Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel

by Sally Ann Sims

  Honor looked sharply at Lucinda. “Actually, no. Are you serious?”

  Someone knocked on the heavy door and opened it tentatively.

  “Ah, Bomi! Come in! I’m sorry there was no one to greet you. My secretary has left for the day. Bomi Singh, meet Lucinda Tyne Beck, our Vice President for Institutional Advancement.”

  An Indian man in a dark olive suit and golden tie advanced across the room holding out an eager hand for shaking. Lucinda clasped it and fought to push the panic away from her face and voice. These days she often felt of two vastly different temperatures, like a snow-covered volcano.

  “How great it is to meet you,” he said. “I have heard wonderful things about you and your department.” His voice rose and fell like a line of music.

  He capped his left hand over the handshake, and Lucinda felt a surge of pleasure at the much needed compliment delivered in his engaging accent.

  “Thank you, Mr. Singh,” Lucinda said. He looked her age, Lucinda thought, but better to err on the side of formality.

  “Bomi! Please, Bomi,” he said.

  “Bomi. It’s nice to meet you too. Welcome to Thornbury. I must be going, Honor. I need to scoot back to campus to finish up some things,” Lucinda said.

  “Very dedicated,” Bomi said.

  “She is, Bomi. Very,” Honor said. “We’re very lucky we have her at P-H. She’s our highest ranking alumna staffer.”

  “Ah, how perfect,” he said. “You can relate to the alumni donors on a very close level.”

  “It certainly helps. Anyway, good evening Bomi, Honor,” Lucinda said.

  Walking to her car along the curb, she saw the black BMW parked at the corner of Granite and Hetherington Streets. She caught the scorching flash of sunset reflecting off the rearview mirror as its angle was changed.

  Cappuccino Fumes

  In the early evening, Lucinda breathed deeply of sea and pine borne on an easterly wind, while students scurried past her down the hill to dinner, the library, or the bars in Thornbury by the train station. The wind shoved around the darkening blue-gray clouds, indecisive about whether they wanted to rain or brood or simply draw up the darkness from the ground.

  A sudden sharp gust clattered the branches over Lucinda’s head. The bruised cylinders of red maple leaves tumbled along the sidewalk in front of her pumps and collected in corners of the granite stairs as Lucinda ascended to the door of Rantoul Hall. She wasn’t surprised to see Aden, tapping on a laptop, in the lobby. It was good to have him on her side, a rare gem of an employee, loyal, competent, irreverent wit. His quirky sense of humor helped tether her to sanity during these recent weeks.

  “Won’t Gretel be expecting you? Your first day in a week you can actually leave before seven pm?”

  Aden tapped a few more keys, then looked up.

  “Gretel’s resigned to widowhood during this fall semester. I’m sure she’s figured out how to access the widow’s walk and is barking to dachshunds on Cape Cod to start a support group for neglected hounds. How’d your day go?”

  “If you want to hear, join me in the office. A lot’s been happening.”

  He held out an arm. “Your office, boss? After you.”

  “Do you have to call me that?” she teased.

  “It’s what you are.”

  They took the elevator to the third floor. No one, it seemed, was working late that night, and their footsteps echoed in the empty corridor.

  “I met with Abby at lunch,” said Aden. Lucinda unlocked her office and switched on three lamps from the wall switch. Aden shut the door behind them.

  “And I didn’t want to commit what I learned to any kind of traceable e-mail.” Aden mocked a stage whisper once they’d entered the office.

  “God! Is it coming to that already?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said, flopping into his usual green chair by Lucinda’s desk.

  Beverly had already printed out the next day’s To Do List and left it on the desk, along with a glass ornament containing what looked like layered red and white sand. Lucinda picked it up.

  “Look! It’s shells. Tiny broken shells,” she said, examining it closely.

  Aden loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his blue windowpane shirt.

  “She’s still got rum swizzles on the mind, no doubt,” he said. “I’m wiped. But good news! The major gift officer — the one we really wanted — has accepted and will be starting in November.”

  “Excellent,” said Lucinda. “We need some good news. What did Abby say?”

  “After ordering the most expensive item on the menu, she told me some things on Warren’s resume don’t jibe with what she’s knows. She’s buddies with someone who worked for him at his last place in Connecticut.”

  “Like what?” Lucinda opened a file drawer and removed a copy of Warren’s resume, which at the time seemed way too good to be true. Her misgivings were played down by Tara Whitcomb and Cliff Plunkett.

  “Amounts of money raised. Job titles.” Aden leaned over her desk and pointed to two places on the resume, straightening up quickly when Lucinda glanced up from the page, their faces only six inches apart.

  “All that would have been confirmed through Tara’s department, unless — ”

  “Unless, is right.” Aden sat on the green chair and removed his tie, hoping it would make breathing easier. Close. Too close.

  “Did he earn the degrees he claimed? That would be something to work with if — ”

  Aden nodded.

  “Does she know whether Warren knew Frank before he came to P-H?” Lucinda asked, leaning back in her executive chair.

  “I had to get a glass of wine in her before I could get that out of her.” Aden smiled. “Abby didn’t think so.”

  “Where did you take her to work your wiles?”

  “The Captain’s Table over near where I live. They know me really well and always make a fuss because the owner Bert’s daughter Cloie is a now freshman at P-H. And somehow it seems I was the one who talked her into going to college and steered her toward work study and grants. I’ve become some kind of minor saint to the family. They are under the mistaken impression I have your job.”

  Lucinda laughed. “I’m not surprised. Most people don’t understand the obscure division of labor in our profession.”

  “Abby also said that Warren didn’t get into law school and decided he could make almost as much in this profession if he worked his way to the very top. He’s constantly crunching numbers and cruising through the database and annual reports looking for prospects. Very productive gift-seeking missile.”

  “Nothing wrong with that as long as he’s not turning people off,” Lucinda said.

  “That’s still to be determined.”

  On her way to the coffeemaker, Lucinda passed by the window. “But lying on his resume casts the whole thing in a different light — Hey! Check this out, Aden,” she said, peering down at the sidewalk.

  Frank, Tara, and Margo walked past Rantoul on the way to either Thornbough Hall’s main entrance or the president’s house. The way to Thornbough was lit brightly. When the trio stopped at the base of the granite staircase, Margo handed Frank a folder under a light post. The two of them drew together for a moment. Then Tara and Margo peeled off toward Thornbough. Frank continued along the less brightly lit sidewalk to the president’s residence.

  “Looks cozy, whatever’s going on,” Aden said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Flame Thrower slipped out the back of Thorny and slunk along the cliff to Frank’s patio,” Lucinda said.

  “I wonder,” Aden said. “If this has anything to do with that arts admissions list being a tad shorter this year? That one we looked at before the Weld visit?”

  Lucinda looked at Aden questioningly.

  “If Frank is getting a bit hands-on in Admissions? Fewer budding artists, more budding entrepreneurs? And Margo’s getting… I don’t know, but I mean we hardly ever saw her go over to the president’s house in Ben’s
day.”

  “They were practically allergic to each other,” Lucinda said. “Ben old school, Margo steamroller.”

  “If I said that, they’d call me sexist,” Aden teased.

  “Well, there’s assertive. And then there’s aggressive,” Lucinda said.

  “And then there’s Margo,” Aden said, chuckling. Lucinda let loose a burst of laughter.

  “Aden. Do you think I’m in as much trouble as I think I am?” Lucinda said, suddenly serious. She swung from nerves to paranoia in two seconds flat. “Frank freezing me out. Warren on the prowl. He actually followed me into town when I met with Honor last week.”

  Lucinda realized she was revealing things she usually talked about only with Bart, her insecurities and goblins. Too late to take them back now.

  “No,” said Aden. “I think it’s a clash of cultures. Style wars. Warren will flame out. Margo will get whatever she wants. Frank will realize he can’t alienate you if he wants to get ahead.” She noticed the words came out as if he were testing a theory.

  “You don’t sound a hundred percent,” Lucinda said, trying to keep it light.

  “Is ninety percent comforting enough?” Aden asked.

  “I don’t know whether we’ve still got Honor,” said Lucinda. “Just when I feel like we’re in on this together — doing the best for P-H — she… I don’t know… . It’s like she could cut and run with Cliff and the pack at any moment. And where would that leave us?”

  “Then I think we have to get serious,” Aden said. “Dig and document. Isn’t that how they want you to prove something illegal’s going on? If it’s really more than just office politics?”

  “So what do we think we have? What do we need?”

  Aden wandered over to Lucinda’s whiteboard and picked up a marker.

  “Ok,” he said, writing. “One: We know Frank is screwing with Pat’s… excuse me, poaching Pat’s bucks for the business school, which are targeted for my college. Two: We know Warren is not what we might think, but we don’t know whether he actually lied on his resume — need to get more specifics out of Abby for that and verify. Or see if we can get anything out of Tara in terms of his references. Three: Someone has re-coded some gifts from donors in RaiseSmart under Jennifer’s ID. Four: Margo is getting cozy with Frank for some reason. Personal or political?” He started to write ‘Five,’ but erased it.

  “God, we don’t have anything I can bring to Honor,” said Lucinda scanning the whiteboard. “Nothing’s illegal. Fundraisers’ resumes are typically infested with exaggerations. Even the re-coding isn’t illegal if they haven’t yet spent the money on something it wasn’t intended for. And nobody but us cares about internal gift poaching, except when they see it’s screwing up our overall figures. Which we can’t prove at this point.”

  “Sit tight. Someone’s bound to mess up.”

  She looked at Aden, wondering how confident is he really?

  “And hopefully not us,” he said, putting the marker down.

  “But we haven’t got time for this kind of distraction! We’ve got homecoming, end-of-year targets. New people to train. The phonation — ” Lucinda said, ticking them off on her fingers.

  “Lucinda, in all your years raising money at P-H, you’ve never had time for distractions, and they always happen and you always pull through.”

  “Yes, but this time… .” her voice softened to silence. Her professional veneer felt razor thin. She didn’t want to say but this time she felt she was scaling a huge, slimy wall that she had to get over immediately and it was nighttime. In a thunderstorm. And she was blindfolded and handcuffed. And was being kicked to the ground every time she stood up. That she was ultimately alone. The dream she had last night. The dream she had on and off since Bart moved out. She looked down and took a gigantic breath.

  “You’re right,” she said, with a forced brightness, looking into Aden’s eyes for a shot of courage. “Dig and document. And keep raising millions.” She erased the whiteboard. “Cover our tracks.”

  “Lucinda. I know this is a hard time for you, but call me if you need help or… get in any kind of jam.”

  “Thanks, Aden,” Lucinda said. She stared at the pile of documents on the left front corner of her desk, topped by a grant proposal that Jennifer needed strategy input on. “It means a lot to have you backing me. I’m not sure what got to me. I’ve always been a pillar, right?”

  “Yes,” Aden said. “Just keep going. Stare ‘em down.”

  Lucinda smiled despite her dread.

  “That’s what Gretel does. And everyone’s bigger than she is,” Aden said.

  * * * * *

  She wouldn’t have taken the call in The Puffy Muffin if she thought it would involve discontent over a $10-million gift to the P-H library. Not at that particular moment, late Friday, nothing in the tank. Lucinda peered into the dregs of her cappuccino cup and thought about having another. She didn’t remember giving Bettina Collins her personal phone number.

  Mai Lee at the counter gave Lucinda a free refill without a word. Just took the mug and brought it back with a fresh cappuccino, a heart swirled in chocolate on top of the white skim milk foam.

  “There’s been a bit of a delay with the construction,” Lucinda said into the phone, glad Mrs. Collins could not see her face. “But I assure you we are still very much interested in your book collection. It’s beyond generous of you.” She nestled her forehead against the notch of her thumb and index finger. It took every ounce of energy to keep “sweet” in her voice.

  “Yes, I’ll get the latest update on the construction schedule and get back to you next week,” Lucinda said. She watched the chocolate heart melting into the foam.

  “Ah. Tonight. Of course!” she added. She punched the end-call button, and it rang again.

  “Tori! Yes. One more spot of business and I’ll be over. I hope you have food. No lunch. Not much breakfast either. I’m living on cappuccino fumes.”

  She pushed the end-call button and again the phone rang. She answered and listened to Frank’s questions, which he fired off one after another like miniature fireworks.

  “Yes, Frank. Michaela’s gift is in addition to Pat’s. I’ll fill you in first thing in your office tomorrow. No, we’re still waiting to hear on that one. But Jennifer’s fairly sure we’re in for at least two hundred fifty. Yes, thousand. I know, but next year we can offer more and ask for more. Alright, good luck with them.”

  The lava inside her flowed very close to the surface.

  She pushed end call. The phone rang again.

  “This better be good,” she said to Aden. She began gathering her things together to leave. She sat back down again.

  “When? Do you think anyone saw you?”

  She listened, frowning.

  “Come over to my house tomorrow. Meeting at my office at night is not a good idea. Margo mentioned something about an exclusive ‘development night shift’ in a staff meeting the other day. And Frank shed that lizard smile on me. We gotta go covert. Stop laughing! I know she’s one to talk.”

  Lucinda watched Mai Lee, whom she’d help get a four-year scholarship, wiping the counter.

  “Look, be over my house tomorrow at 10 am. Bring Gretel if she’s that lonely. Stop laughing! Good night!”

  After leaving Mai Lee a hundred-percent tip, she walked over to Tori’s house next to Salt Marsh Stable, about three-quarters of a mile north of The Puffy Muffin. When Lucinda opened the door, Tori threw a proprietary arm around her waist and dragged her down the hall.

  “Come back to the dining room! There’s a full spread.”

  They entered the Bentleys’ formal dining room, a space awash in blond wood with six glowing bronze wall sconces in the shape of horse heads. It was five times the size of the nook where Lucinda ate her solitary meals. Concentrated at one end of the walnut table were plates and bowls of fried chicken, potato salad, garden salad, and dinner rolls with apple pie waiting in the wings on a matching sideboard. Tori lit bayberry candles. />
  “I have to put in two more calls,” Lucinda said. “Must keep the donors happy.”

  “Then I’m confiscating your phone,” Tori said, preparing a plate for Lucinda. After the calls, Lucinda sat down at the table.

  “Construction delays solved. Check! Construction head agrees to schmooze with donor and show her updates to the blueprints. Check! Donor is thrilled. Check! Day is saved. Double Check!” Lucinda said. She didn’t know where to start. Everything looked good.

  “You know I’ll need kitty bags. Gabriel will never forgive me if I come home smelling of chicken and have nothing for him.”

  “Consider your takeout order placed,” Tori said.

  “Where’s Martin?” Lucinda asked. “What’s up with Hyperion?”

  “It’s bad. He’s not being charged, but everything’s come to a standstill.”

  “How’s he taking it?” Lucinda asked.

  “Rather oddly. He’s rescued a bird. A horribly broken Bald Eagle.”

  “A Bald Eagle?” Lucinda lowered a chicken breast from her mouth.

  “He found it on the way home from the lawyer’s a couple weeks ago. He’s barely left her side since then.”

  “Her?”

  “He calls her Skyline.”

  The women exchanged glances.

  “One more ain’t gonna hurt,” Tori said.

  “Well, you’ve nothing to complain about with everything you’ve rescued,” Lucinda said.

  Tori’s laugh reminded Lucinda of a fast-racing shallow brook gliding over smooth pebbles. Her strawberry blond hair was clipped behind her head with a pink rhinestone jumper horse barrette. She wore rubies, ones too nice to wear to the stable, on her right hand. Her aqua-green eyes flashed that same playfulness Lucinda remembered from when they were six.

  “That’s true. Anything’s better than dwelling on disaster, but this bird needs attention twenty-five, eight.”

  “I’d like to see her.”

  “Eat first!” Tori ordered.

  And so Lucinda continued her meal, with Tori feeding her updates on stable news: Pogo was enjoying the big fences. He’d begun to scoff at anything under four feet six, and Tori thought he would be at perfect pitch for the December jumper show in Wellington, Florida. Thea was working more seriously on training level dressage with Paz. Nanogirl had taken to supervising the unloading of feed and bedding deliveries and apprenticing with the farrier, passing tools to him by mouth. And Margo was demanding more lighting in the indoor since she’d be riding more in the dark after Daylight Savings Time ends. Tori met several times with the head of the Animal Science Department, various deans, and with Dr. Camille, and the proposal for the Equine Studies Program and curricula was well underway.