6: Reunion

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Arial" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id53.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="1: New Orleans"><U><B>1:  New Orleans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id54.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="2: Mary Margaret"><U><B>2:  Mary Margaret</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id55.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="3: Rumrunners Row"><U><B>3:  Rumrunners' Row</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id56.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="4: Speakeasy"><U><B>4:  Speakeasy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="5: Sys Deal"><U><B>5:  Sy's Deal</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>6:  Reunion</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U><B>7:  Disaster</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id60.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="8: Petofi"><U><B>8:  Petofi</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id63.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="9: Cuddeback"><U><B>9:  Cuddeback</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id64.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="10: Angelique"><U><B>10:  Angelique</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id65.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="11: Making Plans"><U><B>11:  Making Plans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id66.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="12: Chicago"><U><B>12:  Chicago</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U><B>13:  Nora</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id68.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="14: The Gypsy"><U><B>14:  The Gypsy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="15: The Trap"><U><B>15:  The Trap</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="16: The Gift"><U><B>16:  The Gift</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id71.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="17: Beth"><U><B>17:  Beth</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="18: Together Again"><U><B>18:  Together Again</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id75.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="19: Petofi Strikes"><U><B>19:  Petofi Strikes</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U><B>Taking Wooden Nickels</B></U></A></div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>6:  Reunion</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> Quentin sprawled, face down on Dave's bed.  He wasn't really asleep; he'd passed out after watching Ruth drive Jamison away in the car.  It took a long time for the pounding at the door to penetrate his senses.  He opened his eyes slowly, thinking that maybe the pounding was in his head; he'd really had too much to drink. He didn't remember how or when he'd gotten here. He lifted his head and squinted at the clock.  It looked like it said 2.  The pounding at the door became louder, more insistent.</div> <div>      "Okay, okay," he called out.  "I'm coming."</div> <div>      The pounding stopped.  He sat up and swung his legs over so that his feet were on the floor.  The room tilted and spun crazily and then settled down.  He wondered who would be trying to knock the door down this time of the night.  Couldn't be Dave--this was his room, and he was probably still playing with the band.  When he felt pretty sure he could walk across the room without falling on his face, Quentin got up and made his way over to the door. Pulling it open, he said, "Yeah?"</div> <div> Two uniformed officers were standing there.  Little alarm bells went off in Quentin's head.  He tried to remember if he'd put his flask away.  He tried to remember if he'd left anything out in plain sight.  What can I do for you, gentlemen?"  he asked, hoping he wasn't slurring his words.  "I was sleeping-it's kinda late, isn't it?"</div> <div> "Yes, sir, we're sorry to disturb you," one of the officers said politely, obviously ignoring the fact that Quentin had been drinking.  "Are you Frank Scott?"</div> <div> "Yes, I am.  Why?"  The alarm bells were getting louder.</div> <div> "Mr. Scott, there's been an accident.  I'm sorry, we think they might be friends of yours."</div> <div> "What are you talking about?"  The fog seemed to be lifting, but Quentin was feeling confused.  "What accident?"</div> <div> "A car went off the road a couple of hours ago.  There was a couple in it-they're at the hospital.  We don't know who they are.  We couldn't find any identification.  But the gentleman had a piece of paper with your name and this room number on it in his pocket."</div> <div> Quentin was suddenly stone cold sober.  "Jamison!"</div> <div> "We'd like to take you to the hospital with us.  We need your help to identify them."</div> <div> "Let's go.  How are they?"  Quentin asked, pulling the door shut behind him.</div> <div> "Well, it was a pretty bad crash, Mr. Scott.  They're hurt pretty bad."</div> <div> Quentin felt fear for Jamison and Ruth rising in him.  He stopped long enough to scrawl out a message for Dave at the main house and then followed the officers to their car.  He felt a moment's hesitation, remembering the last time he'd been in the back of a police car, but then put it out of his head and climbed in.  "What happened?" he asked as they sped away.</div> <div> "They must've missed a curve," one of the officers explained.  "Car went off the road and hit a tree. The car's all smashed to bits."  He stopped and looked back at Quentin's pale face.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Scott.  They friends?"</div> <div>      "Family, if they're who I think they are.  I don't understand.  Ruth's a careful driver.  We called her and asked her to come and get Jamison because of that."</div> <div>      "Well, the road twists and winds around.  It's hard to take those curves even if you're experienced with these roads.  Then you add in the fact that it's dark."</div> <div>      Too busy having a good time to think about that, Quentin thought, berating himself.  The curving road--and his guilt--combined with the alcohol in his system and he felt nauseated, worrying about what condition Jamison and Ruth were in.  He wondered where the nearest hospital was, but they were soon well on their way down the Parkway.     Apparently, they'd been taken to a hospital in the city.</div> <div> When they arrived, a doctor and a nurse met him and the policemen.  They took him to a waiting room and sat him down.  One of the policemen spoke quietly to the nurse, who left and then returned with a cup of steaming black coffee.  She offered it to Quentin, who accepted it gratefully.  "Tell me," he asked the doctor.</div> <div>      "They were both seriously injured when they were brought in.  They'd lost a lot of blood."</div> <div>      "Will they be all right?"</div> <div>      "Well," the doctor hedged, "we need to take the gentleman to surgery.  He had some serious injuries to his face.  Unfortunately, he seemed to have drunk a lot so we were afraid to give him any anesthesia.  We were afraid he would stop breathing."</div> <div>      "So you're waiting for him to sober up?"  Quentin asked.</div> <div>      "A few more hours.  We're trying to keep him as comfortable as possible.  He's got a broken leg and hip, and a dislocated shoulder.  We did manage to get his shoulder back in its socket."</div> <div>      "My God, what happened?"</div> <div>      "Apparently, they lost control of the car and hit the tree head on.  The gentleman was actually very lucky, and perhaps being drunk is what saved him."</div> <div>      "What do you mean?"</div> <div>      "He was thrown about the car like a rag doll.  He hit the windshield and then slid under the dash of the car.  The impact of the crash pushed the engine through the center of the car.  It just missed crushing him.  I guess if he'd been sober, he'd have been killed outright," one of the policemen explained.</div> <div> Quentin looked at him, horrified.     "Can I see him?" he asked finally.</div> <div>      After a moment, the doctor answered.  "Yes, you may.  You're family?"</div> <div>      "I think so."</div> <div>      "Would you mind if we made sure first?  We need to find the man's family--"</div> <div>      "Of course.  You want me to identify him for you?"</div> <div>      "Yes, shortly."  The doctor stopped, trying to choose his words carefully.</div> <div>      In the silence, Quentin asked, "What about Ruth?"  As the doctor struggled for the right thing to say, Quentin suddenly knew the devastating truth.  "Oh, God!"  He cried out.  "She's dead?"</div> <div>      "I'm sorry, if these really are your family members," the doctor said with sympathy.  "It's possible they're not.  We don't know who they are.  It would help us a great deal if you would identify the young woman for us."</div> <div>      Quentin covered his eyes with his hands and shuddered.</div> <div>      "Mr. Scott, I have to prepare you.  She was very seriously injured.  We couldn't save her.  There really was nothing we could do.  She died very soon after arriving here."  When Quentin didn't move or respond, the doctor went on, "You'll need a few minutes.  When you're ready, we'd like to take you to her.  We really need your help.  We need to contact the rest of the family."</div> <div>      Quentin drained the hot coffee.  It burned his throat going down, but he didn't care.  "All right.  Take me to her."  He thought she might be in one of the rooms nearby.  He was shocked when he realized that they were going to the morgue.  His knees almost buckled, but he forced himself to keep going.  Images of Ruth went through his mind: Ruth dancing with Jamison, sitting and joking with them, singing while he played the piano and Dave played the trumpet, teaching her little daughter Elizabeth to dance, the loving glances between Jamison, Ruth, and Elizabeth.  Lively, loving, beautiful Ruth. Loving wife and mother--and possibly mother to be again. How could she be dead?</div> <div>      It was so cold in this room, and they were standing before a draped table.  The doctor looked at Quentin questioningly, and he nodded.  The doctor pulled the sheet back.  Quentin wasn't ready for what he saw.  He remembered Ruth the last time he saw her, only a few hours ago--her lively, lovely face flushed with radiance even as she teasingly scolded him.  He remembered the feel of her arms around him and the touch of her lips on his cheek.  He saw her lovely, thick dark brown hair, clotted with blood now, and her face….  This couldn't be her!</div> <div>      He wheeled suddenly, feeling his stomach lurch and heave.  He tried to make it to the door but was unable to control himself.  He doubled over, losing everything he'd consumed in the last couple of hours.  The nurse was supporting him, helping him into the hall.  "I'm sorry," he gasped when he'd recovered.  He was aware that there were orderlies scurrying around, one to clean up his mess, and the other bringing him a cup of cool water.  Somehow, he was sitting in a chair in the hallway.  The nurse had a cool wash cloth and was wiping his face.</div> <div>      "It's a shock, Mr. Scott," the policeman said with compassion.</div> <div>      "I should have been a little more explicit about the extent of her injuries," the doctor added apologetically.</div> <div>      "I-I can't look at her face again," Quentin said, distraught.  "It doesn't look like her.  She has no--" He stopped, unable to go on.  He closed his eyes as if to push the image out of his mind.  He was afraid he would vomit again.</div> <div>      "Do you remember what she wore tonight?  Would you recognize her ring?"  the policeman asked.</div> <div>      "Yes, yes," Quentin answered, still distraught.</div> <div>      "You don't have to look at her face, Mr. Scott.  Would you look at her hand or at her dress?"</div> <div>      Speechless, Quentin nodded.  He didn't want to go back there.  He knew he had to, though.  Again, they all went into that cold room.  This time, the body's face remained covered.  The doctor uncovered only one bloody arm.  Quentin could see her left hand, the wedding band, and the dress.  He knew it was she but he still couldn't believe it.  His mind replayed the last few minutes he'd seen her.  She was smiling, shaking her finger at him, and scolding him in a teasing way.  He remembered again the light brush of her lips on his cheek.  "Thank you for looking out for Jamison.  He shouldn't drive in this condition.  Go to bed now.  We'll call you tomorrow."  No, you won't call now, Quentin thought.</div> <div>      Aloud, he said, "That is my nephew's wife, Ruth Collins.  Can we leave now?"  He had to get out of there.  He went into the hallway, breathing deeply.  When the others joined him, he looked up and asked, "Can I see Jamison now?  Will he look like that?"</div> <div>      "He's had injuries to his face, not as seriously," the doctor answered.  "His jaw is broken in three places.  We need to perform surgery to wire his jaw and repair some of the deeper injuries to his face."  When he saw Quentin's face blanch further, he asked in concern, "Would you like to sit down?  Have a little more coffee first?  Give yourself time to prepare yourself?"</div> <div>      "No, no," Quentin answered.  "I want to see Jamison."</div> <div>      "Mr. Scott, I should also tell you that he is in a great deal of pain.  We have tried to alleviate some of his discomfort, but I want you to understand that we have to be careful about giving him too much.  He's had so much to drink--"</div> <div>      "I understand, I understand!"  Quentin snapped.  It was his fault Jamison was so drunk.  Why did they keep rubbing it in?</div> <div>      The doctor may have sensed some of what Quentin was thinking.  He put his hand on Quentin's shoulder.  "You were all together this evening, Mr. Scott?  You were having a good time, enjoying yourselves.  No one could have foreseen this."</div> <div>      Quentin looked at him gratefully but didn't say anything.  They left the morgue and took the elevator up.  Quentin was led to a room and brought inside.  There was a man on the bed, groaning softly.  Quentin went to the bedside and realized that, although the face was swollen and distorted almost beyond recognition, he was looking at Jamison. Dried blood crusted his eyebrows and mustache.  Drops of blood was splotched across his face.</div> <div>      "I'm sorry we weren't able to wash him off," the doctor said.  "He fought with us considerably."</div> <div>      "This is Jamison," Quentin said softly.  "Jamison Collins."</div> <div>      At the sound of his voice, Jamison stirred and partially opened his eyes, looking for the source.  He tried to focus on Quentin's face.  "Quentin?"  His hand came up.  Quentin grabbed his hand and held on to it.</div> <div>      "I'm here, Jamison.  Don't try to talk now."</div> <div>      "Pain--" Jamison gasped.  "They won't give me anything."</div> <div>      "I know.  I'm sorry.  But they will, Jamison.  I'm going to stay with you, Jamison.  You'll be all right."</div> <div>      "Pain--" Jamison moaned again.</div> <div>      Quentin looked appealing at the doctor, who shook his head no and said: "We'll give him something before we take him for surgery."</div> <div>      "Mr. Scott?  Where does your nephew live?  We want to contact his family," the policeman said.</div> <div>      "Of course," Quentin said.  "He lives in Collinsport, Maine.  You'll have to call his father, Edward.  I can give you the telephone number. I think Ruth's parents live in Collinsport, too. Her maiden name was Healey."  He paused, thinking.  "Their names are--Roger and Frances Healey.  She's got some relatives on Long Island that they were staying with--John and Ellen Healey, in Glen Cove. There's other relatives-- I don't know them all.  Maybe Edward Collins can give you that information."  He gave the phone numbers.  The policeman scribbled busily.</div> <div>      "And you are?  What did your nephew call you?"</div> <div>      "I don't know," Quentin lied.  "My name is Frank Scott." He began to panic.  "I would rather you not tell Edward Collins I am here," he went on.  The policeman looked at him curiously.  " He doesn't--ah--approve of me.  I think he'll be devastated when you call.  I'd rather not upset him any more than he needs to be.  You see?"  This, at least, was the truth.  The policeman believed it, and nodded.  Quentin looked at the doctor.  "Can I stay here until his father comes?"</div> <div>      "I don't see why not," the doctor said.  "You might have a calming effect on him.  We won't be able to perform the surgery for another few hours.  Can you use anything?  More coffee?"</div> <div>      "No, thank you." The doctors withdrew, and Quentin forced himself to look at Jamison again.  "I'm so sorry, Jamison," he said softly.  Jamison didn't respond.  Whether from pain or alcohol, he'd drifted off again.  Still holding his nephew's hand, Quentin sat down on a chair by the bed and rested his head on his other arm.  He could stay for a few hours, at least until they took Jamison in for surgery.  After that, he would leave--before Edward arrived.  He shut his eyes, exhausted.  Maine was far away.  It would be hours and hours before Edward would arrive.  In spite of the shock and the horror he was feeling, he fell asleep without meaning to.</div> <div>      A movement in the room woke him up.  He sat up abruptly, feeling disoriented.  There were several orderlies and nurses in the room with another stretcher.  Jamison was very still.  "We're taking him for surgery now, Mr. Scott," the nurse explained when Quentin sat up.  "He's sleeping.  We gave him a shot, and he went right under."</div> <div>      Quentin was about to ask how long the surgery would take when he heard more people approaching.  There was some kind of argument in the hall.  Then he heard a very familiar voice say firmly, "I will see my son NOW!"  Before Quentin could make a move (his first thought was to dive under the bed), the door swung open and Edward was in the doorway.  They stared at each other, both of them frozen with shock.</div> <div>      He's gotten so old, Quentin thought.  But, of course, he should have--it had been almost 30 years since he'd last seen his brother.  Edward had lost a considerable amount of weight and was rail-thin, his shoulders stooped.  He was totally bald except for a fringe of white around his ears.  His usual stern expression had been wiped off his face as his eyes locked with Quentin's.  "My God!"  he exclaimed.  "Quentin!"</div> <div>      "No, ah--ah--y-you're m-m-mistaken," Quentin stuttered, trying to think up a lie and failing miserably.  He jumped to his feet, unable to control his panic.  He looked wildly around the room, looking for a way out.</div> <div>      Edward didn't answer him.  He walked into the room, toward him, and then held his arms out.  Quentin hesitated, confused.  He looked at Edward's face again, and saw that the old man's lower lip was trembling.  "Quentin," Edward said again, softly.  Quentin took a tentative step toward Edward.  His brother walked forward to meet him and pulled him into an embrace.  Quentin put his arms around his brother, too.  Edward felt so thin and fragile and brittle.  Yet, he pulled Quentin close to him.  "I never thought I would see you again," Edward whispered.</div> <div>      Quentin was too overcome to speak.  He couldn't remember the last time his brother had hugged him; it felt good.  After a moment, Edward stood back to look at him more closely.  "How is it possible?  I don't understand--"</div> <div>      "I-I don't think we should talk about it now," Quentin said, his voice thick with emotion.  "Jamison's going to have surgery."</div> <div>      Edward turned his attention to Jamison.  Everyone had stopped to watch what they assumed was the reunion between a prodigal son and father, but now they were busily moving Jamison's body from the bed to the stretcher.  Edward staggered a little, and Quentin grabbed his arm and elbow to support him.  "Tell me what happened and what they're going to do now," he commanded.  Although his voice quavered, it still had the same tone of authority Quentin remembered.</div> <div>      The doctor was there, explaining.  He told Edward about Jamison's broken jaw, about the glass still imbedded in his face and chest, about the shattered leg, and about the surgery.  Edward's face worked with emotion but he controlled himself admirably.  "May I have some time with him before you take him for surgery?"</div> <div>      "Yes, of course, Mr. Collins.  He won't be able to hear you, though.  He is completely under right now," the doctor said.</div> <div>      Edward nodded and moved toward Jamison, now lying on the stretcher.  Quentin backed up and edged toward the door.  Edward noticed the movement and turned to look at him.  "I don't want you to go," he said.  It wasn't a request.</div> <div>      "I'll-ah-just give you some privacy, you know, I'll, ah, wait outside--" Quentin said.</div> <div>      "No, Quentin, I don't want you to run away.  Please.  Stay."</div> <div>      Quentin stopped moving, and looked down at his shoes, resigned.  He didn't see Edward caress Jamison's face and didn't see Edward lean down to kiss his son on the forehead.  He straightened up and nodded at the orderlies, who began to wheel Jamison out of the room.</div> <div>      "How long do you expect the surgery to take?"  Edward asked.</div> <div>      "Several hours at least.  You may wait in our lounge, of course, and we'll try to make you as comfortable as possible..."</div> <div>      Edward waved his hand.  "I have secured rooms at this hotel," he said, handing the card to the doctor.  "If you would be so kind, have someone call me as soon as my son is out of surgery and I will return."</div> <div>      "Of course, Mr. Collins," the doctor said.  He looked at Quentin.  "Mr. Scott--" he began.</div> <div>      Edward interrupted.  "'Mr. Scott' will accompany me back to my suite."</div> <div>      The doctor nodded.  "We'll call as soon as your son leaves the operating room.  Expect to wait at least four hours."</div> <div>      "Thank you, doctor," Edward replied gratefully. </div> <div> The doctor hesitated, then reached down for a bag.  "Mr. Collins?  This bag contains the clothing your son was wearing when the accident occurred.  They're unusable-shall I have them disposed of?"</div> <div> Edward held his hand out for the bag.  He opened it and pulled out Jamison's shirt, which was torn, bloody, and riddled with glass.  He blanched and put the shirt back in the bag, rolling it closed.  He handed it back to the doctor and said softly, "If you would be so kind." He looked at Quentin, who felt panicky again.  "Mr. Scott, if you would come with me, we'll return to my suite."</div> <div>      Quentin would've preferred to bolt, but he nodded and followed Edward into the hallway.  He fought down his feelings of panic.  There were many questions he never thought he'd have to answer.  This was his fault as well, and he wasn't sure he could continue to face Edward.  His feelings were in turmoil as well.  He remembered the angry brother, the one who had seemed so contemptuous of him, the one who seemed to hate him.  He didn't know whether this brother would prove to be the same Edward.  Or had he changed as he'd aged?  </div> <div>      Neither man spoke in the elevator, both apparently struggling with their thoughts and feelings.  Edward was moving more slowly but with no real loss of his old confidence.  He led Quentin to a waiting limo, and they both climbed into the back. Edward gave the name of the hotel to the driver and then looked out the window.  Quentin's hand went to his mouth, chewing his nails nervously.</div> <div>      "I thought it would be better to wait at the hotel," Edward began conversationally.  "I've brought Elizabeth and her nanny with me.  They won't let the child in to see her father of course, but she wanted to be close by.  I didn't feel I could deny her that, what with Ruth--" he stopped abruptly, his voice choking with grief for the loss of his beloved daughter-in-law.  He looked over at Quentin.  "Stop that!" he said, more harshly than he intended.  Quentin jumped.  "I'm sorry," he said immediately, putting his hand on Quentin's arm.  "The shock--I still can't get over it."  He was looking at Quentin very closely.  "How is it possible that you haven't changed at all?  You look like the boy who left all those years ago..."</div> <div>      "It's hard to explain, Edward," Quentin began.  He started to bite his thumbnail again and then stopped, flexing his fingers nervously instead.  "It's a long story.  You won't believe it."  He laughed a little.  "I wasn't even planning on being here when you arrived, you know.  I fell asleep, I guess.  I didn't think you'd be here for hours, though.  How did you get here so fast?"</div> <div>      "I contacted an associate of mine as soon as we got the call--he has a converted Junkers. He flew us down immediately," Edward explained.  "It's strange--we were already up when the call came.  Elizabeth had had a nightmare.  It's so very odd--she knew that Ruth was dead.  She said that Ruth had come to see her."</div> <div>      Quentin looked at Edward.  "Do you really find that so odd? In view of everything that's happened?"</div> <div>      Edward sighed heavily. "I suppose not.  There are so many things I don't understand and never thought were possible.  Everything I believed about natural order in the world changed during that year before you left."  He looked at Quentin again, and his eyebrow shot up.  "'Mr. Scott'?"</div> <div>      Quentin laughed uncomfortably.  "Just one of my many aliases.  I go by the name of Frank Scott right now."</div> <div>      "Frank Scott?  Does that have anything to do with that wastrel writer?  Really, Quentin!"</div> <div>      "Well, it happened to be convenient at the time," Quentin said, shrugging.  "And I didn't feel I could very well use my own name, under the circumstances."</div> <div>      They were pulling up to the hotel.  "Are you hungry?"  Edward asked solicitously.</div> <div>      "Actually, I'm starving.  I haven't had anything to eat since early last evening."</div> <div>      "Well, we'll go up to the suite and order breakfast.  Then perhaps you'd like a bath and to rest for a while.  We'll have plenty of time to talk."  Edward said.  "I brought clothes down for Jamison.  You may borrow some of his things.  I think you'll feel more comfortable."  Quentin nodded, gratefully.  Edward smiled a little.  "Imagine you telling me that I was mistaken!  Imagine you could possibly think I would forget or not recognize my own brother!"</div> <div>      Quentin didn't know what to say.  He followed Edward into the hotel, where they went up in an elevator to Edward's suite of rooms.  There was a living area, with two connecting bedrooms.  Elizabeth, who had been sitting in a rocking chair looking at a book, jumped up and ran to meet them.  An older woman stood up--the nanny.  Elizabeth ran into Edward's arms.  "Grandfather!  Have you seen my daddy?"</div> <div>      "Yes, my dear, and he is quite all right.  He said to tell you he loves you and he hopes to see you very soon," Edward lied smoothly, as he knelt down and gathered the little girl into his arms.  Elizabeth looked up at Quentin.</div> <div>      "Oh, hello, Cousin Frank," she said.  "I'm glad you've come to see me again.  My mommy is dead, and my daddy is hurt."</div> <div>      "Yes, I know, sweetheart," Quentin answered softly.  Edward turned to look at him with surprise.  His expression quickly changed to one of mixed betrayal and hurt as he realized that Elizabeth was completely at home with Quentin, which meant he must have seen her on several occasions. Edward stood up, holding the child's hand, and stared at Quentin reproachfully.</div> <div>      Quentin opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped, ashamed.</div> <div>      "Let me show you to your room, 'Frank'," Edward said stiffly. He and Elizabeth led Quentin to one of the connecting rooms.  It had a large comfortable bed, which Elizabeth ran to and immediately began to bounce up and down upon.  "It's so soft, Cousin Frank!  Come and see!"</div> <div>      Quentin noticed the adjoining bath with the tub.  He wanted to escape for a while.  All of this was really too much for him to handle, and he was having difficulty with the fact that he'd really hurt Edward's feelings by visiting the family so often--whenever Edward wasn't around.  "I think maybe I could use a bath," he said lamely, hardly able to look at Edward.  </div> <div>      "As you wish, 'Frank'," Edward responded with studied politeness.  "Come along, Elizabeth, we can see 'Cousin Frank' again in a little while."  He held his hand out, and the little girl immediately ran to him and grabbed it.  She obviously adored her grandfather.</div> <div>      Quentin filled the tub with steaming hot water. It was so hot, he almost jumped right back out again. It was just what he needed, though, so he forced himself back into the water and shut his eyes.  His head was throbbing with a very rare headache.  He almost never got them anymore and when they did occur, they lasted only a short time.  Quentin reflected that his conscience must have been hurting him.  He took the soap and scrub brush and scrubbed himself hard.  He wanted to wash everything away, not just the dirt, but the shame and the guilt as well.  But that just wasn't possible.  Eventually, he got out of the tub and let the water out.</div> <div>      Going out into the bedroom, he looked at the bed longingly.  It looked comfortable, but he didn't think he'd be able to sleep.  Edward had laid out some of Jamison's clothes on the bed.  They were about the same height, although Quentin was thinner and the clothes were a little loose on him.  He thought about lying down for awhile, but his conscience hurt him too much and he doubted he'd be able to rest.  He had to find his brother and talk to him.</div> <div>      Edward was in the living room, sitting stiffly in a chair, reading the paper.  Elizabeth and the nanny, Frances, weren't there; perhaps they'd gone to the park.  Quentin approached his brother and cleared his throat, but Edward didn't look up.  "Edward, I'm sorry.  Truly, I am sorry," Quentin said remorsefully.</div> <div>      At that, Edward put the paper down and looked at his brother. Quentin had expected an angry reaction; he'd expected Edward to be furious and yell at him. He looked wounded, which was worse because that hurt Quentin's conscience more. Edward gestured to the table, on which sat a covered platter.  "You are still too thin.  You said you were hungry so I took the liberty of ordering something for you.  Sit down and eat." </div> <div>      Quentin sat down on the sofa across from Edward and took the lid off the platter.  He still felt uncomfortably guilty, but his stomach was also empty and growling.  The hotcakes and eggs smelled good.  Edward gestured at him to pick up the fork and eat.   "Obviously, you've been to the house on more than one occasion.  You know Elizabeth.  Have you seen Roger?"  Edward asked in a mildly accusing tone.</div> <div>      "Yes, Edward, I--"</div> <div>      "Why did you never come to see me?"  Edward sounded truly grieved.  "All these years.  I didn't know whether you were dead or alive, Quentin.  Do you hate me that much?"</div> <div>      "No, No!" Quentin cried out, dropping the fork.  "No, Edward, I never hated you.  I thought YOU hated me!"  He covered his face with his hands, overcome.  He didn't want Edward to see.  Crying had always been unmanly.  He fought to control himself.</div> <div>      Edward's voice sounded muffled.  He, too, seemed to be overcome and had turned his face away.  "What have we done to each other?" he asked regretfully.  "All these years--what a waste.  We got on much better when you were a small boy."  He noticed Quentin had dropped the fork.   "Eat, Quentin! Please."  He leaned forward a little.  "Do you remember how we got along when you were a little boy?"  It seemed to be important to him.</div> <div>      Quentin thought, picking up the fork again. "Well, I remember you pulled me and Carl around on a sled in the winter.  Taught us how to roll up big balls to make a snowman."  Quentin answered, obediently picking up the fork and attacking the hotcakes.</div> <div>      Edward smiled.  "I remember that.  One year, Carl kept falling off the sled.  I guess you were about six.  It was before Father died."  Edward reflected.  "It was just so hard after that, Quentin.  You and Carl were so young; you needed parents to raise you.  What did you have?  An old lady and a brother and a sister hardly more than children themselves.  I didn't know how to be a good father.  I still don't.  I don't think I ever learned how to do a good job of it."</div> <div>      Quentin was surprised.  "You always seemed so sure of yourself, Edward.  You always knew right from wrong."</div> <div>      "Yes, so it seemed.  Half of it was bluster to convince everyone else and half of it was bluster to convince myself," Edward answered, scoffing at himself.</div> <div>      "Edward!"  Quentin exclaimed, genuinely astonished.  He always thought his brother knew so much when he was a little boy.  Of course, there came a point where he felt Edward was pompous, insufferable and sanctimonious, but he always believed that Edward was confident and in complete control of himself.  Edward knew right from wrong, and Edward knew how one was supposed to behave in any given situation.</div> <div>      "You frustrated me so," Edward said, as if reading Quentin's thoughts.  "It wasn't so much what you did--I think now you were a normal little boy doing normal little boy things.  Perhaps if I had known how to be a better father...Most of the time, I just felt like I was groping around in the dark. I hated to feel that I didn't know what I ought to do. I thought if you would only just listen and follow the rules... Having to deal with Father, too, and his drunkenness-it just made me forget about how little boys behave.  So I expected you to do exactly as I wanted and when you didn't,                                  I couldn't stand it.  I felt then that I didn't know what I was doing after all, and I didn't like doubting myself.  So I beat you to make you listen, and I know I spanked you hardest when I felt the most unsure of myself."</div> <div>      "I had no idea.  You never said anything," Quentin said, marveling.  "I always thought that you knew it all.  I guess I was trying to prove something, too. I couldn't stand thinking you knew everything.  As I got older, I know I went out of my way to provoke you.  I wanted to show you that maybe you didn't have all the answers.  I don't know why it was so important to me to make you angry.  I had no idea you were doubting yourself."  He laughed ruefully.  "Maybe if we'd all have done a little more talking, we'd've gotten on better.  At the very least, it would've spared some wear and tear on my backside."</div> <div>      "We just don't seem to be very effective at communicating," Edward sighed.  "Do you remember the night Father died?  I suppose that was the real turning point for me.  My God, it's hard to talk about it even now."</div> <div>      "All I remember is a lot of yelling, and then he fell down the stairs," Quentin said.</div> <div>      "Yes, well, Father was very difficult when he'd been drinking.  Judith and I did our best to deal with him, but he became quite violent sometimes.  Sometimes, he would attack Grandmama and make the vilest accusations.  I never quite understood the enmity between them."  Quentin thought he could enlighten Edward but decided to keep quiet and let his brother finish.  "He'd had quite a lot to drink, and he was shouting at Grandmama again.  I heard her scream and when I went into the drawing room to see what was happening, I saw he had his hands around her throat again, choking her.  I had to pull him off.  He didn't want to let her go.  He swung at me."</div> <div>      "That must've been pretty ugly," Quentin said, seeing things through his brother's eyes for the first time.  He realized how much Judith and Edward must've protected him and Carl from their father's worst drunken behavior.  Now that he was thinking about it, he remembered Judith herding him and Carl upstairs to the nursery on evenings when Father had come swaying in.  He vaguely remembered his father's angry shouts before his sister whisked them away.</div> <div>      "Yes, it was all very ugly, " Edward agreed.  "Father was throwing punches at me, and Grandmama was in shock, muttering nonsense.  I just wanted to get him up the stairs to bed, something I'd done many times before.  This time, somehow..." Edward paused, obviously troubled.  "I didn't mean for it to happen, you know.  I didn't mean to kill him."</div> <div>      "Kill him?"  Quentin repeated, incredulously.</div> <div>      "Yes, I was angrier than I thought, I suppose.  I was dragging him up the stairs and he was fighting me every step on the way.  Grandmama had followed us out onto the landing, still muttering some kind of nonsense I couldn't understand.  I guess between it all, I must've shoved him and he tumbled back down the stairs."  Edward shook his head and shuddered, disturbed.</div> <div>      "So all this time you've believed that you killed our father?"</div> <div>      "Not on purpose, no.  It was because he was drunk and violent, I know that.  But I should've had more control of myself--"</div> <div>      "Edward!"   Quentin interrupted, distressed.  "You've been living with this all these years?" Quentin looked at him with compassion.  What must it have been like to be Edward then?  He was twelve years older than Quentin was, so he was only 16 or 17 when their mother died.  Then to have had to deal with a drunken father and two small brothers, all before he was really a man--"How awful for you," Quentin said softly.</div> <div>      Edward looked as if he was about to protest, but then his lower lip trembled again.  He put his hand on Quentin's.  "Yes, awful," he agreed in a low voice.  "I'm sorry for what I did to contribute to the bad feelings between us.  I would do everything differently if I could."  Quentin squeezed his brother's hand.  Then he threw his arms around Edward and hugged him.  It was a healing embrace for both of them.  "For whatever it's worth, Quentin, I always did love you--even when I believed I hated you.  About Judith-if you felt that I hated you, you also must have thought she did, too.  If only you could have come back home before she died--"</div> <div>      "I didn't know.  Jamison told me that she asked for me.  He said she said some things-"</div> <div>      "Yes, she wanted to see you again-to make peace with you."</div> <div>      "Do you know what she meant-`I didn't mean it'?"</div> <div>      Edward sighed.  "I think I can explain that. You know, Judith was barely eighteen when Mother died.  She was so very insecure and felt very plain.  She leaned on our mother a lot for reassurance.  She certainly never got any encouragement from Father or Grandmama.  I think if Mother had lived, she might've helped Judith make a good match.  When Mother died, she was just on the threshold of becoming a woman, but she was still so very young.  Like me.  A man, yet not a man."  Edward looked beyond Quentin, out the window.  Remembering was not easy for him.  "We had the arrangements to make.  Yes, Grandmama handled the bulk of it-the estate and arranging for the burials.  Our father was virtually useless.  He was always drunk.  Judith and I not only had our grief, we also had the grief of you little boys.  You didn't understand.  The day to day management of you boys-it fell to us much of the time.  Grandmama was too busy to be concerned although she made a perfunctory effort."</div> <div>      As Quentin listened to Edward speak, his own memories became clearer.  He missed his mother.  He missed his sister Edith.  He remembered looking for them, he and Carl, and crying when they realized they would not be coming back.  He remembered Edward trying ineffectively to comfort them.  He also remembered Judith, who seemed to alternate between giving them hugs and slaps.  He remembered that Edward had said he didn't know how to be a father-well, what did Judith know about being a mother?  She'd known Mother longer-for almost eighteen years.  The loss for her must've been devastating.  Edward was saying, "What I'm trying to get at, Quentin, is that Judith felt terribly guilty about you all these years."</div> <div>      "Guilty?"</div> <div>      "She told me herself before she died.  She missed our mother so, she couldn't stand it and one day she remembered flinging herself on the bed and crying her eyes out," Edward began.</div> <div>      Quentin said softly.  "I think I remember.  I heard her.  I came to see what was wrong with her.  She knocked me down."</div> <div>      "Yes.  At the time, she wished Mother hadn't died.  She wondered why Mother had died and not you.  Then when you came in and she saw you, she felt very badly that she had even thought such a thing.  That's what she meant, brother.  She didn't mean to wish you'd died instead.  I want you to know that in spite of your difficulties, she didn't hate you, either."</div> <div>      "Big brother, I have always heard there's just a thin line between love and hate.  And the opposite of love isn't hate--it's indifference," Quentin said sadly, with much regret for all the unspoken words that could've healed them all.  "And I don't think you should blame yourself for what happened to Father.  There's some things I never told you about Grandmama."</div> <div>      "Oh?  And what do you know about it?"</div> <div>      "Well, I know that she was interested in the black arts," Quentin began slowly, watching Edward's face to gauge his reaction.  Edward frowned.  "That's how I got interested in it," Quentin went on.  "She used me in some of her--in some of the spells and rites."</div> <div>      Edward was shocked.  "Good God!"  he exclaimed.  "Used YOU?  Whatever for?"</div> <div>      "Well, sometimes you need an innocent--a child,"  Quentin explained, wondering how far he should go with this.  Edward looked really horrified now.  "Sometimes it's just easier to channel a spirit's energy through a child because they're more open to supernatural beings."</div> <div>      "How could I have not known this!"  Edward exploded.</div> <div>      Quentin thought he'd better choose his words carefully.  Edward really was angry, and if he knew that Quentin had used Jamison in the same way, well..he didn't want to think about that.  "You were very busy trying to take care of us all," he said finally.</div> <div>      Edward sat back and looked at Quentin, who found he couldn't look back. He dropped his eyes, feeling ashamed and guilty again. "You are being too kind, Quentin.  You mean that I didn't notice.  And you're right.  I should have been aware of it.  I shouldn't have allowed this to happen."  Quentin realized that Edward was berating himself for not being more protective.  </div> <div>      "Edward--" Quentin began.  He wanted to tell Edward that he was taking too much of the responsibility on his shoulders.</div> <div>      "And so?"  Edward interrupted.  "Are you telling me that Grandmama had something to do with what happened to Father?"</div> <div>      "Well," Quentin began and hesitated.  "Edward, you said she was muttering nonsense.  It was probably an incantation."</div> <div>      "Against her own son?"  Edward was horrified again, the anger dissipating in light of this revelation. </div> <div>      Quentin shrugged.  "Something was wrong with Grandmama.  I didn't know all her secrets, but there were things that she told me.  There were things I could FEEL, too."  He paused, thinking.  "For me, it was mostly fun, you know, different.  I didn't really get into the dark end of it, not then."</div> <div>      "And now, Quentin?"  Edward broke in.</div> <div>      "Well, I have an interest still.  I know some things.  I'm curious.  I still play a little, but no, Edward, I don't really get into the dark side of it anymore.  It's too dangerous."</div> <div>      "But how is it that you still--"</div> <div>      Quentin knew what was coming and interrupted.  "Grandmama did get into the dark areas of black magic."  He hoped that would distract Edward from himself for a while longer, although he knew he would have to answer questions about himself soon.  "She cast spells and conjured--spirits.  She'd made some kind of pact with the Devil--" Here Edward's eyes became as large as saucers.  "I don't know what the bargain was all about, exactly.  It did change her from what she was as a young woman to the woman she became.  I think it brought more money and power to the family, especially when Father was so weak and unable to function in the business."</div> <div>      "Incredible!"  Edward exclaimed.  "And you?  You didn't mind that she used you as a--as a--"</div> <div>      "I don't know if I minded or not," Quentin answered truthfully.  "She paid attention to me.  She gave me little presents and said she loved me.  She told me I was her best grandchild for helping her.  I liked the attention, especially since it annoyed you and Judith so."</div> <div>      "Oh, damn!"  Edward exclaimed.  He looked angry again.</div> <div>      "I'm sorry, Edward."</div> <div>      Edward waved his hand.  "No, no!  You don't understand!"  He looked at Quentin sharply and with annoyance, but the anger was directed at Grandmama.  "She used a child for her evil purposes! Unconscionable! If I had only known!"  Quentin decided it would definitely not be wise to confess that he'd done the same thing to Jamison.  Just then, the phone rang.  Edward got up to answer it.  "Hello!"  he barked, still irritated.  He listened for a few minutes, then said in a softer tone, "Of course.  Thank you for calling.  We'll be there shortly."  He hung up.  "Jamison is out of surgery and in the recovery room.  He's come around, and the doctor says by the time we get to the hospital, we can see him."</div> <div>      Quentin stood up.  "I'm ready whenever you are, big brother."</div> <bR> <div>      Jamison was back in his room.  His face was still swollen, but it had been washed.  He looked much better than he had before the surgery.  His leg was up and splinted.  He was awake but calm, so apparently he'd been given more medication to relieve his pain. His voice sounded muffled because his jaw had been wired shut.  He looked back and forth between his father and uncle.</div> <div>      "I never thought I'd live to see this day," he said in his strange voice.  "I'm glad you two have made up."</div> <div>      "Me, too," Quentin said sincerely.  "I'm just sorry it happened like this."</div> <div>      "I don't remember anything at all!  How is Ruthie?"  Jamison asked. Quentin looked away.  Edward had taken Jamison's hand and was patting it.  Neither man answered; both struggled to think of the right words.  Jamison lifted his head, alarmed.  "You're not telling me something!  What happened?  Tell me, now!"</div> <div>      "Son, perhaps you need to rest first," Edward said, finally.  "After all, you've just had surgery-"</div> <div>      "Father, tell me!"  Jamison interrupted.</div> <div>      "Jamison," Edward said painfully.</div> <div>      "Quentin!"  Jamison interrupted again, impatiently and now obviously distraught.</div> <div>      Quentin swallowed hard.  He looked at Jamison briefly and then looked away, pushing the memory of Ruth's body out of his head.  "I'm sorry, Jamison.  She died in the accident."</div> <div>      Jamison's head dropped back onto the pillow and his eyes rolled back up into his head.  "No!  Not Ruth!  No!"  Edward squeezed Jamison's hand and then kissed it, while Quentin moved around to the other side of the bed to take his nephew's other hand.  The two of them, so unused to expressing and dealing with their feelings, struggled to comfort the grieving Jamison. </div> <div>      Quentin returned to the hotel again with Edward once they were sure that Jamison would be comfortable for the evening.  "I should go back to my lodgings," Quentin had protested.  "I need to at least pick up my stuff.  I have friends there--I left them a message, but they'll wonder what's up."</div> <div>      "Call them from the hotel," Edward answered.  "I'll rent you a car.  You can drive up tomorrow and get whatever you need.  Tonight you need sleep.  You look exhausted.  You didn't get any sleep after we left the hospital this morning, you know."</div> <div>      "Yes, Daddy," Quentin said with a smile.</div> <div>      Edward looked at him sharply, realized he was just kidding and smiled back.  "That reminds me--Ruth's parents and brother will be coming in to make arrangements to--well, to take her back to Glen Cove for the services.  I want you to come but I think we'll have to call you by your alias.  You look like my son, not my brother."</div> <div>      Quentin nodded in agreement.  Edward continued to regard him silently, curiously.  "I'll tell you the whole story, don't worry, Edward," Quentin said.  "Just not now, all right?"  Edward's eyebrow shot up, but he shrugged and turned away.   Quentin sat back and relaxed.  He realized he was feeling really and truly contented for the first time in a long time.</div> <div>      In fact, for the first time in a long time, he was able to fall asleep without several drinks first.  He was really very tired and the bed really was very comfortable so he was sure he would get a good night's rest.  Some time in the night, however, he began to dream vividly.  It may have been from all the talking he'd done with Edward.  At any rate, the nightmare began with the appearance of his grandmother.  "This family is cursed, you know," she told him malevolently, looking like an old crone.  "You'll never escape it, nor will Jamison, nor will Edward.  Look what you've all come to so far."  He also dreamed of Magda, cursing him, pointing her fingers at him.  He imagined he felt the pain of the transformation and cried out, terrified, "No, no!"  Worst of all, he dreamed of Count Petofi, that evil being he hadn't thought of in years.  The creature who'd stolen his body and tried to keep it for his own.  "You thought you could forget about me, my boy!  I've been watching and waiting for you all these years!"  Count Petofi said and roared with laughter.</div> <div>      Quentin realized he'd been thrashing around and slowly became aware that someone else was with him, trying to subdue him.  At first, he became agitated and struggled wildly until he heard a soothing voice, "Ssh, ssh, it's all right, you're having a bad dream.  Go back to sleep.  I'll take care of you."  He subsided, allowing himself to be comforted.  He wasn't sure he ever became totally awake.  The dreams didn't return.  When he woke up in the morning, he saw his brother sprawled out next to him.</div> <div> He looked up and thought:  If you're up there, God, thank you.  Thank you for bringing me back before it was too late, and helping me realize I am not all alone.</div> <div>      After Elizabeth and the nanny left the breakfast table, Edward said, "You have some terrible things on your mind.  Don't you want to tell me about them?"</div> <div>      Quentin's first impulse was to lie, but then he remembered how he comforted he felt when he'd woke up.  "Yes, I do, but I don't know where to begin."</div> <div>      "Begin at the beginning.  That's what everyone always says."</div> <div>      "Well, all right, then."  Quentin thought, trying to pick the place where he felt it all began.  "I guess it begins with Jenny--when I--" It was still hard for him to think about, but fortunately Edward understood and nodded.  He began to tell the story carefully, not wanting to tell it all--especially not about Carl and the part he'd played in his brother's murder. He still hadn't forgiven  himself for that.  He told Edward about Magda's curse, his suffering, and all the attempts to end it.  He deliberately avoided the specifics of the curse because he wasn't sure how Edward would react.</div> <div>      Edward was no fool, though.  "This curse--were you the animal that terrorized the family and the town?"  Quentin shut his eyes and Edward covered his brother's hand with his own.  "Something must've happened.  You are not an animal now, and you haven't been for a long time.  Does it have to do with the way you look?  Did you make some kind of pact as you say Grandmama did?"</div> <div>      Quentin sighed.  "No, not with the Devil.  And it was entirely by accident, actually.  It was--do you remember Count Petofi?"</div> <div>      Edward reacted strongly.  "How could I forget him?"</div> <div>      The sorcerer count had victimized the entire family, including Edward.  Petofi had cast a spell on him, and for a month, Edward had believed himself to be a family servant. Quentin had locked him in the tower to protect him from himself.  "Right," Quentin said.  "Well, he has very strong powers, you know, and he had passed some of them on to Charles Delaware Tate."</div> <div>      "The man who painted your portrait," Edward remembered.</div> <div>      "That's right.  You remember Grandmama had commissioned him to paint my portrait.  I don't know if she did it because she foresaw what was going to happen because, you see, it's more than just a portrait.  It seems to have taken on the curse itself.  What I mean is, the portrait becomes the animal, not me."</div> <div>      "Incredible!"</div> <div>      "And the portrait seems to have other powers, too.  It seems that I stopped aging once it was painted."  Quentin let Edward digest this incredible information and then went on.  "I don't get sick very often, and when I do, it doesn't last long.  Sometimes I nick myself shaving, and the cut is gone within minutes.  Sometimes it takes longer--it depends on how bad it is.  I got knifed once in a fight--it was a pretty deep cut.  Within a couple of days, it was like nothing happened.  I don't even have the scar." </div> <div>      Edward was staring in open-mouthed amazement.  Quentin looked away, uncomfortable.  Finally Edward asked, "You are immortal, then?  Incredible!"</div> <div>      "I don't know, brother.  If I am, I don't like it much."</div> <div>      "Why did you run away?  Was it because you thought we hated you?"</div> <div>      "Well, not exactly.  It was more because of Count Petofi.  Do you remember when he stole my body from me?  Put my soul into his body?"</div> <div>      "Ahhh!"  Edward exclaimed, as the memories came back.  "We didn't believe you.  How awful it must have been for you!"</div> <div>      "Awful doesn't begin to tell it.  I was scared to death.  And, you see, once we managed to get our minds switched back, I knew he was going to try again.  In fact, Pansy warned me about it.  She and Barnabas tried to keep me awake one night when he was making a strong attempt.  Petofi knew I was so tired..." Quentin stopped.  "Barnabas saved me.  He put me in a carriage and made sure I got to Bangor.  Then I went down to New York to look for Amanda."  He shrugged.  "The rest is history."</div> <div>      "Barnabas," Edward said, musingly.  He looked at Quentin expectantly, but Quentin didn't want to talk about his cousin.  That was too painful.  He didn't want to talk about Beth or Amanda either. Luckily, Edward asked,  "What have you been doing all these years?"</div> <div>      "Travelling, mostly.  I went to the West Indies, and I've been to Eastern Europe.  Other places, too."</div> <div>      "Did you ever marry again?"</div> <div>      "How could I?  I don't know if I can still spread this curse, or if the portrait took care of that.  I mean, I am not a monk, but I am careful."</div> <div>      "Are you looking for another cure?"</div> <div>      "Well, I have other people to worry about, you know," Quentin said softly.</div> <div>      This time, Edward looked away, ashamed.  "Do you have any contact with your daughter at all?"</div> <div>      "Not directly."  Quentin laughed a little bitterly.  "Oh, I hear about her, all right.  It turns out her husband keeps me informed about the goings-on in Collinsport.  Well, he and Jamison, that is. By coincidence, her husband happens to be an investment lawyer I hired. You may know of him-Fred Bishop?"  Edward nodded. "He doesn't know who I really am, and he tells me things about his family.   I know I have a granddaughter, Margaret Rose.  He sent me a picture of her and Lenore after she was born."</div> <div>      Edward sighed heavily.  "Ah, Quentin," he said, his voice laden with sadness.  "We have so many regrets."</div> <div>      "Regrets, yes," Quentin agreed.  "But hope, too.  And it seems that sometimes miraculous things happen."</div> <div>      Edward looked at him and laid his hand gently on Quentin's face.  Quentin grabbed it and squeezed it.  Spontaneously, they both reached over and hugged each other.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="5: Sys Deal"><U>5:  Sy's Deal</U></A>    <A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U>7:  Disaster</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U>Taking Wooden Nickels</U></A>     <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>