fuonlyknew

Chapter 1

Santa Barbara, California. March 1948

“Fancy a snog?” Thomas didn’t wait for a reply as he kissed his wife once and then again before holding up their infant, Birdy, to place a soft peck on Beatrix’s cheek. The little one waved with both chubby arms, and her almond-shaped eyes always made Beatrix blink in astonishment, feeling wonder and joy, fear and gratitude, all balled together. It was nothing she’d ever experienced. “Can’t you just say ‘kiss’ rather than snog, darling? It sounds scandalous,” Beatrix protested. “My point exactly.” He kissed Beatrix again, then turned to the nearly year-old baby. “Amazing wave there, Birdy, and now, come on. You can do it. You can say ‘Daddy.’” Thomas had been coaching her to wave and say Daddy, consumed with it for weeks. “You know, Thomas, that Birdy might not actually speak until after her first birthday. And ‘Ma’ is the easiest sound for her. The wave, however, is quite genius,” Beatrix said. “Isn’t she just? Don’t wait up for us.” He laughed again. They’d just finished breakfast, so this made Beatrix chuckle, her brown hair with the auburn highlights stuck back in a loose ponytail. She was dressed for the garden in green denim overalls and a blue, lightweight pullover. She was eager to get digging in the dirt. In another month, the flower beds would be exploding with a riot of reds, yellows, and orange nasturtiums, happy-faced Marguerite daisies, and yellow coreopsis with white cosmos accenting the design. Sweet alyssum in puffy clouds would round out the color scheme. She planned to jam the beds and pots with everything the local nursery offered. As anxious as she was to plant the starters she’d bought at the nursery center the previous day, Beatrix never rushed their goodbyes. Not in the most secret places of her heart or her wildest dreams, in the darkest times of her life as an unwanted orphan, lost in a series of boarding schools as a teenager, and floundering to make a living during the horrors of the war, did she ever think her life would be filled with the love of a devoted husband and the cutest baby on the planet. Standing on the sidewalk in front of their ever-so-slowly-being-renovated Victorian mansion in the sleepy, little California beach town of Santa Barbara, Beatrix moved closer to Thomas, slipped her arm around his trim middle, and moved in for a hug. In the cheerless days of World War II, all the gratitude she felt in that moment had been impossible even to dream about. She trailed her fingers down her cheek, where soft baby lips had just been, and sighed. “Think we’ll saunter over to Woolworths Five and Dime for an escapade, and certainly we’ll be back before elevenses, which I prefer to call it over your Americanized ‘snack time.’ That chocolate chip scone in the pantry is to share with our tea, my dearest Bea. Not my best baking, but it had better be there when I return.” He produced a frown, knowing she had a penchant for chocolate—the reason he’d baked them. “Wave goodbye to Mummy, Birdy pet. We’re off for a jaunt,” he said, and Birdy did exactly as her daddy asked. Then the twosome was off for their quick spin in the neighborhood or even farther to Sterns Wharf or north to the mission. Down the sidewalk they went, and Beatrix waved to their backs. She loved his smile and knew how broad it would be, even as she watched them moving toward the shops. Thomas had procured, somehow, an honest-to-goodness British pram in the traditional navy blue fabric. She often thought he got more British by the day, although they’d lived in this community since the end of the war. He insisted that sweaters were jumpers and knackered meant that he or the baby was tired. Just like Thomas, Birdy seemed to mostly have an “on” switch where she was happily and thoroughly engaged with toys, cooing, and making sounds that would eventually become words, and the rare “off” one, where she, as Thomas did, slept like a bag of rocks. While they had fostered and then adopted Birdy as an infant, it was remarkable to friends, family, and strangers how much the baby looked like Thomas and Beatrix. She had striking, intelligent eyes that constantly watched where her parents were, wild hair just like Thomas’s, and smooth, creamy skin like Beatrix’s. Most likely, they’d discussed, they’d never find her birth parents—who had left her, hours after her birth, at Cottage Hospital—or know her heritage. Thomas had researched the possibility of using blood samples or even the cutting-edge science of gene testing to determine her ethnicity, but without any way to find Birdy’s biological parents, it hardly mattered. They had just the previous evening talked about adopting more children and knew as soon as was appropriate that they’d explain to all the Patterson-Ling kids that they had been chosen, just like Mummy and Daddy had chosen each other. They’d decided to name the little girl after all of their mothers and call her Jay. She would be Jennie, for Beatrix’s adoptive mother; Adelina, for her biological mother; and Ya, for Thomas’s mother, which in Chinese meant refined, elegant, and graceful. About a month after the baby came into their lives, there was a flock of squawking and comical California scrub jays frolicking the bird bath in the garden, and the little girl’s nickname morphed into Birdy. Thomas moved with grace and a quiet confidence, which Beatrix knew came from his years of martial arts training. Thomas was lithe and just an inch taller than his wife at five foot eight. He never thought there was anything unmanly about strolling around the city with the little girl and was totally in love with the child, as he’d told Beatrix that morning and every morning since the little one had joined their lives. Thomas felt burdened with guilt as he headed into downtown Santa Barbara. He knew it was not cricket to conceal the letter he’d placed in his jacket’s pocket when he picked up the morning mail. Yet, as with everything in his well-organized life, he dreamed it would be better to wait until evening to discuss what had been written. Was this an opportunity or madness? He liked to think he made wise decisions, calculated and smart. Yet the contents of the letter could change everything about their future and their family life in the tranquil beach city. Was it a lie not to tell Beatrix at once? He thought not, except one could say it was a lie of omission. He mentally calculated what the effect caused by the letter would be on his family and sighed deeply. Beatrix had just established her practice as a psychologist focusing on returning veterans who suffered from mental damage as well as physical issues during and after the war. The effects of trauma on soldiers during the Great War was a field she’d studied at length, and now she was compiling data on the current mass of returning veterans, wounded inside and out from the Second World War. Then there was the house. It still needed a multitude of improvements. Thomas thought, What houses built in the late 1800s didn’t? However, it was livable, warm in the winter, and cool in summertime, thanks to the oversized windows letting in the playful ocean breezes. Then there were the friends, closer than family, they’d made in the city. Sam and Jo Conrad lived just blocks away. The couples and their kids dined together once and sometimes twice a week. They were already planning summer picnics on Arroyo Burro Beach, also known as Hendry’s Beach by locals, with its wide sandy shore and cliffs perfect for boys like the Conrads’ eldest, Sammy, to scurry up. Thomas imagined Birdy following the Conrad twins and Sammy, running through the waves, unaware of how idyllic their childhoods would be away from the recent nightmares of war, with loving parents and a safe community in which to grow, learn, and follow their dreams. After the war, when he could safely cross the Atlantic and travel from England to Santa Barbara to see his lover, he vowed never to forget how fortunate he was. This letter? The knowledge of it felt like a fire in his pocket, as its contents would change every aspect of their lives. Can I do that? Am I dedicated enough? Why am I even considering it? It’s utter madness, he thought. Earlier that morning, he shook his head in dismay at the sheer contentment on his wife’s face as she stroked Birdy’s pitch-black hair. They’d been through so much together, individually and now as a family, after adopting Birdy. They were on a journey that made them both feel at peace. Once Beatrix read the letter and acknowledged its content, the future would flip, a dangerous somersault to their tranquil life. There would be no going back. Whatever the result, we’ll never be the same. That frightened Thomas, and he thought, For now, I best wait. A few more hours of bliss before . . . He couldn’t even think the words—didn’t want to face what would be the outcome when he did. Beatrix continued to watch the pair and imagined Thomas chatting with the baby in Cantonese as they ambled down serene Anapamu Street in the heart of the city and onward to State Street, the main shopping street. Truth be told, she’d had doubts about becoming a mother to the fostered little one and then again when they applied to adopt the infant. At thirty, she didn’t know if she’d have the patience of younger moms, but the moment Birdy arrived in their arms, Beatrix never looked back. Thomas, on the other hand, never doubted the decision. He jumped in, taking over the hourly feedings when Birdy was tiny, changing the nappies, walking the floor, sterilizing glass baby bottles, and suddenly becoming an expert on burping the baby. Because of Beatrix’s incredible memory, she’d cataloged and compiled every event in their lives since the child had come to them. Often, when she was alone or taking a quiet walk on the beach, she’d think of how they’d come together and what their future could possibly hold. At least once a day, Thomas would remark, “I was born to be a father.” Thomas told this to anyone and everyone who would listen. He’d even taken a year’s leave of absence from the University of California researching clean energy and teaching so he could be there for Beatrix and Birdy. “I do not want to forgo a second of our daughter’s first year.” The year was closing in, which made him blink back tears more often than not when he talked about returning to the university. Beatrix thought of how, since the day Birdy was placed in his arms, Thomas sang the same Chinese lullabies his grandmother crooned to him. After all this time, Beatrix could finally join him, still fuzzy on the translated words. Thomas assured her one song was Birdy’s favorite and performed it regularly at bedtime. “It’s all about how the moon protects little ones,” he’d told her. Then he winked and looked like a mischievous boy—a look she loved. Beatrix remembered pointing out that the song sounded like a rude sea shanty that his grandmother also sang. She had learned that possibility from one of Thomas’ sisters when the entire Ling clan had visited for December and January to get away from the chill of London. More so, to admire and love Birdy Patterson-Ling. And they did. Beatrix knew that Thomas regularly held deep scientific conversations, talking to the infant as if she were a colleague. Other times, Beatrix had seen him get teary-eyed watching their exquisite little girl just sleeping. He’d whisper to Beatrix, “She’s dreaming. Look at her fingers move. Look at that heart-shaped mouth. Bea, whatever do babies dream about?” Truth be told, Beatrix did the same, humming French songs and reciting poems that her Parisian biological mother had taught her, also wondering what babies dreamed of. Beatrix often found Thomas sitting near Birdy’s bassinet, holding her plump little foot or stroking it while the baby napped. He balanced a book of advanced physics or some scientific theory Beatrix barely grasped and stayed close to the tot, sheer bliss etched on his face. Birdy’s arrival was unexpected and awe-inspiring. Thomas and Beatrix were the only couple on the county’s foster parent list who asked for a child of mixed race, so the county of Santa Barbara quickly granted them the opportunity to adopt Birdy. Hence, the plans to visit London and Thomas’s family were postponed, mandating immediately that the entire Ling clan came to Santa Barbara. Thomas and Beatrix put off visiting Paris to reunite with Beatrix’s biological father, General Charles de Gaulle. After discovering Beatrix was de Gaulle’s daughter, his family refused to speak with her, respond to her letters, or any attempts at reconciliation. Growing up, Beatrix had always thought that de Gaulle was an unofficial uncle, a kindly and generous man. Now, they were all, including her father, estranged from Beatrix. Beatrix felt content, more than she’d ever experienced. That surprised and pleased her. She was just climbing the last of the front steps when the buzzing of the big, black Bakelite telephone in the front room of the Victorian home demanded her full attention. She swung open the screen door and dashed for the phone. “Hello, Dr. Beatrix Patterson speaking,” she said. Beatrix felt fear shoot through her, and her forehead wrinkled when she heard the caller sob. “What is it? Who is this?” It certainly could not be the person she’d expected to call. She glanced at her watch. No, it was too early. That cry was completely out of character for her first counseling client of the day, as the woman always called to confirm before an appointment. Gloria Rayne had been in the South Pacific as a surgeon throughout the war, bobbing around on a naval hospital ship, often being harassed and bombed by the enemy as she performed surgeries with limited resources. Beatrix met her by chance during a previous investigation of a local religious leader who died under suspicious circumstances and the murder of a federal agent connected with the local Indigenous people, the Chumash Indians. Gloria had enough courage to do her job with the utmost confidence and then the wherewithal to seek counseling when she returned to the home front. To the city’s population, Santa Barbara’s esteemed coroner, Dr. Rayne, seemed like the poster model for a competent, modern woman. “I can hide my pain well,” she’d told Beatrix at their first counseling session, although the scars from Japanese bullets hitting her neck were visible still. Explaining the injury, she shook her head. “I was stupid, Beatrix. Went on deck. It had been a horrible night, filled with death, and unless I saw the sun that fateful morning, I knew I wouldn’t be fit for the next surgery. I was sun-deprived and naïve. I walked to the edge of the ship and turned to see—truly, I could see the pilot’s eyes on me—I saw the plane swoop down. He aimed at me, a woman.” Her palm covered the scream that was in her throat. “I was the only one injured that day as our boys shot that killer out of the sky. I found myself in surgery, but not as the doctor.” While her external wartime wounds had left a mark, the psychological ones were deeper. Loud noises, barking dogs, and screaming children all sent her into a well-concealed panic. She’d come to Beatrix knowing that therapy could help with “combat fatigue.” Over the past five months, they had been working to desensitize her crippling fears. Fortunately, Gloria could now enter a shop or restaurant where there was chaos and deafening noises without breaking out in a drenching sweat. The caller was not the coroner. The sob Beatrix heard sent a chill to the hair on the back of her neck. “Beatrix, it’s Jo.” Jo’s voice quivered, and that never happened. “I’m sick with fear.” *** Excerpt from The Conductor by Eva Shaw. Copyright 2025 by Eva Shaw. Reproduced with permission from Eva Shaw. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

New in Town

“Are you ready for this, Cleo?” Luc asked.

“Sure.” Beginnings were intimidating. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Luc pulled into the driveway of a traditional adobe house, typical of what I had seen here in Santa Fe, NM. A stocky man of medium-height, with hair pulled back in a small man-bun exited and locked the front door.

“Jon can be a bit insufferable sometimes, but his heart is usually in the right place,” Luc said. Jon was one of Luc’s closest friends, and a scientist who worked at a federal lab nearby. Luc was giving him a ride to the dinner party we were attending. Jon swung open the back door of Luc’s car. “This should be fun,” he said sliding into the backseat. I turned and smiled at him from the front passenger seat. “Hi Jon, it’s nice to meet you. Luc has told me a lot about you. I’m Cleo—” “Cleo Cooper, I know. I’ve heard about you too. Anyway. Luc, did you get my email about the new grant I was awarded?” And Jon rattled on about the mega-grant he’d received for his latest research project. Oka-a-a-a-y. Luc pulled away from the curb. “This grant will cement my spot at the top of the food chain at the lab. The Defense Department is really interested in my ideas on further miniaturization of key components,” Jon said. “That sounds interesting. What kind of components? And how small do you think you can shrink them?” I asked. Jon’s gaze shifted to me. “You’re just a psychologist, right?” “Yes.” But I suspected where this was going. “Were your parents scientists?” “No.” My parents ran a diner. “Then it is a waste of my time to try and explain atomic physics to you. Luc’s parents at least taught him enough over the dinner table that he can understand the basics of my research. But a psych professor from a small university in the middle of nowhere—” “Hey.” Luc interrupted. “Cleo is a scientist, a social scientist. And she has conducted some solid studies. And I’m a psychologist too. So no looking down your nose at us because we don’t get defense department grants. And, if you’re going to bring up my parents… they claim that any good scientists should be able to explain their work to someone outside the field.” “And my university isn’t in the middle of nowhere. It’s in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a gateway between East and West.” I was on sabbatical from my university on the Big Island of Hawaii, and I wasn’t going to let anybody talk smack about my island. Maybe coming to Santa Fe, NM to work with Luc for six months wasn’t such a great idea. Jon sighed. “Whatever. I think I’d rather wait until we get to the party to explain my grant so I can see the look on Matias’s face when he realizes I’ll have the largest grant at the lab. He won’t be able to get rid of me now. And he’ll have to take me seriously.” We reached downtown Santa Fe and Luc pulled into a parking garage. Butterflies took flight in my stomach. I was usually comfortable in new situations. But Jon’s obnoxious condescension had me feeling jittery. On our short ride from Jon’s house to the garage, his bombastic wit had overwhelmed me. I’d left a secure, comfortable career as a psychology professor, and a secure, mostly uncomfortable boyfriend, to create a new life. I arrived a week ago, and this dinner party would be my first opportunity to meet people. A lot of movers and shakers were expected, including Luc. I contemplated the man strolling beside me, his striking bone structure and tousled black hair. He was influential in town, and his Institute for the Study of International Relations lined up perfectly with my research. Luc, Jon, and I traversed a crooked sidewalk that undulated over roots of old Siberian elms. My butterflies flittered again, and I hoped the walk from the parking garage to our hostess’s home on the other side of the Plaza would rein in my nerves. I glanced at Luc. He’d invited me here to work on his project during my sabbatical. I wanted to keep the relationship professional, but his dark, smoldering eyes, broad shoulders, and kindness made my heart beat faster. Luc must have noticed. “We’re almost there Cleo, not much farther.” Luc and Jon would know everyone at the party. Again with those damn butterflies. Luc smiled at me as we approached a crosswalk. Jon stepped off the curb ahead of us as a dark grey Lexus turned on to the street we were crossing and sped up. “Watch out!” I grabbed Luc’s arm to hold him back from the crosswalk. I winced, expecting the car to hit Jon who was already in the street but managed to maneuver out of the car’s path. “What the… that driver only missed you by inches.” My hands shook from the adrenaline surge. The Lexus ran through a red light as it raced away. “Is someone out to get you, Jon?” I bit my lip as my heart thumped and my mind caught up with the fact I’d almost witnessed someone’s death. “Maybe.” Jon grinned. The 40-ish nuclear physicist bounded forward to the other sidewalk. His legs bounced with a child-like spring. As he stepped out of the street he threw his head back and let loose a loud “Ha.” “I guess a brush with death has made him a little giddy,” I said. “Either that or Jon has been taste-testing his marijuana cookie recipe again.” We took the last steps out of the road. “It was probably somebody texting while driving. You should have looked before you stepped into the crosswalk, Jon,” Luc said. “But, if Cleo’s right, and that driver was trying to run you down, the tough call is narrowing who does not want to knock you off.” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “How can you guys joke? It scared me to death and I’m not the one who almost died.” “Who’s joking?” Jon asked with a laugh. But his laugh wobbled. He blinked rapidly. “Luc’s probably right. It was somebody texting, or drinking. But both Matias and Kyle hate my guts, could be either one of them. What do you think, Luc?” “A tough call. You annoy so many people.” Luc smiled fondly. We resumed ambling down the sidewalk. The shaking in my hands subsided. I glanced up the street, but the Lexus didn’t reappear. Maybe it was my imagination and the car didn’t aim for Jon. “Is Kyle still living with Ginger?” Luc asked. “Surprisingly, yes. I thought she would have tossed him out by now. He’ll be there tonight, as well as Matias, to hear my big grant news. Jon’s grin returned. “This should be fun.” Luc let out a low whistle, nudging me gently with his elbow. “Better keep your head down, Cleo. Sparks could fly.” Great. I had hoped to meet some nice people and make some connections, so I wouldn’t depend on Luc to get acclimated. Is everybody going to be at each other’s throats? “Here we are.” Luc touched my elbow gently with his right hand while extending his left to open a wooden gate elaborately carved with a detailed mural of a Mexican village. I looked beyond to the creamy pumpkin-colored pueblo structure. Old wood broke the adobe into sizable chunks, so while the house was large, it didn’t devour a guest. Well-trained roses and wisteria wound up far above my head around high frames of mesquite wood which offered sweet-smelling shade. The front door was constructed from some exotic wood, with dramatic zebra stripes punctuated by a natural sunburst pattern in the grain. Bespoke, oversized windows appeared to curve with the walls. I’d never been in a house of such obvious wealth. My confidence faltered. I looked at my companions. “You first, my dear.” Jon bowed with a dramatic flourish. “I want someone to hide behind if people start throwing things.” *** Excerpt from Elegance and Evil by DK Coutant. Copyright 2025 by DK Coutant. Reproduced with permission from DK Coutant. All rights reserved.