by Ann Macela
A handsome man with practically golden hair and striking blue eyes was a fine thing to contemplate, even fantasize about, if she was in the mood. She’d never been one to squeal about movie stars; visual perfection gave no clue to the real person. She was more interested in a man’s views, his ideas, his aspirations, his down-to-earth common sense, and her attitude was evident in her choice of male friends and colleagues.
She hardly knew Marcus Forscher, and what she had seen and heard and read from him had not been conducive to wanting to know him better. They were never going to agree about the art and emotion of casting. She might be willing to agree to disagree, but he appeared to be incapable of seeing any value in her side.
No, she wasn’t attracted to him.
“Earth to Glori,” her mother said. “You’ve been standing there staring out the window for five minutes. Is he coming?”
“Oh. Yes, he’s coming.”
“Are you all right? You look a little confused.”
“I’m fine.” She rubbed her chest again. It had started itching when her mother spoke.
“Did a bug bite you? Do you need some ointment?”
“No, Mother, no bug. My clothes are chafing some. I’ll go call Daddy for dinner.”
“Yes, do that,” her mother said, stirring the pot of spaghetti sauce.
Gloriana wondered a moment at the speculative glance her mother gave her, but turned her attention to where her father might be. The itch had gone away.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Saturday morning precisely at eleven, Marcus pulled up in front of the ranch-style, sandy-colored brick house. He’d followed Morgan’s directions carefully, driving past the customers’ entry gate to the farm and coming in at the smaller road marked “private.” He parked in the graveled area next to the road, climbed out of the car, stretched, and looked around.
Fields of growing plants spread to all sides, while her front yard held a lush, dark green lawn, four large live oaks, a couple of bird feeders, and mulched beds bursting with multihued flowers. Two wooden picnic tables with benches and several lawn chairs sat in the shade of the trees. He could smell new-mown grass and some sort of floral fragrance—he didn’t have a clue what it was. Or what the flowers were, either, but they were pretty and cheerful.
Samson whined from the backseat of the BMW sedan.
“Okay, boy, let’s get you out of there.” Marcus unhitched the leash from the seat belt slot and removed the harness. “I know you don’t like the contraption,” he said while Samson jumped from the car and shook himself. “If we have a wreck, you won’t like flying through the window, either. Remember, behave yourself, or it’s back on the leash.”
Samson trotted beside him up to the front doorway, which held screen and wooden doors, both shut. Marcus rang the doorbell.
The curtain behind the glass fluttered and he caught a glimpse of dark curly hair. Morgan opened the door and looked at him through the screen mesh.
Every thought in his head flew away when their gazes met—and locked. He knew his mouth was open and words of greeting were forming in his throat, but he had to concentrate on breathing as his whole body came to attention.
She didn’t move, either.
A sharp “Yip!” pulled his gaze downward. The screen door opened, propelled by a dog, a black and white basenji, of all things. The dog darted out and headed straight for Samson, who yodeled a greeting. The two animals circled each other, sniffing and nuzzling. They looked back at the humans, next at each other, and started trotting, then running down the walk and out onto the road.
“Samson!” he bellowed as he took two steps after them.
“Delilah!” Morgan yelled as she came outside.
The hounds stopped at the edge of the nearest field, grinned over their shoulders, and headed for the horizon like they were chasing antelopes on the plains.
“Samson!”
“Delilah!” She put two fingers in her mouth and let loose a whistle that almost took the top of his head off. “You come back here!”
The dogs kept running.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Morgan stood there with her fists on her hips watching until the hounds vanished behind the plantings. Turning to Marcus, she said in an exasperated voice, “I wish you’d mentioned what kind of dog you have. Delilah is fine around more placid dogs. When she’s with one who likes to run, well … you saw the result.”
“Delilah? Your dog’s name is Delilah?” She hadn’t even told him she had a dog, but he wasn’t going to press the issue. What good would it do?
“Yes. And yours is Samson?” She shook her head. “Oh, that is too cute for words.”
“Will they be all right? Samson has seldom been loose to run like that—not in an unconfined space.” He gazed down the road. No hounds came into view.
“Don’t worry. Delilah’s out all the time. I’m sure she’ll bring him back safe and sound,” Morgan said with a slight smirk.
“I hope so,” Marcus heard himself say, but his attention was suddenly on her, not Samson, as she stood in the sun and her green eyes took on a deeper, darker hue. She had said they dressed casually, and she certainly had. He couldn’t stop his gaze from running from her somewhat battered running shoes, up her old faded jeans, and to her scooped-neck light-blue T-shirt with a blue-and-white-striped cotton shirt on top. The jeans showed off her great curves and the scoop revealed creamy skin leading toward …
He jerked his scrutiny back to her face. Control, he ordered mentally and concentrated on maintaining a blank expression.
Morgan had a strange look on her own face for a second. Then she opened the screen door. “Let me pick up a couple of files, and we can go over to my parents’ house. We can thrash it out together, and they might have some good ideas, too.”
He followed her into the house.
She said, “I’ll be right back,” and vanished around a corner.
Passing a formal dining room on his right, he walked through a wide foyer into a large living room. From where he stood, he could see, also on the right, into the kitchen over a high counter bar with stools on the side. A round dinette table and chairs sat in a bay window on the back kitchen wall. The living room held a long, deep red couch and two blue upholstered easy chairs, arranged in a seating area facing the fireplace. An impressionistic-style landscape of flowers hung over the mantel, its vibrant colors seeming to glow, even in the muted daylight that came through the sliding doors on either side of the hearth. An entertainment center took up the wall opposite the kitchen.
The whole room looked “comfortable,” somehow welcoming … or it would have if it hadn’t been so messy.
Magazines and books rose haphazardly in two stacks by one of the chairs, an afghan throw and pillows sprawled on the couch, and framed photos almost spilled off the mantel. He could see newspapers, stacks of student papers, and some mail on the kitchen table. A scattering of miscellaneous objects, including a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of much-used gardening gloves, decorated the bar counter. Under the long, thin table behind the sofa lay a tennis ball, a chew bone, and a rubber duck, evidence of Delilah’s residence. He wondered how Morgan could live with all the clutter—especially how she could find anything.
He was surprised that she didn’t have more plants than a couple of small spidery ones in pots on the bar and a tall pine sort of tree in the corner by the sliding glass doors that led to a deck. But, she worked with plants all the time; what did she need with more?
Morgan came around a corner from the hall to his left with some file folders in one hand and her purse in the other. “I’m ready. Why don’t we take your car? Go on out the door. I need to set the alarm.”
He went out the front door and watched while she closed it, opened a panel in the wall, and punched some buttons. “Why all the precautions? I thought people in the country never locked their doors.”
“Crime is reaching into the country these days,” she replied, shutting the panel. “With
customers wandering off the beaten path, we’ve found it better to be safe. My brother, Clay—you met him at the debate—is a computer genius, and we all have the most up-to-date security you can imagine. We have the usual protective house spells, too, but they can’t call the sheriff or alert us if there’s trouble at one house and we’re all at the other.”
He opened the passenger-side door for her, and she sat and swung her legs in. As he came around to the driver’s side, he scanned the horizon again. “No dogs,” he said, sitting down and putting his seat belt on.
“They’ll truly be fine. I promise. Look at it this way,” she said with a smile. “If a tired basenji is a happy basenji, then both of them will collapse at our feet and sleep when they come back. You won’t have to walk him at all tonight.”
“That’s one benefit, I suppose,” he said and started the car. A saxophone wailed a jazz melody out of the speakers, and he turned the radio off. “How long will they be gone?”
“Go left and follow the road, and right at the T. You’ll see the house in the distance. I’m sure the dogs will be back in an hour or so. That’s Delilah’s usual running time.” She glanced into the back when something jingled. “A harness? For Samson?”
“Yeah, it keeps him more or less in one place. Sort of like a child’s safety seat.”
“What’s the covering on the seat? I like the idea.”
“It’s a fitted custom cover. It was either that or try to rig towels, and those never work. It gives him a soft bed and keeps the leather safe.”
While they talked about other pet paraphernalia and he drove, Gloriana took the opportunity to surreptitiously study her guest. What was it that caused her totally inappropriate reactions to him? Every nerve ending in her body had fired when she opened the door and gazed into his eyes. Instead of icy, the look he’d given her had been definitely … hot. No, scorching, and she’d felt it all the way to her toes. It was a miracle she’d managed to stop herself from jumping a foot straight into the air.
Then, after the dogs escaped, he’d almost caught her ogling him. She’d retreated into the house and used the time gathering her files to calm down. Surely she could control herself better. Another peek wouldn’t hurt.
“We dress casually,” she’d told him. What had she had expected him to wear? Probably pressed khakis and a starched button-down oxford cloth shirt. Instead, what did she have sitting next to her?
A blond hunk with a rangy build and broad shoulders that didn’t need padding, dressed in a dark blue T-shirt, well-fitting jeans with a belt buckle embellished by the math symbol for pi, and running shoes—all of which were in pristine condition. Inhaling a scent of man and faint aftershave and watching his long fingers caress the steering wheel as he turned the car, she had the sudden urge to run … her hands over his toned body.
Calm? Where did she get the idea she was unperturbed? She pulled her gaze to the passing fields and gripped her purse and files tighter. She’d been composed at the meeting with Ed, but Forscher had been across the table a couple of feet away, not merely a few inches. Unfortunately, there was no one, not even a dog, to divert her thoughts or reactions here. She looked out the windshield. The house was coming into view. Thank goodness, she’d have her parents for buffers.
“That’s some house,” Forscher said as he pulled up in front and leaned forward to peer through the windshield.
“What? Oh, yes, it is. Only the front half is the original Victorian structure. It was called ‘The Bays’ because of all its bay windows. My parents bought the property before we kids were born. The house was in deplorable shape, so they didn’t try to restore it to a former historic grandeur, only make it livable. Besides, Mother had certain cooking requirements in the kitchen.”
She climbed out of the car and looked up at the tall two-story, white frame building, trying to imagine how he was seeing it for the first time. The wide porch, the hanging pots of red, white, and blue petunias, the huge old oaks surrounding the structure, all seemed to welcome visitors. She loved the place, but she was also happy to have her home—and her adult privacy.
“Interesting effect with the tower on the corner,” he said, joining her at the bottom of the front steps after he grabbed a briefcase from the backseat. “Especially with the witch’s hat roof.”
“The room under the hat on the second floor became the playroom, later the study hall and rec room for us kids after my parents built their new master bedroom on the back. It’s a great place to sit and read. Very atmospheric when a storm’s coming in.”
He paused at the top of the porch stairs and looked out over the fields again. “Still no dogs.”
“It’s all right, really,” she said in as reassuring a tone as she could muster. She knew he was worried—she certainly would be in his circumstances. “I know all the places Delilah goes, and they won’t get in trouble. Besides, we have staff working the store and its area. They’ll keep an eye on the dogs if they run over there.”
“Well …”
“Come on, let’s give them an hour of freedom, and then we’ll go looking.” She preceded him through the double doors and into the wide hall where the smell of a baking apple pie permeated the air.
“Mother, we’re here,” she called while she walked down the foyer past the stairs and into the kitchen.
“Hello, dear,” her mother said, lifting the pie from the oven. She put it on a trivet on the counter, closed the oven door, stripped off her padded mitts, and came over to hold out her hand to their visitor. “Welcome to our home, Dr. Forscher.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to see you again. And please call me Marcus,” he said, smiling as he shook her hand.
Only vaguely did Gloriana hear her mother say to call her Antonia. All her attention concentrated suddenly on their guest. She’d never seen him smile at anyone—if you didn’t count that smirk he directed at her during the debate. Forscher’s smile, even aimed at another, changed the man almost by magic from forbidding and stern to warm and thoroughly approachable.
How fascinating. How appealing. How … She refused to finish that thought.
“Hello,” her father said as he came into the kitchen. She watched Forscher and her father go through the greeting ritual and agree to call each other by their first names. Again the smile and the charm.
But when he faced her, his face settled into that intent, almost “hunting” look she’d seen on Delilah when the dog had picked up a prey’s scent. How did he make such an abrupt transformation? Why? Was the man a chameleon? Had he cast a spell on her?
That thought jarred her out of her trance to find everyone else looking at her.
“Shall we go into the study?” her mother asked in the tone of voice she used when her children had not been paying attention.
Gloriana followed her mother and the men across the entry hall into the large book-lined room that was the family meeting place. Her father ushered them to the table in the large rectangular bay, and she hurried to the window side. That way she would have over four feet of smooth oak between herself and the mathematician. If distance helped her keep calm around him, she’d maintain the separation.
“When Glori told us the purpose of your visit,” her father said, “I gathered some information on the cities on Hearst’s list.” He waved at the maps, printouts, HeatherRidge brochure, and calendar in the middle of the table.
“Thank you, Alaric,” Forscher said, opening his briefcase and taking out some files and his personal data assistant. He shuffled papers as he spoke. “I have some ideas for discussion. From our reactions to Ed’s plan and our brief conversation yesterday, I think we can agree that we need to gain some control over the circus, or we’ll never get our work done. Is that correct?”
He raised his eyes to hers at his question. She was ready for him this time, and she maintained her equanimity. Although … her magic center gave a little flutter, almost of anticipation, and she had the distinct impression the ice in his gaze was melting.
; She put those extraneous thoughts aside to answer carefully, “Yes, I believe the questions we’ve raised are important and worth discussion across the practitioner community. Nobody, however, needs us to lead the inquiry. Although I have no objection to helping launch the subject, I refuse to become anyone’s poster child.”
“You may already be one,” Alaric interjected. “You, too, Marcus.”
“What?” she and Forscher said together.
“I was online a little while ago and checked to see if the THA or the FOM had Web sites up. Sure enough, they do. Each has a picture of the three of you from the debate. The THA has an individual one of you, Glori, with quotes from some of your articles to bolster their arguments. The FOM has the same for you, Marcus.”
“Is that legal?” Gloriana asked. “Implying we agree with them? Using us to further their cause?”
“I doubt it matters, one way or the other,” Forscher said with a grimace. “We certainly can’t take them to court and make the discussion public to the non-practitioner world. I doubt the High Council could help, either. The damage has been done. We must make our position clear through the debates however, assuming Ed and the Swords can keep order.”
“Ed should let us put an article or two in the journal,” she added. “But first, we need to decide the cities we’ll visit and the dates. The sooner we get it all over with, the better.”
“Yes, twelve is out of the question. You’ll be traveling from the end of the semester straight into the next school year,” Antonia agreed. “So, how many?”
“No more than six,” Forscher said.
“Let’s say five and keep the sixth for a fallback,” Gloriana said. “Ed’s the type who will say one or two more than we do because he likes to negotiate everything.”
“You’re right,” Forscher replied, “and let’s spread it across the whole country. How about Boston?”
They discussed the merits of each city on the list with the help of her parents, who had been to and knew practitioners in all of them. They finally decided on five cities: Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, with Washington, D.C., for a negotiating giveaway. The tour would start the second Saturday in June and go straight through the month and into July with no breaks. Luckily the Fourth of July fell in the middle of the week, and they wouldn’t have to skip a weekend. The actual order of travel would depend on the availability of the halls.
