A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  “Thoughtless,” Rachel snorted. “Boy and girl meet. Instant attraction. Sex results. Why think?”

  The rumble of a voice they both knew travelled across the bullpen, though neither could make out the words from this distance; Rachel looked around, peering over the cubicle wall.

  “He’s coming this way,” she chuckled. “Try not to stutter too much!”

  Callie rolled her eyes and, the moment Lucius appeared, asked, “Did Carlyle have a second name? Maybe starting with an H? It’s in a signature on some papers from the ’twenties.”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” was the reply. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Hi,” she smiled, somewhat shyly. Since she was already blushing, the warm gaze he swept over her had little outward impact, though inside, everything seemed to catch flame. And good thing she was sitting down, because her knees felt funny again. “So. Another name for Carlyle? I can’t find his birth record, or any of his history in England.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If I’m to build a history for him, then yes.”

  “I thought this was about Neville.”

  “The Birds went to Carlyle. Almost everything aside from Linchgate Hall went to him, actually. So, the alleged HRF would be with him—at least in any story we create. I have nothing on Carlyle before emigration. See?” She flicked through screens of scanned census records. “Born in 1880, per his CEF attestation. Remember the probable separation of his parents? So, here, on the 1881 census, there’s Elizabeth, living at Linchgate, with daughter Lily. There’s Neville in Chelsea, with no one but servants. And the same here on the 1891. The 1901. The 1911. But where is Carlyle?”

  “I don’t see why it matters,” he said. “But if you say it does, it must. Keep at it.”

  Smiling at this vote of confidence, she turned back to the puzzle of Carlyle as Lucius left again. Research was fun, and she didn’t mind a minor mystery, but outright puzzles were not her strength. She would kill to be a lateral thinker. Lateral thinkers were just so damned clever.

  “What happened?” a very subdued Rachel asked after a few moments of silence.

  “When?”

  “For pity’s sake, Callie! Focus! What happened to you being all in love with him?”

  “I wasn’t! I wasn’t,” she repeated more quietly. “I was just . . . crushing on him. That’s it.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I got over it.”

  Rachel’s look of dismay gave her a twinge of guilt.

  “I got his attention, thanks to you. I mean it. Thank you. It worked out well, because I got over the crush I’d been wasting too much time on. Love is all right, but I’m not looking for it. He’s good company, very sexy and brilliant, but neither of us is particularly interested in more.”

  “That’s what he said?”

  “Well-l-l-l . . . He more or less suggested that any idea of that is on hold. We’ll see what happens, he said, following some pretty chaste kisses.”

  That was not strictly true—those kisses were light, but they were not chaste by any stretch of the imagination. Lucius, she suspected, had that whole gentleness-is-strength thing down pat when it came to seducing women.

  “So you don’t hear music when he walks into the room?”

  The mournful tone surprised her. She had no idea that Rachel was such a romantic! “Sure I do,” she soothed. “It just sounds like Darth Vader’s theme.”

  That didn’t prompt the laugh she expected. “Damn it! I was counting on you, Cal.”

  With that, the blonde stomped off.

  ***

  The office door slammed. “What the hell did you do?”

  Lucius schooled his features into a mild look of interest before swinging around in his chair to face Rachel. “When?”

  “Don’t you dare play stupid with me! It’s very cute and all when you’re running a game on a mark, but don’t even think of trying that bull with me. What did you do to her?”

  “Why do you think I did anything?”

  “Because she’s normal around you now!” she wailed.

  There was no stopping the chuckle that came out. “I don’t know that anyone would ever describe Callie Dahl as normal.”

  “She was so-o-o-o infatuated with you! You must have done something horrible to ruin it.”

  “Well, she didn’t know me, did she?” he retorted shortly.

  “I’m sure you showed your true colours,” she snapped back. “All that bitter crap about Anita and James and the family—”

  “Enough!”

  “You’ve been a monster the last year.”

  “I had my ass hauled back here to rescue this!” he gestured to indicate all of FalTech. “Not to mention, as you so delicately point out, discovering all the gory details of what those closest to me were doing while I was living abroad. So, yeah. A little temperamental.”

  “You’ve always been short-tempered,” she grunted. “With that nanosecond-kneejerk reaction every time you’re thwarted. But, Lucius,” her voice softened, “I know you. You’re my best friend. This is different. You’ve shut off part of yourself, determined not to admit how much you were hurt. But even before all that happened, I met Callie. I just knew that if there was ever a girl to centre a man like you, it would be her.”

  Hell of a task to wish upon someone. “I’m centred. I’m fine.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Maybe you can tell me, though, why—on a purely professional level—Callie wasn’t brought to my attention earlier.”

  “I’ve been telling you about her for months,” she scolded. “You haven’t been listening!”

  “Don’t pin that on me! We don’t do subtle with each other. If you had spoken plainly of her, I would have paid attention—demonstrated by the fact that when you finally did last week, I acted on it. Now. Tell me your assessment of her.”

  Somewhat sheepishly, she gave him an apologetic smile. “You’re right. I was trying to play you personally. Sorry.”

  “’S okay,” he assured. “So, professionally, what about Callie?”

  “Hard worker, wide range of knowledge, and quiet—until gets going on something that really interests her. Gets embarrassed easily and hates being the centre of attention, but that doesn’t stop her in meetings when she disagrees with someone or something. I think Doyle is scared of her.”

  Ralph Doyle—Callie’s immediate boss, and Rachel’s immediate junior. “Why?”

  “Because he’s smart enough to know that if Cal had any ambition, she’d take his job from him without even trying. I know for a fact,” she said with a tinge of anger, “that Doyle’s taken credit for many of her ideas, and she lacks the sense—or maybe she doesn’t care—to stand up for herself.”

  Lucius rocked in his chair. “Why wouldn’t she care? She’s not ambitious?”

  “If she were, she’d be sitting in your chair,” she chuckled. “She makes me think of that quote you’re so fond of. Dali. ‘Intelligence without ambition—’”

  “‘—is a bird without wings,’” he provided thoughtfully. He usually thought of his family when recalling that quote, but applying it to Callie lacked any anger or frustration. It merely engendered curiosity. “Her lack of ambition means she’s falling far short of her potential.”

  “Yeah. There’s an understatement. As far as brains go, she’s smarter than anyone thinks she is—and we all think she’s brilliant. And you wouldn’t guess it right off the hop, but she’s got a natural touch with people—friendly, but not overly. Everybody loves her, because she comes off so sweet and nonthreatening with a . . . I don’t know . . . Sincerity? No—I mean, yes, she’s sincere, but . . . I can’t describe it. Clarity of thought without sentiment?”

  “Impartiality?”

  “Maybe. But there’s a crap load going on inside that head that no one gets more than a glimpse of. If I had to assess her attitude generally, I’d say she’d be happy going through life flying under the radar. Not just professionally.”

&nb
sp; He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “Because she could be much further ahead than she is if she wanted to be. Getting ahead means being visible, right? For her, being the centre of attention is . . . upsetting. She doesn’t like being seen, if that makes sense. As if she lacks ego.”

  “Low self-esteem?” he suggested, frowning.

  “But it can’t be. I mean, if I were that smart—and as cute as a button to boot—I’d have an ego the size of the planet.”

  “Less, then?” he mocked.

  “Shaddup,” she drawled. Then, brightly, “So, what about her personally? What happened and what are your intentions?” she demanded, as if she were Callie’s parent.

  He hesitated in his response, for even he wasn’t completely sure anymore. “You’re right about one thing. I wasn’t very nice to her. But it got squared. Now I’m . . . thinking about things.”

  “What things?”

  “I like her,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to be with anyone harbouring an infatuation. The infatu-ee always ends up hurt. Once I’m sure she’s really over it, I’ll do something about it.”

  She glared. “What—the—hell—does—that—mean?”

  “Just between us?” When she gave a nod, he elaborated. “I like the idea of being with someone steady. Companionship without love; commitment without devotion. Does that make any sense?”

  Angry green eyes narrowed at him. “You want to have a relationship without giving anything emotionally of yourself. Nothing too deep, at any rate. Talk about lack of ambition!”

  That last assessment caught him sideways. She was right, of course. But right now, he couldn’t commit to ambition where his emotions were concerned.

  “It’s called dating, Rache. People don’t fall in love and then date,” he soothed. “It’s generally the other way around as people . . . try each other on.”

  “You have no intention of falling for her? Is that what it means?”

  “It means you should stay out of it. Why don’t you . . .” he waved a hand vaguely, “go bother Ken? Work out some of your own issues. Preferably on the couch in his office.”

  The phone console rang just then, saving him from a barrage of insults. If nothing else, she was professional.

  The door slammed again on her way out. Mostly professional, he amended.

  ***

  The boardroom door opened and, as Lucius glanced around somewhat impatiently, Callie slipped through, sending him an apologetic look for interrupting. Not exactly appreciating the instantaneous and visceral reaction of his body, he gestured for her to approach even as he immediately redirected his attention.

  She whispered in his ear, tickling him with soft breaths. “Dana sent me—”

  “Shh. It’ll wait.”

  He pulled out the neighbouring chair and indicated she sit, having to reach way down deep for the discipline to concentrate on the tail end of the presentation into which he had been completely keyed until the moment she arrived.

  Mental face palm. Get it together!

  The team had confirmed the specs of the technology he had only skimmed; his primary concern now was the business plan. He was an investor, not a scientist, and though instinctively he felt wary of the project, there was nothing concrete he could argue. Most likely it was reactionary hesitation, as this was the last of James’ initiatives.

  When all was said and done, though, the presentation seemed to address all outstanding issues and concerns, and judging from the team’s reactions, they heartily agreed and were very excited. He had to trust them.

  Debating a few million dollars’ investment normally was not such a trial, but suddenly he could smell a fresh powdery scent that was very distracting. Sliding a glance at her, his breath caught and focus flew. Was it only Friday-past when he dismissed her as a frump? He could barely remember what she looked like then.

  Dressed casually, everything was stylish and very fitted, from snug jeans to a sleeveless pale blue shirt. With sexy slim-heeled ankle boots and that riotous mass of shiny curls messily clipped up—she looked so damned adorable, he wasn’t sure how he was going to play the decent guy for the next thirty seconds, let alone stick to the schedule of seduction he had planned.

  She had taken off her glasses and was leaning forward, eyes wide and lips parted as she viewed the presentation materials. So intense, she was!

  “Okay,” he said, smiling a little. “That’s fine—”

  “It won’t work,” she said firmly.

  Shocked silence fell. No one interrupted him at meetings. No one.

  He hadn’t quite worked himself up to being furious (the nanosecond-kneejerk reaction Rachel had so recently noted) before Callie was out of her chair, blithely chattering away as she pointed to the specs on the presentation screen.

  “It won’t do what he says it will. There’s not enough power. Look.” Moving to the whiteboard, she picked up a marker and began writing. “This is meant to be fully independent? You’re planning on selling excess power to the grid to pay down. But you’ll end up milking the grid and losing money. The solar array needs to be much larger. You’re going to be a solid—” She chewed on a thumbnail and made some calculations on the board, “—half-megawatt shy, and that only supposes the array works to optimum capacity, which they never do. A photovoltaic cell runs at what, thirty-five-, forty-percent efficiency?”

  The whole team exchanged glances. “Thirty, actually,” one admitted.

  “Yeah, that’s a problem.” She tossed the marker down. “Too bad. It’s a great idea. With a larger array . . . Actually, a wind turbine would solve the problem. It’s cheaper and produces far more energy than solar. Higher maintenance costs, though. You’ve got to pick your trade-off, I suppose.” She turned to Lucius and he snapped his mouth, which had been hanging open, closed. “Dana asked me to tell you Ted Somebody had to push back the meeting, and to give you this.”

  Handing him a file folder, she left.

  Lucius stared at the formulas and calculations scrawled on the board.

  Holy. Crap.

  After several more moments of stunned silence, he turned to the scrambling and sweating team. All of them had been so focused on the main tech that they had not paid attention to the little sidebar of powering it—the late add-in concept meant to pay for it. Months of research, algorithms, projections, market-testing . . . thrown out.

  He gathered his papers. “Obviously, someone forgot to carry the one. Fix it and reschedule.”

  ***

  Lucius’ voice boomed through the cubicles. “Callie Dahl! My office. Now!”

  Sympathetic faces poked over partitions as she—mildly put out at the interruption—collected some HRF materials to take with her . . . and snatched up the camera to make good use of this perfect opportunity to photograph the ravens.

  Dana silently waved her in with a noncommittal smile.

  Was it a good or a bad sign? Bad, probably. Dana rarely smiled, and never at her.

  Swallowing, she scooted into Lucius’ office.

  “Close the door,” he, standing behind his desk, instructed levelly. The printer on the credenza spit out pages.

  Was she in trouble? And for what? Not a lot could be done about it now, right?

  Being a consummate pragmatist and having an inborn need to make hay, she mentally sorted what was important in the moment . . . and so moved to snap a shot of the ravens. Zooming in on the result to check the focus, she marvelled at the quality of the camera. And what was that?

  Switching her attention to the actual painting, she saw, behind the unkind ravens, a distant house on a hill. Though the house was large, its depiction was small in the large painting, just a glimpse of dark walls and cold light in many windows.

  “What house is that?” she asked, wondering if it was historically authentic or a figment of the artist’s imagination. Either way, the treatment was eerily Gothic and unwelcoming. And not in a Radcliffe-would-have-loved-it way, but in an artist-hates-it way.

 
; “Linchgate.”

  “So exciting to see it finally,” as if she had waited her entire life, instead of a few days. She was getting caught in the Ransome story beyond mere academic interest.

  “All right, Callie. Enough. Sit down.”

  She did as she was bid, taking a seat on the sofa facing the ravens to keep them in her line of sight. But as she set her things on the table, she noted something else.

  A sandwich, a delicious-looking rare roast beef from the downstairs deli, peeked out of its loosened wrapper on the table. She should offer to come back later, for he was obviously busy . . .

  “Would you like some water?” he offered in the same cool tone.

  “Please.” She gnawed on a thumbnail.

  He brought the pages and two bottles of water to the table, tugging her thumb away from her mouth and handing her a chilled bottle before sitting across from her. Cracking the cap, she sipped the water, meeting his shuttered gaze.

  “Er, what can I do for you?” she finally ventured as silence stretched into infinity.

  “You can explain this.” Setting a palm on the pages he had printed, he turned them for her perusal and sat back.

  Her résumé and—she shifted that aside—her HR file, with social insurance number, birth date, next-of-kin . . . everything.

  “What is there to explain?” she asked, puzzled. Had he thought she had lied on her résumé? That was grounds for dismissal. In a tone shaded with panic, “It’s all accurate.”

  “Is it?” He retrieved half of his sandwich. “Sorry, doll. Have you had lunch? Are you hungry?” he inquired politely—aside from that last name thing again.

  “Oh, thanks!” She was starved, and his sandwich looked way tastier than her rather petite brown-bag affair languishing in the lunch-room fridge! Picking up the other half, she took a bite. Oh! Horseradish! Just a bit. And Dijon. Perfect.

  Seeming bemused that she had accepted his offer, he looked at her half, his half, the empty wrapper, and back to her face. His lips quirked in a ghost of a smile, and he shook his head a little before taking a bite.

  She chased spicy horseradish with more water. “What do you need explained?”

  “All of it. Starting with, oh, how you’re only twenty-seven but nine years out of university.”