The Royal Stones of Eden (Royal Secrecies Book 1) (10 page)

Mattie looked at what was thrown down in front of her. On the table was a folder marked
Dr. Robert Diaz: Notes on Mary Madison, Confidential
. There was also a book entitled
Past Lives: The Realities and the Falsehoods
, and a birthday card from a Sylvia Reeves, addressed to Mary Harrison, that read, “Mary! Good luck in your new life!”

“Is your name Mary Madison or Mary Harrison? Would you like to talk about lies now?”—David sat back down and was interrupted by an indignant Mattie.

“Where did you get all of this? And how dare you invade my personal privacy!”—Mattie returned David’s angry look with one of her own, and her posture stiffened.

“I got these from the files and desk of our dear friend, our good old buddy, our old boy, our one and only, Peter Jenkins—a few days ago!”—David got up with an air of disgust and stormed to the front of the plane. As he exited, he slammed the thin door that led to the seats in the front, and then Mattie got up and followed him. She found David sulking and back in his seat, and she unobtrusively sat down beside him. She mulled over David’s newfound knowledge about some elements of her past. They both sat in their seats stubbornly and remained speechless for several minutes until David broke the silence.

“I‘ve been investigating Peter since Cairo, Mattie. I didn’t take those personal belongings. Peter did!” he confessed. Mattie remained quiet as her mind still processed the earlier intrusion into her privacy. They both kept their peace for several more minutes and awkwardly continued to avoid eye contact. They were full of embarrassment from the unusual and rare conversation of displeasure. So much information was incomplete.

Mattie finally spoke to David, but she changed the subject.

“David, where are we going?”—Mattie had started to compose herself for more questions.

What does he know? How much does he know? What questions do I ask him? Who is he really? Is our love or relationship for real?

“We are going to a house in Monterey that I own. It was once my grandmother’s house. It’s a house you’ve never seen.”—David tried to be as genuine as possible, despite his earlier outburst.

“I thought you were barely getting by—I thought you lost your grandmother’s houses—I thought you spent all of your money on your school loans,” Mattie queried.

The plane interrupted the answer as it landed with its usual bump and the sound of the rubber tires hitting the pavement. It taxied to a private area of the airport where a car waited on them.

“I did lose my money, Mattie,” David answered while the plane maneuvered to its destination. “That is a fact—but I found a way to make money by working an honest living, hiring out services, and leasing inventions on the side. I really do own a small security company. I did not lie about any of that. I just didn’t mention my services were being hired by a private company. That is how I got all of this. I was able to buy one of my grandmother’s houses back. That is also the truth.” He paused and added, “I did meet and fall in love with you. That is also a fact. And, I was going to surprise you on our honeymoon one day with this place in Monterey.”—David could hear himself rambling like a kid in love.

“You were going to marry me despite my going to a psychologist?”—Mattie attempted to stop the insistent tears.

“I never thought you were crazy. Well, I mean you were crazy to love a guy like me, but beyond that…”—David heard Mattie’s seat belt click, and he felt Mattie’s head on his shoulders as he continued. “Mattie, all I knew was that you had a challenging marriage and some kind of accident or some kind of major trauma in your life. You obviously needed some help. So what! You talked to a psycho doctor. Who cares? I don’t need to know any details. I only know that I love you. Your past doesn’t matter to me. That’s ancient history.”

The noise from the outside world interrupted them as the aircraft door opened with the assistance of the pilot who appeared from the cockpit. Mattie and David were in the middle of a kiss when Tom Childers entered the plane and blurted out, “If you two are quite finished with all of this rubbish, then perhaps we can get going!”

“Mattie, meet Mr. Tom Childers, my house…uh…assistant…and Tom, this is…”—David started to bumble the whole introduction.

“I think I can introduce myself, thank you!” Tom retorted. “Madam, I am David’s personal assistant, Thomas Childers, but you can call me Tom!”—Tom reached his hand for a formal handshake. Tom was a slim, middle-aged man, and he carried himself with a quick step. He had a keen eye, despite the fact that he had a few grey hairs mixed in with his short black hair. He was quite tall at just over six feet. He looked elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit, and he quite promptly, and properly, offered to escort the pair off the plane.

“You have a butler!”—Mattie looked at David while she smirked, and David’s face reddened in embarrassment.

They walked down the steps off the plane as they braced against a sudden and vigorous gust of the wind that came in from the sea. A chauffeur and limousine awaited them. Mattie’s red hair waved and danced gracefully in the wind as she peeked back at David, and then she got into the waiting chariot of leisure. Tom sat in the back seat with Mattie and David, and the long black car sped away from the tarmac.

During the drive to David’s house, Mattie verbally pointed out the many passing sights. She happily drowned in the views of the incredible blue waters of Monterey Bay. The brisk and clean air flooded into her nostrils. The smell of cooked meat was also in the air—the aromas of both fish and beef. As they passed Cannery Row, they saw several crowded conventions. Couples shivered and walked close to each other on the sandy shores in the distance. Horns from a couple of ships mingled with the sounds of the water that broke and the seagulls that nagged.

After a drive of just a few minutes, they arrived at a private driveway that led to a bygone house on a steep hill. An old but newly painted iron gate blocked the front entrance. The chauffeur rolled down his window and entered a code into an access control box. The automatic gate slid to its right, opened with a steady creak, and then allowed them in.

The Victorian house was elegant, but it had an air of simplicity and homeliness. It was an obscure place for a hideaway, but it was private. The lot, stoically fenced, contained steady and leafy trees that encircled the house and added to its privacy. At a higher place in the two-story house were the sleeping accommodations with big windows in each that allowed any visitor to take in the ocean below as it was considerably above the cut trees.

David escorted Mattie upstairs to a room that he had planned on sharing with her before their fight. It was a journey up old steps that showed their age and wisdom. Every other step seemed to groan as if the house spoke and revealed its hidden stories. The wooden floors had only an occasional rug throughout the whole house. It was a damp atmosphere that greeted them, and there was limited furniture in most of the rooms. It was an old house, but Mattie loved it.

When Mattie saw the magnificent view from the bedroom window, she performed an action of instinct. She pulled from her very nature. She reached for the window lock to unlatch it, and then she swung the window open to take in the full view. She breathed in the complex and wondrous ocean smells coming in from the bay. The smells contained hints of the sea, the white sands, and the dirtiness of decaying shells. It also had in it the smell of the wharf where selected marine life was being cooked. Nearby there were sea lions that sounded their approval of the whole situation while they basked in the warm sun with their fat bellies exposed.

All of this was familiar to Mattie as if she had been in this area before—as if she was reliving a distant but dying dream. Then David gave some assurance to Mattie that seemed to add to the calmness of the scene.

“Mattie, I want you to know that your file was empty when I found it—the one from your doctor. I didn’t read anything. There was no information in it.”—David placed his hands on her shoulders as she turned toward him.

“David, I think it’s time to tell you everything that I remember—as much as I
can
remember.”—Mattie brushed away more fresh tears that released some of the earlier tensions.

“Do you have anything to write with?” she asked. “I want to gather some thoughts and write them down before we talk?”

“Of course. But you don’t have to do this, Mattie. I really am sorry that I upset you.”—David smiled and walked to an antique desk in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer after only a brief struggle, and then he hunted through it until he found some paper and a pen that he handed to her.

“We both have a lot to share and talk about,” she told him. “I also want
you
to tell me everything about what it is that
you
truly do. Can you give me some time to gather some thoughts before we talk? I want to write down a few things.”—her eyes pleaded permission. She had said the same thing twice to push for some alone time.

“Sure! I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready, and then we can talk.”—David turned and walked away after a brief, warm, and non-judgmental kiss.

After a few minutes, Mattie decided to write while she sat in a padded chair, at a desk that faced the view of the ocean. She began to write:

“As God is my witness, the words I write to you are indeed truthful. I believe that I know the truth very well, but I know of no one who truly knows what the composition of it is.”

“...And I remember so many things and forget so many others…”

Chapter 7

Peter’s Trip to Wales

Before Egypt

Peter was still somewhat shaken after he learned of his father’s death. During the train trip to Wales, he seemed to be in another world as the train sped by holiday parks, rivers and a few castles in the distance. He considered his thoughts that mindlessly rambled.

Why did an archaeologist in Egypt have the same stone that my mother wore? Or, am I just obsessed with her loss and looking to find a link to her that doesn’t even exist? Were my parents truly from a royal lineage? Did the term “royal” simply refer to people who only thought that they were important, but instead were merely the prudish, prideful, and arrogant wealthy?

After the four-hour train trip from London, Peter took a taxi out to his Uncle Willie’s home in Carmarthen. Uncle Willie lived in a semi-detached bungalow, a few miles north of the station. Peter arrived just in time to see the evening sky darken as ominous grey colors with intermingled shades of orange and red bled out the final goodbye to the uninvited night.

He paid for his taxi and then walked up to Uncle Willie’s door. He knocked several times, but there was no answer. There was nothing to indicate that anyone was at home. The house had no lights on. He knocked once again, and then he turned the door handle as an afterthought. The door was unlocked, and it opened easily. He stepped inside.

The living room was dark. Only the fading orange sky that peeked in the windows offered relief to the shadows. Peter felt for a light switch and called out for his uncle. “Uncle Willie? Are you at home?” he cried out. There was no response, so he checked both the bedroom and the shower room. No one was there. Peter searched in the study room and the lounge, and then he proceeded to the kitchen.

Once he was in the kitchen, he struggled a moment to find the light switch. But when he found it, he wished he had not. Once the kitchen light was turned on, the room revealed its obscured horror.

Uncle Willie was lying face down. Bits of glass were on the floor beside him, and the kitchen window had several pellet-sized holes in it. It was obvious that the holes were bullet holes. Peter walked to Willie’s body and knelt down beside it. He placed a hand and several fingers on his neck as he checked for any vital signs. He even called out to him, almost in a whisper— as if he might disturb him.

“Uncle Willie?”—Peter grabbed his body and turned it over, but there was no immediate response. However, even as the thought of Willie’s finality entered Peter’s brain, suddenly Willie’s eyes started to move just slightly. His brow wrinkled tightly in response to an obvious pain.

“Peter? Is that you?” Willie asked. “He got here before you.”—Uncle Willie’s chest had blood on it, but it was his head that had the most obvious bruise. “He missed me, you know?”

“Uncle Willie?” Peter queried. “What happened?”—it was possible that this was the most concern that he had shown for the welfare of another human being, besides himself, or his mother, in his entire life.

“He shot me. He did! I moved too quickly and slipped on the kitchen floor and hit my head on the table—but he missed!” the old white haired and bearded Uncle Willie declared.

Peter saw the blood that started to pool on Uncle Willie’s chest in its center. The shooter had not missed. It was a direct hit.

“Go and get your old toys out, the ones you played with as a child. Get my diary too.”—Uncle Willie rolled his eyes and coughed on every other word as he spit blood through his teeth.

“Who did this, Uncle Willie? Why did you want to see me?”—Peter shook Uncle Willie’s shoulders, attempting to keep him conscious.