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Mick, however, wasn’t just Mick, was he? Would his parents be any more receptive to having a grandson? Did he have brothers or sisters? Did Preston have cousins? Ayla’s mind raced as she cruised south on Interstate 15, bound for California. Preston noticed that Mommy was preoccupied, but he didn’t push the matter. He counted trucks and kept asking her to play something “cool” on the radio, until she relented and put in one of his Kidz Bop CDs.
Friday night traffic was awful both directions on the highway, and it took until nearly midnight to reach Amy’s house. Ayla was ready to collapse, but after putting Preston to bed, she had to read two articles Desiree had sent her.
It was from a decade earlier, in a newspaper called The Sheffield Telegraph. Prominent in the article was a picture that included a young Mick Merryweather, carrying a casket.
Ayla read about a funeral for somebody called Frank Merryweather, Mick’s younger brother. He was a football star from Sheffield, England, and he’d died in some sort of traffic accident. Mick was mentioned as a “Royal Air Force” veteran, and Frank was survived by Mick and their parents, Beverly and Harry.
Beverly and Harry. Preston’s grandparents.
Ayla clicked on the next link, and a picture in the story stopped her heart. It was Mick, with tears streaming down his scrunched up face, next to his stoic father. They were standing near a statue with hands and three doves; somewhere called Bramall Road.
Mick looked sadder than anybody Ayla had ever seen, and she was overwhelmed with the need to reach out and hug him, hold him, kiss his face, and take away his pain. It tore a hole in her, seeing such raw, terrible emotion on his rugged face. For as little as she truly knew about him, they’d shared something so deep and intense, that she felt his ache through the years and the miles that separated her from the man on her laptop screen.
The sculpture was a memorial to Frank, Mick’s brother, she learned in the story.
Answers only raised questions. How did Mick wind up in Las Vegas? For her, that night on the rooftop was totally out of character; a wonderfully insane aberration in her otherwise mundane existence. A magical moment that spawned the joy of her life, Preston. Did Mick even remember that night? Was she just one drop of water in an ocean of women for dashing military man Mick Merryweather?
She texted Desiree and thanked her for her efforts and drifted off to a much-needed sleep, in-between kicks to the ribs from Preston, with whom she shared a bed when they visited Aunt Amy.
A king-sized bed, but Preston’s nocturnal gymnastics; knees, feet, and elbows, were unforgiving, to say the least.
For breakfast, Amy cut up what seemed like ten pounds of strawberries and several whole cantaloupes. The three children, Preston and his two cousins, inhaled the fresh fruit and asked for popcorn to top it off. Ayla was always amazed at Preston’s appetite; he’d go days surviving on a string cheese here and there, and then in one day eat enough to feed an entire football team. Today, evidently, was a “hungry” day. She cringed at the thought of filling his bottomless pit of a stomach at ballpark prices later that afternoon.
When the kids went outside to play in the backyard, Ayla sat down with her sister on the porch.
“You won’t believe this,” Ayla said. “But I’m pretty sure I found Preston’s dad.”
Amy’s jaw dropped. “Sis! Are you serious? Tell me everything!”
Ayla brought up the news story from two nights ago on her phone and played it for her sister. She paused it when Mick was on the screen.
“Right there. That’s him,” she reported, pointing him out.
“Holy shit,” Amy whispered. She looked out at Preston, running through the yard with a toy spaceship. “They’re practically twins. Now I just wonder who his real mom is!”
Ayla playfully punched her sister.
“I knew he didn’t look like a Murray, but good grief,” Amy said, staring at the image on her sister’s phone. “That man has some strong genes.”
“Mick. His name is Mick Merryweather. The guy in front, Winston Watterson? He’s the president of Watterson Gaming, the big casino company back home.”
Amy nodded.
“Mick is his bodyguard. He’s from England.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“No, not yet. I just saw him on TV two nights ago. My roommate, Desiree, works with somebody who used to work at Watterson. She’s been doing my detective work.”
“This is super-exciting, Ayla. What’s your plan?”
“I have absolutely no clue,” Ayla confessed. “You’re my big sister, aren’t you supposed to have some advice for me?”
Amy furrowed her brow in thought.
“Watterson… Watterson… what’s his deal? The guy he guards, I mean. Winston, is it?”
“Yep, that’s him, but I don’t know. Do you think he has a Wiki page? Let me look him up.”
