“It’s a trick question, right?” he said. “I give you an answer and one of those women’s libbers jumps out from behind the door, yells ‘Sexist pig!’ And hits me over the head with a sign that says ‘Castrate Male Chauvinists.’ Huh?”
“No,” I assured him. “A sexist male chauvinist answer is basically what I want.”
“Oh, okay. As long as we’re straight, then.” He resumed his perusal, squinting closely as I stood up straight.
“Skinny white broad with too much hair, but a great ass,” he said at last. “Nice tits, too,” he added, with a cordial nod. “That what you want to know?”
“Yes,” I said, relaxing my rigid posture. “That’s exactly what I wanted to know. It isn’t the sort of question you can ask just anybody.”
He pursed his lips in a silent whistle, then threw back his head and roared with delight.
“Lady Jane! You’ve got you a
I felt the blood rising in my cheeks, but tried to keep my dignity. “I don’t know. Maybe. Just maybe.”
“Maybe, hell! Jesus Christ on a piece of toast, L. J., it’s about
“Kindly quit cackling,” I said, lowering myself into his visitor’s chair. “It doesn’t become a man of your years and station.”
“My years? O
“Not a lot,” I said, the blush beginning to recede. “But I haven’t seen him in twenty years. You’re the only person I know who’s known me for a long time; have I changed terribly since we met?” I looked at him straight on, demanding honesty.
He looked at me, took off his glasses and squinted, then replaced them.
“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t, though, unless you got fat.”
“I wouldn’t?”
“Nah. Ever been to your high school reunion?”
“I didn’t go to a high school.”
His sketchy brows flicked upward. “No? Well, I have. And I tell you what, L.J.; you see all these people you haven’t seen for twenty years, and there’s this split second when you meet somebody you used to know, when you think, ‘My
“Now, if people get fat,” he said meditatively, “
“I suppose not,” I said. I looked down at my hands, clasped together in my lap. Slender wristbones; at least I wasn’t fat yet. My rings gleamed in the autumn sun from the window.
“Is it Bree’s daddy?” he asked softly.
I jerked my head up and stared at him. “How the hell did you know that?” I said.
He smiled slightly. “I’ve known Bree how long? Ten years, at least.” He shook his head. “She’s got a lot of you in her, L. J., but I’ve never seen anything of Frank. Daddy’s got red hair, huh?” he asked. “And he’s one big son of a bitch, or everything I learned in Genetics 101 was a damn lie.”
“Yes,” I said, and felt a kind of delirious excitement at that simple admission. Until I had told Bree herself and Roger about Jamie, I had said nothing about him for twenty years. The joy of suddenly being able to talk freely about him was intoxicating.
“Yes, he’s big and red-haired, and he’s Scottish,” I said, making Joe’s eyes go round once more.
“And Bree’s in Scotland now?”
I nodded. “Bree is where the favor comes in.”
Two hours later, I left the hospital for the last time, leaving behind me a letter of resignation, addressed to the Hospital Board, all the necessary documents for the handling of my property until Brianna should be of age, and another one, to be executed at that time, turning everything over to her. As I drove out of the parking lot, I experienced a feeling of mingled panic, regret, and elation. I was on my way.
21
Q.E.D
“I found the deed of sasine.” Roger’s face was flushed with excitement. He had hardly been able to contain himself, waiting with open impatience at the train station in Inverness while Brianna hugged me and my bags were retrieved. He had barely got us stuffed into his tiny Morris and the car’s ignition started before blurting out his news.
“What, for Lallybroch?” I leaned over the seat back between him and Brianna, in order to hear him over the noise of the motor.
“Yes, the one Jamie—your Jamie—wrote, deeding the property to his nephew, the younger Jamie.”
