The Last of the Stanfields(33)

“Are you hungry? I can go down to the corner shop and buy us something for dinner, for example.”

“That sounds great. You and I are long overdue for a one-on-one.”



Just after getting off the phone, Michel turned to Vera Morton and announced that his sister was on her way.

“Would you be very cross if we were to share this meal that you’ve prepared with my sister?” Michel asked Vera.

“No, not in the least bit. It’s just that I hadn’t really thought she’d find out about us like this.”

While the way Michel spoke could sometimes lack subtlety, his eyes were a dead giveaway. Vera instantly understood. She grabbed her jacket, checked over the table, and returned the wineglasses to the cabinet. After all, Michel would have never thought to put those out on his own. Everything now sorted, Vera took her leave.



I rang the doorbell, and my brother appeared in the doorway, wearing a kitchen apron, of all things. Without a word, he ushered me into the living room, where the surprises just kept on coming. I never imagined he’d go to such trouble for me. He slipped into the kitchen and returned with a piping-hot casserole that he placed carefully on a trivet. I sat down and lifted the lid. Steam wafted up toward my nose, and my stomach growled in response.

“Since when do you know how to cook?”

“Unless I’m mistaken, this marks the first time you’ve ever visited before leaving. Or should I say, before leaving in such a hurry. Thus, I thought long and hard after receiving your call, and naturally concluded that something was wrong, something you didn’t wish to speak of on the telephone. And that’s why you have come. A logical analysis.”

“Sure, but even a logical analysis can be wrong. Especially with a sister as complicated as yours.”

“Yes, that’s correct. And yet—”

“And yet,” I interjected, “everything is fine, love. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

Michel stared up at the light fixture hanging above us and took a deep breath. “And yet . . . you didn’t want Dad or Maggie to hear what you have to tell me. There’s something wrong with your logic.”

“My advice for the duration of the evening is not to dig too deep for logic, because I can assure you there’s none to be found here. But don’t let that bother you. I came because I have a secret to tell you. You weren’t totally off the mark; I’m not really leaving for a story, even if I did manage to bill the whole thing to the magazine—which, I admit, wasn’t the most honest thing to do, but it’s for a good cause. And I’ll still write the dumb story, or at least I’ll try.”

“None of that makes any sense. Where exactly is it that you’re not going for your magazine?”

“Baltimore.”

Michel rubbed his chin. “Intriguing. Cecilius Calvert, second Baron Baltimore, was the first governor of the Maryland colony. Did you know there is a coastal city in southwestern Ireland of the same name? Why not simply go to that Baltimore? It’s far closer.”

“I didn’t know any of that. Remind me—how do you know so much?”

“I read often. Books, mostly.”

“Well, I’ll never understand how you manage to remember so much.”

“How could I forget something, if I’ve read it?”

“Most people do. But, hey—you’re not most people.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Of course it is, just like I tell you every time.”

Michel served me a nice chicken wing from the casserole dish, opting for a thigh himself, then looked me in the eye and waited for more.

“I’m leaving . . . on a search to find Mum,” I told him.

“That’s wonderful, although I’m afraid your search could be fruitless, as I’m rather convinced she’s not in Baltimore. In fact, no one really knows where dead people go. Certainly not into the sky; it could never support the weight. For my part, I favor the theory of an alternate dimension. Are you familiar with the alternate dimension theory?”

I laid my hand on Michel’s forearm to cut the tangent short, staring right at him so he would listen to my every word.

“It was just a manner of speaking. I’m leaving on a search to find Mum’s past.”

“Why, did she lose it?”

“No, but she lied about it. She never told us much about her youth.”

“That’s probably precisely the way she wanted it. I don’t believe it’s a very good idea to go against her wishes.”

“I miss her as much as you do. But I’m a woman, so I need to know who my mother really was . . . to finally be able to grow up, or at least to be able to understand who I really am.”

“You’re my twin sister,” he said, as though the answer was clear as day. “Why Baltimore?”

“I’m supposed to meet somebody there.”

“Someone who knew her?”

“I assume so.”

“And you, do you know this someone?”

“No, I don’t have a clue who it is.”

I told my brother about the letter without revealing any of its specific contents. I didn’t want to worry him, and I knew it didn’t take much to knock Michel off-balance. Instead, I concocted a beautiful little fantasy, using the art of embellishment that I had come to master as a professional necessity.