dispatched to build ice condos in Antarctica.
“Sir?”
“If I tell you, will you let me slip upstairs and avoid your boss and the law?”
Pryce Philo laid his hand over his heart. “‘A man cannot serve two masters.’”
“I bet you’ve tested that theory,” Mead muttered. Shrugging, he gestured, “Lead on, faithful Philo.”
One thing he couldn’t deny as he returned to the house was that Regan Mansion, and its remaining twenty acres, was an impressive accomplishment. Having achieved centennial status, the three-story, Grecian-style mansion stood on what had been a massive pine and peach tree farm. Today it was a shutterbug’s fantasy: acres of dogwood, red bud and azaleas in the spring, and magnolia mixed into the various pines in the summer. Was his mother’s decision to sell off the land a good thing? Heaven knows, from the looks of things, she didn’t need the money, but it was how the town had gotten the park. He’d gleaned that much information from one of the yard workers. Was it what the father he couldn’t remember would have wanted? He suspected that was another question he would never get answered.
Mead followed Philo inside through the living room French doors and immediately heard his mother’s second soprano voice resonating with anger all the way from the foyer.
“Really, Officer Brighton, I expect a formal apology from Chief Marrow. My son is a medaled war hero, was honorably discharged, and yet this is the manner with which he’s welcomed home? Accusing him of such vile behavior?”
Cursing under his breath that his mother would use a messenger to vent her frustrations with Walsh—and him, too—Mead stepped into the foyer. “If you’d give the man a chance to hear his radio, I think you’ll both learn that the situation is resolved.”
In front of him he saw Pamela Niles Regan—his mother if documentation was to be believed—resplendent in a red, white and blue sequined jacket and an ankle-length, navy-blue skirt. The massive chandelier over her head accented the honey-gold highlights in her short, brunette coif, and her five-foot-three ripe body teetered on three-inch heels.
With a grateful glance, the flustered policeman keyed his shoulder mike. After a bit more static and some vague jargon Mead didn’t understand, he heard the officer reply, “Copy.”
To them the young man said with some chagrin, “It’s confirmed. False alarm. Just doing my job, sir. Ma’am. Good evening to you.”
As soon as the front door closed behind him, Pamela seethed, “Incompetent man. I’ll have his badge.”
“Don’t.” Mead slipped off his bandana, wearier from listening to those few moments of his mother’s railing than from what happened earlier. “It was a misunderstanding. Let it go.”
“Excuse me? Insult a national hero?”
“Stop it,” Mead replied more tersely. “You don’t know that.”
Pamela lifted her chin. “Of course I do. They presented me with your ribbons and medals on your behalf. It’s not my fault that you refuse to look at them.”
Mead wrestled with a dark emotion he couldn’t quite name. “The mission failed. People are dead. There’s nothing to honor.”
Once he’d gotten a fraction of his wits about him, he’d demanded someone tell him the truth. He couldn’t confirm or deny anything said, but he didn’t believe that he should have been rewarded for such pitiful results. Right now he wasn’t sure he should believe he really was Mead Regan, or someone cosmetically altered to take his place. In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d looked for the telltale scars indicating plastic surgery and was almost disappointed to note that while he had scars, none were from that.
“The point is that you’ve repeatedly risked your life for your country, and this time almost lost everything. I nearly lost you.” Pamela crossed to him and gripped his arm until perfectly manicured nails bit into the sleeve of his jacket. “You deserve respect and since you’re too modest and noble to ask for it yourself, it’s my job to see you get it.”
Her saccharine smile turned into a grimace as she finally took notice of his appearance. “Good grief, Mead. I hope you haven’t left a trail of mud on the carpet. Never mind, I’ll have Philo look into that as soon as we finish. Now, I want you to go upstairs and shower. You can make up for giving me a fright by accompanying me at dinner tonight. Check the closet for your dress uniform. It might still be a bit loose on you, but it’s been cleaned and you’ll see I have all the medals on it.”
Mead almost admired her. From day one after arriving here he’d noticed Pamela’s steely determination. Her problem was that she directed it toward all the wrong things. Carefully disengaging himself, he replied, “No.”
“No? Tonight is important to me.”
“I thought this event was all about your buddy Walsh?”
Pamela’s aging porcelain features hardened a second before she pressed her hands together and shifted her gaze over his shoulder. “Ah, Philo. Check the living room carpet for dirt, will you? And have the car ready at six.”
“Very well, madam.”
As the butler withdrew, Pamela refocused on Mead. “Darling…the fact of the matter is that I hate having to leave you yet again. I’ve had commitments so many times since your return, and we could use this as an opportunity to catch up. Besides, it’s not good for you to be alone so much.”
She was only now concluding that? “Last time I checked,” Mead replied, “my birth certificate says I turn thirty-five in November. The head doctors wouldn’t have authorized my release if I weren’t relatively safe to be left on my own. For that matter, don’t you think it’s time to tell your watchdog that around-the-clock monitoring isn’t necessary?”
“Philo has only made sure you didn’t have an episode and had everything you need.”
“The doctors told you I haven’t since they changed my medication, and I’ve been off of all of it except aspirin for several days.”
“That’s wonderful. Then we can use tonight to celebrate.” Pamela attempted a pout and coaxed, “I’d love to show you off to my friends.”
He couldn’t think of anything less appealing. “Did I ever enjoy performing for crowds?”
Stiffening, Pamela brushed past him and headed for the study. “I’m going to make myself a drink. Would you care for something?”
Mead’s first impulse was to decline and seek refuge in his room, but on second thought he followed. He had more questions and, like it or not, she probably knew many if not all of the answers. “Beer sounds okay.”
The tap of her high heels grew louder on the Italian tile. At the ornate antique huntboard that served as a bar, she filled two crystal glasses with ice from an open crystal bowl, then added a healthy splash of bourbon. “If I succeed at anything regarding your return,” she said, handing him a glass, “it’ll be to cure you of your pedestrian tastes.”
Had his hunch that he’d always preferred beer to the expensive stuff been correct? Mead inspected the amber liquid. Contact with the person he’d been…
Pamela
