

### My Father the God

### by

### D. Allen Henry

### © D. Allen Henry 2015

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. This includes free copies, as Smashwords is utilized to track download totals. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### On the Cover

### Photo taken by the author

### Also by D. Allen Henry

### at

### Smashwords.com

### Hawk Banks

### Those Who Fought for Us

### Of War and Women

### Enlisting Redemption

### Finding Patience

### Merging Destiny

### Galileo's Lost Message

### Dedication

### To my daughters...

### Preface

The twentieth century was dominated by a succession of wars, two of which were on a global scale never before seen on this planet. As such, the effects of those wars profoundly influenced the course of history. I am speaking of course of The Great War (termed World War I in the United States), World War II, and to a lesser extent, The Vietnam War, and the Gulf Wars. Although much has been written about the history of these wars (especially the first two), much less has been written about the effect of these wars on the lives of those who lived (and died) through them.

_The Sutherland Saga_ consists of a sequence of six novels chronicling the lives of four generations of the fictitious Sutherland family, the patriarch being the Earl of Winston. Set against the backdrop of world-changing events of the twentieth century, the saga traces the travails of the Earls of Winston and their loved ones. Having been awarded the Earldom of Winston by King James the First, the ancestral home of the Sutherland family is located at Wharton Manor in Gloucestershire, England.

I have chosen each of the four wars mentioned above as the backdrop for one of the stories within The Sutherland Saga. Accordingly, the first book in the series depicts events during the era of World War I, whereas the second and fifth books spans the period of World War II. The timing for the third book is during the Vietnam War, and the fourth and sixth books in the series span the period roughly corresponding to the Gulf Wars, thereby leading up to present day. As such, the plots are strongly connected to their associated wars and, although the storylines are intimately related to English culture, there is also a strong thread of both Scottish and American ancestry evident as the saga evolves.

The idea for the Sutherland Series was born from my own experiences, travels, loves, and losses, spanning a lifetime. While the stories themselves, including the primary characters, are entirely fictional, the places are not. In addition, I have, where appropriate, included historical figures who played significant roles in the events portrayed with the series. Indeed, I have attempted to portray both historical events and historical figures within the series as accurately as possible. Where I have erred, I offer my sincere apologies.

D.A.H.

### Figure Credits

Fig. 1 Map of Burma {{PD-1923}}

Fig. 2 Map of Egypt {{PD-USGov}}

Fig. 3 Photograph of Ramses II's Temple during Reconstruction, photo by Per-Olow Anderson accessed in February, 2014 at http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archivo:Abusimbel.jpg {{PD-Sweden-photo}}

### Author's Note Regarding Sectional Perspectives

The reader will notice that throughout the text I have delineated sections by the use of boldface titles. Each title normally describes the setting location and date for the section that immediately follows. However, when only a date is included, it is implied that the location for that section is identical to that of the previous section. Furthermore, each section begins with a few boldface words immediately after the section setting. The name of the first person included in boldface within the section is intended to be the person whose perspective is taken within that section of the text.

### Author's Note Concerning Language

The characters in this novel come from several English-speaking nations, including England, Scotland, Wales, and the United States. Furthermore, the story is set in the middle of the twentieth century. There is no doubt that the vernacular forms of the English language deployed by many of the characters found herein would have been markedly different from one another. In my view, any attempt to accurately portray these various differences in language would significantly detract from the story that I am attempting to articulate. With this conjecture in mind, I have 'simplified' the language deployed by the characters.

In some cases, I have employed terms that are crudely representative of the way that the user might have spoken, based on where they were described within the storyline to have been born. Where I have done so, it is with the intention of either intensifying the plot or as a subtle reminder of the character's lineage. I have attempted to use these terms accurately based on my own research. Where I have erred, I apologize to those who take offense.

### Chronology

**1894 –** Alastair Stewart is born in Aberdeen, Scotland

**1898 –** Edwina Turnberry is born in York, England

**1920 –** James Moorehead is born in Concord, New Hampshire

**1921 –** Sloan Stewart is born in Edinburgh, Scotland

**1922 –** Isolde Channing is born in Cardiff, Wales

**1923 –** Sabrina Dewhurst is born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

**September, 1938** \- James Moorehead commences his studies at Harvard University

**July, 1939 –** Isolde Channing and Sloan Stewart make the Atlantic crossing together by ship

**September, 1939** – Sloan Stewart commences his studies at Harvard University

**September 1, 1939 –** World War II begins

**September, 1940** – Isolde Channing commences her studies at Harvard University

**June, 1940 –** The French surrender

**Summer, 1941** – James, Sloan, Isolde, and Sabrina spend the summer working at The Orchard Inn in New Hampshire

**Fall, 1941 –** Sloan Stewart enters military service in Britain

**December 8, 1941** – The United States enters World War II

**January, 1942 –** The Burma Campaign begins

**1942** – James Moorehead and Isolde Channing are married

**1942 –** Robert Moorehead is born in Boston

**1945 –** James Moorehead completes his studies at Harvard University

**1946** – Sloan Stewart and Sabrina Dewhurst are married

**1947 –** Elise Stewart is born

**1951 –** Sloan Stewart completes his studies at Harvard University

**1961** – James Moorehead becomes Chancellor of Harvard University

Foreword

In the interest of brevity, I shall endeavor to explain my part in this matter as simply as possible, so that you, the reader, may progress as expediently as possible to the events portrayed herein.

My name is Robert Moorehead. I was born in 1942 in Boston. Shortly after the death of my wife's father, his lawyer, Mr. James Dudley, contacted me, indicating that her father had made quite an unusual bequest to me. I admit that I prevaricated for close onto a year, but eventually, my curiosity getting the better of me, I determined to contact Mr. Dudley. Thus, on a frigid morning in February of 1988, I found myself being ushered into his law office at Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, located in downtown Boston.

Upon grasping the outstretched hand of Mr. Dudley, a squat fiftyish looking man, I was offered a seat, he for his part, cocking his head in what I interpreted to be an inquisitive glance that portrayed mystification not unlike my own. After a few moments of mutual silence, he cleared his throat, emitting, "Ahem," a sort of preamble, or so I presumed, and subsequently launched into his carefully planned soliloquy, "Mr. Moorehead, I have been asked to provide you with a key - a key, I might add, that unlocks a safe deposit box at Boston National Bank, just down the street from my office. The contents of that box are not precisely known to me. However, given what I do know in this circumstance, I feel it only fair to forewarn you, sir, that the contents shall in all likelihood be quite earthshaking for you."

I recall staring pensively at Mr. Dudley and, entertaining not the slightest notion as to his meaning, I inquired doubtfully, "In what way, sir?"

"Mr. Moorehead, I am honor-bound by my charge, though he is now deceased, to divulge nothing more to you on this subject at this time. My explicit duty is to hand the key over to you, thenceforth informing you that you shall find the deposit box in question listed under your name, the passcode being your initials, followed by the numeric sequence of your birth date."

Inexplicably intrigued by this pronouncement, I accepted the proffered key, inquiring insistently, "Is there no more that you can intimate to me, sir?"

"Perhaps, perhaps, I can, sir, but not at this moment in time. At a later time, after you have had the opportunity to sufficiently digest the materials that await you, I may be able to fill you in somewhat."

"I see," I mumbled self-consciously, meaning in fact exactly the opposite and, arising from my seat, I thrust my hand forward to him, saying, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dudley. I shall say good day to you."

Taking my hand in turn, he replied solemnly, "Likewise, I'm sure."

Upon departing his office, I made straight for the bank in question, whereupon I was promptly admitted to the vault. Exactly as had been described to me, I was forthwith led to the deposit box in question, thereby utilizing the proffered key to open it.

Within, I found only a single item – an unbound manuscript, and though it was obviously well-worn, it was bound neatly with a piece of red ribbon, a bow gracing its frontispiece. Above the bow was the hand-written inscription – _For Robert._

Having no idea what was contained therein, I forthwith departed none the wiser. However, I must confess to you that the revelations secreted within would turn Elise's and my world upside down. And, to be honest, it may well do the same for you, my child. I must therefore caution you – prepare yourself before launching into your grandfather's diary. Why he wrote it in third person, I can only speculate – perhaps the telling of his own life was even beyond his own ability to absorb.

The manuscript before you is exactly as it was received by me. There is, however, one small alteration, a change made by me. I took the liberty of assigning the title listed on the frontispiece, as the term _For Robert_ was not in my view intended to be a title for the manuscript. And so, my child, I wish you an enlightened and not too despondent perusal of _My Father the God_.
Prologue

**I was born in Cambridge, England** in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.

It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert and Elise.

You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accurate, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.

So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.

My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.

That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.

I don't mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan's son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.

My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto sixty years.

As memory serves me, my father's assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father's side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, "Father, you sent for me?"

"Aye, son, indeed Ah did," and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some thirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, "Ye simply _main_ see thes!"

Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, "Uhm, Ah dorn't see anythin' a'tall, father."

"Reit, boot bide a moment," he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.

"Ye mean that wee hole there?" I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.

"Precisely," he responded, "Noow, simply observe," and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. "Ah, thaur he be, son!"

I stared doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, "Dad, Ah'm a bit auld fur bugs."

"Aye," he replied jovially, "But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body."

"Reit," I responded doubtfully, "Whit's it all aboot?"

Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, "That, mah son, be a god!"

I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, "Ye cannae be serioos."

"Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god."

"Why ever on earth fur?" I replied in confusion.

"The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung."

"Och," I sneered in revulsion, "Dinnae sound godly tae me!"

"Aye, but bide an' watch. Haur he comes, an' examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin' alang with heem."

"Looks loch some sort ay wee ball," I responded.

"Reit. It be a dung ball. An' watch, he'll be draggin' it intae his den."

"Ugh! That be indeed nasty," I recall remarking in disgust.

"Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an' at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin' hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an' suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot."

"Och, I say, noow that _do_ soond interesting," and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, "An' quite strange as well." Then, on further contemplation, I added, "Hoo does he dae it, father?"

"Simple – he be a god!"

"Reit," I murmured cynically.

"Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity."

"Interestin'," I said, still pondering, "But whit be the significance ay it all?"

"Guid question," he replied. "Let's jist say, the warld be mysterious, an' sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin', in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny."

I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.

And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.
Chapter 1

God Willing

Near Boston, Massachusetts - June, 1939

**James Moorehead lounged within** the first class section of the train, a look of supreme confidence pervading his every action. Tall, handsome, pale blue-eyed and well-bred, he was the picture of every young lady's fancy. He had just completed his freshman year at Harvard University, the finest institution of higher education in the United States. Not only that, having finished first in his class within the Department of Chemistry, he was now on his triumphant way home to Concord for the summer.

Although his first year at university had gone better than even he had anticipated, he was quite relieved to be away from the frenetic pace of academia, not to mention the competitive atmosphere of Harvard. The slower pace of family life being a welcome relief, however short, he looked forward to it with relish.

His first year in college had seemed to him the very epitome of the Darwinian ideal – survival of the fittest – a competition at which he of all people excelled. His adversaries, his own fellow students, were by all accounts the fittest of the fit in the entirety of North America, perhaps even the world. Nonetheless, he had thus far not only survived, he had managed to leave a fair portion of the competition in his wake. The future for him therefore seemed bright indeed and, intent on continuing his torrid pace, he resolved to carry through his studies to completion at the pinnacle of his class.

Cardiff, Wales – Early August, 1939

**Isolde Channing observed intently** as the train pulled out of the station. Having never undertaken a journey such as this, the sheer distance of it was quite daunting, she fearing that her destination was indeed a world apart from Wales. Had her mother not passed on, she might have eventually matriculated to Cambridge, but as it stood, she would now be forced to live in the far-off United States of America with her aunt Fiona.

As the train rolled along, she pondered idly what Philadelphia must be like. Would she eventually have the opportunity to go to college, and if so, what might she study? Indeed, what were the colleges like in the United States? And for that matter, would the young men in her new homeland be attractive and cultivated, or were they a bunch of uncultured ruffians? She so desperately wanted to meet the perfect lad and settle down to marriage and children, but now it was painfully evident that, though still possible, it would most likely not be with someone from Great Britain.

As for her educational ambitions, she was enamored of all things scientific, but would the complexity of it exceed her abilities? If so, she supposed that a literary career was possible, although in truth she could not bring herself to find excitement in such a future. Still, she supposed that the proper course would present itself, all in good time, if only she could manage to be patient.

The train pressed onwards, the green hills of Wales, and thenceforth Western England, drifting silently past her window, like time itself, slipping into her past. Hopefully she would be back this way before long, but only time would tell.

Arriving several hours later in London, she subsequently caught another train for Portsmouth, from whence she would board ship three days hence, the trans-Atlantic passage thereby transporting her to the United States.

Cambridge, England – Two Days Later

**Sloan Stewart waved farewell to** his father, still wondering at the sanity of this sojourn. He was, somewhat incongruously, departing the home of arguably the most prestigious university in the world in quest of higher education. His father, an august member of the faculty of Trinity College, had hammered away relentlessly at him these two years, never deviating from his steeled decision that Sloan should attend Harvard University, in the distant United States.

Having fought his valiant best, he had nonetheless succumbed to his father's iron will, thereby leading to his departure for Portsmouth, from whence he would commence the Atlantic crossing the following day. "What will it be like?" he contemplated to himself, "Will the United States be wild, as northern Scotland is, or will it be more like the civilized nature of England, Cambridge in particular?" He supposed to himself as the train rocked along that his best course of action was to accept this unfolding chapter of his life as an adventure, no matter what lay in store for him.

Aboard Ship – Two Days Later

**Sloan came forward to the** dining table and, ogling the stunning blonde-haired young lady seated before him, he inquired politely, "Pardon me, miss, is this seat taken?"

Having observed his flagrant scrutiny of her, she responded suspiciously, "No, sir."

"Then, perhaps you would allow me to join you for dinner this evening, as it seems that you, as am I, are traveling quite alone."

She glanced at him and, her irritation at his effrontery obvious, she responded condescendingly, "I suppose so, if you must."

Undeterred, he pulled back the chair, promptly seated himself and, offering his hand to her, he announced genially, "My name is Sloan - Sloan Stewart - from Cambridge."

"Hullo," she responded shyly, "I am Isolde Channing, from Wales."

"Ah, Wales, is it? Tis indeed a pleasure to meet a shipmate who is also traveling alone," he responded courteously, "And where might you be traveling to, if I may ask?"

"I'm off to Philadelphia," she responded distantly, "And where might you be headed?"

"I'm for Boston," adding boastfully, "I shall be attending Harvard University beginning in the fall."

"Harvard," she responded and, ignoring his immature bluster, she added, "Yes, I've heard of it – quite an excellent school, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, or so they say. I should have preferred to attend Cambridge, but my father wouldn't hear of it."

"Oh! Why ever on earth for? It's such a fabulous university!"

"Yes, just so, but he says that war is coming, and best for me to be out of harm's way."

"War? What sort of war?"

"He says the Germans shall rise up again, and indeed, in many ways, it could be said that they have already commenced doing so."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," she replied absently, apparently displaying little interest in the subject.

"And why are you for Philadelphia, if I may be so bold?" he inquired, deftly diverting the topic so as to maintain her attention.

"Actually, my mother passed away. I am going to live with my aunt Fiona."

"Oh, I say, I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well, thank you, but there it is nonetheless," she responded disconsolately.

"And shall you attend university at some point?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question. I had hoped to attend Cambridge, from whence you have so recently departed, but my mother's death has quashed that hope, I fear."

"I say, why don't you come to Harvard? It would be ever so nice to have a friend from the home country there."

Eyeing him apprehensively, she inquired, "A friend?"

"Well, er, I see your point. That is perhaps a bit presumptuous of me, but if you will allow me, Miss Channing, I shall endeavor to gain that distinction by the time we make landfall in Boston."

Sneering at his forwardness, she responded derisively, "My, we are a bit cheeky, aren't we, Mr. Stewart!"

"My dear Miss Channing, if you will consent to indulge me for a moment, let me put it to you this way – I have nothing but the utmost of intentions and, it seems to me, we two are on a similar course, thrown together by the chances of fate. For the next two weeks we shall be confined nearby to one another and, should we two discover mutual friendship by the time we disembark from this ship, I for one ask you – what better way to arrive in a foreign land than on the arm of a new-found friend?"

"I see," she responded hesitantly.

"Right, then, what say you?" he responded, his face embellished with his most attractive smile.

"Sounds altogether quite intriguing," she replied and, breaking into a quite breathtaking smile herself, she finally succumbed to his charisma, responding, "I shall take it under advice," and at this, the pair giggled convivially.

A Week Later

**Sloan glanced toward her** from the corner of his eye and, gauging her mood, he queried, "Did you enjoy dinner tonight, Isolde?"

"Yes, quite so. We never ate like that at home in Wales. It was indeed quite scrumptious!"

"I agree," he responded ingenuously, "Thanks for agreeing to a stroll on deck with me this evening. I realize it's quite cold out, but I confess – just the site of you warms me quite nicely."

"My, thank you, at least I _think_ ," she responded serenely.

"Twas meant as a compliment, I assure you. And I for one am much too contented to consider the thought of turning in for the night. What say, might I convince you to share a drink with me in the bar?"

"Ha!" she replied jovially, "You've asked me that each and every night since we boarded ship, you brazen lothario!"

"Right, thereby demonstrating my amazing penchant for persistence. For your part, I'd say you've amply demonstrated your virtue via your uniform rejections up to now, so what say we turn a corner and move on to geniality."

"Oh? How so?"

"Just say yes!" he responded confidently.

At this she giggled, responding, "Alright then, yes. But don't you be getting any ideas, Mr. Sloan Stewart. Just because I've agreed to have a drink with you, it doesn't mean I'm a friend of any sort!"

"Perish the thought," he responded flirtatiously, "I've still more'n a week to accomplish that objective."

Three Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde sat** convivially devouring a scrumptious breakfast, Sloan grinning impishly at her between bites. "This just might be the best meal of the entire passage," he suggested off-handedly. "What do you think, Isolde?"

"Delectable, absolutely to die for!" she replied, subsequently flashing him her most winning smile.

The air audibly rushing from his lungs, he responded directly, "Don't _do_ that!"

"Don't do what?" she inquired vacuously.

"Don't smile that way, you adorable thing. When you do so, you absolutely take my breath away."

"Oh, you naughty boy, you're just making fun of me!"

"Tell you what, Isolde, why don't you come back to my cabin with me, and we'll see who makes fun of whom!"

"Sorry, not possible," she responded impishly.

"Why ever not?"

"I've a rule. I only consort with friends. And you, sir, are definitely _not_ a friend of mine!" and this last she laced with yet another vivacious grin.

Breaking into a smile of his own, he responded, "Say the word, and we can move on!"

"What word?"

"Why, that I am your friend, of course, and then we may go in search of my cabin together."

"My, but we are in a feisty mood today, aren't we! What's got into you, Sloan?"

"Only you, Isolde, only you," he responded pleasantly.

"You shall be the first to know when we are friends," she responded light-heartedly, "And when we are, I shall be more than happy to accompany you to your cabin. Now, if you please, take my arm and promenade me round the deck, my dear _potential_ friend."

Boston, Massachusetts – Four Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde stood** patiently at the ship's railing, awaiting the lowering of the gangplank. Sensing that their journey was finally at an end, Isolde turned to him and spoke mournfully, "It's been ever so lovely traveling with you, Sloan."

Smiling graciously, he responded, "I say, it has, hasn't it!"

"As I recall, that first night aboard you predicted our mutual friendship by this very point in time, rather pugnaciously I might add," she offered and, taking his hand in hers, she murmured, "I confess that I doubted both your prediction and your intentions at the time, dear Sloan."

"Yes, I was a bit forward, I confess," he replied in embarrassment.

"That you were, but all's well that ends well and, I must admit, you have succeeded, against all odds. You have been quite the perfect shipmate these two weeks. Accordingly, I for one hope that we shall be friends."

"My dear Isolde, we already _are_ friends. I expect, indeed, I _hope_ that we shall remain so for the remainder of our lives."

"As do I, dear Sloan, as do I," and, so saying, she tugged him to her and kissed him brazenly on the lips.

At this, he probed pleasantly, "What's this for?"

"Sorry, just creating a memory," she responded diffidently.

"I say, don't you think it's a bit late for that?" he cajoled, "Had you done so a day or two ago, we might have created a far more penetrating memory," and this last he said with a wink.

"You naughty boy," she responded, "I for one have just the right memories," and so saying, she leaned forward yet again, planting a friendly peck on his cheek.

Noticing a wayward tear as she pulled back, he reached forward and, caressing it askance, he suggested, "My, we are melancholy today. Let us not drown ourselves in self-pity over our parting, dear Isolde. Let us instead pledge to one another to write, and if our newfound friendship is sustained, let us also undertake to reunite when the opportunity arises. What say you, does that strike a chord of agreement?"

"Yes, ever so much so, dear Sloan. And may I say this – let us resolve, we two, that we shall live life to the fullest. And whenever and wherever we meet again, we shall always be true to one another."

"Well said, dear Isolde. I so promise."

"As do I," she responded, "I shall write, I promise and, God willing, we shall meet again before too long. Now, as the ship has now docked, suppose we get on with the inevitable." And with that the pair disembarked arm in arm.
Chapter 2

Boyle's Law

Boston – Two Days Later

**James, eyeing the half dozen young men** arrayed before him within the study room, commenced with, "Gentlemen, My name is James Moorehead. I am your tutor for freshman chemistry. I believe that we shall go round the room first so that you may introduce yourselves. Suppose we start with you, sir," he said, pointing to one rather striking lad.

The first of them offered rather self-assuredly, "Sir, I am Sloan Stewart, from Cambridge, England."

"Ah, an Englishman, I take it," James put in effusively.

"Actually, I am of Scottish descent, sir," Sloan corrected.

"Ah, a proud Scot! I see! And I take it you are fresh off the boat, sir?" James inquired with apparent interest.

"Yes, indeed I am, sir." Sloan responded proudly.

"Excellent!" James replied, his affirmative nod expressing his pleasure at having one so worldly within his own study group, "Welcome to America, and to Boston, to be more precise. I wish you the best here at Harvard."

"Thank you, sir, I look forward to it," Sloan responded genially.

Once the remaining five students had introduced themselves, James commenced his monologue, announcing, "Now, we shall meet every Thursday at this same time, except during exam weeks, whence we shall meet on Tuesdays as well. It is not my style to lecture, as I am quite certain you shall all be rather inundated with lectures from your illustrious professors. Rather, my responsibility is to provide any aid that I may toward your enlightenment on the subject of chemistry. As you are all well aware, I am but a year ahead of you at Harvard, but I hope that you shall find me nonetheless helpful to you, as I indeed completed my first year here ranked number one in my class. My goal shall be to pass on my experiences to all of you in such a way as to place each of you as highly as possible at the completion of the coming year.

"Now, I do not wish to daunt you overly so, but I should forewarn you, you are all about to embark on a career in one of the most challenging of all academic disciplines and, although I'm quite certain I need not remind you - at one of the most prestigious universities in the entire world. As such, should you not be fully committed from the get go, you shall fail miserably in pursuit of your objectives, and by Thanksgiving you shall disappear quite ignominiously from this study group, and most likely from the institution as well. And when I say the phrase 'get go', I am referring to this very moment in time, indeed, the moment of your initiation into the all-consuming world of higher education. Any questions?"

Apparently undaunted by this ominous preamble, Sloan responded with a presumptuous grin, "Yes, sir, I do indeed have a question."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Stewart, what is on your mind?"

"Sir, as you so correctly point out, I am fresh off the boat," Sloan proffered rather superciliously, "Indeed, I arrived in Boston just two days since. I have therefore not had the opportunity to settle in just yet and, daunted by your comments, as I'm quite certain my fellow colleagues are as well, I feel quite the need for refreshment of a certain dubious sort, if you get my meaning."

"Ah, yes, I do indeed follow, Mr. Stewart," was James' amiable response.

"Well, as it develops," Sloan quipped in reply, "I am told that in America it is quite illegal for a young man yet below the age of twenty to purchase chemical concoctions containing alcohol. This, I take it, is correct?"

James eyed him a moment, subsequently announcing in mock solemnity, "Mr. Stewart, we are to confine our discussion within this gathering to chemistry and, as I see you have so aptly managed to make chemistry the focus of your inquiry, I find that I am quite obliged to answer your question." At this, the entire group breaking into restrained snickers, James continued sagaciously with, "You are indeed quite right – it is illegal to purchase liquids containing alcohol by those under the age of twenty. However, one may nonetheless _consume_ alcoholic liquids within the confines of one's own premises, no matter what the age, strictly for medicinal purposes, of course."

At this, gazing pensively toward James, Sloan commented tactfully, "I see. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to the proper method of acquiring the appropriate _medicinal elixirs_ without entailing the risk of incarceration, sir."

"Excellent question, sir!" James responded cheerfully, "You are clearly focused quite properly on the complex subject of chemistry. As to your question, might I ask whereabouts you live?"

"Why, I live on campus, in Hightower Hall, sir."

"Ah, I myself inhabit the selfsame dorm, Mr. Stewart. Accordingly, I shall endeavor to introduce you to an upperclassman who lives within our dormitory, one who will, I'm quite certain, be more than happy to acquire a supply of whatever potions you may require, for a small finder's fee of course," and so saying, he smiled congenially at Sloan and, forthwith turning to address his uniformly rapt audience, he inquired, "Any other questions tonight?"

Hearing none, he added, "None? Excellent! Then, we shall meet next week at this same time, and I trust by then you shall all be equipped with a veritable cornucopia of questions related to chemistry."

Turning back toward Sloan, he now offered courteously, "If you will accompany me back to the dormitory, Mr. Stewart, I shall introduce you to my colleague who engages in the acquisition of all manner of potable chemicals." At this, the entire group rose as one and fell into step with their new-found mentor.

October, 1939

**Sloan rushed into the** study room and announced, "So sorry I'm late, Mr. Moorehead."

"Apology accepted, but see that it is not repeated, Mr. Stewart," James responded officiously.

Now properly reprimanded, Sloan replied respectfully, "Yes, of course, sir."

"We were considering Boyle's Law, Mr. Stewart. Perhaps you've heard of it?" James now queried condescendingly, intent on finding a means to chastise Sloan yet further for his tardiness.

"Actually, yes sir, I believe I have," Sloan responded diffidently.

"For those of you don't know," James interrupted, "Boyle's Law is named for Robert Boyle, the English professor from Cambridge who invented it in the early eighteenth century. For that achievement, he is considered by many to be the father of modern chemistry."

At this, Sloan raised his hand, inciting James to respond somewhat tiresomely, "Yes, Mr. Stewart, what is it?"

"Sir, I don't mean to disagree, but I believe that Mr. Boyle was in fact Irish, having been born in Lismore Castle, County Waterford, Ireland."

"Ah, my mistake. Thank you, Mr. Stewart," James replied dismissively.

At this admission, Sloan raised his hand yet again, interjecting pugnaciously, "Sir, I believe that the record will show that Robert Boyle was at Oxford rather than Cambridge, and that his law was discovered in the mid-seventeenth century rather than the eighteenth century."

"Oh well, we shall see about that, Mr. Stewart," James responded indignantly, "Anything else?"

"Well, er, yes sir, there is one other thing," Sloan added doubtfully.

"And what might that be?" James bellowed in obvious exasperation.

"Uhm," Sloan responded tentatively, "I believe that it is well known that Robert Boyle did not invent Boyle's Law. It was actually discovered conjointly by Richard Towneley and Henry Power. Boyle mistakenly believed that Richard Towneley discovered it, thereby terming it 'Towneley's Conjecture' in his 1662 paper on the subject. Later documentation established that Henry Power, a professor at Christ's College, Cambridge, co-invented the law with Richard Towneley."

Paling with palpable fury at this further disclosure, James now inquired arrogantly, "Is that so? What else might you add to the discussion on this subject, Mr. Stewart?"

"Not much, sir, just that Robert Boyle was enamored with the work of Galileo, even going so far as to travel to Italy in 1641, shortly before Galileo's death. Galileo is, of course, the first person to postulate the existence of material laws, sometimes termed constitutive laws and, as it turns out, Boyle's Law is the first experimentally verified constitutive law in history. It postulates that the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to the applied pressure. Boyle performed experiments demonstrating the veracity of this law, and it is for this reason that the law bears his name today. Nowadays we term materials that behave this way 'Hookean' after Robert Hooke, or 'elastic' after Isaac Newton, and the underlying physical reasons for this effect were elucidated by James Clerk Maxwell and Ludwig Boltzmann in the latter part of the nineteenth century."

At this the wide-eyed young man on Sloan's right volunteered wistfully, "Egads, you know way too much!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Sloan responded in genuine horror at the realization of his own forwardness, "I had no intention of overtaking the conversation!"

"You managed to do so nonetheless," the young man responded gleefully, adding with fortuitous clairvoyance, "I for one am really glad I'm in this study group. It appears we have a true genius among us!"

Himself turning rubicund with embarrassment at this submission, James finally interjected, "Excellent discussion, gentlemen. Now, suppose that we move on to more challenging topics?"

A Month Later

**Sloan knocked on the door and,** given the boisterous din emanating from within, he was certain that he had chosen the correct one. The door momentarily opening, a young man poked his head without, inquiring over the now-blaring cacophony, "Password?"

"What?" Sloan exclaimed vacuously.

"What's the password, you imbecile!" he heard from behind the rapidly closing door.

"Oh, sorry," Sloan responded sheepishly, "It's uh...Newton!"

"Wrong!" and at this the door slammed close.

"Isaac Newton!" James roared at the offending door, at which the door magically reopened.

"You may enter," the young man announced superciliously, and so saying, he drew the door wide, accenting it with inane genuflection.

Peering within, Sloan could see no less than thirty young men strewn about within the tiny dorm room. Grinning appreciatively, Sloan stepped within, inquiring pointedly of the erstwhile guard, "Where's the booze?"

"Over there, on Bobby's desk," the young man pointed, as if expecting Sloan to be capable of seeing directly through a half dozen inebriated students.

Inching his way through the throng, Sloan eventually arrived at the proffered spot, pouring himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon. Completing his intended task, he turned about with the intention of seeking out someone with whom he might be acquainted.

"Hey," a voice on his right cheerfully exclaimed, "Sloan. Glad you could make it!"

"Oh, I say, hello Mr. Moorehead!" Sloan responded, projecting his voice above the noise, "Some party!"

"Yes, just the thing to mitigate the pressure from the first round of exams, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more," Sloan replied pleasantly.

Sipping from a glass of his own, James inquired off-handedly, "So, how did you score on your first chemistry exam?"

"I scored well, thanks to your expert tutoring," Sloan exclaimed.

His eyes narrowing, James queried, "Just how well?"

"Well, since you asked directly, I'm afraid I must admit to you – I made a perfect score."

"Oh, that is excellent!" James responded admiringly, and applying a congenial slap on Sloan's back, he exclaimed with satisfaction, "That confirms my suspicion. I was already quite assured that you were the best within the study group, but now I am certain that you shall be the best in class this year."

"You think so?" Sloan inquired.

"Absolutely!" James responded affably, "You are quite talented, Sloan. You shall make a fine chemist one day."

"Thank you, sir," Sloan replied proudly, somehow at a loss for further words.

"Although we are separated by a year in school, I hope that we shall become friends. We, the two of us, seem to have similar interests. And by all means, please call me James, as I shall henceforth address you as Sloan."

Glancing at James, Sloan responded ingenuously, "Why, thank you, James. I look forward to a growing friendship!" and so saying, he held out his glass. For his part, James raised his glass as well, the pair clinking their drinks together in honor of their newfound friendship.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – Early April, 1940

**Isolde sat before** her mirror, intent on scrutinizing the image before her. Her long blonde tresses were perhaps a bit too frizzy for her taste, but she supposed there was little she could do about such a distressing shortcoming. Rising from her seat, she strutted to the full length mirror opposite and, standing before it, she examined her figure. Clad in her nightgown, she was unable to make out her shape quite clearly. Accordingly, she shrugged her way out of the left sleeve, then the right and, her nightgown slipping silently to the floor, she was afforded an unadulterated opportunity to assess her own attributes. Were her hips too big, her breasts too small? She had not the slightest idea, having been cloistered nearly her entire life within a small village in Wales. But now, having reached a certain age, she pondered incessantly whether she was indeed attractive to the opposite sex.

At that moment, Aunt Fiona poking her head within the room, Isolde blushed with embarrassment at having been caught out in her own self-examination. Discerning Isolde's purpose immediately, her aunt exclaimed wisely, "My dear, there is no need to concern yourself regarding your appearance. I assure you, there is little one can do about it. You shall be who you are for the entirety of your life."

"I know, I know, Aunt Fiona, but please, oh please, tell me truthfully – am I attractive?"

"My goodness, Isolde, you are the absolute picture of femininity. You are tall, quite well proportioned, especially your hips, thighs and breasts, and, last of all, you have a face to die for!"

"You think so? But what about my frizzy hair?"

"My dear, what with your face, no one shall even take notice of your hair. Besides, your hair is quite lovely. Though I perhaps shouldn't say as much, you are altogether the loveliest young lady I've ever laid eyes on."

"That's kind of you to say," Isolde responded doubtfully, continuing to eye herself in the mirror as if she nonetheless doubted her aunt's assessment.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Aunt Fiona put in, "There's a letter for you," and so saying, she held out an envelope for Isolde.

Grasping the proffered item, Isolde ripped open the envelope fretfully, fear of failure coursing through her every fiber and, hastily scanning the writing therein, she abruptly screamed with delight, "I'm in! Aunt Fiona, I've been accepted! I shall be enrolled at Harvard University in the fall!"

Boston - September, 1940

**Isolde extended her head** from the window as the train pulled into the station and, spotting a familiar face, she screamed excitedly, "Sloan! Sloan! Over here! It's me – Isolde!"

Reacting to the sound of his name, Sloan jerked about and, meeting her animated gaze, he waved wildly while screaming gleefully, "Isolde! Welcome! Welcome to Boston!"

Her visage momentarily disappearing from view, he waited impatiently for her to appear at the door and, seeing her emerge shortly thereafter, he rushed forward. Enfolding her in an affectionate hug, he shouted excitedly, "Isolde! It's so wonderful to finally see you again!"

Embracing him tightly in return, she responded with her brightest smile, exclaiming, "Oh, God, I've missed you, Sloan! My dear friend, it's been the longest year of my life! And I'm so looking forward to Harvard. How is it? Is it difficult?"

"Hard...very hard, dear Isolde, but together, we shall somehow muddle through. You can do it, I know you can. And now that you're here, so can I!"

November, 1940

**Isolde waded into** the tightly packed bar and, spying her intended target within the crowded space, she pushed her way through the convulsing throng. Arriving at her destination, she interrupted the two young men locked in deep conversation before her, cooing hesitantly, "Hullo, Sloan, who's you friend?"

Surprised by her unexpected appearance before him, Sloan leapt up from his chair. Summarily knocking over his drink and, belatedly grabbing it up, he blurted, "Oh, hi, Isolde. Er, sorry for my clumsiness," and, clearly flustered by the unexpected sight of her, he added in apparent embarrassment, "Oh, uhm, yes, of course. This is my good friend James, James Moorehead. James, meet my dear friend Isolde Channing. She's new to Harvard."

"Ah, yes," James volunteered and, rising elegantly from his seat, he offered her his hand and added, "And here you are at last, Isolde, all the way from Wales!"

Surprised by the handsome and obviously charming man before her, Isolde took his hand shyly in hers, inquiring breathlessly, "And, pray tell, How did you come to know that, sir?"

Seeing he had made a positive impression, James responded with self-assurance, "Oh, I know all about you, Miss Channing, er, Isolde. May I call you Isolde? It seems we already know one another. After all, Sloan talks about you incessantly! He claims you are the best of friends."

Brightening at this observation, Isolde awarded Sloan a cutting glance and, returning her attention to James, she responded pleasantly, "Is that so, James? You wouldn't know by his behavior of late."

Sloan, himself obviously embarrassed by the scene unfolding before him, attempted a diffusing retort, "I'm so sorry, Isolde. But school has been terribly challenging of late. Surely you know how it is."

Softening visibly at his half-hearted apology, Isolde responded, "Yes, I quite agree," and, having thus far failed to receive the invitation she had anticipated, she added, "Well, I can see the pair of you are busy..." and so saying, she turned to depart.

Reaching for her arm, Sloan tugged her back toward them, querying, "Isolde, yet again, I must apologize. Please, sit with us. When we all get to know one another, I'm sure we shall become the best of friends."

Having now achieved her immediate objective, Isolde responded diffidently, "Well, I don't know...I'm quite busy, you know..."

Still a bit young to fully comprehend the complexity of the weaker sex, Sloan begged in earnest, "Oh, please, Isolde! I've missed you so," thereby prompting James to arch one eyebrow in surprise, a subsequent wink passing unobserved by Sloan between himself and Isolde.

"Well, I suppose I can spare a few minutes," she replied hesitantly, and so saying, she dropped her books and took a seat adjacent to her two admirers.

Having discerned how the wind blew, James offered a placating diversion, "So, Sloan tells me you are studying American Literature this semester. How are you finding it?

Brightening yet again at James' powers of deduction, Isolde responded pleasantly, "Bizarre, absolutely bizarre. Although you Americans share a common language with the English, your deployment of the English language bears no resemblance whatsoever!"

"Oh? How so?" James inquired with growing interest.

"Well, for example, one has these firebrands such as Herman Melville and O. Henry. One could say they are obsessed with the macabre. Then there are Henry David Thoreau and Emily Dickinson, both rising to the height of both the sublime and the subliminal. And finally, there is Mark Twain, who seems to have discarded the English language altogether."

"Ha! I told you so!" Sloan exclaimed much too loudly, "She is the picture of perfection, is she not? All those gorgeous golden tresses strewn about, enveloping matchless brilliance, not to mention beauty, if I do say so myself!"

At this, Isolde blushed and, gazing about in embarrassment, she murmured, "Shush, Sloan! You go too far, sir, and in public!"

At this Sloan guffawed, grabbed her in a friendly embrace, and blubbered, "Ah, my dear Isolde, I do so adore you!"

Pushing him away, she rejoined, "Stop it! Sir, if I did not know you better, I should say that you are drunk!"

"What if I am," Sloan exclaimed defensively, "It's still the truth. And you know me, Isolde, I'm always good for the truth!"

"Yes, of that I'm quite certain, and at times most annoyingly," she responded indignantly and, observing that her objective was in danger of being spoiled, she announced surreptitiously, "Well, I believe that I shall make my departure. You, sir, are in a state of inebriation that is entirely inappropriate for a lady's company," and so saying, she arose to leave.

"Aw, don't go rushing off, Isolde," Sloan replied and, seeing that she was not swayed, he called after her, "When can I see you again?"

Over her shoulder, she responded indignantly, "When you are sober, you may call on me!"

But to her dejection, for some reason he didn't.

March, 1941

**Sloan supplied the required** password, the door to the dorm room subsequently opening wide. As expected, there was quite a crowd within, the majority of them well on their way to drunken oblivion. Inching his way to the bar, he thought to himself, "Exams this week must have been tougher than usual."

As he did so, he noticed a couple of rather dodgy looking young ladies, a site he had never before seen within the men's dorms at Harvard. Wondering to himself what that was about, he poured himself a drink and, turning to locate a friend to chat with, he was surprised to see Isolde ensconced in companionable discourse with a young man. Pressing forward, he reached her side momentarily and announced, "Isolde, what a pleasure!"

"Oh, hullo, Sloan. Fancy meeting you here!" she responded coyly.

Mystified by her distant attitude, he inquired, "What brings you here tonight?"

"You will see soon enough," she responded, "This is my new friend, Anson. Anson, meet Sloan." The pair shook hands, Sloan for his part perplexed that Isolde was with someone.

Leaning forward, he muttered in her ear, "I can see you're with someone tonight, Isolde, so I shall catch up with you later."

Sipping on her drink nonchalantly, she replied, "Sure...later."

At this Sloan drifted away, in search of other companionship. Almost immediately, he bumped into James, who exclaimed fretfully, "Sloan! I thought you'd never get here. You nearly missed the start of the show!"

"What show?"

"They have something special planned for tonight," James volunteered with a telling wink.

"What might that be?" Sloan queried blankly.

"It seems someone has arranged for a contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied sarcastically.

"No, not at all. We seem to have a benefactor in our midst, although who the culprit is, no one seems to know. At any rate, three young ladies have volunteered to participate in a dance contest, the winner to be awarded a crisp new one hundred dollar bill."

Momentarily distracted from the topic at hand, Sloan responded, "Wow! I've never even _seen_ a hundred dollar bill."

"Ha!" James prattled boisterously, "Well, tonight you shall see one, among other things, I'm quite certain of it."

Still mystified, Sloan inquired, "Other things? What sort of other things?"

Surreptitiously taking a sip from his drink, James replied matter-of-factly, "Perhaps we shall see a mystery or two revealed, of the female type, of course."

"You're not serious!" Sloan responded doubtfully.

"Actually, there is no way of telling what will transpire. It all depends on what lengths these young ladies are willing to go to in order to win the prize."

Suddenly fearing something untoward, Sloan turned, heading directly toward Isolde and, interrupting her conversation with her friend, he blurted, "Tell me you're not entered in this insane dance contest!"

"Oh, but I most certainly am, Sloan," she replied demurely.

"Why ever on earth for? This could well get out of hand, Isolde."

"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about. It's just good clean fun," she responded naively.

Seeing that she had no intention of taking his advice, he exclaimed, "We shall see about that!" and so saying, he turned on his heel, seeking a neutral vantage point from which to observe the contest.

A young man now clapped his hands loudly, announcing, "Alright, guys, you all know why we're here tonight. We have three young ladies, each of whom has volunteered to dance for us. Afterwards, the winner, being selected by popular vote, shall be awarded a prize of one hundred dollars!"

At this, the crowd erupted in applause and, shortly thereafter the first young lady commenced her dance. She was attractive in an earthy sort of way and, dancing to 'Pennsylvania 6-5000', she brought the crowd to a fevered pitch. The alcohol having clearly affected the males within the room, the crowd grew boisterous, in response to which she doffed her blouse at the end of the piece. The room erupted in applause, awarding her an approving ovation.

Sloan, now certain that this was headed in an indecent direction, glanced toward Isolde, only to find her avoiding him for some unknown reason.

The second young lady now took to the floor, dancing to the more sedate 'Moonlight Serenade' but, sure enough, near the end of the number she too began removing her blouse. Goaded on by the pulsating throng, she removed her skirt as well, at which the crowd went wild.

It was now time for the final entrant's performance, and of course it was Isolde. Stepping to the center of the room, she, now appearing quite bewildered, locked her eyes on Sloan and began dancing salaciously to the upbeat tune 'Chattanooga Choo Choo'. Sure enough, toward the middle of the tune, she slowly removed her blouse. By this time visibly distressed, Sloan gazed pleadingly towards her, but she continued dancing, all the while staring directly at him.

Sloan was by now beside himself with agony, fearing the worst as she, reaching down, began fumbling with her skirt. Suddenly lunging forward, he screamed forcefully, "Stop! Stop it, Isolde! I can't let you do this!" and grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her within his arms and lunged hurriedly from the room. Sensing the crowd's disapproval at his intrusion, he managed to hold them at bay by slamming the door shut and wedging his shoe beneath it.

Still wrapped within his arms, she cried woefully, "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm saving you from yourself, you fool!" he bellowed.

Writhing in an attempt to escape his grasp, she screamed, "I don't need saving!"

"Dear Isolde, I adore you. I can't let you do this to yourself. Now shut up. I'm taking you back to your dorm."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she suddenly exclaimed, "But why, Sloan? I finally got your attention, and you had to go and stop me!"

"Dear Isolde, you are much too good for this sort of thing. I'm taking you back to your dorm, and there's an end to it!"

Charging down the stairs with her in his arms, he hurried out onto the snow-covered lawn. Racing for fear that they might be followed by the outraged crowd, he carried her as quickly as he could to her dorm, she for her part sobbing uncontrollably all the way.

Once within the dorm, he handed her over to the dorm supervisor, saying, "Please, take her upstairs to her room. She's drunk and out of control."

"Where is your shoe, young man, and where is her blouse?" the elderly woman asked accusingly.

Turning to depart, he called over his shoulder, "Long story."

"Sloan, what did I do wrong? Please, tell me what I did wrong! Come back!" she wailed as he stalked from the dorm.

The Following Day

" **Come in!" Sloan exclaimed** in response to the knock on his door.

The door opening, James poked his head in, announcing, "Hey, Sloan, I just thought I'd check in to see how things turned out last night with you and Isolde."

"I don't know," Sloan responded noncommittally, "She was mad as hell!"

"Yeah, everyone could tell, but despite that, you did her a big favor. She was headed for deep trouble, if you ask me."

"That's what I thought, too, but she wasn't very pleased when I grabbed her."

"What happened after that?"

"Oh, I just carted her back to her dorm and handed her over to the dorm supervisor," Sloan responded, "I didn't know what else to do."

"Did she calm down by then?"

"No, by then she was absolutely furious. I don't know what's gotten into her, to tell you the truth."

"You're really taken with her, aren't you." James posited.

"Yeah, I guess I must be," Sloan replied thoughtfully, "Otherwise, I would have just stood there along with everyone else and watched her strip down to God knows what."

"Yes, and God knows, it would have been her birthday suit, if you ask me," James offered candidly."

"What makes you say that?" Sloan groaned in surprise.

"Man, you should have been there!" James volunteered. "After Isolde left, the guys decided that it was a tie between Mindy and Charlotte. So they decided the two girls should have a dance-off, sort of a sudden-death contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied.

"Honest to God," James said, "So these two girls, seems like both of them wanted that hundred dollar bill really badly, they got up there on the table and started dancing together, and when Mindy took off her blouse, Charlotte did her one better. Within minutes both those girls were naked as jaybirds. I tell you, it was a thing of beauty – two girls dancing naked in a boy's dorm room on Harvard University campus."

"Oh, my God," Sloan murmured. "That could have been Isolde!"

"She would have, too, Sloan. She was really drunk."

"I know," Sloan muttered, "I hope I did the right thing. I'm pretty sure I did, but who can tell with a woman, especially that woman! Man, she drives me nuts!""

"Yeah, I'd say you're pretty far gone on her," James observed.

A Week Later

**Sloan stepped up to** the counter in the girls' dorm, inquiring, "Could I see Isolde Channing, please?"

"Your name?" the supervisor responded, but suddenly recognizing him, she exclaimed, "Wait a minute! I remember you! You're the young man who brought Isolde home that night. Say, what was that all about, anyway?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her," he responded noncommittally, "Name's Stewart – Sloan Stewart."

"I see," she replied, "Well, please wait a moment while I see if she is in."

Sloan stepped away from the counter, politely awaiting Isolde's arrival. After a few moments, the supervisor motioned to him and, stepping back to the counter, he queried, "Yes?"

"She's in, Mr. Stewart, but she's not seeing anyone just now."

At this, he stared at her incredulously, inquiring somewhat rudely, "Look here, could I speak to her on the phone?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," the supervisor responded and, by now clearly ruffled, she posited, "She made it quite clear that she doesn't want to speak to you."

"Can't you see I'm trying to help her?" Sloan begged.

Her eyes flashing in fury, she grumbled, "Sir, I see nothing of the sort. A shoeless young man who shall remain unnamed staggers into the women's dorm on a Friday night, conveying a partially clad and clearly unsympathetic young lady in his arms and gruffly demands that the supervisor 'take care of her', all the while refusing to respond to questions regarding his part in this unseemly affair."

At this, Sloan staggered backward and, his hand raised to his throat in denial, he gasped, "No! No, madam, you have it all wrong. I was trying to help!"

"Sir, I doubt that very seriously. Otherwise, the young lady in question would not be so vehemently opposed to seeing you. Now, if I were you, I would make haste to disappear from my sight before I change my mind and find it necessary to file a complaint recommending your dismissal from the university for lewd and inappropriate behavior!"

"I see," Sloan replied in fear, "I assure you that I did nothing wrong, madam. However, I can see how it must have appeared to you. I am truly sorry to have alarmed you so."

"Well said," she replied and, visibly calming, she suggested, "Now please leave, and never ever come to this dorm again, sir!"

"Yes, madam," Sloan responded, and so saying he made a hasty retreat.

Thusly unnerved, he wandered aimlessly across campus, at length planting himself on a park bench adjacent to the library. By then completely demoralized, he stared blankly into space and, unable to find solace, he mumbled to himself, "What's gotten into her? I save her from herself, and this is the thanks I get! After all, did we not promise aboard ship to always be true to one another?"
Chapter 3

In the Orchard

Boston - April, 1941

**Sloan stood up** in response to the knock on his door and called, "Come in!"

The door opening, James popped his head in and inquired, "Say, Sloan, do you have a minute?"

Always happy to see his newfound friend, Sloan responded, "Sure! What's up?"

"I've an idea I thought might interest you."

"What's that?"

"Well, given that you have no particular plans for the summer, I was wondering if you might be interested in taking on a summer job. I've been invited to work at a place in New Hampshire called The Orchard Inn and, as it turns out, they have need of the services of an additional young man. Might this be of interest to you?"

"Wow! Sounds like fun, James. Tell me more," Sloan replied in obvious excitement.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – May, 1941

**Sabrina sat within the surrounding crowd** of high school students. It was final convocation, and awards were being announced at Benjamin Franklin High School. As she sat, a voice announced sonorously over the loudspeaker, "And now, for the award for most beautiful young lady. The student body has chosen by a landslide, and it's no surprise, may I say – Miss Sabrina Dewhurst!" At this, the crowd reacting boisterously, Sabrina raised her hands to her face in embarrassment and, arising from her seat, she came forward to accept her award.

As she did so, she contemplated to herself whether she was indeed all that attractive. Her girlfriends had informed her of such, but each time she had inspected herself, she had confessed to being unable to see why on earth any man could find her appealing. Was not her nose too large, her breasts perhaps a bit too small, her hair a drab but flowing shade of brown? There it was – the reality of it all – she was a living anachronism to her own self.

Given such an incongruous assemblage of feminine attributes, she resolved that her lot in life would be essentially that of a spinster, thus encouraging her to devote her attentions to the study of medicine. If she could not excel at attracting a mate, she would do her best at what God had seen fit to endow her with – an abundant intellect. After all, one could not expect to be endowed with perfection, and intelligence was far more than most could say they possessed.

And though she had been chosen most beautiful in her high school, she knew that this award would mean little outside the confines of Pittsburgh. She therefore felt infinitely reassured by her acceptance, received only recently, to Bryn Mawr College commencing in September. An education, she reasoned to herself, was the key to transcending her physical shortcomings.

Fortunately, her mother, having foreseen the cost of her education, had arranged for her to work during the coming summer, thereby ensuring that she could pay for college.

New Hampshire – Late May, 1941

**James leaned forward within** the taxi, paid the driver and, hopping onto the sidewalk, he volunteered, "It seems we've finally arrived, Sloan." Thenceforth turning to take in the view in the fading light of sunset, he exclaimed, "I'm so happy you agreed to come with me."

Gazing toward the entrance to the inn, Sloan exclaimed, "Wow! The Orchard Inn is fabulous, even better than the photographs! It's destined to be a fantastic summer."

James confided, "I wonder what we shall be assigned to do. On second thought, I don't wonder. Anything at all would be quite easy compared to the mind-numbing coursework we've been subjected to over the past nine months."

Sloan responded, "I for one intend to enjoy every moment of the summer, despite the fact that we shall be employees."

The pair grabbed their bags, subsequently lugging them into the inn, whereupon they were met by the concierge, who exclaimed, "Welcome! You must be James and Sloan, if my guess is correct."

"Entirely correct, madam. I am James – James Moorehead," James replied, holding out his hand to her.

Taking his hand in hers, she responded, "Wonderful! I am Virginia Struthers, the concierge for The Orchard Inn. Welcome! Do you need help with your luggage?"

"I believe that we can manage," he replied, "No time like the present to undertake our duties!"

"Excellent!" she answered, "Now, if you will both follow me, I will show you to your quarters for the summer." The pair grabbed their bags and, following her quite some distance to the annex, they just managed to keep pace.

On arriving at their destination, she said, "Here we are. Now, you shall be in room 201, this one. Here are your keys," and so saying, she opened the door to the room, adding, "You shall be sharing this room together. Two young ladies shall share the room directly opposite. One is already here. Her name is Isolde Channing. The other shall arrive in a few days."

"Wait, what did you say?" Sloan inquired.

"What?" she asked in return.

"What is the young lady's name?"

"Isolde Channing."

"I say, what a coincidence. As it happens, we know Miss Channing!"

"My, that _is_ quite a coincidence," she responded. "Perhaps you will want to say hello to her. She is in Room 202, just there," and so saying, she pointed to the door opposite. "Now, please, both of you make yourselves comfortable. Tomorrow morning, if you will make your way to the restaurant at seven A.M., I shall meet you for breakfast. At that time I shall explain your duties for the summer. Any questions? None? Alright then, I shall see you first thing tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep. You will need it!" and so saying she disappeared down the hallway.

"I say, that was rapid fire!" Sloan volunteered as they dragged their bags within their room.

"Yes," James responded, "I think I rather like her. She seems to be the no-nonsense type to me."

"Yes, I agree, and not unpleasing to the eye, although I suppose she's a bit old for me."

"Why? How old is too old?" James inquired, tongue-in-cheek.

"Good point. I shall endeavor to take a shot at her," Sloan replied with false bravado.

"I'll bet you fifty dollars you can't get to first base with her," James cajoled.

"Not a chance," Sloan responded, "Too pricey for me. Besides, she's not my type."

"Ha! I knew that was all talk. You're after Isolde, my friend. Don't think you fool me at all!"

"Whatever," Sloan responded noncommittally.

"Now, shall we follow Miss Struthers' advice by getting a good night's rest?"

"Actually, I rather think that I shall see if Isolde is in her room just there," and so saying, Sloan wandered across the hall and knocked on the door of the opposing room.

The door opening momentarily, Isolde popped her head out, exclaiming in surprise, "Why, Sloan Stewart, what on earth are you doing here?"

Smiling hesitantly at her, Sloan exclaimed, "I might ask the same of you, Isolde. It seems that we three, James included, are thrown together for the duration of the summer."

"What! You mean, you're working here as well?"

"Precisely," at which, he added somewhat diffidently, "It seems the summer isn't going to be all work and no play after all, dear Isolde."

"Oh, but this is just too marvelous!" she responded, thereby surprising Sloan, who was still smarting from events of the previous semester. Seeing his reticence, she lunged for him and, embracing him in a mighty hug, she added, "I fear that I shall be spending the entire summer with quite the two most eligible young men in the whole of Harvard University!" And at this she broke into uncontrolled giggles.

"Well, that be entirely stoatin," Sloan mumbled absently to himself.

"What? What on earth is _stoatin_?" she responded vacantly.

"Nothing, nothing at all," he replied, breaking into a convivial smile.

"Oh, wait, I think I know what this is about, dear Sloan," she responded giddily. "A friend of mine told me she overheard you arguing with Miss Blackburn one day. That must've been...let's see...nearly three months ago. Is that it? Tell me. Tell me, Mr. Sloan Stewart. Tell me this very minute," she demanded, stamping her foot with feigned emphasis.

Scratching his head in bewilderment, he shrugged his shoulders in confusion, offering, "She's your dorm supervisor, right?"

"Of course she is, you ninny!" she exclaimed, a smile spreading effortlessly across her features.

"Then yes," he responded in that exasperatingly laconic style of his.

"I thought so!" she said impishly, adding gleefully, "Listen, Sloan, tis water under the bridge. We hit a bump in the road, that's all."

"A what?" he responded vacantly.

"Tis a euphemism," she replied, but, seeing he was still lost, she added, "Dear Sloan, it is at long last summer! I'm sure I needn't remind you what a gay time we had together crossing the ocean two summers ago. Well, it is once again summer, and fate has seen fit to place us together yet again, and this time for _the entire summer!_ "

Seeing his perception growing, she grasped the moment and tugged him into a passionate kiss, to which he responded with great interest. Eventually coming up for air, she queried, "And now, my friend, are we indeed friends once again?"

Observing her doubtfully, he responded, "I suppose so," and after a further moment of silence, he added with feigned solemnity, "Isolde, it appears that your roommate has yet to arrive and, as you and I have been friends for even longer than have James and I, perhaps it is more appropriate for the two of us to share your room together, at least until your roommate makes her appearance."

At this impertinent suggestion, Isolde punched him playfully in the stomach, exclaiming with obvious delight, "You, sir, are quite the cheeky lothario, if I do say so myself! Sadly, the answer is NO! Goodnight, sir," and so exclaiming, she slammed her door shut.

"Yes, well, I was only half kidding," he murmured to her now-firmly shut door. But then, shrugging his shoulders in resignation, he began humming to himself, all the while contemplating the myriad of possibilities for the summer ahead.

The Following Morning

**Sloan came forward to** the restaurant table, offering sunnily, "Good morning, Miss Struthers."

"Ah, good morning, gentlemen. I trust you slept well?" she responded politely.

"Like a newborn babe," James replied, a carefree grin creasing his features.

"Excellent," she said and, turning to Sloan, she added, "And where might your companion be, sir?"

"Oh, she's not my companion. She's just a friend. I expect she should be along at any moment," Sloan replied and, turning as if to search her out, he exclaimed, "Ah, here she is now, right on time!"

"Good morning all!" Isolde observed sunnily.

"And you as well," Miss Struthers responded. "Now, let's the four of us get some food from the buffet, and I shall then explain how things work here at the inn. Please," and, pointing toward the buffet, she herself arose from the table.

Once their repast was concluded, Miss Struthers signaled an end to it by pressing her white napkin to her lips. Clearing her throat, she suggested, "You appear to be the senior person within the group, James. Is that correct?"

"Yes, quite so," he responded. "In fact, I just recently turned twenty-one, Madame Struthers."

"Excellent. Now, I take it from your resume that you have experience in the guiding of others. Accordingly, you shall be afforded the title of Assistant Head Desk Manager for the duration of the summer. In your new position, I shall expect you to shadow me for the next few days. Your duties will become clear in the course of your time under my mentorship. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am, and may I say - thank you for placing such confidence in me."

"Yes, well, when you become aware of the attendant responsibilities, you will perhaps not be so thankful."

"I dare say, I shall not disappoint, Madame."

"We shall see, James, all in good time," she replied and, turning to Sloan, she observed, "So, your resume indicates that you are a swimmer. Is that correct, Sloan?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"Just exactly how accomplished a swimmer are you, if I may ask?"

"I would say excellent. I'm on the swim team at Harvard, and I also skull."

"Wonderful," she replied, clasping her hands together in apparent glee, "Then could one presume that you are qualified to take on the responsibility of lifeguard?"

"Absolutely!" he replied exuberantly.

"Then consider it done, Sloan. You are forthwith appointed Head Lifeguard of The Orchard Inn!"

" _Head_ Lifeguard? Gee, Miss Struthers, I'm honored!"

"Relax, dear boy, there is only one lifeguard, and you are he. Besides, the pay is all the same here at the inn, no matter the title."

At this, all four laughing gaily, he replied, "I shall endeavor to justify my lofty rate of pay, Miss Struthers."

"Excellent," she replied, and turning toward Isolde, she now queried, "And you, Miss Channing, where might we find the proper assignment for you?"

"Right," Isolde responded, "Perhaps I might make a suggestion, Miss Struthers."

"By all means!"

"Well, I have cooking skills, but not so as to be considered at the professional level. Perhaps I could be a table waitress here within the restaurant."

"Oh, perfect!" Miss Struthers responded, "I had so hoped that you would not consider it beneath you. We are in desperate need of table waiters, you see."

"It would be an honor," Isolde responded ingenuously.

"Then I believe we have an agreement among the four of us. You, James, shall be Assistant Head Desk Manager. Sloan, you shall be Head Lifeguard, and Isolde shall be Head Waitress within the restaurant."

"Goodness, am I also to be awarded such a lofty title?" Isolde responded.

"Yes, well, don't let it go to your heads, you three. Now, I suggest that you all be off to your respective assignments as quickly as possible. You shall find that there are no laggards here at the inn. We are all expected to pitch in whenever and wherever, and I shall expect all of you to perform accordingly. Oh, and one other thing. You shall have one day off per week and, Wednesday being our slowest day, we shall begin with that day for the three of you. Any questions?"

"No, ma'am," the three responded in unison.

"Excellent! I am most impressed with all of you. I trust that you shall enjoy your summer here, and you shall perform admirably. Now, off with you!"

"Thank you, Miss Struthers," James responded for the three of them and, having said this, they all set off in quest of fulfilling their respective professional responsibilities.

That Night

**Sloan knocked on Isolde's door,** inquiring, "Isolde, are you decent?"

The door momentarily opening, she responded, "Yes, of course. I've been hoping you'd come round."

"Might a stroll be of interest to you?"

"Yes, I am in desperate need of some entertainment," she replied pleasantly.

"Perhaps we could walk down by the lake. James is still detained with his newfound responsibilities, so I'm afraid that I shall have to do."

"Sounds perfect," she replied, "Let me get my scarf," and within moments the pair set off on their diminutive sojourn.

Reaching the shoreline, Sloan gestured to a picnic table and suggested, "Perhaps we could sit here," and so saying, he took a seat.

Following his lead, she sat opposite, inquiring, "How was your first day of work?"

"Quite easy," he responded pleasantly, "I believe I'm going to like it here at the inn."

"I wish I could say the same," she responded, "They worked me quite hard, I'm afraid."

"Ah, sorry to hear that, Isolde. Are you quite alright?"

"Oh, not to worry, Sloan. I'm quite alright. Anything at all would be better than school. Frankly, I was exhausted. I quite needed a change of pace, and this appears thus far to be just the perfect distraction for me."

Sloan now asked the question that had been bothering him for months, "Isolde, why would you not see me after that night of the dance contest? Were you awfully upset with me?"

"No, that's not it at all," she prevaricated and, replacing a wayward strand of hair, she added carefully, "Frankly, I was embarrassed, if you must know."

"Embarrassed?" he blubbered in stupefaction, "Why ever for?"

"For what might have happened had you not intervened, that's why!" she exclaimed, "Now, if you don't mind, can we simply forget it and move on? Could we simply make a fresh start this summer?"

"I say, that's the spirit. You always were quite the optimist, Isolde."

"Well, I don't know about that," she murmured and, deftly changing the subject, she asked, "So, how did the spring semester work out for you?"

"Rather well, I should think," he replied evasively.

"What does that mean?"

"I did quite well, if you must know, Isolde."

"Quite well? Exactly _how_ well, Sloan?"

"I don't like letting on, but since you've asked a direct question, I suppose I must answer directly. I finished the year first in my class."

"Oh, my...that is quite spectacular, Sloan! Kudos to you!"

"Thank you."

"Do you always answer so directly?"

"Good question. Let's just say, I try to be honest."

"How so?"

"Well, I suppose it all goes back to a test I took, years ago."

"A test, what sort of test?"

"Oh, it was just one of those little math tests that we all had to take when we were young. I recall, I was ten years old, and I wanted ever so much to win the prize for best math score in the class."

"And did you?"

"Yes, but I cheated to get it."

"You _cheated_?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I did."

"And you subsequently won?"

"Yes, I'm afraid that I did."

"And what happened?"

"Nothing, at least not outwardly so."

"So no one ever caught you out?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking, that is correct. But in the end, I was in fact caught out."

"Oh? By whom?"

"By myself."

"What? I don't understand."

"Well, you see, I despised myself for having cheated. Accordingly, I took the ribbon that they gave me for winning, and I burned it. But of course, I was unable to purge my own guilt at having cheated. I hated myself so much in fact, I promised myself that I would never ever cheat or lie again."

"Oh?" she responded in surprise, "And have you kept that promise?"

"Absolutely, and that is why I answer direct questions with equal directness."

At this admission, she eyed him doubtfully and murmured to herself, "Well, that would be a first."

"What? What did you say?" he inquired.

"Oh, nothing," she responded, "I just think that everyone lies. At least, that is my experience."

"Perhaps, but do me a favor, Isolde. Watch me carefully through the course of the summer, and judge for yourself. See for yourself if you agree that I never cheat or lie."

She gazed at him pensively, saying, "Challenge noted, challenge taken, Sloan. We shall see if it is possible for a man to be completely honest. And now, as a very first test of your self-professed honesty, if I may ask, do you want to kiss me or not?"

"Ha!" he responded diffidently, "Trapped again, but by one so lovely as you, it is never a loss," and so saying, he moved closer to her, admitting, "In truth, I do want to kiss you, dear lovely Isolde, ever so much." And at this, the pair gave in to their mutual desire in quite the manner suggested by Isolde.

The Following Weekend

**James answered the knock at their door,** saying, "Oh, hello Isolde. How are you this morning?"

"Fine, just fine. This is my new roommate – Sabrina Dewhurst. Sabrina, meet James, James Moorehead."

"Nice to meet you, Sabrina," he responded.

"And you as well," she replied, "Isolde has told me all about you."

At this, a second head popped through the door and bubbled, "Good morning all!"

"Oh, Sloan, good morning!" Isolde exclaimed, "Meet my new roommate, Sabrina, Sabrina Dewhurst. Sabrina, this is Sloan Stewart."

"A pleasure," Sloan said, taking her hand in his.

"Sabrina is the Assistant Head Waitress," Isolde offered.

"Oh, I say, good show!" Sloan put in, "Smashing title!"

"And," Isolde now added, "Given her ability to dog paddle, she is also Assistant Head Lifeguard."

At this announcement Sloan blurted, "What?"

"Seriously, she's your second in command at the lake, Sloan."

"And I do know how to swim," Sabrina put in, giggling at this admission.

"Oh, well then, welcome to the life-saving corps," Sloan responded with feigned relief.

"I'm off to breakfast, and thenceforth to work. Anyone care to join me?" James interjected. And at this, all four set off in quest of sustenance.

That Night

**James popped into the room** , expounding, "Whoa! Long day."

"Quite so," Sloan responded in apparent mutual exhaustion.

Plopping down on his bed, James inquired summarily, "Sooo, quite the development, wouldn't you say, Sloan?"

"What development?"

"Why, the latest addition to our group, of course," James responded emphatically.

"Oh, you mean Sabrina?"

"Right," James replied and, eyeing Sloan probingly, he inquired, "So, what do you think of her?"

"Seems okay to me, if perhaps a bit young."

"Oh, come now, Sloan. Quit with the prevarication and give over – she's quite gorgeous, don't you think?"

"Of course she's gorgeous, James. The truth is – they're _both_ gorgeous. In point of fact, I doubt I've ever seen two more beautiful women in my entire life."

"I quite agree," James replied and, pausing momentarily, he added, "So, what shall we do about it?"

"Good question! I for one intend to have as much fun as possible this summer, and if something pleasurable should occur during the course of it, I shall hope for the best."

"My, that is enigmatic, Sloan."

"Sorry, old chap, but I've nothing more to offer at the moment."

"Oh, come now - give over – which one do you fancy, Sloan?"

"I've no idea. I suppose that in truth I fancy them both, James."

"Well, we shall see about that. Monogamy shall eventually rare its lonesome head, I expect."

"All in good time, James, all in good time."

July, 1941

**Isolde met him in the** restaurant kitchen, saying, "Thanks for meeting me here, James."

"Not a problem," James responded officiously, "What seems to be the problem?"

"I'm really not sure. Look, I probably shouldn't even bring this up to you, but it could be something important, and I don't want to let on to Miss Struthers. Confiding in you seems to be the only reasonable alternative."

"My, that is circuitous. What gives, Isolde?"

Isolde eyed him pointedly for a moment, thenceforth announcing gravely, "Sabrina seems to have lost two pairs of panties. She's looked everywhere, and they are nowhere to be found."

James frowned at this revelation, saying, "That's strange...is she positive? Are you quite certain they're not simply misplaced?"

"Actually, they've been missing for nearly three weeks," Isolde responded thoughtfully, "At first, she thought she might have lost them in the wash, but a subsequent thorough investigation has turned up absolutely nothing. She's been through all of her belongings, and I've been through mine as well. At this point, I'm quite certain they are missing. The question is – where could they have disappeared to?"

"Could it have been one of the guests?"

"I doubt it. They don't have access to our room."

"Do you keep it locked at all times then?"

"Yes, absolutely. You have no idea, James. Women are very careful about such things. Trust me on this – they could not have simply disappeared."

"Alright then, give me a bit of time, Isolde. I shall look into it and get back to you."

"Thanks. I knew you'd say that. I'm sure she will be grateful to you."

"Sure, no problem," and having said this, he turned to go, surreptitiously calling over his shoulder, "See you later, Isolde."

Three Days Later

**James and Isolde** met yet again within the kitchen, James saying, "Thanks for meeting me, Isolde."

"Do you have anything to report, James?"

"Actually, I do," and so saying, he tugged a pair of panties from his pocket, inquiring, "Look familiar to you?"

"My God, where did you find them?"

"Well, I shouldn't like to say," he responded evasively.

"Best do so, James. If you don't tell me, Sabrina will likely report it to Miss Struthers."

"Yes, of course, you're most likely right," he responded thoughtfully, "I found them at the lakeside bathhouse."

"What! Where exactly where they?"

"In the men's locker room. They were in an unused locker."

"You're kidding! That is unbelievable!"

"Yes, I agree."

"And there was just the one pair?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm, exactly who has access to the lockers in the men's locker room?"

"Just Miss Struthers...and myself, although in my case only because I borrowed her keys."

"You're forgetting someone," Isolde said accusingly.

"I am? Who?"

"Sloan," she exclaimed emphatically.

"Yes, of course, you're right," he replied pensively, "I hadn't thought of that. As Head Lifeguard, he has locker room keys as well. But he wouldn't do something like that, would he, Isolde?"

"Well, I doubt very seriously that he would, but then, there doesn't seem to be anyone else, does there?" she replied, one eyebrow arched suspiciously.

"I really don't know, Isolde," he murmured, "Let me think on it and get back to you."

"Why don't you just confront him?"

"No, I fear that is not the best tactic," he exclaimed reproachfully, "I'll think about it and let you know."

An Hour Later

**Isolde entered the room and, noticing** that Sabrina had obviously been anxiously awaiting her arrival, she offered, "I talked to James."

"Well?" Sabrina queried.

"Well, what?" Isolde responded noncommittally.

"What did he say?"

Handing her the pair of panties, Isolde responded, "Here. These are yours, right?"

"Yes, of course they are," Sabrina grumbled in obvious irritation, "Where's the other pair?"

"He doesn't know," Isolde said flatly.

"He doesn't know!" Sabrina exclaimed in evident suspicion, "Where did he find this pair?"

"He found them in the lakeside bathhouse."

At this Sabrina exclaimed, eyes flashing, "See! I told you that guy is a pervert!"

"Yeah, but I'm still not certain, Sabrina."

"Who else has access to the bathhouse besides Sloan, I ask you!" Sabrina queried, but it didn't sound like a question at all. She then expounded with even greater certitude, "It has to be him, I tell you. He's a pervert! He makes my skin crawl."

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions just yet, Sabrina," Isolde countered, "James is going to do some further checking. He said he'd let us know."

At this, Sabrina sneered, "In the meantime, there's no telling what that pervert is doing with my other pair of panties. I'm telling you, Isolde, he's sick!"

"Maybe, maybe not," Isolde answered introspectively.

"Why do you keep defending him?" Sabrina uttered between gritted teeth, "What makes you think it's not him?"

Eyeing Sabrina for a moment, Isolde argued, "For one thing, I know him better than you do. I've known him for nearly two years, and he's always been the perfect gentleman with me," and, seeing that Sabrina was unfazed, she played her hole card, "Besides, I have reason to believe that he's quite honest."

"Alright, I'll bite - why?" Sabrina snarled in return.

"He told me so, that's why!" Isolde exclaimed in apparent exasperation.

"Oh, come now, that's no reason at all, Isolde," Sabrina parried and, her eyes suddenly lighting up, she exclaimed resoundingly, "Wait a minute - don't tell me you're hooked on him!"

"No! No, I'm not hooked on Sloan," Isolde denied, "I'm just saying, let's give him the benefit of the doubt until all the evidence is in, okay?"

"Alright," Sabrina responded disgustedly. "But, in the meantime, I'm keeping my distance from him. And I advise you to do the same."

"Fair enough," Isolde replied, wishing that this ugly development would somehow go away.

The Following Tuesday

**James pulled the automobile** up to the building and, hopping out, he commanded officiously, "Alright, everyone. Let's all work together to put the equipment in the trunk. We've just enough sunlight to reach the campground before sunset, thereby allowing us to pitch camp before darkness sets in."

"Right," Sloan responded cheerfully, "This should be quite fun!"

At this, Sabrina peered knowingly at Isolde and whispered, "I'll just bet! I wonder what that pervert has up his sleeve."

At this Isolde winked convivially but said nothing, the pair tossing their bags within the trunk.

"So," James announced, "Looks like we've got it all. Everyone hop in. We're off on an outing to Camp Wineehoona, by the shores of Lake Chippaway. Shouldn't take more than an hour to get there. I know, I spent two summers there when I was a boy, and I'm sure you'll absolutely love it!"

An hour later, the four having arrived at the camp, they immediately set to preparing the campsite for their adventure. James inquired assertively, "Ladies, if you don't mind, could you get some firewood whilst Sloan and I pitch the tents?"

"Certainly," Sabrina responded, the two young ladies thereby setting off on their assigned quest.

Once they were out of earshot, James inquired, "Sooo, which one do you fancy, Sloan? Come on, time to fess up."

"Both," Sloan responded succinctly.

"That simply won't do," James responded. "You've got to pick, dear boy."

"I doubt it," Sloan responded absently.

"Why?"

"If I am not mistaken," Sloan proffered, "I should think that they are the ones that shall do the picking."

"What makes you say that?"

"The relative certainty that one or both of them already has her sights set upon one or the other of us."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't, but knowing little to nothing about women, I am quite certain nonetheless."

"Well, then, we shall just wait and see, I suppose," James muttered pensively.

"Right."

A few minutes later the ladies emerged from the brush and, observing the completed tents, Isolde announced delightedly, "Good work, men! For our part, we've brought quite a stack of wood. Shall we build a fire and get cozy?"

"Absolutely," James exclaimed. "I'm famished. Let's prepare dinner right away as well."

Having built a magnificent campfire, the four ate a hearty meal of sandwiches and fruit, followed by a couple of shots from a purloined bottle of whiskey. Now sufficiently sated, the four set out for the lake and, shortly thereafter they stood on the shore, bathed within the moonlight.

Having imbibed a bit more whiskey than the others, Sloan appeared to be in quite the mood, prancing about ludicrously in the moonlight. "I dinnae ken a bitter spate ay friends fur sech an ootin'," he blabbered in his native Scottish accent. "Whit say ye, lasses, ye ken thes be as stoatin' as life coods be?"

Apparently bemused by his wanton behavior, Isolde inquired impertinently, "Do you always speak Scottish when you are drunk, sir?"

"Will, if the mood strikes, Ah fur one say why nae!" he replied woozily. "Now, we bein' the best ay friends among us, Ah say we all goo fur a skinny dip in the moonlight," he suggested, and so saying, he commenced doffing his clothes.

"Stop that!" Sabrina commanded in utter dismay.

Continuing to cast off articles of clothing, he queried, "Whit! Why ever fur?"

"We refuse to view you naked, that's why!" she exclaimed in abject dismay.

"Will then, turn yer heads, lasses! Fur Ah'm goin' intae the watur quite naeked!" And so saying he kicked off his trousers, his undershorts following shortly thereafter. For their part, the ladies turned their heads demurely, seeing as how they were unable to halt his inexorable pursuit of nakedness. Sure enough, within moments he was swimming within the turbulent waters, splashing ludicrously about.

"Come oon in!" he called gaily, "The watur be quite paerfect!"

"What did I tell you!" Sabrina exclaimed to Isolde, "Exactly what I would have expected from that pervert."

Turning back toward the lake, Isolde suddenly announced calmly, "I'm going in."

"Surely not!" Sabrina exclaimed in horror. "Surely you're not going to take your clothes off! Not with that pervert in the water!"

"Actually, I rather think that I am," she responded with finality, subsequently announcing loudly, "Now boys, if you are true gentlemen, you shall agree to turn your heads. Do you so promise?"

"Yes, of course," Sloan replied from his watery perch.

"Certainly," James put in, and within moments Isolde had strutted into the water naked, James following shortly thereafter.

Now left behind and outnumbered, Sabrina tarried a few moments, then announced disconsolately, "Alright, I will come in with you, but I'm not going in naked." And so saying, she stripped down to her underwear and waded self-consciously into the water.

James now called to her scornfully, "Oh, don't be such a prig, Sabrina. Get your undies off. It's liberating."

"Sorry, I'm just not the type," she responded priggishly.

"Might as well, no one can see you in the water anyway," James suggested.

"Well, there is that," she called, but just at that moment, she felt a tug from beneath the water and, screaming in terror, she exclaimed, "Help, there's a giant fish in the water!"

At that moment Sloan launched himself into the air beside her and, panties held aloft in triumph, he exclaimed, "I've got 'em! The shark has struck, thereby barin' the bottom ay the bonnie lass."

Crouching in terror within the water, Sabrina screamed belligerently, "You pervert! Give me back my panties!"

Ignoring her plea, Sloan cried elatedly, "Whit am Ah bid fur 'em!"

"Give them back this very minute, or I shall never speak to you again!" she wailed forlornly.

"Better do as she says, Sloan," Isolde interjected coolly.

"Och, Sabrina, it were jest a gam," he exclaimed furtively, "Here ye goo," and so saying, he tossed her the purloined item. "Besides, the attackin' shark saw naught ay ye, ye big priss. It be faer too daerk, anyways."

Slipping her panties back on, Sabrina immediately dashed from the water, calling over her shoulder, "I'm getting out. That pervert is crazy!"

"Och, all reit," Sloan replied, "But fur yer information, Ah'm noo paervert. From whit Ah've observed this night, ye'd be a fair bit closer tae one than Ah!"

By now making her way back to the campsite, Sabrina called over her shoulder, "Screw you, you pervert!"

Two Weeks Later

**Sloan stood nonchalantly toweling off** at his locker, when James came rushing into the locker room, a look of horror on his face. Confused by James' demeanor, Sloan inquired, "What's the matter? Did someone get hurt or something?"

"No," James responded, "Nothing like that. Something very strange, very untoward."

"What? Why the subterfuge?"

"I don't know, it just doesn't seem like something she would do," James mumbled thoughtfully.

"Who? Sabrina?"

"No, not Sabrina...Isolde."

"Isolde? What's she done?"

"I'm not sure I can say. After all, I'm not quite certain of it. It just seems so out of character to me."

"Alright, James, that's it. Out with it! Tell me what's going on."

"Right...well, I spotted her with a hand drill the other day," James began, "She was carrying it into the women's locker room. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now I'm not so sure..."

"Sure of what?"

"Well, it seems there's a hole in the wall between the men's and women's showers."

"What! What on earth are you talking about, James?"

"I'm telling you, there's a peep hole in the wall, and it wasn't there a few days ago."

"You've got to be kidding! Are you suggesting that someone has been spying on us while we were showering?"

"Well, I realize it sounds more like something an impertinent lad would do, but yes, that's precisely what I'm telling you."

"Show me where it is. Show me the hole in the wall."

"Certainly, but we must be quite careful. Don't say anything while we're in there. We don't want to let on, as there might perchance be someone peering through the hole at this very moment."

"Right. Shall we go see?" and with that, Sloan followed James into the shower room. James tiptoed along the wall and subsequently pointed toward a small spot just beneath the shower railing.

Observing it for a moment, Sloan bent down, examined it closely and, rising up, he whispered, "You're right, James. It's a hole, and it goes all the way through the wall. Not only that, it appears to have been drilled quite recently, as there's still a bit of sawdust around the opening. It's quite well concealed. In fact, I doubt that I'd have seen it if you hadn't shown it to me." Having said this, he stepped back and, still gazing toward the spot, he scratched his chin in apparent contemplation.

"What shall we do?" James whispered in puzzlement, "Whoever drilled it might be spying on us at this very moment."

"Just leave it to me," Sloan responded self-assuredly, "I shall take care of the culprit, whoever it is. In the meantime, I would strongly suggest that you avoid showering in the locker room."

Late That Night

**Sloan arose from his bed** and, making his way to the bathhouse, he undertook a complete examination of the miscreant's treachery both from the men's and the women's sides. Having completed his study of the evidence, he carried out the first step in his plan. He thenceforth drilled another hole in the wall at a carefully concealed point within the men's dressing room, thereby allowing him to observe undetected anyone peering through the hole from the women's shower.

The following day, reasoning that the sonorous drone of the men's showers could be heard quite easily from the ladies' showers, he turned on the men's shower at intervals throughout the day, checking each time from his newly created observation point. Sure enough, late in the afternoon, having turned on the shower yet again, he checked through his viewing port and immediately recognized the offending person. Within moments he was enacting the succeeding step in his plan as, standing naked within the shower, he lathered up with feigned oblivion for all to see who might be spying on him from the ladies' locker room.

Over the course of the next few days, he was quite careful to ensure that he timed his showers appropriately, and each time he endeavored to put on a seemingly innocent show for the offending party's pleasure. As the week progressed, he patiently awaited the opportunity to enact the final step in his plan. The following Saturday evening, noticing that the offending party was unaccounted for after dinner, he checked each of the likely places, determining that she was most likely at that very moment within the ladies' locker room at the bathhouse down by the lake.

Putting the remainder of his well-conceived strategy into immediate action, he crept stealthily from the inn and, making his way directly to the lakeside bathhouse, he approached the women's locker room. Once there, he was able to determine that someone was indeed therein and, peering through his own viewing port, he immediately recognized the transgressing party within. Accordingly, he crept as unobtrusively as possible into the ladies' locker room and, subsequently strolling nonchalantly into the ladies' shower, he observed Sabrina heedlessly lathering herself.

"Hi," he announced casually, at which Sabrina shrieked and, obviously frightened by the sight of a man within such a sanctum of femininity, she lurched toward the nearest corner in an apparent attempt to shield her nakedness from him.

"What are you doing in here?" she screamed, "Get out, you pervert!"

Crossing his arms in apparent superiority, he inclined unperturbed against the wall and responded derisively, "Look who's talking."

Her eyes flashing in furor, she exclaimed, "What!" And, having done so, she turned as far away from him as possible.

As she did so, he noticed a tiny birthmark on her left flank, a mark shaped incongruously like a heart.

Shaking off the incongruity of it, he paced across the room and swatted her soundly on one flank.

"Ow!" she squealed, "What did you do _that_ for?"

"I just felt like it, and if you know what's good for you, you'd better not question my actions. Otherwise, you shall shortly be in quite a lot of trouble."

"What on earth are you talking about, Sloan?" she responded in confusion.

"Don't act innocent with me! You've been spying on the men's showers through a hole in the wall for at least a week. I'm quite certain you've seen me completely naked several times. Consequently, if you don't come over here this very moment, I shall be forced to report you to the authorities. Not only will you most assuredly get fired from the inn, you shall quite likely also be expelled from Bryn Mawr."

At this pronouncement she paled, nevertheless continuing her futile attempt to cover herself. Suddenly realizing her predicament, she half turned, imploring, "Please Sloan, you wouldn't do that, would you?"

"Just get your gorgeous ass over here!" he responded with contrived indifference.

Continuing to shield her nakedness as best she could, she glared irritably at him momentarily and then made her way towards him. As she reached within arm's length, he tossed her a towel and murmured, "Cover yourself with this. I think I've seen enough."

She grabbed the proffered item and wrapped it about herself as quickly as possible, at which he glared at her and queried, "Sooo, what would you suggest as the proper disciplinary action, if I may be so bold?"

At this she sneered at him, but then, her expression changing to one of resignation, she stared balefully at the floor in apparent shame, she blurted, "This is blackmail!"

"Oh, come now, Sabrina, you've seen quite all of me. Give over, I say tit for tat. After all, turnabout is fair play."

Turning exceedingly pale at this, she exclaimed fearfully, "You wouldn't _dare!_ Surely I have already more than paid for my wayward conduct. _"_

Wagging a finger at her, he remonstrated, "Ah-ah, naughty girl! Let's not forget – you've been caught red-handed with your hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. And, under the circumstances, I believe that some just reminder of your transgression is warranted. After all, I do hold the winning hand."

Glaring at him yet again and, her eyes narrowing vehemently, she howled furiously, "You filthy degenerate!"

"Now, surely that is the pot calling the kettle black, if I may say so."

Continuing her withering stare, she inquired, "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Oh, nothing too salacious," and, pausing in reflection, he suddenly brightened and, as if having hit on the perfect solution, he suggested, "In all fairness, turnabout does seem the proper retribution."

Paling noticeably, she queried, "Turnabout, what sort of turnabout?"

"I should think that would be obvious, dear Sabrina. Tomorrow, you should endeavor to voluntarily shower most alluringly directly before the viewing port, thereby allowing an assembled audience of your victims to inspect your attributes precisely as you have theirs."

"I'll do no such thing!" she exclaimed in obvious terror.

"Ah, I see," he responded, already certain that this would be her response, "Then I'm afraid that you shall be reprimanded, fired, and subsequently expelled from college. Too bad, I should have thought that you would have been more than willing to return the favor to those you've so wickedly maligned."

Her demeanor suddenly changing markedly, she responded contritely, "I'm so ashamed. My curiosity got the better of me, Sloan. I'd never seen a naked man before," and at this, she dropped her head, thereby demonstrating genuine remorse. Momentarily, she pled, "But please, don't force me to do such a thing. Is there some reasonable alternative that you might propose?"

"I'm sure I have no idea," he exclaimed, his hand on his chin. "What do you suggest?"

Resigned to her predicament, she responded sullenly, "Perhaps I could pay for my mistake in some way that would mollify you without subjecting me to public ridicule."

"Perhaps, but I confess I had something else in mind," he retorted cheerfully.

Eyeing him doubtfully, she responded, "Like what?"

Tugging a razor from his pocket he suggested, "Well, I thought to give a you nice clean shave..."

"What!" she cried in astonishment, and then, fear overtaking her, she whimpered, "Please, please, don't subject me to such embarrassment, you pervert!"

Ignoring her plea, he advanced to her, whispering, "Best not to fight it, Sabrina."

But before he reached her, she blurted, "Wait, just give me a moment. Please!"

"Ok-kay..." he mumbled.

And at this she inquired, "I don't understand, what could be the purpose of shaving me? Please tell me!"

Eyeing her pensively, he responded, "Why, I should think it obvious. Having measurably altered your physical appearance, at least for the time being, it will give you pause to ponder your wayward behavior for some lengthy period of time, thereby repeatedly reminding you that behavior such as yours is unacceptable and should never be repeated."

Pondering his reply, she now posited, "Alright, that being the case, surely you will allow me to perform the act upon myself."

"Whyever for?" he queried.

"For the simple reason that I shall not be subjected to the ignominy of having you peruse my privates, you despicable pervert."

Contemplating her counter offer, he responded, "Alright, I shall make you a compromise offer. Should you agree to discontinue calling me a pervert, I shall allow you to perform the required shaving upon your own self."

"Done!" she exclaimed, "But only under the condition that I may do so with my back turned toward you."

At this he stared at her momentarily, and then, his acceptance apparent, he handed the razor to her and exclaimed, "I shall consider the matter closed, and shall never speak of it again on completion of the assigned task."

With a silent nod of acceptance, she took the proffered implement and, turning away from him, she completed her punishment in short order. She then turned back toward him and handed the razor over, saying, "Her, you...you unsavory bastard!"

"Ah-ah-," he remonstrated, "Please to drop the towel. I must have confirmation, you know."

Pointing to the evidence scattered about the floor, she observed, "There it is right there on the floor, you imbecile."

Scanning where she pointed, he responded, "Ah, and so it is. Well, then, Sabrina. It seems that your penance is complete. Accordingly, I shall wish you a good evening." And with that he turned and departed the shower.

Late That Night

**Unable to sleep, Sloan** arose from bed, electing to go for a midnight stroll, his brazen retaliation on the hapless Sabrina having somehow amplified his entire metabolism to an uncontrollable pitch. On departing the confines of the inn, he found that the weather was warm and comforting, despite the lateness of the hour. Having no direction in mind, he wandered aimlessly for several minutes, eventually finding himself drawn to the serenity of the lake. Approaching the shore, he made his way through the last of the trees, noticing that, contrary to his own roiling emotions, the water was unusually placid.

Pausing at the water's edge, he murmured to himself, "Too bad there is no moonlight tonight. It would have surely provided an ethereal quality to the setting." Thenceforth removing his shoes, he allowed the water to flow over his feet, and in so doing, he was further surprised to find the sensation warm and inviting.

Suddenly, a wayward thought coming to mind, he decided that a short swim would provide just the right measure of fatigue, thereby allowing him to embrace sleep upon his return to his repose. Accordingly, he tugged his shorts downward, stepping from them in a single lascivious motion. Wading naked into the water, a prurient excitement washed over him, the thrill of swimming alone in the altogether somehow the perfect ending to a thoroughly implausible evening.

Once up to his neck, he pushed into a slow crawl, swimming effortlessly into the darkness, feeling his utterly taut muscles relax in response to the encroaching fluid. Ahead, he could barely make out the swimming dock and, reaching for it, he heaved himself up the stairs, gasping a bit from the effort. Turning, he gazed into the darkness toward the opposing shore, taking in the tranquil setting as best he could within the impinging darkness.

Momentarily, a distant sound reaching his ears, he glanced about, perceiving an illusory figure swimming toward him from the shoreline. As he peered in utter amazement, the apparition swam deliberately to the ladder and, thrusting herself silently from the water, she strode directly into his arms. Though she was outfitted within a swimsuit, swimming goggles and bathing cap, he could have no doubt whatsoever as to the identity of his audacious interloper.

Having no thought of declining her daring intrusion, he bent toward her, accepting the situation for what it was – a surreal coincidence beyond all human comprehension. The exhilarated pair clutched one another desperately, their mutual attraction overwhelming all else. Then, still locked within a passionate embrace, she reached down and, caressing his swollen member, she whispered between kisses, "My suit, my suit..."

Taking her utterance for an erotic demand, he reached forward, clasped one strap in each hand and, gently tugging each downward simultaneously, he extricated her from the tight-fitting swimsuit in a single smooth motion. Somehow finding her exotically enshrouded visage quite provocative, he slid slowly to his knees and, leaning forward towards her fully exposed physique, he kissed her gently on each breast. Thereafter drifting lower, he kissed her clean-shaven triangle, whispering, "Sabrina, you're so lovely. I want you so."

Hearing this, she tugged his lips upwards towards hers, whispering covetously, "Shut up, you idiot," and then, at the moment their lips joined in searching passion, she murmured softly, "Inside, please," and then again, unrelentingly, "Inside me, I must have you inside me."

Responding to her insistent cue, he quickly located the spot she had referred to, thrust impulsively and, finding it infinitely natural, he glided effortlessly between her immediately thrusting hips.

It was all over in a matter of minutes, that most intimate of all activities that can occur between consenting adults, he falling to his back in utter exhaustion, completely unable to control his now entirely depleted frame.

Suddenly and quite inexplicably bursting into motion, she sprang to her feet and, diving into the water, she swam toward the shore. He, unable to summon the energy to pursue her, rolled languidly to one side and, peering after her vanishing strokes in the darkness, he pondered to himself that this was indeed the singularly appropriate ending to a perfect summer - a divine intervention into what had up to that very moment in his life been a rather mundane existence.

"Tomorrow," he thought to himself, "I shall have her yet again. She is just the most perfect creature I've ever come across, and now she is mine for the taking."

The Following Morning

**Sloan slept late,** which seemed rather appropriate, given the events of the preceding night. It was his final free day of the summer, the season now drawing to a close. Eventually arising from his bed, he crept into the bathroom, finding James shaving therein. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were still about," he exclaimed.

"No problem," James responded, observing, "You're up rather late."

"Right, I couldn't sleep last night," Sloan replied matter-of-factly, "I went for a stroll down by the lake."

"Ah, I thought I heard you go out. So, what shall we do today? After all, we are free all day."

"Why don't we see if Isolde and Sabrina would like to connect up with us?" Sloan suggested.

"Not possible," James responded.

"Why ever for?"

"Sabrina has left."

At this Sloan exclaimed in utter surprise, "What! Has she gone out for the day?"

"No, she's actually left."

"What!" Sloan gasped in complete denial, "You mean, she's _gone_?"

"Yes, she's departed," James observed matter-of-factly, "She told Isolde that she had to get back to school. She's gone back to college in Pennsylvania, I'm afraid."

Now turning pensive, Sloan responded, "That's strange, I thought classes didn't start for another week."

"Right. They don't start for another week in Boston, but who knows when classes start at Bryn Mawr."

Realization of his loss slowly dawning on him, Sloan gasped forlornly, "Oh, I say, this is quite terrible news!"

"Well, it's not as bad as all that," James responded, "You seem to have developed a fancy for Isolde, if I'm not mistaken, and she's still here."

At this, Sloan simply stared at him, still pondering the revelation that Sabrina had left without so much as saying goodbye to him. How could she have done such a thing after last night?

Changing the subject, James now inquired, "Whatever transpired with the hole in the wall, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing of significance," Sloan responded absentmindedly.

" _Nothing!_ Oh, come now, old chap. You seem to have been obsessed ever since I mentioned it to you. Surely _something_ happened."

"Well, in fact _something_ did happen, but nothing that I am in a position to divulge. Let me simply say that the problem has been dispensed with."

"I see..." James responded diffidently and, changing the subject yet again, he added surreptitiously, "Well then, perhaps we should begin preparing for our return to Boston next weekend."

"Right," Sloan mumbled distractedly, "Sounds good to me."

Chapter 4

War Intervenes

TELEGRAM

Western Union

September 3, 1941

To: Sloan Stewart

Hightower Hall

Harvard University

Boston, Massachusetts

United States of America

From: Alastair Stewart

Trinity College

Cambridge University

Cambridge, United Kingdom

You are commanded to report for military service by October 1. Passage booked, Thursday, Sept 6, on U.S. Merchant Ship Fremont out of Boston, arriving Portsmouth. Will meet you dockside in England. AS

Boston – Two Hours Later

" **You're what?" James** exclaimed, eyes wide in utter amazement.

"I said, I'm dropping out of school," Sloan replied forlornly.

"But why?" James inquired incredulously.

"I've received a telegram from my father. I've been drafted into the military."

"But I thought you said he was going to keep you from having to serve."

"Well, I thought so, too, but things must have taken a turn for the worse in England," Sloan responded, "So there's really nothing I can do. I must go home right away, James. My ship leaves in three days."

"Oh, my...I assume you are going to see Isolde before leaving."

"Yes, of course. I've already arranged to have dinner with her."

"Where will they ship you, do you know?"

"No, I've no idea at all. I don't even know what branch of service it will be, although, since my father served in the army during The Great War, I suppose that is the most likely possibility."

"This is absolutely shocking. We must have a going away party for you."

"That isn't necessary, James."

"Perhaps, but I'd like to do it anyway, with your permission, of course."

"Alright, but please don't go to any trouble."

The Following Evening

**Sloan stood silently by the wharf,** contemplating in the fading rays of sunshine the unknown that lay before him. In less than thirty-six hours he would be boarding the Fremont in this very harbor, bound for England and a world at war. Suddenly the click of feminine heels on pavement drew him back and, turning to his left he saw her approaching, a smile spreading across her otherwise forlorn features.

"Sloan! Dear Sloan," she managed to blurt before grasping him in a tight embrace, a flood of tears staining her smile, "We must make the most of tonight. It may be our last for a long while."

Desperately holding back tears of his own, all he could bear to respond was, "Isolde, dear Isolde."

The pair dined at Clambake, one of Boston's finest seafood restaurants, something they would never have thought of doing under normal circumstances. But of course, this wasn't a normal circumstance at all.

After they had completed their repast, the mood turning solemn, Isolde exclaimed disconsolately, "I don't understand, I thought your father had arranged for you to remain in school here in the United States."

At this he responded introspectively, "Yes, I thought so too, but there are limits to his political powers, Isolde, and the situation in Europe has deteriorated significantly. What with the capitulation of France, the advance of the Germans in North Africa, and the attack on Russia in the East, the Allies are in dire straits. The Axis powers could well take all of Europe and Asia before long."

"It all seems so far away," she murmured, suggesting, "Surely the United States won't be drawn into it."

"Don't be so sure of that," he replied, "This war is far from over. Look what happened in the Great War. Both sides thought it would end in a matter of months, but it lasted more than four years, and millions upon millions of lives were lost. And to be honest, it appears that Hitler and his henchmen will not rest until they've had their full revenge."

Drawing one hand to her throat, Isolde exclaimed, "Now you're scaring me! You could get wounded, or worse, Sloan!"

"There is that, but there is nothing at all that can be done about it, dear Isolde. I must report, or I face a court martial for draft evasion. I'm afraid that, given the two alternatives, the former is the only reasonable course of action. So I'm bound for England on tomorrow's tide, I'm afraid."

"I can't stand it!" she exclaimed. "How shall I go on without you, dear Sloan!"

"You must, and you shall. And for my part, I shall promise to come back, when it's all over. Should I survive this war, I promise to return to Boston."

She eyed him mournfully, then mumbled, "I suppose that is all one could expect," and, contemplating for a moment, she added, "What about Sabrina?"

"What about her?" he inquired dismissively.

"Don't you want to see her before you go?"

"I doubt that she would see me even if I tried, after the events of the summer. Besides, there isn't time for me to go to Pennsylvania."

"But you adore her, Sloan. Anyone can see that!"

"Isolde, let us not concern ourselves with personal feelings at this juncture in time. Whatever any of us feels at this moment, with time the war shall change everything. When it is all over, we may consider our own emotions, but for now, duty must take the forefront."

"What a load of unmitigated balderdash!" she responded bluntly, "Wherever on earth did you come up with that?"

He peered dejectedly at her for a moment, then offered, "From my father, Isolde. He lived through the most horrible war in the history of humankind and, having lost a leg, he came home from the war and sought out his long lost love, only to find her on her death bed, dying from the influenza epidemic. He somehow righted his life thereafter, married her sister, who became my mother I might add, and has subsequently enjoyed a long and happy life."

At this she stared at him in wonder and murmured, "Well, that may be, but I know how I feel, and I shall feel thusly forever."

"Right, as you should," he offered and, placing his hand over hers, he repeated, "As you should. Now, I must be on my way, dear Isolde."

"May I see you off, Sloan?"

"Please - no, Isolde. This setting is so much more fitting. Can we let this be the place of parting?"

"Yes, I suppose you are right," she responded, tears now streaming down her face yet again, "Alright then, give us a hug, dear friend." And at this he did her bidding, subsequently turning to leave.

As he strode away she murmured, "Bye, dear Sloan, dear dear Sloan," but he was already beyond earshot.

Off the coast of Newfoundland - September 7

**Fast asleep within his bunk, Sloan** was awakened by the sound of an enormous explosion, thereby assuring him that the ship had been struck by a torpedo launched from a German U-Boat. Having prepared for just such a possibility, he quickly bounded from bed, feeling the ship already listing noticeably to starboard.

He had read about the situation in the North Atlantic, hundreds of Allied and American ships already having been sunk by the Germans. He had even imagined what he might do if he were aboard a sinking ship, in this, a war unlike any other. He was therefore rather better prepared than most of the other three hundred passengers aboard the ship. Accordingly, he quickly dressed in his warmest clothing, placing his valuables within his coat pocket, and made for the deck as rapidly as humanly possible. He was one of the first passengers to reach the lifeboats, and none too soon, for the torpedo had struck amidships, blasting through two of the ship's main bulkheads in the process.

An officer motioned frantically to him as he came alongside the life boat, screaming, "Hurry, man! The ship's going down! Anyone onboard this ship in five minutes is going to the bottom alongside the Titanic! Hurry, man!"

At this, Sloan paled, replying, "Shouldn't we wait for the women and children?"

"What women and children? There are very few of them onboard this ship! Not many are willing to chance the crossing for the very reason that we are faced with at this moment. Now, there's no time to lose. Get aboard the lifeboat, now!"

At this, Sloan scampered over the side, jumping haphazardly into the boat alongside several other terrified looking passengers. Several more passengers followed and, the boat now little more than half full, the officer ordered, "Lower away!"

Sloan called out, "But we're only half full, sir!"

"Shut up! Lower away!" the officer ordered yet again, and the boat suddenly lurched downwards. Moments later the bow slapped the surface of the Atlantic, Sloan noticing that it was an unusually calm night on the open sea.

Several of the passengers within the lifeboat now grabbed oars, Sloan included, and pulled as quickly as possible away from the rapidly sinking ship, in hopes of reaching far enough away to avoid being capsized by the ship when it went down.

Sloan watched as two more lifeboats were launched, then a third, and finally a fourth, but that was the last one launched, the ship going down half a minute thereafter. He gazed in distress as two partially launched lifeboats fell sideways into the sea, expelling their passengers as the ship went down. Just before the ship disappeared beneath the surface, he watched in horror as several people jumped over the side.

"Hurry!" Sloan shouted to his fellow passengers, "We've got to get back to the ship! There may be survivors!" But to his amazement, the remaining occupants simply halted rowing, stunned into immobility by the horrifying scene unfolding before them. Grabbing an oar, he tugged on it desperately, but to no avail. It simply wasn't possible for one person to row several hundred yards back toward the spot where the ship had gone down.

As it was, the screams from the dying ended shortly thereafter, all having quickly perished from the freezing cold waters of the North Atlantic.

There were by this point several men moaning onboard the lifeboat, as well as one middle aged woman wailing at the top of her lungs. Pushing his way over to her side, Sloan commanded, "Please madam, control yourself!"

Ignoring his entreaty, she kept on wailing. He summarily leaned forward and, slapping her soundly, he exclaimed, "Shut up! If you want to live through this night, stop wailing, madam," at which, staring at him in shock, she abruptly stopped.

Sloan then turned to the remaining passengers and inquired, "Anyone know anything about boating?" As no one responded, he inquired, "Anyone know how to swim?"

Several of the passengers raised their hands, and at this revelation, Sloan exclaimed, "Good! Now, I've read a bit about the Titanic, and if memory serves, there was another ship not too far off, and those who were lucky enough to escape in the lifeboats were rescued by morning. So I suggest we all batten down the hatches, and await sunrise as calmly as possible."

"What does 'batten down the hatches' mean?" one young man queried inanely.

Glancing in his direction, Sloan responded authoritatively, "It means, stay low and keep as warm as possible."

"Right. Got it," the young man responded, clearly pacified by Sloan's self-assurance.

Thereafter, the forlorn group spent the entire night on the open sea, the temperature hovering just above freezing. By sunrise it was apparent that, due to the frigid temperature and the lack of warm clothing worn by the passengers, they would not last long before the situation would become dire indeed. Hoping to ward off the inevitable, Sloan announced, "Alright! Everyone wake up! Now, swing your arms to and fro, like this!"

At this, one young man moaned lethargically, "Why ever for? I'm cold!"

"Precisely!" Sloan commanded, "Get those arms moving! Everyone, get the blood flowing. Help should be here soon!" at which one of his charges began to do his bidding, followed shortly thereafter by the remaining few.

Toward mid-morning they heard the sound of a ship's horn and, gazing in the direction of the sound, they saw a ship steaming their way. The survivors suddenly began screaming and waving frantically in fear that their rescuer would fail to see them. The ship continued straight toward them, affecting their rescue shortly thereafter. Although more than three-fourths of those on board had gone down with the ship, all those in Sloan's care survived.

St. Johns, Newfoundland – The Following Day

**Sloan sat listlessly within the warehouse,** relieved to simply be out of the blowing gale without. They had been issued blankets, along with a warm breakfast, and now the passengers were simply awaiting their fate, whatever it might be. As he waited, wondering how long he would be forced to remain in Newfoundland, an American officer came forward and inquired, "Are you Mr. Stewart, sir?"

"Yes, I am," Sloan replied, standing as he did so.

The officer said, "You are to be commended, sir. Several others who were in your lifeboat claim that you saved their lives."

"I doubt that, sir," Sloan denied, "I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances."

"Still, you are the one who took charge, Mr. Stewart," and so saying, the officer saluted him and, holding out a congratulatory hand, he posited, "I understand that you are on your way to England to report for military duty. Is that correct?"

Taking the proffered hand, Sloan responded politely, "Yes, sir, that is indeed correct."

"Excellent. It so happens, we have a military aircraft at the airfield at this very moment, sir, and it is on its way to Shannon, from whence it will fly to England. There happens to be room onboard for one additional military person, and you being the only one available at the moment, I am instructed to inform you that you may make the passage by air forthwith, sir."

"Oh, that is splendid!" Sloan replied.

"We must make haste, Mr. Stewart. Please follow me," and so saying, the officer turned on his heel, Sloan following in close pursuit.

The plane, with Sloan aboard, landed in England the following day.

Cambridge, England - September 10, 1941

**Sloan stepped down** from the train to the platform, glancing eagerly about for a familiar face. The bustle about him was quite surprising, as it had been the previous day in London. During his two-year absence, wartime had changed England immeasurably.

Hearing a familiar call, he turned and, seeing him coming his way, he exclaimed, "Father!"

"Sloan, hoowever on aerth aer, ye?" his father queried, immediately tugging him into a tight embrace.

"I'm fine," he responded with evident relief. "Where's mother? Did she come with you to the station?"

"Aye, ay coorse. She be joost oover thar," and so saying, he pointed toward the end of the quay.

Spotting her, Sloan waved frantically and broke into a trot, all thought having left him at the sight of her. Moments later he rushed into her waiting arms, exclaiming, "Mother! It's been much too long."

"Yes, dear, so it has. But here you are!" she responded, kissing him on the cheek as she hugged him tightly.

Alastair, moving with surprising agility on his prosthetic leg, arrived momentarily at their side, querying furtively, "Whit happened, son? Hoow did ye manage tae get hoome a week aerly?"

Not wanting to alarm his parents unduly, Sloan responded evasively, "Long story..."

"Ye moost ay floown," his father put in, "Boot hoow did ye manage thit?"

"I caught the ship, father, but it was torpedoed by a U-boat, and it went down three days out of Boston."

"Bloody hell!" his mother exclaimed in alarm, "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, but I was one of the lucky ones. Most of the people on board went down with the ship."

"Jobby! I woos fearin' of thit," his father said, "We hae loost literally hundreds ay ships oon the Atlantic since the war staerted. Soo hoow did ye get tae haer?"

"I caught a military plane in Newfoundland."

"Thit waer goowd foortune," his father replied.

"Yes, I suppose it was my first military act. But now I have three weeks before I must report, so perhaps we should make the most of it."

Burma – January, 1942

**Sloan gazed through the** tiny window of the American C-47 'Gooney Bird' aircraft. As he did so, it glided softly to the ground, the pilot executing a perfect landing. Outside, the airstrip appeared to be a veritable hive of activity and, as the aircraft taxied in, he contemplated to himself how he had arrived at such a desolate place.

He had enjoyed a quiet few days at home, reporting thereafter for duty in London. By late November he had completed his military training and, having somehow been assigned the rank of lieutenant in His Majesty's Royal Army, he had been issued orders for North Africa, where the battle with Rommel's Afrika Korps continued to rage.

Accordingly, he had been transported by air to Alexandria, where he had worked with the planners of Operation Crusader, the offensive that was tasked with pushing back the Axis forces in North Africa. This offensive having been somewhat successful, he had subsequently been transferred to Burma for the purpose of providing strategic planning support for a potential British offensive in Burma.

Although he had studied up on the situation in Burma, he was totally unprepared for what he encountered there, jungle warfare being a far cry from the desert warfare he had so recently encountered in North Africa. To make matters worse, the Allied forces in Southern Burma were disorganized, disheartened and poorly led, as opposed to the Japanese forces, who were well supplied, highly motivated, and unified. As a result, the Allies were pushed halfway across Southern Burma within weeks of Sloan's arrival there.

Fig. 1 Map of Burma

Boston – February, 1942

**James handed the sergeant** the piece of paper, saying with palpable exasperation, "Here is the document, sergeant. As you can see, my doctor has declared me unfit for active duty."

The soldier eyed the piece of paper, saying, "So, a heart murmur, is it? Too bad. You look like you'd have made a strapping good foot soldier."

"Exactly as I had hoped but, as you can see, it doesn't appear that I shall have my wish," James mumbled disconsolately, "Is there nothing that I might do to help the war effort, sergeant?"

"I doubt it, at least not in military service. Under the circumstances, you will have to report to the civilian authorities. They will make a determination as to whether there are any civilian activities appropriate for one with your physical condition."

"And where might I report for that?" James inquired hopefully.

"Downtown, the court house, and take this with you. It will explain your medical condition," and so saying, he handed the doctor's finding back to James.

"Thank you," James responded despondently, "I'll go right over," and at this he turned and departed the recruiting office.

Burma - Early March, 1942

**Sloan drove his vehicle gingerly** through the mass of soldiers rushing to and fro within the jungle clearing, halted abruptly and rushed into the command hut. On entering he discovered a comparable level of cacophony, prompting him to inquire to no one in particular, "I say, what in the name of Stirling Bridge is going on?"

Turning to observe Leftenant Stewart, Colonel Wilson responded abruptly, "General Alexander has ordered Rangoon evacuated. That's what's going on, Lieutenant!" and, turning back to his task, he ordered surreptitiously, "Now, let's get everything we can out of here as quickly as possible. Whatever we can't take with us, we have to destroy!"

"Yes, sir," Sloan responded respectfully. Two hours later, they were heading north in the jeep, along with the entire British Army of Burma. The next several months were a non-stop exercise in escape from the perpetually encroaching Japanese Army. Although Colonel Wilson managed to keep his battalion pushing northwards, they were constantly hindered by rain, clogged roadways, and growing numbers of fleeing refugees. The entire spring was one of unimaginable misery, occasional torrential rains creating unhealthy circumstances that led to an interminable plethora of illnesses among the retreating troops.

In May Colonel Wilson's troops were finally run to ground by the onrushing Japanese and, exhausted and ill-equipped, they surrendered shortly thereafter. By then Sloan was in bad shape, having experienced all he could stand of jungle warfare. But that was nothing as compared to the treatment he and his fellow prisoners of war were subsequently afforded at the hands of the Japanese Army. They were immediately marched forty miles through the jungle, the stifling monsoon season taking a heavy toll, and forced to build their own prisoner of war camp.

By mid-July the relentless cycle of stifling heat interrupted by torrential rains had reduced the camp to little more than an enormous and ill-equipped hospital. By that point, nearly a fourth of the prisoners of war had perished from illness or malnutrition. For his part, Sloan had descended into a state of near oblivion, surviving initially week to week, then day to day, and eventually hour to hour. Their daily ration consisted of a bowl of rice and a quart of water, all of which led to a steady deterioration in overall health within the camp. Thankfully, the monsoon ended shortly thereafter, conditions within the camp improving somewhat as a result.

January, 1943

**Sloan lay half-delirious within** his makeshift bunk, the stench of accumulated sweat having long since become inconsequential. On this day his extreme state of exhaustion afforded him a rare opportunity to daydream and, envisioning something vaguely reminiscent of an orchard, there seemed to be a lake off in the distance. Frowning in his semi-conscious state, he struggled to apply another brush stroke to the image within his dream. Abruptly encroaching on his reverie, a sonorous voice exclaimed gruffly, "Wake up!"

"What the...?" he responded, adding groggily to no one in particular, "What's going on?"

"They're moving us, to another camp," Colonel Wilson responded wearily.

"Oh, God, I hope it's not too far, sir," Sloan groaned meekly, "The men can't take too much at this point."

"I'll see what I can find out," Colonel Wilson responded, and at this he dragged himself upward and limped uncertainly from the hut. Sloan grunted and, pushing himself into a standing position, he stretched his aching muscles in preparation for the coming challenge.

Within minutes Colonel Wilson was back, reporting with resignation, "They're telling us we'll be marched for three days, arriving at another prisoner camp. Apparently, the Japanese are building a railway connecting Thailand to Burma. We're being assigned to help with the construction. Our immediate charge is to build a section of the railway in the Khwae Noi Valley. Apparently we're being relocated there for that purpose."

"How far do you think we'll have to march, sir?" Sloan inquired fearfully.

"I'm not sure, could be as much as a hundred miles, I reckon."

"Bloody hell! If it's that far, we shall lose quite a lot of men."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but we have no choice in the matter. We shall simply have to carry on as ordered. Otherwise, they shall shoot us where we stand."

"I say," Sloan exclaimed, "You're telling me we're going to build a bridge so that the Japanese army can kill more people, right?"

"Bollocks, lieutenant! Doesn't sound good at all when you put it that way," Colonel Wilson responded jadedly. "I prefer to think of it this way – we shall do exactly as we are ordered so that we can survive this war."

"How long do you think it will take – to build the bridge, sir?"

"No idea, but does it really matter? Tis something to keep us quite occupied, and perhaps that will help us to keep going, lieutenant."

"Right, sir. But in the meantime, quite a lot of us are going to die from the sheer effort involved," Sloan mumbled to himself.

Perceiving Sloan's sense of despair, Colonel Wilson responded with newfound willpower, "Damn right, but just as many of us are going to die from just lying around in this stinking jungle, if you ask me!"

"I suppose you are quite correct, Colonel," Sloan responded with newborn resolve, "When do we set off, sir?"

"We shall be setting out tomorrow. I expect that we shall be chopping timber before the week is out," he observed, adding with misplaced optimism, "Cheer up, lieutenant, it will keep you going."

"I don't need anything to keep me going, sir. I already have something for that."

"And what might that be?"

"A Van Gogh, right up here in my head. Most amazing painting you'll ever see."

"Which one?"

"Which what, sir?"

"Which Van Gogh," Colonel Wilson inquired. "I seem to recall one named 'Starry Night', or something like that."

"Oh, this one hasn't been seen yet, sir."

"What? Why ever for, leftenant?"

"Because I haven't put it on canvas yet. That's why!" Sloan exclaimed facetiously.

"Ah, I see, you're forging your very own Van Gogh in your head, is that it?" the colonel queried inanely.

"Yes, sir, that's it precisely."

"And just exactly what is it a painting of?"

"Tis a portrait of a woman, sir."

"Hmmm..." the colonel mumbled, "Sounds intriguing. And what, pray tell, is this woman doing?"

"She's taking a shower, of course."

"Why am I not surprised, lieutenant," Colonel Wilson responded, "I don't recall ever having seen a pornographic Van Gogh. I should think it will sell quite well."

"Ha! You think I'd sell my Van Gogh!" Sloan shot back, "Not a chance!"

"Then why paint it?"

"Tis keeping me alive, sir."

"Bollocks! I shall just bet tis keeping you alive," Colonel Wilson mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief, "Sounds more like tis keeping you at attention!"

"No, sir, tis nothing of the kind. Tis simply keeping me going until I can get home and see the real article," Sloan announced with palpable self-assurance.

"And just exactly when do I get to see this painting, lieutenant?" Colonel Wilson inquired, now having become completely distracted from reality.

"After the war is over, I shall show it to you, Colonel. You shall see, sir, tis priceless!"

"We shall see about that," Colonel Wilson responded and, suddenly returning to reality, he commanded abruptly, "Now, get some sleep, lieutenant. We must hike twenty or thirty miles tomorrow, doubtless through some vermin-infested swamps, if I know our captors."

May, 1943

**Sloan rolled over on** his bunk, his tortuous demons keeping him awake. It was like a double edged sword \- his memories affording him little sleep, but at the same time occupying his deepest thoughts - in the process somehow steeling him to live.

"As long as it takes," he told himself, "I'm going to survive, and one day I'm going to go home. I'm going to go find that gorgeous chit, and when I do I'm going to swat her on the arse. I'm going to whack that gorgeous bum of hers with this hand if it's the last thing I ever do on this godforsaken earth," and so saying, he ogled his own hand, as if it were in fact the object of his desire.

And so it went, night after night, week after week, the weeks dragging indolently into months. On this night, the ache was so fierce that he knew he would have to take action. He despised himself when he did so, but he knew there was no escaping it. He rolled onto his back, grasped his manhood, and began, slowly at first, then eventually whacking away, finally groaning in relief as his release poured forth, streaming down his leg.

Of course, the other prisoners could hear him, but decorum had long since vanished in this subhuman place. What little humanity remained ensured that each man allowed his neighbors solitude, in the knowledge that before long his own helpless groan of temporary release would also echo through the camp.

Now sated, Sloan rolled back onto his side and, despite his release, his thoughts continued to focus on that night long ago, the night when he had become a man. In his mind he traced the outline of her leg, from ankle to waist, the curve defining the very essence of womanhood. Thus focused, his mind's eye now drifted inward, searching between the thighs, to a spot just where her leg commenced, a juncture where he imagined his hand tracing a line, preparing for the auspicious track of the razor's edge.

Sometimes he wondered to himself if it had really been as he imagined it in his mind each and every night, or perhaps his mind had in time embellished the vision, drawing it up into something beyond the reality that it had been on that warm summer's night. In either case, he never so much as thought to question why such prurient thoughts drove his insatiable will to survive. He only knew that survive he must.

"No," he abruptly exclaimed aloud to himself, "It was real, every second of it," and, opening his eyes, he traced with his finger the curve beneath the line of her breasts across the ceiling of the hut. And then, closing his eyes, there she was, painted within the very forefront of his mind, a Van Gogh for the ages. Had he had a paint brush, she'd have graced his canvas incandescently but, having none, his masterpiece was framed for all eternity within his mind, a priceless work of art, one that lay deep within his injured soul.

Early October, 1943

**Having now been a prisoner of war for eighteen months, Sloan's** willpower had finally begun to wane. By now he simply floated from day to day. More than one in three of the original detainees had by now succumbed. He himself looked a scarecrow - his clothes, what little there was left of them, hanging loosely about him. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything other than rice, nor drunk anything other than water. Thankfully, water was not rare, the rain falling nearly every day. And, whereas the rain had been an initial nuisance, he now thought of it as nothing less than the essence of life itself. Though there were the ever-present boils and sores from the constant humidity, the intermittent rainfall nearly every day allowed the prisoners to remain somewhat clean and disinfected.

He no longer masturbated at night, the ability to ejaculate having long since disappeared due to malnutrition. It mattered not to him, his virility having vanished to an ignominious grave. Instead, he tossed and turned at night, a vision of a gorgeous brunette tormenting him constantly, the details wafting and waning, like images from an over worn fragment of film.

Somehow, he had to keep going. But at times, he felt himself functioning as a dog. Indeed, he wondered if in his debilitated state he had actually metamorphosed into a canine. He even caught himself on occasion barking in lieu of enunciated words, mere grunts of satisfaction or dissatisfaction. And when he defecated, rare though the occurrence, he simply squatted in the open trench like a dog, entirely oblivious as to whether someone observed him.

The massive bridge was now nearly complete, the men toiling away each and every day in their subhuman state. On this day Sloan dropped to his knees, exhaustion making it impossible to carry on with the work crew. He had reached the point where death was his only salvation. The other workers, having seen it all too many times, simply kept on toiling away. For his part, Sloan lapsed into delirium.

"Sloan!" the man next to him exclaimed, "Sloan!" and this time he kicked Sloan furiously.

Emerging from his momentary stupor, he barked, "What?"

"Get on your feet, man! The guard is coming this way. If you don't get up, he will beat you mercilessly until you are dead. Get up!"

Sloan rose wearily to his feet, grabbed the end of the log and, heaving upwards, he mumbled emotionlessly, "Thanks, Frank. That was a close one."

March, 1944

**Sloan, trudging along** with the other prisoners toward the worksite, leaned forward and, touching Frank's sleeve, he asked vacantly, "What month is it, Frank?"

"Dunno," Frank responded and, poking his neighbor, he inquired, "Bill, what month is it?"

"March. At least, I think it's March," Bill responded, scratching his beard in thought.

"We've been working on this damn bridge for nearly a year," Sloan volunteered to no one in particular, "How much longer before it's finished?"

"Colonel Wilson says a couple of months," Frank responded blandly.

"Wonder what they'll make us do after that," Sloan mumbled to himself.

"Build another one!" Frank replied, "We're only halfway across Burma, man!"

"Yeah, but surely there are other crews building further west from here."

"Does it matter? As long as they need us, they shall keep on working us. It's when they no longer need us that I'm concerned about," Frank added sagely.

"I shan't last that long," Sloan blurted out in exhaustion.

"Just keep thinking on that brown-haired vixen you described to me," Frank put in, "She will keep you going. Bloody hell, the thought of her is keeping _me_ going for sure!"

Sloan eyed him momentarily and responded in all candor, "Thanks, man. I nearly forgot my own painting."

November, 1944

" **Sloan!" Frank called.**

"I say, what do you want?" Sloan answered from his bunk.

"Colonel Wilson wants you," Frank responded.

"Right," Sloan replied, rising wearily as he said this. "What does he want?"

"No idea. Ours is not to question why, and all that rot, old chap."

Sloan walked as briskly as he could to the colonel's hut and, on arriving, he saluted, saying, "You wanted me, sir?"

Stretched out on his bunk, Colonel Wilson replied, "Right, Sloan, I did. Look here, old chap, my health is none too good. I'm afraid I may not last out the week."

"What seems to be the problem, sir?"

"Probably dysentery. God knows, I can't keep anything inside me. Everything goes right through."

"Sorry to hear that, sir," Sloan replied.

"Listen, in case, I don't make it, I shall need a replacement. Are you willing to take it on?"

"Take on what, sir?"

"Command," was the single word reply.

"What - of the whole battalion, sir?"

"Yes, such as it is, that is what I am asking."

"But what about Wilkins, and Fortenberry, sir? Both of them outrank me."

"I know, but look here, it's obvious that neither of them is able to take command. Wilkins is simply lost in the current situation, and Fortenberry is much too sickly. I've talked with the both of them, and they agree that you're the man for the job."

"Uhm, I'm not quite certain I'm up to it either, sir."

"Right. Show me someone that is, soldier."

Sloan leaned on the hut wall for a moment and, contemplating momentarily, he responded, "Yes, I understand, sir, but to be honest, I'm not certain I want to do it."

"Precisely," Colonel Wilson responded, "That's why you're the man for the job. Now, stand to attention, soldier!" and at this, Sloan did as commanded, Colonel Wilson continuing with, "Lieutenant Stewart, I hereby promote you to the rank of Major, and I appoint you to command of the battalion at such time that I am no longer able to do so." And at this he saluted Sloan, who silently returned his salute.

Colonel Wilson died the following week.

April, 1945

" **Major Stewart! Wake up, sir!"** the voice said. Sloan rolled over to one side, refusing to awaken. He had been dreaming of a brown-haired nymph. She had led him on a merry chase through the jungle and each time he had managed to come close, she had darted away, remaining just out of reach.

Irritated at the hand shoving him awake, he muttered over his shoulder to the offending party, "What! What do you want?"

"Sir, the guards have disappeared!"

Suddenly fully awake, he croaked, "What!" Rolling over to face the soldier, he swatted a fly away, querying, "What did you say?"

"The camp has been deserted, sir! The Japanese army is gone!"

At this, Sloan sat up and, scratching his unshaven face in thought, he commanded, "Assemble the men, sergeant. Let's find out what's going on here."

Ten minutes later, the troops assembled, Sloan announced, "Men, it appears that the enemy is on the run. Now, for those of you who consider this to be good news, may I remind you that just because we have no guards, it does not mean that we have been liberated. We still have this damned jungle to contend with, and we have no idea how long it will be before our own troops reach us. Therefore, I would advise you all to continue with your assigned military responsibilities. I shall assign a detail to reconnoiter for the purpose of determining what supplies are available, our main challenge being to stay alive until help arrives."

The camp was liberated by British troops ten days later. Against all odds, Sloan and half of his fellow prisoners of war had survived nearly three years of incarceration at the hands of the Japanese Imperial Army.
Chapter 5

Back from the Grave

Boston – Late August, 1945

**Sloan stepped down from** the train, his knees aching from the long flight home, not to mention the years in captivity. Although his weight was still down nearly forty pounds, the doctors had informed him before his discharge that he could be expected to make a full recovery.

Hailing a cab, he pondered the challenge ahead of him - millions of men were coming home from war, each and every one of them intent on making up for lost time. The future was thus daunting, but he surmised that nothing could ever compare to his experience of the past three years. All in all, he reckoned that he would somehow succeed, the immediate challenge being to reinitiate his studies at Harvard if at all possible.

The following day he visited the registrar's office, re-enrolling after an eternity of four years. He wondered to himself - had his debilitating captivity somehow lessened his academic capabilities? Only time would tell.

Late September, 1945

**Sloan sprawled languidly at** his usual spot in the coffee shop and, his studies completely absorbing his attention, he sipped absently on a cup of hot tea. Such small things seemed like luxuries to him now.

Suddenly distracted by a shadowy figure nearby, he glanced up, only to recognize a familiar face. "Why, Isolde, Isolde Channing, what a surprise! It's awfully good to see you!" and rising from his seat, he accepted her gentle embrace.

"Hullo, Sloan. How are you?" she replied tentatively.

"Never better," he responded politely, "And you?"

"Just fine," she responded sheepishly, and so saying, she pushed a small boy forward, he for his part, attempting to hide behind his mother's skirt. "Sloan, I'd like you to meet my son, Robert," she announced pointedly.

"Why, hello there," Sloan said, bending to offer the child his hand.

"Shake the nice man's hand, Robert," Isolde instructed. "Go on, he won't hurt you. He's an old friend of mine."

At this, the boy extended a tiny hand, gurgling doubtfully, "Hullo, sir."

Sloan grasped the boy's hand for a second and, releasing it, he observed, "My, he looks quite like you, Isolde. How old is he?"

"He's three," she replied, adding, "I'm married - to James."

"Oh, I say, good for you, Isolde! I'm sorry, I didn't know," Sloan replied in obvious embarrassment.

"To my knowledge, there is no way you could have known," she replied knowingly.

"Just so, just so," he responded thoughtfully. "At any rate, that is indeed wonderful news. How is James, anyway?"

"He's just fine. He's on the faculty now, you know."

"Actually, I had indeed heard that. That is quite impressive. I trust you are doing well here in Boston?"

"Yes, now that the war is over, things seem to be returning to normalcy."

"My, what a coincidence, meeting you here like this, after all these years," he volunteered wistfully.

"Actually, it's not a coincidence. I came looking for you, Sloan," she responded. "I heard that you were back, so I checked with the registrar. They gave me your address, so I went by there, and your roommate told me where I could find you. Apparently, this coffee shop is your personal study hall."

"Yes, well, I suppose you could say that. After three years in captivity, I cannot seem to function without a certain level of cacophony."

"I heard you were a prisoner of war," she volunteered complacently, "I'm so sorry, Sloan. Was it ever so bad?"

"Yes, well, I suppose that is indeed a story for another day," he responded evasively, "After all, I managed to survive, unlike so many others. So here I am, back in school, the future looking quite encouraging."

"That's the spirit!" she said and, peering at him searchingly, she inquired with surprising directness, "Sloan, I was hoping that we could rekindle our friendship from the old days. Would that be possible?"

"Why, of course! I would in fact be quite grateful to you. It isn't easy making new friends here, what with school and all."

"Wonderful! Perhaps you could come round for dinner with James and me, say, on Friday night?"

"That would be splendid! Where shall I come?"

Handing him a tiny piece of paper, she said, "This is the address. How does seven P.M. sound to you?"

"Perfect. I shall see you then. Goodbye, Isolde."

"Goodbye, Sloan. I'm ever so glad to see you home again, and in one piece."

The Following Friday Evening

**Sloan waited patiently on** the porch, the door eventually opening to the interior of a stunning brownstone. Isolde appeared within, announcing over her shoulder, "He's here, James!" and, turning back toward him, she added pleasantly, "Please, come in Sloan. It'so good of you to come."

"Thanks," Sloan responded doubtfully and, stepping within the two story entryway, he blurted rather inanely, "I say! What a place! This is indeed quite lovely, Isolde!"

"Thanks," she replied politely and, gazing about dismissively, she added with apparent disdain, "When your husband doesn't have to go off to war for four years, one can get ahead."

"Well, it seems you and James have done quite well," Sloan put in, following her into the living room, "There is certainly nothing wrong with that!"

"Ah, here you are! At long last!" James said with a smile as the pair entered the room, "How are you, Sloan? It's been much too long."

"Yes," Sloan responded agreeably and, taking James' outstretched hand, he added, "Almost exactly four years."

Apparently assessing Sloan's physical condition, James replied, "You look none the worse for wear. I hear you were a prisoner of war in Burma. There were even rumors you had died. Was it bad?"

"Quite so, but I was one of the fortunate survivors," Sloan answered and, changing the subject, he volunteered, "So, it seems you are on the faculty at Harvard. I say, good show!"

"Thanks, it's been a challenge, but it seems to be going well for me. What about you, Sloan?"

"Actually, I have veteran's benefits, thereby affording me the opportunity to go back to school for a bit, just until I decide what I might want to do with myself."

"Good idea. Isolde says you're back at Harvard, majoring in chemistry. Is that right?"

"Yes, I might even end up taking a course from you."

"You'll do fine. You're one of the most brilliant students I've ever met. You'll get a Ph.D. in no time, if I'm any judge at all."

"I doubt that, but we shall see," Sloan responded wistfully.

"Well, if there is anything I can do for you, just let me know," James offered pleasantly.

"Thanks, James. That is quite sporting of you. I may just take you up on it."

"Stop by my office any time," James replied empathetically.

The evening having gotten off to a good start, the three of them settled in for dinner, Isolde suggesting, "Shall we eat?"

"Of course," Sloan responded, thenceforth following his hosts into the dining room.

"How was the food in the prisoner of war camp?" James inquired once they had found their seats.

"Let me put it this way," Sloan replied, "I don't ever want to see a bowl of rice again in my entire life!"

At this, the three of them laughed convivially, the formality built up from four years apart having been transcended quite effortlessly.

After dinner, the conversation turned to reminiscence of things past, Isolde inquiring of Sloan, "So, what have you heard from Sabrina?"

"Sabrina?" Sloan responded evasively, "Why, nothing, nothing at all. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," Isolde volunteered idly, "Did you correspond with her during the war?"

"No, not at all. The last time I saw Sabrina was the day before she left The Orchard Inn."

"You mean you never even exchanged letters during all this time?"

"Correct," he responded matter-of-factly.

"But..." Isolde murmured disconsolately.

"But what?" Sloan queried with furrowed brow.

"But you were in love with her!" she exclaimed.

"I wouldn't go that far, Isolde. Let's just say – I had a thing for her."

"You got that right!" she exclaimed all too knowingly, "Any idea where she is now?"

"No, none at all," he responded disinterestedly, "Why?"

"Sloan, unless I miss my guess," she volunteered sympathetically, "You are still quite taken with her."

"Why ever on earth would you think that, Isolde?"

"Look, I wasn't in that prisoner of war camp," she commenced, "But from everything I've heard, quite a lot of the soldiers who were taken prisoner claim to have survived by distracting themselves from the reality of their captivity."

"Is that so?" Sloan mumbled evasively.

"So, our summer in New Hampshire was just about the last thing you enjoyed before going off to war. It stands to reason that you would have thought about it quite a lot during your captivity, especially Sabrina if my guess is correct."

"Well, that may be...," Sloan admitted but, realizing that his honesty was a nuisance in this circumstance, he added noncommittally, "But what of it?"

Isolde stared piercingly at him for several moments, eventually cajoling, "You don't fool me for one second, Sloan Stewart. You simply must go find her!"

"What! Why?" he blubbered defensively.

"Just go see her, Sloan. Either there is something to it, or you'll at least lay old wounds to rest."

He regarded her for a moment and, realizing that she had him dead to rights, he suggested, "Perhaps I will, when the time is right. But I am quite tied up with my studies at the moment."

"Good luck with that!" she expounded cynically.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I meant. I don't see how you can concentrate on school until you've exorcized your demons."

"Whatever," he responded, and shortly thereafter he said his goodnights to his friends of old.

But as the weeks passed, Sloan realized more and more that his old friend Isolde had squarely struck the mark.

Pittsburgh – May, 1946

**Sloan punched the doorbell** to the small house, anxiously awaiting the response from within. After several moments an elderly woman pulled the door ajar, announcing imperiously, "Good morning, may I help you, sir?"

Doffing his hat reflexively, Sloan announced, "Good morning, madam, my name is Sloan Stewart. I am looking for Sabrina Dewhurst. I am given to believe that she lives here."

"Ah, Sabrina. Would that it were so, Mister...what did you say your name was?"

"Stewart, Sloan Stewart," he responded politely.

"Yes, of course, she spoke of you before she left."

"I take it she isn't here then?" he queried sadly.

Eyeing him suspiciously, the woman rejoined, "I'm afraid not, Mr. Stewart."

"Might you know where I can find her?"

"Please, come in Mr. Stewart," she responded with a palpable sigh, "I'm afraid there is no easy answer to that question."

"Thank you, Madam," he responded, subsequently following her inside.

Abruptly she turned to him and announced, "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I didn't introduce myself. I am Sandra Dewhurst. I am Sabrina's mother," and, guiding him into her parlor, she added, "Please, have a seat, sir. May I offer you a cup of tea?"

"Why, thank you. That would be quite nice," he replied, taking the proffered seat.

Within minutes she was back, pouring a most welcome drink for him, as well as a cup for herself. Eventually seating herself opposite him, she suddenly accused, "So, I assume that you are the 'nasty boy', as she herself put it, who subjected her to such mistreatment that summer in New Hampshire."

"Why, I'm afraid I do not know to what you are referring!" he exclaimed in utter shock and embarrassment.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Stewart, are you not the young man who tortured my daughter on the last night of her sojourn?"

"Torture? Why no, not at all, madam," he responded in horror.

"I expect there are two sides to every story, Mr. Stewart," she responded surprisingly serenely, "Suppose you tell me yours."

"Well, er, I..." he mumbled.

"Out with it, young man!" she exclaimed unpleasantly. "If you expect my help, you shall have to be straightforward with me."

"Right. I shall attempt it, if you will bear with me. So let me see...where to begin..." and so saying, he commenced haltingly, "Well...surely you know that I was quite taken with your daughter."

"I know no such thing, sir, but given what I do know of the circumstances, I can't say that I am surprised, although why you maneuvered to have her expelled from Bryn Mawr, I shall never understand, much less forgive," she cajoled.

"What! What on earth are you talking about?"

"You, sir, reported her to student affairs at Bryn Mawr, thereby causing her to be expelled shortly after the commencement of the fall semester."

"I assure you, I did no such thing!" he denied in utter confusion.

"Well, I'm sure I don't believe you at all," she murmured in obvious consternation.

"How may I convince you otherwise?"

"I've no idea, sir!" she exclaimed.

"I shall endeavor to do so, Madam Dewhurst, but in the meantime, if you will allow me, I shall do everything in my power to restore myself to your good graces. Might I be availed of such a possibility?"

"Well, I don't know..." she mumbled doubtfully.

"I say, if you should find it in your heart to allow me such an opportunity, I promise you that I shall amply reward your generosity."

"Well said, Mr. Stewart," she replied, clearly impressed by his tenacity. But then, shifting hesitantly in her chair, she countered, "However, given what Sabrina has told me of you, I am nonetheless reticent."

"Fair enough. Perhaps you would be willing to avail me of a test, one capable of restoring myself in your eyes."

"A test? What sort of test?" she responded with palpable suspicion.

"Please, if you will, tell me where I might find Sabrina, and I promise you, I shall do everything in my power to restore her to your care. What say you to that?"

She eyed him doubtfully for a moment, subsequently responding noncommittally, "I can see no harm in that, sir."

"Then perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where she is."

"Yes, of course," she replied and giving way, she added, "I believe that she is in Las Vegas."

"Las Vegas? Nevada? Why ever for?" he blurted in stupefaction.

"I've no idea why, Mister Stewart, but her letters to me, rare though they are, are postmarked from there."

"Right," he remarked and, resigning himself to the reality of it, he murmured to himself, "Then Las Vegas it is."

"You're not actually going to go there, are you?" she inquired in shock.

"Why, yes, of course I am. I've no place to be until the fall semester begins," he ruminated, "I believe that I shall take a small vacation, perhaps even see a bit of the West along the way."

"I see. Then I wish you good travels, sir. Here is the return address listed on her letters."

"I say, thank you ever so much for the information, Madam Dewhurst. I shall not disappoint you," and at this he arose to depart.

Las Vegas – A Week Later

**Sloan had to confess** that his decision to purchase an automobile had been a good one, despite the expense of it. And while the drive west had been long and grueling, he felt fortunate to have been afforded the opportunity to see so much of America. Route 66 had been especially intriguing, along with the Grand Canyon and the Hoover Dam.

However, once he had arrived in Las Vegas, he had been quite disappointed. Having been informed that Sabrina's return address was a post office box, he had naively gone to the post office in Las Vegas in the hope that she might often go by there to check her mail, but after several fruitless hours spent waiting, he had given up on that approach.

Las Vegas itself was quite a disappointment as well, being little more than a single boulevard in the desert lined with bars and casinos. After three days perched within several of them, he was at his wits' end. Contemplating the situation, he realized that it was quite possible that Sabrina had moved on, perhaps even further west, to California.

Lounging at the bar in one of the casinos, he sat lamenting this possibility one evening, when he chanced to overhear the two men on his right engaged in a quite animated discussion.

"I'm tellin' ya," he heard one of them say to the other, "That woman is one fine piece of furniture. She's got legs that go on forever, and when she begins to shower, it's the damndest sight you've ever seen in your life!"

"Is she naked then?" the other guy queried with obvious interest.

"Oh, yeah, she's naked as a jaybird. Of course, it ain't legal to see all the goods, so they handle it real sneaky like, makin' sure that no laws get broken."

"How do they do that, Sam?"

"Well, here's the thing. They got the stage set up real weird, so there's a curtain draped all the way across, but there's this big round hole in the middle."

"What! What for?"

"Kindda gives you the feeling of a peep hole, you know. So when the show starts, the band begins playing some suggestive tune, and the curtain rises. She then struts onstage in this fabulous silver evening dress, a real sparkly thing – the perfect match for her long brown hair - and man is she gorgeous. She's young, you know, and quite statuesque, with a body to die for."

"What happens next?"

"So she struts around for a bit, making like she's going to take a glove off or somethin', but mostly just grinning at the audience, and boy does she have a dazzling smile. So then, the curtain starts comin' down real slow-like, and that's when you notice this big round peep hole right in the middle of it. Of course, she moves over where you can see her through it, and that's when she starts takin' stuff off. First her gloves, then her dress, and finally, her underthings, whatever they're called. She's kindda usin' the hole to hide the juicy parts, but you still get a pretty good view of everything. Eventually, she gets right up to the peep hole, the bottom of which reaches right down to the top of her crotch and this shower comes on over her head."

"You gotta be kiddin'!" his companion exclaimed at this revelation.

"Nope! Damndest thing you ever saw. I'm tellin' you, Jimmy, she's totally naked, and she starts latherin' up, just like a woman would do in the shower."

"How would you know how a woman lathers up in the shower, Sam?" Jimmy queried doubtfully.

"Well, I'm sure I've no idea, I'm just supposin'. Besides, it don't matter whether it's realistic or not, the fact is, by then your privates will be bustin' right outta the corral, I guarantee it!"

"So what else?" Jimmy queried excitedly.

"Well, she turns around at one point, gets right up to the peep hole, and that's when I notice – you can't see down too far, but far enough so's you can tell her triangle's been shaved!"

"What! You gotta be kiddin' me!" Jimmy responded in awe, an enormous grin spreading across his features.

"I'm tellin' ya, Jimmy, she ain't got a blade of hair on her below the neck, not a single lock nowhere, at least not that I could see!"

Overhearing this, Sloan lurched halfway from his stool, spilling his beer on the bar.

"Sorry," he announced to the two gentlemen, "I apologize. I overheard the two of you talking. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, it ain't no secret," the first man said, his inebriated grin spreading from ear to ear.

At this, Sloan stood, leaned forward and, holding out his hand, he said, "Name's Sloan, Sloan Stewart. Mind if I listen in?"

"Say, you sound like a foreigner, mister," the first man replied sheepishly.

"Right, I'm Scottish," he responded politely.

"Well, if that don't beat all," the man replied.

"All the way from across the sea? Was you in the war?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was," he responded.

"Jimmy here was in the Pacific, and I was in Europe. Where were you?"

"North Africa and Burma," Sloan responded, subsequently shaking the second man's hand as well.

"Geez, was it bad?" Jimmy inquired.

"I suppose so," Sloan responded laconically, "Wasn't it all?"

"Yeah, I guess so," the first man said, "I'm Sam Wilson. This here is Jimmy Clark. We're here in Vegas making a new life for ourselves. How 'bout you, Sloan?"

"I'm just vacationing."

"Ah, visiting! Well, I was just tellin' Jimmy here about the perfect show. You just gotta see it before you leave Vegas."

"Yes, I overheard, and to tell the truth, I'm quite interested. Please, carry on."

"Sure, so where was I? Oh, yeah, this gorgeous stripper, now completely naked, starts takin' a damn shower right in front of the entire audience, as if she don't even notice or care if the whole damn world is watchin' her."

"Damn! I gotta see this show!" Jimmy responded, "I'm about to bust my load just hearin' about it. Anything else?"

"Yes, the big finale."

"What finale?"

"At the very end, she's totally naked, and the curtain rises, givin' the entire audience the full treatment."

"Wow! And is she facing the audience?"

"Naw. She'd get arrested for that. She's got her back to the audience, and she's just standin' up there, showerin' away, like there's no audience gawking at her naked ass or nothin'."

"Dang!" Jimmy exclaimed.

"I never seen nothin' like it in my entire life!" Sam exclaimed.

"So where might one see this show?" Sloan asked with feigned nonchalance.

"At the Flamingo Club. Just opened recently. Take my advice, Sloan. You gotta see that show before you head out of Vegas."

"Thanks. I'll do that," Sloan responded as he rose and, tossing a twenty on the bar, he said, "Thanks guys, I think I'll turn in for the night."

"Yeah, right. You don't fool me. You're headed straight for the Flamingo!" Sam chortled accusingly.

"Perhaps, but could you fault me for it, after such a colorful description?" Sloan tossed back over his shoulder, the pair laughing in raucous agreement as he hurriedly made his way to the door.

The Flamingo Club – Two Hours Later

**Sloan noticed from his watch** that it was now considerably past midnight, but there was no way that he was going to tear himself away from the theatre until he had seen the entire show. Up to that point it had been almost entirely vaudeville, punctuated by slapstick comedy, most of it actually quite boring in his view, but the theatre was nonetheless packed, mostly by males. Eventually, a woman came onstage, performing a lewd fan dance, slowly discarding her entire wardrobe but for pasties and a tiny pair of panties. Although quite titillating, hers was clearly not the act that had been described to him by Sam. The show having now ended, Sloan was forced to give up, returning to his hotel room for the night.

The following day he fretted about town, eventually finding himself drawn back to the Flamingo Club. Wandering about within the lobby, he located photos of the various acts, and there, within the display, he found a photo of what appeared to be the shower act described by Sam. And although it was impossible to make out the woman in the tiny photo, he determined to see the show yet again. Stepping up to the ticket window, he inquired as to whether the shower act would be performed that night and, having been informed that it indeed would be, he immediately purchased a ticket for a front-row seat.

When the curtain rose for the shower act that night, he was perched tensely in front of the stage and, exactly as Sam had described it to him, a woman strutted onto the stage as the music commenced, immediately knocking the wind from his lungs. Dressed in a fabulous silver evening gown, her hair shimmering in the spotlight, she appeared somehow different, perhaps older, but he couldn't be certain because of the sequined mask she wore. As she strutted seductively across the stage to and fro, he thought of all those days and nights in the prisoner of war camp, the memories of her sustaining his will to live. But somehow, something didn't quite seem right to him. And then, toward the end of her opening number, she removed her mask, at which he suddenly realized that it was not Sabrina at all. Sabrina had always had a look of innocence about her. To his eye, this woman appeared quite the opposite.

The remainder of the show was a blur to Sloan as, going back over the events of the previous few days, he wondered where he had gone wrong. When it was all over, the audience making their collective way to the exits, he sat motionless within his seat, unable to fathom the import of it all. Eventually, determining that something must be done, he made his way outside to the street and, for lack of anything better to do, he awaited near the backstage door in the vain hope that she might eventually appear.

Around three in the morning she came out and, dressed rather covertly, she was presumably disguised as a means of self-protection. Fearful that he might surprise her, he remained hidden, thenceforth following her unobtrusively. She walked a couple of blocks and, getting into a car, she subsequently drove away. Hastily taking down her license plate number, he rushed to his car, hoping to catch up to her.

Reaching his car, he hopped in, driving in the general direction from whence he had observed her departure. Perhaps a mile on, he noticed an all-night diner and, it being the only business open at this hour, he pulled into the parking lot, immediately recognizing her car.

He stalled for a few moments, uncertain exactly how to proceed. Peering toward the interior, he saw her, the only patron within, sitting in a booth, apparently perusing something or other. Suddenly, he decided to throw caution to the wind and, emerging from his car, he strode to the door of the diner and entered.

Completely engrossed in reading a newspaper, she failed to notice him coming towards her, but when he halted within a few feet, she glanced up. Not wanting to alarm her unnecessarily, he said simply, "Hi."

Gazing suspiciously at him, she took a drag from her coffee and responded, "Okay, buddy, what's your line?"

"Line? What line?" he replied vacuously.

"Right," she murmured, adding, "Unless you can do better than that, get lost, you creep!"

"Er," he tried again, "Look here, miss, I'm sorry to interrupt your morning coffee, but this is important to me. I just have a couple of questions, and I promise I shall leave you alone."

"So, you saw the show, right?" she exclaimed accusingly.

"Yes, I did in fact see it, but I am not here to bother you in any way."

"I've heard that line before," she mumbled suspiciously.

Seeing that she was beginning to soften, he continued forward and, taking a seat opposite her, he announced, "See here, I'm looking for a young lady, someone that is very dear to me. Something about your act tonight reminds me of her, and I'm wondering if you might be able to help me to locate her."

"Wait a minute," she responded doubtfully, "You're not hitting on me?"

"No, madam, I am most definitely NOT hitting on you. I am simply in need of some information."

"Well, if that don't beat all," she mumbled and, taking another long drag on her coffee, she glanced toward the kitchen and called loudly, "Lucy, bring this creep who says he's NOT hitting on me a cup of coffee!" and then, turning back toward him, she exclaimed, "Please continue. I gotta hear this. So far it's the best line I've ever encountered."

And so he did, telling her how he had endured three years in captivity, three years during which his only solace was the memory of a young lady he had met in the summer of 1941. And when he had finished, she eyed him suspiciously, suggesting, "That's quite a story. And if even half of it is true, you gotta be one messed up dude, if you ask me."

"What? Why?" he blurted out in confusion.

"Listen, soldier boy, I've seen my share of your type in my time, and each and every one of your type is pining over the one that got away. I don't know what that war did to you, but it sure as hell messed up an entire generation of males in this lousy world."

"I say, you have it precisely," was all he could think of to say.

"So you say she just disappeared after you tortured her in the shower that night," she volunteered.

"I didn't torture..." he began.

"Right, whatever," she interrupted, "I was just checking on one thing, and now I've got my answer, I am certain you're head over heels for this woman. And if I am any sort of a judge of men, I'd say she did exactly the right thing."

"Right thing? What is that?" he responded in confusion.

"She got the hell outta Dodge, you fool!"

"But why? Why on earth would she do such a thing?"

"If you ask me, soldier boy, you are one hell of a perverted scum bag. But then, most men are..."

Eyeing her forlornly, he pondered a moment and added in sudden realization, "Right, that may be...Oh, bollocks! Perhaps I _am_ a pervert. Bloody hell, I've no idea. But the fact remains, I simply must find her. Can you help me?"

"Help you! How in hell can I help you find someone I never met in my life?"

"For starters, who gave you the idea for your act?"

"Idea! Listen, soldier boy, it's _my_ act, and mine alone!" she exclaimed with bristling umbrage.

"Sorry," he rejoined, "I didn't mean to insult you. It's just that, it's so reminiscent of what happened that night in the shower. I just thought someone might have done something, maybe said something to you that gave you the idea for your act."

"Not a chance!" she denied emphatically, "It's all mine, and in case you're thinking there's something unique about it, all women shower the same way," and, narrowing her eyes at him in accusation, she added the coup de grace, "So any woman who showers every day could have conjured up the same act. But as it happens, I'm the first ever to actually act it out in front of a live audience. So there, soldier boy. Now, if you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here, get on with your life, and stop obsessing over your misbegotten fantasies."

Staring at her in disbelief, at length he responded in apparent resignation, "Yes, you're right," and, acceptance suddenly sweeping over him, he added disconsolately, "Yes, of course you are. I've come across an entire continent for no reason at all. I simply must pull myself together and get on with it."

"You said it. I didn't," she exclaimed with obvious detachment, "Now, get going, soldier boy. Get in your car and go back to Boston, where you belong!"

"Yes, well..." he mumbled and, rising from his seat, he murmured in frustration, "Thanks for your help," and so saying he turned and departed.

The Following Morning

**Sloan awakened with a start** , and momentarily disoriented, he suddenly realized that he was nearly three thousand miles from home but, worse than that, he was no closer to sorting out where his life was heading. And, with school starting in three weeks, he knew that it was time to get back to Boston. Accordingly, he paid the bill, packed up his car, and, on the 9th of August, 1946, he pulled out of the parking lot, heading eastward.
Chapter 6

Reminiscence

Boston – Late August, 1946

**Sloan arrived** **in Boston** comfortably in advance of his continued studies at Harvard. Having departed Boston three months earlier in search of answers, he was by now racked with doubt and confusion. He had been so certain during all those years of captivity that Sabrina would be waiting for him when he came home. How, he asked himself, could he have survived such incomprehensible circumstances, only to discover that it was all little more than a figment of his imagination?

The fall semester having gotten underway shortly thereafter, he was quickly distracted by his studies, a development that seemingly restored his sense of stability. Still, his mind drifted on rare occasions, and at these times his mood shifted to depression.

One day, as he sat at his table in the coffee shop, Isolde bounded up to him and exclaimed happily, "Sloan, so good to see you!"

"Why, Isolde, what brings you here to my little corner of the world?"

"Funny you should ask," she responded with a giggle, but then, turning serious, she rejoined, "Since you ask, I've been worried about you."

"Worried? Why ever on earth for?"

"Surely you recall, when last we met we discussed your efforts to find Sabrina."

"Ah, yes, dinner at your house last spring," he responded.

"Well?" she queried.

"Well, what?" he replied vacuously.

"Did you go looking for her?" she asked bluntly.

"Oh, that," he replied and, tugging at a wayward strand of hair, he suggested, "Yeah, well, I did, but it in fact came to nothing, Isolde."

"Nothing? Really? How could that be, Sloan? Surely you uncovered _something_ of her. She couldn't have simply disappeared from the face of the earth!"

"Right, well, as far as I know, she is in fact alive," he replied noncommittally.

"Great! And where is she?"

"Not sure, Isolde," he offered and, seeing that she was not going to accept such a lame answer, he admitted, "I suppose I'm going to have to tell you the whole story, right?"

"Exactly!" she exclaimed, clearly relieved that he was coming around.

"Well, so where do I begin?" he said pensively and, staring off into space as if organizing his thoughts, he recommenced with, "So, you know Sabrina is from Pittsburgh."

"Yes, of course, Sloan. Get on with it."

"Right, so I went to Pittsburgh, whereupon I met her mother."

"Well, that's progress of sorts. I take it she wasn't there," and not waiting for confirmation, she added, "What was she like, Sabrina's mother?"

"I don't know, just normal I'd say. Seemed like a good mother to me."

"That simply won't do, Sloan," she interjected with a slight frown of apparent discord.

"Yes, well, she wasn't all too nice, if you must know, Isolde."

"Oh? How so?"

"She accused me of having caused Sabrina's expulsion from Bryn Mawr."

"What! Sloan! Surely you didn't maneuver to have Sabrina dismissed from school!" Isolde exclaimed doubtfully.

"No, nothing of the sort," he replied matter-of-factly, "But it appears that she was indeed dismissed."

"That's strange," Isolde put in, "Did she say why?"

"Well, she seemed to think it had something to do with the prank I played on Sabrina," he replied evasively,

"Prank! Prank! That was no prank, Sloan. Even I, who knew you oh so well, was revolted by what you pulled on Sabrina!"

"So you know what happened the last night she was there?"

"Of course I do! She came back to the room whimpering in misery. It wasn't difficult to get the entire sordid story out of her. You were a real bastard that night, Sloan."

"Yes, well, that may be, but you weren't the one she was spying on in the men's locker room, Isolde."

"You know, I've never really quite understood what transpired that night," she murmured, and then, her demeanor changing to one of curiosity, she inquired, "What _did_ actually happen that night, Sloan?"

"You know, Isolde, she told you."

"Humor me," she responded, crossing her arms in expectation.

"I caught her spying on me in the shower and, the opportunity presenting itself for turnabout, I exacted such upon her."

"Oh, come now, Sloan. You can do better than that!"

"Like what, for instance?"

"How long had this been going on?"

"What?"

"How long had she been spying on you?"

"Oh, if memory serves, about a week."

"A week! And when during that span of time did you discover that she was spying on you?"

"What do you mean?" he responded vaguely.

"Just answer the question, Sloan!"

"Alright, if you must know, I was aware for the entire week."

"Ha! So you knew all along that she was spying on you while you were showering, yet you did nothing to stop her. Am I correct?"

"Yes, you are quite correct," he responded, glancing downward in admission of his guilt.

"I thought so!" she exclaimed. "You were playing her, weren't you!"

"Nothing of the sort! I was gathering evidence!"

"Evidence! You smug bastard. You were hoping she'd fall for you, weren't you!"

"Bloody hell, I don't know, Isolde! It was all so long ago..." and, his voice trailing off, he appeared to be reliving the events of that night in his own mind. Then he abruptly recommenced, blabbing uncontrollably, "I say, you may in fact be right, Isolde! I was quite taken with her, you know."

"Taken! Taken!" she exclaimed in obvious derision, "I'd say that's the understatement of a lifetime. You were head-over-heels in love with her, Sloan!"

"Yes, well, that may be," he murmured and, eyeing her dejectedly, he suggested, "But perhaps I can be forgiven for failing to recognize it when it happened to me for the first time."

And now it was her turn to eye him accusingly, evincing, "Yes, perhaps you can wriggle free from that accusation, but that in no way mitigates the fact that you subjected her to what can only be described as an act of torture that night!" and by now she was very nearly screaming.

"Please, hold your voice down!" Sloan whispered miserably, "Point well taken. I have no excuse for my behavior that night," and eyeing her forlornly, he murmured, "There. Does that make you feel better?"

Staring at him dispassionately, Isolde responded flatly, "No, not particularly. But at least you are now willing to admit it to yourself."

"I suppose you're right, Isolde," he responded gloomily, "So where does that leave me?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, but I have an idea."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

"Let me talk to James. He may know something that we two don't."

"That seems like a good idea," he responded hopefully.

"Alright then, I must be off. I shall let you know when I know something further," and so saying she rose from her seat to depart.

"Thanks, Isolde," he called as she walked away.

A Week Later

**Sloan was yet again ensconced** at his favorite table within the coffee shop, when he glanced up to see James and Isolde coming towards him.

"To what do I owe this good fortune?" he inquired, rising to take James' outstretched hand.

"Long time no see, Sloan," James volunteered pleasantly. "How is it that we work within the same department on campus, and we never see one another?"

"Ha! That's easy," Sloan replied, "You're the Lord Chancellor of the Chemistry Department, and I am the night janitor!" at which all three giggled convivially and, turning to Isolde, Sloan added, "So good to see you again, Isolde."

"You, too, Sloan," and, the three of them taking their seats, she followed with, "I took the liberty of mentioning your conundrum to James, just as we discussed, Sloan."

"And?" Sloan interjected expectantly.

At this, James spoke up himself, exclaiming, "Look, I have no idea what is going on, but I understand from Isolde that you went searching for Sabrina this past summer, and you wound up in Las Vegas."

"That is quite correct," Sloan replied.

"What is she doing there?" James responded doubtfully.

"Actually, I've no idea," Sloan responded flatly, "The truth is, I don't even know that she is in fact in Las Vegas. The only evidence I have is some letters she wrote to her mother post-marked from a post office box in Las Vegas."

"Oh, I see," James put in, "So she could in fact be anywhere at all."

"Right. She could either have moved on from Vegas, or she might never have been there at all."

"Wait," Isolde interrupted, "How could she send letters from Las Vegas without actually living there?"

"Well, for one thing, she might have a friend living in Las Vegas. She could send the letters to her friend and have them sent from there to her mother," Sloan replied candidly.

"Why ever on earth for?" Isolde responded with a frown.

"My guess is she doesn't want to be found," Sloan responded matter-of-factly.

"Why would one not want one's own mother to find her?" Isolde queried to no one in particular.

"Actually," James interjected, "I believe that Sloan is referring to himself, dear."

"What?" Isolde exclaimed and, staring first at James, then Sloan, then back toward James, she blubbered, "I don't understand."

James now explained, "For whatever reason, it appears that Sabrina anticipated Sloan's return from the war and, due to some events that you and I are not privy to, she foresaw that Sloan would come in search of her, all of which has turned out to be quite on the mark."

Now paling, Isolde clutched her throat and said, "She must be terribly afraid of Sloan to withhold her whereabouts from her own mother."

"Be that as it may, that appears to be the case, Isolde," Sloan observed sagaciously.

"Alright then. I have the picture now," Isolde observed, "So her mother is a dead end. That being the case, I suggest you try another approach, Sloan."

"And what might that be," Sloan responded with obvious interest.

"I should say that a visit to The Orchard Inn is in order," she offered.

"What! Why ever for?" Sloan queried in confusion.

"Ah, I see!" James put in, "Very good, if I do say so myself, Isolde!"

Eyeing each of them in turn, Sloan interjected, "I'm lost."

"Isolde thinks it's possible that the complaint filed against Sabrina at Bryn Mawr originated at The Orchard Inn," James observed.

"I say, that is an excellent notion!" Sloan blurted.

"I thought you'd think so," Isolde rejoined with obvious satisfaction, "See, I'm not as dumb as I appear to you two geniuses," thereby soliciting yet another round of laughter.

"Wait a minute, I still don't understand," Sloan observed in apparent confusion, "Who from the inn would have filed such a complaint. Surely no one there had any knowledge of what transpired among the four of us that summer."

"Actually, Miss Struthers was in the loop on several issues," James retorted.

"Like what?" Sloan said suspiciously.

"Well, she knew about the missing panties, as well as the hole in the wall in the men's locker room," James supplied and, seeing Sloan's look of disappointment, he countered, "Don't look at me that way, Sloan. I was just trying to do my job. Remember, I worked directly under Miss Struthers."

"Well, then, it's settled," Sloan volunteered, "I shall go up to New Hampshire and see Miss Struthers as soon as humanly possible."

The Orchard Inn - October

**Sloan pulled his car** to a halt and, clutching his overnight bag, he approached the door to the inn. But before he could push the doorknob it opened on its own, Miss Struthers appearing in the doorway, as always bright-eyed and gay.

"Sloan! Sloan Stewart," she commenced, "So good to see you again after all these years."

"Oh, hello, Miss Struthers," he responded submissively.

"I understand you're a war hero. Kudos!" she observed and, gesturing him forward, she added, "Please, come inside. We must discuss old times."

Once inside, she guided Sloan to the bar within the restaurant, saying, "I must say, I was mystified by your phone call," and then, taking a seat opposite his, she observed, "My, but the world has changed in these five years. So tell me, what have you been up to all this time? My, can it have really been five years?" but before he could respond, she answered her own question with, "Why, of course it's five years. I remember it well, you and your friends worked here the summer before the war began. And to tell the truth, the inn hasn't been the same since. And you, Sloan. Just look at you, all grown, and such a handsome young man! So, tell me everything!"

Somewhat taken aback by her meandering preamble, Sloan responded blankly, "There's not much to tell, Miss Struthers."

"Oh, come now, Sloan, you've been halfway round the world!"

"Yes, well, there is that," he replied thoughtfully and, unable to comprehend the reality that she had been right here during the entire span of time that he was in Burma, he suggested, "I can assure you, Miss Struthers, you fared better than did I."

"Oh, I know, dear Sloan, I'm so sorry! Was it ever so difficult for you, the war?"

"I should prefer not to discuss it in detail, if you don't mind," he responded defensively and, seeing her reaction, he added, "Don't get me wrong, Miss Struthers, I'd just rather let it stay buried in the past for now."

"Of course," she responded and, placing an empathetic hand on his, she added, "We who stayed behind are so proud of our boys. Had it not been for the Americans in that war, we might not be speaking together now."

"True, true," he replied and, hoping to move along to more pressing matters, he inquired, "And how have you been?"

"I've done well, thank you. I served as an interpreter in Washington for three years. I speak French fluently, you know. And with my savings, I was able to purchase the inn last year. It had fallen into disuse, and I got it at a bargain price."

"Oh, I say! Good for you, Miss Struthers!" he responded.

"Thank you, and perhaps I should correct you before moving along to other matters," she put in, "You see, I am now Mrs. Adams. My husband George and I were married last year. George worked for the State Department during the war."

"I say, that is indeed wonderful news!" Sloan exclaimed.

"Yes, well, things have worked out well for me. But from your phone call, I gather you didn't come here to talk about that."

Seeing his chance had finally arrived, Sloan responded, "Correct, Miss...er...Mrs. Adams."

"So, please - begin, if you will, Sloan."

"Yes, of course," Sloan replied and, gathering himself, he commenced with, "Er, well, I assume from James that you were well aware of certain goings-on that summer."

"Yes, of course," she responded, "I was quite taken with the lot of you, you know. But especially you, you were so full of energy, so young and alive."

At this, Sloan replied with evident embarrassment, "Er, yes, well, we were all taken with you as well," and attempting to deflect the conversation away from himself, he added, "I don't mind telling you, we learned a great deal under your tutelage."

"Why, thank you, Sloan. I tried my best. It's good to know my efforts may have struck the mark."

"Yes, well," he said hesitantly, "So, to the point..."

"Yes, to the point, as they say."

"I assume that James told you that Sabrina's panties were stolen?"

"Yes, indeed he did! Such a sordid affair! Actually, if memory serves, it appeared at the time that you were the prime suspect, Sloan. But as you well know, boys will be boys."

"Yes, well, be that as it may, it most assuredly was _not_ me," Sloan denied firmly, "As you must know, one pair was found in the men's locker room," and, at her nod of concurrence, he added, "Did you perchance ever discover the remaining pair?"

Shaking her head forcefully, she replied, "No. Sadly, no."

"Yes, as I expected," he responded.

"What about the hole in the wall?" she inquired surreptitiously.

"Right. James said he'd informed you of it. I, being Head Lifeguard, took it upon myself to expose the culprit responsible for such a dastardly deed," he volunteered.

"Just so," she responded, signaling her awareness of the situation.

"Well," he continued, still fumbling for the right words, "It took about a week, but eventually I discovered that it was Sabrina who was the culprit."

"Ah, and I had thought all along that it must be Isolde," she responded.

"Why ever for?"

"I'm not a fool, Sloan. Anyone could tell that Isolde was after you that summer. For her part, Sabrina was to all appearances singularly disinterested in you."

"Goodness, were we all that obvious?"

"Well, let's just say, we were all gathered in close quarters for more than three months," she observed.

"Just so," he replied, "Just so."

"So what did you do when you discovered it was Sabrina?"

"Right. Without going into excessive detail, let me just say that I, in my role as Head Lifeguard, meted out punishment that was commensurate with the crime."

"I think that I shall let sleeping dogs lie, sir, but let me just say that in the State of New Hampshire lifeguards have no legal rights to 'mete out punishment'," she responded disapprovingly.

"Yes, I must in all candor agree with you. Although my motives were just, I can in retrospect admit that my methods were somewhat flawed."

"Well said, Sloan. Now please, carry on."

"So, to the point of this meeting, Mrs. Adams \- it seems that Sabrina was expelled from Byrn Mawr shortly thereafter."

Crossing her arms in despair, she blurted, "Oh, my, that is dreadful news, sir."

"Can I take it then from your reaction that you had nothing to do with her dismissal from college, Mrs. Adams?"

Clearly offended by such an accusation, she exclaimed, "What! Absolutely not! As I had no knowledge whatsoever of the affair in question, there is certainly no way that I could have undertaken to affect her expulsion. Besides, I quite adored her. I even anticipated early on that she might set her cap for you, you being quite a catch in my view. But, for reasons that remain mysterious to me, she appeared to loathe you quite singularly. What was that about, I ask you?"

"Oh, well, as you said, boys will be boys, Miss...er...Mrs. Adams," he responded circuitously.

A smile now spreading across her features, she offered knowingly, "Ah, so there was indeed cause for her mistrust of you, I take it."

"I didn't say that," he denied, "But, let's just say, she did indeed find me loathsome."

"Yes, well..." she responded, her voice trailing off and, the silence settling in, she eventually continued with, "And, pray tell, where is Sabrina now?"

"Oh, that is the underlying reason for my visit, Mrs. Adams. We three, Isolde, James, and myself, we are on a quest to locate Sabrina. It seems that she has disappeared, and we hoped that you might be privy to some sort of information leading us to her whereabouts."

"Hmmm," she replied thoughtfully, "To all appearances, Miss Sabrina Dewhurst has been profoundly hurt by you, sir. If so, then it would seem proper that her disappearance, if as you say it is purposeful, would be best honored by all parties."

At this, Sloan dropping his face to his hands, responded with a single muffled sob of despair, "But, can you not see? I simply must find her!"

"My dear Sloan, some things are better left as is. You have a long life ahead of you. If you take my advice, you will cease this senseless endeavor and move on."

"Yes, I am quite certain sure you are right, Mrs. Adams," and so saying, he stood, adding, "And now, I shall take my leave. But thank you so much for seeing me today. You have been more helpful than you can possibly imagine."
Chapter 7

Unburying the Past

Boston – Christmas, 1946

**Sloan had found** Mrs. Adams' advice so uplifting that he had vowed to put Sabrina behind him once and for all, and for two months he had succeeded rather well. But when Christmas rolled around, he found himself beset with second thoughts. Once the fall semester ended, there was too much free time and too little to distract him from his own memories. Accordingly, he began to reminisce about Sabrina yet again. Day after day, he sat within the coffee shop, staring out the window, wondering where she was, what she was doing, and what she must think of him.

One day a shadow crossed his vision and, his contemplation interrupted, he glanced upwards and, seeing his friend, he exclaimed, "James! Good to see you. Have you time for a cup of coffee?"

"Of course," James responded with an impish grin, "Why else would I darken the doorstep of your personal fiefdom?" and so saying, he plopped down across from Sloan.

"Excellent!" Sloan responded and, turning toward the bar, he commanded, "Silvy, a coffee for my friend, Dr. Moorehead!"

"Sooo," James now commenced, "Isolde and I have not heard from you since you decided to visit the inn. We've been wondering – did you go? And, if so, how did it go?"

"Yes, of course I went," he responded, "I apologize, James, I should have gotten back to the both of you," and, diverted by the arriving drink, he added offhandedly, "Ah, here is your coffee."

"Thank you, "James said to Silvy, "What do I owe you?"

"Perish the thought," Sloan interjected, "Put it on my tab, Silvy."

"What? I thought you _owned_ this shop!" James replied jokingly.

"Yeah, well, by now I probably should, but I have no head for business, if you must know."

"Well, you certainly have a head for science, dear Sloan. You have once again completed the semester at the head of the class. If I were you, I should therefore be unconcerned about your lack of business skills!" at which the pair snickered convivially.

"At any rate," James continued, "How did it go in New Hampshire?"

"It was interesting, but in the end, it was all for naught, I'm afraid," Sloan responded disconsolately.

"How so?" James inquired.

"Oh, she had plenty to say. She's now the owner of The Orchard Inn, if you must know, and she's married, too!"

"Wow! That's a revelation. If memory serves, we discussed having a go at her that summer," James volunteered tongue-in-cheek.

"Yes, well, I seriously doubt that either of us could have handled her, if you get my meaning."

"I take it she's not changed then," James responded knowingly.

"Not the least bit. It's difficult to get a word in edgewise with that vixen," Sloan observed.

"But she had no information?" James coached.

"No, she knew nothing whatsoever as to Sabrina's whereabouts, and she had not heard that Sabrina had been discharged from Bryn Mawr, I'm afraid."

"Well, that is disconcerting," James replied despondently, "Perhaps it's time to move on."

"Funny, that's exactly what Miss Struthers suggested."

"Good advice, if you ask me," James concurred, adding, "And, as a starting point toward doing so, Isolde and I would like to invite you to our home to share Christmas tidings day after tomorrow."

"Oh, I say, that is quite generous of you, James," Sloan responded gleefully, "I would be delighted. What time shall I come?"

"Shall we say, noon?"

"Yes, of course," Sloan responded and, seeing James rise to leave, he offered, "See you then, my friend. And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Sloan."

Christmas Day

**Sloan tapped on the door** and, sensing noise from within, he heard a tiny voice say from behind the door, "Is that you, Uncle Sloan?"

"Yes, Robert, it is I," he responded, giddy with happiness at such a sound coming from within.

"Right then," the tiny voice responded, "I must go find my mummy. You see, I'm not allowed to open the front door. I shall be back in a moment."

At this, Sloan awaited a few further moments until, the door swinging wide, he observed Isolde, the child clutching at her dress from behind.

"Ah, there you are, Sloan! Happy Christmas!" and so saying, she awarded Sloan a hug, accompanied by a light peck on the cheek.

"Isolde, Happy Christmas," he responded, adding, "I do so love to hear it the English way," and reaching down to the child, he swung him up within his arms and extoled, "Happy Christmas, Robert! My, but you are growing quite like a weed!"

"Hullo, Uncle Sloan. Merry Christmas! But I'm not a weed," the child responded, his thumb firmly implanted within the edge of his mouth.

"He's just kidding you," Isolde said, supplying a motherly tousling of Robert's hair.

The three subsequently entering the great room, Sloan offered, "Isolde, this so lovely. I'm jealous, you know. You and James have solved everything. I hope someday I shall find this sort of happiness."

"You shall, Sloan, of that I am quite certain," she replied with apparent sympathy, "Now, let's get down to the business of observing Christmas!"

April, 1947

**The pair sat on a park bench,** adjacent to the Charles River. It was a beautiful spring day and, although it wasn't quite yet what one could call warm, it was nonetheless a far cry from the frigid winter they had so recently suffered through.

Having supplied no hint as to her purpose in meeting, Isolde offered idly, "Isn't it a lovely day?"

"Yes, and to tell you the truth, I'd much rather be sitting here with you than cooped up studying for exams," Sloan responded.

The pair gazed about for a few further moments, Isolde glancing ever so often in the direction of the park swings, where Robert was busy attempting to set a new record for heights.

"That kid is a handful," Sloan said, clearly impressed by her son's nonstop energy.

"Reminds me of a guy I used to know," she mumbled absently.

"Right-o," he interjected, "He's the spitting image of his father."

Intent on heading in another direction, she observed, "Sloan, I've been thinking about what we discussed at Christmas."

"Christmas? You mean at your home?"

"Yes, of course," she responded, a frown creasing her features, "You implied that you intended to take Miss Struthers' advice."

"I did? What advice was that?"

"To move on with your life, to stop looking back," she continued.

"Oh, right, and good advice it was, for so I have," he rejoined.

"Yes, well, I beg to disagree," she parried all too bluntly.

"What?" he blurted and, turning to face her squarely, he added in mystification, "What's got into you, Isolde? What is blooming in that singularly complex mind of yours this time?"

"Sloan, I believe that you have yet to chase this fox to ground," she observed sagely.

"Oh? How so?" he responded, having no idea whatsoever to what she was referring.

"Surely you've thought about this whole affair more than I have," she suggested, "And if I'm not mistaken, there are holes in this entire story that cannot be explained."

"Such as?" he queried vacuously.

"You tell me, you fool!" she expounded forcefully.

Lurching backwards, he eyed her searchingly, thenceforth inquiring, "Are we indeed talking about Sabrina?"

"Of course we're talking about Sabrina, Sloan Stewart!" she bellowed, her eyes flashing in fury.

Still shocked by her change in attitude, he inquired yet again, "So, what's on your mind?"

Now having calmed considerably, she said, "Just this - I'm thinking there's something here we've not thought through."

"Alright, I'm listening," he responded doubtfully.

"Here it comes then," she offered, "Tell me again about your visit to see Sabrina's mother."

"Why? What about it?"

"For instance, did you see the letters?"

"Yes, I saw them. What of it?"

"Did they appear to be in Sabrina's handwriting?"

"Gee, I have no idea. Why do you ask?"

"Just a hunch."

"What sort of hunch?"

"I'm not certain, but suppose the letters weren't written by Sabrina."

"What? That makes no sense, Isolde."

"Perhaps not, but think about it. Suppose Sabrina hasn't been writing to her mother, but someone else has been planting letters to make it appear that Sabrina is in Las Vegas."

"But that is quite absurd! Why ever would anyone do that?"

"I'm sure I have no idea."

"Right, what else, Isolde?"

"Well, tell me about that stripper again."

"Why ever for?"

"Just tell me this, Sloan. Do you ever think about that stripper?"

"What? What sort of guy do you think I am?"

"I already know the answer to that question, Sloan. Just tell me this – is there anything about the stripper's performance that reminds you of someone else?"

"Say, just exactly what are you getting at?"

"Answer the question, you fool!"

"Alright. And yes, I have thought about that stripper, but not in the prurient way you've implied. For some reason, she reminded me of Sabrina."

"How so, Sloan? And be very careful how you answer, because this is quite important."

Scratching his head in bewilderment, Sloan responded thoughtfully, "Well, let me think a moment, she didn't look anything at all like Sabrina, so it's not that. But you know, there was something about the way she carried herself, it just reminded me of Sabrina. You know, shoulders back, chin high, and that impossibly long stride of hers."

"Anything else?" she asked pointedly.

"Like what?"

"Like a tattoo," she responded emphatically.

"Look here, Isolde, exactly what are you getting at?" he queried in mystification.

"Sloan, you've seen Sabrina naked, as have I," she supplied, "Does she have any distinguishing marks?"

"Of course she does. She has a tiny birthmark on her left flank that is shaped like a heart."

"Exactly, and did this woman have such a birthmark?"

"Of course not!" he emitted forcefully, "Only Sabrina has such a mark on her."

"Right, but did this woman have any other marks on her?"

"No, not that I can recall. The only thing she was wearing by the end of her act was a black choker around her neck."

"And what was on the choker?"

"What do you mean, what was on the choker?"

"Just answer the question, Sloan!"

Appearing lost, he thought for a moment, then said, "Oh...my...God...it was a heart. The choker had a heart on it."

"Right," she observed knowingly, "Just as I suspected," and so saying, she stared expectantly at him.

He eyed her and, she for her part patiently awaiting his response, he finally managed the energy to stammer, "Uhm, I take it I am to make a return trip to Las Vegas. Am I right, Isolde?"

"I am afraid so, dear Sloan, I am afraid so."

Las Vegas – June, 1947

**Appearing extremely fatigued, Sloan** pulled into the Flamingo Hotel, tossed the keys to the attendant, and made his way into the hotel. Once therein, he headed directly for his room, slept for eight hours straight, and emerged just in time for the evening festivities on the Strip. He made his way directly to the theatre and purchased a ticket, this time knowing exactly what to expect.

Sure enough, the stripper was on the schedule for the evening, and her show was exactly as he had remembered it. After the show, he repeated his ploy of the previous summer, following her to the all-night diner. Once there, he made his way forthwith to her table.

Seeing him coming toward her in the nearly empty restaurant, she said blandly, "Why am I not surprised! She told me you'd be back, and sure enough, here you are. Say, you look beat. How far did you come this time?"

"From Boston," he responded in obvious exhaustion.

"My, my," she responded, "Please, have a seat here, soldier boy," and so saying, she indicated the seat opposite her. She took him in for a moment, then announced surreptitiously, "Man, you gotta be real gone on that girl, that's all I can say."

"Guilty as accused," he responded dryly.

"And you doubtless know a lot more than you did the last time we met," she opined.

"Well, not enough, because if I did, I wouldn't need your help," he put in, "By the way, name's Sloan, Sloan Stewart."

"I already know that, you idiot!" she blurted.

Hoping for a better response, he nonetheless pressed on, "Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"You can call me Faye, soldier boy."

Rolling it around on his tongue, he said to himself, "Faye...that's a nice name..."

"What, strippers can't have nice names?" she replied defensively.

"Whoa," he spat out, "How am I supposed to break through your defenses, when I can't even get your name out of you?"

She eyed him viciously for a moment, then said vapidly, "She told me you'd try this, and not to fall for it. So I'm just telling you right now, it ain't gonna happen!"

"What isn't going to happen?" he queried.

"I ain't gonna tell you where she is!" she bellowed.

"Fair enough," he replied sedately, "But until you do, I'm going to be your very best friend, Miss Faye the stripper."

"That ain't gonna happen neither," she deadpanned.

"Tell you what," Sloan suggested, "How's about if I tell you a really good story, a fairy tale of sorts, and afterwards you can ponder on it, and do whatever you like with it."

"I'm all ears, soldier boy," she agreed, crossing her arms in simultaneous denial.

And so he did. He told her the entire story, and this time he didn't leave anything out. He told her about the crossing, about befriending Isolde and James, and he told her about how he had made a serious mistake when he had caught her in the shower at the inn. He had practiced it all the way from Boston, so he knew it was good, and when he had finished, he could tell that she was visibly moved.

A solitary tear rolling down one cheek, she said accusingly, "You are one real gone soldier boy, if you ask me."

"Yes, I'm afraid I am, Faye whatever-your-name-is," he murmured passionately, "And unless you help me, I'm afraid I'm going to die from it. I simply cannot stand it. I must find her, or I shall die."

"That's all real enticing, but I got a stake in this here pie, too, if you know what I mean."

"Oh?" he responded doubtfully.

Seeing his doubt, she responded, "Sabrina is just my best friend in this whole wide world, and I must tell you, I cannot afford to lose her."

"Supposing I promised you wouldn't. How would that sit with you?" he inquired.

"Empty promises. My life is absolutely filled with empty promises from guys like you. It's gonna take one helluva lot more than promises to get anything out of me, soldier boy."

"Fair enough, Faye. I didn't expect it, and frankly, I'd have been suspicious if you had been forthwith on such short notice," he said, "But I have a plan. Suppose we work through this thing together."

"What, the two of us?"

"No, the _three_ of us, Faye. Suppose you agree to be the go-between. Suppose you talk to me, then you talk to her, and see where she stands on things. I'm willing to take as long as it takes."

"Have you lost your mind, soldier boy? That could take _weeks_!" and, mumbling to herself, she added surreptitiously, "Or worse, forever!"

"We already covered both parts of that. Yes, I've lost my mind, and yes, if it takes that long, then so be it! Now, can we get on with it?"

"Suit yourself," she said, shaking her head in apparent dismissal, "Come back in here, same time tomorrow night. I'll see what I can work out by then."

"Great! Thanks, Faye. I can't thank you enough. Anything else?"

"Yeah, one other thing. I need twenty dollars."

"What? Why?" he asked vacuously.

"I can't say. Just come back tomorrow night."

The Following Night

**Sloan emerged from his car and** trudged toward the door of the diner, his every nerve cell aware that the rest of his life hung in the balance. Approaching Faye cautiously, he searched for any sign of an answer and, arriving at her table, he inquired, "Hi, Faye. May I join you?"

"Sure, soldier boy, pick a spot. Coffee?"

"Yes, please," he replied laconically.

"One coffee!" she yelled toward the back.

"Well?" he inquired.

"Well, what?" she dodged.

"You know what," he responded with a sheepish grin.

"Well, I can say this - she was none too pleased when I said I wanted you for myself," she said blandly.

"Aw, now why did you have to go and do that?" he asked miserably.

Now grinning from ear to ear, she responded, "I had to find out her intentions, didn't I?"

"Say, you're pretty sharp," he replied, his face brightening.

"You got that right, soldier boy, and it's a darn good thing, because this ain't going to be easy. I can tell you that for sure."

"Uh, oh, she's still mad at me, isn't she!"

"Madder'n a hellcat caught up a rhino's snout," she opined indifferently.

"Bollocks! I was sure I was doing the right thing that night," he replied mournfully.

"Well, you wasn't!"

"I can see that," he moaned and, eyeing her carefully, he asked, "Any suggestions?"

"Listen here, Sloan. We got some things to work through. I'm thinkin', if we can resolve them, then maybe, just maybe, she'll give you another shot. Mind you, I'm not makin' any promises."

"Okay, that's sounds encouraging. What sort of things?"

"Good show!" she replied happily, adding, "First question – why'd you steal her panties?"

"I didn't!" he exclaimed forcefully. "I swear, I _never_ stole her panties! Wait a minute, now I've caught my own self in a lie. Sorry! Back up, rewind, start over. I pulled her panties down in the lake that night, but I wouldn't call that theft at all. That was just joshing around. As to the two pairs of stolen panties, I had nothing to do with that at all."

"Then who did?" she asked forcefully.

"I've no idea, and I doubt we'll ever know at this point. But I guarantee you this, you will never _ever_ find those panties in my possession!"

"Okay, well, I had hoped for something better, but it will have to do," she responded.

"Now, how about the panties at the lake, Sloan. What was that all about?"

"Right, I was drunk that night, and I was quite taken with her, so I got a little bit out of hand. That's all!"

"Not good enough, soldier boy!"

Paling at her response, he said abashedly, "Look, I'll tell you, but you have to promise me you'll never tell _her_!"

"No promises, soldier boy. You forget, I have the upper hand," she replied disdainfully.

"Okay, what if I promise you that I will tell her myself what I'm about to tell you?"

"Alright, I promise," She responded immediately.

"I was in love with her, that's why."

"Ooh, this just keeps getting messier!" she responded deliciously. "She claims you were playing both ends against the middle, keeping your hand open with Isolde."

"No!" he exclaimed forcefully. "I adore Isolde, I always have. But love never entered my mind with her."

"That's much better," she replied knowingly, "Now, last question – why did you make her shave her pubic hair?"

"Aw, bloody hell. I told myself that I wanted – no - I _needed_ for her to live up to the pedestal I had placed her on. Young love has high standards, I suppose. But now, six years on, I believe that I may have been lying to myself instead that night."

"Lying? In what way?"

"A part of me just couldn't help but want to see what was hidden beneath that patch of fur. Still, it didn't turn out that way," he admitted self-loathingly. After a few moments, he added, "Damn, I _am_ a pervert, aren't I!"

"If you think that is perverted, then you got another thing comin'," she announced empathetically, "Okay, soldier boy, that's it for now. Come back tomorrow night. Same time, same place. Oh, and give me another twenty."

"Right. See you then," he said, and as he rose to go, he tossed her a twenty-dollar bill.

The Following Night

" **Sooo, what did she say?" Sloan** queried, taking his by-now-familiar seat across from her.

"You done real fine, soldier boy," she said, an enormous grin spreading across her features.

"What does that mean?" he responded vapidly.

"It means – you passed. She wants to see you!"

"Really! Oh, my goodness, this is wonderful. When?"

"In three days' time," she replied nonchalantly.

"Three days! Why so long?" he responded in abject misery.

"Because she ain't here, that's why!"

"What! She's not in Las Vegas? Then where on earth is she?"

"She's in New York City, you fool!"

"New York City!" he gurgled apathetically, "She will most assuredly be gone by the time I get there!"

"Well now, soldier boy, that may be true, but I don't see where you got a choice in the matter."

Eyeing her for any sign of confirmation, he posited, "Faye, you charmer, you have either taken me for a ride, or you are doing me the biggest favor of my entire life, and from where I'm sitting, I have no way of knowing which case it is."

"Well, now, soldier boy, you just get right up and get right on out of here, because you're gonna get the answer to that question in three days' time."

"I get it now, the twenty-dollar bills were for long distance phone calls, weren't they!"

Taking another drag on her coffee, she responded banally, "Right."

He eyed her a further moment, then offered, "Faye, it's been bizarre, truly bizarre," and so saying, he lurched from his seat and headed for the door, but then realizing what he'd forgotten, he inquired, "Where shall I find her?"

"Radio City Music Hall, you fool! She's a Rockette!" and, as he reached for the door handle, she called to him one last time, exclaiming, "You tell her when you see her that I'm real jealous. She caught herself a one of a kind!"

New York City – Two Days Later

**Sloan lollygagged outside the backstage door** , hoping beyond hope that she would appear. It was a warm summer evening in New York, but he barely noticed, just as he had hardly noticed the grueling twenty-five hundred mile drive.

Eventually, she came out and, seeing his face, she came forward, exclaiming pleasantly, "Sloan! Sloan Stewart! Can it be? Is it really you? Up to this very moment I couldn't bring myself to believe the cock-and-bull story that Faye gave me."

Reaching her side momentarily, he blurted self-consciously, "Yes, Sabrina, it is indeed me."

At this she politely allowed him to embrace her, adding, "But how can this be? We were told that you were dead. We thought you were killed in the war."

"Yes, I very nearly was," he answered bluntly.

"But you weren't. And here you are, somehow alive, against all expectation – alive!"

"Yes, dear Sabrina."

"But what are you doing here, Sloan?"

"All in good time, Sabrina, all in good time. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Of course! Please - join me, if you will. I know an all-night diner right down the street. New York never sleeps, you know."

Once they had seated themselves within the diner, he announced brazenly, "You see, I've come in search of you, Sabrina."

"Why on earth for?"

"To thank you," he responded enigmatically.

"To thank me? Whatever for?"

"For saving my life."

"What! How so?"

"I've been a prisoner of war, for nearly three years, Sabrina."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry to hear that, Sloan. Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course, and tis all due to you."

"What! But I don't understand."

"I thought of you, Sabrina. For four long years of war and captivity, I thought of you. Had I not had the memory of you to bring me through, I should have died in that prison camp. So you see, you saved my life."

"Ah, I see now. So you were sustained for the better part of the last four years by lurid images of me in that shower in New Hampshire."

"Yes, in point fact, you are correct."

"I'm not quite sure whether to be flattered or insulted. But as you are somehow alive, I suppose I should at least be happy for you."

"Yes, so I've come to say thank you, Sabrina."

Eyeing him doubtfully, she responded, "You're welcome, I suppose."

He stared at her momentarily, then inquired in apparent confusion, "So, just exactly what in heck are you doing here in New York?"

"I should think that would be obvious, Sloan. After you got me kicked out of Bryn Mawr, I had to make a living. As fate would have it, the quest for a means of support led me to New York City, where I discovered my one talent."

"One talent? What talent?"

"Why, high kicking, of course!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I take it you've not heard of the Rockettes."

"No, should I have?"

"It's the most widely attended live entertainment show on earth, Sloan!"

"Oh, I say, that is marvelous! Good for you, Sabrina. You must be doing quite well."

"I can see you're not particularly impressed," she said sarcastically.

"Sabrina, surely you realize that you are not the same naïve young lady that I met in New Hampshire."

"Bingo! The foolish young girl becomes a show girl, and it's all because of you, Sloan Stewart the pervert!" she exclaimed scornfully.

Horrified at her reaction, he queried, "What on earth has gotten into you, Sabrina?"

"You seem quite surprised, Sloan. I would have thought that a pervert like you would have been overjoyed to observe the remarkable success of your well-tutored protégé."

"You must be kidding, Sabrina. Why didn't you continue your studies at Bryn Mawr?"

"Because you got me kicked out of there, you asshole. I was far too nefarious for those snobs anyway."

"I'm confused. What happened?"

"Why, you showed me the finer aspects of degeneracy, dear Sloan," she responded self-condescendingly, "And I don't mind telling you, I am ever so grateful. Had you not cornered me in the shower that night, there is no telling where I would be now. As it is, I have achieved a certain degree of libidinous notoriety."

"I say, this is all quite unfathomable," he mumbled to himself.

"Whatever," she responded cynically, "But the important question is – why did you get me expelled from school?"

"I promise you, I had no hand in that," he denied flatly.

"I am quite certain you did," she replied with equal certitude.

"Why? What makes you so sure?"

"Because the Dean of Students showed me the letter you sent to the university, that's why."

"What! There must be some mistake! I would not, I _could not_ , ever do such a heinous thing!"

"Well, it's all water under the bridge now, and, as you can see, it all turned out for the better," she responded and, still clearly unconvinced, she added disinterestedly, "So, what are your plans now that you've found me?"

"I'm not sure, I hadn't thought that far," he responded wistfully.

"Fair enough. Seeing as how you appear to be at loose ends, why not come back to my apartment with me. We can talk about old times."

"I say, that is quite sporting of you, Sabrina. I think that I should rather like that."

Rising from her seat, she responded, "Excellent. Follow me!" and so saying, she led him toward the subway station.

Arriving at her apartment shortly thereafter, she beckoned him within and, closing the door and locking it, she immediately grabbed him tightly, tugging him into a deep and searing kiss.

On coming up for air, he blurted, "What the...?"

"God, I've been wanting to do that ever since that night, you nasty boy. And all these years, I thought you were dead. Get your clothes off. I'm going to reap vengeance on you for that night."

"I say," he responded sheepishly.

"Shut up, you idiot," she commanded self-assuredly, "The shoe is on the other foot now...so best do exactly as I say."

The Following Morning

**Sloan was shocked to observe** Sabrina lying next to him in bed. Brushing the cobwebs away, he rolled over towards her.

"Sabrina, dear Sabrina, wake up!" he said, gently tugging her awake.

"Oh, good morning," she responded, pecking him lightly on the lips. "Excuse me a moment, if you will, I have to brush my teeth," and so saying she hopped from the bed and traipsed unabashedly to the bathroom.

Lounging in anticipation of her return, he thought back over the previous night, the memory of it beyond anything he had ever experienced in his life, surpassing even that first time with her on the dock six years past.

Emerging from the bathroom, she halted before the bed and exclaimed, "Don't even think about getting out of bed, you nasty boy. I've not even begun to have my way with you!" and so saying she dove under the covers and proceeded to enact her intentions.

A Month Later

**Sloan stood outside the** backstage door awaiting her appearance. When she eventually emerged, his lone utterance was, "Hi."

"Hey," she replied, "How'd you like the show tonight?"

"Impressive," he responded curtly. "Let's go somewhere. I need to talk."

"Okay. How about the diner?"

"Sure," he said, thenceforth leading the way.

Once ensconced within the diner, he said, "How on earth did you come to hit upon a career on the stage, Sabrina?"

"Oh, I should think that would be obvious, Sloan."

"Humor me."

"Oh, well, I took dance in high school. I was pretty good, but not good enough to perform ballet or anything like that. I was having a terrible time finding a job, so I started out waiting tables part-time at restaurants when I moved to the City. Shortly thereafter, I managed to scare up a job as a cabaret dancer, nothing too salacious, mind you. Anyway, that's where I first met Faye. Neither of us intended that to be our profession, but it paid the rent. Anyway, I kept at it, and my looks eventually started getting me auditions, and the rest is history, as they say."

"So the events at The Orchard Inn had nothing to do with it?" he queried.

Frowning in confusion, she murmured, "I'm sure I don't understand. In what way?"

Deciding to avoid a potentially dangerous confrontation, he mumbled, "Well, I suppose that I shall have to take your word for it."

"Please do," she responded, her eyes flashing in warning, "Anything else?"

"Well, yes, there is," he stammered, "Uhm, I still don't get the connection with Faye. What's that about, Sabrina?"

"Oh, that. I should think it would be obvious. Since we were both aspiring dancers, we were going to the same auditions. And New York being one of the most expensive cities in the world, we eventually fell in together and decided to share an apartment."

"Ah, I see!" he responded agreeably, "So, how long did you live together?"

"Oh, gee, let me see. I moved here in October of 1941, and we moved in together a couple of months later, just before the New Year," she contemplated. "Faye finally moved to Las Vegas in the spring of last year. So we lived together for more than five years."

"Why did she move to Vegas?"

"Oh, that," she mumbled, as if to herself, adding, "Well, Faye couldn't make it with the Rockettes. She doesn't have the dancing skills, but she has the looks!"

"I'll second that," Sloan put in appreciatively.

"Right," she responded, eyeing him reprovingly, "Anyway, she was bouncing around from one cabaret show to another, very stressful if you ask me. And, as fate would have it, the post-war atmosphere was kicking things into high gear in the City. I suppose that the troops coming home from the war expected some sort of special reward for their sacrifices and, in such a setting, anything goes."

"Huh? Meaning what?" he inquired vacuously.

"Meaning, there is money to be made from the exposure of skin. And, over the course of the last couple of years, it develops that the more skin, the more money there is to be made. Faye has a whole lot of impressive features, and frankly, she was tired of barely scraping by. So she started down that road. But there were others, like Gypsy Rose Lee and Lili St. Cyr, who were inventing all sorts of titillating stage acts. That's when Faye and I put our heads together and came up with the shower act. Shortly thereafter, she signed a contract for a whole lot of money to star at the new Flamingo Club in Vegas."

"Pretty much as I thought," he nodded to himself, "Why didn't you do the same, Sabrina?"

"Not my sort of thing," she replied flatly, "The dancing I did before I became a Rockette was, although perhaps titillating, pretty tame. Stripping just didn't seem like a professional pursuit to me."

Apparently relieved, he responded, "I see..."

"Now, what else is on your mind?" she asked pointedly.

"Well, there is one thing," he replied sheepishly.

"And what might that be?"

"Sabrina, dear Sabrina...how shall I say this? It seems, I have fallen in love with you."

"That's nice," she responded disinterestedly, "So?"

"So, I am asking you to marry me," he responded nervously.

"That's strange," she responded, "I thought I just heard you propose to me."

"Yes, indeed I did," he replied surreptitiously.

"Why ever on earth for?" she inquired vacantly.

"I've just said why. Because I love you – that's why."

"Surely you don't expect me to believe that!" she snapped.

"On the contrary," he pleaded, "That is exactly what I hope that you shall believe."

"Why?" she spat back at him.

"Because it's true," he responded.

Eyeing him doubtfully, she now murmured, "Well, that's pretty good, you nasty boy. Actually, I should say more precisely - it is in fact excellent. I would even go so far as to say, it's quite the best proposal of marriage I've ever had."

"What! How many proposals of marriage have you in fact received?" he replied forlornly.

"Well, let me see here, give me a moment to count," she replied, at which his visage paled visibly. Holding up her fingers as a means of counting off the numbers, she commenced counting to herself and, eventually completing her task, she said, "One."

He, having become by that point quite daunted, now grinned in relief and, aware that he had been duped, he inquired, "Well?"

"Well, what?" she muttered, a frown lacing her features.

"Will you?" he exclaimed in obvious exasperation.

"Of course I will, you idiot!" she bellowed.

"You will?" he replied in stupefaction, "Oh, I'm so happy, Sabrina!"

"As am I, you nasty boy," she volunteered.

The two were married three days later.

Boston – August, 1947

**Upon their arrival in Boston, Sabrina inquired** , "How are we set for money, Sloan?"

"I rather think that we can survive on what I've saved, together with my veteran's benefits," he responded self-assuredly, "Why?"

"Just wondering if I should consider working."

"Working? What sort of work, Sabrina," he responded, his face contorting in trepidation.

"I was thinking of looking around to see if they have need of exotic dancers here in Boston," she responded sarcastically.

Missing her sarcasm, he blurted in abject fear, "Please, Sabrina, I had hoped that you might have put dancing behind you."

"Why?" she responded curtly, "What profession did you have in mind for me?"

"I had hoped that you might be willing to focus on being the mother of our children," he pleaded, "Assuming that we do in fact have children at some point."

"Well, I don't know..." she mumbled distractedly.

"Please, Sabrina!"

"Ha!" she exclaimed with a revealing grin, "I was only kidding! Of course, I am more than happy to take on that role, especially since it means that I shall have the opportunity to continue to explore my position as your understudy in the art of perversion. Besides, with your libido, I'm sure that my pregnancy cannot be far off."

At this, he stared in surprise, responding, "Well, er, I suppose we have an agreement."

A month later Sabrina announced that she was indeed pregnant.
Chapter 8

The Complexity of Life

Boston - April, 1950

**Isolde and Sabrina sat** on the park bench, patiently observing the two children racing about before them. Though it was sunny, it was nevertheless a cold day along the Charles River.

"Robert is quite good with her," Sabrina volunteered, examining as Robert lifted Elise onto a swing and began to push her skyward.

"Yes, he's a good boy. I'd have been surprised if he hadn't been good with her," Isolde surmised, "She's a lovely little girl, you know. You and Sloan have much to be proud of."

At this, Sabrina winced and, peering wistfully at the two children, she responded enigmatically, "Thank you. How are you and James getting along?"

"Oh, just fine," Isolde hedged, "He's very busy, you know. Now that he is the head of the department, he's spending even longer hours at the office."

"Tell me about it," Sabrina responded agreeably, "I don't see all that much of Sloan either."

"Are you happy?" Isolde pried.

"Happy? I'm not sure I even know the meaning of the word," Sabrina responded in sudden abandon.

"Right, none of my business, I suppose," Isolde responded apologetically.

"It's not that, Isolde, I'm not trying to put you off. I just don't know who I am, or where I'm going half the time. Frankly, I find Sloan infuriating."

"Why ever for?" Isolde exclaimed in surprise, "I've always thought he was such a great catch for you."

"I don't know, I can't put my finger on it, but he still gives me the creeps," Sabrina proffered, "Maybe it goes all the way back to the panty caper that summer in New Hampshire, but I really don't trust him."

"What? You mean, you think he's cheating on you?" Isolde exclaimed doubtfully.

"No, it's not that. I doubt that he has any extra energy for that, if you get my meaning," Sabrina responded with a telling glance. "It's just that, he's always hypothesizing that there's something gone wrong."

"Something gone wrong...like what?" Isolde queried in dismay.

"Like a plot or something," Sabrina murmured disconsolately.

"A plot? What sort of plot?"

"Oh, he claims he's being held back from getting his Ph.D.," Sabrina responded, her head shaking doubtfully, "It's kind of ridiculous."

"Held back!" Isolde exclaimed in surprise. "How is that even possible?"

"I've no idea, Isolde. You know more about the going's on at Harvard than I ever will. But one night he remarked that James finished his graduate studies in three years, and it looks like he's going to need five years to complete his course of study."

"Oh, well," Isolde mumbled, "If it's any consolation, I barely saw James during that entire three-year period."

"Really?" Sabrina replied, her jaw dropping in shock.

"Why do you think I only have the one child?" Isolde revealed.

"Oh, I didn't realize...," Sabrina murmured apprehensively.

"Yes, well, it seems we may both be married to workaholics," Isolde volunteered and, staring wistfully off into space, she added, "It seems those two lusty boys from that summer in New Hampshire have grown into distracted academics."

Remaining momentarily silent in contemplation, Sabrina eventually offered, "That being the case, why don't we two get together regularly? Besides, Robert and Elise can play together. Just look at them, they seem to get along rather well, despite the difference in their ages."

"Good idea. We can commiserate together," Isolde responded with newfound resolution, "Sort of like academic widows."

Boston – March, 1951

**Sloan rushed through the** front door of the apartment, exclaiming cheerfully, "Sabrina! I have great news!"

At this, Sabrina came bounding from the hallway, whispering, "Ssshhh! Elise is taking her nap! You don't want to see how badly she'll behave if you wake her."

"Oh, sorry," he whispered in return, "Is she alright?"

"Of course," Sabrina replied, "We had a nice visit to the park this morning. It's the first day warm enough for it since early November. So Isolde and I reprised our weekly outings. Anyway, she's tired out, so her nap is a bit longer than usual today."

"Oh, that's good," he mumbled distractedly, "At least I think it is. How's Isolde? I've not seen her since last summer."

"Oh, she's fine, and Robert and Elise are getting along quite well together," she whispered and, deftly changing the subject, she added, "Hopefully, you'll get to be more of a parent to her now that you're finishing your studies."

"That would be nice," he replied wistfully.

"So, to what do I owe this mid-day visit?" she inquired suspiciously.

Suddenly regaining his manic attitude, he responded, "Oh, that's what I wanted to tell you about!"

"What?"

"They've offered me a job on the faculty!" he announced proudly.

"Wow! That's amazing!" she exclaimed loudly and, suddenly realizing that she had violated her own command, she whispered, "Isn't that a bit unusual?"

Taking her in a gentle embrace, he murmured, "Yes, but I'm older."

Returning his embrace, she responded, "What is that supposed to mean, Sloan?"

"Oh, nothing, the truth is, I suspect James put in a good word for me."

"That's more likely, if you ask me," she whispered in return.

"Well, it really doesn't matter why, the point is - now we can get a better place to live, or at least we can as soon as I get my Ph.D. in May," he replied, bending to kiss her lightly.

Ignoring his advance, she queried, "So, how much will you be making?"

"I'm not quite certain, but you can bet it will be quite a bit more than I'm making now," he said proudly.

"Well, congratulations, Sloan," she said dismissively and, releasing him, she added condescendingly, "You may be a pervert, and an idiot to boot, but you're good at your work."

"Thanks," he replied in confusion, in the process wondering to himself whether she had just complimented him or not.

Boston – Early April, 1954

**Sloan's office phone rang and,** grabbing it unconsciously from the cradle, he said brusquely, "Sloan Stewart here."

"Sloan, it's Isolde," she responded.

"Isolde!" he cried, his face lighting up in obvious pleasure, "It's great to hear your voice. What's up?"

"I was wondering," she suggested nervously, "Could you possibly meet me for lunch?"

"Why, certainly," he replied convivially, "It would be my pleasure. Is anything wrong?"

"No, it's nothing. I just need to talk."

"Right," he responded empathetically, "When is good for you?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"Sure. When and where?"

"Brannigan's Bar, if that's okay with you," she suggested, "Say 11:30?"

"Perfect! See you then, Isolde."

"Bye, Sloan."

The Following Day

**Sloan crept up behind her** at the bar, exclaiming pleasantly, "Hey!"

"Oh!" she responded with an amiable grin, "You surprised me! You always were the huckster," and rising from her seat, she accepted his genial embrace.

Seating himself adjacent to her, he said, "Sooo, long time no see, Isolde. It's been what – six months? I trust things are well with you?"

"Oh, you know, Sloan," she responded and, brushing back a strand of hair, she proffered, "It's just life. It comes at you quite fast."

"Tell me about it," he responded jovially, adding with apparent concern, "You look a bit down, Isolde. What seems to be the problem?"

"It's nothing...really! I'm simply struggling a bit," she replied disconsolately, "Perhaps I'm a bit depressed. James and I have been married for more than twelve years, you know. His work keeps him busy all the time. I suppose I'm just lonely."

"Ah, I see," he replied empathetically, "How is your son?"

"Well, that part is just fine, although Robert keeps me quite busy, if you must know. He's a handful."

"Perhaps that's good," he suggested, "How old is he now?"

"Eleven."

"Hmmm, Elise is six. She's quite a handful as well."

"How is Sabrina?" she inquired, already knowing the answer to her query.

"No idea, she's not speaking to me much these days, as I suspect you are well aware."

"Yes, she told me much the same thing in the park the other day. What seems to be the problem, Sloan?"

"Perhaps we've the same problem that James and you have – overwork," he babbled rather flippantly and, his demeanor becoming somber, he suggested, "Seriously, though, I'm not certain what's going on with Sabrina. She can be somewhat distant at times. At any rate, I'm quite sure she shall get over it."

"Let's hope so," she said doubtfully.

His gaze turning serious, he asked, "I do have a question for you."

Sensing the newfound concern in his voice, she inquired, "Oh, and what might that be?"

"It's been nagging at me for years," he mumbled, "Ever since that summer in New Hampshire."

She peered at him doubtfully, grunting, "What? What's the problem?"

"Well, I was contemplating, since you're a psychologist, and a woman to boot, perhaps you can tell me why she did what she did afterwards."

"What did she do?"

"She joined a cabaret," he announced flatly.

"What! Surely you're not serious, Sloan!" she exclaimed in obvious shock.

"I assure you, I am quite serious," he responded serenely.

"When? How long?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure, to tell you the truth," he replied and, pondering a moment, he suggested thoughtfully, "It seems she was a cabaret dancer for quite some time, eventually becoming a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall."

"Is that where you found her in New York?"

"Yes. I found her during summer break," he replied wistfully, "We were married shortly thereafter, as I'm sure you well know."

"Yes," she said with newfound interest, "But I didn't know any of the rest of it."

"Right, so back to my original question, Isolde," he said pointedly, "Why did she become a cabaret dancer?"

"Good question," she replied thoughtfully. She contemplated momentarily, then abruptly snapped her fingers, announcing, "That's it! Of course!"

"What's it?"

"The shower thing in New Hampshire. I'm sure it all goes back to that night."

"Why?"

"Look, Sloan," she said disdainfully, "You really messed her up that night."

"I did?" he responded doubtfully.

"Yes, quite so, dear boy," she murmured, "Regretfully, you did. She was crying uncontrollably when she came back to the room. Actually, I think she cried half the night, and the following morning, she simply packed her bag, hugged me, and left for the station without so much as a word."

"Really!" he said, realization apparent on his face, "I had no idea."

"Surely she told you as much," she responded hesitantly.

"Yes, but I didn't really believe her."

"Why ever not?" she queried in surprise.

"Because she came to me on the dock later that night, that's why!"

"What! What are you talking about, Sloan?"

"I couldn't sleep, so I swam out to the dock, and she followed me."

"Really!" she exclaimed in utter disbelief, "And what happened then?"

"Uhm...well...uhm..."

"This is no time for shilly-shallying about, Sloan," she remonstrated, "Remember your pledge of complete honesty."

"Right. How could I ever forget that, despite the fact that it was half a lifetime ago," he responded sheepishly."

"Sooo..." she responded expectantly.

"So, she made love to me, dammit," he blurted defensively.

"My, my..." she volunteered, "No wonder she was in such a quandary. And how was it?"

"How was what?" he replied defensively.

"You idiot, how was _it_?" she expounded, placing particular emphasis on the last word.

"Well, now that you ask, Isolde, it was different," he murmured sheepishly.

"Different?" she inquired in obvious surprise, "How so, Sloan?"

"I don't know. I can't quite put my finger on it," he mumbled, but then he added thoughtfully, as if he were reliving it, "She was, I suppose, somehow more romantic, more like she really cared. I don't mind telling you, the thought of that night kept me going for more than three years in Burma. Had it not been for what happened on the dock that night, I doubt I'd be alive today."

"Really!" Isolde blurted in surprise. "You mean, it's different now?"

"Right," he responded dejectedly, "Has been ever since," and, pausing for a moment to reflect, he suggested, "You know, I think you're right, Isolde. I must have hurt her really badly that night, because she hasn't been the same since."

"Yes, you're right about that," she replied, "But the two of you should have gotten beyond that by now."

"Look, she likes to blame me for quite a lot, if you must know..." he replied, his voice trailing off disconsolately.

She stared at him momentarily and, gathering her thoughts, she suggested, "Look, I'm no psychologist, but from what I've heard about dancers, they are in almost all cases beset by insecurity of one sort or another."

"Really? So, why are they insecure?"

"Well, I'm sure I have no idea," she announced officiously, "There are myriad reasons for insecurity, but I can certainly tell you this - I would be seriously insecure had you done to me what you did to her that night!"

"What! Why?"

"Right, first you scared the holy crap out of her. Then you did everything but rape her."

"But my intentions were nothing of the sort..."

"Be that as it may, Sloan, what you perpetrated on her that night was surely quite traumatic for a naïve seventeen year old girl."

Eyeing her doubtfully, he queried, "Are you telling me that I made her into an insecure cabaret dancer?"

Shaking her head, she denied, "No, I didn't say that! But look at it this way – I doubt that she would have turned to dancing had it not been for that night."

"Hmmm, I see what you mean," he responded thoughtfully, his hand on his chin. "I'm afraid I have some patching up to do with her."

"I would advise against that, Sloan. You've put your foot in it once. Best stay away from the puddle, if you get my meaning, for it could grow even deeper."

"Alright, Isolde," he responded and, apparently closing the subject, he added, "Well, thanks for your help."

"Sure," she responded with a polite smile, "You know, I came here in a maudlin mood, and now I somehow feel better myself."

"Probably you're just enjoying getting to know that one of your friends has problems, too!" he posited in attempted good humor.

At this, they laughed convivially and, the conversation turning to lighter subjects, they enjoyed a pleasant lunch together. When the time came to part, Isolde grabbed his arm and, pulling him down the street a short distance, she tugged him into an alleyway and whispered, "Forgive me, Sloan, but I need this badly," and so saying, she drew him to her and kissed him passionately.

When she pulled back, he eyed her in shock, but nonetheless managed to murmur politely, "Well, that was quite a surprise! But then, what are friends for?" and so saying, he accorded her a brilliant smile.

For her part, she returned his smile, offering affably, "And now, I must be off! Perhaps we could get together again sometime. And I promise, I shan't pull you into an alley!"

"Done!" he replied and, turning to leave, he called over his shoulder, "I shall look forward to it!"

A Month Later

**Sloan, having been deep** in thought during his constitutional alongside the Charles, pulled up in surprise, saying, "Well, I declare! Fancy meeting you here, Isolde!"

"Yes, well, I just couldn't stay away, Sloan. I was on my way to your office, when I saw you strolling by the river. So I thought to surprise you."

"What's up?" he queried.

"Oh, nothing," she responded evasively, "I just needed a friend. Mind if we walk a bit?"

"Not at all," he responded pleasantly, "Had you not happened along, I should have been forced to take my lunchtime walk alone. Now, it seems it will be much more enjoyable," and, taking her arm, he proceeded to stroll along the riverside walkway.

The pair meandered along for several minutes, Isolde jabbering about nothing in particular, whence they came upon a children's swing adjacent to the walkway. "Why, what a lovely day for a swing!" she announced. "Please, Sloan, could we? Would you mind ever so much giving me a push?" and so saying, she settled into the nearest seat.

Sharing her burst of energy, he joined in, pushing her higher on each revolution of the swing, the pair looking to all appearances like a couple of school children playing hooky.

When they had exhausted themselves, she exclaimed, "Thanks, Sloan, I needed that! Now, I shan't treat you as I did the last time we met, but I must be going, so please, give us a hug."

Reaching for her, he took her companionably within his arms and gave her a peck on the cheek, saying, "I do so adore you, Isolde. Thanks for being such a good friend."

For her part, she followed up with a laconic, "Bye," and with that she waved and bounded away.

Boston – Late June, 1954

**Sloan came forward** to the restaurant table **,** wondering to himself what James could be about on this occasion. "James," he said, holding out his hand.

"Ah, Sloan," James responded, grasping his hand. "Good of you to come. We're all so terribly busy these days. Please, have a seat. Lunch is on me."

"Thanks," Sloan replied, adding, "What's up?"

"Probably nothing, but I thought that you should know."

"Know what?"

"Shall we dine first?" James suggested politely, "Then I shall of course be entirely forthcoming."

"It's not to do with work, is it?"

"Heaven's, no, Sloan," James responded officiously, adding, "As your department chair, let me simply say that you are the star performer within the department."

"Right, thanks," Sloan responded compliantly, the two sharing a friendly repast thereafter.

Once their appetites had been sated, Sloan took up yet again, querying, "So, what was so important as to cause you to telephone me in haste, James?"

Daubing the corner of his mouth, James responded solemnly, "I suppose there's no putting it off. You see, Sloan, I've happened onto something quite untoward."

"Oh, what sort of thing?" Sloan responded quizzically.

"Actually, I happened to be in downtown Boston the other day, and I chanced to see Sabrina going into a rather seedy looking shop on Simmons Boulevard," James offered hesitantly, "You know the area, right?"

"I do in fact know of the area, but little more than that," Sloan mumbled, growing more confused by the moment, "Isn't it some sort of slum?"

"Yes, it is. Actually, I would go somewhat farther - it is in fact the red light district of Boston."

"Right," Sloan grunted, "Whatever were you doing in that area, James?"

Eyeing Sloan doubtfully for a moment, James murmured, "Oh, I was on my way to a meeting downtown, and the taxi driver, claiming to know a shortcut around traffic, coincidentally took a rather circuitous route through the area."

"Ah, I see," Sloan responded and, his concern obviously mounting, he inquired, "So you say you saw Sabrina there?"

"Yes, indeed I did," he reconfirmed somberly and, apparently attempting to mitigate the gravity of it, he added somewhat inanely, "Either that, or it was her twin sister."

"Right," Sloan responded grimly, "And since she doesn't have any siblings, we must assume that it was in fact her."

"Precisely, so I thought to inform you," James offered and, handing him a piece of paper, he proffered, "This is the address of the place I saw her entering."

"Thank you, James," Sloan responded and, attempting to make light of it, he suggested, "I'm quite certain that it's nothing at all. Nevertheless, one must take these things seriously. I shall forthwith undertake to investigate."

Boston – Three Days Later

**Sloan stepped from** the taxi and, offering the driver a generous tip, he turned to take in his surroundings. As James had indicated, it was indeed a rather questionable part of town. Attempting to get a feel for the area, he meandered along the street for a couple of blocks, idly taking in the scenery.

There seemed to be an assemblage of women, most of them standing listlessly about, each and every one of them glaring suspiciously in his direction. One of them eventually came forward and, her breasts straining to escape her miniscule blouse, she inquired enticingly, "Need some companionship, mister?"

"No, thank you, I'm just looking about," he grinned salaciously.

"Well, look all you want, buddy, it's the only free thing around here," she responded cynically. And at this she turned on her heel, and as she did so, she accentuated the sway of her bountiful hips.

Having seen enough, he turned, now strolling in the opposite direction. Along the way, he was intermittently assaulted by bouncers, the typical remark being something like, "Hey, buddy, want to see some action? Girls, all nude, all the time! Just step inside here."

Ignoring each offer, he wandered further on, eventually deciding he had quite the measure of the neighborhood. Thenceforth, extracting the piece of paper from his pocket, he read the address and, searching about for street numbers, he headed back in the direction from whence he had come.

Realizing that he was a bit lost, he approached a streetwalker and, holding out the piece of paper toward her, he asked, "Excuse, me, might you be able to tell me where this address is?"

Reaching forward, she took the paper for a moment and staring at it in concentration, she responded, "Yeah, a couple of blocks down that way, on your right. It's a peep show, I think."

"Thanks," he replied and, smiling in gratitude, he took off in the direction she had pointed. A few minutes later he found himself standing before a small shop. It was painted entirely black, and on the window were painted three large block letter X's. Glancing upwards, he noticed the sign above, blinking the two words 'Peep Show'.

Tugging the door open, he stepped inside, finding a small window, an elderly woman perched within. "Twenty dollars, unlimited viewing," she announced drolly.

"Viewing of what?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Why, whatever you want," she responded acerbically, "all strictly legal, of course."

"How many girls have you within?" he asked tenaciously.

"This time of day, usually five. Just wander down the hallway, poke your head in any room, and pick whichever one you want to watch. They're all one way mirrors, so they can't see you. Perfect anonymity."

"Works for me," he replied and, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his pocket, he shoved it over the counter.

"Have a great time," the woman said, "And stay out of trouble, because if you make a commotion, we'll have to throw you out, hear?"

"Got it," he said, turning toward the task at hand.

He wandered down the dimly lit hallway, thrust his way through a curtain and, stepping inside a small darkened room, he sat in one of the dozen or so chairs. There were two men seated within, both staring intently through a glass window, a scantily clad young woman dancing immodestly therein. He examined the setting for a few minutes and, having gaged the setting fully, he decided to move on.

Continuing his search to no avail, he eventually came to the last room. Although the setting was identical to the other rooms, this one was packed and every seat in the room was taken. Apparently the show had not yet begun, as there was a curtain drawn across the far side of the room. He propped himself against the wall near the entrance, a feeling of foreboding churning inside him. The curtain was momentarily drawn back, a nearly naked figure in a mask dancing salaciously within the tiny chamber. Of course, given the concealment supplied by the mask, no one could have discerned the identity of the performer therein but her own husband, that being Sloan. As confirming evidence, he observed the heart-shaped birthmark, right where he knew it would be. He watched for a few gut-wrenching moments, then abruptly departed, utterly revolted by the entire scene within.

Aware that she would have to leave early enough to pick Elise up at day care, he determined to wait outside. Eventually, she came out and, seeing him standing there in forlorn anticipation, she strolled directly toward him and announced mundanely, "Sloan. I thought you'd never come."

Passing directly by him, she continued down the street. Surprised to find her unrepentant, he followed, pleading, "Sabrina! What the hell is going on?"

"What does it look like is going on?" she bellowed vehemently.

"I've no idea, I'm sure. Suppose you tell me!" he pleaded.

"I'm dancing in a peep show, that's what's going on, you idiot!" she spat in return.

"I can see that, but why ever on earth for?"

At this she stopped, turned on her heel and, strutting back to him, she exclaimed between gritted teeth, "I'm getting even with you."

"Getting even, for what?"

"You know what, you bastard!" she screamed viciously.

"I'm sure I've no idea. Suppose you enlighten me, Sabrina."

"I knew you'd say that!" she cried and, pulling up directly before him, she hauled off and slapped him forcefully, following it with, "Fuck off, you son-of-a-bitch! I want a divorce!"

Staggering backward from the blow, he grabbed his face and exclaimed in bewilderment, "What! You can't possibly mean that!"

"Oh, can't I?" she responded callously, and with that she turned and strutted away.

"Sabrina, please stop," he called forlornly to her, "Tell me what is going on, please!"

At this, she turned one last time and, facing him, she announced, "I'm going to say this one time, Sloan, so listen up. Don't you ever come near me again. I've had enough of your bullshit lies. You will hear from my lawyer shortly. In the meantime, I'm taking Elise to my mother's house in Pittsburgh."

"Oh, God, please Sabrina, don't do this!" he cried in dismay.

"Too late, you pervert. It's already done," and, having said this, she turned and walked away.
Chapter 9

Mid-Life Crisis

Boston - 1959

**Sloan sat within his office,** browsing through the stack of mail perched on his desk. Noticing a particular piece that seemed to stand out, he reached forward and, tugging it from the stack, he drew it towards him. Scrutinizing the writing on the envelope, he realized it was a piece of campus mail, addressed simply to Dr. Sloan Stewart, Chemistry Department, and it was marked _CONFIDENTIAL_ in boldface letters.

Tearing it open, he found a single page within which read as follows:

April 10, 1959

Dear Dr. Stewart:

In accordance with University Policy, it is my responsibility in my capacity as Dean of Faculty to investigate complaints lodged against faculty members. As a formal complaint has been made against you, I must therefore ask you to report to me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Barbara Wilson, Ph.D.

Dean of Faculty

That Afternoon

**Sloan opened the door** to the office and approached the desk within, offering, "Good morning, Dean Wilson. What seems to be the problem?"

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on short notice, Dr. Stewart," she responded and, rising from her seat, she commanded concisely, "Please, sit down."

"Yes, of course," he responded politely.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she inquired.

"No, thanks. I'm sorry, I've a quite busy day. Could we get on with it? What's the problem?"

"Dr. Stewart, a very serious charge has been made against you. When you have heard the nature of it, I believe that you shall find it necessary to make time for the purpose of addressing it immediately."

Paling at this, Sloan inquired in confusion, "What? What on earth are you talking about, Dean Wilson?"

"Dr. Stewart, we have reason to believe that you may have violated the university's moral turpitude policy."

Rising halfway from his seat, he exclaimed, "What! You're not serious!"

"I'm afraid that I am entirely serious, sir," she responded matter-of-factly.

"Please, tell me then, what is the nature of the charge?"

"We have received photographic evidence indicating that you have visited at least one pornographic facility, and while therein, you appear to have engaged in indecent exposure and public lewdness. You also appear to have engaged in illegal solicitation, all of which are misdemeanor crimes. You have therefore been charged by the University Committee of Faculty Affairs with moral turpitude."

"You must be joking!" he blurted in abject denial, "I've never done such a thing in my life."

"Dr. Stewart, there is no point in denying the charge," she responded placidly, "We have irrefutable photographic evidence."

"What evidence? I must be allowed to see this evidence!"

"I'm afraid that I cannot do that, Dr. Stewart," she announced officiously, "My role in this sordid affair is to simply inform you of the charge. The evidence came to this office, and in accordance with university policy, it has been turned over to the local authorities. Detective Marcus Peterson is at this moment waiting outside my office, and he shall immediately take you into custody. At such time that the authorities have completed their investigation of this matter, the university will follow up with a judgment regarding the charge of moral turpitude."

Now completely at a loss, Sloan responded, "What on earth is going on, Dean Wilson? Am I being dismissed from the university?"

"Not at this time, Dr. Stewart. However, if these charges prove to be correct, I'm afraid that is indeed a possibility. I must therefore advise you to proceed with great caution."

At this, Sloan rose and rejoined, "Thank you, Dean Wilson. I assure you, I shall get to the bottom of this. These charges are entirely baseless."

"I certainly hope so, Dr. Stewart. Now, I must wish you a good day," and saying this, she rose from her chair and shook his hand, thereby signaling an end to the meeting.

Once outside her office, Sloan was met by a rather surly man and, introducing himself as Detective Peterson, he announced brusquely, "Dr. Stewart, please turn away from me so that I may cuff your hands."

"Is that really necessary, sir?" Sloan queried in dismay.

"I'm afraid so. It's the law," and at this, Sloan turned about, accepting this indignity without rancor.

"So, where are we off to, Detective?" he inquired disconsolately.

"We have to go to the downtown precinct. You will be booked into jail there, and the charges will be detailed for you. At that point, you will likely be remanded to your lawyer's custody."

"Lawyer? I don't have a lawyer!" Sloan exclaimed, realization as to his predicament flooding over him.

"Well, then, better get one, and soon," Peterson responded indifferently, "Otherwise you'll be spending time in the County Jail."

At this point Detective Peterson led Sloan forward, and once outside, he drew him down the steps of the Academic Building, where a student with a camera rushed up, surreptitiously taking a photo of him. The pair continued toward Detective Peterson's vehicle, and the student chasing along beside them inquired pointedly, "Dr. Stewart, do you have a statement regarding the charges made against you?"

"No," Sloan responded dejectedly, "This is all a mistake. The charges are completely baseless."

An Hour Later

**Sloan slumped diffidently within the** interrogation room, awaiting the arrival of Detective Peterson, all the while wondering fretfully what in heaven's name was going on. Eventually, the detective entered the room, saying, "Sorry to take so long, Dr. Stewart. I was detained. Now, the purpose of this meeting is to inform you of evidence that we have obtained regarding the charges against you."

"Charges? What charges?"

"Of course, there are no charges as yet, but I expect that you will be charged with illegal solicitation, indecent exposure and public lewdness."

"May I be apprised of the evidence, sir?"

"Yes, of course," Detective Peterson responded, and so saying, he placed a large envelope on the table and proceeded to remove several photos from it. He then shoved the stack towards him, suggesting, "Here, take a gander at these pictures."

Sloan leaned forward, examining the pictures and, recognizing them immediately, he shoved them back towards Detective Peterson, exclaiming, "This is ridiculous! I can explain this!"

"By all means, please do so, Dr. Stewart," Detective Peterson responded placidly.

"I went to a Peep Show, just that one time. That's all. There's nothing illegal about that."

"Take a closer look at the photos, sir. The first two show you soliciting a prostitute. In the first photo you are seen grinning wolfishly at a known hooker. In the second photo you are clearly passing money to a second streetwalker. Then there is a photo showing you in a packed room watching an exotic dancer. And finally, the _piece de resistance_ , a photo in a small room, and not only is there a scantily clad woman dancing before you, you are seen to be masturbating, as are the other two men within the room. There is a clear pattern of wanton behavior on your part, and there is sufficient evidence to charge you with three crimes."

At this accusation, Sloan drew the photos back towards himself, this time examining them more closely. After several moments, he shook his head in confusion, murmuring, "Well, it certainly appears that way, but I can assure you, no such events ever occurred."

"Please explain, Dr. Stewart."

"I went there in search of a friend."

"Where exactly were these photos taken, sir?"

"I went to a Peep Show, on Simmons. Before that, I was simply talking to some hookers on the street. It must have been...five years ago."

"Exactly where on Simmons?"

"I don't know the address, but I can show you where, if you really want to know."

"How do you explain the photo showing you passing money to a prostitute?"

"It wasn't money. I was just showing her a piece of paper with an address on it. I was asking for directions."

"And what about this photo within the peep show. Do you claim that you were not masturbating, sir?"

"No! I mean – yes! I was definitely NOT masturbating!"

"Then how do you explain these photos?"

"They must have been doctored..."

"Oh, come now, sir. And you claim that you were searching for a _friend_?"

"Yes."

"And who might this friend be, sir?"

"I'd rather not say."

"So you claim to have been searching for a _friend_ , in one of the seedier parts of town, and you refuse to identify this _friend_ ," Inspector Peterson responded doubtfully, "Is that correct?"

Suddenly aware that he was in deep trouble, Sloan muttered forlornly, "I'm afraid so." Contemplating his situation, he realized that if he divulged what had actually occurred, Sabrina's goings-on would necessarily come to light. "Look here, someone is trying to frame me, detective!"

" _Frame_ you! _Frame_ you? I assure you, Dr. Stewart, people are framed every day, for murder, for embezzlement, indeed, for all manner of heinous crimes, but I assure you, people are not _framed_ for indecent exposure!"

The Following Day

**Sloan picked up his** office phone on the second ring, saying, "Professor Stewart here."

"Sloan, it's James," the voice said, "Have you seen _The_ _Harvard Hound_ this morning?"

"No, why would I read the student newspaper?"

"Under normal circumstances, I would agree with you, but I'm afraid you'd better have a look. There's a picture of you on the front page, handcuffed and being dragged off by a person identified as a Boston police detective, and it's accompanied by an article accusing you of some quite disgusting behavior."

"What!" Sloan replied. "You're not serious!"

"I most certainly am, I'm afraid. Best get a copy right away."

"Alright, thanks James. Listen, I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a mess. Can you help me?"

"Of course," James replied candidly, "Can you meet me for lunch at the Faculty Club at noon?"

"Yes, that would be great. Thanks James," and at this he rang off.

The Harvard Faculty Club –Noon

**Sloan came forward,** uttering, "Hello, James. Thanks for meeting me. And before you say anything further – yes, I saw the photo. It's pretty damning, if you ask me. It seems I'm already tried and convicted."

"What on earth is going on, Sloan?"

"I've no idea," Sloan blurted in confusion, "It appears that someone is out to get me."

"Surely not!" James responded hesitantly, "What makes you say that?"

"The police have some photos that show me masturbating at some peep show. I've no idea how they got them, but they are most certainly fakes."

"My, that is quite disconcerting. Surely photos such as that cannot be forged."

"Well, these were, but I have no idea how they could have been."

"So where do they claim the event took place?" James queried suspiciously.

"It was where Sabrina was dancing, you remember, five years ago, when you told me you saw her in Boston going into a club."

"Ah, yes, I do recall, now that you mention it," James put in, "The two of you were divorced shortly thereafter."

"Yes, that's correct."

"You never told me," James inquired with apparent interest, "Just exactly what transpired between the two of you."

"Nothing much, to tell you the truth," Sloan replied, "I went there looking for her, and sure enough, she was dancing in some peepshow. I waited outside for her, and when she came out, she told me she was getting even with me."

"Even with you, for what?"

"I've no earthly idea. Anyway, she started divorce proceedings against me shortly thereafter. I've only seen her a few times since, on the occasions when I went to see Elise in Pittsburgh."

"So where exactly did these photographs originate, Sloan?"

"No idea, but someone took them while I was inside the club, searching for Sabrina. I certainly wasn't masturbating, but the pictures do in fact make it appear so."

"My, this is all too much," James responded and, shaking his head in confusion, he posited, "It appears you have a serious problem."

"You're telling me! Can you help me?"

"As your department head, I'm afraid not, as I am required to remain neutral as long as there is a university case pending," James announced somberly, "However, as an old friend, I will see what can be done. Give me a few days to look into it, and I'll get back to you."

"Thanks, James. Now, I'm quite sorry, but I have to run. I'm meeting with my lawyer to discuss options," and with that Sloan rose to leave.

"One thing," James said, grabbing his sleeve, "Please keep Isolde out of this, okay?"

"Certainly. She's not involved, and besides, I wouldn't dream of dragging her into it in anyway," and with that he made his way to the door.

Two Weeks Later

" **Thanks for meeting me," Sloan** said morosely.

"No problem," James replied, "Anything for an old friend."

"So, what have you been able to find out?" he queried with obvious dejection.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Sloan. It doesn't look good," James volunteered solemnly, "I'm told the evidence is pretty damning."

"Yes, I know. I've seen it."

"What on earth were you thinking of, Sloan? Masturbating in public like that!"

"I did no such thing!" Sloan denied, exclaiming, "It's been fabricated!"

"You're kidding! How does one fake such a scenario, I ask you?"

"I've no idea, James, but I assure you, I've never exposed myself like that. I think I'm being framed."

"Framed?" James inquired doubtfully, "By whom?"

"I don't know. I suppose all of us in academia have enemies."

"I doubt it was someone within the institution. What about elsewhere, outside the university?"

"Honestly, I've no idea, James, no idea at all."

"What about Sabrina? Might she be at the root of it? After all, it seems she was dancing at the selfsame place that the photos were taken. Might she be taking revenge on you for past indiscretions."

"I know, I've considered that possibility, but it doesn't make sense."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, there've been no indiscretions. For another, she isn't getting on too well financially since the divorce."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"I'm paying her child support for Elise. If I lose my job, she could well lose her child support. So it doesn't seem like she could be the source."

"I see," James responded pensively, "Well then, what about Anson Turner?"

"Yes, I considered that possibility as well. He's certainly capable of such underhandedness and, given that I voted against his tenure application, he has motive as well."

"Ample motive, I'd say," James put in decisively, "Your vote was the deciding factor."

"Yes, well, I'll have to think about it further," Sloan responded morosely.

"Don't wait too long, the committee findings are due next week!"

"Oh, I hadn't realized it would be that quick," Sloan muttered, "Well, thanks for your time, James. I'd better get along. I've got to sort this thing out."

"Best of luck, Sloan, and let me know if there is anything I can do to help."

"Thanks, James, you've already helped a great deal. See you," and with that Sloan made his way from the restaurant.

Two Weeks Later

May 17, 1959

Channel 3 News – 6 P.M.

" _Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I'm Mark Henderson, and this is the Channel 3 Evening News. First, today's headlines. President Eisenhower announced today from Camp David that the nation's Interstate Highway System is now nearly fifty percent complete. Sources tell us that the interstate system is expected to be completed by June of 1963."_

Turning to a person off-camera, he now accepted a piece of paper and, turning back towards the camera, he announced, "This just in. Sources tell us that Dr. Sloan Stewart, a tenured faculty member in the College of Science at Harvard University, has been dismissed from the university, effective immediately. Dr. Stewart was found guilty of moral turpitude by the Faculty Affairs Committee earlier today, and a short time ago the chancellor of the university announced the finding, along with Dr. Stewart's dismissal from the university. Having completed all of his studies at Harvard, Dr. Stewart had been a faculty member at the institution since 1951.

For those among our viewing audience who are not familiar with the term 'moral turpitude', it is a catch-all phrase for a wide range of social behaviors considered improper by faculty members, these types of behaviors having been lain down in the University Handbook. At this time, we have no further information regarding the exact nature of Dr. Stewart's actions that led to his dismissal from Harvard. Stay tuned for further developments on this breaking story.

The Following Day

**Sloan picked up the** phone on the third ring, saying, "Yes, who is calling, please?"

"So, they finally caught your perverted ass," the voice on the other end said matter-of-factly.

Recognizing her voice, he responded glibly, "Sabrina," and adding sarcastically, "I assume you've heard the news. So good to hear from you, despite the circumstances."

"Right," she replied cynically, "So, how did they manage to catch you?"

"Someone sent them photos of me masturbating in the Peep Show you used to work at in Downtown Boston," he responded in his typically direct way.

"What! You're even more perverted than I thought! What the hell were you thinking of?"

"I wasn't thinking of anything, because I didn't do it!" he exclaimed in denial.

"Oh, come now, Sloan, we both know that you are capable of any disgusting thing you put your mind to."

"Look, I don't expect you to believe me, but someone has framed me."

"Oh, that's a good one!" she responded doubtfully.

Seeing that there was no point in continuing this line, he murmured, "Whatever..."

After a moment's hesitation, she queried, "Sooo, what happens now?"

"What do you mean – what happens now? I no longer work at a university – that's what happens now, Sabrina!"

"I know that, you idiot!" she exclaimed. "But what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something."

"What about your child support payments?"

"What about them?"

"Are you going to keep paying them?"

"Oh God, I knew there was a reason you called, but somehow, I just thought you wanted to gloat. So it's child support, is it? Don't worry, Sabrina, I intend to keep my part of the bargain. I have enough money saved to keep paying for the time being. In the meantime, I'll find some other means of employment."

"Right," she replied doubtfully, "You could always become a pimp, you pervert!"

"I am hurt by that remark," he replied in obvious misery.

"Ha! You! Hurt! That's a crock!" she screamed into the phone.

There was a pause, he then saying solemnly, "Listen, you're well enough away from it, so consider yourself lucky. In the meantime, the checks will keep coming, and I shall continue visiting Elise in accordance with the terms of the divorce decree."

"Actually, I'm not sure I want a convicted pervert seeing my daughter," she blurted.

"You wouldn't do that!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, wouldn't I?"

"Listen, I've not been convicted of a crime, and given that, it's doubtful the court would consider a petition to that effect. In the meantime, I would like to see Elise as agreed. After all, she is my daughter, too."

"What? You weren't convicted of a crime?"

"No, James interceded on my behalf with the District Attorney. So, although I've been dismissed from the university, it could in fact have been worse."

"Well, that's a surprise," she answered in apparent shock.

"Listen, Sabrina, I did none of this. I have been maligned, and now I am in a fix. I beg of you, please don't take the one remaining bright spot in my life from me. You know I've been a good father to Elise. And I promise, if you will so allow it, I shall continue to do so."

"Would you be willing to have your visits with her supervised?"

"I wouldn't like it, but if that is what it will take for your consent, then yes."

"Well said, Sloan. Under the circumstances, I believe that I will allow things to continue as they are, so long as you continue the child support payments."

"Yes, of course. Count on it."

Her disposition altering audibly, she announced in conciliation, "Listen, I know I've been a real bitch today, but I do want to say how sorry I am for the situation you find yourself in."

"Thank you, Sabrina, I shall see you next month at the regular time," he replied, and so saying, he hung up.

Boston – April, 1961

World Press International

January 16, 1961

Boston, Massachusetts – Sources tell us that Dr. James Moorehead, a distinguished faculty member and Dean of the College of Science, has been named Chancellor of Harvard University. Having completed all of his studies at Harvard, Dr. Moorehead has been a faculty member at the institution since 1945. Stay tuned for further word regarding this welcome development at one of the world's finest institutions of higher education.
Chapter 10

The Circle of Life

Pittsburgh – May, 1968

**Sloan watched as** Sabrina came forward, wondering in his mind what insults she would have in store on such an auspicious day as this.

Reaching his side, she held out her hand for his, saying, "Well, I suppose there's no getting around it. Looks like they're really going to marry each other, despite what it may portend."

Ignoring the innuendo, he responded, "Hello, Sabrina. You look quite lovely today, if I may say so."

"You look pretty good yourself," she replied.

"Thank you, but to be honest, you look quite as gorgeous as the day we were married," he responded, hoping to rekindle something, anything at all. Accordingly, he inquired, "Why did you marry me after the war, given your admittedly pent up loathing for me?"

"Oh, God, I knew you'd ask that!" she exclaimed. "You can't have known this, but by the time you asked me to marry you I was already pregnant. God, I really loved screwing your brains out in New York, but that was nothing more than revenge. I hated your guts, but I had no choice but to marry you. I'd have been fired from my job when they found out I was pregnant, and I would have thenceforth had no way to care for Elise. So you see, I had no other option."

At this Sloan arched one eye inquisitively but said nothing in response.

Pressing ahead, she volunteered, "But, being a hot-blooded woman, I really did enjoy having my way with you night and day there for a while. You were one nasty boy, Sloan Stewart. It was only later, when I'd had you for a bit, that I began to rethink the entire matter, eventually realizing that, by marrying you, I'd essentially repeated my reprehensible behavior of that summer, choosing immorality over virtue. I despised myself for it, and I knew that I could never regain my own self-respect so long as I had you."

"Whaaat?" he responded in obvious incredulity.

"Not to worry," she interjected, "It wasn't easy by any means, but I did indeed eventually grow into a better person. Unfortunately, I was by then even more convinced that you yourself were absolutely reprehensible, thereby leading me to the conclusion that I was by then too good for you."

"As indeed you were," he responded in agreement.

She glared at him doubtfully, replying, "What's going on up there in that devious mind of yours, Sloan?"

"Why, nothing, nothing at all," he replied in denial.

"Isolde once told me you never lied, you liar," she responded.

"Oops, I'm afraid I've been caught out," he responded.

"Really? I'm not sure I've ever caught you lying before," she replied in mock surperiority.

"Nor this time, either, I dare say," he replied, "Actually, if truth be told, I was lying to myself."

"Oh, psshaw!" she spat out, "Can't you just let me have my small victory, you idiot!"

"Right, my mistake," he replied diffidently. "I confess, I was actually hoping that on this, the day that our daughter marries, you might be in a forgiving mood towards her father."

Eyeing him doubtfully, she paused momentarily as if deep in thought, eventually responding, "You've been a good father, Sloan. There, will that do?"

"Actually, it will do quite nicely, Sabrina. Thank you. Now, suppose we get down to the business of getting our daughter married to Robert Moorehead, son of our old friends James and Isolde. I ask you, who'd have thought it, all those years ago?"

"Not I, that's for sure," she responded serenely. "In fact, the thought would never have entered my mind, not even when they began dating at Harvard two years ago."

"Me either. So, do you suppose they're a good match?" he queried, "After all, I've not had much opportunity to observe them together.

"What?" she replied in stupefaction, " _Of course_ they're a good match. Actually, I'd go so far as to say – _it's a match made in heaven_ – although how the angels settled on such an unlikely pair I'll never know."

"Perhaps they were looking down on the four of us that summer, all those years ago. At any rate, it does my heart good to hear you say such niceties, given how badly we failed."

"Failed?" she spat out, "Now, you're getting me riled up, you pervert!"

"Sorry, please accept my apology. I can't seem to be with you without wondering what might have been, Sabrina."

"Good grief, Sloan, get on with it! Move on with your life. Now, let's get on into the church and get these two youngsters married!" and so saying, she took his arm and dragged him forward through the door.

The wedding was quite perfect, the pair radiating their adoration for one another to a pitch seldom seen before, and afterwards, the reception having ended spectacularly, Elise came forward to Sloan, saying, "Daddy, I'm so happy. Robert is just the most perfect man ever. That is, excepting you, of course."

"Ha!" he blurted uncontrollably, "That's the kind of lie that I can appreciate! Well said, Elise!"

At this she giggled, hugged his arm, and replied, "Seriously, Daddy, he reminds me of you. So often, I catch myself saying, "That's just like Daddy!"

"Well, they say children look to marry their parents and, failing that, they marry the next best thing available," he replied jovially, "But seriously, Elise, you've done well. I'm so proud and happy for you. A parent always wishes his children to exceed himself, and you, daughter, have exceeded your mother and me on this day. I wish you a long and successful marriage, but I doubt that you shall need my good wishes."

"Thank you, Daddy. Now I must be off, as we are to be at the airport in under two hours."

"And where, if I may ask, are you off to?"

"It's a secret!" she replied with a burgeoning grin, but for you, I can say this much, "Ye dinnae ken whar it may be!"

Boston – June

**Sloan came forward** to the table within the upscale restaurant, his visage incongruously expressing simultaneous joy and confusion. Arriving by her side, he drew her up into a polite embrace, saying, "So good to see you, Isolde. It seems like only yesterday we were in Pittsburgh for the wedding."

Somehow unable to summon a smile of her own, she responded, "Yes, I suppose so."

"So, what's up? You sounded on the phone as if it were something quite serious."

At this, she instructed ominously, "Please, sit down, Sloan."

Sensing her demeanor to be one of inexplicable despair, he replied, "Why so solemn? Is something the matter?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," she answered matter-of-factly, then repeated to herself despondently, "I'm afraid so. You see, dear Sloan, I'm afraid I'm dying."

"What! How can that be?" he responded, half lurching from his seat in abject disbelief, "You appear to be perfectly healthy!"

"Yes, well, that may be, but looks can deceive. I'm very much afraid that I shall be dead within a few months," she murmured desolately, "At least, that is what my doctor tells me."

At this pronouncement, he stared doubtfully at her, barely able to summon the fortitude to inquire, "What on earth is the matter, Isolde?"

"It's cancer, and I'm afraid it's quite far along. Apparently, it started as breast cancer, but it's got into everything else. So you see, by now it's much too late to do anything at all about it."

Leaning forward, he grasped her hand within his, murmuring woefully, "Isolde, dear Isolde. This simply cannot be! How shall we go on without you?"

"All things come to an end, Sloan. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that my time has grown quite short. You shall find a way to muddle through," and at this, she stared forlornly at him, a gloomy silence stretching out between the pair as each reminisced over past encounters.

Eventually, her demeanor shifting noticeably, she took up again, announcing pointedly, "Listen, I asked you here for a reason today, and it certainly wasn't for the purpose of burdening you with my illness. It's something of far greater importance, I'm afraid."

"What could be more important than your physical wellbeing, Isolde?"

"It's to do with that summer long ago, I'm afraid," she responded, catching his eye pointedly.

"What, you mean the summer in New Hampshire, before the war?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. My, it's been more than a quarter of a century..." she murmured to herself in disbelief.

"Yes, just so," he responded wistfully and, apparently recalling the event in his own mind, he stared silently into space. But then, suddenly regaining his composure, he inquired with an inquisitive frown, "What about it?"

Abruptly gazing off into the distance, she responded, "Right, it's just that I'm afraid things were not exactly as they seemed that summer."

"In what way?"

"For starters, I was in love with you," she exclaimed bluntly and, catching his eye fleetingly, she stared downward at the table in apparent embarrassment and admitted, "Actually, I fell for you during the passage from Portsmouth, and I've been so ever since."

"What! What on earth are you talking about, Isolde?" he responded in obvious shock.

"Look, I know this is preposterous," she responded defensively, "It must seem far too late to bring up ancient matters, but when you've read the whole story, you shall understand why it has particular relevance now. And hopefully, you shall also understand why it has taken me half a lifetime to come forth with the truth."

"What truth?" he inquired in rank stupefaction, but suddenly comprehending, he blurted, "Wait! What did you say? Did you say - _read the whole story_?"

"Yes, Sloan, that is precisely what I said," she replied patiently and, brushing away a renegade tress, she recomposed herself and continued with, "You see, I wrote it all down. Actually, I scribbled much of it down years ago, but I supplemented it as further developments materialized. So I have it for you," and so saying, she extended her open palm toward him, a key resting therein.

"What's this? A key? What on earth is going on, Isolde? I don't understand."

"Just take the key," she replied, thrusting it towards him. "Here, take it."

At her insistence, he accepted the key from her and, drawing it back toward himself, he stared at it in confusion.

For her part, she explained, "It's a key to a safe deposit box. The box is in your name, at your bank, and the security code is my son's birthdate."

"Why ever on earth is there a need for such clandestine subterfuge, Isolde?" What on earth is going on?"

"When you've read it, all will become quite clear, Sloan. Now, I must ask a favor of you. You must promise me that you shall not read it until after my passing," and at this she peered intensely at him, commanding gravely, "Promise me."

Staring at her in wide-eyed disbelief, he hesitated a moment but, unable to conjure up a reasonable alternative, he responded diffidently, "Yes, of course, I promise, although I still don't understand."

"You shall, dear Sloan, all in good time, all in good time. Now, I have one further admission before I go – I must apologize abjectly for anything that I may have done to come between you and Sabrina."

"What? You never came between us, Isolde. It was entirely our own doing. It's nothing at all to do with you."

"Well, despite your own part in it, I'm afraid it is, Sloan. You shall understand when you've read the details. And let me say that it is my fervent hope that the revelations therein shall restore you to her good graces."

"Would that it were so, but I doubt that possibility," he responded despondently.

Ignoring his own self-deprecation, she replied compassionately, "After I am gone, I shall be looking down on the both of you, Sloan, and rest assured – I shall be hoping for the best for you. Remember what I have said to you today, and when the time comes, rediscover your true love."

His eyes glistening, he responded, "This is all too much, Isolde. I'm afraid I've no idea to what you're referring."

Placing her hand over his, she responded affectionately, "I know, I know, dear Sloan, but know this – you are loved, and ever shall be. Now, as this is the last time that I shall ever see you, please give me a kiss, and if I may - please, if you have any fond memories of me at all, appear as if you mean it," and saying this, she rose from her seat and approached him.

Still baffled by her entire demeanor on this singular occasion, he too arose and, taking her gently in his arms, he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. Drawing back, she now grasped him fiercely and, leaning forward, she pecked him one last time on the lips. Drawing back yet again, tears now visibly streaming down her face, she abruptly turned on her heel and strode away.

Peering wistfully as she crossed the room toward the door, he pondered with certitude the realization that this was the last time he would ever see her on this earth.

Boston – October

**Sloan slumped into his** easy chair, propped his feet on the adjacent ottoman and, taking a sip of scotch from his glass, he settled in to read the manuscript. Reminiscing about the funeral as he did so, he couldn't help wondering what mysteries were yet to unfold from a woman now deceased. Isolde had been valiant to the end, or so James had informed him. A month having passed since, he at last felt himself able to cope with whatever lay within her covert exposé.

Removing the cover page, he discovered not so much as a title or a signature. Instead, she had lit directly into it, writing as if it were a letter to an old friend, that person being clearly himself.

Dearest Sloan-

It all started for me when we made the crossing from Portsmouth to Boston in 1939, shortly before the war began. At the time I was but seventeen and, never having been away from home on my own, I was enthralled to be confined onboard a ship for two weeks with a dashing young man. If memory serves, on that very first night aboard you announced your intention to make me your 'friend'. And, although I confess that I was at first put off by such brazen conduct, by the time we had disembarked in Boston, things had progressed, at least for me, well beyond mere friendship. I was by then in point of fact desperately in love with you.

Not surprisingly, I made it my purpose in life to capture your affections, as you had mine, and the logical means within my grasp was to entice Aunt Fiona into allowing me to attend Harvard alongside you. I don't mind telling you, the year that I had to endure before joining you in Boston was sheer misery for me as, having set my cap for you, I lived in constant dread that some other competitor might capture your affections before I had my chance with you.

As it turned out, when I arrived in Boston the following fall, you were still up for grabs, as the Americans say, and I was thrilled to have a go at you. Unfortunately, being engrossed in your studies, you displayed little interest of the type that I so desperately desired. And, like a fool, I enlisted help from your friend James. James suggested what at the time seemed like the perfect strategy. He proposed an innocuous dance contest, one that I would be guaranteed to win, in the process attracting your attention and hopefully even your heightened interest in me.

Of course, as you well know, the first two entrants in the contest unexpectedly removed articles of clothing, thereby leading the audience to expect the third entrant, yours truly, to shed perhaps even more. Accordingly, despite having been forewarned by you, I was quite terrified, having had no notion that I would be placed in such an awkward position. Given my state of excessive inebriation, I danced about in fear and confusion, reluctantly discarding articles of clothing, when you bounded forward and saved me from myself. I don't mind telling you, I'd have surely ended up compromised had you not intervened and, despite my seeming displeasure at the time, I am deeply indebted to you.

Being by that time admittedly obsessed with you, I continued to take every opportunity to cross paths with you, ergo I must admit to you that my employment at The Orchard Inn the following summer was indeed no coincidence at all. You see, James informed me of your intentions for the summer and, my purpose growing more fervent than ever, I induced Aunt Fiona to intercede on my behalf with the inn management. She succeeded in gaining employment for myself at the inn, thereby fueling my self-avowed intention to win you over with my feminine wiles. I am now certain that James chose to inform me in the expectation that I would follow you, thereby affording him the opportunity to keep an eye on the both of us.

That first night, when I met you and James at The Orchard Inn, you will surely recall that I feigned it to be mere coincidence. Sabrina hadn't yet arrived, and wouldn't until nearly a week thereafter. For a few days then, I had you to myself and, although I didn't quite know it yet, on the following night I fell even more deeply in love with you. The event that did it for me was when you told me about the time you cheated, when you were just a wee lad of ten. If memory serves, these were your exact words that night – 'I hated myself so much, I promised myself that I would never ever cheat or lie again'.

That was for me quite beyond belief, that anyone at all, most especially a man, could manage to be convinced of his own honesty, much less actually be so. But sure enough, as the summer progressed, you demonstrated such to me time and time again. By the time a month had passed, I knew that my heart would forever belong to you. Sure, you had a gruff exterior, and you were capable of the most arrogant and priggish of actions, but deep down inside, I idolized you for your honesty. And to tell you the truth, despite several rather untoward events that occurred years later, my deep abiding love for you has never wavered throughout the course of my life.

Unfortunately, as you well know, those first few days were the only ones that I had you to myself and, being unaware as to what was about to unfold, I failed to make the most of them. On her arrival shortly thereafter, Sabrina somehow managed to spirit your attentions away from me, thereby allowing me not the slightest possibility of making up for lost ground.

By the time we embarked on that misbegotten camping trip I was quite certain that your heart had been stolen by Sabrina. Still, when you chased into the lake naked I played my hand as best I could, deciding to shamelessly bare myself in hopes that you might sneak a peek, in the process somehow reigniting your passion for me. Instead, you made to steal Sabrina's panties, thereby further reinforcing my conviction that you had fallen for her.

But there was one final serendipitous opportunity for me, toward the end of the summer. One day, perhaps two weeks before our departure, James approached me, explaining that he had observed some strange goings on. He claimed that he had seen you going into the lakeside men's locker room with a hand drill, and as this had seemed unusual to him, he had subsequently followed you, covertly observing as you drilled a hole in the wall between the men's and women's showers. Having thereby assumed your intentions to be less than gentlemanly, James had then cautioned me to refrain from showering when men were around. I don't mind telling you, I wondered for the longest time why you would have done such a thing. I now know what actually happened, but before I divulge, first let me tell you what transpired immediately thereafter.

Of course, I told Sabrina straightaway what James had told me, the expectation being that she would thenceforth refrain from showering in the women's locker room as well. I then thought no more of it until, on the night before Sabrina's departure, she came into our room in an awful state. Horrified, I did my best to console her, even going so far as to undress her and help her into the shower, whereupon I discovered that her nether regions had been cleanly shaved.

She admitted the whole story to me between sobs, how she had searched out the hole in the wall and, subsequently peering through it, she had observed you on several occasions showering naked within. I don't mind telling you, her confession caused me extreme jealousy, as I admit that I would have quite enjoyed partaking of such a revealing display by you. Furthermore, despite the fact that she herself had clearly been wounded by you, upon hearing her describe the penance you had meted out to her for her transgression, I wished even more so that I had been the one with you in the shower that night.

At any rate, I helped calm her down as best I could, she for her part insisting on going directly to bed, her pride still obviously injured quite badly. For my part, I immediately hatched a last ditch ploy, sensing that this might indeed be my final chance with you, our summer soon to draw to an inglorious ending. Pretending illness, I therefore locked myself in the bathroom and shaved myself, exactly as you had forced her to do. I'd never done such a thing before, and I don't mind telling you, I felt the experience quite exhilarating, thereby heightening my already feverish ambition that night.

I was no fool, being aware that what you had perpetrated on her was quite possibly sufficient to induce your own insomnia. I therefore returned to the ladies' locker room and sort of camped out in the hope that you might return at some point, prurient thoughts perhaps getting the better of you just as they had me. Sure enough, around midnight, you reappeared, and to my endless delight, you disrobed before my very eyes. You subsequently swam straightaway to the dock, thereby affording the perfect opportunity for me.

My libido by then raging completely out of control, I hurriedly changed into my swimsuit and, donning my bathing cap and goggles, I set off in your wake, driven by nothing more than fleeting hope. Such was the enormity of my desire that I nearly caught up to you and, on my arrival at the dock, I took you quite by surprise. As I had anticipated, the darkness affording perfect cover, you thereby mistook me for Sabrina and, as you have by now doubtless discerned, I was indeed fortunate to finally have my way with you.

My dear Sloan, now that I am laid forever within the ground, I can say this to you - that was THE penultimate experience of my entire life. That night, you made me a woman. Nothing nearly so exciting has ever happened to me before or since. I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart, and I apologize abjectly for misleading you. But know that you have been loved by me, ever so deeply.

_I never told anyone at all about that night. For my part, I resolved to spend the remainder of my life awaiting the possibility of having you for myself, but, as you well know, that was not to be. By the time reports reached us that you had been killed in Burma, I was in terrible trouble. You see, dear Sloan, that night on the dock,_ _you made me pregnant_ _._

A few months later, my predicament becoming increasingly apparent, I was forced to confess my situation to James. Having been apprised of your demise in Burma, he did the gentlemanly thing (or so I thought at the time), immediately proposing marriage to me. We were married shortly thereafter.

And now, I come to the most disconcerting part of my story, one that has been a heavy burden for me all my life – I had a child, your child, in May, 1942. That child was and is my son, Robert Moorehead, whom I needn't tell you, is also your son. That being the case, your son is also the husband of your daughter, Elise Stewart. Yes, dear Sloan, incredible though it may seem, your son and daughter are married to one another!

But here is the bright side of such a macabre development – they seem to be perfect for one another. That has been my solace, indeed my only comfort, through all these dark and turbulent years. I have suffered, oh how I have suffered with this covert knowledge, and now that I am in the ground, I have passed that suffering on to you. I am so sorry for having done so, dear Sloan.

Were it not for other issues, I should never have imparted this sad revelation to you. In fact, I am quite certain that your two children, one of them mine as well, need never know that they are siblings, or half-siblings, to be exact. They are such a lovely couple. I hope you shall agree, and that you shall never reveal this dark and foreboding secret to them.

As I said, had it not been for other developments, I should have refrained from divulging all of this to you, but there is more –indeed, much more to impart. In truth, it all began shortly before that selfsame summer in New Hampshire. I can now say to you that my entire life has been one enormous lie, one not of my own making, but a lie nonetheless.

My first inkling that something was amiss did not occur to me until quite a few years later, and it was due to something that Sabrina told me. I happened to have lunch with her in the summer of 1957, after the two of you were divorced. She had flown to Boston for the purpose of fetching Elise, who had been spending a month with you during the summer break. She actually invited me to lunch, why ever for I shall never know. But I must tell you, being thrilled at the prospect of healing old wounds, I jumped at the opportunity.

On the occasion of that luncheon, I recall feeling somewhat favorably disposed to her quite dire circumstances, and despite my still profound feelings toward you, I hoped to somehow rekindle my former friendship with her. Unfortunately, in a misplaced attempt at reconciliation, I brought up the campus dance contest shortly before we four converged at The Orchard Inn, snidely insinuating that James may have attempted to outwit me that night.

I can't be certain of her motive, perhaps Sabrina was herself nursing feelings for James at that point but, in any case, she told me that James had already informed her about the dance contest. She told me that he had intimated to her that the entire contest was my idea, including enticing the other two entrants to shed specific articles of clothing, thereby affording me the pretext for displaying my attributes for your perusal. And although her presumption that I was desperate to have you for myself was true, she maintained steadfastly that James claimed he'd had no part in the contest at all, thereby casting her suspicion on me.

I don't mind telling you, at this revelation I was in complete shock, for as I mentioned above, James was indeed the instigator of the dance contest. Despite the fact that he had suggested the contest to me, I had up to that point in time had no notion that he might have somehow had a hand in the bizarre turn of events that night.

Some years later, I happened across one of the other two girls who had performed that night. Having by that point in time become seriously concerned about the entire event, I managed to glean from her that he had orchestrated the entire scheme. Having no notion as to the gravity of events that night, she volunteered to me that he had actually paid her to remove prearranged articles of her clothing. Having assumed that he was simply playing at typically nefarious games boys are notorious for, she had thus been his unwitting dupe in the whole scheme.

You see, having by then become seriously concerned that you might outshine him at Harvard, James meant to cause sufficient upheaval for you that you might neglect your studies, perhaps even to the point of dropping out of school. For my part, I was to have been little more than collateral damage.

That, as far as I know, was the first time he attempted to undermine you, his foremost competitor. I now know that, certain that I had stolen your heart, he planned to come between us. Of course, his rather immature attempt failed, but his ploy would nevertheless have been devastating for me had you not spirited me away from the contest that night.

Having by that point obtained sufficient evidence to be convinced of his evildoing on that occasion, it was the first time in my life that I had proof that my husband had lied to anyone, and that tiny slip by James, more than a quarter of a century ago, began the unraveling of it all, ultimately leading up to the complete destruction of the lie that was my life.

As one might expect, it didn't come to me immediately, but sometime later, one night when I was unable to sleep, it came back to me, the words you had said that caused me to fall for you – that you promised yourself when you were yet a small boy to never cheat or lie. On that night I asked myself for the first time, "If one never makes that pledge to oneself, then where might one end up?" My quest for the answer to this question began with a trickle but, eventually becoming a veritable torrent, it ripped my world apart over the succeeding years.

As for myself, I might have been better off had I never asked that question, but you, dear Sloan, you have suffered, and dearly, I might add. And that is why I have provided you with this exposé. Although you have been quite unaware of it, you have been the victim of one whose transgressions have, over the course of a lifetime, been beyond anything you could possibly imagine.

I have never been able to confirm the second lie, but I believe that you will be able to do so as a result of this exposé. As I said before, James told me that summer that you had drilled the hole in the wall between the shower rooms. If my guess is correct, he told you exactly the opposite – that either Sabrina or I drilled the hole. If this is indeed the case, I expect much will become clear to you.

The third lie was unearthed by me shortly thereafter. I'm not certain whether you know, but James is the person who told me that you had been killed in Burma. Following up, I eventually discovered that he was in fact the ultimate source of this misinformation. On hearing of your posting to Burma, James simply wrote directly to Sloan's father Alastair, whereupon he was informed of the particulars – that you were indeed in Burma and doing well. Being aware that there was no one else who should know the truth on this side of the Atlantic, he simply spread a total falsehood. It wasn't until several months later that you went missing and were presumed captured, but you were at no time ever listed as killed in action. This revelation was disclosed to me by your father, to whom I wrote years later, never having previously thought to ask as to your circumstances during the war.

Thenceforth possessed of evidence that James was indeed a patent liar, I resolved to follow that trail of evidence to its conclusion. I eventually also determined that he had in fact forged the doctor's statement of his ineligibility for military service during the war, thereby avoiding his solemn duty to his country!

But that was as nothing compared to the horrifying realization that James had determined to marry me not in generous regard for my pregnancy, but rather out of jealousy. And that is why he planted the lie that you were dead, so that I would be forced into marrying him, thereby obviating the possibility of you marrying me should you in fact return home at the end of the war. Of course, he couldn't have known that you were already in love with Sabrina, or he wouldn't have bothered with me, but there it is nonetheless.

Dear Sloan, as you must now be painfully aware, I have lived a loveless marriage my entire life. You may say that there is nothing worse in this world, but I must point out that indeed there is – and that is to also live a lifetime with a scurrilous underhanded villain. Before I have completed my exposé, I am quite certain that you shall agree with me regarding James.

Unable to force himself to read further, Sloan arose from his easy chair, stumbled to the bar and, pouring himself a much-needed glass of scotch, he pressed it to his lips. Abruptly, he babbled audibly, "This is quite unbelievable! How could this have happened? And how shall I ever explain it to anyone?" He then strode to the glass door and, shoving it wide, he stepped out onto the balcony in complete disregard for the encroaching frigid night air.

Leaning on the balcony railing, he took yet another swig from his scotch and grumbled, "Damn it! How could she leave this to me? How in hell am I going to clean this mess up?" The chill eventually inducing a calming effect, he stepped back inside and, striding purposely to his chair, he collapsed disconsolately within it.

Simultaneously revolted by and attracted to it, he picked up the infuriating manuscript yet again, murmuring to himself, "This is ridiculous! It's like some repugnantly engrossing novel. I can't stand it, but I can't seem to put it down. If only it weren't true, and worse still – if only it weren't about myself!"

The Following Day

**Sloan awoke with a** start. He had been dreaming, a dream in which he had been a young man, embracing a woman on a dock – somehow the wrong woman...and then it came to him – it had not been a dream! It had actually happened – and to him! Shaking his head in denial, he was still unable to grasp the reality of it all.

Within hours he had determined what his first act should be in the light of this inexplicable development. Reaching for the phone, he dialed a number, a voice answering on the third ring.

"Hello, it's me," he posited, at which he paused a moment, apparently listening to the response on the other end, then replied, "Yes, I am quite aware that you didn't want to hear from me, but it's important."

He halted again and, taking in the reply on the other end, he thenceforth interjected, "No listen, I have something, something that changes everything....really. And – trust me on this – you're not going to believe it!"

Halting momentarily yet again, he then said, "Just meet me, I shall fly to Pittsburgh tomorrow. I promise you, if this doesn't change things between us, I shall never bother you again." After yet another pause, he said, "Right then, the usual place, noonish? See you then," and at this he hung up the telephone.

Pittsburgh - The Following Day

**He observed her reticently as she** came forward and, rising as she reached the restaurant booth, he offered politely, "Thank you, Sabrina. Thank you for coming. If you will, please sit down," and so saying, he gestured towards the bench opposite his.

She slumped unenthusiastically into her seat, and without so much as a hello, she inquired in obvious frustration, "So what's so important, Sloan? And please don't give me another one of your hair-brained hypotheses!"

At this rather insulting opening, he gazed nonplussed at her and ceremoniously pulled the tattered document from beneath the table, announcing, "No, my dear, on the contrary, no more hypotheses, just facts. From now on, only facts."

She glanced disinterestedly at the parcel and murmured, "And what, pray tell, is that?"

"The proof, Sabrina, all the proof in the world!"

"Just tell me what it is, you idiot."

"All in good time, my dear, but first, can we go over something together?"

"Don't call me _my dear_ ," she mumbled, "What do you want to go over?"

"That night, in the shower."

"My God! That was nearly thirty years ago. Why do we have to dredge up old memories?"

"Just bear with me," he responded.

"I already bared _for you_ that night. So don't give me that crap!"

"I'm sorry...poor choice of words, I'm afraid."

"Oh, shut up! It was easily the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me."

Eyeing her diffidently, he proceeded with, "Well, funny you should mention that, because it seems that all may not have been as it seemed."

"What on earth are you referring to, Sloan?"

"Tell me this, Sabrina, why did you leave so abruptly the following morning?"

"Because I was afraid, you idiot!"

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid that you would make me do the show in the shower."

"The show...what show?" he frowned in confusion.

"Oh, don't act innocent. You threatened to make me strip off and prance around naked so your buddies could ogle me through the peep hole."

"Oh, right, I remember now," he pondered, "Surely you know that I was only kidding."

Flashing her eyes in fury, she exclaimed, "Right, and surely you don't expect me to believe that!"

"I say," he responded and, realizing that this line of discussion was going nowhere, he inquired, "Let me ask you another question – who drilled the hole in the wall?"

"This is ridiculous," she spat out derisively, "You did, you pervert!"

"I assure you, Sabrina, I did no such thing."

At this she gaped at him in confusion, exclaiming, "Of course you did! Isolde told me that you did."

"Actually, I believe that you are in error on that point," he responded serenely.

"What! What do you mean by that?"

"I believe that, in point of fact, Isolde told you that _James told her that he had seen me drill the hole in the wall_."

"So? What's the difference?"

"The difference is this – _James told me that he saw Isolde drill the hole in the wall!_ "

At this she drew one hand to her face in astonishment, gasping, "You're kidding!"

"I assure you, I remember the event in question as if it were yesterday."

"Wait a minute," she blurted, "Are you telling me that you didn't drill the hole in the wall?"

"Yes."

"Then who did?"

"I'm afraid that the evidence points to James."

"What! What on earth are you talking about, Sloan?"

"It's all right here, in Isolde's exposé."

"But...if you didn't drill the hole in the wall, then you didn't plan the whole thing to catch me in the shower."

"Right, Sabrina, that is quite the case, at least up to a point."

"What does that mean?"

"Look, James did indeed tell me about the hole. For my part, I determined to seek out the offending party. I therefore drilled a second hole in the wall, subsequently observing you peering through the hole that James drilled. Presuming that either you or Isolde had drilled it, I sought a means of rectifying the situation."

"So you sought revenge on me."

"I'm sure it must have seemed that way to you, but I assure you, that was not my intention."

"What evidence can you offer to the contrary?"

"Sabrina, don't you see, I showered naked for your pleasure for an entire week. Does that sound like revenge to you?"

"Well," she responded thoughtfully, "There is that, and admittedly, you put on quite the show for me. I must say, you nasty boy, you had my attention. So if it wasn't revenge, what was the reason you cornered me?"

"I did indeed have a loftier ambition than revenge," he offered sincerely.

"Oh, and what, pray tell, was that?" she responded doubtfully.

"Look, I was by that time desperately taken with you," he admitted, "The fact that the object of my affection had done something reprehensible sent my world into a tail spin. Having considered potentially rectifying alternatives for two days, I determined to find a way to right both our ships, as it were. I therefore laid a trap for you in the hope that I might teach you a lesson, one that would properly chastise you, simultaneously restore my affection for you, and perhaps even instill affection for me in you."

"You're not serious!" she exclaimed.

"I assure you most ardently, I am quite sincere."

"But you behaved quite despicably!" she blurted angrily.

"I can see how you would think that, but in my mind at least, I was the perfect gentleman. After all, I could have had you for the taking that night had I so desired. Despite the fact that the object of my affection was displayed totally naked before me, I restrained myself."

"I suppose there is that," she said thoughtfully.

"At any rate, there is more to the story," he relayed confidently.

"Oh?" she murmured in confusion.

"For obvious reasons, I found it impossible to sleep later that night."

"Tell me about it!" she expounded in reminiscence, "I was so upset that I stayed up all night. And then I left first thing in the morning."

"Yes, which hurt me terribly, if you must know," he responded searchingly, hoping for a glimmer of reborn interest on her part but, seeing none, he continued with, "In my case, as I couldn't sleep, I went for a walk."

"A walk?" she queried and, eyeing him suspiciously, she queried, "Where to?"

"I wandered aimlessly, eventually arriving at the lake, and for some inexplicable reason I decided to go for a swim. As I hadn't thought to bring my swim trunks, I undressed and swam to the dock naked."

"That sounds rather lurid," she posited dubiously.

"Perhaps, but I did in fact believe that I was alone," he suggested ambivalently, "At any rate, you followed me immediately thereafter, and popped right out onto the dock."

At this, her eyes bulging in utter shock, she exclaimed in concerted denial, "What! I did no such thing!"

"I know that now, but up until yesterday morning, I spent my entire life convinced that you had," he responded forlornly. "The truth is, that night convinced me that you were in love with me, so much so in fact, that I don't think I would have sought you out after the war had I known it wasn't you."

"What! This is all too much!" she responded in obvious denial, "If it wasn't me, then who was it?"

"It was Isolde."

"My God, Sloan! How do you know that?" she exclaimed, her mouth agape in astonishment.

"Because she wrote it here, in this exposé."

"But I don't understand," she frowned in apparent denial, "How could you have mistaken her for me?"

"It was quite dark that night, and she was wearing goggles and a bathing cap. And to top it off, she was shaved just as I had forced you to shave yourself."

"What!"

"You heard me. When you came back to the room that night, she determined to have me for herself. So she shaved herself and followed me, knowing full well that I would think she was you."

"Oh, my God! This is not to be believed!"

"Right. But it gets worse, Sabrina."

"Worse? How could it possibly get worse?"

"That night, I made her pregnant."

"What!" she cried in utter disbelief.

He peered at her somberly and whispered, "You heard me."

She stared doubtfully at him, murmuring, "But if that were true, she would have had a child."

"Yes, she did in fact have a child, Sabrina."

Shaking her head in bewilderment, she blurted, "What! I'm confused. Then what happened to the child, Sloan?"

"The child she had is Robert."

"What – Robert Moorehead?" she shrieked in abject horror and, now clutching her throat, she exclaimed in utter shock, "He is your son?"

"Apparently so."

"But that cannot be, Sloan, for that would make Elise his sibling."

Eyeing her despondently, he corrected, "Half-sibling."

Shaking her head in disbelief, she murmured to herself, "Unbelievable...absolutely incomprehensible."

"Yes, just so," he responded morosely, "Shall I tell you more?"

"More?" she replied and, dragging her suddenly moribund eyes to his, she spluttered, "No, I think not, Sloan. This is all far too much for me to absorb. I'm afraid I must go," and, having said this last, she reached for her purse and abruptly arose to depart.

"I understand," he responded disconsolately, but she was already making her way toward the exit.
Chapter 11

Planted Seeds

Boston – November, 1968

World Press International

November 17, 1968

Boston, Massachusetts – Sources today have reported that the Chancellor of Harvard University, Dr. James Moorehead, has been accused of professional impropriety. Although further details are unavailable at this time, Dr. Moorehead has denied the accusations, saying only that the charges are completely baseless. Stay tuned for further information regarding this surprising development at the uppermost levels of higher education in Boston.

Boston – The Following Day

**The phone rang, Sloan** reaching for it absently. "Hello," he murmured into the receiver.

"Sloan, it's Sabrina," the voice announced pointedly, "Have you seen the papers?"

"Yes, of course I have," he responded noncommittally.

"Well, then tell me, what the hell is going on? Why is James under attack?"

"Complicated question, Sabrina," he replied suspiciously.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" she screamed, "You did it, didn't you?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" he responded in shock.

"You told them some cock-and-bull story about James, didn't you!"

"I assure you, Sabrina, I did no such thing."

"Oh, come now, Sloan. You have that damned exposé of Isolde's. There must have been some insane story in it that you reported to the authorities. Come clean, you pervert."

"Pervert?"

"Absolutely!"

"I thought we cleared that up at our last meeting, Sabrina."

"Surely you didn't expect me to believe the load of crap you gave me, after all the lies you've told me over the years."

"Well, er, I had hoped..." he responded diffidently.

"Perish the thought. I've had far too much of your deceit, you pervert."

"Right, I could see where you would think that," he responded gloomily, "But the fact remains, I had nothing whatsoever to do with the current revelations regarding James."

"Then tell me, what the hell is going on," she exclaimed insistently.

"Alright, I shall tell you what I know and suspect, miniscule though it may be," he responded and, hesitating in order to gather his thoughts, he continued with, "As you well know, Isolde left me a document - an exposé - if you will. I have now read parts of it, and it could be said to be an indictment of James' activities over the past thirty years."

"And you passed it on to the authorities, I presume?"

"No, Sabrina, I assure you, I did no such thing."

"Then who did?"

"I'm not quite certain, but I have an idea," he responded reticently.

"Okay, out with it, Sloan," she commanded, "What the hell is going on?"

"I say, this is purely speculation on my part, Sabrina, but I believe that James' accuser is Isolde."

"What!" she exclaimed forcefully, "That's impossible - she's dead!"

"Yes, well, there is that, but I nonetheless believe that she is his plaintiff."

"How so?"

"Look, she came to see me six months before her passing, offering me this exposé, but at the same time demanding that I refrain from reading it until after her passing."

"Yes, I already know all of this, Sloan. What's your point?"

Searching for the right words, he suggested, "Suppose she had a second confidant, and suppose furthermore that she supplied this second person with something more than a manuscript, something permissible as hard evidence in a court of law. And finally, suppose that she charged this confidant with the responsibility of handing over the evidence to the authorities upon her passing."

"Oh...my...God...," she stammered, "Could it possibly be?"

"I'm afraid so, Sabrina," he responded.

"But why? Why would she do such a thing, Sloan?"

"I'm not certain, but I've an idea."

"It must have been revenge," she announced vehemently, "If, as you implied, she lived a loveless marriage, perhaps she wanted to get even with him, but she hadn't the nerve to carry it through while she was yet alive."

"I doubt that quite seriously, Sabrina," he replied.

"Why?"

"You knew her. Do you think her capable of such retaliation, especially given her feelings for her son and what this would do to him?"

"Right, I see your point," she responded thoughtfully, "There must have been some other reason. Please, tell me what it is, Sloan."

"I think not, Sabrina. Let me delve further into this before revealing my suspicion. In the meantime, I believe that we shall have to simply await the outcome of the allegations regarding James."

"I see," she responded, "So you won't tell me more?"

"Would that I could, but I'm afraid that I cannot, at least, not at this time."

"Alright then, I shall say good day to you, Sloan," she rejoined, and so saying, she hung up.

"Goodbye, Sabrina," he croaked into the now dead line.

Boston – Late November, 1968

**Sloan propped his feet up,** resigned to the necessity of struggling through yet another dose of Isolde's exposé. Grasping it diffidently, the necessary medicinal glass of scotch in hand, he commenced reading.

James is beset with a deep psychological sickness, I am now quite certain of it. He is not technically impotent as, being his spouse, I should well know. However, his rather degenerate encroachments on my person from the outset of our marriage have, to say the least, been quite bizarre. This, of course, is the main reason that I never had children by him. The first few years that we were married, he had his way with me a few times, but they were rare indeed, and nearly always punctuated by something that could only be considered to be rather depraved. For example, once he tied me up, subsequently forcing me to perform fellatio on him, and while that in and of itself is perhaps not all that extraordinary, years later I caught him masturbating to a film he had secretly made on that occasion.

Then there was the panty caper. I'm not quite certain that you are even aware of it, because I convinced Sabrina to avoid bringing it up at the time, seeing as how we had no proof that you were the culprit. You see, Sabrina had two pairs of panties stolen from her midway through the summer in New Hampshire. In a misplaced act of trust, I told James, thinking that he, as Assistant Desk Manager, was the appropriate person to inform of the theft. Had I thought it through, I should have known that he was the culprit. After all, in his capacity, he had access to the key to our room, whereas you did not, but at the time I had no inkling whatsoever as to his true nature.

At any rate, James agreed to search for the purloined panties, and several days later he claimed that he had found one of the missing items within the men's locker room at the lakeside bathhouse. Of course, although he deftly refused to point the finger at you, point that way it nonetheless did. And when I returned the recovered pair to Sabrina, she immediately jumped to that conclusion and, so far as I can tell, she has never surrendered her conviction that you were the wayward thief. Thus, whenever she has been heard to term you a pervert, it is more so due to her belief that you stole her panties than due to your treatment of her in the shower that night.

So what indeed was the resolution of the panty caper? About four years ago I actually found the pair that was not returned to Sabrina that summer. James had kept them hidden, all those years, in a cigar box within a secret drawer in his office desk. I managed to locate it while he was off on one of his trips, the panties still neatly folded therein. Don't ask me why he never thought to get rid of them, but consider more importantly why he stole them in the first place. One might certainly conclude that he is the one that is perverted, but ponder instead a far more significant possibility – that he stole them as a means of casting suspicion on you, which of course he succeeded in doing. And ultimately, the seeds of doubt thereby planted in Sabrina's mind eventually led to her divorce from you more than a decade later.

One of the vilest things James ever did had to do with Sabrina. One can't say that he set her on her self-destructive path, but he certainly encouraged it whenever and wherever possible. It began in the fall of 1941, shortly after our summer in New Hampshire. As I mentioned earlier, James was at the root of the hole in the wall. What you surely did not know is that he also crept within the showers on several occasions, and worse, he took a camera with him.

He eventually managed to catch Sabrina peering through the hole in the wall and, after you were sent off to war, he mailed a letter together with the incriminating photo to the Dean of Students at Bryn Mawr. On receipt of the offending picture, Sabrina was summarily dismissed from the college.

You may ask why James undertook such a heinous maneuver, Sabrina not being his direct target. Figuring the answer to that question out took some doing, I don't mind telling you. As the records were confidential, I had to wait some years, but I was eventually able to obtain access to Sabrina's school records. The accusing letter, the photo still enclosed within, was still tucked neatly within her file. The handwriting was clearly that of James but, and here is the salient point, your name was forged at the bottom of the letter.

My dear Sloan, the record indicates that Sabrina was led to believe that you had mailed the letter to the Dean of Students at Bryn Mawr. In the light of all the monstrous things she believed you to have perpetrated, I wonder that she ever married you in the first place. Still, James' underhanded ploys surely had something to do with your subsequent divorce. So you see, James was ever efficient in his destruction of you and, though peripherally, Sabrina as well.

After Sabrina was dismissed from Bryn Mawr, she found it difficult to obtain employment. James was the one who interceded yet again, inducing a scurrilous fellow named Sid Ackerman to offer her a position in a cabaret in New York City. I spoke to this character some years later, and he was certain that James had had some sort of secretive control over Sabrina at the time, something that gave her no choice in the matter.

I have always suspected that James' hold over her was financial in nature. You see, I found the cancelled checks years later showing that he gave her money when she was at her lowest point, thereby leading her to view him favorably. Although I cannot prove it, it is quite likely that at the same time he was ensuring that all other employment opportunities were denied to her, thereby eventually forcing her to become a cabaret dancer as a means of sustaining herself.

That was when I first began to realize that James' modus operandi was to get under the skin of his victims, to find out what their weaknesses were, and then to exploit them to the fullest. As you will discern shortly, that is exactly what he did with Sabrina, me, and ultimately, you as well.

James had discovered Sabrina's weakness, you see. That night, when you sneaked from the inn and cornered Sabrina within the shower, James followed you. He watched the entire episode, even going so far as to film it as well. Indeed, that was his purpose all along when he drilled the hole - to make an indecent film. I found it years later. He, of course, had by then practically worn it out from watching it repeatedly, for what prurient purposes God only knows.

The point is this – James knew Sabrina's weakness from the very start. He understood that she, having been shamed badly by you in a quite demeaning way, was susceptible to sexual extortion, and he played it to the hilt. Accordingly, when James paid Sid Ackerman to offer her a role in his cabaret, she was ripe for the picking.

Then there was the gambol in Boston, after the two of you had been married for several years. Having by then become quite concerned that you would eventually outshine him at Harvard, James used both Sabrina and me to engineer the downfall of your marriage.

Our conjugal bliss having been debilitated to oblivion, he subjected me to one of his particularly unsavory ploys. Having discerned that I was by then in a very susceptible way sexually, he took me to a party, got me stinking drunk and, unbeknownst to me, he then passed me off to someone he had secretly hired to seduce me. In my state of diminished resistance I was easy picking, having grown desperate for any sort of sexual fulfillment. I ended up at this guy's apartment, and James had me followed by a private detective, who – you guessed it – filmed the whole thing. It was the only time I ever strayed, but it only took that one time.

Unbeknownst to me, James then used this guy to get at me, his associate making it clear that I would lose custody of Robert if the film was disclosed to my husband. I thereby became a pawn in James' obsession to get at you. My fictional blackmailer, now turning his attentions toward your demise, suggested that I approach you in a friendly way and attempt to seduce you, for what reason I hadn't the slightest idea. I don't mind telling you, I was terrified at the prospect, but I couldn't run the risk of losing Robert to James, so I was forced to play along.

I expect you will recollect the events, both in the summer of 1954. As I'm sure you will recall, I invited you to lunch that summer. By then my love for you had degenerated to desperation, and that, together with my fear of losing Robert, was of course my weakness. James exploited it to the fullest and, while you resisted my lame advances, rather ingenuously I might add, he nonetheless managed to obtain what he needed in order to get at Sabrina.

Using his pawn to trail us, James managed to obtain a couple of rather intimate photos of the pair of us together. One was when I kissed you in that alleyway and, while it may have seemed rather tame to you, his associate, being a real pro, managed to make it appear that we were about to go at it. The other photo was the real frosting on the cake. My blackmailer forced me on that second occasion to meet you pantyless, wearing only my stockings and garter belt beneath my skirt. Perhaps you recall, I chanced to meet you in the park by the Charles River, or so you thought. We strolled a bit, you subsequently pushing me on a swing, all clandestinely orchestrated by James, and deploying yours truly. Of course, the guy got some quite revealing photos, showing the pair of us grinning from ear to ear, myself swinging skyward, my legs quite spread-eagled for all the world to see.

James most likely hoped to get something more incriminating on the pair of us, but as you were beyond reproach, he had to settle for what he could get, and those two photos were quite enough to do the trick. He then sent the photos anonymously to Sabrina in hopes of convincing her that you were having an affair with me, which of course she was.

Now comes the truly depraved part. It seems James owns a peep show, or at least he did at that time. I'm not exactly clear how he came to this point of depravity, but it most certainly has to do with that summer in New Hampshire. Either he descended into voyeurism as a result of his secretive dealings in the bathhouse, or he had already arrived at that point, the hole in the wall being little more than a symptom of his illness, but one thing is clear – he is now a voyeur of the most decadent sort.

As I said before, James was well aware of Sabrina's goings-on during the war, having been the primary instigator of her short-lived profession as a cabaret dancer. He wasn't really after Sabrina, being instead intent on building up power over her on the outside possibility that if and when you returned from the war, she might be used against you. Nevertheless, being the voyeur that he is, he couldn't help but look in on her whenever he had the opportunity and - you guessed it - he used several of these occasions to photograph her performances.

Sure enough, you survived the war and, as he had surmised you might do, you subsequently went in search of Sabrina, eventually marrying her. Once it became apparent that you were going to be a competitor to him at Harvard, a plan formed in his mind to get at you through her. After all, he had ready-made blackmailing materials in the form of the photos, and by then he was well aware of your weakness – Sabrina.

Accordingly, he hired one of his peep show associates to blackmail Sabrina, assuring her that if she did not join the peep show he would send the incriminating photos to Harvard University, thereby affecting your dismissal from the faculty. I doubt that the photos were all that damning, but being naïve about the inner workings of academia, Sabrina nonetheless fell for it. And shortly thereafter she became a peep show dancer by day, while Elise was at daycare and you were at the office. Having been convinced that the two of us were having an affair, she persuaded herself that she was doing it to get back at you.

While Sabrina must bear some of the burden for voluntarily taking up such a despicable profession, the point is this - James being the instigator of Sabrina's greatest weakness – her complete distrust of you - he was most assuredly at the heart of the failure of your marriage.

Of course, Sabrina herself has no idea as to the manipulative deeds perpetrated on her by James, as he always treated her with the utmost respect to her face. To wit, she to this day believes that he is the beauty, and you the beast.

A Week Later

World Press International

December 2, 1968

Boston, Massachusetts – This report just in: Dr. James Moorehead, Chancellor of Harvard University, has been placed on paid administrative leave, pending an investigation into charges of impropriety made against him. Dr. Moorehead has to this point in time been unavailable for comment regarding the charges against him. Readers will recall that Dr. Moorehead's wife, Isolde, passed away recently of cancer. Stay tuned for more information regarding this story that has mounting implications for the academic community.

Boston – The Following Evening

**Sloan sat in his easy chair,** the requisite glass of scotch available in case he felt the need for it in order to stomach this, the final installment of Isolde's expose.

_And now I come to the final chapter of my exposé and, given what you've already learned, I daresay you should not be surprised at what I am about to divulge. Let me begin by saying, in case it isn't apparent by now -_ _James is your very worst enemy_ _. Ever since the first time he met you, he has been obsessed with defeating you. You see, you were always better than him, at anything and everything. For him that was terrifying, because no one had ever bested him at anything at all, much less absolutely everything._

As you now know, he was already plotting to destroy you by that summer in New Hampshire, but up to that point in time his efforts were rather amateurish, to say the least. He was still young, and his schemes were rather sophomoric in nature. Had they not been, I doubt I should have ever found him out.

Fortunately for him, you went off to war shortly thereafter, and he once again owned the playing field, at least in his own mind. But when you unexpectedly survived the war, his fears began to get the better of him once again. By then, he was on the faculty at Harvard, and although you were just starting your academic career, his conviction grew with each passing day that you would somehow eventually outshine him. That, of course, he could not allow to happen and, although it took some years for him to perfect his tactics, he eventually managed, as you well know, to engineer your divorce from Sabrina.

Anticipating that your separation from her might in fact derail your academic focus, he took no further action right away, but eventually he could tell that you, having buried yourself in your work as a means of concealing your own misery from yourself, were destined to rise to great heights within the academic community. You see, although he was crafty and astute, you, on the other hand, were blessed with a mixture of technical brilliance, innate goodness, and honesty. These things he understood all too well, and your honesty, together with your adoration for Sabrina, were his most powerful weapons against you.

He had been keeping tabs on you all along, and eventually he settled on a plan to affect your dismissal from Harvard. Being the voyeur that he was, he had had you followed the day that you had gone looking for Sabrina at the peep show. He also had previously installed hidden film projectors within the Peep Show that he owned. He therefore had both clandestine film footage and photos of you from that day, and he kept them. He eventually pulled them out of storage, and that was when he hatched the plot to frame you.

Using his superior knowledge of chemistry, he doctored several of the images, carefully splicing just the right incriminating parts from other clips into the film footage to make it appear that you were masturbating along with the other two men in the first room. He then employed chemicals to erase the splice lines and, subsequently reshooting photos of the negatives, he thereby fabricated phony evidence of your moral turpitude. The photo of you paying a prostitute required nothing more than dying the note you handed her green.

Thereafter, it was a simple matter to mail the offending photos anonymously to the Dean of Faculty. He covered his own tracks by selling the Peep Show off, so that no one could trace it to him. It turned out that it didn't matter since, as you well know, the authorities dropped the charges against you.

So, while you have been under the impression all these years that he managed to have the legal charges against you dropped, he in fact did nothing of the sort. Quite to the contrary, he made certain that the Faculty Affairs Committee found you guilty, thereby affecting your dismissal from the university. There is even a rumor that his brilliant handling of your dismissal had something to do with his promotion to Dean shortly thereafter, and eventually to chancellor.

The legal charges, as it turns out, were dropped unilaterally by the District Attorney, who saw no sense in using the taxpayers' resources to further humiliate you. Besides, he was up for re-election, and he wanted nothing to do with a potentially explosive case involving public lewdness and indecent exposure in one of Boston's seedier districts.

I have given you all of this information not in the hope that you would exact revenge, for as I know you only too well, I am certain that it is not within you to do so. I have therefore taken my own steps to ensure that justice shall be done.

As you may recall, that summer in 1954, when you discovered Sabrina working in the peep show downtown, you entered the club, and as you are also aware, it was within the club that James had set up his video cameras. He would later use the photos taken on the street as well as within the club to destroy your career, as you also well know. What you don't know is that the woman who was dancing in the first room that day was a student at Harvard.

As I said before, I made it my challenge to discover as many of James' transgressions as possible and, as a part of that quest, I eventually got hold of copies of the incriminating photos of you from the Faculty Affairs Committee. A couple of them were taken in the room with the other two men and, the dancer's face quite discernible, she appeared to be quite young.

Given what I had already discerned about James by that point in time, I perceived that it was quite within the realm of possibility that James was extorting young women to perform in his peep show, and what better place to locate candidates for such positions than right on the campus at Harvard? I therefore searched through the Harvard yearbook and - surprise, surprise - I found a photo of a young woman that matched the one who was dancing in the room that day.

I now knew that I was onto something, so I kept at it, and shortly thereafter, I was able to locate the student in question. She was by then in her third year of law school and, cornering her one evening in a campus coffee shop, I showed her the photographs. Of course, despite the passage of time, she was in no mood to discuss it with me, so I let it go for the time being.

The years passed, but eventually, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I realized that this insane monster that was my husband would never cease destroying the lives of others. Furthermore, I was the only person on earth in a position to call an end to his wanton actions. What was worse, I had little time to affect a solution, so that was when I determined to seek out the young lady once again. Of course, by that time she had completed her education, was married, and had two children. She had somewhat serendipitously joined a prestigious law firm right here in Boston, and that was what turned her to my ally.

Approaching her at her office one day, I laid the whole story out for her, the evidence being as you now know overwhelming and incontrovertible. On that day, she broke down in her office, telling me that James had produced evidence indicating that she had cheated in his course, she for her part certain that it had been fabricated, perhaps even by him. He had summarily threatened to have her dismissed from the university, at which her performance in the peep show had been extorted as a means of avoiding being expelled from Harvard.

Having never quite recovered from James' treatment of her, she was by that time ready to bring charges against him, especially given the additional proof that I supplied to her. You see, by then I had evidence suggesting that James had perpetrated similar deeds on quite a few other young women at Harvard over the course of his career.

For my part, feeling myself incapable of dealing both with my own terminal illness and James' anticipated downfall, I managed to entice the woman to hold off bringing charges until after my passing. I shall not divulge her identity to you, as I am quite certain that she would want to maintain her own anonymity. Still, given her legal expertise, I expect that she shall find the means to bring James to justice.

So now you know the entire story, at least, everything that I am aware of. There are doubtless other dastardly deeds portrayed by James, but I should think that those described herein are quite sufficient.

My dearest Sloan, you shall most likely conclude that I have done this all for you. I shall not endeavor to dissuade you from such a notion, but let me close by saying this – having failed to capture your heart, my life's ambition has become to achieve your redemption. If my efforts succeed in restoring your good name, then as my reward for having succeeded, I charge you thusly – for the remainder of your life, live the life that, when we two docked together in Boston all those years ago, we promised one another we should live. And finally, know that I have kept my promise – I have always been true to you. And with that, I wish you a long and prosperous life.

Yours Ever-

Isolde

Boston – A Week Later

**James strode confidently** into the large paneled room, halting at intervals to shake hands with members of the Board of Regents. Eventually, the group assembling in formality about the table, Chairman Simpson announced, "Gentlemen, this special meeting of the board will come to order," and at this, the group became silent.

"Chancellor Moorehead," Chairman Simpson now stated, "I've called this special meeting of the board to address the issue that you are so aware – your alleged professional impropriety. This meeting is of course, entirely confidential. If anyone so much as utters a word regarding these proceedings outside the confines of this room, they shall be subject to the full legal force behind this august institution. Am I understood?" and at the unanimous and silent nods from the entire group, he proceeded, saying, "Now, members of the board, each of you has before you an envelope marked confidential. You are to open that envelope, peruse the contents carefully, and thenceforth return everything therein to the envelope, subsequently returning the envelope to me. Please proceed," and at this, the members opened their envelopes and silently studied the contents.

Several minutes later, the envelopes having been unanimously returned to Chairman Simpson, he now inquired, "Chancellor Moorehead, you have now observed the evidence before you. What have you to say on your behalf regarding this most serious charge?"

"Gentlemen," James commenced, "It seems to me that, in the interest of Harvard University, it would be best if I were to resign as Chancellor immediately. In addition, if I may be so bold, should you the members of the board, many of you my dear friends, find it in your hearts to do so, I would also be willing to severe all connections with Harvard, on the condition that the materials you have just considered never reach the light of day."

At this pronouncement, there was a momentary silence, Chairman Simpson subsequently announcing, "Excellent notion, Chancellor Moorehead. Under the circumstances, I believe that a motion is in order."

"So moved!" a voice exclaimed.

"Second!" another put in.

"All those in favor say aye," Chairman Simpson commanded, followed by a chorus of consent.

"Opposed?" he queried, followed by silence.

"The motion carries unanimously," and, turning to James, he proffered, "Thank you for your generous actions, er, _Former_ Chancellor Moorehead. Now, if you will excuse us, the board has other important matters to address."

Boston – The Following Morning

**Sloan tied the package** with a string, making certain that it was secure. He then approached the delivery window at the post office and supplied the clerk with the address in Pittsburgh. He wondered to himself if Sabrina would ever find the courage to read it. In any case, he felt that Isolde had provided the document for the both of them rather than for him alone, thus making it Sabrina's equal right to the evidence therein. That afternoon he caught a direct flight to London.
Chapter 12

Honesty Takes a Hike

Cambridge, England – December, 1968

**Sloan emerged from the taxi,** thoughts of his childhood streaming back to him as he stood gazing at the cottage. Not much had changed over the years, his parents having taken care to keep the house in good shape. Punching the doorbell, he gazed about at the surroundings, wondering wistfully what his life might have been like had he never made the crossing in 1939. The door opened abruptly, and there was his father, wrapping him tightly within a gargantuan embrace, followed by even more emotional treatment by his mother. Once the three were ensconced within the parlor, the inevitable familial conversation commenced in earnest.

"Soo, Ah gather things have changed raither markedly in Boston," Alastair said in an apparent attempt to get at the most significant revelations.

"Yes, James is out as chancellor, as you doubtless know, father," Sloan responded gravely.

"Och, aye, it be awl oover Cambridge. Whitever happened, Sloan? He seemed loch he was daein' quite a stoatin' job ay it," Alastair inquired.

"Yes, well, things are not always as they seem," Sloan responded enigmatically.

"Reit, Ah dinnae kin Ah've ever heard ye speak soo duplicitously, son. Ye used tae be entirely direct. What's got intae ye?"

"All in good time, father. Let's just say – the passage of time has taught me to think better of being so direct."

"Aye? How soo?"

"Right, well, the truth is still essential, but sometimes prevarication is the mark of empathy."

"Aye, I kin yer meanin', son. Weel said, if Ah dae say soo meself. And noo then, ye said o'er the telephone ye wanted tae pick me brain. Soo pick away!"

"Now that's what I call direct!" Sloan responded pleasantly, "Right, so I've decided to go to Egypt."

"Whit! Why ever oan earth fur?"

"Let's just say, I need some time away."

"Aye, but thaur be plenty o' kinder places fur the doin' aye that, if ye ask yer ol' dad."

"Yes, that may well be, father, but I've still a hankering to revisit Egypt."

"Alright, son, Ah see yer minds set oan it. Soo how ken Ah help ye?"

"I want to go down the Nile."

"Aye coorse ye dae! One kennae goo tae Egypt and noo be goin' doon the Nile."

"Well, here's the thing, father. I'd like to go see the High Dam project, and from there, I want to see Abu Simbel."

"Reit. Good choices, if yer askin' fur input. Ah assume ye kin they're doin' awl sorts ay fancy things thaur at the moment."

"Yes, I know the high dam is nearing completion. I'm especially interested in the project to raise Abu Simbel."

"Reit, if Ah was a bit younger, Ah'd be wantin' tae dae the sam thing. But me travelin' days are over, Ah'm afraid," Alastair put in wistfully. "Soo, how kin Ah help ye, son?"

"Well, I'd like to have an official capacity in some way, so that I can be of more service than the average tourist."

"Och, aye, Ah get yer meanin'. Soo, whit dae ye know aboot Abu Simbel?"

"I've done my homework. I know all about the history, the construction by Ramses from 1264 BCE to 1244 BCE, and the current issues with the building of the high dam."

"Excellent! It be a massive UNESCO project, or soo they tell me," his father replied. "Ah fur one am moost impressed. Ah've only visited it oon one occasion, but Abu Simbel be a treasure fur the ages, if ye ask me. Ah woodn't want it tae be swallowed oop by the loch when it fills oop."

"Right, so could you get me some sort of official presence, father?"

Scratching his chin in thought, Alastair responded, "Hmmm, perhaps Ah coods. Yer noo archeologist, but with a wee bit ay trainin' by yer ol' dad, perhaps we coods pass ye off as an expert. Reit, Ah kin see the headline noo in the London Times – Sloan Stewart, son of the world famous archeologist, Sir Alastair Stewart, engaged by Egyptian Government to oversee relocation of Abu Simbel," and this last he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Grinning doubtfully, Sloan said, "Well, that may be a bit overstating, but you've got the general idea."

"Och, lit me doo a bit ay checkin' aboot, and Ah'll be gettin' back tae ye, son."

"How long will it take, father?"

"Och, a few days, noo more, Ah expect. Why?"

"I've booked passage on a ship out of Portsmouth for next Monday, I'm afraid."

"My, but we're in a stoatin' hurry, aren't we!" his father replied with a smile. "Ah moost say, it be good tae see ye with a fire in yer belly, son, after awl ye've been through these many years. Ah'm moost pleased tae see ye with a stoatin' challenge tae fulfill."

"Thanks, father. Now, I'm going to turn in, if you don't mind. I've had a long flight over. Give us a hug, mother, and I shall see you both in the morning," and so saying, he embraced his mother and left the room.

"What was that all about?" she inquired after Sloan had departed, "Surely he's not off on some looney camping trip to the Middle East?"

"Doon't ye be bettin' oon it, Edwina, that lad's always had a bee in his bonnet. He's oop tae somethin', ye kin bet yer knickers oon it."

"Well! I'll do no such thing! I'll be thanking you to leave my knickers out of it!" she replied in mock horror, "Besides, I rather think you're right, Alastair. He may not be a lad of twenty any more, but sometimes he goes off on a tear, just as he did when he was a child years ago."

"Och, aye, and if Ah ken that lad, there'll be noo stoppin' him, soo best stay oot ay his way."

The Following Sunday

**Alastair peered down the track and** exclaimed officiously, "There be the train noo, lad. Now, remember whit Ah've tailed ye. When ye get tae Cairo, see Mr. Aboudi at the Antiquities Museum. He'll be taekin' care aye ye."

"Thanks, father. This means a lot to me. If all goes well, I'll be back within the year," Sloan responded, "So give us a hug, mother, father," and at this, the three embraced as one.

The train having now come to a halt at the quay, Sloan grabbed his bags, stepped from the platform onto the waiting carriage, and moments later he was off.

Cairo – Ten Days Later

**Sloan strode through the** front door of The Antiquities Museum and asked the first person he saw, "Pardon me, could you point me in the direction of the Director's office?"

"Yes, sir," the young man responded politely, "Second floor, stairway on the right. At the top of the stairs, you make another right."

"Thank you," Sloan responded and, dashing up the stairs, he made a bee line for the director's office. Once inside, he was ushered into the director's office, whereupon he put out his hand, saying, "Mr. Aboudi, I am Sloan Stewart. I believe my father contacted you about my visit."

"Ah, yes, Dr. Stewart. We've been expecting you," the director responded politely and, taking his hand in greeting, he motioned for him to have a seat, "Please, have a seat. May I get you a cup of tea?"

"Yes, thank you," Sloan responded, "That would be quite nice."

The pair settled in, Mr. Aboudi now inquiring pleasantly, "So, your father tells me you are here to look in on the Abu Simbel relocation project."

"Yes, sir. I realize it has all been planned out, and I don't mean to interfere. I simply would like to be allowed to visit as an expert regarding the chemistry of the materials involved."

"Yes, your father indicated as much. I have already looked into the matter, and I am happy to say that I have been able to secure a VIP pass for you so that you may remain on site for as long as you so desire."

"Thank you, sir. That is quite generous of you," Sloan responded politely.

"It was rather simple actually, Dr. Stewart. Your father is quite a highly regarded figure here in Egypt. He did much to uncover the mysteries of our past, and unlike many of his predecessors, he did it for Egypt, rather than for the British Empire."

At this, Sloan blushed with pride, responding, "Yes, I have quite a father."

"So," Mr. Aboudi responded, now changing the subject, "Have you visited Egypt before, sir?"

"Oh, yes, several times, but it was all a long time ago, when I was a boy. I spent several summers here with my dad, and I was stationed here for a short period during the war as well."

"I doubt much has changed, Dr. Stewart. Egypt is a timeless land, as I'm sure you well know."

"Well, yes, but Cairo is bustling. The economy seems to be picking up, and the high dam project promises to revolutionize Egypt."

"Yes, we fancy ourselves to be a growing world power here in Egypt, but there is still much to do, I'm afraid."

"How can I help, sir?" Sloan now queried, finally getting to the subject of his visit.

"That is kind of you, Dr. Stewart. I'm afraid we cannot supply you with recompense, but your expertise may in fact come in handy at Abu Simbel," the director offered pleasantly, "I would therefore ask you to simply speak up regarding any facet of the project that you find lacking."

"Thank you. I shall do that," Sloan replied.

"Now, I assume that you will want to get on your way as quickly as possible. When you arrive in Abu Simbel, you will need to report to Mr. Al Wadi."

"Thank you, Mr. Aboudi," Sloan replied and, recognizing that the meeting was at an end, he arose and shook hands yet again.

"I wish you good travels, Dr. Stewart," the director said.

"Thank you. I shall need it," he responded, and so saying, he made his way from the room.

Fig. 2 Map of Egypt

Aswan – Two Weeks Later

Sloan gazed toward the eastern shore of the Nile from his private deck at the Elephantine Island Hotel in Aswan. He had taken his time on the trip southward, but he had felt it worthwhile to learn more about the country that he would make his home for the next year. Although he had flown to Luxor, he had progressed from there by ship, seeing all of the important digs along the way. He had not discerned the slightest hint that he was being followed, but his senses told him that it was inevitable – sooner or later his adversary would appear. Why else would he have disappeared from the face of the earth? After all the things James had perpetrated against him over the course of more than a quarter of a century, Sloan felt confident that there was one last trick up his sleeve.

When or where James would undertake to confront him, he had no idea, but he was certain that, given James' fundamental nature, Egypt was the best place for Sloan to await that confrontation. James was surely dangerous, perhaps even deadly. Having been cornered into oblivion, his next move, perhaps his penultimate one, would certainly be well planned and heinous, perhaps even beyond anything that Sloan could imagine. But he for one intended to be prepared for it, whenever and wherever it came.

He decided to remain in Aswan for a few days and, while taking in the sites, plan more carefully for every eventuality. Accordingly, that afternoon he took a tour of the Shellal quarry, the site where many of the Egyptian obelisks had been quarried more than three thousand years ago.

The following day he toured both the low dam and the high dam. The latter, now well along in construction, was quite impressive, being the largest dam in the world. When completed, it would hold back the waters of the Nile, thereby creating Lake Nasser, one of the largest man-made lakes on earth and, in the process, inundating countless Egyptian treasures from antiquity.

The following day he planned to board a bus for Abu Simbel, a mind-numbing five hour journey through the desolate Egyptian desert.

Abu Simbel – the Following Day

Sloan stepped down from the bus, surprised that the heat was not too terribly unbearable. His memories from his summers there were of searing heat, day after day. But in January, it seemed that even here near the Tropic of Cancer, it was not too terribly unbearable. All too soon, it would become oppressive with the onset of summer. He wondered how long he would need to stay, how long it would take to complete his self-imposed mission.

He made for the awaiting truck and, piling in with the other workers, he noted that nearly all of them were Egyptians. They drove perhaps a mile, coming to an enormous construction site. Not two hundred yards distant, the red-tinged dirt of the desert dropped away from view, thereby signaling the onset of the cliffs along the Nile.

Everywhere he looked there was activity, several hundred workers toiling away in the mid-day sun, all of them tanned dark by excessive exposure in this cloudless place. He saw a sign up ahead and, although it was in Arabic, someone had scrawled at the bottom in English the single word 'office', with an arrow pointing to the right.

He walked purposely in the direction indicated, and sure enough, there was a temporary building set up a few hundred feet beyond. An Englishman came out of the building at the moment he arrived and, spotting Sloan, he exclaimed, "I say, you must be Sloan Stewart."

"Correct," Sloan replied, "How did you know?"

The man responded, "Spitting image of your father, I'd say. Besides, we don't get many visitors here, and you are the only one expected for quite some time," and at this he added, "I'm John Bonner, head of engineering here at Abu Simbel," and so saying, he thrust his hand forward.

Taking the proffered hand within his own, Sloan responded, "Pleased to meet you, John. Please, call me Sloan. Might you be able to point me to Mr. Al Wadi?"

"Sure, step inside with me. I'll introduce you to him."

"Thanks," Sloan responded, and within minutes he had been assigned a bunk within the tent city that had been built for the on-site workers.

It was spartan by English standards, but Sloan decided that he would think of it from the standpoint of his summers in Egypt when he was a boy, or even better, from his time in the prisoner of war camp in Burma. From that viewpoint, it was quite palacial: there were latrines, showers, and even an enormous mess tent, all a veritable morass of activity for the better part of the day. Contemplating it all, he had to admit that he was looking forward to his adventure with great anticipation.

John gave him a tour that very afternoon, including an elevator ride over the crest of the cliffs, down to the edge of the river. As they descended, John pointed out the level to which the lake would rise once the dam was completed.

"So, where does the name Abu Simbel come from?" Sloan queried as they rode ever downwards.

"The boy who showed the site to early explorers was supposedly named Abu Simbel. Apparently, the name stuck."

"That's interesting," Sloan mumbled, "So the boy showed it to Giovanni Belzoni first?"

"No, it was actually discovered by Jean-Louis Burckhardt in 1813. He subsequently told Belzoni about it, and Belzoni came in search of treasure. By that point in time, the entire complex was so far inundated with sand from the desert that only the top portion was visible. So Belzoni had a hell of a time digging it out, which he finally completed in 1817.

"Anyway, we're coming to the bottom now, and you can see it there against the cliff wall. Of course, due to all the construction equipment it's hard to make out the entire complex, but you're lucky nonetheless. In a couple of months they're going to start cutting the pieces and lifting them to the top of the cliffs. When they've completed that part, they'll start reassembling the whole thing, like a jigsaw puzzle, on the site I showed you before we came down on the elevator."

"How far down have we come?" Sloan queried.

"It's about 65 meters from the crest of the cliff to the Nile," John replied concisely.

"So, exactly how long is this all going to take?"

"Oh, we should be finished with the project by the middle of next year."

"Will that be soon enough to avoid it being inundated by the rising Nile?"

"Oh, the high dam won't be complete for another three years, so we're in good shape," John responded.

"This is quite a project, John. You must be very proud."

"Yes, of course, but one mustn't get too cheeky about these things. After all, Ramses had the complex built more than three thousand years ago, and the workmen had no modern tools whatsoever. Imagine trying to move this thing today with the tools they had back then. I'd say what we're doing here pales by comparison to what the Egyptians accomplished so long ago."

"Just so," Sloan responded, "Still, it's going to be quite a treat to see the entire temple come together on the cliffs above. And one can assume quite a lot of tourists will come to see it."

"Right, I'd like to have a share of the entry fee," John posited, snickering at his small joke.

"Meantime, we fortunate few get to see it for free," Sloan replied, tongue-in-cheek.

"Oh, I doubt that, old chap," John replied, "Before we're finished here, I'm sure you shall have paid quite a steep price – sun stroke, heat stroke, dysentery, perhaps even malaria, and God knows what else. Trust me - you shall most assuredly pay the price. Belzoni himself died of dysentery in 1823."

"Sounds enticing," Sloan said sarcastically, "Seriously, I'm prepared for whatever may come."

"Good, because you're in for some hard days ahead, I'm afraid."

Fig. 3 Photograph of Ramses II's Temple during Reconstruction

Three Months Later

**Sloan could feel** summer coming on rapidly. It was now early April, and the afternoon heat had become stifling. He didn't want to think about the coming torridness. Most days he kept busy by watching the crews assemble the blocks of stone that had been arrayed within the staging area. Each day the cranes lifted a few predetermined blocks into place, and these were joined with cement. Sloan was assigned to ensure that the consistency and properties of the cement were properly prepared for the joining process. It was hard work, not to mention highly repetitive in nature.

Sloan considered his job to be rather mundane, but that was precisely what he had in mind. He needed his faculties to be focused on his primary mission – survival. This far from civilization, very few new faces appeared each week in Abu Simbel, and he made it his covert responsibility to meet each and every one of them, thereby maintaining a careful lookout for his nemesis. Patience was the key word, there being little for it but to wait for James to show his hand. Sloan was certain that, given what he had learned from Isolde's exposé, James would sooner or later make his appearance.

Late September

**Sloan was quite impressed with the** progress to date. The four statues of Ramses had now been completely reassembled adjacent to the dome that had been constructed on the cliff. John had just that day informed him that they were ahead of schedule, with completion anticipated within the year.

He had now been on site for nearly nine months, and still there was no sign of James. Although he remained confident of his plan, he had of late begun to consider the possibility that James hadn't yet discovered where he was or, more ominously, that he had done away with himself. Or perhaps he was simply unable to pursue Sloan, having been incapacitated or worse. But one thing was certain - Sloan could not go in search of James as, upon finding him, he would find himself on James' turf rather than on one of his own making. Accordingly, he was obliged to continue to wait things out.

Late December

**Sloan could only marvel** at the fortitude of the workers. It was now near the end of Ramadan, and somehow the entire workforce had managed to survive despite fasting during the daylight hours. What made it so impressive was that not only did they avoid food during the daytime, they also did not drink any liquids, amazingly including water.

The daytime temperature reaching a hundred degrees on most days, it made it impossible to work long hours under such conditions. The workers therefore rose early, working from 4 A.M. to 10 A.M., and then again from two hours before sunset. Accordingly, Sloan's regard for the workers grew with each passing day.

Nighttime, June, 1970

**Sloan** **lay awake in his bunk** , fearful of what might happen should he fall asleep. Around two in the morning, he heard it - a slight noise, as of muslin scraping on wood. Rolling over immediately, he peered into the azure eyes of his intruder, who for his part said affably, "Hello, Sloan, sorry I couldn't get here sooner."

"James," Sloan responded in recognition, "What took you so long?"

"Tough times," James responded matter-of-factly, "I apologize, but I'm here now."

"And so you are," Sloan responded placidly.

"So, let's go," James commanded crisply.

"Go? Where?"

"Best not to argue, Sloan. I have a pistol under my caftan," James ordered, "Come on, you know exactly what's going down. Let's go."

At this, Sloan gave no response but, arising from his bunk, he quickly donned his caftan and, at James' urging, he led the way from the tent. Once outside, James pulled the pistol out and, motioning with it, he pointed, "That way!"

Showing little concern, Sloan continued to lead the way. The pair set off, walking southwards along the western cliffs for several hours before so much as another word passed between them.

Finally, the sky growing light towards the east, James commanded, "Alright, Sloan, turn west, away from the Nile."

"Why?" Sloan responded quizzically, "Where are we going?"

"We're going for a stroll in the Nubian desert."

"What! Why ever on earth for?" Sloan asked in apparent terror.

"I'm going to hell, and you're going with me, you son-of-a-bitch!" James uttered vehemently, "You turned me in, didn't you!"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, James," Sloan responded serenely, "I did no such thing."

"Bull shit!" came the response, "Keep walking, you son-of-a-bitch!"

The pair walked on for a few minutes, at which point James asked intrepidly, "If you didn't turn me in, who did?"

"Isolde did it, you fool."

"How could she?" James said with a penetrating frown, "She's dead!"

"She gave all the evidence to one of your victims," Sloan replied offhandedly, "Someone who just happens to be a lawyer."

James halted in his tracks for a moment and, realization flooding over him, he murmured to himself, "Ah, that does make sense, when you think about it. She always did hate my guts for lying about you being dead in Burma."

"Rightfully so, if you ask me," Sloan responded serenely.

"She eventually figured it all out, I imagine," James said to himself and, glancing toward Sloan, he asked, "So how much do you know?"

"Everything," Sloan responded flatly, "Isolde told me the whole story."

Completely unfazed, James replied thoughtfully, "Ah, I see," and after a moment he observed, "Well, it's been a good game, hasn't it! I had you right down to the end game, and if Isolde hadn't gotten cancer, I'd have been within sight of checkmate."

"Bloody hell," Sloan murmured noncommittally.

"You idiot, you never had the slightest notion," James rejoined, "The whole time it was me! I was the one kicking your ass. I was the one bringing you down, you and Sabrina, and Isolde as well!"

"Right, but you failed, didn't you!"

"What makes you think that, Sloan?"

"They fired you!"

"That may be, but look around you," James countered arrogantly, "Does it look to you like the game is over?"

Sloan halted in his tracks and, certainty now coming over him, he blurted, "Is this a part of the game then?"

"Of course!" James retorted in superiority.

"And what is the objective, if I may be so bold?"

An enormous self-righteous grin spreading over his features, James exclaimed, "Why, to win, of course!"

Apparently nonplussed by James' inane behavior, Sloan queried, "And just exactly how do we determine the winner?"

"I should think it would be obvious - last man standing," James announced condescendingly, "We're going to walk straight west, and the last one standing is the winner."

"You crazy fool, we shall both die!"

"You first!" James replied gleefully, "I'm going to finally beat your miserable ass at something!"

"You're out of your mind!" Sloan exclaimed, "I'm going back. This is insane."

"No you're not!" James screamed obsessively.

"Why ever not?"

"Because I'm the one with the gun, that's why!"

Obviously unimpressed, Sloan replied, "Bollocks!"

"I'll shoot you where you stand if you try to go back."

At this, Sloan turned towards him and admitted in resignation, "Alright, you're up by a pawn, so I suppose I must keep playing the game, at least for now."

"Damn straight!" James said and, motioning with the pistol, he commanded, "Now _walk!_ Toward the west! That's right!"

The pair now walked in total silence for several hours. By noon the searing heat and scorching rays of the sun had begun to take their toll on the two.

Eventually, to take his mind off his agony, Sloan asked, "Did you ever love her?"

"Who?" James queried.

"Isolde!"

"Hell, no! Why would I love that witch!"

"Well, then, were you in love with Sabrina?"

"No!"

"Well, just who did you love?"

"Nobody! But I sure as hell hated your guts. From the first time you knew more than me in that damn study group, I vowed I'd win. Boyle's Law...pshaw! And today, I'm finally going to do it. All I have to do is keep walking. Sooner or later you're going to drop dead. Then I'm going to kick your stinking ass!"

Seeing that further discussion was a waste of time, Sloan shut up and kept walking. Near sunset, his feet by now killing him, he decided to try again, saying, "Why couldn't you let well enough alone, James? Was your sexual perversion at the heart of it all?"

"Perversion? Perversion! I'm not perverted! That was just a means of getting the goods on you. It's all about winning, you fool!"

"Surely there is something more important than winning," Sloan mumbled.

"Like what? Just tell me," James queried.

"I don't know...," Sloan said thoughtfully, "How about dignity?"

"Dignity! That's absurd!"

"Then how about honesty?"

"You can do better than that, you fool!" James ridiculed.

"Let me think about it," Sloan mumbled, adding inanely, "I'll get back to you on it."

"Meantime," James instructed, "Keep walking!"

The pair walked through the night, and by morning, both were very near to exhaustion. Stating the obvious, Sloan exclaimed, "You're going to kill us both!"

"That's the general idea, you idiot!" James exclaimed, but suddenly he stopped and sat down, saying, "Five minute break. We have a long day ahead of us, and we'll need our energy."

"Energy! What energy? It's going to be a _short_ day, because we'll both be dead within a few hours!"

Five minutes later James waved the pistol, motioning Sloan to stand, and off the pair went, heading ever westward. By noon both of them were wandering aimlessly and stumbling repeatedly, but James continued onward, exclaiming, "I'm winning! I'm going to beat you, you son-of-a-bitch!"

Sloan said nothing, intent simply on preserving his energy for the challenge ahead.

Half an hour later, James exclaimed, "I can see it! Up ahead, there it is!"

Peering into the endless desert before them, Sloan muttered, "There's what?"

"The White Queen! There she is! I have her in my sites! Your queen is going down, old boy, just like everything else in your life. I took everything from you. First, I took Isolde, and then I took Sabrina. And I fucked them both, hard!"

"You never slept with Sabrina," Sloan said with certitude.

Now evidently delirious, James mumbled, "I didn't? I could have sworn I did."

"You're confusing your porn movies with the real thing, you pervert," Sloan blurted.

James stumbled and, falling to the ground, he crowed, "I won! I took the White Queen!"

"You're dying, you fool! There is _no_ White Queen."

"But I'm the Black King! There must be a White Queen!"

"You are most definitely the Black King, dear James, of that I am quite certain."

"And you are the White King, Sloan, as ever, always the good guy – The White King!"

"Now, that's where you're wrong, James. I am no king."

James, now wallowing on the ground in agony, croaked, "But if you're not The White King, who are you?"

"I'm a dung beetle!"

"You're a dung beetle? How could you be a dung beetle? I couldn't possibly lose to a beetle!"

Kicking the pistol away from James, Sloan replied, "Oh, but I assure you, you can and, as a matter of fact, you have."

"What! How'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Win, you fool! I had you! I had the upper hand. I sneaked up on you in the middle of the night. I had the game rigged! Why am I lying on the ground in agony, and you're still standing?"

"Because I spotted you three days ago, that's why."

"What! How'd you do that? I was disguised. I died my hair and my skin, and I even had my nose broken so you wouldn't recognize me. Surely the beard hid my features."

"I spotted the blue eyes. I've been searching for a pair of pale blue eyes for nigh onto a year and a half. And yesterday, I finally spotted yours. The Bedouins don't have blue eyes. You've the first pair of blue eyes I've seen since I arrived in Abu Simbel. So three days ago I began drinking water assiduously, and the night before last I drank as much water as I could before I went to bed."

"So you knew I was coming for you?"

"Right."

"How did you know I wouldn't just kill you?"

"Because I knew your weakness! Everything is a game to you, James. It always has been. I knew there would be a game to play, and out here in the desert, there is only one game – survival."

"Aw, hell, Sloan, it's just a game!" James exclaimed from his prone position, "Couldn't you let me win, just this one time? After all, it's the last time we'll play the game, isn't it. I should've had my victory."

Sloan sat down beside James and offered, "Here's your victory - I'll stay with you, my friend."

"You're not my friend!"

"True, but you are mine, as you have been for my whole life."

"But that isn't fair. I can't be your friend if you aren't mine!"

"Wrong!"

"Wrong? What do you mean, Sloan?"

"Friendship isn't conditional," Sloan announced with certitude.

"What an unmitigated idiot – thinking that goodness and friendship gets you anywhere in life," James mumbled, "I knew you were wrong all the time, and I've still won, because you're going to die with me out here in the desert...," at which point his voice trailed off, and it was the last thing he said. He died a half hour later.

Sloan immediately stripped the caftan from James' body and headed north as, aware that suspicion would fall on him should anyone find him in the middle of nowhere with a dead man, he was intent on putting as much distance between himself and the corpse as possible.

Two hours later, tugging his own caftan off in the afternoon sun, he pulled a tightly wrapped wire from the lining. Unrolling the wire, he used it as a post and built a tiny tent with the two caftans. He then crawled within it in an effort to avoid the heat and fell into a tortuous sleep.

Two hours later, the sun having finally gone down, he arose from his den and again headed north. He kept his sights on the low hills before him, and now he walked purposefully in that direction. As darkness set in, he kept his bearing via the North Star. He reckoned he had to walk twenty miles before sunrise, or he would die.

That night he walked relentlessly, the agony of it unbearable, but he kept telling himself that he had survived worse in the war. So on and on he went, placing one step ahead of the other, one more step, one more mile, one more hour. An hour before sunrise, he began to make out the outline of the hills before him. As he had hoped, they were now no more than two miles distant. If only he could make it to them, he might yet survive. An hour later, though the sun had risen by then, he was safely within the shadow of the hills.

He sat down for a few minutes awaiting further sunlight to guide him, and then he set off in search of his marker. He found it a half hour later – a stone outcropping on the face of the hill. Lining up by it, he set off directly to the base of the hill, and once there, he began to dig precariously.

Although it took a full hour, he finally found it – the canteen he had buried there almost a year ago. Now, if it was still full, he would survive, and so it was. Over the course of the previous year he had buried six canteens at various spots in the desert, but he only needed the one. He drank the water sparingly through the day, and when night fell, he set off toward the east, arriving at the Nile on the following day.

Stumbling into the camp shortly after noon, he was met by John Bonner, who stopped dead in his tracks, stared at him as if he'd seen an apparition and blurted, "Bloody hell, Sloan! Where on earth have you been?"

"I went for a stroll," Sloan mumbled, thinking to himself how some truths are really lies.

"A stroll!" John blurted out incredulously, "Man, you've been gone for four days! That must've been one helluva walk!"

"Yeah, it was fun," Sloan, thinking to himself that some lies are really truths.

"Say," John inquired, "Did you perchance see a Bedouin, a guy with blue eyes?"

"Sure, I saw a whole tribe of them out in the desert," Sloan lied, thinking to himself that it was high time he told a lie, somehow thankful for such an opportune moment to dismiss the burden of unrelenting honesty.
Chapter 13

The Dung Ball Blooms

New Hampshire – August, 1970

**Sloan dropped his suitcase and,** leaning forward to sign the register, he announced, "Good evening. I have a reservation. Name's Stewart."

"Is this your first visit to The Orchard Inn, sir?" the concierge inquired.

"Well, yes and no," he responded, "I actually worked here one summer quite a long time ago."

"Oh, splendid," she responded, "Then you should know where room 33 is located."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," he replied.

"Excellent, Mr. Stewart. Here is your room key. Please enjoy your stay with us. Oh, and your party is planning to join you in the restaurant at eight P.M."

"Thank you," he replied and, turning to locate his room, he halted a moment to admire the quite unchanged surroundings, a myriad of distant memories flooding over him.

As instructed, he appeared at the door of the restaurant precisely at eight and, spotting the couple at a nearby table, he strode forward.

Elise arose, saying, "Daddy, so good of you to come."

"Elise, you look lovely tonight," he responded and, affording her a fatherly embrace, he added, "Robert, it's good to see you."

"And you as well, sir," Robert responded.

"To what do I owe this rather mysterious invitation, may I ask, and at The Orchard Inn, of all places?"

At this Elise volunteered, "We thought it only appropriate, given our news."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

"I'm pregnant, Daddy. We wanted to tell you in person, as well as within special surroundings."

"Oh! I say, congratulations are in order! That is indeed good news! When is the anticipated arrival?"

"Next January, the 31st, to be precise," she responded, a giddy smile spreading across her features.

"That is indeed wonderful!" he responded, and so saying, he leaned forward to award her a fatherly kiss on the forehead.

Thereafter, they shared a pleasant dinner, something they had not found time to enjoy in quite some time. And when it was time to end the evening, Sloan arose, saying, "Well, I must get my beauty sleep. I'm not the youngster I once was, you know."

At this, Elise grabbed his sleeve and, tugging him back down within his seat, she pled, "Please, Daddy, not quite yet. We have something further to impart this evening."

Suddenly intrigued, he inquired, "What? What might that be?"

"We have a small gift for you, I'm afraid," she admitted.

"A gift? What sort of gift?"

Robert now interjected, saying, "Sir, we are only too aware of the travails that you have suffered over the years, and we two agree that you are deserving of restitution."

"Just so," Elise supplemented in agreement, "Just so."

"Right, I'm all ears," Sloan responded vacantly.

"Now, I have an envelope," she commented, "Within the envelope is a message. You are not to open it until you arrive at your destination, Daddy."

He frowned and, arching one eyebrow in doubt, he observed, "I see, and what, pray tell, is my destination?" and so saying, he accepted the envelope as she thrust it forward, surveying it for a sign of familiarity.

"The lake," Robert instructed, "You must go directly down to the lake."

"I say, what sort of game is this?" Sloan blubbered quizzically.

"I assure you, Daddy, it is no game. Now do our bidding, if you please."

At this remonstrance, he remained glued to his seat, defiantly staring the pair of them down.

Affording him her most insolent scowl, she now commanded with summoned bravado, "Daddy, stand up this instant, and do as I tell you. I must insist!"

Glancing dubiously at his daughter, he arose from his seat and grumbled affably, "Right, I see that I must do your bidding, but I shall take this up with you on the morrow, young lady."

Pointing emphatically toward the exit, she exclaimed intrepidly, "Just go!" at which he strode dutifully from the room.

On arriving lakeside he tore the note open and, peering at it in the moonlight, he perceived the following:

You must go directly to the women's shower room.

Baffled by this rather terse and mysterious message, he turned uncertainly and peered about him, eventually glancing in the direction of the dock. There fifty yards distant, he made out the selfsame dock of yore, conflicting memories flooding back in a veritable torrent.

But this time it seemed the dock was not to be his destination. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed for the women's shower room. Arriving within, he observed an envelope taped to the far wall and, approaching it, he tore it open, finding the following message within:

Have a pleasant shower.

Removing his garments, he followed the instructions. Within moments a swimsuit-clad figure entered the room and, stopping short, she exclaimed matter-of-factly, "Sloan. Why am I not surprised?"

Continuing to lather himself nonchalantly, he inquired, "I say, however on earth are you, Sabrina?"

"Fine, and you?" she responded noncommittally and, surveying his sculpted physique, she volunteered, "I hear you've been on some sort of world tour. How did it go?"

"It wasn't actually a world tour, but it went just fine."

"Where did you go?"

"Mostly Egypt."

"Did you see James along the way?"

"Why do you ask?" he prevaricated.

Eyeing him doubtfully, she exclaimed, "No one seems to know where he is. I just thought you might have seen him somewhere. Have you?"

"Why ever would I see James, Sabrina?"

Staring at him in shock, she announced, "My, what has got into you, Sloan? That's the second question in a row that you've refused to answer. You used to answer any and all questions quite directly."

Eyeing her suspiciously, he rejoined, "I discovered that approach could be improved upon."

"Oh, God, I have no time for this prevarication. Just tell me what you were up to, Sloan. You did see him, didn't you?"

"Yes, if you must know, I suppose I did."

"I thought so," she replied knowingly. "That was the reason you went away, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose so," he hedged yet again.

"I see I will have to drag it from you," she posited, "So you followed him to exact revenge, right?"

"No, on the contrary, Sabrina," he responded in denial, "He in fact followed me."

"Why ever on earth for?"

"As you said – to exact revenge."

Suddenly showing interest, she inquired, "And did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Obtain revenge, you idiot!"

"Let's just say, he got his just reward," Sloan murmured thoughtfully.

"What, you mean you _killed_ him?"

"No, I did no such thing, Sabrina. You should know me better than that!"

"Is he dead then?"

"Let me put it this way – he is in the dung beetle's hell."

"What on earth does that mean? I've heard you mention the dung beetle's den, but never the dung beetle's hell."

"Right, well, one must first sire offspring in order to be afforded the inviting comfort of the dung beetle's den."

"My, that is truly enigmatic. I think I liked you better the old way," she responded in apparent confusion, "Do you suppose he will ever bother us again?"

"I promise you, Sabrina, he shall never bother us again."

"That's more like it – a direct answer!" She paused momentarily and, changing the subject, she inquired, "Why on earth are you here?"

"I might ask the same question of you!" he responded acerbically. "How exactly did you arrive here, Sabrina?"

"I was given a note by our daughter, thereby commanding me to search out the women's locker room. And so I did."

"I see," he observed, "But for what purpose have you journeyed to The Orchard Inn, Sabrina?"

"I see you've not heard," she responded pointedly.

"Heard what?"

"I own The Orchard Inn," she replied matter-of-factly.

"What! You own this entire inn? However did you manage that?"

"It was Isolde's Aunt Fiona's doing. Having no remaining living relatives, she left me her entire estate when she passed away recently. I had kept in touch with her over the years, and Fiona was well aware that I had been there for Isolde at the end."

"So you bought this place. I say...good for you, Sabrina, good for you!"

"Actually, Aunt Fiona bought it. She willed it to me."

"What! Why ever on earth for?"

"Let's just say, she seemed to understand that I had 'unresolved issues'. Frankly, I suspect that Isolde had a hand in it."

"Ah, I see...Isolde, of course...that does indeed make sense," he responded and, contemplating momentarily, he inquired, "Is it working out for you then?"

"Yes, I think so, at least, it is so far. Actually, I'm rather enjoying it, if you must know."

The two stared at one another for a moment and, having apparently dispensed with the formalities, he now asked, "So, exactly what are the pair of us doing together in the women's shower, Sabrina?"

"I should think it would be obvious - we were both commanded by our children to assemble here tonight."

Pondering momentarily, he mumbled, "Yes, of course, you are so right...those two little sneaks!"

"Perhaps," she replied evasively, "Do you suppose that they know something about the significance of this location?"

"Not a chance," he replied. "I simply told Elise years ago that I was the lifeguard at The Orchard Inn. Wait a minute...suppose for a moment, just suppose - Isolde...also gave them something before her death..."

"Such as what?" she queried.

"It matters not exactly what, the point is - the two of us are here. And now I can answer the question you asked me two years ago."

"What question is that?" she asked in confusion.

"You asked me why Isolde exposed James."

"Ah, yes, now I remember..." she murmured thoughtfully, "And as I recall, you refused to tell me why."

"Actually, I didn't refuse to tell you why. I myself wasn't certain at the time. But now I am."

At this she glared at him and exclaimed, "Well, are you going to tell me why or not?"

"She did it for us, Sabrina."

"What? You mean, so I could have my revenge?"

"No, it's not that at all..."

Still confused, she inquired, "So, what is it then?"

"She created this moment for us. She always knew that her actions that night were our undoing, and she wanted to make amends. I suspect - no, I am certain of it - James' undoing, as well as our presence within the shower at this moment, both are in fact Isolde's doing. Of course, she did so unwittingly, but she nonetheless was partially at fault for the entire mess that summer. And, having discerned as much, she must have determined to make amends. Dear Isolde, what a wonderful gift she has given us."

"Ah, I see," Sabrina murmured, awareness finally coming over her, "I hated her guts, you know. All those years, thinking that she had enticed you into an affair, when in truth, she was our fairy godmother, secretly protecting us. She must have really loved you, you pervert."

"Yes, so it seems," he replied wistfully.

"The question is – what shall we do about it?" she responded thoughtfully.

A pensive silence now engulfing the pair, she eventually spoke first, offering, "Sloan, this is where it all started, all those years ago, and perhaps it is fitting that this is where it should finally come to an end," and at this she offered, "I want to help you. I know that your dismissal from Harvard has been hard on you all these years. I have some money. Please, let me help you get back on your feet. I shan't take no for an answer."

"Thanks for the offer, Sabrina, but I'm doing just fine," he responded in apparent rejection.

Clearly hurt by his rebuff, she retorted, "But I want to help you! No, actually, I _need_ to help you. You cannot deny me this opportunity!"

"So you haven't heard the news..." he rejoined with a slight frown.

"What news?"

"Harvard has reinstated me. I am once again a full professor, and at full pay. As a result of the revelations of late, my conviction for moral turpitude has been rescinded, there being no evidence other than the now refuted charges."

"Oh, Sloan!" she responded with genuine joy, "That is quite wonderful news, but you doubtless still need help to make up for the lost revenue."

"Thank you," he replied noncommittally, "But I'm afraid I don't need your financial support."

"Why can't you simply accept my help, just this one time, you pervert?" she pouted.

"Because I really don't need it – that's why."

"Oh?" she said, a perplexed frown clouding her features, "How so?"

"Right, first of all, there is the back pay, and then there are the punitive damages awarded to me for improper dismissal."

"Oh?" she replied with interest, "How much does it amount to?"

"Almost two million," he supplied nonchalantly.

"Oh, good for you, Sloan!" she exclaimed, a smile coming over her face, "But surely they can never fully repay you for your lost dignity."

"Ah, but you see, Sabrina, I never lost that to begin with," he denied, "I always knew that I was in the right."

"Well, then, let me put it another way," she corrected herself, "Your lost reputation."

"Yes, there is that, but actually, if truth be told, I have managed to maintain that as well," he proffered.

"What? How did you manage that?"

"I'm afraid that I have become a successful author."

"An author?" she blurted in shock, "An author of what?"

"I am a novelist," he said, shrugging his shoulders in apparent culpability.

"Really," she responded doubtfully, "What exactly have you written?"

"I've written the first two novels in the Fairbourne Series. My penname is Parker Thorne."

"Oh, my, I've heard of you!" she expounded and, pausing momentarily, she added uncertainly, "My goodness, I've actually _read_ those novels!"

"I am flattered," he murmured, "I certainly hope that you enjoyed them."

"That is an understatement. I _loved_ them! Aren't they in fact bestsellers?"

"Yes, indeed they are."

"Aren't there more to come in the Fairbourne Series?" she cajoled wistfully.

"Yes, two more," he informed her pleasantly, "I am in fact working on them at the moment."

"So, you've actually been making a decent living, I take it," she responded doubtfully.

"Yes, of course."

"How many copies are you selling?"

"Perhaps two hundred thousand," he suggested matter-of-factly.

"Two hundred thousand copies to date!" she exclaimed in wide-eyed surprise, "That's not bad, Sloan, not bad."

"Well, actually, it's two hundred thousand _per year_ per novel," he corrected.

"I see," she muttered thoughtfully, "With two novels, that amounts to four hundred thousand per year!"

"Well, actually, there are a few more," he corrected yet again.

"A few more what?"

"Novels," he grunted.

"What!" she exclaimed and, realizing that he was being somewhat withholding, she inquired inanely, "Just exactly how many novels have you written?"

"Under various pen names, seventeen so far."

" _Seventeen_!" she cried incredulously, "Are all of them bestsellers then?"

"Well, er, yes, in a manner of speaking," he prevaricated yet again.

"Alright, Sloan, cut to the chase. Just tell me exactly how many books you've sold to date."

"I'm actually not quite sure..." he said uncertainly.

"Just guess!" she commanded.

"Well, let me see, seventeen times one million, perhaps a bit less. Let me see, I'd say fifteen million copies total."

"My God, Sloan!" she exclaimed in obvious exasperation, "How much is the royalty on each copy?"

"On average, I'd say about three dollars."

At this revelation she blubbered in disbelief, "My math sucks, just how much is that exactly?"

"The royalties are just over forty million dollars to date."

"Oh...my...God!" she cried, her mouth agape, "You, sir, are a mega-millionaire!"

"So it seems, Sabrina, so it seems," he responded uncomfortably and, changing the subject abruptly, he inquired, "And now, if I may be so bold – exactly why are you here with me in the middle of the night in this shower?"

She shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind and, somehow focusing on his question, she suggested surreptitiously, "Under the circumstances, it does seem the right place."

At this admission, certain that he had yet again failed to live up to her expectations, he asked in evident concern, "Circumstances? Right place? What circumstances? Is something the matter, Sabrina?"

"Yes, well, you needn't worry," she offered serenely, "It's nothing to concern yourself with."

"My, we are mysterious tonight," he responded vacuously, a furrowed brow spreading across his features.

Staring at him enigmatically, she eventually offered, "It appears that Isolde, in collusion with our children, thought that, in the light of recent developments, we should have a 'talk'."

"Why ever for?" he replied in confusion.

"I knew you'd say that!" she responded. "Let me simply say, it is time to rectify an old mistake on my part."

Still baffled, he replied, "Mistake? What sort of mistake?"

"I've never told you this, Sloan. I thought about it that night, the night before I left the inn."

"Thought about what, Sabrina?"

"I thought about coming to you later, after the shower thing. Just think about it, had I come to you then, perhaps _none_ of this would have happened. Had I come to you when I should have, our lives would have been much different, and most likely for the better."

"I say, you may be right!" he responded, realization coming over him, "But it's all water under the bridge, as they say. So what exactly is your point?"

"So now, it seems I have been offered a second chance," she proffered, an impish grin appearing on her face, "And I shall not fail you this time!"

"Fail me?" he replied vacuously, "How so?"

"You know, you pervert," she commanded imperiously, "Get over here this second, so I can tie your ass up!"

His concern mounting rapidly, he nonetheless followed her instructions, shortly finding himself bound ingloriously to the shower head. "Well, this is certainly embarrassing," he mumbled disconsolately.

"Just so," she responded disdainfully, "As only I could know."

"Forgive me for being so blunt, Sabrina, but what has got into you?"

Eyeing him obliquely she, apparently drawing out the moment for some unknown reason, eventually mumbled, "I suppose there's no getting round it."

"Getting round what?" he responded blankly.

"The truth," she replied, "The truth, you pervert."

At this thoroughly unexpected retort, he frowned and, glancing at her, he responded inanely, "The truth shall set you free, or so they say."

"I doubt that very seriously," she replied curtly, "But nonetheless, I'm afraid that there are things that must be said."

Still uncertain as to her intent, he could only nod his assent.

Determination suddenly apparent upon her features, she proffered, "Thanks so much for allowing me this moment of superiority. I confess that I quite needed it in order to find the nerve..."

"Nerve? Nerve for what, Sabrina?"

Emitting an audible sigh, she at length found her resolve, announcing, "Dear Sloan, I'm afraid I've been quite in error."

"What?" he blurted, "Whatever about?"

"About everything, I'm afraid."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"Shut up! Just bear with me, as this is all quite difficult for me. Let me see here, where shall I begin?" And at this, she pursed her lips and, staring into space, she appeared to gather her thoughts. "So, I'm afraid I must dredge up that summer yet again. You see, I've avoided it for far too long...you hurt me badly, you know..."

Sensing that this was not the time for reprisals, he murmured softly, "I know, and I am so sorry for it."

"Thank you, Sloan. I believe that's the first time you've ever expressed regret to me over your actions that night," and, smiling ever so slightly, she now added, "I have only begun within the past two years to understand your full intent on that night long ago. You see, I've spent well more than half my life under the firm conviction that your intentions that night were entirely sordid and deceitful. It was only recently that Isolde's revelations began forcing me to reevaluate my estimation of your seemingly reprehensible actions."

"I see," he responded, although he really didn't.

"At long last, I can say this to you, Sloan – the horrid reprisal that you forced upon me that night did me a world of good. It did in fact teach me an important lesson. And for that I am most thankful to you. Had it not done so, I would most assuredly not be here at this very moment, explaining myself to you. But, despite the fact that I considered your actions deceitful, I was at the same time forced to face my own abhorrent actions, and I am confident in saying this – I am much the better person for it."

"My goodness, I don't know what to say, Sabrina," he responded carefully.

"Yes, well, there is more," she murmured and, gathering herself yet again, she plunged onward, "You see, my mistaken image of you, one which was born that very summer, carried me forward for years to come, and each time that you came to me with one of your seemingly hair-brained explanations for your problems, I immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion."

"I know that. You thought I was lying. All those years, you were convinced that I was dishonest."

"Yes, precisely, and in so doing, I maligned you quite despicably."

"Yes, I am aware of that, but in truth, the blame is partly mine. After all, I am the one who by his own actions led you to a thoroughly incorrect opinion of me."

"Two years ago I would have agreed with that assessment but, standing here tonight, knowing what I now know, I beg to disagree. The fault is neither mine nor yours. In all honesty, we have both been duped by a heinous creature, one who slinked about behind our backs, perpetrating actions time and again that were designed to bring about our mutual destruction."

"Ah, so I gather that you have read Isolde's exposé _._ "

"Yes, and I am so ashamed, Sloan. I had no idea...you were never at fault, not a single time. In all those years, when you kept claiming to me that it was none of your doing, you were ever truthful with me, whereas I failed you, each and every time. I am so sorry - I failed you ever so badly. You were my husband and, being your faithful wife, I should have listened and provided support. Instead, I fell into his carefully laid trap, becoming, next to him of course, your worst enemy."

"Yes, well..." was all he could think to utter.

Continuing, she announced earnestly, "But you on the other hand, you never stopped, you never gave up. You somehow maintained your adoration for me, despite my rather callous treatment of you. I must tell you, I admire you so much for that."

"Thank you," he responded, sensing that any further response might break her train of thought.

She halted momentarily, then murmured apprehensively, "There is one incident that wasn't covered in Isolde's exposé."

"Oh? What might that be?"

"The camping trip, when you all went skinny-dipping in the lake that night."

"Right, what about it?"

"What was James' part in that?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," he responded in confusion.

"So it was your idea to go swimming naked!" she confirmed accusingly.

"Of course it was," he confessed, "You already knew that, Sabrina."

"So you _are_ a pervert!" she exclaimed.

Smirking at her momentarily, he explained, "I ask you, a naïve twenty year old man, head over heels in love with a gorgeous young woman, gets drunk and, in a poorly conceived ploy, attempts to coax her into swimming naked on a moonlit night, is that perversion? If so, then count me a pervert!"

"What!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"What what?" he in turn exclaimed in confusion.

"You were in love with me?"

"Of course I was in love with you. I was always in love with you. From the very first moment I saw you, I was in love with you."

Eyeing him anxiously, she subsequently inquired fearfully, "Is there no present tense then?"

"What? What are you talking about - verb tenses?"

"Yes," she replied definitively.

He peering pensively at her and, his eyes suddenly lighting up in comprehension, he responded matter-of-factly, "The present tense applies as well."

A sheepish grin coming over her face, she queried astutely, "Oh? That being the case, exactly how might one use the present tense?"

All too aware that she was the type that demanded things to be spelled out, he responded with a sheepish grin of his own, "Dear Sabrina, I have loved you my whole life. I never stopped loving you. Indeed, I confess that I love you at this very moment more so than I've ever loved you in my entire life."

At his quite exquisite deployment of the requested verbage, she giggled blithely, saying, "You always were the one to answer honestly, but that response takes the cake!" Slowly, her mood changing noticeably, she inquired penitently, "My dear Sloan, can you ever forgive me?"

Contemplating a moment, he said, "I shall forgive you only if one condition is met. What say you, will you consider my condition?"

"Yes, of course," she responded.

"Alright then, here is my condition – you shall never _ever_ call me pervert again. What say you to this condition?"

A tiny smirk now appearing on her face, she rejoined, "Certainly, you dear pervert, I promise, I shall never ever call you pervert again."

"Excellent, at least I think. Second condition, and this one is quite simple, you shall immediately consent to marry me once again, and you shall promise to spend the remainder of your natural life as my lawfully wedded wife."

Her visage suddenly turning solemn, she retorted, "You go too far, Sloan. Besides, that is two conditions! I must have time to consider such stringent requirements."

"How long do you need?"

"That depends on a condition that I'm afraid I must in turn require of you."

Sensing his supposed advantage slipping away, he responded, "Oh, and what might that be?"

"Well, in all fairness, it is also two conditions."

"Whatever. Please continue, Sabrina."

"Certainly. Condition number one," she exclaimed, "You must promise to revert to your old self, answering any and all questions directly."

"Well, I don't know..." he responded with feigned acrimony.

"Shut up," she interjected brusquely, "Promise me!"

"Alright, I promise, but only for you. I reserve the right to prevaricate to others when necessary."

"Excellent. Condition number two, you must agree to enact the infamous shower penance upon me whenever I falter, so as to always keep me upon my toes, wanting, needing, indeed – loving you desperately, as I do at this very moment - for the remainder of our lives."

At this, an impish grin coming over his face, he tugged his hands effortlessly free from the shower head, bounded towards her and, sweeping her into his arms, he whispered, "I consent, you naughty girl."

"As do I, you nasty boy."
**Epilogu** **e**

As I mentioned at the outset of my story, I had little idea what my father meant when he pointed out the dung beetle's den to me in the Egyptian desert all those years ago. However, by now it should be apparent to you, my children.

The dung beetle lives a quite unremarkable life, subsisting uniquely on the dung of others for the purposes of proliferating his offspring. In point of fact, he lives his entire life, surrounded by the very dung of the world, with little ambition for himself, his reward being nothing more than the success of his children. And this is why the Egyptians considered the dung beetle a god. I, a dung beetle, have lived my life within the dung beetle's den.

Upon returning to the law office of Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, you shall forthwith be presented with my original will, one could even say, my 'dung ball'. It may surprise you to know that you and my daughter, your lovely wife, are the sole beneficiaries of that dung ball. It may also surprise you to know that the dung ball in question has grown quite large.

My charge to you, my children, is to employ that dung ball to make the world a better place. How you accomplish that is your affair, but know this - your success is my reward, and for that I thank you, for you have indeed made me a god. And should you succeed in creating your own dung ball, I assure you that you, too, shall someday become beetle gods.

***~~~***
About the Author

**D. Allen Henry** is a freelance writer who is also the author of _Hawk Banks_ , _Those Who Fought for Us_ , _Of War and Women_ , _Enlisting Redemption, Finding Patience, Merging Destiny_ and _Galileo's Lost Message_. The author welcomes comments regarding any of his novels. His website is located at <http://dayhahaha.wix.com/dallenhenry>, and his Facebook address is <https://www.facebook.com/dallen.henry> . You may provide feedback to the following e-mail address: dallenhenry@hotmail.com. If you enjoyed _My Father the God_ , please be so kind as to provide a review of it on the website from which you acquired this book.
Novels by

D. Allen Henry

**Hawk Banks** **– Founding Texas** (revised edition) – © 2014

Pairing up with Texas frontiersman Hank MacElrae, the inimitable Bostonian Hawk Banks sets off in quest of adventure on the Plains of Texas. A distinctly incompatible pair, the two manage to make their unlikely friendship work and, enduring all manner of unlikely events, they succeed in finding their way into the heart of Texas, becoming founding fathers of a new nation.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/448831

The Sutherland Saga

**Part I: Those Who Fought for Us** – © 2015

On the eve of World War I, Elizabeth Turnberry and her friend Margaret MacCreedy meet fellow students Robert Sutherland and Alastair Stewart in a pub in Edinburgh. And, although the future seems bright, the outbreak of war in the summer of 1914 will destroy all their hopes and dreams. Is there hope at all for those who fought for us?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/535009

**Part II: Of War and Women** – © 2015

On the eve of the Battle of Britain a farewell party is held for the 93rd Squadron at Wharton Manor, and though World War II will subsequently intervene, events of that night will echo down through history, changing the lives of those present forever. Unfairly maligned, one woman will persevere, but for all her accomplishments, will Felicité succeed?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/536530

**Part III: Enlisting Redemption** – © 2015

When twenty-one year old college student Trevor Sutherland enlists Rebecca Carey in a birthday party performance, it leads to a heinous crime. Her subsequent disappearance will ultimately send Trevor on a decade long quest for redemption, one fraught with intrigue, deception, and ultimately murder.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/540538

**Part IV: Finding Patience** – © 2015

When Patience Walker is kidnapped on a cold winter's night, her life is changed forever. Having met her on that very day, Brandt MacCauley takes on the challenge of finding her. Spanning fifteen years, his quest will not only change both of their lives, it will ultimately alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/543390

**Part V: My Father the God** – © 2015 (sequel to Those Who Fought for Us)

Having completed his first year at Harvard University, Scotsman Sloan Stewart begins the summer of 1941 working at The Orchard Inn with his friends James, Isolde and Sabrina. But entanglements inevitably lead to a shocking event, one that will transform each of them irrevocably through war, peace, and ultimately, the remainder of their lives. Can they ever surmount the errors of their youth?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/538259

**Part VI: Merging Destiny** \- © 2016

When Elspeth Moorehead's parents are killed in the Lockerbie bombing, Elspeth vows that she will someday avenge their horrendous murder. Her promise evolves into the quest of a lifetime, carrying her across continents and cultures, in the process subjecting her to numerous perilous obstacles. But, being a woman borne of exceptional intelligence and willpower, Elspeth may just be up to the challenge. Spanning a quarter of a century, her exploits will not only subject her to hurdles she could never have dreamed of, they will change the world.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/685934

**Galileo's Lost Message -** © 2016

An intricate mystery for those interested in the history of science. When Contessa Antonietta Floridiana telephones Professor Paul Woodbridge, she asks, "Suppose Galileo wrote a secret encoded message at the end of his life. Would the professor perhaps be able to decode it?" The quest for the solution to Galileo's Lost Message will lead the pair on a search that will alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/624146
Sneak Peek

Merging Destiny

By

D. Allen Henry

Prologue

**They were quite good parents, really they were** , despite the horrendous secret they kept from me. My mother was inclined to scold me perhaps a bit too much, but I'm sure her intentions were well-founded. You see, she felt a deep-seated need to be better than even she could be and, as I now know, it was all because of the secret she was forced to harbor from me. Eventually it all was bound to unravel, as indeed it did, but I suppose that she pushed it away into the recesses of her consciousness in a desperate attempt to make out that it wasn't reality. And, although I thought rather unkindly of the both of them when it all came out, in truth it wasn't really their fault at all. So there it is and has remained all these years, and when you have been apprised of all the facts, you shall understand why it lay at the heart of all that subsequently transpired.

In reading back over what I've just written, I suddenly realize that it all must sound rather mysterious, and the truth is - I suppose it actually is - or at least - it was to me. So perhaps I should explain how it all came to pass. But please don't ask me if it has a happy ending because, you see, I've no idea for the simple reason that it hasn't yet come to an end. Alas, perhaps the best approach would be for me to simply start from the beginning and somehow muddle through the telling of it. Tis complicated, you know, but I shall do my best to keep it as simple and straightforward as possible.

Alas, where to begin...in the interest of brevity I shall dispense with all the details regarding the family roots, as they are after all a matter of public record. Suffice it to say that somewhere back a few hundred years ago we Stewarts were Scottish royalty, which isn't saying much since the Scots were at that time a quite poor and oppressed lot. My forebears matriculated to the United States, and in due course I was born in Boston in 1973. My father was an academic, and with the advent of worldwide commercial aviation, his international acclaim sent him to far-flung destinations across the globe. I was on quite a few occasions the lucky beneficiary of his renown, meaning that my parents took me along with them on their travels.

There were in fact quite enough sojourns that by the age of ten I was a seasoned world traveler. And it was on one of our trips that very year that my mother took me on a day trip that, although I didn't know it at the time, was to set the stage for the details I am about to reveal to you. You see, my father was invited to give a speech at a conference in Paris. And while the conference was underway, my mom and I were the fortunate beneficiaries of an unfettered access to the entire city. Thus it was that one languid afternoon she took me to the Eiffel Tower. We grabbed a couple of hotdogs, picnicked on the Champ de Mars and, as we gazed idly at the enormous tower before us, she held up one hand and traced an imaginary arc along one leg of the structure.

"See the arc that it makes?" she suggested.

Observing her motion, I blabbed in baffled confusion, "Yes, but what is the point in that?"

She smiled and responded sagely, "It's a bit like life, I suppose - it all eventually comes to a single converging point."

Peering at the enormous panorama before me, I suddenly realized what she meant – there were four separate structures, each on its own gigantic pillar, and somehow Monsieur Gustav Eiffel had made them come together in a single majestic colonnade at the pinnacle of the tower. "My goodness, I've never thought of it that way," I blurted vacuously, "Why do you suppose it was built that way, Mom?"

"According to Monsieur Eiffel," she replied perceptively, "It had to do with the Earth's gravity."

"Wow!" I exclaimed, "That's amazing! It all came together in such a fantastically harmonious way!"

"Yes, didn't it," she agreed, "It's sort of like our family."

"Huh?" I uttered, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing dear," she continued, "It's just that, it seems to be multiple structures at the base, but in reality, they all come together in a single interconnected structure, a single _connected_ tower with common roots. They are in truth _exactly like the roots of our own family tree._ "

"Yeah, I see what you mean," I responded, but I really didn't. Still, for some reason that day - and that conversation in particular - remained tucked away in the dark recesses of my subconscious, awaiting just the right stimulus to re-emerge half a lifetime later.

So now, having described my preamble to its completion, I hope that I have sufficiently stimulated your interest for the story that follows – the story of my discovery of my own destiny, or in point of fact - of _Merging Destiny_.
Chapter 1

Agony Sets the Stage

The Egyptian Desert – June, 1970

**The sun scorched the parched terrain** , beating relentlessly down from its seemingly motionless station high above the desert. As far as the eye could see, not a single identifiable feature sprang from the tormented wasteland. Here and there the sand dunes, blown about by the sporadic desert winds, formed into randomly shaped mounds, some small, others enormous in both breadth and stature.

Along the crest of the most prominent knoll two human forms came into focus, their prone figures unfathomable in the stifling heat of late afternoon. From the peak of the ridge Mustaffa peered at the seemingly inert tiny speck in the distance, heat waves dancing implacably before his field of view.

Gazing patiently at the object for quite some time, his traveling companion at length murmured in Arabic beneath his kaftan, "Do you think he's still alive?"

His attention remaining intent on the distant object, Mustaffa responded distractedly, "Not sure..."

"Maybe we should leave him," his companion retorted, "After all, he already paid us."

"No, Eissa, we must go see if he is still alive."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing – although it's doubtful \- he may have more money. For another - if by some chance he is indeed still alive - he may actually be of further use to us."

"Oh? In what way?" Eissa responded, "If he has no money, he is surely of no use whatsoever."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. But if he somehow survives, we can at the very least sell him as a slave."

"Oh, right – I see your point. Then we may as well go check him out," and with that the pair arose and carefully made their way down the shifting embankment.

Minutes later they came up beside the naked man lying face down and motionless. But to their surprise, he suddenly rolled over and gazed bleakly upwards at them.

Whereas Eissa lurched backwards in astonishment, Mustaffa strode alongside his prone body and announced nonchalantly, "I can't believe you're still alive, after all that son-of-a-bitch put you through."

"Water!" the sun-scorched body before him gasped, and then, "Please, water!"

Mustaffa reached within his kaftan and produced a goat skin. Leaning forward with it in his outstretched hand, he suggested, "Here, but go slow, you're in really bad shape."

The man raised himself to a sitting position with supreme effort and, reaching for the flagon, he took a long drag from within. He then drew his hand to his face and, glancing about in confusion, he inquired, "Where did he go? We have to go after him!"

"Not so fast," Mustaffa responded. "Why did he leave, and how did you get him to leave you, anyway?"

"I slowed my breathing way down. I had to, I was done in, and he was still going strong. I figured if I could get him to think I was dead, he'd wander off so that the two of you could save me – in accordance with my backup plan. So now we go after him and kill him!"

"I don't think so," Mustaffa announced dryly.

"What! I paid you, you bastard. You must live up to the bargain!"

"What bargain? We agreed only to follow you and save you if you didn't outlast him. And here we are. Having saved your worthless life, we've most assuredly met our part of the bargain."

"Damn!" the prone man murmured in distraught acceptance, "Alright then, I'll pay you more to go after him with me."

"With what, anyone can see you have nothing of value."

Attempting to stand up, he mumbled in denial, "I have more! Lots more...I swear it!"

"Where?" Mustaffa blurted disinterestedly.

"In the bank, in Switzerland!"

"Switzerland!" Mustaffa exclaimed in disgust, "Lot of good that will do you out here in the desert. Besides, we're not interested in killing people, even way out here in the middle of nowhere."

Tumbling back down upon his back, the prone man grimaced and asked in tortured misery, "Well then, what?"

"We'll wait until dark, and then we're going to Libya."

"Libya!" he complained, "We'll never make it that far!"

"Oh, yes we will," Mustaffa observed serenely, "Because there is an oasis with camels not ten miles west of here. So rest up, my friend, because you're going with us to Libya."

Boston, Massachusetts – December 22, 1988

**For Elspeth it was a day like any other at Christmas** time, the approaching winter a harbinger of that time of year when thoughts turned inward, when physical activity tends to be replaced by mental creativity, at least until the chill wears off in the springtime. Elspeth wished she could have been with her parents on the trip to Munich, but on this occasion she'd had to stay behind, the importance of her schoolwork taking precedence.

At fifteen, she was well into that stressful phase of life when puberty has already intruded, and the threat of college lies but a scant few years in the future. On this particular day Elspeth was up early, hurriedly preparing for school.

"Elspeth, are you up?" she heard a voice call from downstairs.

"Yes, Gran," she called in return, "I'm almost ready. I'll be down in a minute."

Moments later she bounded into the kitchen, her bright red tresses bouncily betraying her bubbly demeanor.

"My, don't we look gorgeous today," her grandmother observed from her station at the stove. "I swear, you're going to break a lot of hearts someday, Elspeth."

Blushing in embarrassment, Elspeth replied pleasantly, "I certainly hope so, Gran, but not yet. I'm really not ready for that, you know."

"Right, all in good time, my dear. At this moment, the important issue is breakfast. How about a couple of eggs and some toast, my dear?"

"Sounds scrumptious!"

"Alright, have a seat, El. I'll be done in a minute..." but at that moment the telephone rang.

Grabbing the receiver from the wall, Gran blurted, "Hello?"

Although Elspeth discerned a voice on the other end, she couldn't quite make out the gist of the conversation. But what she could observe was a perplexing look on Gran's face as, responding to the initial intrusion, she replied, "Why yes, I'm her mother. They're on travel, in Europe. So I'm afraid she's not here at the moment."

Then, the mystifying look fading from her grandmother's face, Elspeth watched as it changed first to confusion, then what could only be described as denial, and then she suddenly spat into the phone, "But that's impossible, they're not in Frankfurt. They're in Munich!"

And then the voice responded with more unintelligible gibberish, followed by Gran's anguished retort, "You're sure? Are you absolutely certain?" And then, before her eyes, Elspeth watched her sink slowly to the floor, an anguished cry escaping her lips as she did so.

Rushing to her side, Elspeth cried in confusion, "What is it, Gran? What's happened?"

"Oh, God, hold me, Elspeth...hold me," and reaching for Elspeth as she lunged to her side, she muttered, "Oh, God, Elspeth, they're gone!"

"What? Who's gone, Gran?"

"Your parents, El, they've been killed in a plane crash! Oh, my God, they're dead!"

And as she heard the words crushing the spirit from her, Elspeth realized that her world would never be the same.

Boston - May, 1989

**Elspeth had somehow survived the preceding months** \- indeed the entire winter – but it had been unending misery. Ever since that fateful day, the day of the Lockerbie bombing, her life had been like a nightmare from which she couldn't seem to awaken. At first it had seemed that her parents had perished in an accidental crash of Pan Am flight 103 over the small Scottish town of Lockerbie in route from Frankurt to New York. But within days it had become apparent from the wreckage scattered over a fifty-mile area that the aircraft had been brought down by a bomb aboard the plane.

This revelation had been followed shortly thereafter by accusations from Washington that the plane had been bombed by terrorists, perhaps from Iraq or Iran, where a long war had recently come to an end. Still later, Libya had been accused of taking part in the bombing. And throughout the entire nightmare, no identifiable piece of Elspeth's parents' remains had ever been found. They had simply been blown to bits by the bomb that had torn through the aircraft, two of the passengers that had never even been identified.

The resulting funeral service had been extremely dismaying, with Elspeth's grandmother Sabrina beyond despair throughout the terrible ordeal. Being herself entirely new to such events, Elspeth had only managed to survive by convincing herself that it was all somehow nothing more than a horrid movie, a fictional account of the life of someone other than herself.

But eventually, Elspeth had begun to allow herself to face reality, a somber awakening that she would never again have the pleasure of her father's warm and encasing embrace – the memory of that uniquely reassuring scent of Robert Moorehead already slowly disappearing from her consciousness. And the stern look from her mother whenever she had done wrong – oh how she would have loved to see that frown just one more time. It was all too much for a girl of fifteen. Alas, time became her only ally. And with the passage of time, she became ever more introverted, social distance her sole weapon against the recurrence of such a numbing event ever again encroaching on her existence.

Elspeth eventually promised herself that she would survive, somehow she would put it all behind her in time, but she vowed also to in some way grow, perhaps even contribute, to a world in which such unimaginable events could occur. And in her darkest moments she pledged to herself that she would somehow, someday, gain retribution on behalf of her now deceased parents.

Edinburgh, Scotland - January, 1991

**Connor bounded into the parlor of the tiny apartment** in his inimitable way, always carefree, never at a loss for effervescence, in the process barging directly into his unwary mother.

"Connor!" she erupted, "Sure noow that's noo way ta be carryin' aboot fer a lad of nineteen. The time has coom fer yoo ta be actin' yer age!"

"Och, aye, ma, boot it sech a brammer day fer winter, ya kin."

"I dinna kin lad, boot Ah've some news fer ya. Soo be settin' yerself doon and listen tae yer ma noow."

"Och, awl reet," and with that Connor flopped into a chair at the kitchen table.

Her face now beaming with pride, she tousled his hair in that way she adored so much and announced, "The news has coom taday, Connor, my son – ye've been admitted tae Harvard University in Boston, Massachusetts of the United States of America. Soo coom September, ye'll be oof tae Boston, I reckon!"

"Och, whit's this pish, ma! Ah've true ben admitted tae sech a fine school as Harvard?"

"Connor, me boy, ye've made the Stuart clan moost prood, fer tis all true tae me word, every bit ay it!"

"Stoatin'!" he exclaimed, and with that he burst from his chair and grabbed his mother in a mighty hug, their shared embrace evolving quite naturally into a gaudy reel of no design whatsoever.

Cairo, Egypt – February, 1991

**Anna was, as usual, studying for an exam** , her uncannily pale blue eyes affixed to the textbook, when her mother opened the door to her bedroom. Glancing up from her work in irritation, Anna murmured distractedly in Arabic, "What is it, mother? I'm studying."

"I know, Anna, but this is important."

"Yes, mother," she responded impatiently as she placed her pencil on the desk, "What is it?"

"Your uncle Alexander – you know, the one I told you about – it seems that he has offered to pay for your college education."

"What! Really? That's wonderful!" Anna stammered in disbelief.

"Yes, well, there is a catch," her mother responded.

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"It seems he wants you to go to the United States for your studies," her mother responded in apparent dismay.

"Wow! That would be awesome!" Anna rejoined excitedly, "Where exactly does he want me to go?"

"To a place called Harvard University. I believe it is in Boston."

"Really! I know all about Harvard, mother. Tis one of the most famous universities in the whole world! But isn't it terribly expensive?"

"I've no idea, Anna, but your uncle insists. And as we are poor, and there are no other options, I am quite certain we have little choice in the matter."

"Choice? Choice! Are you kidding me? I'm ready to go this very minute! But first I have to apply and be admitted."

"Yes, well, it seems that he has already done that for you. And not only have you been admitted, he has already secured your student visa. So it appears that, barring some unforeseen circumstance, you shall be off to America in the fall, my dear."

"Wow!" Anna squealed in obvious delight but, observing her mother's reaction, she offered, "I'm sorry, mother. I know this will be hard on you, but I shall be back home with you before you know it."

Harvard University Campus - September, 1991

**Elspeth lounged on the outdoor bench** , indifferently taking in the pandemonium erupting across the expansive quadrangle. Everywhere she glanced students were racing about, anxiety already apparent in every face, this despite the fact that classes had not yet even begun. If truth be told she too felt it, but after what she had suffered over the preceding three years, little was sufficiently terrifying to faze her in the slightest.

Fortunately for her, her grandmother had been a rock, somehow keeping her grounded through it all. How anyone could survive the death of one's own issue, Elspeth hoped she would never have to know, but somehow Sabrina had accomplished it. And in the process she had done a masterful job of preparing Elspeth for college.

As Elspeth idly contemplated the absurdity of it all, a shadow passed within her field of view, and somewhat obtrusively, an all too handsome male student plunked himself down at the far end of the bench whereupon she herself was perched. Casting a furtive glance his way, she made it clear that she didn't appreciate his intrusion within her personal space.

At length, ignoring the stony stare cast his way, her dastardly intruder draped his arms over the back of the bench, languidly crossed his outstretched legs, and observed sunnily to no one in particular, "Reminds me of sheep, going to the slaughter..."

Startled to detect a foreign accent emanating from her interloper's lips, she suddenly felt an incongruous pang of interest and, glancing in his direction with a nevertheless stony demeanor, she inquired dully, "My, my...do I detect an English accent?"

"Indeed you do, but in truth tis Scottish, Miss, er..."

Eyeing him with an intentionally distant glance, Elspeth murmured suspiciously, "Moorehead, Elspeth Moorehead. And who might you be?"

"Name's Connor, Connor Stuart," he grinned, and there it was again, that irritatingly unflappable sunny disposition.

Her annoyance growing even more apparent, she spluttered, "Oh, good grief! You're a Stewart, too? My grandfather was a Stewart!"

"That I am, Miss Elspeth, but tis sure we're not related, for you'd most likely have eyes of blue like mine. And besides, mine's spelled S-T-U-A-R-T. I'll wager a spot of haggis your family spells it differently."

Glancing away in feigned disinterest, she snarled, "Right you are, and that is indeed reassuring, since I intend to have nothing whatsoever to do with you, sir."

Now grinning effusively at his mysterious but as yet indeterminate effect on her, he cajoled, "Oh, come now, Miss Moorehead – sittin' here all alone - I'll wager you're new to campus just as am I. And if so, I'll be wagerin' still more you're in need of a friend, just as am I."

Turning to face him directly at this entirely unanticipated line of attack, she found herself caught off guard, prompting her to inquire with newfound interest, "Perhaps so, but what gives you the right to invade my privacy, Mr. Connor Stuart?"

Apparently buoyed by her change of demeanor, he shrugged his shoulders and responded indifferently, "Tis a free country. I can sit where I please."

Irritation welling up due to his sudden coolness, she glanced askance and murmured under her breath to herself, "Well, there's plenty of empty benches about, so why don't you take yourself away from here and choose one of them?"

Having somehow overheard her, he suggested, "Well, there's an idea but, truth be told, not a single one of them has the likes of a brammer lass such as you seated oon them," and this time he awarded her with an absolutely stunning smile.

At this rather presumptive announcement she turned full towards him and gazed quizzically for a moment, then opined, "I assure you, Mr. Stuart, you shall find nothing of interest _oon_ this bench."

At her use of the Scottish term _oon_ he burst into infectious laughter and offered, "Noow, why doon't ye let me be joodge o' thit, Miss ooh tae brammer Elspeth Moorehead. After all, there moost be more'n two hoondred students within mae field of view, and yoo're the oonly one seated quietly, and seemingly doin' naethin' more'n observing the erupting calamity before the two ay oos."

At this rather pugnacious and nearly unintelligible rejoinder her defenses suddenly gave way completely, prompting Elspeth to both giggle and simultaneously parry ineffectually, "My, my...you really are a Scot, aren't you? And where did that Scottish brogue suddenly erupt from, if I may ask?"

"I dinna kin," he retorted gleefully, "Och, weel, in truth it saemed the thing tae doo, if ye get mae meanin', lass," and then changing back to normality, he revealed, "I only speak the brogue at home with my ma. I was just funnin' you. In truth, I believe we two may have the makings of a sort of friendship betwixt us."

At this Elspeth actually grinned, and for the first time in months she suddenly felt a sense of elation. Eyeing this strange but nonetheless pleasing black-as-night maned and pale blue-eyed young man before her, she made a split-second decision, murmuring, "Promise not to fun me again, Mister Connor Stuart, and perhaps I shall ponder upon the possibility of becoming your friend."

His smile growing impossibly infectious at her entirely unanticipated offer, he blurted, "Why, Ay'll do noo sech thing, fer Ay'll wager Ah've already captoored yer friendship, and were Ay tae stoop funnin' ye, the faery tael would caertain coom tae a noon tae happy and quite abroopt endin!"

By now giggling uncontrollably at his somehow endearing demolition of the English language, she responded, "Tell you what, you crazy Scot - meet me at Nob Hill Coffee Shop tomorrow at three, at which time we shall discuss the necessary terms."

"Terms? What terms?"

"The terms necessary for you to be rewarded with my friendship, _ay coorse_ ," she blabbed, and with that she arose, turned to leave, and over her shoulder she rewarded him with a positively heart-stopping smile.

Her glance crushing him speechless for a moment, on regaining his senses he could only find the strength to croak to her retreating figure, "Ye kin coont oon it, Miss brammer Elspeth Moorehead!"

Later That Same Day

**Connor bounded into the apartment building** , his mood buoyed by such an impressive encounter with the inimitable Miss Elspeth Moorehead on only his second day in Boston. Halting at the mail drop, he checked to see if there were any messages for him.

Seeing that there were none, he turned about to depart, and as he did so, he nearly tripped over a young man who had come up behind him, a tall and handsome one at that, and one distinguished by his olive-toned skin.

"Oh, sorry," Connor blurted, "I was distracted. Didn't mean to plow into you like that," and as the offended party turned to face him he was struck by the nearly identical look of those eyes to his own pale blue eyes.

A grin erupting across his face, the young man responded politely, "Oh, no harm done. Everyone seems to be in an extraordinary rush today, thus you are indeed not the first to inadvertently intersect my path, sir."

Impressed by his proper use of English, Connor replied, "Thanks. I say, you're not from the United States, I'll wager."

"Actually, no, I'm not," the young man responded affably, "In truth, I am from Egypt. I've just arrived in Boston this very day."

Eyes wide in surprise, Connor shot back, "What? You mean all the way from Egypt?"

"Correct," the man replied pleasantly, "Tis all quite new to me, I'm afraid."

"I understand," Connor responded, "I myself arrived only yesterday – from Scotland."

"Really! Then you are perhaps as disoriented as am I," and with that, he pushed his open hand forward and offered, "I am Farhan Rahman, from Asyut."

Taking the outstretched hand in his own, Connor replied, "Connor Stuart, from Edinburgh. Pleased to meet you, Farhan. Do you also live in this apartment building?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I have been assigned to apartment 312."

"Excellent! I'm right down the hall from you, in 306. And what, if I may ask, are you studying?"

"My course of study is chemistry," Farhan responded.

"Wow! Too tough for me," Connor replied, "I'm just hoping to survive political science."

"I should think that chemistry is quite simple compared to the vagaries of politics," Farhan shot back with an impish grin.

A giggle escaping his lips, Connor posited, "Well, perhaps, but you nonetheless have my admiration."

At this, Farhan offered, "Say, what about a cup of coffee? We seem to have a bit of time on our collective hands, and who knows when that will happen again once classes start."

"What an excellent idea!" Connor responded, and off the pair went in search of a cup of Joe.

Once ensconced in the student center coffee shop, the pair struck up their conversation anew, Connor inquiring, "So, how long have you been here, Farhan? Have you met anyone yet?"

"I've been here a couple of days, and yes, as a matter of fact I have met someone already. Her name is Anna Morton."

"Oh, and what pray tell is she like?"

"Actually, she's quite lovely. We met on the plane, on the way over from Egypt."

At this Connor arched one eyebrow in surprise and queried, "What? You mean she's Egyptian? Isn't that a rather unusual name for a person from the Middle East?"

"Yes, you are quite correct, but as it turns out, she is half English. Her father's family name is Morton, but she has never been to England, having been raised entirely within Cairo."

"Ah, I see, and you say she's quite lovely?"

"Well, she most certainly is to me," Farhan observed, "But mind you, she was dressed in a traditional burka on the plane, so my initial impression is subject to more detailed observation."

"What, you mean she was in one of those encasing black body sheets?" Connor blurted inappropriately.

At this Farhan arched one eyebrow, shook his head, and responded, "Well, that perhaps provides a rather crude description of a burka, sir, but it is in fact considered the proper attire for a Muslim woman."

"I apologize," Connor responded diffidently, "I meant no disrespect. Tis just that, I've actually never even seen a woman in a burka. Such things are indeed rare where I come from."

"I see," Farhan responded, "Well, no harm done, I'm quite sure. However, I did have a moment to converse with her on arrival at the airport. She was of course friendly due to our common nationality, and she informed me that she intends to forego the burka in the United States, although she will continue to wear a hijab."

"Huh? What the heck is a hijab?" Connor blurted in obvious confusion.

"It is a traditional scarf worn by Muslim women, worn wrapped about the head and draping down so as to cover the hair and neck," Farhan responded matter-of-factly.

"I see," Connor murmured to himself, and then, his eyes lighting up, he inquired, "So can we say that there is a good deal more to be revealed when next the pair of you meet?"

"Precisely," Farhan responded with a wink of the eye, thenceforth adding his own query, "And you, have you met anyone yet?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I have," Connor observed pleasantly, "Her name is Elspeth, Elspeth Moorehead, and she is quite lovely if I do say so myself."

At this, Farhan seemed to suck in his breath in surprise and, arching one eyebrow, he inquired pointedly, "Interesting. And is she as appealing as is the sparkle in your eye when you say her name?"

"Yes, well actually – no."

"How so?" Farhan interrogated.

"Well, she is quite lovely in appearance, but there is a bit of a barrier there, I'm afraid."

"What makes you say that?"

"I should think that she is quite introverted for some unknown reason," Connor observed thoughtfully, but then, his demeanor brightening noticeably, he added, "But leave it to me, I shall break down her defenses. She is of Scottish descent, after all."

"Oh, how do you know that?"

"She has bright red hair, and her eyes are green. Those are the indelible marks of a Scot. I simply couldn't pass her by when I spotted her sitting on that campus bench."

"Ah, I see," Farhan responded and, suddenly changing the subject he inquired, "So I take it you already noticed that we two share the same blue eyes?"

"Yes, in fact I did. Tis quite unusual, being a recessive trait, but there it is nonetheless."

Now changing the subject yet again, Farhan suggested, "Sooo, it appears that the two of us have something in common."

"Oh, and what might that be?" Connor queried.

"Well, I should think it obvious," Farhan responded, "First off, we have similar eyes. Also, we live in the same apartment building, on the same floor in fact. And then there is the reality that the both of us are foreigners who have already met young ladies of similar cultural backgrounds to our own."

"Oh, my, I see your point," Connor posited and, shrugging in concurrence, he suggested, "Well then, suppose we do something about it?"

"Sounds good to me," Farhan responded, "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, er, suppose we both attempt to line up our newfound friends for a spot of pizza this weekend, before our studies become too challenging. How does that sound to you?"

"Excellent," Farhan replied, "I shall get on it straightaway. Shall we try for Saturday night?"

"Perfect," Connor put in, adding, "Now, suppose we both get down to the challenge ahead – school!" And with that the pair rose and departed the shop on quite comparably daunting quests.

The Following Day

**Connor rushed into the coffee shop, an inexplicable knot throbbing** within the base of his throat. Still breathless from his harried race to avoid being late to his appointment, he searched about the crowded space for his intended rendezvous, but to no avail. Checking his watch, he realized that he'd only arrived a couple of minutes late, despite the fact that that arrogant prig of a professor had kept the class ten minutes too long. By the time class had ended, he had become so frantic to leave that he'd tuned out the lecture altogether.

Regaining his senses, he thought to himself, "What was he blabbing on and on about, anyway?" Well, no matter. Better things to concern himself with at the moment, such as whether the winsome Miss Elspeth Moorehead had in fact stood him up.

There was nothing for it but to anxiously await her anticipated arrival, thus he positioned himself at the trailing end of the line and decided that he would exercise patience, something that he had somehow never managed to master. Still, advising himself to be patient, whether successful or not, somehow seemed a step in the right direction. As if on cue, the line pressed forward at a snail's pace and, his patience quickly abandoning him, he scrutinized his watch at least a half dozen times.

But then the door suddenly popped open, and there she was, her entrancing green eyes meeting his own for just a fraction of a second. She seemed to tug self-consciously at her gorgeous red hair, and then she was at his side, blurting abruptly, "I'm so sorry Connor, am I terribly late?" And there it was again, that breathtaking smile of hers.

Under the circumstances, all attempt at severity disappeared immediately, prompting Connor to respond completely out of character, "No problem, Miss Moorehead - I mean – Elspeth; I just arrived myself. My class ran long, you know."

"Yes, mine too! What is that about – I ask you?"

"Priggish profs, I should think," he responded, this time futilely attempting to match her entirely matchless grin.

For her part, she copped a perplexed look, tilted her head sideways, and murmured, "What does that mean?"

"Oh, nothing," he blurted defensively, "They're just caught up in their own world, I suppose. Imagine what you'd discuss in class if you'd been reading books in some musty old library for two-thirds of your life!"

"Ah, I see," she responded pensively, "You have the gift of putting yourself in other's places. I must say I'm quite impressed!"

At this unexpected compliment he actually blushed but, covering it with a swipe at his own locks, he rebutted, "Oh, I don't know about that, but I will say this – I'm here to learn. For it seems that without knowledge one is destined for failure in life."

"Well said," she complimented yet again, "And what do you plan to learn?"

"No idea," he blurted far too quickly and, covering his gaff, he continued with, "That's why I'm here – to discover my place in life."

"My, my..." she murmured, "The self-assured Scot admits he's clueless..." and then, turning towards the counter, she blurted, "I can see this is going to be quite an interesting friendship. Suppose we get a cup of coffee and encourage this magic moment to unfold."

Staring at her in wonder, he stammered, "Well...er...that sounds...uhm...I mean – yes, of course!"

Grinning at her own uncanny ability to wrest the upper hand, she tugged yet again at her hair and observed, "I must say, that was exceedingly eloquent, even for a Scot!"

Another uncontrollable giggle escaping his nervous lips, he countered, "Given the opportunity, I have every intention of dazzling you with my brilliance, Miss Elspeth Moorehead."

Smiling in her own turn, she actually winked at him, following it with, "All in good time, my newfound friend, all in good time!"

And from that moment the two were in fact friends, their friendship destined to go to whatever lengths allowed by unfolding events. But that would surely all be in good time.

Antonio's Pizza Parlor – Friday Night

**Elspeth and Connor meandered into the restaurant** and, spotting their dining companions in the far corner, they waved simultaneously and made their collective way to the table in question.

On arriving tableside, Connor chirped breathlessly, "Hi, Farhan!"

Arising from his seat, Farhan responded pleasantly, "Hello, Connor. How are you?" and, not waiting for a response, he added to Connor's companion, "And you must be Elspeth. Connor has told me all about you." Thenceforth, turning towards his own companion, he announced, "This is my friend, Anna. Anna, meet Elspeth and Connor."

The introductions having been completed, the four got down to the extremely difficult but all-important challenge of forgetting for the moment how they were in fact going to survive the rigors of the coming semester. Although things were a bit awkward at first, perhaps in no small part due to the widely disparate cultural backgrounds of the four, by the completion of a large pizza supplemented with an abundance of draft beer, the four were well on their way to conviviality, not to mention blissfully distracting inebriation.

Setting her mug down after a long drag, Elspeth suggested inquisitively, "I'm from Boston, which explains why I am at Harvard. But what brought the pair of you all the way to Boston from Egypt?"

At this Farhan proffered proudly, "I received a grant from the Egyptian government. They are quite difficult to obtain, but I graduated at the top of my class in Asyut."

"I see, and what must Asyut be like?" she asked presumptuously.

"Hot, dusty, but a wonderful place to live. Tis far up the Nile, you know. And as such, it is completely dependent on the river for everything."

"So it's surrounded by desert?" Elspeth asked inanely.

"Yes, it is. Three kilometers from the river on either side there is nothing. That is, nothing but the beating sun and sand dunes," he responded knowingly.

"Do you miss it terribly?" she inquired.

"Not so much, although when winter arrives in Boston, I expect that I shall," and with that he awarded her with his most impressive smile.

Squirming in obvious embarrassment at the ruggedly handsome face before her, she turned to Anna and asked, "And what brings you here, Anna?"

At this Anna responded shyly, "My family isn't wealthy, you see, but I did well in school, so my uncle volunteered to send me to Harvard. He is British, as was my father."

Then why did he not send you to Oxford or Cambridge?" Connor inquired.

"I'm not sure," Anna replied, "My mother seems to think that they were both too expensive."

"Ah, I see," Connor agreed, "They are indeed quite expensive, but I assure you, Harvard is not only less costly, tis also a better university."

"So they tell me," Anna responded pleasantly, "But the truth is, I'm just happy to be away from Egypt."

At this Farhan turned towards her, frowned, and queried, "Why ever for, Anna?"

Glancing briefly at him, Anna subsequently stared morosely at her plate and murmured, "Oh, you wouldn't understand, Farhan. After all, you are a man."

His eyes flashing ominously at her, Farhan responded, "Perhaps this subject is better taken up at another time, Anna."

"Yes, of course," Anna blurted, but it was clear that she was quite embarrassed for some unknown reason.

After that the conversation got onto lighter subjects, with the four of them eventually discussing topics ranging from The American Revolution to the Boston Red Sox. And although the discussion was lively and engaging, by the end of the evening it was apparent to Elspeth that her newfound friends had a lot to learn about their newly adopted home.
Chapter 2

Friendship Torn Asunder

Two Weeks Later

**Connor met her at the coffee shop** , Elspeth arriving a bit late as usual. Approaching his table, she announced, "Sorry, Connor. There never seems to be enough time in the day! One of these days I'm going to get organized. For the moment, I'm doing all I can to keep up with my studies."

"Oh, you'll do just fine, I'm sure, Elspeth," Connor put in affably.

"Easy for you to say – you're not majoring in math!"

"Well, there is that," he responded, "Seriously, I've no idea how you do it. Math is completely beyond me. I can barely balance my checkbook."

"Why don't you get a computer, Connor?"

"Too expensive! Besides, I'm old school," he replied pensively.

Eyeing him doubtfully, Elspeth suggested, "Well, better late than never. Computers are going to take over the world, you know."

"So they tell me," he blurted in resignation, "In the meantime, I'm doing my best to understand political science. There's so much reading to do, and none of it makes any sense to me!"

"Now you're talking, Connor. Why do you think I'm studying math? It may be difficult, but at least it makes sense!" And at this the pair laughed companionably. Their friendship was clearly on the upswing.

Changing the subject, he suggested, "Hey, there's a party this Saturday night. The Political Science Club is throwing it at the Student Center. Want to go with me?"

"What – you mean – like a date?"

"Well, er, we can go just as friends if you want."

"I don't know, Connor, I'm not very good in large groups..."

"Oh, come on, Elspeth. You can't study ALL the time! One has to blow off steam ever so often."

"You're right, of course you are. Alright, I will go with you, but only on one condition."

Eyeing her doubtfully, he responded, "And what might that be?"

"You must promise to allow me to leave the party should I ask it of you."

"That seems fair enough, Elspeth. Then, shall I pick you up at your apartment at 7?"

"Yes, of course. Here is the address," and so saying, she handed him a scrap of paper. "Now, I must be off. Thanks for the coffee!" And with that she made her departure.

Saturday Night

**At the ring of the doorbell, Elspeth took her time** making her way to the door. Tugging it open, she said, "Oh, hi, Connor." But it was apparent that she was not in the best of spirits.

"Hi, Elspeth, what seems to be the problem?" he inquired empathetically.

"Oh, nothing," she replied evasively, "It's just that, well, I made a B on my first math test."

"You made a B? Wow! That's a good grade in my book!" he responded supportively.

"Yeah, well..." she murmured, "Perhaps it is in your field, but not in mine."

"You'll do better, Elspeth, I'm sure of it. In the meantime, we should do something to take your mind off it!"

"I suppose you're right," she agreed and, grabbing her coat, she added, "So, shall we go check out this party?"

"Excellent, I knew you'd give in!" he responded, and off the pair went in search of distraction.

Two hours later Connor was having a wonderful time at the party but, glancing across the room, he could tell that Elspeth was not. Wandering over to her, he posited, "Elspeth, tis clear to me that this simply won't do. Shall we make a hasty retreat?"

Eyeing him gratefully, she responded sheepishly, "Oh, I'd be ever so thankful, Connor! How'd you know?"

"Are you kidding?" he blurted, "Elspeth, tis apparent to anyone who is attentive that you are not up for it tonight."

"Ooh, is it that obvious?" she queried. "I'm so sorry. I was trying my best."

"Tis no problem, really, no problem at all, Elspeth. I didn't ask you out so that I could go to a party. I asked you out so that I could be with you."

Arching one eye in surprise, she prevaricated, "Well, be that as it may, suppose we go to our favorite spot – the coffee shop."

"Perfect," he replied empathetically, "Shall we?" And with that the pair made a hasty retreat.

An hour later, her spirits returning, Elspeth said over the rim of her cup, "Thanks, Connor. I needed this."

"Needed what exactly?" he replied in confusion.

"I don't know – companionship, I suppose," she responded serenely. "I really don't have any friends, you know, except for you, Farhan and Anna."

"Spoken like a true math major," he observed bluntly.

"Yeah, I guess you're right..."

"So, where does this introverted nature come from, Elspeth?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she replied, but then, seeing his obvious pain at being so casually dismissed, she added, "Well, alright, if truth be told, I lost my parents when I was fifteen. It's been hard for me ever since."

"Oh! I had no idea. What happened?"

"They were killed in the Lockerbie bombing."

"What! You mean they were onboard the plane that day?"

"Yes."

Reaching forward to grasp her hand within his own, he whispered, "I'm so sorry, Elspeth! It must have been quite difficult for you..."

Clinging to his outstretched hand, she responded, "Yeah, it's been tough. There is only my Gran, but she's older, you know. And Anna is nice, but she's not from our culture. So, it seems you are my only escape. I don't know why I'm telling you all of this, Connor. I'm so sorry for burdening you with my problems.'

"Dear Elspeth, tis no burden at all. Over the past couple of months you have become quite dear to me. If you will let me, I shall endeavor to be here for you."

Eyeing him intrepidly, she mumbled, "It's very kind of you, Connor. You have become dear to me as well. But I need time. This is all very hard for me. Before, I had a very protected existence. What with Gran and high school, I was able to hide myself from the realities of the world quite successfully. But here at Harvard, it's all quite overwhelming. I've come to the realization that one cannot hide from reality forever. It would have been nice, but I suppose that I shall be forced to grow up sooner than later."

"Yes, life does have a way of forcing itself on one, doesn't it," he replied earnestly.

"Well said," she replied, "And now, take me home. I may be progressing, but I fear I nonetheless need my solitude."

"Yes, of course, Elspeth," and with that he escorted her to her apartment. And when they arrived at her door he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Her eyes flashing at him in surprise, she tugged him to her and kissed him passionately on the mouth and, pulling back, she posited, "Don't get any ideas, Connor Stuart. That was in thanks for your understanding tonight. You've really been a true friend." But after she'd closed the door behind her, she leaned back against it and readily admitted to herself that she in fact hoped that he did indeed get ideas.

A Month Later

**Elspeth had by now admitted to herself that she was distracted** from her studies. Why did life have to be so complicated? Just when she was starting to get over the tragedies in her life, along comes this tall handsome Scotsman and turns her life upside down. Mathematics was not an academic discipline to be trifled with, and her grade in calculus was definitely suffering. She wrestled with the complexity of it all nearly every waking hour. Indeed, she was so transfixed by the guy that she decided that something had to be done. She was not so ignorant as to think that she should divulge her feelings, so she decided on a slightly different course of action.

They met at the coffee shop one Friday, she for her part playing it decidedly cool, despite his obviously amorous comportment. And when he suggested that the pair of them take a drive up to Martha's Vineyard the following day, she begged off, saying that she had too much homework. This was in fact true, but it in no way diminished her misery at having said no to him.

Instead, she proposed an alternative – why not take a trip down to New York after the semester had ended? She reasoned that there would be no pressures from coursework between semesters, thereby allowing the two of them to see the sites without distraction. Grinning his own relief at her invitation, Connor readily accepted.

Boston – Halloween, 1991

**Elspeth knocked on Anna's apartment door** and, discerning a voice within, she pushed the door open. Momentarily stunned by the apparition before her, she yanked one hand to her mouth and uttered, "Oh, my goodness...please tell me it's you, Anna!"

From beneath her costume Anna's muffled voice responded, "Of course it's me, Elspeth! What do you think?"

Eyeing her up and down, Elspeth opined, "Well, it's certainly different, I mean, Halloween is about gremlins and ghouls, but you've struck a particularly macabre note, if you ask me."

"It's just my burka," Anna replied, "I simply added a bit here and there to make it look like a ghost costume. Is it terribly bad?"

"No!" Elspeth blurted in denial, "It's perfect, Anna, absolutely perfect!"

At this Anna tugged her head dress off and blurted, "Oh, I'm so glad you like it, Elspeth! I was afraid it wouldn't look quite right. After all, I've never experienced Halloween before."

Observing the woman before her, Elspeth stood frozen for a moment, but then, emerging from her shocked state, she proffered, "My, goodness, Anna, I've never seen you without your hijab. You are altogether quite lovely!"

Now blushing noticeably, Anna murmured, "Thank you, dear Elspeth. You've no idea how much that means to me. Such things are never mentioned where I come from, you know."

Elspeth eyed her momentarily and then added, "Actually, I had no idea. Do you mean that no one has ever told you how lovely you are?"

"Yes, I'm afraid you are correct," Anna blurted in apparent despair.

At this Elspeth reached forward and, grabbing Anna in a sisterly embrace, she whispered, "Anna, my dear friend, I'm so sorry. Trust me - you are indeed quite lovely."

Wiping a telltale tear from her cheek, Anna responded, "I'm sorry, Elspeth, I didn't mean to burden you with my troubles."

Elspeth frowned and, her frown suddenly changing to a smile, she replied, "Troubles? What troubles? Tonight we are two lovely young ladies who will simply knock them dead!"

Observing the tuxedo that Elspeth was garbed within, Anna inquired, "If you don't mind, what sort of costume are you wearing, Elspeth?"

Elspeth grinned in response and announced, "I know this will sound silly, but I am dressed as James Bond."

Now smiling herself, Anna responded, "My, that is truly bizarre!"

"Yes, isn't it?" Elspeth observed slyly, "And, I have a trick up my sleeve!"

"A trick? What sort of trick?"

"All in good time, Anna, all in good time. After all, Halloween is about 'trick or treat'."

Her confusion apparent, Anna murmured, "Well then, shall we?" at which they made their way from the apartment.

By the time the pair arrived the party was well underway, the ballroom absolutely packed to the rafters with goblins of every sort. The pair attempted to make their way through the crowd unobserved, but that was not to be. It seemed that, unbeknownst to them, the party was not just a costume party, but it was also a costume _contest._ And tonight's winners would receive some mysterious prizes. As a result, everywhere they turned their potential rivals scrutinized their newest competition carefully.

Elspeth whispered in Anna's ear, "Your costume is drawing quite a lot of stares, Anna. I told you so – you're a definite hit tonight!"

Anna whispered back, "I was so worried that it wouldn't do, and now I'm not so sure I wouldn't have preferred it that way!"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Anna, this is going to be a blast...you'll see!"

At that moment two tall men in masks appeared before them, the taller one announcing, "My, my, I believe we've accidentally bumped into the two most amazing creatures of all, Connor!"

The second of the two drawing up alongside, he placed one hand on his chin and chimed in with, "Oh, my! Could this charming villain before me actually be Miss Elspeth Moorehead? Hmmm, let me see," and surveying her carefully, he observed, "No, I'm afraid I was mistaken. It appears that she is none other than James Bond – 007!"

At this a loud snort popped uncontrollably from Elspeth mouth, followed by, "Connor Stuart! You cad!" And, tugging him into her arms, she commanded, "Come here, you scoundrel – give James Bond a kiss!"

Blushing at such a suggestion, he nevertheless did as instructed, following it with, "Never kissed a man before," and, grinning from ear to ear, he observed, "In fact, it were rather nice. I believe I shall try it again."

At this Elspeth playfully shoved him away, accompanying it with, "Not on your life, you little monster. James Bond always has the upper hand."

Now giggling uncontrollably, Connor replied, "Why am I not surprised?"

Farhan now jumped in, observing, "Anna, I must say, you have hit the spot with that ghost costume. I'd not have recognized you had I not seen you in your burka on the flight over in August."

Completely enshrouded, Anna was only seen to respond via a nod of her masked head, but a muffled sound from within replied, "Thanks, Farhan. You appear to be wearing something akin to the ornamental dress of an Arabian Sheikh, am I correct?"

"Yes, entirely so," Farhan responded proudly, "And Connor is my personal servant."

"Ha!" Elspeth exclaimed, "What a pair the two of you make!"

At this Connor bowed gracefully and suggested, "Your wish is my command, Mr. Bond."

The party was clearly off to a grand beginning, and over the course of the evening the four remained in close contact, although the two young ladies were in continuous demand for dances. The music having a decidedly chilling bent, Anna's Middle Eastern dance moves drew the majority of the attention. On the other hand, quite a few of the attendees, both male and female, were consumed with the possibility of dancing with James Bond, and who was Elspeth to play favorites?

The prize winners having been scheduled to be announced at midnight, shortly beforehand Elspeth decided it was time for her to play the trick up her sleeve. Selecting Connor as her partner, she danced close to him to the number 'Monster Mash' but, midway through the number, she doffed her tuxedo jacket, thereby displaying a rather racy costume beneath. It seems that, rather than a tuxedo shirt, she had worn a tuxedo vest halter top that was entirely backless. Twirling her jacket over her head, she stared intently at Connor and, suddenly tossing it aside, she pranced up to him, sidled behind him and, standing back to back, she traced a suggestive line up and down his spine.

Having observed this rather shocking development, the crowd went wild in anticipation. Unfortunately for them, Elspeth had no further tricks up her sleeve, but the crowd nonetheless tendered quite an ovation at the conclusion of her performance.

Dragging her away from the dance floor at the end of the number, Connor whispered playfully in her ear, "You naughty girl!"

At this she gazed up into his eyes and, moving in close as if to kiss him, she bit him enticingly on the lip and whispered, "You've no idea..."

He leaned forward hopefully but, her instincts much too fast for him, she skillfully evaded his advance with a shove to his nose, accompanied by, "Back off, Connor. If your desire is this lady, you must learn the art of infinite patience."

His pride bruised, he nonetheless responded hopefully, "It is, and I shall, dear Elspeth."

She grinned her approval at this last, but just at that moment a voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to announce the winners of tonight's awards for best costumes. So, if you will, please gather in front of the stage."

As everyone moved forward, a young man on the stage announced, "Now, there are four prizes, two each for the men and women. The categories are creepiest costume and most outrageous costume. And without further delay, the winner of the creepiest costume worn by a woman is Ms. Anna Morton!"

At this Anna jumped up and down in delight. To her surprise the announcer gestured for her to come up onstage and, obviously embarrassed to stand before such a huge throng, Anna somehow managed to make her way to his side.

The announcer now said, "Excellent costume, Miss Morton! What do you say, ladies and gentlemen, isn't this just a fabulous Halloween costume?" at which the crowd roared their collective approval. He now added surreptitiously, "Ms. Morton, I am quite certain that the males among the crowd would be oh so appreciative were you to remove your mask!" And this announcement was followed by still greater raucous applause.

At this Anna hesitated momentarily, but then, shrugging her reluctant acceptance, she removed her headdress, thereby displaying her gorgeous face to one and all. Once again the crowd screamed their approval, at which Anna smiled graciously and made for the stairs. But, grabbing her by one arm, the announcer exclaimed, "Not so fast, Ms. Morton," and reaching forward with an envelope, he announced, "Here is your prize!" at which Anna accepted the envelope and made her way from the stage.

An identical scene was played out for the women's most outrageous costume, with Elspeth proudly taking the award. As a result, the two ladies were quite a hit among the male populace for the remainder of the evening, thereby forestalling any attempts by Farhan and Connor to dominate their attentions. And while this clearly disappointed both young men, Anna and Elspeth were equally delighted by the unexpected attention.

Somewhat later, the victors having by then arrived back at Anna's apartment, Elspeth chirped in obvious glee, "Boy, we made those two guys jealous as all hell tonight, Anna!" But Anna was for some reason not happy at all.

Observing her friend's malaise, Elspeth queried in obvious concern, "What's the matter, Anna? Surely you will have plenty of guys asking you out after tonight. Wouldn't you like that?"

Anna gazed forlornly at Elspeth and responded, "Of course I would like that!"

"Then why so glum?"

"I shouldn't have removed my head dress."

"Then why did you, Anna?"

"I had to! After you took off your tuxedo jacket, I just couldn't help myself!"

Eyeing her in confusion, Elspeth offered, "It's okay, Anna – we're not in the Middle East now."

At this Anna moaned, "You wouldn't say that if you knew the power that men have over women from the Middle East."

"What on earth are you talking about, Anna?"

"I'm talking about Farhan, Elspeth."

"So? What about Farhan?"

"You didn't see the look on his face when I took off my head dress!"

"Oh, my..." was all Elspeth could think of to say, but then she suddenly added, "I'm sure it will be fine. Farhan is simply taken with you, as are quite a few other young men as a result of your performance tonight!"

Anna nonetheless appeared distraught, causing Elspeth to seek some sort of distraction. Suddenly she realized they'd both forgotten to open their prize envelopes and, exclaiming as much, Elspeth tore into hers in anticipation. A frown swiftly creasing her features, she looked up and caught Anna's eye.

"What is it?" Anna asked in obvious confusion. "Just tell me – is it good or bad?"

Elspeth stared yet again at the sheet of paper in her hand and responded, "I...I'm not really sure, to tell you the truth."

At this Anna tore into her envelope and, observing the sheet of paper within, her eyes suddenly began to glow. Glancing up, she announced, "But this it too wonderful! We've been invited to join a sorority!"

"Yes, well..." Elspeth replied, "I don't think I'm interested, Anna."

But Anna caught her arm and responded, "Please, Elspeth! You yourself said that we are both far too introverted. Perhaps this is our chance to meet more people, especially more guys!"

"Well, I don't know," Elspeth mumbled, "Let me sleep on it," to which the pair agreed.

Two Days Later

**Anna and Elspeth met at the student center coffee shop**. Anna immediately inquired, "So, what do you think, Elspeth? Please say yes – I don't think I have the nerve to join the sorority without you."

Eyeing Anna intently, Elspeth reached forward and tugged Anna's hijab, which had fallen out of place but, noticing that Anna winced when she did so, Elspeth inquired, "What's wrong, Anna? You appear to be in pain."

Anna tugged self-consciously on her hijab and, a bruise now plainly visible to Elspeth, she rejoined, "It's nothing, Elspeth. I fell down the stairs in my apartment building."

"What!" Elspeth exclaimed, "Did you go to the hospital?"

"No, it wasn't that bad. I cracked my knee, and I hit my shoulder on the bottom stair. It's just a couple of bruises. I'll be fine in a couple of days."

"Well, next time something like this happens to you, call me right away, Okay?"

"Sure," Anna posited, "I appreciate that, Elspeth. I have a hard time making friends, you know. Which reminds me, we were discussing the sorority..."

Elspeth eyed her momentarily and, seeing no means of escape, she relented, "Alright, Anna, I'll join the sorority with you. But if I don't like it, I'll get out at the end of the spring semester."

"Super!" Anna cried, "This is going to be such fun!"

December 18, 1991

**They met at the train station, Elspeth bundled up in her best traveling attire**. Since she had never been on an overnight trip with a young man, she was understandably nervous. For his part, Connor was determined to be the perfect gentleman.

Once they were aboard, Elspeth inquired, "So, how did your semester turn out, Connor?"

"Quite well, I should think," he replied, "At least, I lived up to my own expectations, if you know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't," she responded, "Can you be more specific?"

"Well, I suppose I must admit, I made one C, but the rest were A's and B's."

"That sounds respectable. What did you make a C in?"

"Oh, well, I made a C in economics."

"Economics! Connor Stuart! You must do better – that's a quite important subject!"

At this he peered at her in embarrassment and replied, "Yes, I suppose you're right, Elspeth, but anything related to math comes hard for me."

She frowned at him but said nothing, prompting him to continue with, "How did you do?"

"I did quite well, thank you," she replied.

"Just exactly how well?" he spluttered in abject fear.

"If you must know," she frowned, "I made straight A's."

"Damn!" he groused, "I knew you were a genius!"

At this she shook her head in denial and replied, "I'm no genius, Connor. I just work hard, and I really enjoy learning."

"As do I," he responded, "But it doesn't come quite as easily as it does for you, I'm afraid."

She shot back, "I'm sure you'll do much better next semester."

"What makes you say that?"

"The fact that I have commanded you to do better, that's what!"

And at this, he could only nod his understanding.

The remainder of the trip to New York was spent in near silence, but when the city skyline began to rise up in the distance, Connor offered, "I've never been anywhere in the U.S. other than Boston, you know. Have you been to New York before, Elspeth?"

"Of course," she replied sanctimoniously, "Not to worry, Connor, I will be your guide."

Smirking at her smug sense of superiority, he replied, "Of course you shall. And what shall we do on arrival?"

"Good question," she responded evasively, "Suppose we take it a step at a time. First we'll check into the hotel, and then grab a bite to eat, okay?"

"Sounds good to me," he replied.

But when they had finally arrived within their room, she pushed the door closed and grabbed him in a searing kiss that positively curled his toes. Eventually pulling back, she inquired impishly, "Still hungry?"

His eyes growing wide, he blurted absently, "Whaaat?"

Winking at him, she responded quizzically, "Dessert now, dinner later?" And, tugging on his coat sleeve, she slowly drew him onto the bed, whereupon she dragged him into a passionate embrace. For his part, he was only too happy to put off dinner for the time being.

But eventually, as is man's nature, he pulled impulsively on an article of her clothing, causing her to murmur in his ear, "Ah- ah-, remember what I told you at the Halloween party?"

"Er, no..." he mumbled in confusion, and then, "Oh, right – I remember now. It was something about learning patience."

" _Precisely!_ " she exclaimed triumphantly.

Raising himself up on one elbow, he blurted, "Gee, this is going to be tougher than I thought..."

"Right," she whispered, "But, as you shall learn – I am worth it! Now, shut up and kiss me again, you gorgeous hunk."

The remainder of the trip to New York went off well, with Elspeth delighting in leading on her very first boyfriend, and Connor completely hornswoggled by the complexities inherent within the female of the species.

February 14, 1992

**Entering the sorority house, Connor tugged off his coat** and handed it to the scantily clad young coed, in the process murmuring in embarrassment, "I say, that is quite an outfit, if I may say so."

"Why, thank you," she responded proudly and, thrusting her chest outwards, she added, "My mom says that I have gravity-defying attributes."

Momentarily eyeing the attributes she was apparently referring to, he replied sheepishly, "Yes, I can see that. I suppose your mother is quite correct," And with that he made a hasty retreat to the interior of the sorority house.

Within, he observed an entire room full of scantily clad young ladies, not the least of which was Ms. Elspeth Moorehead, who caught his eye from the far corner of the room. Wading betwixt the raptly attentive males and females, he made his way to her, and on arriving at her side, he posited, "I must have missed something, Elspeth. What the heck is going on here?"

"Hi, Connor," she prevaricated, "What's the problem?"

"Uhm," he stammered, "Is this indeed a sorority house, or have I wandered into something decidedly more sinister?"

"Connor!" she exclaimed, "What on earth are you babbling about?"

Scanning about the room in confusion, he suggested, "It appears that every girl in the house is missing some clothing."

Frowning at him, Elspeth said, "I told you when I invited you – it's a slumber party – A Valentine's Day slumber party!"

"So?" he shot back in confusion.

"Connor, this is a normal party for young ladies within the U.S. We all come together and, dressed for bedtime, we instead stay up all night."

"Really?" he countered, "And you invite a bunch of guys to ogle you in your somewhat _déshabillé_ state?"

"Of course not, you fool!" she exclaimed, "At least not until we young ladies get to college. By then it is considered acceptable behavior for young men to, let's say, participate. This particular slumber party happens to be a tradition of the sorority. We hold it every year on Valentine's Day, and everyone knows about it!"

Still perplexed, all he could think of to say was, "Ok-kay..."

Observing his sustained irritation, she announced, "Connor Stuart. Catch up! You saw me in my underwear in New York. Tonight I am wearing my shorty nightgown, and I've worn significantly less in public when I had on a bathing suit. Now, shape up! Or go home!"

Shaken by her remonstrance, he responded in embarrassment, "Sorry, Elspeth. It's just that – well, I've never encountered such behavior before..."

She eyed him for a moment and then muttered, "I am a woman, damn it! And I have a right to express myself as I see fit!"

At this he broke into a tiny hint of a grin and, smirking momentarily, he whispered, "I know! Yes, of course, I know that!" Then, attempting to divert the subject to something less awkward, he surveyed the room further and inquired, "Where's Anna? Isn't she in this sorority?"

"Yes, she is, but she's sick tonight," Elspeth responded.

"Oh," Connor replied, "Sorry to hear that. Isn't Farhan coming tonight?"

"Yes, of course he is. He's in the other room there, but you may as well not go looking for him."

"Why not?"

"Because he appears to be otherwise engaged," she shot back in obvious irritation.

"Engaged? Engaged with what?"

"Engaged with a bevy of young, er – ladies – I should think," she observed.

Doubting her veracity, Connor poked his head into the adjacent room and, sure enough, there was Farhan, and he did indeed seem to be surrounded by quite a few females, some of whom appeared to have misplaced an article or two of their bedtime wear.

Perplexed by the scene unfolding within, Connor hurriedly returned to Elspeth's side and whispered, "I say, is it possible that things might get out of hand, Elspeth?"

"Perhaps," she countered enigmatically.

"Well, then..." he murmured.

Her eyes blazing, she shot back, "Well, then, what?"

"Uhm, I'm not sure..." he blurted, "Perhaps I could convince you to come away with me for a drink or something?"

Her face suddenly lighting up, she responded, "I thought you'd never ask, Connor Stuart. Let me just pop upstairs and change into something more appropriate, and we shall be off."

As usual, the pair ended up at the Nob Hill Coffee Shop. Once there, Connor inquired, "I don't understand, Elspeth...why did you join that darn sorority anyway?"

Her eyes flashing in irritation, she responded, "It's none of your damn business!"

"Sorry," he responded, but then he added unadvisedly, "Surely you didn't join to meet guys!"

At this she blurted in obvious annoyance, "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, it's just that, I'm told that's why girls join sororities – to meet guys."

"What of it?" she glared at him.

"Nothing," he responded and, digging himself a deeper hole, he suggested, "You don't need to find a guy, Elspeth. You already have me."

She carefully placed her coffee cup on the table and, staring him down, she replied between clenched teeth, "Listen, Connor Stuart, you have absolutely no hold over me. I'm in charge of me, and don't you forget it!"

Eyeing here disconsolately, he observed, "Of course you are. I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn. Please excuse me, Elspeth."

She stared momentarily at him, then posited, "Apology accepted. Now, can we get back to being friends?"

At this he grinned sheepishly and, changing the subject, he queried, "Was Anna really sick tonight?"

She eyed him a moment and then she admitted, "No, she was afraid."

"Afraid?" he blurted, "Afraid of what?"

"Farhan, damn it!"

"Farhan! Why should she be afraid of Farhan?"

"Oh, I don't know, Connor," she responded, "She's somehow got it into her head that Farhan has the wherewithal to make things difficult for her if she does anything at all considered to be unladylike."

"Oh," he murmured as if to himself, "Well, when you put it that way..."

"What way?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know," he mumbled, "Tis just that, he does seem to have some sort of double standard, if you ask me."

"What are you getting at?"

"Not sure, Elspeth, but I've never seen him behave like he did tonight. I mean, he was ogling your fellow sorority girls pretty overtly."

"What, and you weren't?" she accused.

"Er, well..." he prevaricated, "Look, I'm just as attracted to women as the next guy, but I draw the line at some things."

"Like what?"

"I don't know..." he murmured and, contemplating a moment, he replied, "Well, for one thing, I can only focus on one woman at a time."

"What on earth does that mean?" she replied in exasperation.

"Tis just that Farhan was pawing those girls, I mean, _several_ of them at one time, and in public!"

"Ah, I see what you mean," she replied, "And of course – I agree with you. He was rather a cad tonight."

"You knew that all along, Elspeth."

"Of course I did."

"Then why didn't you say so?"

"I wanted to hear what you thought about it."

"Oh," he exclaimed, and then, "Damn, you were testing me again, weren't you!"

"Supposing I was..."

"Well, stop it!"

She eyed him for a moment and then she said, "I can't! Besides, I have not only a right to do so, but an obligation as well."

"What! I have no clue what you're talking about, Elspeth!"

"Alright," she posited, "I see I'm going to have to spell it out for you, Connor Stuart. It's like this, I care about you. No, that's not right. What I mean is, I care _for_ you."

Peering at her in confusion, he blurted, "Excuse me, but what the hell does that mean?"

"Just hear me out, damn it! What I'm trying to say is – this is all new to me."

"Exactly _what_ is new to you, Elspeth?"

" _Caring_! That's what's new, Connor. After my parents died, I built an invisible wall around myself, a wall that I convinced myself was impenetrable. And for several years, it was. But then you came along and you plopped down on that bench beside me last fall. And ever since then you've been dismantling that wall that I went to such lengths to build."

At this he stared at her but said nothing, apparently willing her to go on.

"Damn you!" she blurted, "I was so safe within. And now, I'm terrified all the time."

"Terrified? Why ever on earth for?"

"Connor!" she exclaimed, "I can't afford to ever feel that way again!"

"I don't understand – what way?"

"The way I felt when my parents died."

"Oh..." he murmured in confusion.

"I need to know that I can trust someone. No, that's not right – I need to know that I can trust _you_ , Connor Stuart. So I'm testing you. I know it hurts you when I do, but I can't help it. I can't risk ever feeling that way again. If I ever give my trust to anyone again, I need to know that they will be there for me, that I can trust them unconditionally."

At this he stared at her, his eyes glistening, and whispered, "I cannot possibly know what you have suffered, Elspeth, but I assure you, I am worthy of your trust."

"Yeah, well," she blurted, "You'd better be, because my wall is in danger of coming down."

He reached across the table and grasped her hand within his and, holding her within his gaze for several moments, he then whispered, "Then test away, Elspeth. Whatever it takes, I can take it. And I shan't tear down your wall. I rather hope that it will crumble of its own accord."

She returned his gaze momentarily, then posited, "You may as well know - I'm quitting the sorority at the end of the semester."

After that night, the two were practically inseparable, at least on those rare occasions when time permitted them to stray from their studies.

Boston – April, 1992

**Nestled comfortably within her apartment, Elspeth was deep into her study** of the history of the Middle East. Suddenly distracted by the clang of her phone, she picked up the receiver and blurted in obvious exasperation, "Hello?"

A voice responded, "Elspeth, tis Connor. How are you?"

"I'm fine," she responded pleasantly, "And you?"

"Great! Listen, some of us are meeting at my new apartment on Friday night. Tis a small party. Can you come? I mean, would you like to?"

"I don't know, Connor. You know I adore being with you, but as you also know only too well, I'm not comfortable in large groups. What's the occasion?"

"Actually, tis Anna's birthday. Her birthday is on Saturday, but some of us can't make it then. Anyway, tis quite a small group. I should think you'll be fine."

"Oh, alright, I'll come, but only because you're the one doing the asking."

"Thanks so much. Farhan will be delighted to hear that you are coming. He wants to surprise Anna. I say, would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to bring her along...without letting on, of course."

"Ah, now I see! You really just need me to make sure she comes to the party."

"Elspeth, you should know me better than that. I don't think I'd want to be there if you didn't come."

"Well now, that's much better, Connor. Why didn't you say that to begin with?"

"Er, uhm...I suppose I was intimidated..."

"Intimidated? By what?"

"By YOU, Elspeth! Sometimes you scare the hell out of me!"

At this unexpected admission, Elspeth giggled and responded, "Excellent! I'd say things are simply smashing, Connor. See you Friday night then," and with that she hung up.

Friday Night

**It was a cold and blustery night, but absolutely nothing could dampen Elspeth's** good humor. Arriving at Connor's apartment, she shrugged her way out of her coat and hugged Connor, purring self-assuredly, "Hello, you scaredy-cat, you."

"Hi, Elspeth," he murmured abashedly, "You look smashing tonight. And Anna, how are you?"

"I'm fine," Anna replied introspectively, "Where are the others?"

"Oh, they'll be along shortly. Farhan is bringing the girls, and the guys you already know. They're Billy, Ryan, James, and William. They all live here in the building, so I expect them any minute." At that moment the doorbell rang, and Connor murmured, "Ah, that will be them now." And so saying, he tugged the door open, allowing the four guys to sort of tumble into the room.

"Hey, ladies!" William proffered, "What's doin'?"

"Hi, William," Elspeth put in, "This is my friend, Anna." And turning to Anna, she continued, "Anna, this is William, and that's Ryan, there's Billy over there, and that's James by the fireplace."

"Hi there," Anna posited shyly.

Billy wandered nearer and muttered, "My, my, she has the same pale blue eyes as do Farhan and Connor. What's that about?" and then, turning to Anna, he inquired, "Aren't you going to take off the scarf, Anna? It's plenty warm in here."

"It's called a hijab, Billy," she responded distantly, "I follow the Muslim faith, and women of Islam never remove their hijab in public."

"Oh..." was all Billy could think of to say, but then he blurted vacuously, "You don't look like you're from the Middle East."

Following up, James blabbered condescendingly, "Where've you been hiding, Billy, under a rock? Everybody knows that!"

"Knows what?"

"What a hijab is, you idiot!"

At that moment the doorbell rang yet again, and Connor ushered in Farhan, who was accompanied by four young ladies. "Good evening, everyone," Farhan exclaimed beneath an enormous grin. "These are my friends, Lorna, Susie, Bobbie, and Theresa."

At this Connor put in, "Ladies, please make yourselves at home. There are drinks in the kitchen, and I'm just about to put out the hors d'oeuvres. Let's party!"

It was quickly apparent that things were off to a great start. Everyone mixed pleasantly, and eventually they got around to singing Happy Birthday to Anna. Over the course of the evening they all became pleasantly tipsy, during which it developed that the girls were apparently students at Boston College.

Elspeth had no idea what the group had to do with Anna's birthday, but she had reached a state of inebriation wherein she didn't really care. That is, until she noticed Billy and Farhan having a private conversation in the kitchen.

Shortly thereafter Billy suggested that they play a game.

"A game? What sort of game?" Elspeth inquired.

"I was thinkin' we should play poker, boys against the girls," Billy said.

"I say, great idea!" Connor put in, adding, "I'll play!"

"Me, too," the other guys echoed.

Lorna then agreed, "I'm in. What about the rest of you, ladies?"

"Me, too," Susie, Bobbie and Theresa spewed simultaneously.

At this Elspeth spluttered, "What are the rules?"

Billy propounded, "Five card stud, boys against the girls."

"Okay, but how do we keep score?" Elspeth queried suspiciously.

"I don't know," Billy murmured pensively, but then his face lit up, much too quickly in Elspeth's opinion, and he suggested, "I know! Let's make it simple! Let's play strip poker! Whenever a guy wins a hand, the girls take something off, and vice versa when one of the girls win a hand! After all, it is a birthday party, and surely someone is bound to end up just like the day they were born! It's all the rage around campus, you know!"

At this rather absurd suggestion Anna blurted, "Sorry, I have to beg off. It's against my faith."

"Oh, come on, Anna," Farhan interrupted, "Islam is five thousand miles from here. Come on, this'll be fun! Besides, tis your birthday party!"

Obviously irritated by this irksome development, Anna stared at him vehemently and muttered, "Listen, I'll just watch, and we'll see how it goes, okay?"

Connor now spoke up, saying, "Well, I don't know..."

Elspeth had drunk just one drink too many, prompting her to respond decisively, "Count me in!"

"Are you quite certain you want to do this, Elspeth?" Connor queried in apparent bewilderment.

Elspeth narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, then exclaimed, "Listen, buddy boy, I'm not your personal property. If I want to strip and walk down the street buck naked, it's none of your damn business. I'm playing strip poker whether you like it or not!"

At this rejoinder, Connor blushed and responded, "Okay, okay. Sorry I spoke. I suppose I'll play as well."

Seeing as how there were so many cards to be dealt, they scared up two decks of cards and mixed them together, after which the game got underway. The girls lost the first hand, prompting the removal of some insignificant articles. Meanwhile, Anna cowered in the corner, silently considering leaving her own birthday party.

Unfortunately for the boys, the girls won the next three hands in a row, prompting all of the boys to remove shoes, socks, and shirts. Things were suddenly getting interesting.

The boys won the next hand with a straight flush, and the girls doffed another insignificant item.

The next hand went to the girls, and the boys were suddenly down to undershorts.

But then the boys won three hands in a row, and all of the girls were down to bras and panties. The next hand would surely unveil heretofore hidden treasures on one side or the other.

But the girls won the hand, and the boys were obliged to remove their undershorts. Unwilling to accept defeat, Bobbie suggested one more hand with the promise that the boys would line dance if they lost, to which the girls unanimously agreed.

Elspeth won the hand with two pair, at which point the boys all stood up to dance for the girls. Within seconds the four girls from Boston College doffed their remaining clothing, and suddenly everyone was naked - that is - everyone except Elspeth and Anna.

Horrified by the sudden turn of events, Elspeth quickly gathered up her clothes and, together with Anna, she raced for the door.

As she tugged the door open Connor called to her, "Where are you going, Elspeth and Anna? We haven't even cut the birthday cake yet!"

Without so much as glancing over her shoulder, Elspeth replied, "I thought you knew me better than that, Connor. Don't bother calling me to apologize." And with that she slammed the door behind her.

"Come on, Anna," she blurted, "Let's get out of here. There was something really fishy about that party."

"Yeah, I think the whole thing was a setup," Anna suggested, "Connor must've used my birthday as an excuse to set up the whole scam in an attempt to get you naked. And I'll bet they paid the other girls to strip in hopes you'd join in. Frankly, they didn't look like very virtuous types, if you get my meaning."

At this Elspeth raised one eyebrow in shock and responded, "My goodness, I believe you're right, Anna. Thanks for sitting out. I'm not sure I would've had the guts to go it alone."

"Oh, it's nothing, but I'd like to know just what it felt like to you."

"Like what felt like?" Elspeth murmured vacantly.

"What it felt like to take your clothes off in front of a bunch of guys," Anna retorted.

"Weird! Weird is all I can say," Elspeth mumbled, "Anyway, I didn't really show that much. I've worn less at the beach."

"Yeah, but you were only one hand from compromising yourself, Elspeth. And if you'd lost two more hands, the boys would've won, and you'd have been naked as a jaybird!"

"Oh, that was never a possibility."

"What? How so?"

"You forget, Anna – I'm a math major – I counted cards."

"You cheated?"

"No, counting cards is not cheating, Anna."

"But how in heaven's name did you count cards with two full decks?"

"I don't know, it's just really easy for me. So you see - there was no chance the girls would lose."

"Then why did you play?"

"Good question. I thought about it, and I realized that if I didn't play, those poor girls were bound to lose. In my misplaced wisdom, I thought I was simply looking out for them."

"Oh, I see..."

"Anyway, as it turned out, it didn't make any difference. They ended up naked anyway, perhaps even on purpose, as you suggested."

"I never want to see Connor or Farhan again, Elspeth."

"Me either, but there is one saving grace, Anna."

"What's that?"

"We now know that both Connor and Farhan are not to be trusted."

Early May

**Elspeth picked up the ringing phone and inq** uired, "This is Elspeth. Who is calling?"

"Elspeth, tis Connor," the voice responded.

"I told you not to call me!" she screamed into the phone, and with that she reached forward to slam it down on the table.

But she heard him say, "Elspeth! Please don't hang up on me! Tis important!"

Dragging the receiver back to her ear, she inquired, "What? What's so important?"

"I'm going home, Elspeth. I'm going home for the summer," he replied morosely. "Please, can I see you before I go?"

"Are you coming back in the fall?"

"Yes, of course," he responded.

"Well, then, I shall consider speaking to you then. At this moment, I'm afraid it would serve no purpose for us to see one another."

"Please, Elspeth, I must speak with you," he replied.

"Well then, do so!" she spat into the phone.

"No, not like this," he moaned, "In person!"

"Out of the question," she posited.

"Elspeth, I'm so sorry. I messed up. Can't you see your way to give me another chance?"

"Doubtful, highly doubtful, but at the moment there is no chance whatsoever. You may telephone me on your return in September, and perhaps by then I will have had a change of heart. As I said – it's unlikely - but there it is nonetheless."

"I understand," he murmured disconsolately and, heaving a discernible sigh, he added, "I shall telephone you in the fall, Elspeth. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Connor."

