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Mystery, horses, French Resistance, Thoroughbreds, Lexington, WWII, OSS historical, crime, architecture, horse racing, equine pharmaceuticals, family business, France, Christian
youâre not too tired?â
He started coughing again, and a nurse came in to check his vitals. When she left, he drank more water, and rested quietly for a minute, without trying to speak.
Jo waited, shifting in her chair, till she couldnât stand the silence. âWould you want to talk to someone else who was in the O.S.S.? His nameâs Alan Munro. He was a good friend of Tomâs in Virginia, and heâs just moved here.â
âHave you read
The Count Of Monte Cristo
?â
âYes, of course. Years ago now. Though Iââ
âI was wrongly accused too. Much the way Edmond Dantès was. And like him, his first years in prison, I donât know who was responsible.â Jack looked away toward the window.
And Jo studied the pain on his face â the frustration, the anger, the private humiliation â seeing then for the first time the suffering heâd gone through. âIâm sorry, Jack. I donât know what to say.â
Jack didnât answer, and turned his face even further away â till he finally sighed and closed his eyes. âThatâs what led me to find Tom this March. I was in the hospital at Christmas, and saw the handwriting on the wall. If I was ever going to stop drinking and start again I had to do it soon. I shouldâve faced the truth then, but didnât. And it wasnât until March that I saw I couldnât do it alone. Tom told me in â45 that if I ever decided I needed help, I should come to him.â
âIâm sure he wouldâve wanted you to.â Jo was watching Jack carefully, thinking it was time to go for his sake. Yet the intensity sheâd seen when he talked, the pain and shame that had swept across his face, kept her from saying anything, and made her stay where she was.
Jack blew his nose, and leaned back on his pillows before he spoke again. âWhen I sobered myself up this March, I phoned Tomâs house â your house â in Versailles, and started walking, even though thereâd been no answer. I knew I had to get moving before I changed my mind. I assumed that even if Tom didnât live here, you, or your mother, or someone else in Versailles, would know where he was.â
âI wish heâd been here for all of us.â
âYes. For sadly, and against my better judgment, Iâve now burdened you. With me. Here. With pneumonia. Iâm sorry for that. I am, Josie. Tom would have my hide.â His eyes looked terrible, bloodshot and exhausted. The skin around his mouth, where theyâd shaved him before giving him oxygen, was papery white and drawn. His lips were dry and cracked too, bleeding in the left hand corner.
âOnce I get out of here, Iâll find a job. Iâll make myself a nest egg and see what I can do.â Even Jack didnât look as though he believed that, not with much real confidence, as he wiped his forehead with the last of the tissues. âIâll have the hospital bills to pay too, though they shouldnât amount to much. According to what the doctor says.â
Jo handed him a new box of tissues from the drawer in the bedside table. âYou donât have to make plans now. Just concentrate on getting better.â
They were both quiet for a minute, looking at nothing in particular, letting the words sink in.
Then Jo asked Jack about his parents. And watched him turn toward the window again.
âItâs a complicated situation. I donât wish to speak of them now. If I find a job, and make a new start, then perhaps Iâll go see them.â
âWhy? If you were my son, Iâd be frantic to know where you were, and how youâre doing, and Iâd be worrying thatââ
âTheyâre not like most people.â
âNo? Come on, Jack. It might do you good to talk about them.â Jo Grant had stood up and stretched, and was plumping Jackâs pillows, helping him sit up straighter the
Learning to Kill: Stories