by Ann Gimpel
As she ate, she catalogued the history of the dig. She, Katie, and two other graduate students, Tom and Eve, had comprised the original team. Once they’d struck pay dirt, they’d been joined by Dr. Conom and three of his grad students. Between them, they’d hired a phalanx of local workers to speed things along.
She didn’t know Orestes Conom well. He’d joined the department three or four years ago, fresh from a university in Athens. She’d voted against hiring him, viewing his dissertation research as sloppy, but she’d been in the minority. Young, strikingly good looking—if you liked the dark, slick type—he’d proceeded to make a play for every woman who crossed his path.
Including her.
Juliana turned him down flat, but a blonde departmental secretary ended up marrying him, falling for his line of Lothario crap. All he’d wanted was a fast and easy path to citizenship. Once he’d secured it, he dropped the secretary by the side of the road, breaking her heart and those of her two teenaged children who’d assumed he’d be their daddy.
Rage thickened her throat, but it wouldn’t help digest her meal, so she left the table and her house, walking fast to blow off tension. The thought of hopping back on a plane wasn’t very appealing, but losing almost a year of work to a corrupt con artist wasn’t, either.
The university had an ethics committee. She could file a written complaint, but school was closed and wouldn’t reopen until after January first. Depending how much of an in Oretes had with National Geographic—
“That’s it. I’ll get hold of them.” She had connections there from earlier digs where her finds had made archaeologic history. Julie wasn’t under any illusions—if NG did a big, splashy spread, the university would close ranks around Oretes. No one would care if he’d stolen her work or that he’d argued against digging deeper, labeling it a waste of time and resources. As senior researcher at the dig site, she’d insisted, and once they’d unearthed the next level, he’d been as excited as all the rest of them.
As a courtesy, she’d have to start with her boss, Dr. Smithwick. Like most people in his position, he hated being blindsided by anything that might besmirch the respectability of his department. Feeling more settled, she switched direction and set a brisk pace toward home.
Not much she could accomplish tonight, but she’d clean up the kitchen and go to bed. At least she’d stopped perseverating about Brice. Even though she tried to frame her non-Brice orientation as another victory, she couldn’t do it.
Some mistakes cut deep, and the one she’d made with him had left gouges in her heart. She had to let things go. Had to let him go. Confusion reigned. Hadn’t she shut the door on him fifteen years ago?
When the answer came, she didn’t care much for it. Despite her bold thoughts about not knowing him anymore, she’d never stopped loving him. Not really. Too little and too late, she’d finally apologized—for all the good it would do either of them.
I have to move on.
She let herself back inside her house thanking all the gods in the universe she’d never shared this place with Brice. She did need to move on. The question of the hour was how the hell she’d manage it. If hard work and success could have accomplished it, she’d have sealed over her memories years back.
A good first step would be not being such a wimp she couldn’t look at her phone. Resolute, she picked it up and worked her way to settings where she took it off airplane mode. A text from her mother popped into view.
Hi, dear. Hope you’re getting good rest. And food. You’re too thin. I just got an email from Susan McKinnon. You’ll remember her. She was one of your high school teachers. She’s driving up here for Xmas with Brice. We’ll all have dinner at least one night. Probably Xmas Eve. It will be great to see her again.
Juliana groaned and put the phone down. No matter what plans she made, Brice would play a peripheral part in her life, and she’d damn well better get used to it.
Chapter Ten
Brice woke refreshed and looking forward to having guests in his home. He’d thrown a housewarming party right after he bought the place, but between conferences, patients, and teaching at the medical school, he’d found one excuse after another to avoid anything that smacked of a social life. After a while, it became a habit, and invitations to other people’s homes had dried up as well. Many of the conferences had been in Europe, the U.K. or Asia, which hadn’t helped matters. A two- or three-day conference could eat up ten days counting jet lag at both ends.
Jet lag.
Juliana.
He focused on getting out of the house to push his thoughts elsewhere, but they remained stubbornly focused on her. Jesus. She looked anorexic. She’d never had an eating disorder when they were together, but those things sometimes didn’t surface until a woman was in her mid-twenties or even later.
He winced at how desperately clinical he sounded. Did he still know how to be a human being? Or had he been a doctor so long, it colored everything, snuck into every nuanced thought and created the professional buffer that had turned into his comfort zone?
Afraid he wouldn’t like the result, he didn’t even try to come up with an answer.
He hunted for his phone and remembered he’d been so delighted by the Christmas decorations, he’d left everything in the car. Maybe it was why he’d slept so well. He’d relegated the work demons to the driveway, leaving them to their own devices. Even better, maybe it boded well for him that he’d made it through eleven hours without making an emergency trip to the BMW to collect his phone, computer, and briefcase.
Smiling sheepishly, he clipped his pager to his belt and hurried downstairs. The smells of coffee and toast mingled with the heady smell of the tree.
Lupe thrust a thermos and paper bag into his hands. “Never too late to eat,” she announced with conviction.
“Thanks.” He took the items. “Call me if there are any issues with the Social Services people.”
“No worry. All will be fine. When little boy arrive?”
Brice thought about it. “Tonight or tomorrow.”
“You bring?” She raised one eyebrow.
He shook his head. “The social worker will transport Timmy.”
“I make cookies this morning. Brownies too.”
Brice tossed his head back and laughed. “He can’t live on sugar.”
Lupe placed her hands on her hips, elbows akimbo. “I sneak food in between.”
Brice hoped things would work out. To avoid voicing his usual spate of cautions, he said, “See you tonight,” and then added, “On the houseguest front, there will be one more. A doc I know.”
Lupe angled her head to one side, her smile infectious. “Invite more. Still five empty bedrooms. Six, if count guesthouse.”
“But that’s yours,” he protested.
She shrugged, clearly willing to share her space if it came to it. “You invite all you want, Doc.”
He patted her arm, grateful for the burst of benevolence that had pushed him to bring her and her family to the States. In one of her many, newsy letters, she’d confided fears the latest bout of civil unrest would mean her son-in-law would be conscripted. It was enough to galvanize Brice into action. Lupe and her family had been more than kind to him. He’d stayed with them as a student and during a Doctors Without Borders assignment, hoping to improve his Spanish and do some good at the same time. Over those few weeks, they’d shown him every kindness and shared everything. When he’d expressed concerns he was leaving them short, they’d waved him to silence.
He’d only planned to finesse her and her family’s transition to the States. It never occurred to him she’d take a stand about working for him. Or that he’d accede to her request.
“You’re a good woman, Lupe. Thanks for taking care of me.”
She winked broadly. “I substitute. Until you locate wife.”
He grinned at her. “Better watch those promises. The wife part isn’t looking likely.”
“Go. I have baking.”
With a che
ery wave, he strode to his car. He was almost to the hospital before he remembered the text from the previous night. The one he hadn’t looked at. He waited until he’d pulled into the parking slot with his name above it—one of the few perks working for Overlake. Once he’d gotten out and slung the straps for his computer and briefcase over a shoulder, he picked up the phone and glanced at the screen.
The message was so unbelievable, he stood rooted in place and read it twice more.
I am very sorry for not believing you about Sarah. I should have. No excuses. I’m not offering any. I was wrong. I’m hoping you can forgive me, so I have a prayer of forgiving myself. Julie
How had she gotten his number? He jammed his jaws together. Of all the reactions to a message he’d hoped and prayed for, why the hell had he zeroed in on the least important aspect? And the easiest one to figure out. He’d never changed his cell number. It was the same as it had been during the years they’d been together.
He locked the BMW and trudged into the hospital. She’d texted him last night. By now, knowing her, she’d rebuilt whatever chink in her armor had allowed her to reach out to him.
What if he’d seen the message last night?
It wasn’t as if he would have dropped everything and raced into her arms. Not after all this time. He might still love her—maybe, he wasn’t sure—but he didn’t trust her. He re-read the message. At least she wasn’t blaming her sister. Maybe it meant she’d grown up.
He ground his teeth until they ached. Of course she’d “grown up.” She ran archaeological digs in the world’s hellholes. She hadn’t come as far as she had by shifting blame off onto others.
He pushed through the door into the locker room, deep in thought. Someone had taped a note to his locker. Couldn’t be about any of his patients. He doublechecked the pager clipped to his belt, but its screen remained empty. So what the hell was the note about? No one wrote anything down anymore—except him.
Guilt stabbed him. Not only had he neglected his phone, he hadn’t logged on once last night, which meant no email, either. No journal articles. No news. Not being plugged in had felt good, as if he’d played hooky and had eked out a few hours to himself. Hours when he wasn’t Brice McKinnon, M.D., but just plain old Brice.
He inhaled raggedly. He was being stupid. He’d worked like a dog to get where he was. For a moment there, he’d sounded downright ungrateful. He pulled the note off his locker. Unfolded it and read:
Sorry to bother you, Doc, but your friend said it was urgent, and you didn’t answer my emails.
Brice let his gaze track to the bottom. The message was from one of the hospital’s many phone operators. If this was urgent, why hadn’t she paged him? He returned to her message.
Dr. MacDuff will be arriving tonight around ten via military transport. His plane is landing at Fort Lewis, and he was hoping for a ride. Leave a message for him on Skype. Include your address and if he will need to hire a taxi.
Brice spun the dials to open his locker and changed from street clothes to his hospital garb of scrubs and a lab coat. One thing was obvious. Angus had already put the wheels in motion for this trip before telling Brice about it. Their conversation had been pro forma at best.
What if he’d told him not to come?
He smothered a snort. The Scottish doc would have said he was being ridiculous—and come anyway. This revolved around Sarah. Maybe Angus had an epiphany. If Sarah chased him away, he was going to try again. Or if he’d been the one with cold feet, perhaps he’d found a way around them.
Regardless, Angus must have been sitting in an airport while they Skyped. Or been damned close. He’d been a helicopter pilot for the RAF. Convenient he could still access military flights. Brice had no idea if U.S. vets had the same perks, but he bet the elder Wrays would know. He’d have to ask them when he saw them later today.
His thoughts returned to Juliana. He’d see her later today too. What the hell would he say? He tried out—and discarded—at least ten possibilities. They all sounded stiff, formal. Nothing like he was feeling inside, which was soft and messy and vulnerable.
JULIANA PERCHED ON the edge of a chair in Dr. Smithwick’s waiting room. She’d tried his office by phone and email and received the same message. He was out for the Christmas holiday, returning January seventh. January seventh was almost three weeks away. By then Orestes would have done the photoshoot with National Geographic.
She’d taken a chance and called Dr. Smithwick’s home. His housekeeper had hunted him down. Juliana blundered through effusive apologies, but said it was really important she talk with him.
After several attempts to pry “whatever was so bloody urgent” out of her, he’d grudgingly agreed to meet her in his office at ten thirty sharp. The intimation being if she was one minute late, he wouldn’t wait for her.
Juliana had been early by a good quarter hour. Dr. Smithwick was ancient. Worse, he was one of the old breed of academics. The ones who barely tolerated their female colleagues, probably because he remembered a day when their ranks had been close to a hundred percent men.
He strode through the door. Tall and angular, with a full head of silvery hair and shrewd dark eyes, he wore his usual cashmere sweater and dark slacks. He must have fifty cashmere sweaters in a variety of dull, dark shades including gray, brown, and black. In her mind, she’d often compared his bones and angles with Ichabod Crane, figuring he was as fair a shot at a lookalike as she was likely to find.
“Right on time, Ms. Wray,” he barked in his staunch, upper-crust British accent. Thirty years in America hadn’t put a dent in that accent, which made her suspect he cultivated it on purpose.
“Right on time,” she agreed jauntily, not bothering to comment on his purposeful snub of neglecting to address her as doctor. He’d never have done that if she were a man.
Juliana got to her feet and waited for him to fumble with his keys to unlock his inner sanctum. She might not care for him, but she adored his office with its book-lined shelves and glass artifact displays. It smelled of leather and antiquities.
He finally got the door open and waved her through first, ever the gentleman. When she got closer, she caught a whiff of stale whiskey. Rumors had fluttered about for a long time he might have a drinking problem, but he’d retire eventually, and the university was famous for turning a blind eye to something as benign as famous professors who drank more than they should.
Not for the first time, she vowed to take up drinking. It might improve her temper, the legendary one Sarah alluded to.
With a grunt and a sigh, Dr. Smithwick settled into his massive, leather desk chair. It creaked, although he scarcely weighed enough to stress it. He splayed his hands across his desk. “What’s this all about, Ms. Wray?”
Juliana shut the door and stood in front of him, unsure if she should sit.
“Oh for the love of God, take a chair, Ms. Wray. Don’t stand over me like you’re on the verge of a fainting fit.”
Anger surged, skirting the surface, so she tried for black humor. “Not much danger of that, sir. I might puke on you, but I’d never faint.”
He drew his patrician features into a distasteful moue. “Now we have that small tidbit out of the way, please elucidate me as to why you’ve disturbed my holiday.”
She’d spent the walk over here deciding how to proceed. Being wimpy and counting on Smithwick to do the right thing would be the wrong approach. Working on the hypothesis it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, she launched into the speech she’d prepared and then mostly memorized.
“I apologize for asking you to come to your office. I’d never have done it if this wasn’t important. I sent all my field notes in to the department secretary. Please feel free to check with her or read my notes as verification for what I’m about to tell you.”
She eyed Dr. Smithwick, grateful he wasn’t rolling his eyes or falling asleep or motioning her to hurry things up.
“Nine weeks ago, on October 27th, we extended our excav
ation. I believed I’d unearthed sufficient evidence to allocate the necessary resources to go deeper. My colleague disagreed, but I outranked him—”
“I know all this, Ms. Wray,” he interrupted. “Did you call me in here to rehash the past?”
“No, sir, but background is how we understand the present. It’s one of the underpinnings of our field.”
“Spare me.” His words were dry.
“I’ll be brief.”
“Please.” He spun one hand in tired circles.
“As you know, the lower layer proved a treasure trove. We’re still working it, but Dr. Conom is claiming the find is his. It’s not. It’s mine.”
“And you know this how?”
“I received a call from one of my graduate students worried about her dissertation project.”
“Not what I meant, Ms. Wray. Why is it more yours than his? He’s been working side by side with you in the field for months.”
Juliana sat back, mouth hanging open. “Because if it were up to him, we’d never have opened the lower layer. If it were up to him, the field team would be home now.”
Smithwick shrugged. “You have your creds, Ms. Wray. Let Orestes have a crack at some of his own.”
Her temper snapped, and she surged to her feet. “Not if he hasn’t earned them, and it’s Dr. Wray.”
Smithwick trained rheumy dark eyes on her. “Give it a rest, Ms. Wray. Oh, sorry. Dr. Wray. This conversation is over.”
“No,” she retorted. “It’s not. I’ve spoken with my own contacts at National Geographic, staking my right to the lower layer finds. If there are journal articles about this, I will have first authorship. Katherine Johnson will have second. Orestes is welcome to third if he’d like, even though I’m not sure I want my name associated with his on anything.” She stood taller. “I’ve filed a report with the university ethics committee, complete with copies of my field notes for verification of my claim.”
