Sons of the Fathers

By Ronald Dodge

Good fortune brings charismatic handyman Bryce Hendricks to a community in central Ontario. He starts a home renovation business, lands a part-time job as the youth activities coordinator at a local church, and begins building relationships with attractive retailer and divorced mother, Kathleen, and her troubled teenage son. But a rough patch lies ahead.

Kathleen is haunted by memories of her former husband's abuse, and her son blames her for breaking up his family. Hendricks eventually manages to win both her love and her son's acceptance. However, Hendricks' luck sours when he becomes the only police suspect in a violent assault on Cynthia Osterman, the church's student minister, whose militantly feminist style and sharp tongue has disturbed the parishioners. Hendricks is perplexed by the gossip circulating about him until he discovers that Roland McQueen, the wealthy and manipulative chair of the church board, is determined to oust him whether he is guilty of a crime or not.

As Hendricks struggles to restore his shattered reputation, his friends and even a detractor rally behind him. Will their support enable him to win over an entire community?

www.ronaldericdodge.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 25, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595914500

Ronald Dodge

Ronald Eric Dodge was the chair of communication arts at Toronto's Centennial College, a founder and executive director of Canada's first fulltime educational TV organization, a teacher, and a television producer. Now retired, he lives in Oakville, Ontario, Canada with his wife, Cathy. www.ronaldericdodge.com

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Copyright © 2008 by Ronald Eric Dodge

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-47170-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-71068-3 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-91450-0 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

This is for my father, from whom I learned early in life to love stories and the telling of them. When he came home from work he usually had an anecdote to share at supper beginning, A funny thing happened at the office today.… Dad was interested in everyone he encountered, and those who featured in his mealtime tales were always seasoned with loving good humour.

Acknowledgements

There are many people I want to thank for their help with this project, especially:

My wonderful wife, Cathy, whose confidence inspired me throughout the process of writing the story and finding its publisher. She read every scene as it was written, and her questions and comments usually led to improvements. Sometimes she would shed a tear and tell me that what I wrote moved her. Occasionally she would wink, give me a thumbs-up, and say, "You’ve got it!"

Maple Grove United Church in Oakville, Ontario, which is not the Grenview Church of my story, but is the source of the beautiful Christmas Eve candlelight service Bryce Hendricks found so touching.

Jim Cox, who is the creator of the This is not a mess! poster that adorns a fictional wall in Reverend Tom Sawatsky’s office at Grenview Church. I am grateful to Jim for letting me use his tongue-in-cheek description of a filing non-system that bears a disturbing likeness to my own.

Martine Campbell, who helped me make Rollie McQueen’s French conversation with his young son befit a fully bilingual speaker.

CBC Radio, which really did produce and broadcast a drama series called ‘L’ for Lanky during World War Two by which I was as much enthralled as Tommy Sawatsky was. Thank you, CBC Radio, for starting my life-long love affair with airplanes and flying.

And my late mother, who was in her nineties when I began working on the story. Her sight was failing, so she had me read a chapter to her each time I visited. Her continued interest and real consternation over Bryce Hendricks’ plight greatly encouraged and motivated me.

Prologue

Klackwich Bay, Vancouver Island, British Columbia

October, 1980

He hesitated before turning the key, bracing himself for the flood of memories awaiting him inside. In the ribbed glass of the entrance he could make out his distorted reflection. The incessant drizzle had plastered his hair to his head. His dripping face looked sombre, his eyes deeply troubled.

With a sigh he opened the door and went in. It struck him that everything inside was somehow different than he remembered. The house always felt bigger when he was growing up. Now, after living elsewhere, it seemed cramped and confining.

He was born in this house. It was the only home he knew until he went away to college. His parents built it themselves and his father made most of the furniture. Eyes misting, he stroked the moulding with which his dad trimmed the archway to the front room. His fingers explored the smooth, hand-planed shapes that bore mute witness to his father’s remarkable craftsmanship.

He moved into the living room. His sweeping gaze stopped at a faded black-and-white photograph on the shelf above the brick fireplace. Smiling at him from the picture was a pretty, dark-haired young woman with warm, gentle eyes. Cradled in her arm was a large bouquet of spring flowers. On her head was a white nursing cap with graduate’s stripes. Draped over her shoulders was a nurse’s cape. His heart ached as he remembered how it felt to be held like the bouquet in the picture. He could remember the fragrance of his mother’s perfume, the same scent as the tiny bell-shaped white flowers in the garden outside.

His eyes roamed the room, taking in the table, chairs, and bookcase his father made, and came to rest on a small magazine rack against the wall. He made it himself when he was ten. He could still hear his dad telling him to hold the saw straighter and not to use so much glue. His childhood work seemed amateurish beside the professional-looking furniture around it, but he remembered being proud of it when it was finished. His father had carried it to the living room for him and told him he was proud of it too.

His gaze drifted to the apartment-size piano. Some of his happiest moments were spent at that keyboard, playing duets with his dad. He would pick out the walking-hand bass while his father played wild jazz melodies. His face warmed as he thought, The two of us could really cook on that piano!

A carved plaque set into the fireplace mantle caught his eye:

January 28, 1955 Now we are three

A wave of childhood memories raced through his mind as he stared at the woodcarving. He ran his fingers over the smooth edges of the hand-cut letters, pausing at the date, the date of his birth.

For all but the first three of his twenty-five years, he and his father had ached together over the loss of the woman in the picture: the gentle mother with the loving eyes and hauntingly sweet perfume; the caring healer so crucial to the recovery of his father’s spirit after he was injured in the war.

On this day he returned to Klackwich Bay from his home in Vancouver to attend his father’s funeral. He heard condolences from his dad’s friends and neighbours, who made it clear that they liked and respected his father, loved him, in fact. They all stood together in the pouring rain at the burial to hear a moving tribute from the minister, his father’s closest friend, as the casket was lowered into the ground.

On this day he said goodbye to a quiet, private man who endured a difficult adult life with few complaints. He knew his father had died, not from some dreaded disease or his very evident war wounds, but from the unending agony of suddenly losing the woman he adored. Her tragic death was too painful for him ever to get over.

He felt a stab of guilt. His father had lived without the woman he idolized and depended on for more than twenty years after her death to raise their son. Stinging tears began to well in his eyes, but then a new understanding came to him and brought with it a kind of relief. Dad must have loved me very much to keep going on my account despite the terrible sorrow he felt. The tears trickled down his cheeks.

With a rapid intake of breath he realized there was a lot about his father he now might never know. He had no other living relatives, so there was no one else in the family to contact. From what his father told him, his mother’s parents were long dead and her only brother was killed in the war. There was no way to know if his mother had other relatives in England.

It struck him that he might still be able to locate some of his father’s Air Force buddies. His dad never discussed his war experiences and usually declined to talk about them when asked questions. He knew only that his father was in a bomber crew stationed in England.

There was also a large wooden box his father clearly valued but never allowed him to open. He was fairly sure it contained Air Force mementos. It was in an attic storage area beside his father’s bedroom.

He went up the stairs to his father’s room. Everything was as neat as it always was. A tingle of excitement went through him as he pulled back the half-door into the crawl space and spotted the box. He hauled it out and opened it.

Inside were an Air Force officer’s cap and a couple of Air Force ties, a bundle of old letters on faded airmail paper tied with string, a thin, black leather box containing some medals, a few folded, official-looking Royal Canadian Air Force award citations, and a small stack of black-and-white photos.

The top picture showed a four-engine bomber parked on a grassy field with what looked like an empty bomb trolley beside it. In front of the plane lounged several grinning young men, none much over twenty. Neatly lettered in ink at the bottom of the photograph was ‘G-George and Crew, May 10, 1944, Waiting for Takeoff Clearance’.

Moving the picture into better light, he examined the faces of the young flyers. With a start, he realized as he studied the image of the lanky one smiling at him from the middle of the group that he could have been looking at a photo of himself.

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

HIGHWAY 69 SOUTHEAST OF SUDBURY, ONTARIO

June, 1992

The dark-green cube van emerged from a tree-lined curve in the narrow highway and swept past a long-haired hitch-hiker, its tires screeching as the driver braked. It turned off the pavement and crunched noisily through the roadside gravel before stopping well beyond him. The dust raised by its wheels swirled around it like morning mist.

Gathering up his guitar and knapsack, the teenager loped toward the waiting truck, his sandy mane trailing behind him. As he approached it, he glanced at its ‘Beautiful British Columbia’ license plate.

The door on the passenger side swung open for him. He climbed into the cab and stuffed his baggage behind the seat. Good morning, he said cheerfully. How far are you going?

Orillia, the driver replied. Know where that is?

Yeah, I’m heading that way myself. The teen flipped the seat belt over his shoulder and snapped it into place. Thanks for stopping, he said. Most people don’t any more, you know.

Oh? Why’s that?

Hey, man, the weirdoes have spoiled it. People are starting to call it the ‘wary nineties’ now. I’ve been thumbing for most of an hour and lots of cars went by, but nobody else would stop.

The driver quickly appraised his young passenger. You don’t look like a weirdo to me, he said as he pulled back onto the asphalt and slowly accelerated to highway speed.

You drive all the way from B.C. by yourself?

Uh huh, the driver replied, nodding his head, but saying nothing more.

Evidently anxious for conversation after waiting so long for a ride, the boy prompted, Are you moving to the east or just visiting?

Moving.

How’d you like crossing the prairies? The youngster’s face broke into a grin. I hear a lot of folks from the mountains go bananas on the plains ’cause the big sky hoodoos them. That happen to you?

I didn’t grow up in the mountains.

Oh. When I saw your B.C. plate I figured that’s where you’re from.

I am.

Well, isn’t British Columbia mountainous?

The mainland is, but I’m from Vancouver Island.

Where? Victoria?

No.

Where, then?

A little place on the northwest coast, the driver said. It’s called Klackwich Bay. He glanced at his passenger again. You probably never heard of it.

The teen scratched his head. "Gee, I never heard of any settlements on the northwest of Vancouver Island. Must be pretty small."

Sort of.

How many people?

About 2,500.

Was it, like, claustrophobic?

In a way. Everybody knew everyone else’s business.… The driver frowned. Or thought they did. Sometimes if people didn’t know enough to satisfy their curiosity, they’d make things up.

Did that bother you?

Well, not when I was growing up. When I was a kid it was like being in a big family even though I never had any brothers or sisters. But it bothered me when I moved back there after being away at college.

Yeah? Where’d you go to college?

Vancouver.

How’d you like that?

Not much.

How come?

"Too big. Everybody’s a stranger there!"

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

A long silence ensued, giving the hitch-hiker a chance to study the man at the wheel. He was over six feet tall, was lean and clean shaven, and had wavy brown hair. His eyes picked up the colour of his powder-blue golf shirt and looked blue-grey. He had on beige cotton pants, white sport socks, and shiny brown loafers. He appeared to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty and seemed fit but not really athletic. His face and arms were tanned, and his hands—especially his fingers—looked strong and nimble.

The silence persisted, so the boy turned around to check out the rear of the van. He could see woodworking tools of practically every kind. A workbench ran down one side with several power tools mounted on it. Above it and along the other side were cabinets and wooden storage boxes. Underneath were open bins filled with hand tools, extension cords, clamps, and other carpentry paraphernalia. At the far end, filling the narrow walkway, he was surprised to see a small piano tied down with ropes to hooks in the floor, its top covered with a blanket.

… how about you?

Startled, he realized he missed part of what the driver said. He turned back quickly. Sorry. How about me what?

I said I just saw a sign for a pizza place up ahead. I’m about ready for something to eat. How about you?

Uh, whatever you say. The teen hesitated, then went on, Look, I appreciate the ride but, uh, well, you’re gonna have to eat on your own. I’ve only got a couple o’ bucks with me, so until I get to my job and get paid I can’t afford a meal. You go ahead and have lunch, though. I’ll just get myself something to drink.

For the first time the driver really smiled at him. I tell you what, he said. I’ll spring for lunch for both of us. If you’re down to your last two bucks, you’d better hang onto them. Deal?

Relieved and grinning happily, the hitch-hiker said, Okay, man, thanks a lot! That’s real nice of you! He extended his hand. By the way, my name’s Doug.

Nice to meet you, Doug, the driver said as he reached over to shake it. I’m Bryce Hendricks.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

It was still a few minutes before noon and the restaurant was not crowded. While they ate, Doug told Hendricks he was on his way to the Kawartha Lakes region for his second summer as a camp counsellor. Hendricks seemed interested in the camp and asked several questions about it, but he volunteered nothing about his own background.

Back underway, the two travellers commented on the impressive-looking summer homes they were passing as they drove through the District of Muskoka. Although Hendricks’ interest in their design and construction was evident, he offered little information about himself.

After a while, Doug jerked his thumb over his shoulder. I couldn’t help noticing the piano in the back. You play it for a living?

No. I play it for fun.

What kind of music?

Whatever I feel like, Hendricks said. Mostly jazz, boogie, or ragtime.

I took piano lessons when I was a little kid, Doug said, but I didn’t like the practising and quit. I’d give anything to be able to play now.

At Severn Sound they turned onto Highway Twelve, which took them east toward Orillia.

The boy pointed over his shoulder again. I was wondering about all your tools. You a carpenter or something?

Hendricks nodded. Or something.

What is it you do?

I make built-ins. Kitchen cabinets, bookcases, entertainment centres, that sort of thing.

You gonna be working for a furniture place in Orillia?

No. I work on my own. This truck’s my workshop-on-wheels, so I can take the shop wherever I need to go.

You just get it?

A year ago, but it took a long time to get everything set up back there. It’s still a bit cramped when I’m working on something big.

Where’d you learn to do woodwork? At college?

My father, Hendricks said. He taught me to play the piano, too. He was amazing. He only had one good hand but could make just about anything out of wood. He made practically all the furniture in our house himself. Really good stuff, too. Most of the tools in the back are from his workshop.

Is that why you’re moving to Orillia? Your folks live there now?

No. They’re both dead.

You got any other family there?

None I know of.

I take it you’re not married.

Hendricks did not reply. He stared straight ahead with his lips compressed, and he held the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Sorry, the boy said. I, uh, didn’t mean to pry.

Another moment passed. Hendricks cleared his throat and muttered, There’re a few things I don’t like to talk about. That’s definitely one of them.

Apparently uncomfortable, the hitch-hiker looked out his side window in silence.

Hendricks cleared his throat again, turned, and smiled thinly at his young passenger. When you first got in, you said you’d be going through Orillia to get to your camp. What’s it like?

Orillia or the camp?

Orillia.

Oh, it’s a nice enough town, the boy replied, clearly grateful to be talking again. It’s big, but not too big, I guess. It’s at a narrows between two lakes, Simcoe and Couchiching, and it’s got a great.…

He hesitated, staring at Hendricks as if trying to read his face. Uh, well, you’ve been to Orillia before, right?

No.

But I thought you said you’re moving there.

I am, but I just picked it from a map.

Visibly puzzled, the teenager frowned. You’re serious? How come you picked Orillia?

It looked about the right size to me, and, as you say, it’s on a lake. Two, in fact. I like being by water.

Gee, you came kind of a long way if you only picked the place from a map!

Well, I also wrote to the Chamber of Commerce and they sent me some information. They said Orillia is planning a big renewal program, so I figured if it’s going upscale it’d be good for the kind of work I do.

Doug’s face brightened. So, which is more important to you, the size of the place or being by water?

The water’s not critical, I guess. Why?

I’m thinking about a place that might be just the ticket you’re looking for. Maybe better than Orillia. Ever hear of Cedar Glen?

No. Where is it?

"About eighty klicks southeast of Orillia. It isn’t right on a lake, but it’s only a few klicks from Lake Scugog."

How do you know about it? Hendricks asked. Is the camp you’re going to near it?

No, but a girl who worked in the camp office last summer lives there. I took her out a couple of times, and before I went home at the end of the season she invited me to a party her family was having. Their house isn’t a mansion or anything, but it’s on a big lot and sure is fancy. From what I saw, all the other houses are too.

What’s the place called again?

Cedar Glen.

How many people live there?

Jeez, I dunno. A few thousand, I guess. Why? You interested?

Could be, Hendricks said, nodding his head and smiling. Now, where’s this camp you’re going to?

Oh, it’s over near Fenelon Falls. Doug pointed east through the windshield. Look, this road goes through Orillia and then turns south. If you want to check out Cedar Glen, you can stay on Highway Twelve almost all the way there. Drop me off at Beaverton and I’ll hitch a ride to the camp. After that, go south ’til you come to Cedarvale Road and turn east. You can’t miss it.

How far’s the camp from Highway Twelve?

About half an hour. Why?

I’ll drive you.

Doug held up both hands with his palms facing Hendricks. Hey, man, you don’t have to do that. It’ll be out of your way. I can hitch a ride. No problem!

In the ‘wary nineties’? When nobody stops anymore? I don’t think so. If the camp’s only half an hour from the highway, I’ll drive you there.

Gee, thanks! Doug said, his face breaking into a wide grin. That’s really nice of you! Thanks a lot!

Hendricks looked thoughtful. His face bore no hint of the frowns that clouded it earlier. He smiled and said, Driving you to your camp is the least I can do.…

His smile broadened. … especially if this Cedar Glen place you told me about pans out.

CHAPTER 2

THE GARAGE APARTMENT

On reaching Cedar Glen, Bryce Hendricks drove around the community to get an impression of the place and stopped at a general store across from the strip mall at the main intersection. The store’s amiable owner, Horace Tanner, appeared to spend most of his time sitting beside an old-fashioned cash register. He happily recounted Cedar Glen’s origins as a hamlet named Cedarvale and its rebirth in the mid-1960s at the hand of a young home builder who went on to become a major real estate developer.

When Hendricks made a good-natured comment about what a tough job he seemed to have, Tanner’s well-wrinkled face broke into an amused grin. I built this store in 1948, but nowadays I’m just a goodwill ambassador, he said. My daughter and her husband do all the real work around here, except for the books. He nodded toward the rear of the cluttered store. My wife Glad still likes to keep track of things, she does.

I’m looking for a place to live, Hendricks said. This seems like a nice community and I’d like to settle here. I’m a handyman. I make kitchen cabinets to order, custom furniture, that kind of thing. I don’t need a big place, just a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. Do you know of anyone with space to rent like that?

As a matter o’ fact I do, Tanner replied, grinning and thumping his palm on the countertop. Suzie Merrifield was by here just the other day putting up a notice about renting the apartment over their garage. He pointed to a jumbled bulletin board a few feet away. It’s the one with them pull-off phone number tabs at the bottom. Nice place, far’s I know. You might want to have a look at it.

Suzie Merrifield. She’s the owner?

Horace Tanner chuckled. Nope, she’s the daughter. Her parents own the place. Gwen and Hal Merrifield. Nice folks. Great couple of kids, too: Suzie and Jason. They live on Glen Park Circle, the road that goes all around the outside of Cedar Glen. Best way to get there is take Cedarvale Road east from the mall across the street. The Merrifield house is at the end of it on the far side of the ring road.

I guess I should phone them first, Hendricks said, starting to reach toward the notice on the board.

I’ll call ’em for you. It’s late enough in the day there’s prob’ly somebody home, and if you go now you’ll catch ’em before they start supper.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

The Merrifield house stood on a low rise at the edge of Cedar Glen where it commanded a panoramic view of the woods and farm fields lying beyond it to the east. At the foot of the back yard was a detached two-storey garage. The driveway entered the property from where Cedarvale Road dead-ended just past the house, and was wide enough to allow vehicles to turn in front of the garage bays. With its three overhead doors facing the countryside, the building appeared from the street to be a guest cottage. An outside stairway at its far end went up to the second-floor apartment.

Gwen Merrifield was lean and well-dressed, appeared to be in her early forties, and had bright blue eyes and red hair lightly flecked with grey. She had just finished showing Hendricks the apartment and telling him the monthly rent.

What do you think of it? she asked, waving her hand around the small but well-appointed living room.

It’s very nice, Mrs. Merrifield, Hendricks said, and well furnished, too. I’d like to take it. Would a cheque be okay? I assume you’ll want an extra month’s rent as a security deposit.

Your cheque will be fine, Mr. Hendricks. And, yes, two months in advance would be right, thank you.

Uh, one more thing. I have a small piano with me. Will it be all right with you if I move it up here? As pianos go, it’s fairly light.

Of course, Mr. Hendricks. She gestured toward the entry door. If it’ll fit up those outside stairs, you’re welcome to have your piano in here.

Hendricks smiled, opened the leather case he was carrying, and wrote out a cheque. Handing it to her, he asked, Is this the first time you’ve rented the place? Everything looks new, and Horace Tanner at the general store told me your daughter Suzie just put up the rental notice a couple of days ago.

Gwen Merrifield smiled, her lightly freckled face warming attractively. Oh, no, we’ve rented it twice before. The last person was the student minister at our church. She just went home a week ago and insisted on scrubbing everything before she left. When my daughter and I came out to clean the next day there was hardly anything left to do.

Sounds like a perfect tenant. I hope you’ll have good things to say about me after I leave.

I hope so too, Mr. Hendricks.

Please, call me Bryce.

All right, Bryce. And you can call me Gwen. Smiling, she held out her hand. Her grip was firm. But I’ll give you a tip about another name you used a moment ago.

Okay.

Gwen smiled. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t call my daughter ‘Suzie’.

Oh? Why is that?

She just turned sixteen and she’s trying very hard to get rid of the name. ‘Sounds like a little kid!’ she says. She wants to be called ‘Susan’ now. Thinks it’s more grown up.

Hendricks smiled. Thanks for the tip. ‘Susan’ it is. Horace Tanner told me you also have a son. Jason? Is that right?

Yes. He’s fourteen. And he doesn’t care what anybody calls him as long as it’s not.…

Too late for a meal? He could not resist finishing her sentence.

Gwen laughed aloud. Yes! He’s into a growth spurt and never seems to stop eating these days!

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

Susan Merrifield looked like a younger version of her mother except that her hair was redder, her freckles more abundant, and her green eyes a little more effervescent than Gwen’s. Bryce had just finished unpacking his clothes when she tapped lightly on the apartment door a short while after her mother had left.

Hello, she said, wringing her hands together as she spoke. I’m Susan. She looked down at her hands, then shyly glanced up at Bryce and went on, Mom and Dad wondered if you’d like to join us for dinner on the patio to meet everybody. We’re having barbecued chicken.

Well, thank you. That sounds like a great idea! I’d love to. Smiling, Bryce extended his hand and, after a brief hesitation, the teenager reached out and shook it. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Susan, he went on. You know, when I first saw you at the door I thought you were your mother.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

… couldn’t eat another bite, thanks, Bryce said, dropping his napkin onto his empty plate. Without a doubt, that’s the tastiest barbecued chicken I’ve had in a long time. Mind sharing your secret?

Hal Merrifield beamed. A chunky man barely taller than his wife, he seemed to have a perpetual smile on his round face and a constant twinkle in his eyes. A real estate broker, he operated a successful and growing business in nearby Oshawa. His close-cropped, light brown hair appeared darker in the fading daylight as they sat around the patio table. Still wearing his ‘King of the Coals’ barbecue apron, he looked every inch the jolly host, a role he clearly enjoyed.

The secret’s in the marinade, Hal replied, but you’re asking the wrong person. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper everyone could easily hear and said, "The truth is, other than olive oil and garlic, I haven’t got the faintest idea what Gwen