Hooked

I never knew my dad, though I’ve been told that I’m a lot like him — my blond hair, my Swede blue eyes, my fascination with swords (I begged for fencing lessons way back when I was just five years old). And my temper. Oh yes, the infamous Stuart temper. Through the years I’ve tried to learn more than these few surface facts about my dad, but I am increasingly surprised at how little information exists.

Jonathan Edward Stuart owned a used bookstore called Excalibur Books back in the ‘80s in Old Pasadena, that I’ve learned. The building is still there, though everything around it has changed. The site is now some kind of chic boutique, barely recognizable as the cozy shop in Mom’s old photo albums. Dad spent nearly every day in that store. He loved owning it and running it.

That’s it. That’s all I know. Dad had the bookstore. He was an accomplished swordsman. He looked a lot like me — or rather, I look a lot like him — and he loved my mother like mad.

It’s infuriating to grow up knowing so little about your own father. But no matter how much I asked and asked through the years, Mom refused to tell me anything more, right up to the day she died, which was just a few months ago. Cancer. She always assured me that cancer was no longer the threat it was when she was young, thanks to modern medicine. So what did she do? She developed cancer and died. I swear it was because she worried about me so much. I would bet a year’s salary that she was worrying about me up to her very last breath. And I know it’s somehow because of my dad.

Thus my dilemma. Mom knew something, kept it from me because it would drastically affect me, and now I’m stuck living in worry because I have no idea what’s going to so drastically affect me. I’m sure she didn’t mean to leave me in this predicament, but…

Well, back to the facts. My dad led an unusual life. He must have, because one of the few things Mom ever said about him was that he died an unusual death — despite the Natural Causes written on his death certificate. She never showed the certificate to me, of course. I had to go searching for it myself without her knowledge.

Now, I realize that an unusual life doesn’t always mean an unusual death, but I think it does in this case. I said so to Mom, and still she wouldn’t talk, like it was all some big secret. I tried to find out more on my own but had no luck. Now, believe me, when the son of a woman who owns her own research company can’t find information, it rings a big cherry red alarm bell, wouldn’t you say? But it gets better.

Only now, after her death, have I realized that Mom did try to tell me. I didn’t want you growing up under the shadow, she confessed to me during our very last conversation. I wanted your childhood to be a good one. But you’ll need to know, son. When you get older, you’ll need to know. It’s all here, just read. And she gave me a fat notebook.

I didn’t open it at the time. My mother was about to die, what did I care about a notebook? I presumed it was just another one of her histories on some obscure topic or another. She was always researching something and writing up notebooks and asking me to read them. She didn’t seem very rational at that moment, so I took the notebook and set it aside.

The notebook became very important later on when I finally opened it up to find it filled with blank pages. What the hell?

I wish I’d have glanced through the thing while she was still alive. I could have asked her about it. But as I said, she could hardly hold a coherent conversation at the end, and I didn’t want to tax her. Now I’m scared. I’m just not… I mean, I should have done something, pushed her harder for information even though she always turned into a brick wall when the subject of my dad came up. Mom was an incredibly strong woman. Even after I grew into an adult, she could put me right back into the highchair with a single look. When she clammed up about Dad, nothing could make her talk, not even her adult son.

Now I’m holding her notebook in my hands, and as I said, it’s full of blank pages. Well, they’re not blank, not quite yet, but the print is fading. Not faded, but fading, as in it’s still happening. And the words actually fade faster the harder I try to read them. At this point I feel like I’m reading in the dark, like — like I know that words are there for anyone’s eyes to read but mine.

See what it’s doing to me? I sound like a wack job. But what am I supposed to do? I mean, how can words just fade like that on a page? In a whole notebook full of pages? And what did my mom mean by shadow? Why do I feel like it has something to do with my dad? Why do I sense that something horrible happened to him?

And why, why do I keep thinking that, whatever it was, it’s going to happen to me?

HISTORY PART I: DAD

Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.

— The Outsider by H.P. Lovecraft

Little Jonny dreamed of the giant…

Time to go home. He’d had a lot of fun playing with… who had it been? Oh well, it didn’t matter. All of the people in this place knew him. They didn’t care if he didn’t know them. They didn’t even seem to notice.

It wasn’t daytime, it wasn’t nighttime. It was no-time, and there was yellow weather outside. He loved yellow weather, like the warm expectant hush before an autumn storm. Quiet. Windless. Cloudy but not grey. Yellow. Warm and electric. Air so full of possibilities that his stomach knotted itself in anticipation without his knowing exactly why.

Everyone waved to him as he strolled down the clean suburban sidewalk. He waved back at them, watching as they resumed mowing lawns, painting garage doors, playing with pet puppies. Living their lives. He wondered who they were, these friendly faceless people. They knew him, knew all about him, and more than that, they seemed to care. Strange that he should feel separate from all of them.

And then he heard it.

Boom.

Everyone looked up.

It had been a low massive sound from far far away. The sidewalk under him shook as if thunderbolts were rumbling deep within the ground, rolling up through layers of earth, cracking a path along the crust, hitting the soles of his feet and making him jump.

Boom!

Closer now.

The peace of the neighborhood shattered. Adults, children, dogs and cats all scurried into their houses for safety. Doors slammed shut, shutters closed, locks clicked.

The street was empty. Jonny stood alone.

He ran for his house.

Boom!

He knew that sound. Why had he left the safety of his house this morning if he’d known it would come? And he had known, somehow. It was just stupid! How could he have been so stupid?

BOOM!

He reached his home.

Home was gone. Nothing. An empty dirt lot.

But it should be there! Why were they hiding from him? Didn’t they know, didn’t they realize? Everybody else cared about him. Why didn’t they care?

BOOM!

Jonny turned and ran down another street, running as fast as his long legs could carry him, teeth clenched in effort, lungs straining. But it was hopeless. The air turned thick as goop, a goop like cupcake icing, smooth and sickly sweet. His feet slowed, he strained, could barely move. The air became peanut butter and he fought, tried to pull free, was all but frozen, heart leaping, stomach like fire, his sneakers mired in an invisible tar pit.

He looked behind him and saw the giant coming…

CHAPTER 1

PSA Flight 702, San Francisco to Los Angeles, en route

November 12, 1989

—drink?

Jonathan Stuart started awake, his heart thu-thumping in time with a terrible booming that resounded in his ears like the rumble of a killer earthquake. He had recently been told by several highly experienced people what the growling grinding voice of the earth sounded like, and this fading dream-boom seemed about right. Of course, he had experienced several real temblors in his day — nobody lived in Los Angeles without the occasional Richter three- or four-pointer. Did the earth move for you, too? friends would invariably ask each other, har har wink wink make bets on the magnitude and don’t let on that it nearly made you squirt your shorts. But the small quakes Stuart had experienced had made only low grumbly noises. They were nothing like the awful death-boom in his dream.

The Giant Dream. That’s what he called the recurring nightmare that had plagued him as a child. Now after some thirty-odd years it was back, God alone knew why, and it was scaring him as much as it had when he’d been young. By the expression on the flight attendant’s face, he had been making noises in his sleep. He hoped he hadn’t done anything weird like thrash around or call for help.

Are you all right, sir? she asked him pleasantly. Flight attendants did everything pleasantly. Stuart wondered if they screwed their lovers pleasantly. If they went postal, would they kill their co-workers pleasantly? Only after giving them peanuts, ha! He ran a hand over his damp brow, disgusted at his black sense of humor. I’m fine, he told the flight attendant. He said it pleasantly.

She indicated her beverage cart. Would you like a drink?

Yeah, how about a — He caught himself. "I mean, no. No drink. Thank you. That is, I mean, not a… He broke eye contact, feeling an unaccustomed flash of shame. He covered it by lowering his head and gathering his yellow-blond hair back into the ponytail he normally wore. He had untied the leather string he used to bind it because he was more comfortable sleeping with his long hair loose. Diet Coke?" he asked, not looking up.

Certainly. The flight attendant lowered his seat tray and set down a napkin, a glass filled with ice, and a can of Diet Coke. Anything else?

Yes, fork over every one of those grinning little bottles of booze you’ve got NOW! No. This is fine.

Would you like a pillow? she offered pleasantly.

No, I don’t think I’m going to sleep anymore. Stuart glanced at the seat to his right. It’s not that long a trip.

The flight attendant followed his gaze, her brown eyes full of interest as she regarded the tall package leaning against the seat like a passenger too stiff to bend. It was about four feet tall and a foot wide, cobbled together from various cardboard boxes and lots of strapping tape. Stuart knew the flight crew were dying to know what was inside. They had watched him carry it in — he wouldn’t let them touch it, let alone those barbaric baggage handlers — and he had enjoyed their curiosity. Must be breakable, their eyes had said. Not shaped like a musical instrument, though, and way too small for furniture. Too skinny for a sculpture, too light to be dishes or electronics, too awkwardly shaped to use for clothes or souvenirs or bottles of bubbly from the Wine Country. So the Big Question remained: what could be shaped like that and be so important that a guy would purchase a first class seat for it?

No green out of my wallet, Stuart thought, gloating. The lawyer is paying for everything. That’s my inheritance, he decided to tell the flight attendant. It was the truth. My uncle died, and I was supposed to inherit his house. Stuart House. It was a landmark in San Francisco.

The flight attendant caught on, as did several nearby passengers. Oh goodness, the earthquake, she said sympathetically.

Stuart nodded. "A gas line broke during all the shaking and whoof!" He let his hands fly up in a whirlwind gesture. All gone. Just ashes and this.

Nobody said anything, not the flight attendant, not the eavesdropping passengers. Nevertheless, Stuart knew what was going through their minds. They were thinking about what every Californian had been thinking about for the last three weeks, since October 17, 5:04 pm.

Seismologists had dubbed it the Loma Prieta Earthquake. It had been a seven-point-one that had lasted fifteen seconds, more than enough time to throw the San Francisco area into chaos. Television news programs across the country had broadcast live footage taken at the packed Candlestick Park as the quake struck minutes before the third game of the World Series; dramatic amateur footage of a car disappearing into a giant hole left by a fallen section of the Bay Bridge; the gruesome details of the mile-long collapsed section of the double-decker Nimitz Freeway; views of an old three-story apartment building that had, with freakish precision, folded down onto itself like an accordion, leaving what looked like a single story structure with a crooked roof in its place.

The nation had also watched helicopter footage of beautiful landmark mansions in flames on Franklin near California Street. One of them had been Stuart House. Stuart had caught the news footage on tape and had played it over and over, mesmerized by the sight of the grand old Victorian collapsing into itself like a beaten child curling inward to instinctively protect its soft belly, only to find its body nothing but a fragile hollow shell. There had been no life in Stuart House, not when his miserable grandfather Emmerich had resided within its gingerbread walls and certainly not when his curmudgeonly Uncle George had grouched around in the rooms and corridors that harkened back to horse-and-buggy days. You’re better off dead, Stuart thought bitterly. All of you, better off dead and rotting.

The Stuarts were a family of hatred. Throughout his life they had bickered, threatened, yelled and thrown well-aimed fists into each others’ jaws. He had thrown a number of punches himself, and had taken a hit or three.

Theodore — good old Dad — had been the nastiest of the bunch. Back somewhere around 1936 Grandpa Emmerich had succeeded in permanently alienating his two sons. Theodore had fled all the way to New York, while George had stayed, gradually imploding into a bitter snipe of a man who resented his brother’s success at the publishing game and blamed the world for his own failure as a human being. When the ailing Grandpa Emm had finally died, the house should have gone to Theodore. Brother George preferred to make it a point of bitter contention. He had snatched up Stuart House, all but barricaded himself in it, and then dangled the triumph in Theodore’s face every chance he got.

Grandpa Emm’s funeral had been a disaster. Stuart remembered it in still pictures only, silent snapshots of faces and gestures filtered through the eyes of a frightened child. As the years passed, Theodore’s and Uncle George’s relationship had not improved, and the brothers’ attempts to fracture each other’s lives from opposite ends of the country had blossomed into an art form.

In Stuart’s experience, few people valued peace of mind over monetary gain. Despite this, and for all his need of money at the moment, Stuart valued peace of mind more. Dear Uncle George was good and dead from a heart attack that had killed him almost instantly the day before the earthquake. Talk about timing, Stuart thought. Now he himself was the sole survivor from Emmerich’s branch of the family. When he died, the last vestige of Stuart family hatred would be gone forever. That could only be a good thing.

I’m so very sorry, the flight attendant was saying to him.

Hey fella, my daughter’s house is a ruin, said a man a few rows back, as if more bad news would somehow help the situation. I tried to bring her back to LA with me, but she won’t come. Insists on rebuilding. Can you believe it?

A woman in a crisp business suit in front of Stuart turned around to give him a tired smile. I just went up to see my ex, she said. He was driving on the Nimitz when it fell. He hit the gas and made it past that section just in time. He said he could see it coming down right behind him in his rearview mirror. I can’t imagine… She trailed off.

Stuart forced himself to return her smile. But he’s okay, and that’s what counts.

Well, I think he’ll need therapy, the woman said. But he’s nuts anyway, so there you go.

That drew a laugh out of several passengers.

I’ve been in Berkeley for a month on a special project, said one man two seats down. JPL. Some timing I got, huh? I’m glad to be going back home.

As long as LA doesn’t get the next big one, said a big-bellied man across from Stuart.

If it does, it’ll be our fault. That from a college kid way up front. When nobody took the bait, the kid turned around and repeated, "Fault? Get it? Our fault?"

Several passengers groaned. The college kid laughed. The flight attendant shook her head and rolled her drinks trolley down the aisle.

Gallows humor, Stuart thought. That’s what keeps us sane in insane circumstances. His own situation was certainly funny, at least to him. Hey, Uncle George, I bet it was your shriveling hand that reached up from the bowels of Hell and broke that gas line. You must have giggled in glee to see my inheritance burn into a pile of ash. He allowed himself a smug grin. It pleases me no end to think that one tiny portion of your eternal torment will be the frustration of knowing that I didn’t want the fucking house in the first place. He opened the can of Coke, filled his cup and lifted it in salute. Then he came to his senses and lowered it to knee level. To you, Georgie Porgie, he thought at the little patch of floor beneath his feet, imaging the sizzling domain of the damned far far below. Too bad you didn’t choke on your own vomit instead of succumbing to a nice neat little heart attack. Oh well, can’t have everything. He took a long drink.

The cold liquid spread down his throat, refreshing in its own way but, Dammit, I want a real drink! Drinking had once been a pleasure as much as it had been a problem. These days he could only pine for the sweet tickle of a fine Chardonnay or the hot comforting burn of Courvoisier. He missed being able to forget for a few blessed hours. He had a lot of things he wanted to forget.

He leaned back, sipping the Coke and listening to the shriek of the jet engines outside. They were taking him back to Los Angeles, back to his home, back to Melanie. He missed her.

CHAPTER 2

Ha ha, revenge is mine! Melanie Forrester crowed. She happily waved a twenty dollar bill in the air. Come on, guys, my treat. Or should I say, Jon’s treat. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Alan Haws, perched on a stool behind the cash register at the front desk of Excalibur Books, looked up from his Uncanny X-Men comic book. His eyes widened as Melanie gaily flipped the OPEN sign on the store’s front door to CLOSED. What are you doing, Miss Forrester? he demanded as if she had just committed the most scandalous deed in history. We can’t close now!

Sure we can, Melanie replied. "Jon put me in charge while he’s gone, so it’s my call. I’m taking — he’s taking you to lunch. She waved the twenty again. Petty cash."

A short buxom Hispanic girl emerged from behind the American History stacks. What am I hearing?

Melanie was halfway to the back office to get her purse. Don’t let anybody tell you there’s no such thing as a free lunch, guys. You’re about to get one.

It was sweet revenge indeed. Three days ago, only minutes away from boarding his plane to San Francisco, Jonathan Stuart had asked Melanie to watch his store while he was gone. No advance notice, no warning, nothing. Melanie had agreed to his request, but she had done so grudgingly.

It was because she was a freelancer. That meant she was open season for friends — or in this case, a presumptive boyfriend — who casually expected favors when they went out of town. Oh, you won’t have to do much, was the usual setup. Just stop by the house every morning to feed Foo-Foo, Foo-Foo being the poodle or the parrot or the twelve-foot-long illegal killer python or whatever pet needed care. These friends — or boyfriend — never stopped to think that she might not have mornings free to feed Foo-Foo or spritz the ferns or manage entire bookstores. But you make your own hours, was the common belief. You can do whatever you want whenever you want, right? Comments like that made Melanie want to scream.

She had worked hard to receive a degree in Library Science from the University of California at Northridge, only to discover during her first job at a little Burbank library that locking herself in a book-filled box five days a week wasn’t her cup of tea after all. So she had packaged up her skills, mustered up her courage and thrown herself into the wild and woolly melee of Hollywood to help writers and producers hunt down obscure references and amass facts about all manner of subjects for movie scripts, documentaries, histories — whatever projects they had on the burner. Melanie was a professional researcher. She chose her own clients, and she relished being her own boss. But like anyone who had their own small business, she had to run fast and furious to keep her bills paid.

She had been nothing short of pissed off when Jon had asked her to look after the store. She had given in, though, after realizing that he would owe her big time when he came back. That kind of debt could, if properly planned, require some very enjoyable collection tactics.

He’ll kill us, Alan repeated in a whiny tone.

Poor Alan, Melanie thought. Such a hopeless geek. Geek or not, he was an organizational genius. Jon managed his store, but Alan was the guy who ran it from day to day. Jon had recently hired Yolanda and her overabundance of personality to intervene when Alan’s geekosity level frightened the customers.

"Let’s go, amigos, Yolanda said, leading the way outside. I’m starved."

Alan repeated, He’ll kill us.

Well, he can’t kill me, Melanie replied. Then he wouldn’t get laid.

Alan reddened and Yolanda burst out laughing. Five minutes later they slid into a booth at the Rose City Cafe, a pink building catty-corner from Excalibur Books. It was Jon’s usual lunchtime haunt, so Alan, Yolanda and Melanie were known there as well.

Hi, folks, said the waitress as she approached. She studied their arrangement around the table suspiciously. Just the three of you today?

Yeah, Melanie replied. Jon’s out of town.

Melanie was amazed when the waitress, whose name was Rita, said, Well, with a distinct note of relief. Can I get anyone a drink? she continued in a noticeably lighter tone

Shasta orange, said Yolanda.

I’ll, uh… I’ll have what she’s having, said Alan. You know, the same thing.

Melanie ordered milk. When Yolanda and Alan both stared at her, she said, What? I keep several industrious cows employed.

Two SO’s and a milk comin’ up, said Rita, and she left.

He’s gonna throw a fit, Alan solemnly intoned once Rita was gone.

Melanie turned to the young man. Alan, come on. Jon doesn’t throw fits. Alan’s silence made her add, Does he?

Let me put it this way— Alan began, but Yolanda cut in.

Yes, she said flatly. Sometimes he yells, when there are no customers in the store.

You’re kidding.

I ignore him, Yolanda continued brightly. Jon’s an okay guy if you don’t take him seriously.

Easy for you to say, Alan said, speaking to her but not meeting her firm gaze. He likes you.

Wait wait wait, Melanie said, waving her hands for silence. "Jon yells at you guys? You’re not joking? I don’t believe this."

He doesn’t yell at us, he yells at himself, Yolanda corrected. We stay out of the way.

Alan toyed with his fork. I think we ought to change the subject.

No, I want to hear this, said Melanie. Jonathan Edward Stuart was and always had been a mystery to her. If pinning him to a board with tacks and dissecting him would give her some answers, she would do it. After all, if he had the chance, he would do the same to her. She smiled disarmingly at Alan. It’s okay, Alan, I’m fully aware of Jon’s charms as well as his many shortcomings. I’ve been dating the man for almost two years.

You like ’em feisty, don’t you? Rita was back with their drinks.

Excuse me? Melanie said to her coolly.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend, said Rita, but your fella’s got some attitude.

Melanie couldn’t deny that, as much as she wished she could. Sometimes Jon used his mouth like a sniper used a gun. Okay, what did he do? she asked.

Rita didn’t answer right away. She set the drinks down and then whispered, He used some pretty fancy language in here the other day.

Melanie winced.

It was Bitty’s first day, poor thing, and in he comes for lunch. She thought he was unattached, so she flirted with him a little. Let’s just say he told her to do rude things to certain of her anatomical parts. Rita pulled two straws out of her apron pocket and placed them next to the two orange sodas. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if he apologized to her.

Melanie burned with embarrassment. I’ll make sure to tell him.

Oh. Oh, I didn’t mean… Rita flapped her hand, flustered. I’m sorry. You’re not his keeper.

No, but sometimes he needs one, Melanie thought. He does have a definite Jekyll-Hyde thing going. But that’s what makes him so interesting. Well, that and the fact that he is painfully cute.

Rita took their orders and left for the kitchen again.

I guess you’ll just have to take my word that Jon’s not an ogre, Melanie said to Yolanda and Alan afterwards.

Of course he’s not, Yolanda said. Then she grinned. Okay, spill. I’ve been dying to know — how did you guys meet?

In a club.

Jon goes clubbing? Get outta town!

No, it’s just a place he used to hang out sometimes, Melanie said. In Hollywood. A client of his had a really good rock band that played weekends. The audience was getting rowdy and Jon was sort of tipsy, and his friend called him up to the stage to sing.

Alan nearly choked on his soda. "Jon sings?"

Yeah, who’d figure? He’s good, too. But he doesn’t sing anymore. Melanie frowned. The memory of what happened next made it flip into a smile. "He sang the funniest, most incoherent version of Louie Louie I’ve ever heard."

I like oldies, Yolanda said, and sipped her soda. Doesn’t that song have, like, no lyrics anyway?

I don’t think anybody knows. That’s why it’s so funny. Anyway, I was there with a friend, and I about fell off my chair. When he was done he tried to leave the stage, but the people in the front of the audience pushed him back up. I didn’t know it then, but he sang with the band all the time. So he did another one. She giggled. "He did that Madonna song Like a Virgin, and he sang it just like she did. I cried, I was laughing so hard."

Well, talk about your cosmic revelations, said Yolanda. Wow.

But he doesn’t sing anymore, Melanie repeated quietly. She sighed. Soon after that the band got hot and ended up touring. He stopped going to the club.

So what did you guys do together instead? Yolanda asked.

Melanie winked. None of your beeswax.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Alan muttered, They’d better hurry up with the food. If he calls the store and we’re not there—

Relax, Yolanda told him in a motherish tone. Remember what we said — Jon is not an ogre. If he gets mad, ignore him and he’ll forget all about it.

Melanie regarded Yolanda with a jaundiced eye. Really?

Yolanda shrugged one shoulder. He’s just got a temper. He’s like a kid sometimes. Come on, you know that.

Melanie did know that. She just wished Jon might grow up a little. Yeah, and here’s where we insert that thing about pigs and wings.

Thirty minutes later when they got back to the store, Alan eyeballed the blinking light on the answering machine behind the front desk. I told you.

Melanie waited for him to play the message. When he made no move to do so, she huffed and hit the PLAY MESSAGES button.

Beeeeep! "Okay, where is everybody? Jon’s voice snapped. My store had better not be closed. The answering machine dutifully replayed his aggravated sigh. I presume you’ll get this message, Melly. It’s two o’clock. I missed my plane. I was at an antique dealer’s shop and — well, never mind. Anyway, I got a seat on PSA Flight 702 leaving tonight at six thirty, arriving at LAX at seven forty-three. Be there. And open my store, dammit. Bye."

Alan groaned. See, I was right. He’s going to throw a fit for sure.

"Oh, don’t be un estúpido, Yolanda said. I told you, ignore him and he’ll forget about it. Works for me."

In a fit of uncharacteristic bluntness, Alan pointed directly at her breasts. If I had those, I’m sure it would work for me, too. He shuffled to his station behind the counter. Yolanda rolled her eyes and went back to work.

Melanie decided to take a short walk before getting back to her current research project. Rita’s story kept running through her mind, about how Jon had scandalized the new café waitress. How many times did he do things like that? Never around her, thank goodness. She would never tolerate it. Another triumph for Mr. Hyde, she thought with a twinge of embarrassment. Should I talk to him about it? Should I tell him to stop? Does he even know he’s doing it? That was the question that bothered her the most.

Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena was busy during the day, but that’s why she liked it. Old Pasadena, where Jon’s store was located, was filled with odd little shops and delis, as well as newer stores and movie theaters. The city was renovating the area so there was some construction going on, but her walk was nonetheless pleasant and she felt better when she stepped back into the store a half hour later.

Who are you trying to kid? she chided herself as she went back to work. You knew the name of the beast when you first started dating him. His quirks are what fascinate you the most, admit it. You’re twisted enough to put up with him, right? What does that say about you? Besides, nobody’s perfect. She grinned. Thank God.

* * * * *

Melanie hoped Yolanda’s little boy point of view would work for her. She intended to try it on Jon when she picked him up that evening. After all, he had missed his plane. He was sure to be as cranky as a toddler with a full load.

But he surprised her. He strode briskly out the PSA doors and over to her battered little Honda, toting his suitcase and a big odd-shaped package. The sun had set, but the pick-up area was lit bright as daylight. Melanie could clearly see the big grin on his face. She didn’t trust it. Sure enough, Why was my store closed? were the first words out of his mouth.

Melanie breezily answered, My fault, Jon. I took Alan and Yolanda to lunch. You know, like you keep saying you’ll do but never do?

The expected hissy fit never came. Jon leaned over as if to kiss her on the lips, then playfully kissed her ear instead, making a loud smacking noise that tickled like a giant balloon squeaking inside her skull. She giggled despite herself. Okay, he said. Pop the trunk.

She opened the trunk and watched as he put his suitcase inside followed by the long package. Is that it? she asked, indicating the box. That constitutes your grand and glorious inheritance?

No, there’s more, Jon said, and produced a flat item from beneath the box. It was a bronze plaque about a foot square, smudged with ash and heat warped. He held it up, grinning with idiot amusement.

Melanie read, Stuart House, Registered Landmark something something, 1905 to something… it’s, uh, lovely.

This is all that’s left. Well, this, two walls and the chimney. Isn’t it great? I’m going to hang it in the bathroom!

Melanie just shook her head and got behind her Honda’s wheel as other cars, anxious for her space, began to honk, their drivers making interesting gestures in her direction. Jon ducked into the passenger seat with his prize and she slowly squeezed her Honda through LAX Sunday night traffic. Several minutes passed before they made it to the onramp of the 405 Freeway heading north.

How did it go? Melanie asked, pressing her foot down hard on the accelerator to merge with the 70-mile-per-hour traffic. The car lurched forward.

I’m free of that house! Jon said with glee, tossing the warped plaque onto the back seat. A little paperwork here, a few forms there, but I’ve basically crawled out from under the debris.

When he didn’t continue, Melanie glanced over at him and caught a flash of mystery in his expression as he gazed out the window. And? she prodded.

Jon opened his mouth to answer, thought a moment, then closed it. Later, he said. "First, the house. This is what happened. Dear stupid Uncle George went bankrupt during that mini stock market crash back in ‘87. Most of the family wealth was tied up in investments, and the crash wiped it right out. Well, that and the fact that George didn’t have the brains God gave a balloon when it came to playing the stock market. Anyway, he had the house and some minor assets left, so he cut down expenses, insurance included, and didn’t tell anybody. The man was a moron. Thank God the crash scared him into being more careful or he’d have run up enough debts to haunt me. As it is, his debtors are going to slap liens on the land the house sat on, and they and the lawyers can fight over that till the Second Coming as far as I’m concerned. I’ve come out of this mess clean as a whistle, and dear George has been reduced to a nice, quiet, permanent resident in Hell."

Jon!

Sorry, he said, but Melanie noticed that his grin was still there.

So? she prodded further. Do I get to know what’s in the trunk or what?

An expression of deep concentration crossed his features. Jon stroked an imaginary beard, saying in a most scholarly voice, Vee shall see…

Oh, c’mon, Melanie said, tell me.

Jon shook his head. I’d rather show you.

I hate it when you tease me!

His grin grew toothy with sadistic pleasure. I know.

More than an hour later they turned off the 110 Freeway onto California Street in Pasadena. Five minutes later they were at Jon’s house.

Melanie liked his house. It was a tidy two-story, four bedroom place within walking distance of his store, and there were books everywhere. Some people put libraries into their homes — Jon had turned his home into a library. His dream abode had been funded by the death of his parents seventeen years earlier — they had both died in a car crash, leaving eighteen-year-old Jonny bereaved but well off. But to remind Jon that his home and business had been made possible because of his parents’ demise invited a tirade of denial that could shatter glass, as Melanie had learned on more than one occasion.

Jon set his mysterious package on the floor of the den where classics lined the walls. Shakespeare, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Cervantes, Rabelais and the like watched as he moved the table and reclining chair over by the wall to make more room. Then he laid down on the carpet and patted the space next to him. Melanie sat down there. Jon didn’t open the package, however. He didn’t give it a second glance. He reached up and opened the top button of Melanie’s blouse.

She shoved his hand away, but it just swung back like it was on a spring. The light touch of his fingertips along the base of her neck made her shudder. Oh, c’mon, she said, we just got here…

I know. Another button opened.

Jon, I have a lot of work tomorrow…

I know. Another button.

You’re being unreasonable.

I know. He raised himself up on one hand and brushed his lips against hers. I missed you, he breathed, and kissed her, slowly, drawing her back down with him.

The touch of his hands on her body, one pressed into the small of her back holding her tight against him, the other luxuriating in her short brown hair, fingers gently massaging her skull, made Melanie melt. This was the basis of their sexual relationship — he would suggest, she would run, and he would chase and pounce. Some people might have seen it as a sexist arrangement, but Jon wasn’t that kind of man. Melanie had discovered, to her relief, that he had been quite willing to wait for her attentions, letting her call the shots early in their courtship, letting her establish the rules. Once she had done that, however, Jon had cheerfully and systematically weaseled his way around her rules, often taking her by surprise. His idea of sex was bawdy, his nasty leer an invitation to fun and games, not sweat and domination. If she didn’t want to play, he rarely pushed. If she did want to play, it became a question of what she wanted to play. Jon was open to anything, it seemed, so it was usually up to her.

Tonight, however, he was taking the reins. He did that every once in a while, which Melanie figured was only fair. Tonight he wanted to devour her whole body, as if he had been away from her a year rather than a couple of days. His naked hunger made her tingle with lust despite her earlier protestations. It was as if he needed to chart her body all over again, tasting every inch of her and marking his property with nips and kisses.

Melanie felt her toes curl. She wriggled her legs to catch Jon’s attention. He saw her feet, gave her that nasty leer of his, and untied the leather string that held his ponytail. Ah, the toes, the toes, he whispered into her ear. "Mmm, I love a good home coming…"

Melanie’s toes never lied. Her clothes had already been removed, one item at a time. Jon allowed her to return the favor and, minutes later, with the lights low and the cats wandering in to see what all the ruckus was about, the steady rhythm of Jon’s body on hers made Melanie shiver and relax in delicious alternating waves. She nestled her face into his hair and moved with him, squeezing him tight.

Funny. She rarely thought about how much she really loved this irritating man. She was usually too irritated by him to think about it. Now she realized she had missed him, realized she had worried about his safety during the short San Francisco trip, realized that she had been anxious for his return. After all, he wasn’t all bad, no indeed. Her mother always badgered her, What in the world do you see in him, Melanie? His family relationships should tell you everything you need to know. He’s mixed up, honey, very mixed up. He’ll mix you up, too.

So be it, she thought, clutching him passionately. There are worse mistakes I could make.

* * * * *

He lay on the floor watching as Melanie wriggled back into her bra. His lecherous grin was unnerving. Stop it, she said, and turned her back, more to hide her own smile than to protect her modesty. She saw him try to peek. G’wan, mind your own business.

I am.

Ha ha. Look, you gonna lay there with your bare cheeks to the ceiling all night?

He made a pouty face, the one that for some reason made her think of Kermit the Frog. I thought you liked my bare cheeks.

She tried not to laugh. And I thought you had a package to show me.

I did show you my package.

This time she did laugh. Jon! Your inheritance?

"Oh, that package. Jon shrugged innocently. Well, it’s not as fun, but if you insist. First, however…" He grabbed his shirt from under the reclining chair and pulled something out of the pocket. With as much solemnity as possible for a naked man, he handed it to her.

Melanie took the ring box. Her heart leaped. No. It couldn’t be. She glanced at him. He was smiling a warm, genuine smile, but was it the smile of a man about to propose marriage? She didn’t know, and it frightened her.

Well, open it.

Trying to keep her hands from shaking, she lifted the lid. Inside was a thin gold band with a single ruby stone in it. It’s… it’s beautiful, she managed to say. But why…?

Jon cocked his head. What do you mean, why? The question truly baffled him.

Melanie blushed with embarrassment. Silly her, she had actually thought he was going to propose. She had to remind herself that a gift like this meant more from Jon than from most men, but he was not the marrying type. Not yet, anyway. She had no right to feel disappointment. Still her heart ached as she slipped the ring on the third finger of her right hand. How does it look? and she lifted her hand for him to see.

In response, he kissed it. You’re both beautiful.

Melanie could hardly stand it. Part of her was so happy she wanted to burst, part of her had deflated, and part of her was livid with anger at him for putting her through this emotional rollercoaster. It had been two years. Why couldn’t he get his act together and admit that he loved her? Did he love her?

You remember my phone message when I said I missed my flight? he was saying, oblivious to her inner turmoil.

Melanie tore herself out of her reverie. Yeah, she said.

Well, I missed it because I went to see an antique dealer in Japantown. That’s where I found the ring, by the way. He was standing now, tugging on his jeans. After zipping them up, he ripped open the package to reveal two separate wrapped boxes, one long and rectangular and one small and square. He picked up the long box. Here’s why I went. Jon handed it to her. Go ahead.

Melanie tore open the stiff brown paper to reveal a cardboard box, old enough that it was more age-yellow than white. She lifted the lid to reveal a wrapping of unusually thick, oversized parchment paper. Loosening that, she came to a layer of oiled cloth. She pinched one corner of it and peeled it away, then peeled back the other side. Her brows arched.

Gorgeous, isn’t it? Jon reached into the box and lifted a gleaming saber into the light. The antique dealer is a Japanese fellow I’ve known for years. He’s always looking for reference on antique jewelry, but he collects swords as a hobby. He buys every book on the subject I can find. I figured he’d know something about this. Jon turned the weapon this way and that to let its straight silver blade catch the light. He told me he’s never seen one like it.

He held the saber out to Melanie, but she didn’t want to touch it. Weapons were best admired through the glass of locked display cases, as far as she was concerned. Where did it come from? she asked.

Well, that’s the weird part. As he spoke, Jon stared at the saber as if mesmerized. I didn’t exactly tell the truth when I said that the plaque and chimney were all that was left of the house. Two firemen found a safe in the basement, a big heavy-duty brute. It was behind a wall, don’t ask me why, and it survived the fire intact, so they had it delivered to George’s lawyer. I got it from him. Jon tore his eyes from the saber and looked at Melanie. Melly, George never knew the safe was there. Neither did his lawyer. It must have been put behind that wall by Grandpa Emmerich decades ago. The lawyer was trying to figure out how we could get it open when… Jon shrugged. Well, I was fiddling with the combination lock, you know, trying out numerical combinations that might have been significant to Grandpa Emm. I tried the name of his wife, Sylvia. It worked.

Melanie didn’t follow, and her expression said as much.

Jon gave her a barely tolerant grunt. Obviously he’d translated each letter of her name into the number corresponding to alphabetical letter order, right? So S is nineteen, Y is twenty-five, L is twelve, and so on. Add the double-digits together to make one number per letter — S becomes 10, Y becomes 7, yadda yadda. Of course, for S you have to add one and zero so that becomes just one. Anyway, then add the first two, second two and third two numbers together, and you end up with a three-number combination: eight, seven, ten. Well, then he put them backwards.

Melanie couldn’t believe what she had heard. And this just popped into your head.

Yeah. So check it out. He raised the weapon. Note the basket—

What’s a basket?

This curvy part over the hilt. It protects my hand from my opponent’s blade, see? Note that it’s specifically molded to cover a left hand.

So this is a left-handed sword, Melanie said. I take it your grandfather was left-handed?

I have no idea. Jon lightly touched his thumb to the blade’s edge, which looked terribly sharp to Melanie. Judging by Jon’s appreciative little nod, it was. But I’m glad this is.

Melanie noticed a thin line of intricate etchings along the blade. The strange markings composed neither words nor pictures, yet there was a symbolic feel to them as if they meant something particular. What language is this?

I don’t know. Neither does Masao. Maybe I’ll hire you to do some research on it. I mean, those etchings are chased gold. And check out the quillions — these two wing-like parts on the hilt here. That’s gold inlay and, according to Masao, those are real rubies and emeralds encrusted on the pommel, see? Oh, and the hilt itself— He flipped the sword in the air, deftly catching it with two hands so that he could hold it out, the hilt now right in front of Melanie’s nose. That’s ivory inlay between those leather braids.

Melanie didn’t know whether to scream or just have a nice quiet stroke. She decided to do neither and remained motionless, hating Jon for throwing such a dangerous weapon around. He knew what he was doing, yes, but she didn’t.

His fencing mania had always made her nervous. She was fully aware of his expertise in swordsmanship — she even accompanied him to practice sometimes — but she didn’t like how he changed when a foil or saber was in his hand. He became belligerent and somehow dangerous. Early in their relationship she had pressed him as to why he didn’t enter formal competitions anymore. He certainly had a collection of ribbons and trophies from years past. Jon’s reply had come in a fleeting expression of dismay that was quickly covered by what she called his stone face. All he would say was, I’ve won enough.

Jon had no idea he had just scared her half to death. Either that or he didn’t care. He continued to admire the sword, watching the blade catch the light at various angles. This sucker’s worth a bundle.

You’re going to sell it, then? Melanie asked hopefully.

Hell no, and Jon sank down into a fencer’s stance, flicking his wrist back and forth to feel the saber’s balance.

Melanie shuffled out of the way barely in time. He whipped the blade through the air so fast she couldn’t follow it fwip fwop fwip! and then he lunged, extending so far that the silver tip dimpled a pillow on a chair halfway across the room. He slid his right foot forward and stood normally again. I’m keeping this, he concluded firmly. But I wish I knew what it was doing in a safe behind a wall in the basement of that house. If it’s a family heirloom, why hide it?

Melanie had seen enough of the sword. What about the other box? she asked, pointing to it. Where did it come from?

Carefully, Jon tucked the saber back in its oil cloth and picked up the other half of his inheritance. This, he said, was the only other thing in the safe. He unwrapped the bundle and handed the contents to her — a book. Or rather, a dog-eared bundle of crisp yellowed paper between cracked leather covers. The front cover had no official printing on it, just a crudely scratched JH in the bottom corner.

Who’s JH? Melanie asked.

Turn the page.

She cracked it open apprehensively, afraid it might crumble to dust. "‘Personal Log of Jas. Hook, Capt. of the Jolly Roger,’" she read aloud. She laughed. "What is this, a sequel to Peter Pan?"

No, Jon said slowly, but it involves the characters. It’s written as if Captain Hook retired and wrote his memoirs in the form of a log.

"So who did write it?"

Jon sat on the floor next to her, shaking his head. That’s what I can’t figure. As far as I know there are no writers in my family. My dad was the only one involved in publishing. He was an editor at Grossett & Dunlap, mostly college textbooks. He had no talent for creating, just criticizing. And take my word, some of the stuff in that book is… He groped for the right word, then gave up and shrugged. Well, very unconventional. This isn’t anything that got published, though I can’t even say if it was written with that intention.

Carefully Melanie turned a few stiff pages. The manuscript was indeed a log, or at least, it was formatted like one — handwritten dates, times, recorded facts, one after another, entry after entry — but most of it was in the past tense, as if the writer were remembering the events of each day from a distant future point in time. The first entry began:

Log, Jolly Roger, brig, March 12, 1896, about 5:30 pm. We were moored in Pirate’s Bay, Pan’s Island, coordinates unknown. I shall never forget the calm sea, the sky so blue it hurt to look at it. It was extremely hot and humid that day. I met my crew for the first time. First Mate Starkey, Second Mate Mason, Bosun Smee and Gunner Bill Jukes all appeared able men and loyal. The ship was a