“A heads up,” he said. “Let’s sit on the hill.” He pointed to the path between the pastures that led to the loop trail. They sat on the grass. Gretel started scratching away at the lush grass, digging a hole.
“No!” Aden said. Gretel stopped digging and looked at Aden as if he just didn’t understand life’s highest priorities.
“You ready for the latest?” Aden said, his eyes animated.
“Oh, God help me. What now?”
“Abby’s going to accuse Warren of sexual harassment.” Aden looked at Lucinda to measure her response.
“And your source?”
“The alleged victim herself. I took her out for another one of our little lunches.”
“Shit, Aden. This is serious.”
“I know.”
Gretel breathed out a sigh and plopped down in the grass, keeping a wary eye on the deer.
“When?”
“After the Thea story simmers down, one way or the other. She doesn’t want to be outbilled.”
“Sounds mercenary. Does she have a case?”
“I don’t know,” said Aden. “A lot of this stuff comes down to he said — she said, doesn’t it? All I know is she’s hated him since day one. Warren, I don’t know. He certainly seems capable of it. Mister big ego, mister hairstyle.”
“Well, that will come bouncing back to Frank, won’t it? Since I’m not Warren’s supervisor anymore.”
“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that. Frank’s got his hands full this week.”
Lucinda looked at Aden. “Full of what? He doesn’t answer my calls. We’re down to texting.”
“John told me Bomi Singh showed up for a surprise visit today. He couldn’t stay to listen in. Frank’s onto him so he doesn’t expect to get as much juicy stuff now.”
Aden plucked a blade of grass and placed it between his thumbs. He was about to blow into his thumbs to make a kazoo sound when Lucinda spoke.
“Honor will know about Bomi. I hear Frank has the GAP now to make ‘revisions,’” she said, mocking the word.
Aden laughed sharply, inhaling instead of blowing, and sucked the blade of grass into the back of his throat. He coughed loudly, and Gretel sprang up and glared at him in alarm. With a few more coughs, Aden managed to extract the blade out from the top of his windpipe.
“Sorry,” Lucinda said, rubbing the top of his back. “You ok?”
Aden gulp for air, then swallowed. “‘Revisions!’ I’ll bet a month will go by and it will be erased from Frank’s memory banks.”
“Yes, but now it will be happening to the Executive Committee and not just little ol’ me. I don’t think Honor will put up with it.”
“Nor Bomi.”
“Yeah, he’s got some grit to him. I really like the guy.”
Gretel resumed deer watching.
“Oh, before you go, I wanted to ask you about the art galleries in Newcester. I’m going to spring for some paintings to fill the gaps on my walls.”
Aden looked at her. “And?”
“Can you recommend some of the galleries? Which are the best? I don’t have tons of time to traipse around tomorrow.”
“There’re a couple on Salty Dog. And two by The Captain’s Table.”
“Would you show me?” she asked.
Aden looked out at the entrance to the stable, where Ramsey was leading Pogo and Kildaire out for overnight turnout. It was more comfortable for horses to be out at night in the summer and in during the day — fewer bugs, the opposite of their winter routine. Margo came from around the side of the barn and got into her car.
“Bart knows ‘em like the back of his hand. Ask him,” Aden said crisply.
He stood up to go.
“Bart’s gone back to the city,” Lucinda said. Bart hadn’t called her to tell her what he’d decided, and he did not show up at Tori and Martin’s house the day after they talked last. “Things are dicey for him and… .”
Aden sat back down on the grass. Gretel plopped back down on her rear end.
“Oh, hell! The man’s an alcoholic, Aden. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing.” Lucinda grabbed fistfuls of grass and pulled. Gretel stood up and wagged, looking between Aden and Lucinda’s left fist. Her expression seemed to say, How come you let her start a hole?!
“He says he wants to get relief. But I don’t see it. He’s been found passed out in Newcester twice in the last month.”
“Maybe it’s got to get way worse. Totally bottom out, as they say.”
“I don’t know how much worse I can stand.”
“It’s his addiction, Lucinda.”
She looked at him. He was frowning and stroking Gretel.
“You’re right. I don’t really have any right to ask you for personal favors since it probably makes you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
Aden pulled his shoulders back.
“Look,” he said. “I do stuff for my friends. If you need a gallery escort, it’s no problem. I wouldn’t mind making the rounds again anyway. I’m a big boy.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” Aden said. “But how can I turn you down?”
Check
“Central air? Are you kidding? In this old pile? Got a couple of room air conditioners if it turns real nasty. The place actually isn’t too bad in July, what with the sea breezes and all this damn granite. See you soon,” Frank said, ending the phone call.
Warren looked up from the couch, questioningly.
“Hal. He’s still coming. Got hung up behind a jam on the coast road. Beached dolphin or something. You were saying?”
“Thea may not be pressing charges now, but either way I’ve been associated with the rape with no forum to prove my innocence. People shoot me the evil eye when I walk around campus, and I can’t even grab a coffee in The Puffy Muffin without being served an insult or two on the side.”
“It’ll blow over,” Frank said. “Give it time. Talk to some of the female professors or something. Throw them a few funding bones. I’ll talk to a few folks. And the ombudsman.”
Warren brightened a little. “It’s worth a try. I could ask Thea if she’d make some kind of statement to The Sentinel, maybe?” He looked uncertain.
“Don’t approach her. I hear from Margo that Thea’s a mess. She won’t want to do anything public. And it’s just one more chance for them to misinterpret what happened.”
Warren looked up sharply.
“Or didn’t happen,” Frank corrected.
Frank glanced out to the lawn, remembering Deena Cunningham, who claimed he sexually harassed her ten years ago. The stupid thing had knocked him out of the top job at a Chamber of Commerce in Connecticut. As for rape, he wanted no taint of that in his administrative staff. He flashed on Margo. But she had been truly interested in him, hadn’t she?
“Hey, who’s playing?” Warren said, suddenly noticing the chessboard.
Frank glanced at the board. Since the last time he looked at it, eight pawns, three knights, a queen, two rooks, and a bishop were in play. And the rosewood king had been moved over a square from his starting place. Three rosewood pawns, a knight, and a rook and four maple pawns and a bishop were placed on the side of the board, out of play.
“Good question. I’m not sure. I think someone’s playing against John, but I don’t know who. I noticed a pawn put in play the day Singh was here, but he hasn’t been back since June. Cliff doesn’t play, nor Honor. Those are the only other ones who have been in here.”
“As far as you know,” Warren said.
“What does that mean? People are breaking in here to play chess? Phhffft!”
“Well — ”
“I imagine it’s just John trying to amuse himself now that he can’t spy on us anymore.”
“Trying to beat himself? Weird.”
“You play?” Frank asked. Warren shook his head. “Me neither.”
Frank looked back out the window. “Dolphin must have splashed back in. Here he is.”
Frank waved to Ha
l to let himself in. Upon entering the Pecan Room, Hal strode right to the sofa and sat in the middle. He wore black dress pants, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His eyes were a piercing sapphire, emphasized by the tan his convertible afforded, and a red silk tie was loosely knotted about his neck with the top button of his white dress shirt undone. He sprung the locks on his hard-sided briefcase and pulled out a document that he tossed to Frank.
“I found a way to throw Singh off.” He nodded at the document. “How the hell did he get access to this quarter’s preliminary numbers?”
“I gotta go,” Warren said. “Meeting a donor about a big gift. Could be as high as a million.” He looked about as if for some type of acknowledgement, but Frank was preoccupied with Hal’s document, and Hal was pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher on the coffee table.
“I wanted to ask you that,” Frank said to Hal.
Warren walked to the door. “I’ll call you, Frank.”
“Good,” Frank said, without looking at Warren.
Ignoring Frank’s previous remark, Hal peered at the chessboard to his right, resting his cheeks on his thumb and index finger as he studied it.
“Who’s playing?”
“Half the campus for all I know,” said Frank, flipping the document shut.
Hal smiled. “Don’t let your dark king become too exposed.”
Frank shrugged and put the document on the coffee table.
“You think he’ll buy this?”
“I stirred up some of the grant allocations so he’ll get distracted sorting them out again.”
“And miss the big picture? I don’t know. He’s pretty bright.”
“I also took the two million out flat. Just call it a renege on the part of the donor. Happens.”
The doorbell rang and Frank went out to answer it because John had left for a produce market in Newcester to arrange for delivery of heirloom pears for a college function. Hal moved the maple rook, under protection from his maple bishop, and captured the rosewood pawn guarding the rosewood king.
“Check!” he said to the empty room, smiling.
* * * * *
“I had to bribe Gretel big time to get her to stop barking,” Aden said. “A third of a fat tube of liverwurst Mrs. Whipple gave me.” He pinched his nose shut with his thumb and forefinger.
They met in front of The Steaming Pot diner, underneath the steaming pot sign. The outdoor sign was an actual large-scale lobster cooking pot with white neon tubes emerging from the top, representing steam.
“I usually bring her on these art jaunts with me, but there’re two places where hounds are verboten. And I think we shouldn’t discriminate based on galleries’ feelings about dogs.”
Lucinda smiled. “That dog should have her own TV show or website.”
“Don’t give her any ideas!” Aden said. “Ok, we’ve got five galleries to hit. Let’s go!”
The first was Newcester Fine Arts. They crossed the street and walked a short block.
“We’ll start with light-hearted and build,” Aden said, as they peered through the display window. “This is probably not exactly what you’re looking for, but I suspect there’d be something in here that would look perfect in your dining room.”
“You mean my modest nook with the round table?”
“Yes.”
Aden opened the door to the gallery, sunlight and fluorescent light reflecting off its highly polished blond wood floor. “After you,” he said to Lucinda, indicating the way inside as if to some castle full of dazzling treasure. They were met by scores of colorful nautical oils and watercolors and an enthusiastic salesperson, who recognized Aden.
“G’afternoon, Heléne,” Aden said. Lucinda smiled while Aden kissed Heléne’s cheeks twice, European style. “This is Lucinda Beck. We’ll just be browsing.”
Lucinda felt a little unsettled at the word “Beck,” but recovered quickly and held out her hand. Heléne, mid-forties, dressed head-to-toe in turquoise, grabbed it with her right hand and capped it with her left palm, her wrist a jumble of sea-themed charms on a silver bracelet.
“Welcome! We’ve a treasure trove of new stuff. Take your time.”
Aden made some signal, Lucinda thought, because Heléne soon floated away and let them browse in peace.
“You’ve got her trained.” Lucinda laughed.
“I think she thinks we’re dating. I’ll straighten her out later.”
Lucinda frowned slightly then turned her attention to the walls. The only thing that caught her eye was an extraordinarily cute, large watercolor of a piping plover chick. Done in exquisite, but not tight, detail.
“Don’t they always look like they’re missing their back half?” Aden said.
“So vulnerable among the shells and open sand. But look at that chick! She looks ready to face whatever that tide or the sky tosses her way,” Lucinda said, leaning close to the watercolor.
She circled the room and approached Heléne. “I’d like the plover chick. Would you wrap it, and I’ll be by later to pick it up?”
Heléne beamed. “Excellent choice! It’s a Pringle. It’s been just waiting for the right person to walk in and see it.”
“John Pringle?” Lucinda smiled. “I didn’t even look at the signature.”
“He usually hides his signature to make it look like part of the picture,” she said, moving toward the painting and lifting it off the wall.
“He’s doing a watercolor of Gretel, John is,” Aden said, when they were back out on the sidewalk. “A gouache actually. Maybe he’ll be able to leave the clutches of Frank with all this popularity he’s building up.”
It was at the second gallery — Colorworks Studio — that Lucinda stopped her side of the banter and stared with awe at the art. Aden smiled at her reaction and refrained from his running commentary.
“These sculptures are amazing,” she said, walking around the stone sculptures slowly and attentively like Catcher stalking prey.
They were a fusion of modern and ancient — Brancusi meets the makers of Stonehenge. Some were obviously sea mammals and fish. Others were mesmerizing orbs in granite, marble, and some kind of green stone Lucinda didn’t recognize. She was backing up to get some distance from a large one that looked like a manatee, or the essence of manatee, when an older gentleman, backing up from examining a harbor storm surge painting on the wall, bumped into her back. They both quickly turned to face each other.
It took Lucinda a few beats for recognition to kick in, he’d grayed quite a bit over the last year.
“Chester! It’s good to see you again.”
“Lucinda Beck! How are you keeping? I thought you’d moved on from the area.”
“No, still happily at P-H.”
“Hmmm, that Warren fella said he was taking over, but I like your version better,” Chester said, touching her lightly on the arm.
“There must have been some confusion,” she said. Her face tensed and she turned to Aden. “You remember Aden Vitali?”
“Of course!” Chester jabbed Aden on the shoulder in greeting, and then he looked at Lucinda, pondering something.
“How’s Bart?” Chester asked.
“I, we… ” Lucinda started.
Good question, she thought, wish I knew. Aden stepped toward Essence of Manatee, rubbing his shoulder.
“We’re separated,” she said.
“Oh, too bad.”
“How’s Constance?”
“She’s splendid! As usual. She’s taken on literacy. Watch out! Hey, maybe you can help me. I’m trying to find something for her birthday. What do you think she’d want? I’m kind of at a loss here.”
Lucinda had dinner at the Mulholland’s estate right before Ben Marshallton’s retirement party last year. She’d scanned the rooms of their mansion in Newcester, mentally inventorying the contents to find clues to their current interests and tastes. Wonderful information for a fundraiser.
“She’s more the upbeat marine art type. Let me see.” Lucind
a slowly circled the gallery, Chester trailing closely. Aden contemplated Essence of Humpback Whale. Lucinda dismissed semi-abstract renditions of the famous lighthouse point, a portrait of a local whale watch tour operator, an unnerving close-up of a lobster (in its natural brown-green, not red), and a painting that was one part beach and ocean and nine parts pink sky.
She walked by a small room with its door mostly closed. Through the slight opening, she saw, was it? A Winslow Homer?
She pushed the door open and walked in. It was a Homer! One of his lesser known Caribbean Sea splendors.
Chester, right next to her, smiled broadly and nodded his head.
“That one’s not really for sale,” said Dar McBee, the gallery owner, appearing suddenly in the doorway and crossing the small room in a few lengthy strides. His faded curly brown hair mismatched the all-gray chin beard through which he scowled while crossing his bulging forearms over his chest.
“It’s privately owned,” Dar announced. He stood between Lucinda and Chester and the painting, as if protecting it.
“Thanks, Lucinda. This is perfect! I’ll take it from here.” Chester winked at her. “Constance will call you to set up another dinner.”
“Now, about this lovely painting. Everyone has a price… ” Chester cooed to Dar.
Lucinda left Chester to it. Exiting the small side room, she saw Aden in the main gallery, drawn to the brown-green lobster.
“I can never boil them after I see pictures like this,” Aden said, frowning.
Human Male Company
Lucinda hung the plover watercolor on the wall between the counter and the bay window where it could be admired from the counter stools and the table chairs, and then she walked from room to room preparing for her house guest. New sheets on the guestroom bed, fluffy blue towels. In the first-floor bathroom, she put out fragrant bayberry soap and shaving balm that she’d stashed away for Bart’s late-June birthday last year, but he left before she could give him his presents. Flashing on the night Aden stayed in that guest bedroom, her heart felt strange and lonely so she scooped up Gabriel to drive the feelings away.
“It’ll be nice to have male company in the house again,” she said to the cat. Gabriel was underfoot everywhere. Catcher had long since moved back out to the barn.
Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel Page 27