Private Lies Part 57 The Painted Lady

The Painted Lady

The last thing that Thomas Gunn expected to see when he walked into his office at 10:00 a.m. was Hailey McAdam sitting demurely in his reception room.

“Hailey, I’m so happy to see you.”

She brusquely cut him off. “Can we go into your office and talk, Mr. Gunn?”

“Of course—Hold all my calls, Eleanor.” His secretary nodded.

Once inside and with the door closed, he slid behind his desk and Hailey took her usual chair.

“The reason I’m here, Mr. Gunn, is to get some answers to certain questions. Your answers will determine whether or not I continue to have a relationship with you in the future. Is that understood?”

He nodded.

“Were you aware of Godfrey Ainsworth’s views pertaining to British Israelism?”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair locking his hands behind his head.

“If you’re asking if I knew Godfrey was a bloody bigot, the answer is yes. I didn’t really know much about his beliefs and if he tried to explain, I’d probably tune him out. What I did know was that he was obsessed about aiding Clare’s sisters in protecting the family name and that he was a rabid anti-Semite—a real sweetheart of a guy, if you get my drift.”

“So, I take it you knew nothing about the McAdam-Ripley feud.”

“All I knew were the few details Beatrice dropped over the years—something about the Ripleys having disgraced their name by plotting against the monarchy—back in the time of Elizabeth the First, I think.”

Hailey frowned.

Gunn picked up the cue. “I don’t get it—what has Godfrey’s wacko views got to do with anything?”

“One of the Ripley’s kidnapped and tried to kill me—he was an emotionally disturbed young man—actually, he was the fellow who was stalking me and writing hate messages on my front door.”

Gunn’s eyebrows went up. “Hailey, I had no idea…”

“I know—it’s all right now—it really is, but that’s not why I’m here. I want to know details about my mother—I mean Clare.”

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“I’d like to know,” she sobbed, “why you didn’t tell me you were my father. All those years, you let me go on believing Godfrey Ainsworth—that pompous old fart—a man I never even knew—was my father. You were in my life and kept silent. How could you do that?”

“I promised your mother—er, Beatrice, that I’d keep her secret until she chose to reveal the truth.”

“But she never did,” she wailed, “Why?”

Gunn lifted his hands, palms up in a helpless gesture. “I have no idea,” he said bleakly.

“Didn’t you ever ask—or, did you not care?”

“Care—about you? Of course, I cared. I watched over, protected and yes—even loved you—from afar, of course—but I respected Beatrice’s wishes. There were times—like at your graduation from university, or your appointment to the faculty when I was so proud I wanted to shout out to the world that you were my daughter—mine and Clare’s, but…”

“—But you couldn’t—couldn’t because you were scared.”

He hung his head. “Yes, I was scared—not so much of the McAdams or their threats, but scared of you Hailey.”

“Me? Why would you be scared of me?”

“I was frightened that you’d despise me for being the weakling that I am—for not coming forward all those years—for letting Beatrice raise you, because I couldn’t.”

Her eyes flashed, “And why couldn’t you?”

He shrugged and stared out the window.

“I was always a passive man, Hailey. You want a picture of what my life was like? —Try imagining a twig floating down a river—completely uncaring, unfeeling, with no mind of my own—that was me—Still is me. After Clare died, I died too—the only difference between us is she’s stuck in an urn in a wall. As for me, I’m stuck in a life I despise and can’t get up the courage to end.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? What do you want me to say—‘that’s okay Dad, I understand?’ I don’t understand. No matter how much you missed Mother, I was your child—a part of Clare. If you loved her so much, how could you abandon me?”

“You wouldn’t understand—I don’t understand. Watching Clare those nights when she’d come to visit when you were sound asleep. It was so hard. Beatrice would let us in and Clare would go upstairs and stay in your room with you for hours, watching and weeping and feeling so cut off from you.”

He shook his head as if to dispel the haunting images flooding his mind.

“She was barely able to keep it together fighting depression and bouts of electroshock therapy—wasn’t even supposed to be out of the clinic, but I’d pull a few strings and for a couple of hours, every few weeks, she’d spend some time being close to you. Sometimes, you’d wake up and see her there and cry and she’d have to leave knowing she traumatized you. Imagine that—awakening to a stranger in your room who was in fact, your mother.”

The tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“I remember driving her back to the clinic—seeing her face, tear-stained like mine is now—but with her black mascara leaving dark trails down her cheeks.”

Hailey’s eyes shone. “Like a sad clown’s face?”

He looked at her in surprise. “That’s right—like a sad clown’s face."

The last bits of the puzzle fell into place. At last Hailey knew the identity of the Painted Lady that haunted her all her life.

Parts 1 -50
Part 51
Part 52
Part 53
Part 54
Part 55
Part 56

To be continued...
© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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