That evening, Mary stood in the kitchen, dicing the beef into bloody, bite-size chunks while Mister Puss circled her legs, purring. Mary said, “Dr. Phelps called you a crackerjack Abyssinian. But he doesn’t seem to think you have much to say.”
The cat jumped to the counter and stretched toward Mary. She leaned to listen.
An exercise in creativity? Channeling through a mental loop? Déjà vu? Please.
Mary shrugged. “It’s a frame of mind. He’s a man of science.”
Science? That was mumbo jumbo.
Testing the doctor’s theory, Mary whispered, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
But the cat only purred.
The next morning after breakfast, Mary settled at the kitchen table to review her calendar and plan her day. Good thing she checked. She’d forgotten about the luncheon party at the home of a lady friend, who had asked Mary to bring her filigreed sterling cake server. Better set it out with her handbag—now—in case it slipped her mind again. So she went to find it in the butler’s pantry.
When she swung the door open, there was Mister Puss, sprawled on the floor outside his privy with one leg pointed to the ceiling, busily cleaning his bottom. “Oops,” Mary mumbled, “excuse me.”
She backed out, eased the door closed, returned to the table, and sat. Then her lips sputtered with laughter.
Did I just apologize to a cat? she wondered. Granted, Mister Puss projected a distinct air of refinement, but he was indeed a cat.
He appeared in the kitchen, having circled around from the dining room, and jumped up to the tabletop, purring. He stretched toward Mary’s ear. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.
“I know. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Bastet licked herself.
“What? Who?”
She licked herself plenty. Bastet. The cat goddess.
“Oh, come now. That’s just a myth.”
Do you pray?
“Of course, all the time.” Mary paused, reconsidering. “Well, not so much anymore. It’s been quite a while.”
Your god is a myth, too.
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
But you already know it, don’t you? Isn’t that why you stopped praying?
Mary had no answer. Mister Puss gave her a nose-kiss, hopped off the table, and left the room. Mary listened to the thump of her heart.
Could a cat be guilty of blasphemy? Or had Mary been channeling her own suppressed thoughts through the cat? Perhaps Dr. Phelps was right. Mister Puss was incapable of telling her anything she didn’t already know.
Then, through the miasma of her doubts, one trifling detail drifted to the surface. Mary caught her breath. She was certain:
She had never known the name of the cat goddess.
Chapter 1
Marson Miles glanced at the text message, then looked at me with a wry expression and slipped his phone into an inside pocket of his sport coat. “That was Frumpkin,” he said as we got out of the car. “He’s running a few minutes late.”
I asked my husband, “Any idea what this is about?”
“Not a clue, Brody.”
On a Tuesday evening in October, we could have parked within a few spaces of the restaurant’s main door, but Marson had chosen a spot near the back of the lot—minimizing the threat of door dings. I had been living with him for nearly two years, so I had given up razzing him about obsessive tendencies that were not only harmless, but also quite charming.
At seven o’clock, the sun had long set, and planets now peeped through the velvety twilight of a crisp autumn night. As we strolled from the car, our shoes crunched loose pebbles on the asphalt. Somewhere in the high branches of a wasting maple, an owl prepared for his hunt, begging the moon to appear. The bird’s eerie call, with its note of foreboding, quickened our steps.
I slid my hand to Marson’s waist, hooked a finger through one of his belt loops, and exhaled a soft laugh, mixing my warm breath with the cool air.
He turned his head to me. “Hm?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just feeling lucky to have you in my life.”
“I’m the lucky one, kiddo.”
“Then it’s mutual. Lucky us.”
“Lucky us,” he agreed.
It hadn’t always been that way. While I was a boy, growing up in California, my mother and I had visited Wisconsin for a family wedding, and that’s when I first met Marson Miles, an architect who was married to my mother’s sister, my aunt Prue. Though only fourteen, I underwent two epiphanies during that trip that would set the future course of my life: I knew with sudden certainty that I wanted to become an architect, and I found myself attracted to older, creative men.
More than twenty years passed before I returned to central Wisconsin, to the small town of Dumont, where I would join my uncle’s architecture firm. I had established a successful practice in the Los Angeles area with another man—an older, creative man—who was my husband. But his roving eye and irresistible attraction to one of our clients (younger than I was, and wealthy) spelled an end to both our marriage and our firm.
I needed a change of scenery, a new direction.
Meanwhile, Marson’s firm in Dumont had hit its stride when he designed Questman Center for the Performing Arts, named after the local widow who had spearheaded the project and written a huge check. The design landed rave reviews and a backlog of new commissions, which meant that Marson needed more help, younger blood.
So the timing was right. A deal was struck.
What I didn’t know was that Marson had endured decades of a frustrating and loveless marriage with my aunt. I didn’t understand that he, turning sixty, was also in need of a new direction. At a conscious level, neither did he.
But that all changed on New Year’s Eve, not yet two years ago, when we met at a restaurant to celebrate my arrival. With five of us crowded around the small table of a corner booth, I was seated next to Marson, and beneath the draped white linen of the tablecloth, our knees eventually—inadvertently—touched. In the dry, wintry air, a spark of static electricity leapt between the fibers of our woolen slacks with an audible crack. And that spark brought with it an understanding that profound changes lay ahead for both of us.
We now walked through the parking lot of that same restaurant, where we were scheduled to meet Dr. Francis Frumpkin, a dermatologist and cosmetic surgeon of some renown whose main practice was located in Milwaukee, with a satellite office in Dumont. Our dinner meeting had been set up by Frumpkin’s adult daughter, Sarah Frumpkin Ward. I had never met either of them, and Marson knew them only as passing acquaintances, so our get-together had neither a precedent nor an apparent purpose. When Sarah had phoned our office, she’d simply explained, “Dad and I would love to talk to you.”
As Marson held the door open for me to enter the restaurant, Ginger, the hostess, stepped out from behind her podium to greet us both with a hug. “You two,” she said. “You’re just perfect together. Hang on to each other.”
I assured her, “We plan to.”
Marson said, “We’re meeting Dr. Frumpkin and his daughter, but they’re running late.”
Ginger nodded. “They called. Let’s get you settled.” She gathered a few menus, as well as a large manila envelope, from a shelf below the podium, then led us into the dining room, past the bar, and straight to the same corner booth where a slip of the knee had changed my life. Ginger said, “They requested a quiet table where you could talk.”
“This looks just fine,” said Marson as he and I slid into the booth, squeaking on the burgundy-colored leatherette.
Ginger arranged the four menus, then handed the envelope to Marson, explaining, “Someone from Dr. Frumpkin’s office dropped this off and asked me to give it to you.”
Marson thanked her with a nod. “Mission accomplished.”
As Ginger returned to the lobby, Marson turned the envelope in his hands. The back flap was secured with a brass fastener. On the front was a typewritten label:
MILES & NORRIS, ARCHITECTS. Marson set aside the envelope and looked about for a waiter—it was cocktail time.
I nudged the envelope toward him. “Gonna open it?”
With a shrug, he picked up the envelope, opened the clasp, and slid out what appeared to be an eight-by-ten photograph, which he drew close to his face. I watched from the backside of the photo as he examined it. Over its top edge, his brow furrowed.
“What?” I asked.
He flipped the photo in his fingers and handed it to me. It looked like a newer copy of an old Kodachrome print—soft focus, soft palette, tinged yellow by age. Through a quizzical squint, I gazed into the picture:
On a windswept expanse of lonely terrain, a group of men in white jumpsuits struggled to prevent a billowing parachute from dragging them to their knees in the dirt. It looked like a game, a spirited tug-of-war against the powerful but benign forces of nature. The strange attire, coupled with the barren setting, lent the image a surreal quality that looked more like a painting than a photograph. Everyone in it was intent on the task at hand, except—conspicuous among the others—a man in a gray business suit.
He looked directly out to the camera.
A waiter approached the table with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, which we had not ordered, just as Ginger emerged from the lobby, escorting in our direction a man and a woman who I assumed were Dr. Frumpkin and his daughter.
I knew from a prior conversation with Marson that he and Frumpkin were about the same age, which left me surprised by Frumpkin’s appearance as he neared the table. He looked impossibly young for his sixties, vigorous and tanned, with a huge head of processed hair, streaked various shades of gold and silver. In the dim light of the dining room, his ear-to-ear smile glowed with stunning white porcelain. Marson leaned close to whisper, “He’s had a lot of work done.” Completing the picture, Frumpkin wore a nubby-silk blazer of shocking crimson. Joking with Ginger, he let out a hoot of laughter that turned every head in the room.
By stark comparison, his daughter was unremarkable. Not plain, not blah—just normal. Mid-thirties, I guessed, about my age. Of svelte build, she was well turned-out and seemed comfortable in her own skin, but both her prim hairdo and her twill suit projected an air of no-nonsense. I wondered if she had recognized the manifest futility of any attempt to out-peacock her father. Or had something in her nature pushed her to the background, where she found refuge from her father’s limelight?
Ginger brought them forward, announcing, “Look who’s here. Enjoy the champagne.” She disappeared as the waiter popped the cork.
Marson and I began sliding out from the back of the booth to greet our dinner companions.
“Please,” said Frumpkin with a lavish wave of both arms, “don’t get up, gentlemen. No need for formality, not tonight.” He slipped into the booth next to me, touching knees. His daughter sat opposite him, next to Marson, as the waiter poured a first round of Cristal—pricey stuff, I didn’t even know they carried it. Frumpkin explained, “I took the liberty of ordering earlier. Hope you don’t mind. But tonight should be cause for celebration.”
Marson and I exchanged a puzzled glance.
Frumpkin raised his glass and clinked mine. “Pleased to meet you. Very pleased. I’m Francis Frumpkin.”
“My pleasure, Doctor. I’m Brody Norris.” I offered my hand.
He shook it. “Now, now—I insist—it’s Francis.”
Marson took over. “Sarah, I don’t believe you’ve met my husband, Brody Norris. And Brody, this is the doctor’s daughter, Sarah Frumpkin Ward.”
I reached across the table to shake Sarah’s hand. We lobbed a few pleasantries. If I’d expected her to be timid or retiring, I was wrong. She said, “Sorry if things seem a tad mysterious tonight. Dad’s always suffered from an acute sense of theater.” I liked her.
Marson laughed. Lifting the photo from the table, he said, “This is certainly mysterious.”
“Aha,” said Frumpkin, flashing that big, manufactured smile. “I admit, it was meant to be a bit of a tease, so I’m delighted it’s piqued your curiosity. Now, take a closer look at it.”
Marson set the photo in front of me, where we could both study it.
I said, “It looks like a class of some kind—student pilots, a flight school.”
“Civilian,” said Marson, tapping one of the white jumpsuits. “It’s obviously old, I’m guessing before World War II—otherwise they’d all be in uniform.”
“Very good.” Dr. Francis Frumpkin traced a finger around the rim of his champagne flute, then leaned nearer, huddling over the photo with us. “In the summer of 1941, they could enjoy that day’s lesson while joking about the imagined thrills and glamour of their calling to the wild blue. Not one of these half-dozen trainees, so lean and youthful, had even heard of Pearl Harbor. Within a year, though, they’d be wearing different uniforms—all of them. And within four years, only half would remain to know the dark victory of Hiroshima.” Frumpkin paused. “And what about the man in the middle, the man in gray?”
Marson and I peered closer but said nothing.
“He was an aeronautical engineer, some say a genius—Dr. Archibald Frumpkin. He grew up flying planes over long, desolate stretches of the family ranch. Then, leaving home for school, he traded his Stetson for a leather aviator’s helmet. His later writings included some provocative theories, never proven, regarding the effects of altitude and oxygen on human metabolism. Archibald was my grandfather. His son—my father—snapped this picture when he was a boy. Back in Texas.”
Our waiter returned to top up our glasses and recite a few specials. Though we had not yet looked at the menus, Frumpkin commanded, “Get them the best steak in the house. In fact, make it three—a chilly night always makes me hungry for meat.” We offered no protests.
“And the lady?” asked the waiter. “The porterhouse as well?”
“I think not,” said Sarah with a tidy shake of her head. She opted instead to start with a cup of asparagus soup, but only after being assured by the waiter that it contained no cream. For her main course, she requested a plate of fresh greens—arugula, escarole, kale, mâche—with a few lemon wedges instead of dressing.
“Sounds tasty,” I said as the waiter left.
Sarah smirked. “Trust me—I splurge now and then.”
Her father said, “And you deserve it. Sarah, honey? Perhaps you could stand up and give us all a good look.”
With a wave of apprehension, I wondered, What the hell?
Sarah stood, straightened her skirt, opened her jacket. Then she took a step away from the table, twirled, and returned, striking a pose.
“Bravo,” said Frumpkin, miming silent applause. He turned to Marson and me with raised brows. “Not bad, right? Perfectly trim. Well proportioned. A figure anyone would envy.”
With a dumb, numb nod, I agreed, “Very nice.”
Sarah ran the fingers of both hands along the sides of her torso. “It was all Dad’s doing.”
Marson struggled to ask, “Liposuction?”
She shook her head. “Nope. FlabberGas.”
My jaw sagged. “What?”
She enunciated: “Flab-ber-Gas.” Flinging her hands to the ceiling, she announced, “I’ve been FlabberGassed!”
Squinting, I repeated, “What?”
Sarah plopped back into the booth, telling us, “It’s the most marvelous new gas treatment that accelerates weight loss. So Dad has branded it FlabberGas. We’re planning to build a stunning new clinic to promote it.”
Frumpkin got to the point: “And we need a top-notch architect.”
“For a fat clinic?” asked Marson, sounding dismissive. “Maybe you could try Frank Gehry.”
With a quiet laugh, Sarah explained, “I know, at first blush, it all sounds preposterous. But trust me—we have ambitious plans. The new clinic will serve as a prototype for FlabberGas franchises in every resort destination in the world. This is big, Mr. Miles.”
“Ahhh,” said Marso
n. “In the immortal words of Daniel Burnham, ‘Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood.’”
“Right on,” said Sarah, oblivious to Marson’s sarcasm.
Frumpkin added, “So you see, gentlemen, we’re looking for a singular talent who can handle the challenge of unrestricted design freedom to create a structure worthy of being replicated all over the world. And not to sound crass, but as the franchise network spreads, your commissions would multiply.”
Marson caught my eye—the money sounded good.
Sarah said, “So we have to get this right the first time. Dad is planning a move to Palm Springs, and that seems like the right location for the prototype clinic.”
I chimed in: “Makes sense. The population skews a little older there—and gay, of course. Shall we say, cosmetically aware?”
Frumpkin howled with laughter. Heads turned again.
Sarah jabbed at the tabletop with her index finger. “We need vision. We need style. We need adventurous thinking in the great tradition of California modernism. In short, we need balls-to-the-wall pizazz.”
Marson blew a long, low whistle. It was the sort of project that would tempt any architect—the opportunity to create something magical and truly original, like Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater or Gustave Eiffel’s tower or Frank Gehry’s museum at Bilbao. I could tell that Marson’s resistance was wearing thin. He hesitated, clenching his lower lip with his teeth. Then he said, “I’m sorry. Things are really busy right now—I’ve got a ton of new work in the hopper. But more to the point, I’m not well versed in the design idiom you have in mind.”
Under the table, Frumpkin rested his hand on my knee. “But you are, aren’t you, Brody? You’re from Southern California. You live and breathe modernism.”
“Of course,” said Marson, “stupid me.” Breaking into a broad smile, he rested his hand on my other knee. “Brody, the project sounds perfect for you.”
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