Truth Lies and Consequences is my first novel set primarily in Florida. Like my other books, however, the characters and their stories are what is most important.
Journalist Conor Jamison uncovers the biggest story of his career while sitting at the bedside of his dying grandfather. He knows little of his grandfather’s life largely because he has been secretive about his past. Now, gleaned from his grandfather’s often incoherent ramblings and augmented by his own research, Conor pieces together an incredible story – a story so unlikely, it must be true.
It is the story of a life rooted in Eastern Europe, resurrected from the ash piles of Birkenau and rendered unlivable by the threats of the criminal underworld until it is re-imagined in the love of a good woman. His grandfather’s story and the mystery it reveals leave no doubt that both truth and lies have consequences.
Here is a brief excerpt:
Conor sat motionless for a moment, then said, “So, how is he?”
“He’s 94, he’s got God-knows-what and he’s dying,” Sofia replied.
“All right – you made your point. How is he?”
Sofia sat back down in her chair, “He has good-days and not-so-good days. On the good days, he talks, he remembers, sometimes he laughs. He still fades in-and-out but he’s not bad. Other days, he mutters to himself, lost in some other place, some other time, and he doesn’t want anything to do with anyone. He’s on some powerful meds – we just try to manage his pain and keep him comfortable.”
“Is today a good day or a…”
“See for yourself,” she answered. “I told him you are here.”
Conor sidled into the small, cluttered room. The usual bedroom furniture had been disassembled, pushed aside and stacked against the walls leaving a narrow walkway around the hospital bed in the middle of the room. Actually, the bed was off-center, carefully positioned under a small octagonal skylight in the ceiling. Lying in the bed, a frail and ancient looking man stared at him with sunken eyes.
“You look like your grandmother, God rest her soul,” he mumbled in a voice barely above a whisper. “Come closer.”
Conor moved to the side of the bed, “Sorry it took me so long to get here. The trip–”
“Ten years,” the man interrupted.
“It took you ten years,” he spoke as if each word required concentrated effort. “I moved here right after your grandmother died. I couldn’t stay in that house – her house – without her. I haven’t seen you since her funeral. Ten years.”
“Yeah, well…” Conor had nothing to say.