“Quentin-dear, it’s so good to see you.” She pulled off her gardening gloves. “Kim just put out lemonade in the garden. Shall we?”
As if he had any choice. “Of course, Mother.”
“I was going to come into the office,” she said, leading him out of the garden house, “but I felt this is a private matter properly discussed at home.”
Quentin made no comment at her assumption that he, too, would consider the Winston house his home. She gestured to the chair at the white iron table he’d occupied since boyhood, and he sat down obediently, letting her pour two glasses of fresh-squeezed, lightly sweetened lemonade. There was the ubiquitous plate of sugar cookies as well, their sweet smell mixing with the scents of the garden, an unusually large one for Beacon Hill.
His mother withdrew a folded section of newspaper from the khaki jacket she always wore gardening. “I saw this at the pharmacy earlier this morning and decided I should call you.”
She shook the paper open as she handed it across to him, her hand steady, and Quentin tried to conceal his reaction when he saw the two photographs occupying most of the front page of the popular national tabloid. He could feel himself going pale, could feel his stomach begin to burn. The picture on the left was a famous shot portraying the final American withdrawal from South Vietnam. It was seared in Quentin’s mind for all time. There, again, was twenty-year-old Rebecca Blackburn carrying an infant and supporting the weight of a seriously wounded Jared Sloan as she got them all into a helicopter, only hours before communist troops entered Saigon. Rebecca’s anguished expression-of shock, horror, betrayal, grief and determination-had captured the mixed feelings of so many as the nation of South Vietnam ceased to exist, and two decades of American hopes and promises ended.
The photograph on the right was a recent one of Jared Sloan in San Francisco, decking a motorcycle tough who’d insulted his fourteen-year-old Amerasian daughter, looking on from her grandfather’s limousine. Quentin’s gaze lingered on Mai Sloan. He absorbed every detail of her pretty face with its unusual, distinctive features. He could see Tam in her.
Tam…
After so many years, Quentin was amazed that he still felt betrayed by her, still felt such unrelenting sorrow over how they’d lost each other. She’d died that last day in Saigon. Her child-Jared’s child-had lived. “It’s painful to look at, I know,” Annette said tartly, snatching the clipping from him. “How Jared could let such a thing happen…” She broke off with an irritated sigh. “There’s not much of an article. Fortunately, we weren’t specifically mentioned, but they did find out Rebecca Blackburn’s back in Boston. I’m afraid there could be ramifications for us, Quentin. We should be prepared.”
“Mother, don’t be silly. I haven’t seen Jared in years-”
“That doesn’t matter. He’s your cousin. And if the press should learn Winston & Reed had hired Rebecca-and let her go-we could be in for some nasty publicity.”
Quentin doubted his mother would ever let him forget that he’d inadvertently allowed a Blackburn to come under contract with their company. It was the sort of oversight Annette Winston Reed would never make. He said awkwardly, “You know I took care of that problem in as discreet a manner as I could.”
She scowled. “There shouldn’t have been a problem to take care of.”
“Mother,” he said gently, knowing that trying to defend himself would only make matters worse, “I’m confident I can handle the media should anyone want to pursue this story, but frankly, I doubt anyone will. What would be the point? The Blackburn-Winston thing’s been exhausted twice, in 1963 and again in 1975.”
Annette stiffened, annoyed. “Don’t patronize me, Quentin. Your cousin should have considered us when he decided to attack that fellow.”
“I doubt Jared’s even thought about us in years.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that,” she said bitterly. “Nevertheless, you’ll remain alert, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And stay away from Rebecca Blackburn. She’ll only cause trouble.”
“Mother, she’s as much a victim in all this as you or I-”
“A Blackburn a victim?” Annette fell back into her chair with a derisive laugh. “Now who’s being silly?”
Regretting his unthinking comment, Quentin slipped into silence. Once he’d finished his obligatory glass of lemonade and sugar cookie, his mother allowed him to leave, with further promises that he’d do whatever he could to keep her, himself, and Winston & Reed out of the newspapers. He walked back out to Beacon Street, crossing onto the Common and stopping at the Park Street subway station. The vendor there had plenty of copies of The Score. Quentin bought one for himself.
His walk slowed and he felt a little faint, almost sick, as he stared again at fourteen-year-old Mai Sloan. He ’d never even met her. He wished circumstances had allowed him to know his cousin’s daughter. Tam’s only child. But that would have meant breaching the unspoken agreement between his mother, Jared and himself. Jared’s illegitimate half-Vietnamese daughter was his concern. In the unforgiving mind of Annette Winston Reed, Mai was an embarrassment to suffer, not a member of the family. To disagree with that summation would have required more courage than Quentin could muster.
And for his part, Jared seemed content with his exile from Boston, from the Winstons and the world he’d known as a child. There were times Quentin envied his cousin his freedom.
He looked again at the photograph, at Mai’s beautiful almond eyes and her father’s livid face, and he sadly realized there was no one he’d risk injury and the notoriety of his picture in The Score to defend. He wondered if Jared regretted the outburst that had landed him on the cover of a supermarket tabloid, but thought not. Jared had always been one to act on impulse, but he willingly accepted the consequences for whatever he did. Quentin had always admired his cousin’s courage, his ability not to look back.
He threw the tabloid in a trash can and crossed over to Tremont Street, trying to blame the tears in his eyes on the wind. “Oh, Tam,” he said, his voice choked, and flagged a cab, wanting suddenly to get back to work and immerse himself in the present. His mother was right about that: thinking about the past and rehashing it-alone, with friends, or on the pages of a gossip tabloid-would only bring them all more pain and anguish.
Best simply to forget, he told himself, yet already knowing he never would.
Annette pinched off a yellow geranium leaf and crumpled it in her hand, amazed at how stupefyingly dull her life had become. She seemed to be paying for her days of adventure and excitement with a proper late middle age. She’d always thought she’d die before she resorted to potting geraniums. And she was only sixty. Life was unmerciful.
Throwing down the leaf, she smoothed the tabloid front page on her worktable and allowed her gaze to linger on Mai Sloan. She was a pretty girl-talented, smart and mischievous, the brief article had said. She took clay and gymnastics classes, had lots of friends at the San Francisco public high school she attended. Annette’s older sister, Martha, had tried to interest her in the child when she was just a baby, showing off cute pictures and telling stories, but Annette had let her know she wasn’t about to forget the shame Martha’s son had brought onto the family. She’d had to be quite brutal about it. Like most people who found themselves pushed up against Annette’s will, Martha had chosen to retreat. Annette remembered her sister’s last words on the subject: “How can you blame an innocent child?”