“Do you do much of that?”
“As much as I can. It’s interesting.”
“And dangerous.”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. What’s wrong with your car?”
Susan had no idea what her car had to do with the discussion, and her look told him so.
“You said something was wrong with it,” he explained patiently, “and I know just the person to fix it. Name’s Matty Stavanovich. He has the slickest fingers east of the Mississippi.”
“Is he an authorized Jaguar repairman?” she asked archly.
Sam laughed.
“What’s so funny? It’s a legitimate question.”
“But the way you said it. There are times when you forget who you are and where you’re from, and you say things that are totally uninhibited. Then there are other times when your breeding takes over. That was one of those times. You sounded like the very proper, very wealthy Newport matron.”
Susan wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her or not. “There’s nothing wrong with breeding. Maybe if you had a little more of it, you’d be better off in the world.”
“There are many kinds of breeding, Miss Susan. I’ve had breeding, just a different kind from you.”
“Oh?” She dared him. “Tell me about your breeding.”
To her surprise, he did just that. “I grew up in western Pennsylvania in a home that was nearly as Catholic as the Vatican. My parents were devout. They believed that there were certain ways to live and certain ways to think, and they taught me each of those ways, then had me live and breathe them until the day I graduated from high school.” He paused. “Wouldn’t you say that’s breeding?”
Susan’s eyes went wide for a minute. “I guess I’d have to. But what happened when you graduated from high school?”
“I left home.”
“Left? Just went away?”
“Went to college, actually, but I never went home again. I won a scholarship and got a small loan from an uncle, but otherwise I was on my own. My parents didn’t want anything to do with me.”
Susan didn’t understand. “But why? What had you done that was so awful?”
“I was their only son. I was supposed to be a priest.”
“Oh my.”
“When I told them that that wasn’t what I wanted in life,” he made a cutting motion with his hand across his neck, “that was it. I was as good as dead.”
Susan was stunned. “How can religious people do that?”
“Most can’t. Some, like my parents, are fanatics. They let their beliefs insulate them from the rest of the world. In the name of those beliefs, they commit a multitude of sins.”
Though he was sitting and speaking very calmly, the look on his face was anything but. Deep inside, he was hurt. And perhaps angry. Susan knew she would be. She wondered what Thanksgiving dinners were like at the Craig home.
“How is it when you see them now?”
“I don’t see them. I told you. In their eyes, I’m dead.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
It sounded so stark, so final. Susan cast about for something to soften the situation. “You said you were their only son. Do you have any sisters?”
