Nancy Herkness

by Shower Of Stars

  Jack returned to the podium. “Thank you for that fascinating report, Dr. Fletcher. I appreciate the thoroughness of your examination, given the constraints placed upon you by the exigencies of economics.” He looked out over the crowd. “You were threatened with a lecture,” he continued, eliciting a few cautious chuckles from the audience as he picked up the microphone and walked out to the front of the platform. “But you already know what you want to know, so I’m going to open up the floor to questions instead.”

  After a moment, an astronomer stood and identified himself. Charlie couldn’t quite follow his question, which dealt with comparing Sahara-Mars to another meteorite, but she did catch the condescending tone in which it was asked. Jack answered pleasantly and without hesitation. After a follow-up question, the astronomer sat down. There was a brief pause, and then two people stood. Jack knew one of them and, presuming on their acquaintance asked him to yield to the unknown scientist.

  The man left standing was an astro-geologist. His question was so technical Charlie couldn’t understand it after the third word. When he finished his query, the man sitting in front of her muttered, “Let’s see you get past that one.”

  Jack launched into an explanation as jargon-laden as the question had been.

  Charlie sensed the atmosphere in the room shifting.

  Outright laughter burst out when Jack finished his answer to the third question. Obviously some inside joke in the astronomy industry, Charlie thought. Suddenly questions were coming thick and fast, and the lecture hall’s hostile formality disintegrated into a lively discussion. The woman beside her leaned over to say, “He’s got all these self-anointed geniuses eating out of his hand.”

  “It’s that southern accent,” Charlie whispered back. “Yankees can’t resist it.”

  She saw Jack stiffen and move back behind the podium. She craned her neck to see what had caused the change. A tall good-looking young man with coal-black hair stood at the back of the room.

  “Dr. Burke from Princeton,” Jack said before the man could speak. “An unexpected pleasure.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed this opportunity to see Sahara-Mars. I apologize for interrupting with my late arrival,” Dr. Burke said. His southern accent was even thicker than Jack’s.

  “We’re honored to have such a notable expert in our midst.”

  The woman whispered again. “That’s Peter Burke, a world-class bio-astronomer. He’s published piles of papers about the chances of finding sentient life in the universe. And he hates Jack Lanett for selling a meteorite that could crown his career.”

  Charlie knew this, of course. She had seen a tape of Dr. Burke’s interview on the Today Show; he had charmed the hostess right out of her designer pumps. Had Charlie not met Jack, she might have sympathized with the scientist’s point of view: it seemed reasonable that a find this rare should be turned over to research. On the other hand, Dr. Burke was not bumping over sand dunes on a camel and risking his own hard-earned cash to acquire the meteorites he wanted to study.

  “I wonder if I might pose a question,” the scientist said as he sauntered down the center aisle, ostensibly in search of a seat.

  “Of course,” Jack said, relaxing his posture to lounge casually against the podium.

  “By what right do you claim ownership of this meteorite, this gift from space, flung to Earth to help us solve the riddles of the universe?”

  The silence was absolute.

  “By the right of risk and reward,” Jack said easily. “I take the risks and I reap the rewards.”

  “There would be no reward without years of painstaking research by people like these.” He made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Without science, your million-dollar stone would be a worthless black ro—”

  “Without meteorite hunters, scientists would have nothing to study.” Jack laughed, but he did not look amused. “Face it, Dr. Burke, we’re in this together.”

  “If you auction this meteorite to the highest bidder, a crucial piece of evidence in the search for life in the universe will be lost to science.”

  “I would like nothing better than to have the winning bidder be a museum or university. In fact, I have given the scientific community every opportunity to put together a consortium to purchase it. You have been unable to do so for reasons which do not do your profession credit.”

  Peter Burke stopped partway down the aisle so he was exactly at eye level with Jack. Charlie was struck by how evenly matched the two men were in their thrust-and-parry. They each seemed to sense how the other would respond before they spoke.

  “As you know very well, an institution of research cannot hope to compete with the wealth of private collectors such as you cater to,” Dr. Burke said.

  “Console yourself with the thought that my meteorite may in fact be just another black space rock, and the private collector will have wasted all that wealth. After all, even an expert such as Dr. Fletcher cannot guarantee it carries signs of Martian life. Are there any other questions?”

  A hiss of whispers flooded the hall. Charlie was astounded that Jack would throw doubt on his own discovery. Dr. Burke appeared to have touched a nerve.

  She glanced at Miguel to check his reaction, but his face was impassive.

  No one ventured to ask another question publicly, but when Jack formally closed the program, a dozen scientists surged forward to talk with him at the podium. Two dozen made a beeline for the meteorite. Charlie was tempted to join the latter group but she stuck to her promise to stay out of the way of the trained professionals.

  She closed her portfolio and watched Jack chatting with the scientists. He was taller than everyone else in the group. She admired his posture: head bent courteously, attention focused on the speaker, yet there was no hint of inferiority or currying favor. He clearly considered himself the equal of any man there, but he paid them the compliment of his respect at the same time. It was a neat trick. Suddenly, he raised his head and looked straight at her.

  Charlie felt his blue gaze go through her like an icy wind.

  Then he did something that caused her pen to clatter to the floor.

  He winked.

  Five

  Friday morning the house was spotless. Sunlight streamed through the French doors that opened onto the back porch, giving the rose and mossy green hues of the living room a warm, earthy glow. The small spare first floor bedroom sported brand-new curtains, an antique hooked rug with Noah’s ark on it, and space just begging for a crib and changing table. An apple-cinnamon cake sat cooling on the kitchen counter, and the smell of fresh coffee issued from the spout of a china pot decorated with cavorting dolphins. Major lay on the braided rug in front of the fireplace with Twinkle curled against him.

  “Could you two stay posed like that after the doorbell rings? You’re better than all the Noah’s ark rugs in the world,” Charlie said as she paced from the kitchen to the front door and back for the tenth time. She checked her watch, adjusted her hair clip, and straightened a puffy throw pillow.

  The doorbell rang.

  Major and Twinkle raised their heads as their mistress sprinted for the door.

  “Hello, Ms. Berglund. I’m Rhonda Brown.”

  “Please come in. And please call me Charlie.”

  Rhonda Brown did not offer the use of her first name as she stepped into the living room and looked around. She was about fifty, with short iron-gray hair and deep brown skin. Tall and imposing, she wore a flowing, calf-length dress in a swirling pattern of earth tones, decorated on the left shoulder with a large silver and garnet pin. She placed her bulging brief case on the floor by the couch.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Charlie asked. “And some cake? I just made both.”

  “Coffee, thank you.”

  Charlie carried the tray laden with the dolphin pot, cups, spoons, sugar and cream into the living room. She found Rhonda Brown, Major and Twinkle engaged in a silent staring match.

  “The dog is Major, the cat is Twinkl
e. They’re just here temporarily. I foster stray animals until they can be adopted.”

  “Candy noted that in your file.” The social worker accepted the cup of coffee and took a sip, closing her eyes appreciatively at the flavor. “Thanks. Caffeine is one of my favorite vices.”

  Charlie smiled, grateful that her guest had shown a small gleam of humanity.

  “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the house, Ms. Brown.”

  “You may call me Rhonda,” she said, inclining her head with all the regality of an empress.

  “Thank you.”

  Charlie led her through the kitchen, dining room, the master and spare bedroom and the bath-and-a-half downstairs. After touring the upstairs, which consisted of another bedroom and bathroom and Charlie’s office, Rhonda said, “This house is much larger than it appears from the outside.”

  “I know. ‘Capes’ are very deceptive that way.”

  “I imagine you and your ex-husband bought it expecting to start a family.”

  “Yes. Yes, actually we did.” For some reason, Charlie was startled by her perception.

  “And you still want that family.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Let’s go downstairs and talk.”

  They settled in the living room, and Rhonda accepted a piece of coffee cake. For two hours, she probed Charlie’s views on discipline, education, toilet training, medical care, and a myriad of other topics related to nurturing a child.

  “Would you like a sandwich?” Charlie asked when the discussion paused for a moment.

  “Thank you but no.”

  Rhonda deliberately collected all the files she had pulled out in the course of their conversation and carefully put them back in her briefcase. “I believe that you will make a very good adoptive parent.”

  Charlie couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. “That’s great!”

  The older woman held up her hand in a warning. “I have a serious reservation though. I’ve read your financial file, and the numbers demonstrate an ability to support a child. However, I then looked up your articles as the ‘Average Adventurer,’ your steadiest source of income. Your writing is most enjoyable. Your subject matter concerns me.”

  “My subject matter?”

  “In order to write those articles, you must travel widely and often to remote locations. By definition, the expeditions are somewhat hazardous.” Rhonda paused. “You will be a single parent,” she continued, leaning forward. “There’s no spouse to take your place while you are away, or in the event that you are seriously injured or possibly even killed. You are proposing to adopt a child from halfway around the world. She will have no safety net in this country, no network of relatives such as you had when you were orphaned. Think about that.”

  She sat back.

  Charlie was stunned. Candy Mills had expressed no such concerns, and she knew very well what Charlie did for a living. They had even discussed her plans for child-care when Charlie had to travel. The possibility that she would die on one of her expeditions was remote; she wasn’t stupid, she didn’t take unnecessary chances. A near-fall on a poorly organized rock-climbing trip flitted across her consciousness, but she dismissed it. She had chosen two guardians from among her cousins, in any case. “My daughter will have the same family I have.”

  “How satisfactory was your upbringing?”

  Charlie opened her mouth and then closed it. She had obviously revealed more about her childhood than she had realized.

  “Exactly,” Rhonda said.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “That’s up to you. You’re an intelligent, principled young woman. Prove to me you can earn a living less hazardously. Or find a guardian whom you would genuinely want to have your child raised by.”

  Charlie looked away and blinked furiously to fight back tears. The interview had been going so well; she was so sure that Rhonda Brown liked her. And now this.

  “What happens if I can’t?”

  The social worker shrugged. “I’ll probably approve you anyway, but I won’t revisit your file for six months unless you tell me something has changed.”

  “Six months,” Charlie whispered. A year had already elapsed since she had started the adoption process. Even if Rhonda approved the adoption today, it would be six months before all the paperwork cleared, and Charlie could bring home her new daughter from China. Now the social worker was adding another six months to the process. That meant another year before she had her baby. It seemed like an eternity.

  “Six additional months isn’t long when weighed against a child’s lifetime,” Rhonda said, standing up. “But frankly, I expect to hear from you before that.”

  Charlie stood as well, escorting her new nemesis to the front door. “I appreciate your confidence,” she said with a distinctly ironic inflection.

  “Honey, you’ve gotten this far.” Rhonda reached out and patted her cheek. “You’ll be a mother soon enough.”

  She left Charlie openmouthed.

  “What about a husband?” Mike asked.

  “Oh, please,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes.

  Four of the residents of the Inner Circle were sitting around the polished mahogany table in Mike Phillips and Ernst Haufmann’s dining room, sipping brandy over the remains of dinner. The two men had bought their house four years ago when they retired from law and investment banking respectively. Although the newest comers to the neighborhood, they had quickly become the organizers of all Inner Circle gatherings. Now they were applying their formidable minds to the latest roadblock in Charlie’s adoption process.

  “Allan Schumann would marry you in a New York minute, given the least encouragement,” Mike persisted, his green eyes twinkling.

  “Allan likes animals much better than he likes people,” Isabelle said.

  “Have I just been insulted?” Charlie asked.

  “He’s not the man for you, my dear,” Isabelle responded placidly.

  “Are the trips you take really dangerous?” Ernst asked, his square face and blue eyes serious.

  “I haven’t considered them dangerous for a long time. But when I started my ‘adventures,’ it was right after my divorce and part of my thinking was that I had nothing to lose if something went wrong.”

  “I see,” Ernst said, steepling his fingers. “So we must find you a new job.”

  Charlie grimaced. “I like being a writer, and editors like hiring me. I don’t want to change careers now.”

  “Who says you have to change careers?” Mike said, passing a beautifully arranged plate of assorted fruit and cheese. “You just need to do a different kind of writing. How about becoming a food critic?” he suggested as he surveyed the table.

  “Charlie’s perfectly happy eating beef jerky and trail mix,” Isabelle snorted.

  Charlie laughed.

  “I think it’s time you wrote a book,” Ernst stated. “Enough of these short pieces that require more action than thought. You’re too good a writer to waste any more time on fluff.”

  “You know, if I were a sensitive soul, I’d be in tears by now,” Charlie said, choosing a slice of apple and a sliver of organic Gouda. She stacked the two together and took an appreciative bite. “Maybe food critic isn’t such a bad idea. What would I write a book about?”

  “Global warming,” Isabelle suggested promptly.

  “Roe versus Wade,” Mike said.

  “Enron,” Ernst said.

  Charlie looked skeptical.

  “Whales.”

  “The Supreme Court.”

  “The SEC.”

  “How about meteorites?” Charlie asked.

  “And the hunter!” Isabelle interjected.

  “Who wants to read about rocks?” Mike asked.

  “Rocks from space,” Charlie pointed out. “Very valuable rocks from space.”

  Now Mike was interested. “How much is that fellow expecting to get for his Mars rock?”

  “He won’t really say, but his partner anti
cipates more than two million. Evidently, they’ve whipped up a rivalry between some private collectors and a couple of public institutions,” Charlie said.

  Mike’s eyes gleamed; he had been a top-notch litigator so he loved a good fight. “Maybe I’ll wangle an invitation to that auction. It’d be fun to watch.”

  “I have no interest in seeing a group of grown men spend absurd amounts of money on a lump of stone,” Ernst said.

  “No, but you were happy to help grown men lose absurd amounts of money on dot-coms,” Isabelle said.

  “I’ll go with you, Mike,” Charlie offered. “It would be very useful for my book.”

  “Are you really going to write a book about meteorites?” Isabelle asked, as she untangled a dangling silver earring from her shawl’s fringe.

  “The idea has some merit.” Charlie shrugged.

  Actually, the more she thought about it, the more it appealed to her. “I could expand the human interest angle I used in the Times article. Add a scientist to the mix. Talk about the conflict at the intersection of science and business.”

  “You can talk to that handsome young astronomer I saw on the Today Show,” Isabelle suggested. “Peter Burke. He’s not shy about being interviewed.”

  “You see, you’re ready for a subject you can sink your teeth into. I can tell you’re longing to get to your computer already.” Ernst was smiling. “Go ahead. You don’t have to stay to clean up.”

  Charlie cleared her place and bolted for her house.

  Several long days and nights and a few favors later, she faxed off a proposal and three sample chapters to her agent. Within a week, she had her answer. Two editors wanted the book, and they wanted it fast while the topic was hot. Her only obstacle was one recalcitrant meteorite hunter. She didn’t have time to beat around the bush so she picked up the phone and called him.

  “Hello, Jack. This is Charlie Berglund from the Times. I’d like to take you out to lunch and discuss a proposition I have for you.” She certainly wasn’t going back to his apartment.