by Ellen Crosby
Who could answer my questions.
Because, by now, there was a lot I was wondering about, too. All the blanks David Phelps hadn’t filled in: how old was he, where did he live, what kind of life did he have? For all I knew he could have been writing from the White House. Or a prison cell.
Mostly I wondered how this woman had met my father and what kind of relationship they’d had. Other than the obvious one.
I went back to Google and began a new search. At least his last name wasn’t Smith or Jones, but there were still a lot of David Phelpses, many more than I would have imagined.
Did he live in Virginia? Presumably Leland had the affair here—though it could have been a one-night stand on a trip to Las Vegas for all I knew. Leland had been a hell of a gambler. Vegas had been a favorite place. There were three possibilities who had Virginia addresses, but I cross-checked with the address finder and discarded two because they were clearly too old and the third who was a married father with two children. My David Phelps hadn’t said anything about a wife and kids.
I fared no better on Facebook and gave up counting when I reached one hundred people named David Phelps. Their avatars were no help, either. Some had no photos, others had pictures of (probably) their kids or a pet or a motorcycle. Some were just the wrong ethnicity: Asian-American, African-American, from the Indian subcontinent. All I had to go on was a name; David Phelps had been cagey about supplying any information I could use to find out more about him.
I turned off the computer and went into the dining room. There was no way I was going to answer that email tonight. Right now I didn’t know if I would ever answer it.
I’d played with fire and now I’d gotten burned. I knew something I couldn’t un-know. Ever.
The nearly empty bottle of cognac sat on the sideboard. I didn’t need any more alcohol tonight, but I poured myself another glass anyway. Then I went back to the library, sat on the sofa in the shadowy darkness, and drank. Had my mother known about Leland’s other child? Love child? A child born of a one-night stand? David Phelps didn’t sound bitter or resentful; he sounded curious.
It should have come as no surprise—my father was a bon vivant, a gambler, a reckless and restless man. He also had a wandering eye. I wondered how my mother had stayed with him, but in truth, I knew. She loved him with all her heart and all her soul and she forgave his transgressions every time because he always promised her it was “the last time.” Plus there were Eli, Mia, and me. My French mother had met my father when he made a whirlwind trip to France; my dashing, handsome, charismatic father had swept her off her feet. She’d left her family and their vineyard, returning to America with Leland, certain that everything he’d told her about his five-hundred-acre estate in Virginia’s horse-and-hunt country was God’s truth.
What she found was rundown and dilapidated, nothing like what he’d described. Instead of complaining or going back to France, my mother slowly set to work restoring the house to its former glory, researching the style and architecture, painting it the proper colors. She also scouted antiques stores and yard sales for furniture, which she restored as well. Next she tackled the garden, deciding that Thomas Jefferson’s Garden Book would be her Bible and completely renovating the gardens around our house. Finally, she told Leland that she wanted to plant grapes and establish a winery as Virginia began its foray back into grape growing and winemaking in the 1980s after decades of recovering from the Civil War and Prohibition. And so, almost singlehandedly, my French mother restored her Scottish-American husband’s ancestral home to something that resembled what she’d envisioned when he first described it to her in France.
And somehow they’d stayed together. That summer after Eli and I came back from France and Mia returned from Charlottesville, they seemed to have reached a detente or truce in their marriage and there was no talk of divorce. For the next year things were better and we were almost a normal family. Until Leland went back to his old ways.
I finished my cognac and went upstairs, my alcohol-fogged mind still reeling with what I’d just learned. Maybe … maybe my father never knew that the affair resulted in a child. Maybe he never knew about his son or that the child had been given up for adoption. You hear stories like that all the time where the mother kept the pregnancy a secret from the father for reasons of her own. She didn’t want him in her life anymore. Maybe she was already married … David hadn’t mentioned one way or the other.
Or maybe I just wanted it to be that way. Absolving my father of any responsibility. Leland just didn’t know. Like the proverb says, what the eye doesn’t see, the heart can’t grieve over.
I opened the bedroom door and slipped into our room. Quinn stirred, but he didn’t wake up until I slid under the covers. He turned over on his side and pulled me toward him, giving me a sleepy kiss. Downstairs I heard the front door open and close, followed by the beeping of the alarm system being set. Eli had just come in from his studio.
David Phelps was his half brother, too. And Mia’s.
I had no idea what I was going to do about what I’d just learned. A moment later Quinn was snoring lightly, his arm flung across my chest. I lay there, staring at the ceiling and wishing I had thought to brush my teeth or swish mouthwash before I got back into bed, to get rid of my cognac breath.
For the second night in a row, I didn’t sleep.
Nine
Quinn was in the kitchen when I came downstairs at 7 A.M. still wearing my nightgown. He leaned over and gave me a kiss as he poured me a cup of coffee.
“Morning, sleepyhead. You were out like a light when I woke up. I didn’t have the heart to rouse you. Figured we’d just get a late start today.”
“I’m sorry. You should have said something. I didn’t hear you get up.”
“I don’t think you would have heard a bomb go off.” He picked up his coffee mug. “I made us an omelet. Kind of used up everything I found in the refrigerator.”
“Great.” There had been leftover spaghetti sauce, a container of yogurt, and some arugula in the refrigerator, along with condiments and a six-pack of beer. Maybe better not to ask what he’d put in the omelet.
I got plates out of the cupboard.
He took them from me and divided the omelet neatly in two. We sat down at the kitchen table in silence.
I took a bite of his omelet. “This is delicious. What’s in it?”
“You sound surprised. Cheese, arugula, and a tomato.” He paused and added, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Eli’s footsteps pounded down the back staircase and a moment later the door to the kitchen flew open. My brother burst into the room in Virginia Tech sweats and a faded Tech T-shirt, with his customary wild-man morning hair, and headed straight for the coffeepot.
“Morning, all.”
I caught Quinn’s eye, a silent acknowledgment between us that anything we’d been about to discuss was done with for now.
“Good morning,” Quinn said. “If I’d known you were going to be down so early I would have made a bigger omelet. There are still half a dozen eggs and more leftovers in the fridge you can use.”
Eli opened the refrigerator door. “There’s beer, spaghetti sauce, and yogurt in here,” he said. “I think I’ll stick to toast and coffee.”
He pulled bread out of the breadbox and put two pieces in the toaster.
“Did anybody get the paper?” he asked.
I’d nearly forgotten. The gossipy story about the feud between Jean-Claude and Dominique was supposed to be in today’s Washington Tribune.
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
Eli disappeared and returned a moment later brandishing a folded copy of the Trib. One of our workers kindly picked it up from our mailbox on Atoka Road and drove it to our doorstep every morning. My brother thumbed through the pages until he found the Lifestyle section and laid the paper in the middle of the kitchen table open to “Around Town.”
“Might as well get this over with,” he said.
> “Maybe it won’t be as bad as we thought,” I said.
He cast a sideways glance at me. “Don’t hold your breath.”
The paragraph on Dominique and Jean-Claude’s dust-up at the Goose Creek Inn was short and succinct. There were individual photos of both of them and the cheesy caption “Oo La La” above the article.
A nasty—and surprising—altercation occurred at le trés chic Goose Creek Inn in Middleburg recently when owner Dominique Gosselin gave the boot to fellow countryman and noted winemaker Jean-Claude de Merignac, currently the winemaker at La Vigne Cellars and scion of Baron Armand de Merignac, one of France’s wealthiest men, after the younger de Merignac, who was accompanied by a strikingly gorgeous redhead, complained repeatedly about his meal. According to diners who overheard de Merignac’s exchanges with his waiter, his saumon au papillote was cold, undercooked, and tasteless. He had similar complaints about the appetizer, side dishes, and dessert as well as the wine he chose, a Cabernet Sauvignon from local winery Montgomery Estate Vineyard. Gosselin reportedly told de Merignac that his meal was compliments of the house on the condition that he never return to the Goose Creek Inn again. The multi-award-winning establishment, a perennial regional favorite, is reportedly under consideration to receive a rare, coveted third star in the new issue of the prestigious Washington, D.C., Michelin Guide, making it the only restaurant in the region to be so honored. Will the negative review by de Merignac, an influential gourmand, have an impact on the outcome for the Goose Creek Inn? Stay tuned. As for the feud between Gosselin and de Merignac, c’est la guerre in the otherwise peaceful, charming hamlet of horsey Middleburg.
“‘The peaceful, charming hamlet of horsey Middleburg’? Who writes that crap?” Eli said in disgust. He eyed me. “I hope you’re going to say something to Kit about this, complain about it.”
“No. I am not.”
“Why not? De Merignac dissed our wine. It’s not just the Inn that he trashed.”
“Because, Eli.” I planted my flag: we were not getting into this, especially after what happened between Jean-Claude and me yesterday. It would be like pouring gasoline on a fire.
“He said what he said and someone overheard him and Dominique. It was newsworthy because of who they both are. The best thing we can do is to let it die and go away. Everything will be forgotten by the next news cycle, as Kit always says,” I went on. “If we make something of it, the story will only get bigger and uglier.”
Eli walked over to the toaster and removed two slightly burned slices of toast. I thought I overheard him say, “Chickening out.”
Someone’s phone rang. Eli glanced at the kitchen counter where both Quinn and I had left our phones.
“Yours, Luce. Winston Turnbull.” He picked it up and tossed it to me.
I caught the phone before it hit the floor and answered it.
“Good morning, Win.”
“Good morning, Lucie.” He sounded wide-awake and cheery. “I just wanted to let you know that Yasmin Imrie will be at your grave site this morning. She said she’d probably get there around eight-thirty. I didn’t know if you wanted to stop by and say hi.”
“I do,” I said. “Thanks for telling me. What about you? When are you coming by?”
“Not sure. I have patients to see this morning and a body to examine at the morgue. Someone who was fished out of the Potomac last night over by Ball’s Bluff. Looks like a drowning. Young kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, an expression of regret or dismay. “No I.D. yet. And no one reported someone fitting his description as missing.”
I caught my breath. How could a mother or father not report that their child hadn’t come home yesterday at the usual time? “I hope you find out who he is.”
He sighed. “We’ll do a match through the dental records. Whoever he is, he’s seen a dentist.”
After he hung up I said to Quinn and Eli, “I’d like to stop by the cemetery and meet Win’s forensic anthropologist before I go to the winery. Do either of you want to come?”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Eli said. “I’ve got to take Hopie to preschool and then work on the drawings for the Couple from Hell. I’d better go upstairs and get my daughter out of bed and dressed. I’ll see you two later.”
He left and I looked at Quinn.
“Would you mind if I didn’t go, either?” he asked.
“Of course not. Why not?”
“It’s the guys,” he said. “Antonio and Jesús. They’re kind of weirded out about finding that skull. Before they dug her up, each of them accidentally walked over the spot where she was buried. They both believe that if you step on someone’s grave, you summon their spirit and that person will haunt you.”
“Oh, God. They think she’s haunting them?”
“I haven’t exactly asked.”
“We don’t need to have either of them spooked in the middle of harvest. Don’t worry; I’ll talk to this woman myself. The sooner we wrap this up, the better.”
Quinn got up and brought our plates over to the sink. “You and I still have an unfinished conversation to continue.”
I gave him a guilty look. “I know. Later. I promise.”
Then I fled.
On my way out I grabbed my car keys from the Portmeirion bowl on the demilune table in the foyer, a depot for mail, messages, and keys. Leland’s marble bust of Thomas Jefferson watched me from an alcove across the room, as he always did. Persia hadn’t arrived yet so the door to the library was still closed and the curtains would be drawn as I left them last night.
Later I would think about David Phelps’ email and what to do about it, whether I wanted to answer it. And what I was going to tell Quinn when we finally finished our conversation.
* * *
I WAS EXPECTING YASMIN Imrie to be a sturdy, slightly professorial-looking middle-aged woman with her hair sensibly tied up under a bandanna, a sunburned, ruddy face, denim work shirt over a T-shirt with a logo on it, and a pair of dusty boots worn with either shorts or blue jeans. I couldn’t have been more wrong. She was a slender, doe-eyed beauty, probably my age, her curly jet-black hair pulled back in a flattering French braid, skin the color of dark caramel, and perfect toothpaste-commercial teeth. She did wear boots with white socks and a blue-jean shirt over a T-shirt and khaki shorts that showed off slim, runner’s legs.
A large clear plastic bin filled with what presumably were the tools of her trade sat a few yards from the storage shed. A flat shovel and a mesh screen leaned against the bin. She had removed a camera from an olive-green backpack and was already taking photos of the site. A stenographer’s notebook, open to a page filled with handwritten notes, lay on top of the backpack next to a couple of pencils.
“Good morning.” She came over to me, holding out her right hand and shifting the camera to her left. “I’m Yasmin. You must be Lucie. Nice to meet you.”
We shook hands. “Win said you come highly recommended. Thanks for taking on this … project.”
She nodded. “My pleasure. We’re on a break from the Colchester dig right now, so I had some time.”
“Win told me about Colchester. I’d never heard of it before.”
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Her smile was dazzling. “Our very own lost city of Atlantis, right here in Fairfax County, Virginia. It’s been a gold mine of information on the colonial period and the Civil War years.”
“What about this?” I gestured vaguely at the place where the skull still lay in the ground. “Do you have any idea how old it … she … is? How long she’s been here?”
“Not yet,” she said. “First I want to see if the rest of the skeleton is here. Most graveyards are laid out east to west—like yours is—and the bodies are buried with their heads facing east so the beloved dead can see the sunrise every day from their graves.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yup. The thing is, based on the direction of your skull, it looks like she was buried facing northwest.”
“Possibly that she was dumped here in a hurry.” Yasmin pointed a finger at the skull and traced a trajectory that went in a straight line, like an arrow. “If the body is intact, I should find more bones where you’d think they’d be. That’s how I’m going to dig and see what I find. But if something disturbed the body after she was buried, they might be scattered.”
“You mean, by an animal?”
“Most likely,” she said. “Tell me, how do you want to do this? Do you want regular updates, or should I just proceed and let you know what I’ve done or found at the end of the day?”
The truth was, I wouldn’t have minded remaining right here watching her do her work, step by step. I just wanted to know: who was she?
“An update at the end of the day is fine.”
“Great. It will probably be more efficient if I can just keep doing what I do and you don’t need to weigh in on every part of the process.”
“Sure. You just … go right ahead.” I paused and she gave me a questioning look.
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t understand how you can do this. Every day. You don’t seem like someone who would choose to spend her time…” I broke off. “Sorry. I’m not saying this very well.”
“Why do I choose to spend my time digging up dead people?” She grinned. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to ask.”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“It’s not a profession for everyone.” She put the lens cap back on her camera and stared out at the distant Blue Ridge as if she were trying to decide how to frame her answer. “To me every person I examine—the remains of that person—is someone’s missing loved one. A father, a mother, a child, a husband, a wife. Someone grieved for them and, if that person is still alive, they are wondering with every day that passes what happened. They just want to know.”
She turned her gaze on me. “Every single set of remains I come across is different. I search for clues in those differences that help me learn someone’s identity, figure out who they are. Or were. How they died. If I’m lucky—really lucky—sometimes I can come up with a name. It doesn’t usually happen when I’m doing research at a site like Colchester—it’s too long ago—but sometimes if the records were good, I can come fairly close to figuring out who an individual was. But in instances like a plane crash or a mass grave in a war zone where there’s very little left to identify, it can be more difficult.”