The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

He hung up after a very brief conversation and scribbled something on a notepad, then tore out the sheet and handed it to Quinn. “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 “Sandra Dee.”

  “Hey, Shirley. Call Ms. Allenby a cab, will ya?”

  “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. Quinn 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. 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,” Shirley sighed.

  “Thank you, 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.

  The taxi actually took nearly half an hour to arrive, by which time Quinn was sweating and regretting her decision to wait outside. The air-conditioning was barely working, so Quinn rolled down the window and allowed the breeze to caress her face as the car made its leisurely way toward the Garden District. It was nearly noon, so there was lunchtime congestion to get through. The driver likely decided to take the scenic route anyway as soon as he heard her accent and realized that she’d have no idea if he drove her in circles for an hour since she had no knowledge of the city. He finally stopped in front of a brick mansion with impressive wrought-iron gates decorated with a bronze letter B proudly displayed within a circle of cast-iron leaves. A security camera was positioned atop a brick pillar, and it turned its eye on her when she rang the bell.

  The gates slid open, moving apart silently on well-oiled hinges. Quinn walked up the drive, which was flanked by a lush lawn and some kind of flowering shrubs. Azaleas perhaps. The house itself was three-storied and built entirely of red brick. It resembled an English manor house, but looked to have been constructed fairly recently. 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.”

  The housekeeper led Quinn down a tiled corridor and through a huge, modern kitchen toward the sliding door to the patio. It was an oasis of leafy plants and gurgling water, which came from a waterfall cascading into a pond. Quinn could see the white and red glimmer of Koi fish as it rippled beneath the surface. A large in-ground pool was just beyond the pond, its water shimmering in the sunshine. Several large umbrellas shaded clusters of beach chairs, which were empty. 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, to a shady gazebo that housed two comfortable armchairs 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 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 Besson asked.

  “Lemonade please.”

  “Dolores, you heard the lady.” The housekeeper scampered off and left Quinn with her employer. 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 somewhat Mediterranean appearance. Quinn tried to find something in his blunt features that looked familiar, but could see absolutely no resemblance to herself.

  Seth Besson 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 that you’re recuperating from surgery,” she began.

  “That little twerp. I told him to keep quiet about that. No one needs to know my private business,” he explained. “Trucking is a cut-throat 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 Besson’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 that the patio would open up and swallow her whole. This man intimidated her even more than Robert Chatham. She knew Chatham’s type, 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 Mr. Besson didn’t seem like someone who’d appreciate the song and dance. He looked like a man who valued directness and economy of speech.

  “I believe you are my biological father,” Quinn said and waited for his reaction. He continued to look at her, as if she hadn’t spoken. Quinn was just about to ask him if he heard her when Dolores appeared with the lemonade.

  “Try it. No one makes it like Dolores. She puts 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 replied. She took several sips to fill the awkward silence that sprang up between then. Dolores finally walked away, and Quinn was left with Seth, who was still watching her with that unfathomable expression.

  “Mr. Besson,” Quinn began.

  “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. She resented his refusal to engage. He was baiting her, and she was getting anxious.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember raping a girl at a party?” she demanded, now angry. How cavalier all these men were about a girl whose life they nearly ruined.

  “Sweetheart, I’m hardly a saint, but I can assure you that I’ve never forced my attentions on any girl. They all came willingly enough.”

  “This one didn’t.”

  “Look, I don’t know what your mother told, or 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 that I bear no ill-will toward you and that I have every confidence that you are not mine. How ‘bout that?”

&
nbsp; “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 her bag which contained the DNA kits.

  “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 Chatham’s and Besson’s arrogance and self-assurance.

  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 food talk, 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 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?” Quinn asked. It was a rude question, but she had to ask. Seth Besson was her final candidate. Neither Rhys, Robert, nor Stephen were a DNA match, so if Seth wasn’t either, who the hell 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.”

  Quinn was a little taken aback by that speech, but she 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 Quinn anyway. Rhys Morgan backed Sylvia’s story of rape. Robert Chatham said she’d been willing. And Stephen Kent, who had a brief relationship with Sylvia before the ill-fated Christmas party but left her to reconcile with his wife, called Sylvia ‘sexually aware.’ Seth Besson was the only candidate left standing and he couldn’t even remember her.

  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 to Seth and stowed the other in her purse. She’d overnight it to Colin Scott as soon as she left Seth Besson’s house and found a FedEx. 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 looking 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 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. 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?” Quinn asked, vaguely remembering that gumbo was something Cajun and spicy.

  “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 to meet you, and I wish you a speedy recovery.”

  “Suit yourself. Safe flight back.” He called after Quinn as she walked away.

  Notes

  I hope you’ve enjoyed the second installment of The Echoes from the Past Series. I have something of a fascination with Dunwich, since it’s one of those places that’s tragic and mysteriously spooky at the same time, being the home to nearly a dozen underwater churches, whose bells still ring, according to some. Of course, coastal erosion and storms were not the result of God’s fury or a punishment for the sinners, but for medieval residents of the town they were a directly linked to God’s displeasure. Many believed that epilepsy or any other type of mental disability were a sign of demonic possession and blamed the afflicted for anything that befell them, including storms.

  In the next book, Quinn will be traveling to New Orleans, which is another place that holds my interest. It’s beautiful, mysterious, and slightly sinister all at once. New Orleans’ ties to Voodoo and black magic, introduced by slaves brought from Africa and the Caribbean, still draw those who are interested in the occult, like myself. I hope you will continue to follow Quinn’s story.

  I love hearing your thoughts, so please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. You can find me at www.irinashapiro.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/IrinaShapiro2/. Please send me your information at irina.shapiro@yahoo.com if you’d like to be added to my mailing list.

  And, as always, thank you for your support.