Everyone, sooner or later, sits down to a banquet of consequences. R. L. Stevenson

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. R Frost

If you love someone, set them free; if they return, set them on fire. G. Carlin

Those who practice the same profession recognize each other instinctively, so do those who practice the same vice. Marcel Proust

Health of Salmon & of Trout—that swim near the bull’s mouth; don’t ask for saucepan or mug, down the hatch—drink it up” Irish Toast  

Picture: Medea flees Corith for Athens, in chariot pulled by 2 of Helios’ dragons.

March 17, Eire Indigo. The task fell to Martin to tell his father he’d never again see his daughter Dea Brentain; she’d joined his first wife in the hereafter. Mitchell and his daughter had a nuanced relationship, one of polite distance combined with a curious occasional antagonism. Martin was the favored son; Dea the contrarian. Mitchell sat in the wing back chair closest to the fireplace in his study. A heavy scotch green and sky blue plaid blanket covered his legs, which were propped on a plump, tobacco colored ottoman. His stroke weakened left arm rested in his lap. He smiled wanly as his son, daughter in law, and his first wife’s parents leaned over and greeted him. With his good hand he motioned his guests to sit, and not fuss over him.

            Mitchell’s wife Caresse wiped a faint, rougy lipstick smudge from her husband’s lined cheek, gently brushed her jeweled hand through his thick grey hair, and adjusted the embroidered pillow placed under his damaged left arm. His eyes locked lovingly on this woman who continued to amaze him. She was his fleur de lis, his French bijou, and since his stroke, she had become his devoted nursemaid. She looked exactly as he remembered her upon their first meeting, nearly 30 years ago, in the crowded antique shop on the Rue Royale in New Orleans.

            Deandra also eyed the petite, impeccably coifed and attired women who had replaced her daughter, and married Mitchell Brentain barely a year after Aubra’s untimely death. Mitchell and Caresse had produced a daughter, Chantel, who, if memory served, had married a Frenchman who owned a pitifully small, dilapidated chateau outside Dijon. They had produced a set of twins and a pile of never ending bills of repair, which Caresse often paid out of their joint accouts. Deandra amusedly wondered if Caresse was pleased she was to soon be a grandmother.

            Her grandson was obviously not prepared to deliver the sad news of Dea’s death to his ailing father. Mitchell did not look well. The stroke had occurred over three months ago, shortly after the holidays. The Brentains could afford the best doctors possible, still recovery had been slow. Across the room, Deandra noted her husband and Milt were deeply engaged in conversation. It was time.

            “Mitchell, you’re looking much improved. I trust you’ll be able to take the news I’m about to give you calmly.”

            Martin interrupted, “Grandee, I thought we’d spend some time talking about what we’ve all been doing. It’s so rare the family . . . “

            “I firmly believe it’s best to get bad news over with quickly. There’s nothing to be gained in putting off the inevitable.” Deandra folded her hands together, and interlaced her fingers. Caresse had been arranging cups and saucers and stopped what she was doing.

“Mitchell, we’re here today because your daughter—my granddaughter, was found dead at her home in Virginia Friday. We’re in Nelline to make arrangements for a private service and . . .” Deandra broke off in mid sentence and watched Mitchell Brentain’s face become suffused with color, while spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth and he tried to speak.

            “Mary, or merry . . .” was the last word Mitchell Brentain ever uttered. He slumped forward in his chair, which rocked slightly from the abrupt shift in weight. Mitchell Brentain was a large man, though the stroke had shaved nearly 20 pounds from his frame.

Caresse swayed on her feet, knocking part of her antique Seville Tea Service to the floor as she regained her balance. She leaped round the table to her husband’s chair. “Mon adorer, mon roi, mon no! Faire venir toute suite. Alors—call a damn doctor—Martin, help me.”

March 17, Lazer Licks: Dea’s office was on the 11th floor. Of the executive offices on this floor, hers was the smallest, although records would reveal Dea was the majority shareholder; she owned nearly 60% of this successful firm. The office was just large enough to contain her custom built mahogany/teak desk and matching coffee table, two carved bombe chests that doubled as filing and storage cabinets, and a burgundy tinted leather love seat and matching club chairs. If you pushed firmly on the leather square in the center of the coffee table, a mini bar popped up. Dea kept it stocked with bourbon, scotch, vodka, and gin. Monogrammed lead crystal rock and martini glasses and a matching monogrammed ice bucket stood sentry on a lacquered tray atop one of the bombe chests. Sodas, bottled water, and juices filled a small mini refrigerator in an alcove corner of the room. The desk had just one slim drawer. It contained the usual assortment of office supplies. Several dozen business books lined the window ledge, and a tall teak and ornamental iron pedestal held a simple wooden bowl heaped with shiny red delicious and lime hued granny smiths.

            A sleek LCD flat monitor and docking station sat catty corner on her desk. She was hard on lap tops, going through an average of two per year. There were no photo’s, framed certificates, or awards adorning her office walls. The only personal touches were a loose, circular arrangement of smooth quartz stones, crystals and nuggets scattered on the desk; an oblong shaped incense dispenser, and seven chunky earth toned candles on a pewter tray perched atop the other bombe chest.

            The twelve story Lazer Licks building was a paean to glass, metal, and sharp lines. The center of the building contained an open atrium. It was filled with mature palm trees and flowering tropical plants, neon red and yellow tables and chairs, and a self service coffee and juice bar. Natural light filtered through a clear glass domed roof high above. Floors 4-7 were typically rented out to several non-profit organizations at a very reasonable price.

            A decade ago, the building had essentially been gutted and renovated. Twin glass and chrome bullet shaped elevators occuppied premier space near the front of the building. To access the top two floors, one needed a special key. Corridors spider webbed out from the elevator to triangularly shaped work cubicles and narrow offices with floor to ceiling glass walls. A few offices sported dark drapes or metallic blinds. Wave shaped conference rooms were located on three of the 12 floors. Original, starkly modern art work was calculatingly placed opposite elevators on each floor. It was among the more impressive office buildings Eam had seen, though it was not to his personal taste. Theo commented there was too much wasted space—it resembled a place that only someone with a name like George Jetson could enjoy.

            The receptionist directed the detectives to a spacious conference room on the third floor that Tallin had reserved for the detectives to use while conducting interviews. Floor to ceiling silver blinds were pulled across the length of the clear glass walls to afford them privacy. The detectives were escorted to Dea’s office. Uniformed officers had already fingerprinted her office. They noted the laptop was missing from its docking station, and they couldn’t find a rolodex, day timer, or much evidence to indicate what Dea actually did, whom she typically talked with, and who might have seen her most recently. The escort commented galley proofs and sketch ideas for future shows were often pinned to the walls. Today only a single index card was thumbtacked to the wall. It was a reminder timesheets were to be electronically submitted by 10 am Friday to Accounting.

            After three hours of interviewing, it was clear to Eam Langley was right. Dea was a woman people felt strongly about. They either loved, feared, or disliked her—no one was indifferent to the woman who had worked among them for nearly a decade. He’d have to finish his interviews tomorrow; some co-workers were so upset over news of her death they’d been sent home. He was particularly interested in talking to two colleagues: Lloyd Hammersmith, an anchor for the news show Eyes on Everyone, who took the news of Dea’s death particularly hard; and Olivia Sibylla.

Tallin Anders said he knew little about Olivia. She was a generously sized woman who dressed conservatively and kept to herself. Dea had hired her the previous year to do research, and attend briefings and meetings Dea didn’t or wouldn’t attend. She always appeared on time, fully appraised of a project’s status. She could be counted among those who cared for Dea Brentain. It was nearly three fifteen. If he stopped now and dropped Theo at the station, he’d have just enough time to meet Langley at 4 pm at the bar where she said she always celebrated Paddy’s Day…

Tiki Bar, Washington DC. Around noon, Langley ordered a double VSOP cognac and asked Casey to throw in one each of the fruits marinating in the garnish tray. Without a word, he plunked them in, shoved a dish of bar nuts towards her, and went to wait on other customers. She raised her glass and looked around this Hawaiian inspired pub. Sunlight pointed out the bar’s many flaws─the stained carpeting, worn bald in places; the dust encrusted carved wooden masks; and the faded Hawaiian mural depicting Pei Lai in her glory, rumbling and spewing fiery, red cinders. Langley thought about the first time her mother introduced her to the sanctity of the barroom, and the delights of being served endless glasses of ginger ale or juice, laced with bright red grenadine, orange slices, pineapple chunks and syrupy cherries. Her drink was always topped off with a green cellophane straw and tissue paper fan.

            “You cheater!” Langley muttered into her drink.  “I won’t cry for you. Did you do it to get back at me for something I did or didn’t do?  For not choosing you?  Geneva and Martin, despite being childless, have been more loving than you ever were. What you offered made little sense. Is this another damn gesture I’m supposed to figure out in a few years? 

            Were you ever happy mother?  You said you had a miserable childhood after your mother died.  None of your husbands pleased you.  I wonder if my father might have—whomever he was? I can’t believe you’d leave me.  “No!”Langley uttered aloud.  “Just what am I going to do with your damn dog?”

            Casey leaned across the bar.  “What’s that you’re saying? Whorra, what will you be needing now to go with your tipsey fruit salad missy?” 

            “I’ve got to go to Eire Indigo and visit grandads. He’s not been well. Grandee’s at Draigteine. I imagine she’s riding bareback atop her high horse. This is all mother’s fault. She just . . .  Mother’s the ultimate bitch, and….  They think she’s dead, Casey. It’s not true, can’t be.”  Her voice cracked, her limbs stiffened, but she wouldn’t cry.

            Casey smiled crookedly, arched his brows and set down the glass he’d been polishing.  “You’re in a foul mood, Missy, wishing your own mother dead.  Why, just last week, she told me  . . .”

            “L-i-s-t-e-n to me,” Langley leaned over the bar and waved her arm at Casey. She spoke the next words very slowly, as if her mouth was full of tiny pellets.  “Mother’s been pronounced dead.  They said she did it, that she killed herself; it’s not true.  I saw a body; it wasn’t hers in the car—all burned up. Now the body’s missing, and Terroir too, but they say they have their proof. That it WAS mother’s body. Well it wasn’t, and I’m going to prove all those imbeciles wrong.” She flopped back down in her seat. Her arms dropped to her sides, her shoulders slumped.

            “Langley girl.  Is it the truth you be telling?  Your mother─dead?”

            “Yes. No. I don’t know.  The Lorries found her─Frieda did. She said she was already dead. Frieda and mother couldn’t stand each other, but Frieda could never have gotten mother into the car. Then there was this awful fire. I’m amazed it didn’t all blow up everything—but just the garage burned down.” Langley chugged her drink and selected a fat slice of lemon to suck on. “They’re conducting an investigation; it hasn’t been ruled a homicide. This detective, Eam Able—we’ve been working together .  .  .”

            “Who would this Frieda be?”

            “Her neighbor, Casey. She used to babysit me—a long time ago. You know, I’d put real money on Corbert or Perry. Slime buckets, both of them.  You started to tell me about mother visiting you last week. What did she talk about?  Was Mickey with her?”

            “Whorra, whorra, that’s enough questions to make a sober head spin. Here, sip this one slowly. And eat some of those nuts. I’m going to order a toasted cheese sandwich for the likes of ya. You’ll eat every bit of it, you will. Last week your mother was here with someone from work. She was buying rounds of drinks to celebrate some story they’d just produced about women artists and athletes of long ago. Your mother was saying their achievements were considered little more than hobbies then. She went on and on about how it twas all about the men back then. She said women only made headway the very decade she was born, though it was slow in coming.”

            Ach, and she talked about what a beautiful, graceful dancer you were. That you might have had a career in the theatre if only the men were taller. They were here for just a wee hour or so. I went in the back to fetch a jar of olives and when I returned, they’d vanished—both em. Never said a by your leave. She left far too much cash on the table. It was a bit odd—I admit. Your mother always said her proper good byes.”

            “Did the man she was with have sandy blond hair, and a pair of teeth that sort of snapped into view like the letters Vanna turns over in Wheel of Fortune?”

            Casey chuckled. “He did indeed.”

            “That was probably her boss Tallin. Why won’t she hang up the frigging dancing slippers all ready? I did years ago. Damn Duncan. And double damn mother.”

            “Now, now, none of that malarkey. You canna say what it means. That’s for the men in blue and gold. Surely, they’re investigating all the folks your mother had a talent for twisting the ropes on. Anyone that knew your mother would know she couldn’t kill herself. . . .   I canna believe anything short of murder. Tis a black day for us all if it’s true. What have our blue and gold sons of the peace done so far?”

            “Not frigging much. The body’s gone. They don’t know who set the fire, or who visited mother the day of the fire. We got some information from Frieda. She saw a car pull up, but for once wasn’t snoopy enough to see who got out of the car, or her view was blocked. Go figure. Merde.  I’ve got to think.  Pour another wee brandy, Casey, and pour one for mother too, VSOP. And one for yourself.  I want to do a toast. Ready Casey?”

            Here’s to mother—no other could do what she’s done;

            Eye of fig newton and warthog of frog

            She’s disappeared, and stole the damn dog! Slainte!

            “That’s better. Damn it Casey, I’ve got to concentrate. Turn off the tura lurid music. I’m officially in semi mourning, starting now.” Langley rubbed her forehead and tucked a blonde streaked lock behind an ear. She stared at a page of a notebook in which she’d jotted some notes earlier, and tried to make sense of what she’d written. Don’t bother me until I need another round, then just pour.  Deal?”

            “Sure, sure missy. I’ll be fetching that sandwich now. You’ll eat every bit, or I’ll be relieving you of those keys. Leave some of that liquor for the poor thirsty devils who’ll be here later. Thinking’s good. Coffee is even better.”

            “All right, Casey, you talked me into it. Let’s have a round of Irish Coffee’s.”

            Eam arrived on time, to find a slightly tipsy Langley holding court at the bar, though her words were at times muddled, and everything others said caused her to giggle. He flashed his badge and talked to Casey for a few minutes. Together the men helped Langley off her perch and into Eam’s police issued town car, parked in the loading zone directly opposite the Tiki bar’s entrance. He told her he was delivering her, as a personal favor, to her grandfather’s home, Eire Indigo, and promised Casey she’d be well looked after.

            Perhaps it was just as well that during the three hour ride from DC to Nelline County, she slept a dreamless sleep. Shortly before they arrived, Langley woke and guzzled most of a bottle of water. She sounded sober, but was annoyed she’d been driven out of state without her consent. The house was brightly lit, both inside and out, but there was no one to greet Langley. It fell to Caresse’s maitre d’ Pascal to provide Langley and Eam with the reason why no one was home. They were at the hospital. Her grandfather had suffered another stroke. Her grandea was expecting her at Draigteine for dinner. She started to argue and tell Eam to take her to the hospital, then back to DC, when Pascal added, Mr and Mrs. Jones were already there. Her room (Dea’s former room) had been readied. A reservation was being held for Mr. Able at the nearby Coach House Inn.

            As they turned to leave, Pascal asked them to wait une moment. A waning golden hued moon gazed down upon them, and a wisp of a cloud resembling some bovine creature moved from left to right across the moon’s surface. Langley stared back and uttered a sound half grunt, half amusement. “The last time mother visited Grandee’s must have been three years ago, when she returned from Greece, newly married to Scanlon. They’d argued, mother, Grandee, and Grand Sebastian. Mother said the next time she’d visit Draigteine was when the cow goddess jumped over the moon.” Eam’s eyebrows arched.

Pascal returned and handed Langley a message card. A Mr. Griffin Northfield had rang for her, and would try to reach her later. There was no call back number. As they walked back to the car, Langley remarked she didn’t know any Northfield’s, though the name kind of sounded familiar.

“My parents owned a few cows, though I’ve never seen any of them run, let alone jump. Did your mother tell you stories about cow goddesses?”

“Lots; there’s Boann—the river Boyne’s named after her. Her name roughly translates to white cow. She supposedly had an affair with Dagda, an Irish god, but mother said they got it wrong. Something, however, upset her greatly. She fled to Kildare and happened upon an ancient well, surrounded by nine hazel trees. After dancing tuathal or widdershins round the well, the water surged out and rushed over the land towards the sea. Boann was swept away and absorbed into the very waters she freed. Then there was Flidais, a witch or cailleach, who owned a magical herd of cattle that fed an entire army.”

Eam interrupted Langley and asked for directions to Draigteine. Langley told him to drive to the end of the road and make a left. “Maybe mother’s done what Scottish cows do.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Make another left. We’ll take the longer, scenic route to Grandee’s. In the highlands, cows would be driven into the hills and released to graze from spring to fall. As you pointed out, they’re never in a hurry. Most eventually found their way home when the weather got nippy. Mother will turn up like the cows that come home from the highlands.”

Langley stared out the window. Eam knew nothing about Irish sacred cow goddesses. The only one he was familiar with was Greek Io, daughter of King of Argos, who was also a river god. Jealous Hera turned Io into a cow after her consort Zeus made love to her. Io was hidden from Zeus and tormented by gadflies; she became the proverbial mad cow. She found her way to Egypt, where Hera wasn’t welcome. Zeus turned her back into a human and they had two children , both of which became famous. Later, she married Telegonus, an Egyptian King. Their grandson, Danaus returned to Greece with 50 maidens, called the Danaides. Eleven generations later, one of Io’s descendants, Heracles, would marry Deianira, Dea’s matriarch.

*** ### *** ### ***

Draigteine (Dragon’s Lair), Nelline County, PA (Tuesday). Viv and Governor were shown into the O’Hennessy’s crystal and mirror vaulted conservatory. Their bags were sent to their guest room and unpacked by the house staff.  Though the dull weather outside the enormous windows knocked tree branches round like the chattering teeth of a ventriloquist’s dummy, a fire burned cheerily in the oversized fireplace. Its flames cast brilliant shadows, which scampered like carefree children across the tall panes of glass. The effect was startling—and unnerving.

            Without waiting to be served, Viv headed to the large, grey marble buffet table, which served as a dry bar, replete with ice, mixes, olives, onions, perfectly sliced fruit, and decanters of scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, and champagne in an icy bucket. She sloshed ice and bourbon in one cut crystal tumbler and ice, lime, tonic, and a generous measure of gin into a tall sleek Collins glass. Viv grabbed the drinks and sank down in a plumb chair a few feet from the fire place.

            “Cher, how can a house so opulent, with such a beast of a fire, feel so frigging much like a meat locker? Does a night at one of those fine Super 6 or 9 Hotel’s sound good to you Gov? Whenever Dea and I stopped here, we both had the sense to linger no longer than necessary. Now we’re here for two days, and not a clue closer to knowing what happened. Funny—I recall exactly what we did the last time Dea and I were here. That was three years ago.”

            “Deandra brought us into the Morning Room to show us her newest acquisitions—some thousand year old Greek urns and vases she’d purchased to show off her rare hothouse orchids, possibly the very ones arranged right over there Gov. How those delicate flowers survive this ice box of a room, I can’t say. There was a gala the following weekend in Philly Deandra wanted Dea to attend. She said it was unfortunate vases Aubra brought back from England decades earlier had gone missing. These would simply have to do. She escorted us back to the entrance hall and then whooshed off. Dea was particularly quiet; her lips were ashen. She grabbed my hand and we ran back here. Dea studied one of the urns for several minutes.”

            “She turned it over and over, then looked right at me. I glanced at the figures of what looked like two warring women. Dea’s face lit up like the back end of an 18 wheeler. She murmured something about a message her mother left her. She scribbled a note, and offered some flippant comment about Grandea’s persistent need to impress the old line Philadelphians. It was a poise, she said, since Deandra’s opinion of Americans in general was they remained a nation in diapers—a nation ‘of incontinents’ compared to those of the ‘continent.’ I didn’t understand. Then she asked me if I’d mind flying back to DC alone.”

She offered a lame explanation about needing to return to Eire Indigo—to do some digging—literal or figurative, not sure which. I forgot all about that day—until now. I never asked her what it was her mum had said. What a tragedy for Dea—to have lost her mother so young. That’s when I noticed a major change, after that last visit. She didn’t call me for weeks after she returned. She took several week long trips and wouldn’t tell me where she’d been.”

            Viv paused and took a sip of bourbon. Gov gently squeezed Viv’s hand. “She’d lost weight. Remember Gov, I told you I thought she’d been seeing him again, but she denied it. She stopped opening up to me like she used to—and yet, I think she wanted to share something important. Damn it. Our poor Langley.”

            “We’re here for our girl. We gots to convince her Dea’s dead, cause a disappearance is more disturbing than a death. The disappeared should at least issue a notice: moved to limboland. You went to Dea’s house Sunday night. What did you find? She must have written about that visit.” Gov got up and refreshed their drinks.

            “Darling, that’s what so exasperating. Her journals are missing. The three of us searched the house, but found nothing of consequence, though the detective barely gave us an hour to snoop. Mark my words, my hoodoo bones says that man’s at the bottom of this. Maybe we should get on the next plane and pay Griffin Northfield a visit.” Viv raised her eyebrows and took a deep swallow of bourbon. A draft of cold air swept into the room. Footsteps resounded on the Spanish tile floors in the hallway.

            Langley appeared at the entrance to the conservatory; she tore off her coat as she ran across the room—and into Viv’s arms, sobbing, gulping air. Governor Jones wrapped his arm around the two women and waited for Langley to tell him what had her so upset. Viv stroked her hair. Gov handed her a starched white hankie, and the rest of Viv’s bourbon.

            Langley swallowed the contents. “It’s Granddad. He’s had another stroke—at the house. He’s unconscious, in intensive care, and may not pull through this time. I just came from the hospital. It’s all mother’s fault.”

“Baby, how is it your mother’s fault? It was your Grandee that spilled the news.” Viv gently tilted Langley’s tear stained face, and smoothed her hair.

“What? Then it’s both their fault. Damn them. I’m not staying here tonight. I’ll stay at grandad’s.” Langley grabbed the bottle of chilling champagne. She poured a generous amount into a tall high ball glass and hunted in her bag for her cell phone.

Margaret fluttered into the room. “Ah, Miss Langley, poor dear. Your great-grandmother instructed me to bring you to her as soon as you arrived. Please, come with me, dear. We don’t want to upset her further.”

Langley took a delicate sip and raised the glass to watch the bubbles descend, like filtered water in an aquarium. “This is mother’s favorite drink. The first time she served me champagne, Margaret, she asked me to make the toast. I said, none too originally ‘champagne witches and cavalier deeds.’ Grandee doesn’t want to talk about cavaliers. She wants her witchy wishes to…”

Viv jumped up. “Take a good, deep sip baby and pour me a glass, cher. Margaret, I’ll bring Langley to you in a few minutes.” Margaret tried to insist until Gov got to his feet and pointed towards the door.

Langley dutifully poured Viv a glass and nodded to her mother’s oldest friend. “I’m leaving after I finish this drink. Trust me; it’s not a good idea for me to see Grandee tonight. I’m going back to the hospital. I’ll stop by Grand Sebastian’s study on the way out and explain to him, or leave a note. What in bloody blazes was she thinking?”

*** ### *** ### ***

Monday am. For several hours, Finn had scanned Dea’s journal entries from the 80’s, learning about her empty marriages and inner struggles, realizing just how much he had, in absentia, remained a part of her life. Some of the words made Finn squirm—intimate details of the life she’d forged while she remained hidden from him. No, that wasn’t fair. She left him because she learned he was married to Meredyth, a sin of omission. Perhaps she sensed, even then, how married he was to Dame Ambition as well. That’s what he’d believed for decades. There was nothing in the journals to discount that notion. Their life together—what would the reality have been?

            It was early morning. He had managed 4-5 hours of sleep. The skies outside Heathrow resembled the carroty colored crepe suzette fillings he’d barely touched a few nights ago at a business dinner near Soho. Damn he was hungry. He needed to stretch his legs. Perhaps he’d peruse the buffet and indulge in a full English breakfast, everything from scotch laced porridge and kippers—to scones with clotted cream and a brimming bowl of ripe pineapple, cherries, grapes. He slid his room key card into the journal he’d been reading to mark his place, donned his airport purchased attire and baseball hat, and went downstairs.

            The open eating area was quiet. He ordered a pot of coffee and a large juice, loaded a plate with food, and dug in. Dea had prefaced the section he was about to read with a brief note.

Dearest Finn, are you wearying of reading these entries that trace the sometimes gaudy fabric of my life? Please keep reading—please stay hidden. You’ll soon understand what set all this in motion—what necessitated me doing what I did, why I did it, and why we couldn’t be together. We were both caught in a warring feud thousands of years in the making…if only we could all return to the before time, to the night we kissed and our tongues spoke the same language, shared the promise of pure love, raw honesty.

But we are creatures that put ourselves into the mix to learn, to love and be loved, to fathom the unfathomable. Like Socrates and Diotima, we long for what completes and evolves us, whether we admit it or not. Ironically, my marriages weren’t about completion. They all served a purpose, until….Finn scanned the next few pages, reading excerpts from each of her marriages, written in a curiously objective journalistic voice. She’d been introduced to her Belgium husband through her stepmother Caresse. Corbert owned restaurants, raced cars, and could have been a professional tennis player, were it not for a hip injury from a nasty car crash on the Moyne Cornish, not far from where Princess Grace met her untimely death.

The marriage was impulsive, a quick civil ceremony held less than three months after they met. They spent more time apart than together that first year. When he opened his first American restaurant/nightclub in Washington DC and they began spending more time together, they fought almost daily. Quelque Chose Nouveau was a hit. The restaurant consisted of 20 white linen covered tables with a bar in the front section of the restaurant, and a dozen intimate, curtained booths in the back. They were rumored to be a great favorite of politicians wanting to hold clandestine meetings and business men entertaining their paramours. After 9pm, starched tablecloths were removed, and tables were pulled to the side. The front of the restaurant became a dance floor. There was often a three piece jazz ensemble or a sultry cabaret singer performing in an alcove opposite the bar, and the occasional DJ.

Corbert had an outrageous idea for another restaurant in NY City. Customers would be seated in airplane like seats. Food would be served on tray tables by scantily clad men and women wearing abbreviated flight attendant uniforms. They were trained to entertain and insult customers. Corbert was sure his customers would love the concept. He had tried, to no avail, to convince Dea to invest. Socially, he seemed to alternate between wanting to show off or humiliate her in public. Dea thought it ironic she’d initially been attracted to him because of his arrogant, self-possessed attitude. She enjoyed listening to the lively banter between her all too French stepmother and Belgique speaking spouse. Corbert got along well enough with Langley, though between boarding school, ballet, and weekend trips to Pennsylvania, there were few interactions.

Finn pushed away his empty plate and resumed reading. Langley, apparently, was subject to accidents. Dea was often chastised about spills and bruises the child suffered. They wanted Dea to take away her bike and pogo stick. Martin had tattled this time; he frequently badgered Dea to move to back to Nelline County. She was sympathetic to her daughter’s accidents, commenting one skinned knee barely scabbed over before she fell again. It took ages to ensure all the reddish Virginia dirt and grit was removed.  She was stoic about the doctoring. Her chin quivered in a funny, waffley way, but she never cried. Grand Sebastian had sent Dea putty like plasters to apply. It eased the sting and protected knees and elbows. As a reward, Langley got to choose her favorite takeout from a Georgetown Vietnamese restaurant: crisp Spring Rolls dipped in nuck-mon, garlic toasted medallions of chicken breast sprinkled with lemon grass and tarragon, with tiny ears of corn. For dessert, it was always a waxed container of caramelized bananas and two scoops of honey vanilla ice cream.

Dea wanted to stay home that night, to comfort Langley and ruminate about how she and her brother had grown distant. Her only family ally was Grand Sebastian. Corbert insisted they go out; it was too late to cancel on a potential investor, and there was a late night engagement party for one of his friends. She laughed when Corbert chose her attire, a lavender sheath and matching stilettos, and an emerald and lavender piano scarf. Dea had cancelled the babysitter, though Langley insisted she was too old for one. Vivian agreed to spend the night with Langley at Dea’s Georgetown townhouse.

She wrote Corbert’s over the top behavior that night resulted in her filing for divorce the very next morning. There’d been copious amounts of liquor drunk in celebration of his friend Ernesto’s upcoming nuptials. She idly wondered what his bride to be would say about Ernesto’s eclectic furnishings. It was a sea of leather, glass, primitive art, and animal skins.  Something to offend everyone!  Splashes of color were provided by prints of buxon nudes with crimson lips.

Drinking did not soften Corbert’s mood that night. He had squeezed Dea’s arm after a few drops of red wine accidently splashed on his lapel and berated her throughout the evening. He wondered what else the scoundrel had done. The investor they met earlier had not committed to a cash outlay for his new restaurant concept, despite Corbert’s blatant lie that he already had several investors, including his wife. Around 1 am Dea discretely snuck out a side door, removed the painful stilletto’s, and ran three blocks in bare feet to hail a taxi. A page was ripped from her journal. He wondered what else had happened.

That she was able to dissolve the marriage without a hitch was surprising. Did Dea threaten to expose some scandal she uncovered? The server brought him another pot of coffee and cleared his table. He asked the waiter if the kitchen would make up a plate of sandwiches he could bring back to his room, and fumbled in his wallet for the right amount of pound notes. As the waiter walked away, Finn saw, not ten feet away, a business associate, who fortunately, hadn’t yet seen him.

He contemplated if secrecy was really necessary. He decided to trust Dea’s warning, pulled the rim of his cap lower, and reached for his sunglasses. He rose and walked towards the elevator banks, then stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting in a lounge chair between the reservation desk and the elevators was one of his own security staff. It was a perfect vantage point to observe everyone entering and leaving. Finn rode the elevator to his floor while holding Dea’s notebook and the box of sandwiches at chin level. He was running out of time. He’d better step it up.

The rest of that journal described her surprisingly platonic, amicable, and longest marriage (of nearly seven years) to Dr Jergen Bellamy, a tenured Professor at a DC University. It also touched on her early, short lived marriage to Carl Moore at 17 1/2, which had ended a few months before Finn and Dea met. She hinted that what he would read in the next journal would provide some of the answers he’d been seeking.

The next book was larger, tabloid size, written on individual parchment sheets with a few 8×11 inserts. There was an embossed picture of an ancient women and a dog on the cover. Undernearth were the words La Route eu d’ombre (a black road) & Terre Magique (a magic land). He read the hand written insert:

Dearest Finn: It’s time, though there’s much more to digest and comprehend. You’ve been reading about unfulfilled years. I trust you remain safe—and hidden. You must accept what you read next, the words of my esteemed ancient ancestor, Deianira, after whom I, and one woman in each generation of our family are named.

If you recall your Greek classics studies, you’ll realize my ancestor, born 1,111 generations ago BCE, was a phenomenal woman and demi-goddess. These are her words, which my dear daimons have translated. Deianira understood Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Hebrew, Gaelic, and a host of other languages. History scribes and tale tellers have badly misrepresented her. She, and the powerful forces set in motion at her birth millenniums ago, are responsible in part for what happened to us. You will understand in full, I promise. Please Finn, read all of Deianira’s words. They explain why Meredyth is, was, and will always be a deadly threat to both of us.

You must get to a safe place—leave England. You’ll find nearly a thousand pounds between sheets 10-13, and a ferry ticket. Get to Holyhead, and take the last ferry to Dublin Monday pm. You’ll be contacted while in route by a man who will tell you the exact words I said to you when we last met, when you asked about our future together. Trust him. He’ll give you a new passport, provide a disguise, and help you reach a safe haven where you can read the rest of Deianira’s story. My daughter may need your help, your counsel, and steely nerves. All will be explained. Prepare for your life to be forever changed.

*** ### *** ### ***

Meredyth a deadly threat? Did that mean his father in law was also a threat? Damn shame, he liked the man far more than he liked his wife. However, that might explain why a member of his security team was planted in the lobby. Finn glanced at the hotel clock. It was ten past eleven. He would need to leave soon. Exit through the kitchen as he’d seen done in countless movies, hail a taxi at the airport terminal. The long, crinkley sheets of parchment called to him. First, he needed to get to Holyhead.

Aboard the ferry, he glanced at every person he passed on the crowded ship. Dare he assume he’d pulled off the transfer without being spotted? Finn grabbed a container of bitter black coffee, choose a seat towards the back corner of the large public area, and began reading Deianira’s story:

There once existed an in-between place of distinct, wild splendor deep in the honeycombed hills of Greece—nestled betwixt the Pindus and Olympus mountains. It was hidden from the world by glamoured mists, hidden from those unable to envision enchanting landscapes. It was a place where magic thrived, where the air crackled with dynamic energy. I lived beneath skies capable of dissolving you, sucking you into an infinity of being. Here nature’s creatures vibrated at levels able to render startling results, which some would call aberrations or mutations. They were, in fact, metamorphoses. Their legends are real—not true, but real.

From here once issued two headed lizards with breath hotter than temple fires on feast days, randy goat hoofed men who could intoxicate mortals with ecstatic sounds from their pipes. Our lithesome necked birds had feathers strong as steel. When angered or hunted, they discharged poisonous excrement that polluted crops and ponds. These birds also laid eggs, which when cracked, returned fertility to land, no matter how barren and impoverished the ground appeared. The place of my birth was a land of contrast and contradiction, not far from the lofty mountains where the gods lived to keep watchful eye over mortal beings.

Over 5000 years after I began my odyssey from the place of my origin, I returned to await the one whose labors and sacrifices would right the imbalance that has consumed my lineage and kept me trapped in this world. For it is true, an odyssey always returns you to where you began.

Tomes by scholars and creative myth makers have recorded I was born in the kingdom of Calydon, a city nearly 200 miles away, and the first of many errors. Is it not strange that we lay out a life like a flat map? The topography of what I did and what was done to me was anything but flat. Perhaps only the currency by which I paid for the experience of living and challenging the fates was two dimensional. Mortals, with few exceptions, do not comprehend their journey and destination begins long before they utter their first lusty cry, which asserts I am.

That is why I was tempted to forgive her long ago—my immortal enemy—because others had set her journey in motion. It was not to be, forgiveness or healing between us—or between our families. She pursued me with the passion of the Erinyes, those chthonic wraths who destroyed those they deemed to have committed unforgivable crimes. She torn at the very fabric of my life, like the merciless Harpies and minions of Hekate. Her descendants have relentlessly pursued you into present day. Her name is Medea, daughter of King Aeetes of Colchis, whose grandfather was Helios, god of light; and Hekate, a great, dark goddess born of Titan parents. Aeetes and Hekate’s descendant in the 20th century is Meredyth Hearne Wynn-Lennox Northfield. Know this name. Medea’s descendant will not stop until she destroys you or herself in the attempt. You must destroy her first and end this fatalistic feud.

Finn threw down the loose sheet of parchment. What madness, what utter…where did this name Hearne come from? He gazed up to see a white haired man dressed in a navy pea coat and a tweed Irish driving cap standing next to the table where he sat. The man’s arms were folded across his chest.

“Now are ye beginning to get the picture? Dea sent me. I’ll get ya to safety lad. She said to tell you…” The man leaned over and whispered into Finn’s ear the exact words Dea had uttered when last they me.

Finn lowered his head, slightly dizzy, slightly nauseous. His forehead adhered to  the parchment paper.

“Tis no time to be having vapors. I need to get you into some proper Dublin attire afore we dock. Put those dangerous documents back into your valise. Put the valise into this duffel.” The man swiped the baseball cap off Finn’s head, tossed it into a nearby trash bin. He handed him a gray and navy woolen newsboy cap. “Up with ye lad. Once we get ye sorted and fed, you’ll have the rest of the day to read.”

Next up: P2 (Royals, Rivals, & Riveting Bacchanel’s) Chapter 9, Value Lies in What Something Costs Us Nietzsche quote