’m afraid I only have Lipton. Not much of a tea drinker, I’m afraid,” he added apologetically.
“Something cool would be lovely. Thank you,” Quinn replied, rooted to the spot.
“Iced tea? Lemonade? Mineral water?” Seth asked.
“Lemonade, please.”
“Dolores, you heard the lady.”
The housekeeper scampered off and left Quinn with Seth. Quinn couldn’t help but stare. He was a big man—not overweight, but muscular and tall. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a bronze tan that gave him a Mediterranean appearance. Quinn tried to find something familiar in his blunt features, but saw absolutely no resemblance to herself except the hair color, which she also shared with Sylvia. Seth’s hair was cropped close to the scalp, so it was hard to tell if it might curl when allowed to grow longer. Quinn’s hair wasn’t curly, but had a natural wave, just like Sylvia’s, and her eyes were a deep hazel. Neither Sylvia nor Seth had hazel eyes, but Sylvia had once remarked on Quinn’s resemblance to her own mother.
Seth took off his cap and looked up at her. “You gonna stand there all day?” he asked with a smile. His teeth looked very white against his tan and he had a nice smile that actually reached his eyes and made Quinn feel a little more comfortable.
She took a seat and faced her host. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. Your son said you’re recuperating from surgery.”
“That little twerp. I told him to keep quiet about that. No one needs to know my private business,” he groused. “Trucking is a cutthroat business. My competitors are vultures who’ll go after my contracts if they think I might not be paying attention, even for one day.”
“I had no idea trucking was so competitive,” Quinn replied. She hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but Seth’s grin faded and he cocked his head to the side, watching her with interest.
“Enough about trucking then. Tell me why you’re here.”
Quinn suddenly wished the ground beneath her would open up and swallow her whole. This man intimidated her even more than Robert Chatham had when she met him in Edinburgh. She knew Chatham’s type well, but Seth Besson was an unknown quantity. She looked up and saw his eyes glinting with amusement.
“Come on, doll. I won’t bite. Let’s hear it.”
Quinn could draw out the story and build up to what she’d come to say, but Seth didn’t seem like someone who’d appreciate a song and dance. He looked like a man who valued directness and economy of speech.
“I believe you are my biological father,” she said and waited for his reaction. He continued to look at her, as if she hadn’t spoken. She was just about to ask him if he’d heard her when Dolores appeared with the lemonade.
“Try it. No one makes lemonade like Dolores. She puts in a bit of honey to sweeten it instead of sugar. I drink pitchers of this stuff during the summer,” Seth said as he waited for Quinn to taste the drink.
“It’s wonderful.” Quinn took several sips to fill the awkward silence that sprang up between them. When Dolores finally walked away, Seth continued to watch Quinn with that unfathomable expression.
“Mr. Besson—”
“Call me Seth,” he interrupted. “No need to stand on ceremony, especially if you think you sprang from my loins,” he added with a chuckle. “So, who’s your mother then?”
“Sylvia. Sylvia Moore.”
Seth shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Tell me more.”
“You met her at the house of your friend Robert Chatham, Christmas Eve of 1982.”
“Did I?”
“You did,” Quinn replied, resenting his refusal to engage. He was baiting her, making her anxious.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember raping a girl at a party?” she demanded, now angry. How cavalier these men were about a girl whose life they’d nearly ruined. Sylvia had been nothing to them, a mere diversion that was forgotten as soon as their hangovers wore off the following morning. Perhaps they had been so pissed they hadn’t even recalled the events of the previous evening, thinking they’d just had a bit of fun and stumbled off to bed, getting up with a clear conscience on Christmas morning.
“Sweetheart, I’m hardly a saint, but I can assure you I’ve never forced my attentions on any girl. They all came wi
llingly enough, and if they weren’t interested, there were plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“This one didn’t,” Quinn retorted.
“Look, I don’t know what your mother told you, or even who she is for that matter, but I’m pretty sure you’re not my spawn. Now, having said that, I will gladly give you a swab or whatever it is you need from me to put your mind at rest. I’m sure there’s a lab right here in New Orleans that can expedite the results. I’ll even pay for the test out of my own pocket to show you I bear no ill-will toward you and I have every confidence you are not mine. How ‘bout that?”
“That’s fine, but I will send it to my own lab, if you have no objection.”
“Let’s do two. I’ll take one to a lab here and you can send yours to whomever you choose. That way we’ll know for sure.”
“Do you at least remember Robert Chatham?” Quinn asked as she reached for a DNA kit from her handbag.
“Sure. I met him at university. Cocky little bastard. Thought he could use me to gain popularity.”
“May I ask you a question?” Quinn said as she handed Seth a swab.
“Go right ahead.”
“What made you choose Scotland?”
Seth Besson was so quintessentially American that Quinn simply couldn’t imagine him walking the halls of St. Andrews University, or being friends with someone like Robert Chatham. They were polar opposites. The only similarity of note was their arrogance, which grated on Quinn since it was meant to shred her confidence.
Seth laughed and took a sip of lemonade. “Pure idiocy is what it was. I got it into my head that I hated the South and wanted nothing to do with my daddy’s trucking business. I wanted to go to Europe and live in the land of knights and kings. Well, my grades were excellent, so I applied to a few programs and got into the Sorbonne and St. Andrews. I don’t speak a word of French, other than the language of food, so I chose Scotland. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was never more miserable. It was cold, wet, and boring. Most other students treated me like I was some sort of curiosity because I was American and spoke the Queen’s English with a Southern drawl, so I fell in with Robert and his crew out of desperation. He was a real jackass, to be sure, but at least he invited me to come along when they went to the pub or to a football match. I was his pet American, and he used me to pick up girls, who liked my accent and asked all kinds of ridiculous questions, like if my family owned slaves. Yes, my family owned slaves before the Civil War. I will not apologize for what my ancestors did. Y’all did much worse. Just check the history books.”
Quinn glanced away from Seth, annoyed by his belligerence. She wasn’t there to compare notes on their countries’ histories. Every country had their moments of shame and glory, and England and the United States had more than most, some of those highs and lows forever intertwined and frequently explored in literature, film, and song.
Seth smiled ruefully as he removed his cap, scratched his scalp, and replaced the cap on his head. “Sorry, I digress. Anyway, I lasted one semester, then ran back home with my tail between my legs. And before you ask, I didn’t do much dating in Scotland. The girls just weren’t my speed.”
“Are you saying you were celibate the entire time you were there?” It was a rude question, but she had to ask. Seth Besson was her final candidate. Neither Rhys, Robert, nor Stephen was a DNA match, so if Seth wasn’t either, who the hell had fathered her?
“Celibate? Lord, no. I fucked like a bunny, if you pardon my saying so, but I always, always used a condom. My mama always said, ‘Don’t bring nothing into this world that you’re not willing to take responsibility for,’ and the last thing I wanted was to leave a child of mine in Scotland. I am happily divorced, but I love my son and have been a good father to him. I take that role very seriously, and if you prove to be mine, I will take my responsibility toward you just as seriously. I’m a man of honor.”
A little taken aback by his speech, Quinn nodded in understanding. She couldn’t fault a grown man for having a sex life, especially with women who were willing. It was none of her business, and she had no right to judge him until she knew the truth. Sylvia had not been entirely honest with her anyway, and had withheld important details that had led to Quinn questioning her motives and her version of events. Rhys Morgan backed Sylvia’s story. Robert Chatham swore she’d been willing. And Stephen Kane, who’d had a brief relationship with Sylvia before the ill-fated Christmas party but left her to reconcile with his wife, called Sylvia ‘sexually aware’ and said she had known what she was about, even at sixteen. Seth Besson was the only candidate left standing, and he couldn’t even remember her—or so he said.
Seth scraped the inside of his cheek with two swabs and handed them both to Quinn, who inserted them into plastic tubes and sealed them. She handed one back to Seth and stowed the other in her purse. She’d overnight it to Colin Scott as soon as she left Seth’s house and located a FedEx office. Colin would have the results for her by the end of the week, if she were lucky.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re disappointed,” Seth said. “It’s important to know who your parents are, and I can see how it would leave a blank hole in your sense of self, but you’ve come all this way for nothing. I hope you find what you’re searching for.”
“Thank you, Seth, and I appreciate you giving me a sample. I won’t trouble you again unless I have to.”
“No problem. To tell you the truth, you were a welcome diversion. I hate sitting here by my lonesome. I’m an active person by nature. I’m going into the office tomorrow, ready or not. Brett will be thrilled. That boy does nothing but hang out with friends, playing video games and smoking weed. I suppose I can’t blame him, I was no better at his age, except I played the guitar instead of video games. We didn’t have much in the way of electronic entertainment back then. I got an Atari eventually, but the games were primitive and mind-numbingly boring, not like today’s stuff. I play sometimes when Brett’s not around. Assassin’s Creed; now that’s a great game.” He smiled guiltily. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on. I just don’t enjoy solitude, I guess. I should have thought of that before I cheated on my wife and lost the only woman who was willing to put up with me. Say, would you like to stay for lunch? Dolores makes the best gumbo.”
“Are you supposed to be eating that after your surgery?” Quinn asked, vaguely remembering that gumbo was a spicy Cajun dish.
“No. But I’m not one for bland food. God, I hated the food in England. Come, say you’ll stay. I hate eating alone.”
“Thank you, Seth, but I must get going. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and I wish you a speedy recovery.”
“Suit yourself. Safe flight back,” he called after Quinn as she walked away.
Chapter 3
Quinn turned up the air conditioning to high, kicked off her shoes, and flung herself on the bed. She’d had a wasted trip, and Gabe had been right all along. She was chasing shadows. What did it matter who her biological father was? She had a great dad who had loved her since the day she’d come into his life thirty years ago. He would be the one to walk her down the aisle next month when she married Gabe, and he would be the one her child would call ‘Grandpa,’ not some hot-blooded American alpha male who could trace his roots back to the Confederacy and was probably of the opinion that the South should have won the Civil War. They had nothing in common, and for good reason.
Damn you, Sylvia, Quinn thought viciously. Why can’t you just tell me the truth instead of sending me on this wild goose chase? Is there another man in the mix that I don’t know about?
How many more men would she have to accost with her DNA kit? It was embarrassing and frustrating, and it didn’t exactly elevate Sylvia in Quinn’s eyes or lend credence to her story. Perhaps Gabe was right and Sylvia had manipulated the facts to gain Quinn’s forgiveness and understanding. After all, it would be pretty hard to expect sympathy from the daughter she had abandoned if Sylvia admitted to sleeping with half a dozen men around the same time, getting pre
gnant by one of them, and then dumping her baby in a church pew and walking away without a backward glance.
Quinn wanted to remain angry, but some part of her pitied the woman. Sylvia had been afraid of losing the daughter she’d just found. She was a woman nearing fifty who’d recently lost her husband to cancer and was about to lose her sons. Sylvia had moved to London to be close to Logan, who worked as a nurse at the London Hospital, but Logan had just moved in with his partner, Colin. Jude, whom Quinn had finally met a week before leaving for New Orleans, spent most of his time on tour, playing various clubs and bars across the U.K. with his band. He was excited about having booked their first gig in Dublin, which was sometime in June and might open doors to other engagements in Ireland. Sylvia was proud of Jude’s ambition and success, but was lonely when he was away, since she didn’t have many friends in London.
Quinn folded her arms behind her head and considered her newfound family. The jury was still out on Sylvia, especially after the meeting with Seth Besson, but she liked Logan. He was only a few years younger than Quinn and had a carefree nature that made him easy to talk to. The fact that Quinn already knew his partner and had his approval also bridged the gap between them, making it easier to pursue a relationship. Quinn and Logan had exchanged a few phone calls and texts since meeting a month ago and she felt a swell of sisterly love toward him. Given time, they could become great friends and establish a life-long bond.
Jude, on the other hand, was a totally different kettle of fish. Quinn supposed it was his artistic nature that made him moody and silent, but she felt a definite spark of resentment when he leveled his blue-eyed gaze at her. Perhaps he was worried that his mother would somehow love him less now that she’d found a child she’d abandoned years ago, but Sylvia fussed over Jude so much that it was difficult to imagine such a scenario for even a moment. Sylvia went on and on about Jude’s upcoming performance in Ireland, and that was the only time Quinn had noticed a spark of excitement or felt any warmth between Jude and Sylvia.
The Unforgiven Page 2