“You don’t have to continue. We both know what happened.”
“Lorina, you were so mortified that when you scurried away, you pooted with every step.”
The phone tucked under my chin, I rested my head on my hands, not with remembered shame of that day some twelve years in the past but because Sandy was laughing so hard she was snorting. It had been months since she’d laughed, and I just wanted it to go on and on. Why did it have to happen now, when she was calling me just before boarding her flight? “We had a lot of laughs together that summer, my intestinal woes aside.”
“We sure did. You were the best roommate I ever had.”
“Silly woman. You haven’t had any roomies other than me. In fact, if you add up the four years we were together in college, and then the eight years we’ve shared an apartment after that, I think we’re going to have our twelfth anniversary in October.”
“Good lord, so we are.” There was a thoughtful pause. “That’s longer than a lot of marriages!”
“I told you that we should have been gay. We’d have been an awesome lesbian couple, and we could have had kids by now,” I said, a bittersweet nostalgia tinting my voice. “Although you’d probably have been the wife in the relationship, since I’m built like a brick oven.”
“Oh, you are not. You’re statuesque and tall and everything that petite people like me are not. I envy your ability to walk into a room and make people take notice.”
“It’s not so much take notice as it is stare and wonder who the Amazon is. No, no, don’t go on trying to make me feel better—I’m resigned to the fact that I’m almost six feet tall, and chunky. That’s beside the point, which is that we’d have made an awesome lesbian couple.”
“Yes, darn us and our pesky love of men.” She was laughing again, which made my spirits rise. “Although it doesn’t seem to have done either of us any good. I ended up with a man who ruined my life, and you—” She stopped abruptly.
“I had exactly one relationship in that time, and it was with a man who was just as abusive as my father was,” I finished for her, feeling the pull of dark memories, but not allowing them to drag me under. After years of therapy, I’d finally made my peace with the fact that some men thought it was their right to tear women’s egos to shreds, but it didn’t mean I had to be a victim.
I was most definitely not a victim any longer.
“Oh, sweetie, I didn’t mean that.”
“No, but it’s true. My romantic life has sucked. Men are just so . . . shallow. Into themselves. Looking for someone to be arm candy, or a quick roll in bed, and not anything more. Wow, I sound bitter, don’t I?”
“No, you sound like someone who simply hasn’t found Mr. Right yet.”
“And fast starting to believe that such a man doesn’t exist for me. I’m thirty-four, for heaven’s sake. I’m running out of time to meet a man who doesn’t have to resort to Viagra to perform.”
“Now, that is a gross exaggeration, and you know it. There are lots of men out there in their thirties, or even forties, who are awesome lovers. There’s bound to be one who’s perfect for you. You just haven’t found him yet, but you will. I know you will.”
“That’s because you’re a romantic, while I’m a realist,” I pointed out.
“You would be just as romantic as I am if it hadn’t been driven out of you by that therapist you went to,” she answered, her voice filled with scorn.
“Dr. Anderson made me a strong, confident woman,” I said quickly.
“By stripping away all ideas that men can be just as nurturing and emotionally giving as women, yes. But really, Lorina, do you want to live the rest of your life alone because your dad was an asshole, and your ex was cut out of the same material? Not all men are like them. There are plenty of men out there who cherish women.”
“I know that, silly. I know that there are perfectly nice men around—it’s just that I don’t seem to attract them. Hey, how did we get onto the subject of my pathetic excuse for a love life? We’re supposed to be celebrating you.”
Sandy laughed. “Nice change of subject.”
“I thought it was.” My throat tightened up. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right? What if the nuns aren’t as good with HIV as you think they are?”
“They’ve had a higher success rate than Western doctors. I showed you the medical-review paper about them, and their treatments are beyond what I could get here.”
“Yeah, but it just seems foolish to trust yourself to a religious group rather than reputable doctors with cutting-edge drugs that could nip the disease in the bud.”
“A religious group that has had tremendous success with their antiretrovirus drugs that are allowing thousands of people with HIV to live perfectly normal, healthy lives. No, there’s no cure for it, but at least with the treatments I get with the nuns, I will have a life. And that’s certainly worth pursuing, don’t you think? I don’t want to go through my life wondering if I could have done more.” She paused, and said softly, “Lorina?”
I rubbed my ear. The phone had been pressed into it so hard that I was sure it was leaving a mark. “Right here, babe.”
“Don’t cry. You know this is for the best.”
“No, I don’t, but I respect the fact that you think withdrawing from the world is what’s best for you. I just wish you could do it closer to home, where I could occasionally see you.”
“The order doesn’t work that way. When they say cloistered with no contact with the outside world, they mean it.”
“But . . . you’ll need doctors and medicines.” It was the same objection that I had made for the last two days, and I knew even as I spoke the words what her response would be.
“I’ll have doctors and medicines. Just not the same kind we have here.”
“Your doctor said there were all sorts of drugs available for you to take that could let you be just fine—”
“And I will resort to them if I have to, but from everyone I’ve talked to who has HIV, this treatment is the best way to get a handle on it so it doesn’t progress any further. Even my doctor agrees that it won’t hurt me in the least, and will likely help me just as much as, if not more than, conventional drugs. Oh, Lorina, I know you don’t agree with me about going away, but it really is the best answer. I’ll be happy there—I really will. And after two months, I’ll be able to correspond with you.”
Unreasonably, I lashed out with anger that had built up for the last few months, ever since we found out that the scumbag had given Sandy HIV. “I don’t know what sort of a religious order won’t let their initiates talk to people for two freaking months! That’s just wrong!”
“It’s not wrong for them, and I can understand that they want us to focus on healing without outside distractions.” Another pause. “Lorina.”
“What?” I snapped, alternately wanting to slam down the phone and burst into tears.
“Be happy. And hopeful. I am.”
“It’s not right,” I said, slumping back in my chair, the anger draining out of me and leaving me as limp as a three-day-dead cod. “We should be going after him for what he did.”
“Vengeance is mine? No, sweetie, I can’t. But I have written to him telling him what’s happened.”
“And how did he take it?”
She was silent for a few seconds, then admitted, “He said . . . he said some pretty harsh things, as a matter of fact. Threatening me if I said anything about it to anyone, and . . . well, he was quite abusive about it. I’ll admit it was ugly, but you know, Lorina, people strike out like that when they’re hurting, especially if they know they’re guilty of harming someone else.”
“Oh, come on! Paul doesn’t give a damn for anyone but Paul, and you know it.”
“I do not know that. He is basically a decent man—he’s just had some bad breaks, and chosen to go down a path that isn’t, p
erhaps, the wisest.”
“I have no problem with him making his own hell—my objection is the way he’s dragged you into it as well.”
“We all have to take responsibility for our actions, myself included,” she said softly. “I am at peace with my decisions, and have to trust that Paul will rectify his ways and seek help.”
I said nothing, knowing that it was of no use. We’d had that argument all too often in the past. “So this is it, then? I lose the best friend and roomie a girl ever had without a backward look?”
“That’s not fair,” Sandy chided. “Lorina—”
“It’s OK,” I lied, making an effort to send her off with a smile, not that she could see it. “I’m just being hormonal and cranky and sorry for myself because I’ll have to spend my free time interviewing a new roommate, and you know I’d rather hack off my arm with a grapefruit knife than do that.”
“Then take off and go do something fun. You deserve a break after looking after me for the last five months. There’s a dig in Egypt that I know needs volunteers.”
“Sandy Fache,” I said sternly. “The very last thing I would ever think of doing is going to an archaeological dig.”
“Why not? You were jealous every time I went off to one, or at least you claimed to be.”
“I would think the answer would be obvious,” I said with more than a little acid.
“Because of Paul? Pfft.” She dismissed that objection. “He’s just one man, and there are a lot of digs you could volunteer for this summer. I heard from Mom that there’s even going to be one at Alice’s castle.”
“Who, now?”
“Alice, my foster sister. You met her once or twice when she came to see me at college.”
“I vaguely remember her. Didn’t she leave right after that?”
“Yeah, not long after. She’s about half a year younger than me, and when she hit eighteen, the foster system kicked her out into the world. We’ve kept in touch over the years, although mostly just via Christmas cards. Anyway, she married a baron a couple of months ago.”
“Like a land baron? A tycoon?”
“No, silly.” Sandy’s chuckle was warm and just hearing it made me feel better. Maybe she really was making the right choice, and would be able to thrive in such an isolated environment. “A real baron. You know, nobility and Jane Austen and all that.”
“Wow. I had no idea they still existed.”
“Well, they do, and she’s a real bona fide baroness, and I read on her Facebook page that the castle her husband owns is part of some reality TV series that’s going to be filmed there for a month. And that means that Alice will be on TV doing her lady-of-the-manor thing. If I wasn’t in this situation, I’d be over there so fast that your head would spin.”
“Where does she live?” I asked idly, not that I was really considering Sandy’s suggestion to pursue a volunteer dig there just because I kind of knew this Alice person.
“Some little town in England. You should check her Facebook page—she just announced the TV show when I checked, but that was about a month ago. There might be more info now about who’s running the dig, and how you can volunteer.”
“Eh.”
“Don’t be that way—this is the perfect opportunity for you to do something fun, and get out of the apartment, since you don’t have any summer classes to teach. I’m sure if you asked my mom, she’d drop Alice a line and ask her to take you in, assuming you wanted to stay with a real baroness.”
“I wouldn’t dream of inflicting myself on someone I’ve barely even met,” I protested.
“Bah. Alice was always nice, and I’m sure you’d like her. Oh, dear, that’s my flight. Sweetie—”
Panic gripped me hard, squeezing my guts together. “Sandy . . . there’s so much to say. . . .”
“I know, but just hold on to it for two months. It seems like forever now, but it’ll pass quickly.”
“If you have any doubts about this place, any doubt at any time, all you have to do is call me and I’ll make sure you get out of Nepal.”
“I know you will, silly girl. I’ve always been able to rely on you to have your head screwed on right, and your feet on the ground.”
I gave a shaky laugh. “In other words, plodding and boring.”
“Hardly that. You were just the rock to my butterfly. Whoops, must go. Love you bunches, girl.”
“Love you, too. Be happy and healthy.”
“Ditto. Later, alligator.”
I won’t say I didn’t get a bit misty-eyed at the silly farewell that she had used ever since I’d met her, but I did sit clutching the phone for a long time after she hung up.
Once I roused myself, I got online and did a little investigating of Sandy’s foster sister.
Exciting news for fans of Ainslie Castle! read an announcement on Alice’s Facebook page. The castle and grounds will be featured on an archaeology reality show called Dig Britain!
“Never heard of it,” I muttered to myself.
The dig will be broadcast each day for a month, and is sure to have lots of exciting finds. Elliott is hoping for a Roman bathhouse, while Lady Ainslie is sure there must be the ruins of a convent or two lurking around the grounds.
“Elliott must be the baron. But then who is Lady Ainslie?” I switched browser tabs to the castle’s Web site, and read the description of the Ainslie family. “Ah. The baron’s mom. Huh. I cannot imagine having to call your mother-in-law ‘Lady Ainslie.’ I wonder if Alice has to curtsy when she sees her.” I clicked to read more.
Which will it be? Be sure to tune in to the Now! channel starting September first, and see what turns up under the earth of Ainslie.
“Worms and potato bugs,” I predicted, more than a little jaded. It was true that I’d been jealous of Sandy and her yearly summer trips to exotic places to participate in archaeological digs, but after her experience with Paul, I’d be damned if I ever stepped foot on one, myself.
For a complete schedule, click here. And if you’d like to volunteer as a digger, sifter, or find-washer, follow this link to the managing dig company.
I glanced down at the link, and reeled backward just as if a mule had kicked me in the gut. I stared at it for a good eight minutes, my mind whirling and my stomach lurching around my insides, until I finally clicked on the text.
Wide-eyed, I stared at the resulting Web site.
Claud-Marie Archaeology, read the name at the top of the page. Paul Thompson, director.
“Paul,” I whispered to myself, the name bringing with it a red swell of fury. Had Sandy known who was managing the dig? No, that didn’t make sense—she would want me to steer clear of any dig of which Paul was a member. And now Sandy’s foster sister was right there where Paul was. It seemed almost like a sign, as if fate was daring me not to take notice.
I dug through my memories to shake out those regarding Alice. I remembered her as being bubbly and nice, surprisingly cheerful despite the fact that she was in the foster system. She’d also been the possessor of a wicked sense of humor.
“I have to stop Paul from ruining anyone else’s life,” I said out loud to my tank of zebra fish. They flitted back and forth without a care as to what I was saying, but it made me feel better just having something to talk to. “The question is, how do I do that? Dr. Anderson’s insistence that I can do anything I want aside, I’m not a superhero. I’m a low-paid, mild-mannered community college French teacher who has a very bad feeling about what might be happening at”—I checked the computer—“Ainslie Castle. The sad truth is I can’t save Sandy and I can’t stop a villain from being a villain.”
Or can you? a voice asked in my head. I frowned, my mind surging down a new path of speculation. What if I had proof of how Paul had infected Sandy? Inescapable, solid proof that he couldn’t deny? Proof that would hold up in court, if needed.
An i
dea started to grow in my brain, one that, after a few online searches, blossomed into a full-fledged plan.
“It may be heinous, and it may be incredibly illegal, but that doesn’t matter,” I told my fish, steadfastly ignoring my conscience declaring otherwise. “Sandy’s faith that Paul isn’t the bastard I know him to be just isn’t going to cut it. Let’s see, I could apply to be a digger, but I have no experience, and there’s bound to be a lot of people applying for those positions, what with the TV show going on at the same time. I need something unique, something that no one else could offer them. . . .”
I mulled over the possibilities, which ranged from being a translator of all things French to what amounted to a gofer, but in the end, I decided to play on people’s pretty reliable desire for publicity.
I opened an e-mail and filled in the address of the network producer. “A TV show is going to want all the publicity they can get. I’ll pitch the idea of a behind-the-scenes book about the dig and show to them, and pray they like it. Otherwise, fishies, I’m going to have to fake a hell of a background in archaeology, and that won’t end well. As it is, I’m going to have to do an awful lot of fudging, but at least I can pretend to use a camera. Right? Right.”
The fish didn’t look convinced, but I hadn’t survived too many years of my father telling me I was a worthless waste of space to let my fish dis my ideas. “Dammit, I’m a strong woman now. I don’t need your approval. Besides, I have a higher calling here—I have to make sure that no other innocent women’s lives are destroyed by a man who doesn’t care that he has a potentially deadly infection. He might not listen to Sandy, but he’ll have to pay attention to me when I get indisputable proof of his illness. Beware, Paul Thompson, for your doom is nigh, and her name is Lorina!”
Chapter 3
“Well, Lorina, it looks like we’ve officially started.” Daria Hollingberry, one of the archaeologists whom I’d just met, nodded at the cluster of people standing around a soundman bearing a large microphone swathed in a furry cover. In the center of the group was a woman who’d been introduced as Sue Birdwhistle, the director of the Dig Britain! reality show.
A Midsummer Night's Romp Page 2