Another Man's Treasure

by Renee Roszel

  His black brows furrowed in extreme irritation. “So? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “So, we were living in an apartment at the time, remember? I may not be the brightest person in the world, but I have figured out the effect you have on women.”

  “You were eight years old then.”

  “But you were twenty-five and you attracted women like bees to honey. To be honest, I don’t see why.” She rolled her eyes as though hopelessly confused by it all. “But facts are facts.”

  “Thanks so much!” He was disgusted with her, and he made no effort to restrain his pointed question. “But didn’t you forget one particularly significant fact?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  He bared his teeth. “Oh, no? How about the fact that I’m not gay? That’s not significant?”

  She waved his argument aside as though it were useless trivia. “Oh, Cotter, don’t get so uptight. Only insecure men have to prove their masculinity all the time.” Lifting a coy shoulder, she inquired softly, “Don’t you want to help Carl snap out of his depression?”

  Cotter felt himself falling for Nordie’s childish but heartfelt argument. Sometimes he hated the way that kid had always been able to wrap him around her little finger—never more than now, however.

  “Isn’t Carl’s mental health and happiness worth a month of being ‘womanless’? Especially since your current lady friend is out of town?”

  “What about my mental health? The woman’s going to be looking at me …funny.”

  “Cotter Hunt! After all these years, you’re not suddenly going to become selfish and self-centered, are you?” She planted her hands on her hips. He noticed that one sandaled foot had begun tapping with impatience. “Besides, Professor Webber isn’t your type—much too scholarly. So where’s the problem?” She reached up and patted his cheek. “Anyway, you’ve got enough mental health for both of us. You can handle a little overlooking by a college professor for your brother, can’t you?”

  He groaned. “A little overlooking, she calls it.”

  “But you will do it—for Carl?” She grasped his wrist. “You’ll be gay around Professor Webber?”

  “Not gay, maybe mildly pleasant.” He released himself and looked up at the ceiling. “Damn it, Nordie. I ought to tell the woman you’re a pathological liar.” He leveled his gaze on her again. “It would serve you right.”

  “Oh, please don’t tell her, Cotter! My God, she’d flunk me on the spot!”

  “So?” He lifted a dark brow. “Last semester you were a music history major. What happened to your burning passion for Bach and the cronies?”

  “Oh, uh—” she twitched her shoulders nervously “—he got married.”

  “Bach?”

  “No, Ken McCardy! He was a gorgeous senior—a violinist.”

  “Ah!” Cotter nodded with an exaggerated expression of understanding. “So much for higher education. Who’s your target this time? I presume he’s part of the invasion you brought with you this afternoon.”

  She blushed. “Bill. The tall redhead. But, you’re getting us off the subject.”

  “I was certainly trying.”

  “Oh, Cotter, don’t be that way. Remember, it’s not just one of my better pranks. It’s for Carl.” The tremulous note of pleading in her voice was meant to fuel her argument, he knew. “Besides,” she was continuing, “if Professor Webber is anything like ordinary women, in twenty-four hours she’ll be chasing after you, worshiping you. She’d be in your way all the time.”

  His lips quirked. She was outrageous, but she was his sister. “You fling a mean piece of garbage.”

  “You will do this, won’t you?”

  He looked at her, his brow wrinkling as he grew serious. “You know this whole scheme is ridiculous.”

  She bit her lower lip and looked toward the floor, nodding. “Uh-huh.” Her humility seemed genuine.

  “You realize you’re asking more of me than you have any right to.”

  She only nodded, but this time she clasped her hands behind her back.

  “You understand that if anyone else asked this of me I’d tell him—or her—to forget it.”

  She turned a trustful gaze toward him. “You’re going to do it—for Carl, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question.

  Carl. Cotter pictured his pale, desperately depressed brother as he had been since the operation a month ago. The prognosis had been fair, but Carl had decided it was hopeless. When he had slipped to his lowest point, Cammie, his wife of five years had simply left. The pressure of consoling Carl, of helping him with the loss of his football career and self-esteem, had been too much for her.

  Carl seemed to have lost his interest in everything during the past weeks. Yes, Carl needed something to spark his interest in living again. Maybe a woman—a fan—just might be a new beginning for him. He didn’t really see the necessity of this charade, but it was done now, and anything he did to undo it could only hurt Nordie. She might deserve the reprimand she would get from her teacher, but he couldn’t do it to her. Besides, as Nordie had said, he wasn’t interested in the woman anyway. With a sense of resolve he finalized their plan. “Four weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have to wave a hankie?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Would you?”

  “No.”

  She grimaced. “That’s what I thought.”

  “No one else can know. Not Bill the redhead or any of the others. Just your professor.”

  “Oh, Cot! Oh, thank you!” she gasped, hugging him to her. “You won’t regret this when you see how Carl brightens up. I think he and Miss Webber are out on the terrace by the pool talking right now. She’s just what he needs. You wait and see. He’ll be so much better with someone around to admire him.”

  Cotter allowed her to crush him against her only until she paused to catch her breath. Then, disengaging himself, he placed a quieting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t do anything like this again. You know how important it is to me that you get an education. So I won’t show you up to be the hopeless practical joker you are. But don’t press your luck. If it weren’t for Carl, I’d just let people know about the kinds of things you concentrate on and have you learn the hard way.”

  She smiled even in the face of his stern resolve. “Like you did?”

  He shook his head at her reminder of how he had started, nearly twenty-one years ago. “I had the damned dirt under my nails for years. Maybe I got my money that way, but not respect. I want you to have that, Nordie—you and Carl.” His eyes were clouded with memory when they found hers again. Muttering more to himself than to her, he added, “You don’t get respect riding a garbage truck, you get that with an education. And, damn it, Nordie, you’re going to have it.”

  She blinked back tears, whispering in an unsteady voice, “I may not end up an anthropologist, Cotter. But I promise you I’ll get the education, for myself and for…all of us.”

  He grunted approvingly. She hugged him to her. “What a wonderful brother you are. How wonderful and tough and sensitive.”

  She sniffled, mumbling into his chest, “I know I give you trouble sometimes, Cot, but I’m awfully proud of the orphaned kid who swung onto the back of that garbage truck and kept his screaming baby sister and ten-year-old brother clothed and fed. And I’ll tell anybody who’ll listen how you turned Scavenger Hunt, Incorporated, into a profitable trash-refining company—a model in the industry.” She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with proud tears. “I mean, how many other refuse companies offer shares to their workers? And how many other companies are turning a landfill into a park with a methane gas plant that will increase Portland’s energy supply while lowering the cost? You tell me, Cotter? How many?”

  He frowned, knowing she wouldn’t be so proud of him if she knew the truth about why they were orphans. He shook his head, his arms tightening about her for a silent moment before letting her go. “Why don’t you go tell your Professor Webber to round up the troop. I
think Hanna should have their rooms ready by now.”

  She reached up and grazed his chin with a kiss. “Okay. See you later.”

  “And while you’re getting them settled, I’ll go change for dinner.” His voice was neutral, but Nordie could tell he was no longer angry. Some things were important, and some weren’t. And to Cotter, there was nothing more important than his family.

  Chapter Two

  Raine closed the door of the room that Nordie had given to her. In a state of shock, she looked around. It was massive, decorated for a man, in gold and brown tones suggesting understated elegance. The king-size bed, covered by a sleek gold spread, was set in an unusually luxurious wood frame. An armoire and chest of the same wood flanked the bed. Behind a row of throw pillows on the bed Raine could see a leather-cushioned headrest. The wall behind was a subtle brown and burnished gold.

  Brass pots and lacquered wicker baskets of various sizes filled with plants were scattered about the room, complementing the sleekness of the furnishings. Under the long window, covered by drapes of the same lustrous fabric as the spread, was a beautifully proportioned window seat, overlooking the garden.

  An oak mirror dominated the wall opposite the window. It was of the same rich wood as the other pieces. With a casual brush of her fingers through her short hair, she peered at herself. It had been a long drive, caravaning down east from the university with Nordie and her friends. She was tired and felt she could have been more articulate when she’d been introduced to Cotter and his ailing brother.

  She began to unbutton her blouse but frowned at her reflection. Why had Nordie told her such an intimate fact about Cotter? For that matter, she couldn’t imagine any man telling his sister such a thing. But then, she wasn’t in charge of how people thought and what they did. What was said was said, and it was certainly none of her business. She shook her head. Raine had never been eager to fault people because of their differences. Certainly, she’d learned that the hard way, being labeled “different” most of her life. First, as a child, before she’d had her eye surgery, she’d been cross-eyed. Then, she’d been called Four Eyes and later The Brain. She knew how it felt to be the object of ridicule. Even now, at thirty-four, she’d occasionally heard herself referred to as “that old-maid schoolteacher.”

  It was because of this labeling Raine had silently endured that she was especially sensitive. As she pulled the blouse over her head, she vowed that Cotter’s secret would be safe with her, and that she would do everything in her power to keep the situation comfortable while she and her students were there. He’d certainly seemed ill at ease when they’d arrived. He probably spent too much of his life feeling uneasy.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly six. Nordie had said that dinner would be at seven. Good. That would give her time to wash away the road dust and change. She hoped her students would do the same. She was their teacher, not their mother. But most of them seemed acquainted with the etiquette of being a guest. And Nordie was an outgoing person. Surely, she would let them know the house rules. Raine smiled at the thought of Nordie’s luminous personality. She bubbled all the time.

  Raine’s eyes met her reflection in the mirror. Behind the big square frames, her brown eyes were huge, somber windows to her shy soul. The smile faded. How she wished she could be more sociable. She had to fight her shyness continuously. A college professor, in her mind, shouldn’t be shy. But really making contact with others was hard work for someone who had spent a good deal of her time alone.

  Slipping off her pearl earrings, she swept the short brown hair away from her face, brushing the curved strands behind her ears. Mumbling to herself, she cajoled, “Cotter Hunt will be good practice for you, Raine. You can work at being outgoing by making him your friend. Lord knows, he probably needs a friend.”

  Funny. She pulled off her glasses and began to slip out of her skirt. He didn’t look anything like the stereotype of a gay man. But then, there really wasn’t such a thing as an incarnation of a stereotype. If Nordie hadn’t mentioned it, Raine would never have guessed. With a sigh, again wishing Nordie hadn’t shared this information with her, she carried her clothing to the closet. She was surprised to see that someone had already hung up her other things. She smiled. It was certainly wonderful of Cotter to allow all of them to come here and stay while they conducted their project with his collection company.

  She turned away from the closet, scanning the room again. Now that she was actually here, the accommodations filled her with a new disbelief that this could really be happening. They were staying, free of charge, in a mansion by the sea! It certainly wasn’t an experience most college professors encountered in their everyday lives.

  One of the features of Raine’s life was that she was invariably early for everything. It was still only six forty-five, and she couldn’t bear to just sit on the edge of her bed waiting for the dinner hour.

  Deciding she would probably not be committing a mortal sin by appearing downstairs, she put aside the book she’d been trying to read. She stood, smoothing the beige linen of her sheath dress as she slipped her feet into open-toed pumps. With one last sweep of her fingers through her hair, she headed out the door and down the curving staircase toward the entry hall. Halfway down, she halted, straining to hear the music emanating from behind a set of double doors. She recognized the recording immediately. It was a jazz classic of Thelonious Monk.

  Curious, she hurried down the rest of the steps and headed toward the room. One of the doors stood slightly ajar. She hesitated to peek inside; it might be impudent of her to look further. But she was a jazz fan. Her curiosity about the other jazz enthusiast among them made her pull the door wide enough to peer in.

  The room was dark, except for the fading light of a dying day that filtered in through the leaded glass windows. Movement in a chair behind a large desk caught her attention, and she squinted in that direction. Her eyes were slow to adjust to the dimness, and she couldn’t make out the figure. Clearing her throat nervously, she called over the music. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I—just wondered who else liked The Monk.” She still wondered, unable to identify the person who was sitting in the shadows.

  “Come in, professor.”

  The voice answered her inquiry. It was Cotter. Surprised to hear him refer to her by her title, she wondered if it had something to do with his feeling for women in general. It was probably his way of keeping his distance.

  She felt apprehensive about seeing him—facing him—since she knew intimate information about him without really knowing him. But she straightened her shoulders, silently encouraging herself to overcome timidity. Face the man, and make him her friend. After all, his kindness in allowing them these extravagant accommodations warranted some form of friendliness. And if that friendliness required additional effort on her part, then so be it. She stepped inside and pulled the door to the same position it had been before she had opened it. “Hello, Cotter. I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion, but I haven’t heard ‘’Round about Midnight’ in years.”

  He swiveled his chair around to face her. The first thing she could see was the glint of his silver hair. As her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, she began to observe the contours of his face. He was frowning. Or was that merely his look of curiosity? He asked quietly, “Why? Did he fall out of favor with you?”

  She smiled. That wasn’t the question she’d expected. “No. It’s because the last time my folks moved, a box of my favorite CD’s was lost in the shipping. But I’ll never forget it. Mother collected everything The Monk recorded—along with Miles Davis, Milt Jackson—you name it. If it was jazz, and if it was ever recorded, we had it.”

  “I thought you were a football fan.”

  She lifted her chin questioningly. “How did you know I was a football fan?”

  “Nordie.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes. Well, I am. And a jazz fan, too. My dad was a football coach at a small midwestern university until he retired a few years ago. Mom taug
ht piano. Her hobby was playing jazz piano—still is.”

  She thought she heard a quiet ‘Hmm,’ but she wasn’t sure. The music had ended, and the room had fallen into deep silence. The leather creaked, and a tall silhouette moving before the window told her that he was going to play it again. “Would you like to sit down and hear the whole thing?” He adjusted the needle on the stereo and turned to face her.

  “Sure…Wow, a record. So…retro.”

  He walked back to the desk and flipped on a small reading lamp. Light changed the complexion of the room entirely. It went from formless and forbidding to rich and warm, a tasteful blend of earthy colors. The walls were paneled with wood, deeply colored and well oiled. Directly opposite the desk was a wall entirely covered with shelves filled with books. A Navaho-type woven rug reflected the autumn tones of the other furniture and covered the maple wood floor.

  As the music began, she was still standing. Cotter seemed to sense her hesitation, and he nodded toward a couch beside the double doors. “The music sounds best from there.”

  After taking the suggested seat, she was surprised to see him coming to join her. There was plenty of room, but she backed into the throw pillow on her end anyway.

  Leaning an elbow on the arm of the couch, she offered, “You’re right about the music. I feel as though The Monk is right here in the room. Your sound system is wonderful.”

  “My acoustics consultant will be happy to hear that.” He sat down at the other end, laying his arm casually across the back of the couch. Even with the long fingers stretched toward her, he was still a good distance away from her. As he watched her face, she wondered what he saw—besides the glasses. She hoped he couldn’t see the faint blush that warmed her cheeks at his scrutiny. Lifting her eyes as though she were concentrating on a particularly complex section of the music, she inhaled slowly, trying to calm herself. She was uncomfortable about being stared at so openly. It reminded her of her childhood, of the thoughtless remarks about her eyes. She wondered what Cotter was thinking now.