A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  She blinked. She didn’t remember that; did she? Her mind wandered as it tried to latch onto a memory that wasn’t; an ethereal sense of warm sun and cool grass on bare feet and laughter . . .

  And then, over dessert and coffee (she wouldn’t let the waiter take the remaining half-glass of wine she was certain she still needed, though the tremors had subsided; see how helpful alcohol could be?), Lucius got them talking about Leon.

  They missed him, of course, came the casually warm sentiment with which they expressed everything. He had been a bright child and those episodes when he had run away were quite hilarious, weren’t they? The last time was just before he turned eighteen, shortly after ambitious and avaricious Callie had left home, and since Leon was almost legally an adult, there was no point in waiting, was there? Besides, since Callie had got the family courts involved in giving her legal status once she got that scholarship, and as she was younger than Leon by almost three years, Leon must be perfectly fine on his own as well. Aren’t children cute?

  Callie drained her wine glass in one long gulp. Lucius signalled for the cheque, his face still and emotionless, dismissing her attempt to pay with a curt, “My get.”

  Very soon, they were all out on the street, Lucius looking distinctly relieved as his cell rang.

  “He’s very handsome,” Mrs. Dahl observed, watching as he stepped away several paces to take the call. “Good in bed? I’ll bet he is. Look at the way he moves!”

  “Mom!” she protested as her father laughed, tweaking his wife’s cheek.

  “Please tell me you’re having a life, sweetie. You’re far too serious.”

  “Yes, Mom,” she intoned. Far easier than arguing.

  “He likes you. And it’s so cute how he calls you doll!”

  “You think it’s cute that he calls me by my last name?” she rebuked dryly.

  Mrs. Dahl startled, then laughed. “Oh, my darlin’. Still cynical. No, Callie, my little china doll. He isn’t calling you Dahl.”

  Her lips parted slightly and she cast a dubious look in Lucius’ direction, where he was still engaged in his call . . . and felt very idiotic.

  Distractedly, she fished an envelope out of her satchel, pressing it into her mother’s hands. “This is for you. So I don’t worry so much.”

  “Oh, Callie,” Mrs. Dahl smiled, hugging her. “Very sweet of you.”

  Lucius wrapped up his call just then, his cool gaze on the fat envelope. Then he met her eyes, and the cool expression shifted into warm concern.

  Doll.

  She blushed furiously, looked elsewhere, and wished he would just go away.

  But goodbyes were said with his arm slung around her waist in a most protective and possessive gesture, and when her parents were tucked safely in a cab (with a cab-chit from FalTech that Lucius magically produced) to god-knew-where-the-RV-was, he took her hand.

  “Let’s walk.”

  They went in the opposite direction of FalTech, much to her surprise, and he relieved her of her laptop case, carrying it for her. She wished he would say something.

  St. James Park was lovely and lush, the air cooler and soft under the trees, scented with the sweetness of freshly cut grass. Lucius led her to a bench and they sat together in silence. He turned toward her, his arm stretched along the back, fingers tugging at strands of her hair while she stared straight ahead, the sick feeling that always accompanied her parents’ visits gradually receding.

  “You shouldn’t have come to lunch,” she said at last, very coolly.

  “I was curious about my protégé’s family.”

  “Am I your protégé?” she gaped.

  “Mm. I think you’re my greatest discovery.”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffed, but smiled a little, sliding an amused glance at him. “Is that a ploy to get me to work harder for you?”

  “If you work any harder, you’ll make my work ethic look dicey,” he chuckled. “Honestly, Cal. You don’t need to be at the office fourteen hours a day.”

  “It’s air conditioned,” she excused.

  “Hell, I never thought of that. Is that why?”

  She snorted. “No. I have so much to learn, and I don’t want to disappoint—I don’t want to let you down. I love my promotion. And the new challenges. So I put in the time.”

  “Is it too much?” he demanded with concern.

  “No, no, of course not. But I like to keep ahead of the curve.”

  “Or smash it,” he murmured. At her puzzled look: “I was thinking about bell curves.”

  “What? Oh. Do they still use those?” she mused indifferently. “But about lunch—thanks for being so nice to my parents. But you shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m glad I met them.”

  “What an odd thing to be glad about.”

  “Look, Cal.” He gripped her hand, and she liked the roughness, wondering what a man who spent his life in an office did to get such calluses. “I owe you an apology. When we were at the bar, when you were telling me you understood about the family, I . . . dismissed you.” He grimaced. “You do know what it’s like. Probably better than I do. At least my family’s not—anyway, sorry.”

  “Accepted,” she whispered, inexplicably moved that this man had such bend.

  “It wasn’t a good childhood, was it?”

  There was only a little bitterness in her responding laugh. “It wasn’t all horrible, I guess. I had a lot of freedom. But what I wanted was structure—literally and figuratively. Rules and stability and a home without wheels. It’s tragic when a seven-year-old wants her parents to grow up.”

  Drawing her closer, Lucius nestled her into the protective curve of his shoulder.

  “It would have been easier if they fought all the time. If they had been bitter or angry. If they resented us, their children. Or if they were uneducated or unskilled. Or stupid. Drunks or druggies. Then their sheer neglect would have had some . . . some rationale behind it. I could have accepted it better. I hear people complain of their dysfunctional families; how their parents hated them, or put unconscionable pressure on them to succeed, or slapped them around, and I think: ‘Oh, aren’t you lucky! My parents loved me almost to death.’”

  The rumble of his laughter rippled through her and she pulled away, smiling nervously.

  “You know what you need?”

  “Oh, you’re an expert at knowing what I need,” she said sarcastically, and promptly went red at the recollection.

  He growled huskily in her ear. “Was I wrong then?”

  She swallowed. “No. You weren’t wrong.”

  “Exactly. So, you need to tell me about your meeting at Harrison.”

  The change in topic threw her off guard, but with a little shrug, “Hand me my laptop.”

  Resting on her knees, the new laptop booted up in a flash. Dana had delivered the slick machine to her office a couple of days before with the cool advice that it was Callie’s, personally, not the company’s—given as a bonus. The woman had only given a curt nod when Callie thanked her; for some reason, she was not among Dana’s favourite people.

  She showed Lucius images of the Birds. “I remembered something about pentimento—when an artist paints over or makes alterations, and some of the older work shows through. That prompted me to look into the possibility of secret masterpieces under the Birds.” She chuckled at his expression. “Just one of the more recent family theories, that as yet hasn’t been investigated. But I’m pretty certain such things are just fiction—improbable plots of mystery novels. Though,” she mused, “there was a Van Gogh that . . . But I digress. Regardless, X-rays and/or infrared scanning could show anything that was beneath the surface. There’s no point in going to the expense of doing it if I can circumvent the idea otherwise. So I showed Josh—that’s one of the Harrison brothers—hi-res images of the Birds to see if he thought it were possible.”

  “And?”

  “He thought the paintings singularly horrible. And said they all looked like they were done on clean c
anvases. Some have very thinly spread paint in sections where you can all but see the actual canvas. Closer examination can be done to confirm. But do you think that report is enough to convince the family?”

  He nodded. “Sure. If you show blow-ups of the thin sections and get Harrison’s stamp of approval. The family loves an expert—and Harrison is an actual one.”

  “Good. The infrared scanning is expensive, and so far we have eleven Birds.”

  “Are you expecting to find more? Where?”

  “There should be thirteen, according to the will.” She shrugged. “Anyhow, I’ve lined up Josh to do the appraisal of Neville’s—”

  “Callie.” His voice held a weight of warning. “Where do you expect to find more Birds?”

  “Um, are there any at Falcontor?”

  A chuckle greeted that. “No. Gramps wouldn’t have one displayed publicly.”

  “Then why are the ravens at FalTech?”

  “Because Gramps never ran FalTech. Thomas put it there, I guess.”

  That was getting closer to what she wanted to ask but was afraid to. So she still hedged. “And do you have one?”

  He considered that. “You know, I think I do. I’d forgotten. It’s either in storage or . . .” He paused. “Actually, it might be hanging somewhere in my house. My interior decorator was in charge of scattering my stuff about, and I didn’t vet the choices.”

  “Can you check on that?”

  “Sure. You can come over and take pictures of it.” Said leeringly, as if he had asked her to look at his etchings.

  She rolled her eyes, but was glad of the distraction. There was only one other person in the family who might have the last of the Birds, and she was reluctant to broach that possibility with Lucius. “I—we don’t need the actual paintings. Just pictures of them.”

  Distracted, he looked over her shoulder. Suddenly, he plucked the glasses off her nose.

  “Go on,” he encouraged, holding the glasses to the light before breathing a light fog on one lens. He winked at her and proceeded to polish the lenses on his tie as she watched in astonishment. “It’s fascinating.”

  She grunted, trying to recollect her thoughts, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  He finished polishing the glasses. “There you go.”

  Snap.

  She stared at the glasses in his hand, now in two pieces, snapped at the bridge.

  “Damn!” He clicked his tongue. “Sorry, doll. Come on.” Slapping the laptop closed, he shoved it into its case, dragged her to her feet and led her out of the park along the strip of stores.

  “You broke my glasses!” she finally managed.

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ll buy you new ones.”

  “When?” she demanded.

  “Now. Ladies first.” He opened the door to an optician’s with a flourish.

  He charmed the optician with the tale of his sheer clumsiness, handing over the broken frames to have the prescription assessed before plucking frames he selected from the designer labels selection, setting each on Callie’s nose while she kept reaching for cheap frames in the bargain section.

  Finally, he smacked her hand lightly.

  “Stop. Just stand still.” And put another pair on her. “Those are good.”

  “They have a peace sign on them,” she objected.

  “Of course. They’re Fuentes. Very hip. And very inexpensive,” he assured. “We’ll get these tinted as sunglasses.”

  His idea of inexpensive and hers were separated by a vast gulf. “Why?”

  “So you can read in the sun, doll. Try these ones.”

  “I only need one pair.”

  “One tinted, one not. And a backup pair of each, in case they get broken. Or lost.”

  Four pair? “No.”

  “Yep. Those D&G’s look good. Try these. No. The Hilfiger. Better.”

  “I like larger frames.”

  “Larger frames are back in style,” the optician said. “The broken frames are quite stylish.”

  “Not for her,” Lucius objected. “Her bone structure is too delicate. And that hipster look—forget it.”

  “Now you’re a stylist?” Callie mocked, very pleased with the optician’s comment.

  He grinned and tossed down a credit card. “As far as you’re concerned? You bet.”

  “I’ll pay for them!” she said hastily, and had a silent heart attack over one of the price tags. That one set was more than her rent! And it didn’t include the lenses!

  “You absolutely will not. I broke yours; I’m replacing them.” To the optician: “These will be ready Monday?”

  The woman winced a little, not wanting to disappoint a man who was so charming and spending thousands of dollars in the course of fifteen minutes. “I think the best I can do is next Thursday, sir.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “How am I supposed to work without glasses for a week?” Callie complained petulantly.

  “Guess you can’t work,” was the rather flippant retort from a man who made Simon Legree look like an amateur.

  “Perhaps a pair of cheaters to tide you over?” The optician selected a suitable pair with simple wire frames. “I don’t recommend them for long-term use, but a week or so is all right.”

  “Done. Thank you.” He set the cheaters on Callie’s nose, took her by the shoulders and turned her. “Go check these out in the mirror there. The light is better.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “Go.”

  “You just don’t want me to see the grand total.”

  “You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”

  She sighed. “Please, not all four. It’s wasteful. I don’t need them all. Please, Lucius.”

  He didn’t respond to this begging immediately, but at last, his mouth brushed her ear as he murmured: “All right. Two.”

  That made her feel immensely better, especially as he did not seem hurt by any lack of graciousness on her part.

  So she pushed her luck. “And maybe we could just split the cost . . .” she suggested hopefully, allowing him the indulgence of replacing the glasses he had broken.

  “No. It’s just money. Let me do this for you,” he whispered.

  “Why?” she whispered back.

  “I want to spoil you today. You need some spoiling.”

  She pressed her lips together, vision blurring. She tilted her head to caress the hand on her shoulder with her cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Silly doll,” he told her huskily, and gave her a little push.

  ***

  “I have to get back to the office,” Callie protested helplessly as they exited the optician’s. “I have work to do. Remember? Work?”

  “Sure. Oh, I forgot to tell you I need you tonight. A business dinner,” he disappointingly went on, though his eyes twinkled knowingly at her before he donned his sunglasses. They started in the direction of the office. “Falcontor is trying to charm a researcher away from his current gig. You’re very charming.”

  “I am?” she asked sceptically.

  “Haven’t I told you that?”

  “No. What do I need to do?”

  “Be you.”

  “Who would want that?” she muttered.

  “I want you to leave the office early today.” Glancing at his watch: “That means back just long enough to grab your stuff. I’ll pick you up at home around seven. Do you need to go shopping?”

  “I have clothes. Nice ones.”

  “Okay. Wear something pink. It suits you.”

  “Not many heterosexual men could show such interest in a woman’s style without feeling their heterosexuality threatened.” She tilted her head teasingly. “Confident amount of testosterone?”

  He lifted his glasses to toss her a leering look. “I’ve got my share.”

  She laughed helplessly. “Tell me about the researcher.”

  “He’s a biochemist I want for Falcontor Labs.”

  “A biochemist? What sort? What specialisation?”r />
  “Microbiology.” And he gave the details while they walked, speaking in level tones and not at all distracted from his topic, even while fascinated by how loose ringlets wrapped themselves around his fingers as the light breeze tossed strands of her hair in his direction.

  ***

  “The Viola Lounge Supper Club.”

  “He invited you to the Falcontor party?” Rachel snatched up her purse. “Let’s go shopping.”

  “I don’t have time for that!” Callie made a helpless gesture. What was the obsession with shopping with these people? “I have three billion things to do before I even go home to get ready. Um, what Falcontor party? I thought it was just the three of us.”

  “No, no. A formal schmooze fest. Steve Malcolm is very important to snag, I gather.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Nope. It’s all Falcontor peeps. ’Cept for you, of course.”

  “Can’t I just wear that red number—?”

  “I know every item in your wardrobe, Cal. It’s all great—now—but fairly downtown. You need something a little more uptown for Viola. Let’s go.”

  “You are a very expensive friend,” she muttered, heading for her office to pack up for the day.

  “You going to seduce him?” Rachel teased her once they were in the elevator.

  “Dr. Malcolm?” She stared, appalled.

  “No, you moron! Lucius.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Not a woman in the world is clueless about seduction when she wants it.”

  “How’s Ken?” she retorted dryly.

  “Shaddup!” Rachel flushed a little. “I’m not ready to make my move yet. I take it you and Lucius are . . . toying with the idea of a fling?”

  “Maybe. Neither of us is looking for love, you know?”