Author’s note: This story fills in some of the details that I left out of story one of The Long Way Home, The Secret of the Rose which was the very first one that I wrote. You don’t need to be familiar with it to follow this, however, because the action here takes place decades before that story.

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Ten Acres
1962

“What do you have there, Nell?” James asked his wife, with a stern note to his voice.

She looked up, the picture of innocence, and he softened his expression.

“It’s a party invitation,” she told him. “I don’t imagine you’ll want to go.”

He took it from her outstretched hand and scanned through the details. A twenty-first birthday party for his brother Thomas’ younger son Winthrop. The enclosed short note from his sister-in-law Ruth urged the two of them to come and stay for a few days.

A scowl began to form on his brow. Even if the party’s location hadn’t been several hours’ drive away, he would be reluctant to darken its door – in spite of the offered hospitality. He’d once held high hopes for Tom’s two boys. They did, after all, constitute the entirety of the next generation of Fraynes. And they had that spark to them that reminded him of himself when he was younger; himself and Tom, in their prime.

“I’ll just write Ruth a note, sending our regrets,” Nell continued, interrupting his thoughts. “They need never know why.”

He handed it back to her. “No. We’ll go.”

James saw the tiny flicker of shock in her eyes before she hid it.

“In that case, I’ll write and make arrangements,” she answered, going at once to do so.

He watched her go, wondering why he had said such a thing. Without particularly meaning to, he strolled through the house to his desk, rolling up the top and sitting down in front of it. He pulled out a photograph and scowled once more.

Eyes roving over the faces in the picture, he noted the arrogant cast of his father’s face, one hand resting gently on the back of his mother’s chair. She looked away from the camera, apparently into a pleasant distance. His sister Bella, on the other hand, looked straight into the lens. She wore a determined expression, rather like their father’s but without the sense of superiority. Behind her stood oldest brother Arthur in his army uniform. And on the opposite side, beside their mother, he and Tom still in short pants.

That day in 1914 had been almost the last time they were all together. Arthur had died in the war. Their mother succumbed to the Spanish flu. Pretty Bella had wasted her life looking after their father, whose arrogance turned to bitterness in the face of tragedy. She only outlived him by a year.

And he and Thomas? He shook his head, remembering the choices they had made and the consequences which haunted them to this day.

“I should burn this thing,” he muttered, pushing it back into its place. “Nothing good ever comes from digging into the past.”

Upstate New York
A few weeks later

“It’s so good to see you both! How was your trip?” Ruth greeted, as she ushered James and Nell into her home.

“Rather tiring,” James answered, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Thomas took the bags from him. “Come and get settled in the guest room. We’ve added a chair I think you’ll like. We won’t disturb you at all until it’s time to eat.”

The two women disappeared in one direction, while Tom led his brother in another. He set the bags down and waved James to the armchair, backing out as he did so.

“Wait a moment,” James asked. “Perhaps it’s best if we talk.”

Tom nodded, pulled the door shut and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s on your mind?”

A pause ensued, while James gathered his thoughts. At length, he muttered, “I’m not sure we should have come.”

“Harlan won’t be here,” Tom told him, referring to his older son. “If that’s what’s worrying you, you don’t need to think about him. He and I still aren’t talking much and he’s chosen not to show his face during your visit.”

James frowned a little and shook his head. He hadn’t really expected to see his older nephew. As a teenager, the young man had argued with both his father and uncle when he found out the finer details of the family business, which imported antiquities, mostly from Egypt. That business had been sold over fifteen years ago, now, but to Harlan the taint of it could not be removed. The accusations still rang in James’ ears sometimes, nearly ten years after they were made.

“You’re telling me Winthrop doesn’t agree with him?” James asked. “The boy’s an idealist. He’s not going to approve of how we made the money.”

Thomas sagged just a little. “He’s not as militant about it as his brother. But you’re right: he doesn’t approve. He says he’s not going to touch a cent of it. We’ll see how he feels when he’s made his way in the world a little.”

“I don’t think he’ll change his mind,” James replied. “The last time he and I spoke, he asked me not to leave my house to him. As if I have anyone else to leave it to.”

“We weren’t the ones who did anything wrong.” Tom stood up and began to pace. “We were naïve to trust some of the people we did, but we didn’t steal anything.”

James heaved a weary sigh. “We’ve been over this. Nothing changes from going over it again.”

“If I could just convince one of them…”

James shook his head. “They’re not like you and me.”

Born barely a year apart, James and Thomas had always been close. Harlan and Winthrop, on the other hand, were separated by nearly six years in age and had an even wider gap in temperament. Their relationship closer resembled James’ to his older brother Arthur – distant, impersonal, filled with frustrations on both sides. But Arthur had died at the age of twenty, while James was only fourteen, and they had never had the chance to grow into something else.

“They’re getting closer, now that they’re both adults,” Thomas argued, rather half-heartedly. “I’m sure they’ll come around eventually.”

“That’s wishful thinking.” James shook his head. “We made this mess. We have to live with it.”

Tom shrugged and sat down on the bed again.

“And, for the love of all that’s holy, why do you have to have the stuff hanging around the house?” James suddenly demanded.

His brother looked up in surprise. “I hardly have any of it, any more. Just a few figurines and amulets, some nice pieces of faience… that funny little tablet that we never could find a buyer for and the next owners wouldn’t take.”

“You’ve got a canopic jar with a flower arrangement in it right by the front door!” James scowled off in that direction, in spite of the closed door and several walls in the way. “That was once filled with some dead Egyptian’s innards.”

“I very much doubt it,” Thomas answered. “It’s as fake as all those other things you brought back from your first trip.”

James looked away, remembering. He had turned twenty-one during that first trip. It all seemed such a long time ago – far more than the number of years which had passed. He almost felt like a different person from that impressionable young man in a far-off land. And yet, he had not changed all that much.

“You remember what it’s like to be twenty-one,” Thomas almost whispered, seeming to pick up on his thoughts. “You think you know all there is to know and that the older generations have it all wrong.”

“I remember, all right.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll sway them. Most times, the older generations do have it all wrong. We certainly did.”

Thomas stood up. “I’ll let you have that rest. We’ll have time to talk more later, after you’ve had a chance to talk to Win.”

James nodded and let him go.

He did not want to talk to Winthrop. He had enough regrets without having them stirred up by that squeaky-clean young man.

Giza, Egypt
1923

James stepped outside into the gathering dusk, barely noticing the fading orange glow of the western sky that silhouetted the buildings. A hot, dry wind had blown dust off the desert all day, forcing him to stay inside the tiny room he’d managed to rent for the duration of his stay. As the sun set, the wind had dropped, allowing him out of his hidey-hole and onto the streets.

He didn’t know a soul here. Originally, he and his younger brother had intended to take this trip together – their first big adventure and the foundation of the business they proposed to establish. Their father had put a stop to that plan, demanding that one of them remain at home. Probably, he had thought that both would give up the idea if they couldn’t go together, but James fully intended to see this plan through.

The street he followed emerged onto the banks of the Nile. On the opposite side, he could see the lights of Cairo. Even now, he wondered whether he should have made his base over there. But Giza lay closer to the pyramids, to the teams of archaeologists, to the excitement of this new field of discovery which opened up day by day.

Leaving the river behind, he wound his way through the streets to the one place he knew where he could get a drink and something to eat. He didn’t speak a word of the local language, but almost everyone in the dingy bar spoke English of a kind. As he entered, he heard it spoken in a range of accents – English, American and several European variants. He picked out a word or two of the German spoken by the two men nearest the door, but not enough to get the sense of their conversation. Other languages beat against his ears, unintelligible.

“I’ll have a beer, thanks,” he told the man behind the bar. “And a plate of whatever you’ve got going.”

The bartender made a gesture to the Egyptian boy next to him, who disappeared through a door without a word. He drew the beer and set it on the counter. James eased himself onto a stool and took a sip, silently toasting his own twenty-first birthday. Back home, Prohibition meant that he couldn’t legally drink, though both he and Tom had tried beer in a New York City speakeasy. He didn’t much like the taste of the beverage, but he enjoyed the sensation of partaking of the forbidden fruit.

The boy returned with a bowl of strange lumps covered in a thick sauce and dumped it in front of James.

“Thanks,” he said, mostly from force of habit.

He stared down into the dish, wondering exactly what it might be and whether he was going to like it. His mother would turn in her grave if she knew he was eating these local foods. But this was part of the adventure and he’d rather eat raw frogs than starve to death in a foreign land. He took a tentative bite, finding it strange in smell, texture and taste, but not completely inedible. And definitely preferable to raw animals of any description.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” a voice beside him asked, as he washed down the last of his meal with a second beer.

James looked up, trying to conceal his surprise. A young woman stood beside him, dressed in a far more modern fashion than what he had seen on the streets. Her short, dark hair lay against pale cheeks. The rather shapeless dress she wore emphasised her lean figure and its pale yellow colour stood out from the dusty work clothes of the men who made up most of the clientele of the bar. She looked small enough to break in half, but her eyes blazed with determination. He felt his heart beat a little faster.

“I’ve been in town a few days,” he answered. “I was right here last night.”

She hopped lightly onto the next stool. “Oh, I never come here on Thursdays. It’s as dead as a dodo.”

Her clipped accents would have sounded more at home in London than this outpost. Glancing down at the shapely legs emerging past the shockingly-short hem, he wondered why she was there. The local women, he had noticed, did not wear their hair bobbed, nor did they display so much tantalising flesh.

“I can see I’ll have to take you in hand,” she continued. She held out a hand. “Clarissa Burton-Price.”

Taking her hand, he answered, “James Frayne. Pleased to meet you.”

So that was who she was. James had taken the time to find out the names of some of the archaeologists working on the Giza Plateau, just beyond the city of Giza where they were now. Englishman Edward Burton-Price, he knew, had brought with him a young and beautiful wife, easily young enough to be his daughter.

“So, what brings you to Giza?” she asked, taking a dainty sip from the glass set down in front of her by the barman – James had not noticed her ordering it and had no idea of what it might be.

“My brother and I are starting an importing business,” he told her. “I came to see for myself what sorts of things we might be able to buy here.”

“Trinkets?” she asked, screwing up her nose.

He shook his head. “Antiquities. There’s a real appetite back home for genuine artefacts. Egypt is quite popular right now, but we’ll probably expand into several other countries.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ll need a lot of capital for that!”

He shrugged. “Our uncle left us something. And once we get started… the money’s practically guaranteed.”

“If you say so,” she answered, turning back to her drink. A moment later, her eyes swivelled towards him. “You know, there’s another place around the corner you should know about. It’s a good place to meet the kinds of people you’ll need to know. I could introduce you.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

She drained her glass and set it down. “Come on, then.”

James hurried to pay his bill and then followed her out through a door he had not noticed before. It led into a passage lined with closed doors, then opened out onto the street. Mrs. Burton-Price paused to snatch up a garment that lay across a chair there and draw it on.

“It makes me feel like I’m wearing a bathrobe, but it’s better than being bothered by the local men,” she explained, with a rather pained expression. “Come on. It will be better when we get there.”

She ran lightly down the few steps and turned to the right. James soon lost all track of where they were, not recognising anything in the dark. After numerous twists and turns, they arrived at a building whose architecture spoke of British colonial influence. His guide tapped briskly on a door.

“Clarissa!” the man who opened it greeted. “How lovely to see you! And who is this?”

She gestured him forward. “Howard, darling, I want you to meet James. He’s just freshly arrived from America.”

“Really?” The man addressed as Howard stood back to let them both inside. “How splendid. Please, come in.”

The door closed behind them. Mrs. Burton-Price shimmied out of her wrap and handed it to the other man.

“You mustn’t say my last name here,” she whispered in James’ ear, as Howard disappeared into an adjoining room. “Call me Clarissa and I’ll call you James.”

“The whole crowd will be here this evening, I think,” Howard informed them a moment later. “Come through to the parlour and I think you’ll find a few people to talk to.”

Clarissa took James by the hand and pulled him along the corridor. “I’m sure we’ll catch up later, darling, but right now I’m parched.”

Howard raised a hand in acknowledgement, then opened the first door on the right. Clarissa chose the last one on the left. The dim room revealed was wreathed with smoke and filled with the sound of talking over the top of a lively gramophone record. Several people called greetings to Clarissa and she smiled and waved.

“What will you drink?” she asked James. “A cocktail? Or would you rather a whisky?”

She did not wait for an answer, but approached the table with the drinks and filled two glasses.

“There. I think you’ll like that.”

He took a small sip of the dark liquid, which burned all the way down. It took all he could manage not to cough. Clarissa did not seem to notice his discomfort. Taking his hand once more, she strolled through the room greeting people. She did not come to a stop until she reached a table in the dimmest corner, where two men sat.

“Take a seat, darling,” she told James. “This is Edward, (but I won’t tell you his last name),” she added, in a whisper. “And this is Happy.”

James shook hands with the two men. The first appeared to be an Englishman of about forty-five, lean and tall with light brown hair turning grey at the temples. The one called Happy, he considered, must have been given the nickname ironically. Dark, heavy eyebrows leant him the appearance of a permanent scowl. His speech bore a soft accent, from where James could not identify. By appearance, he could have been from any number of places – Spain or Italy or the Middle East. He may have been a local, but James suspected not.

They chatted for some minutes on items of general interest, then suddenly the conversation turned.

“Perhaps you might be able to help me with something,” Edward suggested. “I have been looking for someone from your country to help with an enterprise I’m starting. Tell me, what part of the country are you from?”

He hesitated a moment, then answered. “New York. The state, not the city.”

“Really!” Edward replied. “Now, that is fortunate; very fortunate, indeed. New York is just the kind of place I’d like a contact in. Tell me, do you know anyone who might be interested in being an importer of antiquities?”

Again, James hesitated. “In fact, my brother and I are looking to enter that very business.”

“You don’t say.” The other man leaned back in his seat. “That really is quite a remarkable coincidence. What say you come and visit me tomorrow in my rooms and we can talk business, man to man. It will be a good deal easier there than in this noisy room, I can tell you!”

“I’d appreciate the opportunity,” James answered, while at the same time wondering whether to trust his luck.

“Here: I’ll write you out my address and a few directions. Come at, say, eleven? You think you can find it?”

James nodded and tucked the scrap of paper carefully away. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Splendid,” the other replied and raised his nearly-empty glass. “Here’s to our mutual success.”

He drained the glass and got up. “I must be off. But before I go, Clarissa, come dance with me. Excuse us, gents.”

James watched them cross the room to where two other couples already danced. Their heads bent together as they talked, but they moved well together. He idly wondered what Clarissa’s husband would think if he saw them clasped so closely.

“You would do well not to trust him.”

The words jolted James out of his reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

The man introduced as Happy nodded in Edward and Clarissa’s direction. “That man. I don’t think you should trust him.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” James replied.

Looking even more morose than before, the other man shrugged. “I would like to see you tomorrow as well, if possible. Here is my address.”

James glanced at it and tucked it away with the other one. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Happy nodded, seeming to understand that James intended to do nothing of the kind. The song ended and Clarissa returned to the table.

“Your turn,” she told James, grabbing his hand. “Excuse us, please, Happy.”

He nodded, looking positively dour.

The next morning, head thumping from the night’s excesses, James took a small, late breakfast and hurried off to keep his appointment. His memories of the night before were distressingly hazy and he resolved not to drink quite so much again.

He arrived at the address given at a few minutes past eleven and was admitted by a man in native dress, who did not seem to speak English. He was shown into a room and gestured to a seat. Some minutes later, Edward entered the room looking rather dishevelled.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, old chap.” He dropped down opposite with a grunt. “After I left you, I went on to Max’s place – you don’t know Max? I’ll have to introduce you some time. He’s vaguely attached to the German contingent, but he speaks excellent English and throws rather lively parties.”

James nodded. At that moment, lively parties felt distinctly unattractive, but the chance of making contacts close to another expedition might make them necessary.

“But that’s all by the by,” Edward continued. “I wanted to talk to you about this exporting business. I feel that I’m in a very good position to obtain the artefacts. I just need someone at the other end to market them to the waiting public.”

“What sort of goods to you think you can get?” James asked.

The other man rose. “Come through to my work room and see. I have a number of items ready to ship already and more on the way.”

He led the way to a room lined with utilitarian shelving and piled with all kinds of antiquities. A central table held two large wooden crates filled with straw.

“These, for example, would probably do well in the American market,” Edward told him, pointing to a row of painted jars. “They date to the Late Period – quite new, by Egyptian standards – somewhere around 500 BC. The statuary is good, too. There’s a range of different eras represented here. I rather like this piece. Is it a dog, or a man? The sculptor seemed to change his mind along the way, but it’s quite good, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very good indeed,” James answered.

In spite of himself, he was deeply impressed by what he was seeing. The room held hundreds of good quality pieces, bound to be worth a lot of money. He could just imagine them in the showroom he and Thomas were hoping to secure.

“And I have some other things,” Edward continued, in a lower voice. “Come this way and I’ll show you.”

They exited the building through a rear door, crossed a kind of courtyard and entered again on the opposite side. Edward took a key from his pocket and unlocked a plain door. They entered the small, cramped room and he locked it behind himself.

“I think I can trust you to see these things,” Edward told him. “Truth be told, they’re a lot more valuable than those other things – you can find those just about anywhere out there on the Plateau. These are much more rare.”

He drew out a crate from one of the crowded shelves, lifted its lid and pushed back the bed of straw. Unlike the dusty specimens in the first room, this pot had been meticulously cleaned. Its faded brown, cream and black paint formed complicated images and patterns, which James did not have the skill to decipher. Other than a few places where the paint had chipped and one tiny hairline crack, it seemed flawless.

“Remarkable,” he breathed.

Edward nodded, smiling. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? This is my prize piece and I won’t part with it easily. But, if this first venture works out, I’ll let you have it in the second shipment.”

“What else have you got?” James asked, expression hardening.

The other man slid the first crate back in and began showing him other pieces. At the end of half an hour, James had come to the decision that he would negotiate an agreement with Edward. They talked it through for another hour after that – the first price Edward suggested almost took James’ breath away – but at length they made a deal. Edward would sell James a set list of items for the agreed price. The second shipment, if things went well on the American end, would follow in a couple of months.

As an afterthought, James dropped into Happy’s place on the way back to his lodgings. The sign above the door used several languages. The last line in English proclaimed it to belong to Luis Garcia, Second-hand Dealer. He was not sure, but thought this might be a Spanish name.

“You came, after all,” the man he had met the previous night greeted, when he entered the dim shop.

It did not look at all like a place that would sell Egyptian antiquities.

“Yes. You wanted to see me?” On a whim, he added, “And would you be the Luis Garcia of the sign outside?”

“I am. ‘Happy’ is Clarissa’s little joke.”

His face soured as he said it and James made a choice. “What can I do for you, Mr. Garcia?”

“I, too, am a dealer in antiquities, but with many years’ experience. I wanted to let you know what I could do for you.” He opened a battered wooden cabinet next to the counter. “For thirty years, I have had a steady stream of these items. This newcomer, he has no track record. He cannot deliver what he promises. I can always deliver.”

James looked through the items revealed. Compared to the riches he had seen in Edward’s house, these seemed a poor collection. And yet, there were one or two items he would not mind having.

“I will do you a deal,” Garcia continued and went on to name his terms.

Ten minutes’ negotiation later, James walked out with a small box under his arm. Most of his money had now been spent, he reflected ruefully. It was hardly worth going on to Luxor, now. He would round out the trip with some time exploring Cairo and then head home.

He saw Edward again on the day the crates were shipped home – he had been unable to secure passage for them on the same vessel he had booked on. James did a final inspection before the lids were nailed down, seeing that everything appeared in order.

“I’ve added a little gift for you and your brother,” Edward told him, as the men loaded the crates up for transport. “It’s not for you to sell, but something to remember me by. I very much hope that you’ll enjoy using them and that you’ll find them… enlightening, I suppose you could say.”

“That’s very kind,” James answered.

“Not at all. And we should go together and see the stuff off,” he suggested. “You can’t trust those dock workers an inch and I want to make sure they’re careful getting the crates aboard.”

They followed along behind the cart, arriving at the dock in time to watch together as strong men carried the cargo aboard.

“Let’s go and get ourselves a drink,” Edward suggested, once their goods had disappeared from view. “I’d like to toast our mutual success once more.”

James followed along, more out of duty than actual desire for the drink. He hadn’t forgotten the night he first met Edward yet. They entered an establishment that the Englishman knew and he ordered drinks for both of them.

“To our continued success!”

James echoed the sentiment and they both drank.

“I’m very hopeful that this is the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership for us,” Edward confided, sinking back in his chair. “Oh! And before I forget, I have a message for you from Clarissa. She sends her best wishes. She’s been called away suddenly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he answered, slowly. “When next you see her, please thank her for me and wish her the very best.”

“I certainly will,” he answered, then lowered his voice. “I’m hopeful that she will come into our partnership sometime soon, too. I think she will be a very good source of saleable objects.”

James smiled. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

New York
1923

“James!” his brother Thomas yelled, as he disembarked in New York after a rough Atlantic crossing. “Over here!”

He bent his steps in that direction, glad to see a familiar face and even more glad to be back on dry land. “Tom!”

“The shipment arrived yesterday,” Thomas told him, as they set off to find a taxi to take them to the train station. “Is that all you got from all that money you had with you?”

James shook his head and tapped his case. “No, I’ve got the smaller items with me.”

His brother eyed the small suitcase with trepidation. “Still, the money doesn’t seem to have gone as far as I’d like. How many crates should there have been?”

“Four.” He stopped short. “How many were there?”

Tom frowned. “Four. I had to pay extra before they let me have the small one and to get it taken home. It weighs a ton. And I don’t even know why you bought the things in it.”

“Well, let’s go and look at them together and I can explain.” He paused to open the door of the taxi they’d found. “We have a lot to discuss.”

They occupied the train ride home with James’ tales of the things he’d seen and the acquaintances he’d made but the subject all but dropped once they reached their home and found their father waiting in the front hall.

“James,” the older man greeted. “It’s good that you’re home.”

“I’m glad to be back,” he answered, a little warily.

A stilted conversation followed, during which it became abundantly clear to James that he was expected to stay safely at home from now on and to find a nice, staid job doing something dull. At length, the brothers escaped to the attic, where Tom had stored the crates.

“Next trip, I’m going with you, no matter what that old dinosaur says,” Tom promised, as he switched on the single hanging light bulb. “If we can make enough money off this stuff to finance another trip,” he clarified. “I’m not at all sure you haven’t been taken for a ride.”

“It will look better once it’s properly displayed,” James assured him, while pushing the lid off the nearest crate.

Leaning closer, he frowned. Tom had cleared off the top layer of straw to reveal the contents, which did not look at all like James remembered them. He tried the next crate with the same results. The third large crate seemed more familiar. He pulled out a painted jar.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a fake.” Tom’s quiet voice seemed to echo around the dusty room. “That first box you looked in, I thought they were okay at first, but now I’m not sure about any of them.”

“I’m not sure these are my crates,” James answered. “I thought I had one with a pattern in red. And a dog-man statue. I don’t see it here, either.”

He opened the small crate, the one whose weight Tom had complained about. On top he found his statue of Anubis, which he set carefully on the floor. He thrust his hand deeper, looking for anything else that might be in there. Down among the straw nestled a pair of ornate goblets, a bottle of some sort and a note.

“This must be Edward’s gift,” he deduced.

“Some gift!” grumbled Tom. “It’s already cost me a fortune.”

“It’s for both of us,” James pointed out.

“Well, I’m not interested,” his brother replied. “And I’m not sure I want to deal with this Edward character. I don’t know if we can trust him.”

“He knows the right people,” James argued. “He’s got contacts among the British, which we’d find harder to get in with. The British are doing some really important work there. We need to be close to them.”

Tom frowned, confused. “I thought you said you didn’t end up going to Luxor.”

James swept the statement away. “I didn’t think it was that important, this time.”

“But that’s where the British are!” Tom scowled at the crates. “Giza has Americans and Germans and Italians. The British were at Giza forty years ago or something. I thought you knew that! Who were these people you were dealing with?”

James scowled in return. “The British only gave them their independence last year. There are plenty of British people around still, wherever you go.”

Tom made a disgruntled noise but let the subject drop. “Is this really all you got?”

James pulled his suitcase towards himself and extracted the box of relics. “No, there’s these, too.”

For a moment, Tom continued to scowl, but his expression changed and he whistled. “Now, these are the real deal, I’m pretty sure.” He sat back, thinking. “Okay, I think we can work this. We’ll set up so that we sell both genuine and reproduction and we won’t be too particular about which is which. I think it will work.”

James nodded agreement.

“And you’re not going by yourself again, no matter what.”

He nodded once more. “Perhaps it would be better if we both went.”

Tom reached out to shake his hand. “It’s a deal, partner.”

“A deal,” James echoed, and shook his brother’s hand firmly.

Upstate New York
1962

“Thanks for coming, Uncle James,” Win greeted, with only the slightest hint of coolness to his tone.

James nodded an acknowledgement and made to move on. He still did not want to talk to his nephew and he particularly did not want to talk to him at the party. He didn’t want to spoil anything.

“I wanted to apologise for what I said the last time we talked,” Win continued. “I’ve argued this all out with Dad and I can see that while I don’t agree with what the two of you did, maybe I don’t know the whole story.”

For a brief second, scenes flashed across James’ mind: moments when he discovered uncomfortable truths; faces of those he had trusted when he shouldn’t have; times he should have made different choices.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” he answered. “Apology accepted. I also apologise. I remember what it’s like to be twenty-one. I shouldn’t expect old heads on young shoulders.”

His nephew smiled and said, “Thanks.”

“There, now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Nell asked a few moments later, with a little twinkle in her eyes.

James shook his head, but not in answer to her question. “My past lays heavy on me, Nell,” he told her. “I look at him – just the age I was when I chose that path – and I feel old and weary and beyond hope.”

She took his hand. “There’s always hope, my darling. Always.”

He looked down to her and smiled. Hope. He could hold onto that.

Continue to part two

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