Page 4 of The Unforgiven
“I believe you are my biological father,” she said and waited for his reaction. He continued to look at her, as if she hadn’t spoken. She was just about to ask him if he’d heard her when Dolores appeared with the lemonade.
“Try it. No one makes lemonade like Dolores. She puts in a bit of honey to sweeten it instead of sugar. I drink pitchers of this stuff during the summer,” Seth said as he waited for Quinn to taste the drink.
“It’s wonderful.” Quinn took several sips to fill the awkward silence that sprang up between them. When Dolores finally walked away, Seth continued to watch Quinn with that unfathomable expression.
“Mr. Besson?—”
“Call me Seth,” he interrupted. “No need to stand on ceremony, especially if you think you sprang from my loins,” he added with a chuckle. “So, who’s your mother then?”
“Sylvia. Sylvia Moore.”
Seth shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Tell me more.”
“You met her at the house of your friend Robert Chatham, Christmas Eve of 1982.”
“Did I?”
“You did,” Quinn replied, resenting his refusal to engage. He was baiting her, making her anxious.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember raping a girl at a party?” she demanded, now angry. How cavalier these men were about a girl whose life they’d nearly ruined. Sylvia had been nothing to them, a mere diversion that was forgotten as soon as their hangovers wore off the following morning. Perhaps they had been so pissed they hadn’t even recalled the events of the previous evening, thinking they’d just had a bit of fun and stumbled off to bed, getting up with a clear conscience on Christmas morning.
“Sweetheart, I’m hardly a saint, but I can assure you I’ve never forced my attentions on any girl. They all came willingly enough, and if they weren’t interested, there were plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“This one didn’t,” Quinn retorted.
“Look, I don’t know what your mother told you, or even who she is for that matter, but I’m pretty sure you’re not my spawn. Now, having said that, I will gladly give you a swab or whatever it is you need from me to put your mind at rest. I’m sure there’s a lab right here in New Orleans that can expedite the results. I’ll even pay for the test out of my own pocket to show youI bear no ill will toward you and I have every confidence you are not mine. How ’bout that?”
“That’s fine, but I will send it to my own lab, if you have no objection.”
“Let’s do two. I’ll take one to a lab here and you can send yours to whomever you choose. That way we’ll know for sure.”
“Do you at least remember Robert Chatham?” Quinn asked as she reached for a DNA kit from her handbag.
“Sure. I met him at university. Cocky little bastard. Thought he could use me to gain popularity.”
“May I ask you a question?” Quinn said as she handed Seth a swab.
“Go right ahead.”
“What made you choose Scotland?”
Seth Besson was so quintessentially American that Quinn simply couldn’t imagine him walking the halls of St. Andrews University, or being friends with someone like Robert Chatham. They were polar opposites. The only similarity of note was their arrogance, which grated on Quinn since it was meant to shred her confidence.
Seth laughed and took a sip of lemonade. “Pure idiocy is what it was. I got it into my head that I hated the South and wanted nothing to do with my daddy’s trucking business. I wanted to go to Europe and live in the land of knights and kings. Well, my grades were excellent, so I applied to a few programs and got into the Sorbonne and St. Andrews. I don’t speak a word of French, other than the language of food, so I chose Scotland. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was never more miserable. It was cold, wet, and boring. Most other students treated me like I was some sort of curiosity because I was American and spoke the Queen’s English with a Southern drawl, so I fell in with Robert and his crew out of desperation. He was a real jackass, to be sure, but at least heinvited me to come along when they went to the pub or to a football match. I was his pet American, and he used me to pick up girls, who liked my accent and asked all kinds of ridiculous questions, like if my family owned slaves. Yes, my family owned slaves before the Civil War. I will not apologize for what my ancestors did. Y’all did much worse. Just check the history books.”
Quinn glanced away from Seth, annoyed by his belligerence. She wasn’t there to compare notes on their countries’ histories. Every country had their moments of shame and glory, and England and the United States had more than most, some of those highs and lows forever intertwined and frequently explored in literature, film, and song.
Seth smiled ruefully as he removed his cap, scratched his scalp, and replaced the cap on his head. “Sorry, I digress. Anyway, I lasted one semester, then ran back home with my tail between my legs. And before you ask, I didn’t do much dating in Scotland. The girls just weren’t my speed.”
“Are you saying you were celibate the entire time you were there?” It was a rude question, but she had to ask. Seth Besson was her final candidate. Neither Rhys, Robert, nor Stephen was a DNA match, so if Seth wasn’t either, who the hell had fathered her?
“Celibate? Lord, no. I fucked like a bunny, if you pardon my saying so, but I always,alwaysused a condom. My mama always said, ‘Don’t bring nothing into this world that you’re not willing to take responsibility for,’ and the last thing I wanted was to leave a child of mine in Scotland. I am happily divorced, but I love my son and have been a good father to him. I take that role very seriously, and if you prove to be mine, I will take my responsibility toward you just as seriously. I’m a man of honor.”
A little taken aback by his speech, Quinn nodded in understanding. She couldn’t fault a grown man for having a sex life, especially with women who were willing. It was none of her business, and she had no right to judge him until she knew the truth. Sylvia had not been entirely honest with her anyway, and had withheld important details that had led to Quinn questioningher motives and her version of events. Rhys Morgan backed Sylvia’s story. Robert Chatham swore she’d been willing. And Stephen Kane, who’d had a brief relationship with Sylvia before the ill-fated Christmas party but left her to reconcile with his wife, called Sylvia “sexually aware” and said she had known what she was about, even at sixteen. Seth Besson was the only candidate left standing, and he couldn’t even remember her—or so he said.
Seth scraped the inside of his cheek with two swabs and handed them both to Quinn, who inserted them into plastic tubes and sealed them. She handed one back to Seth and stowed the other in her purse. She’d overnight it to Colin Scott as soon as she left Seth’s house and located a FedEx office. Colin would have the results for her by the end of the week, if she were lucky.
