Sealed with a promise

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

  “Vicky, as you can see,” Cal­ho­un com­men­ted ton­gue in che­ek, “has de­ig­ned to jo­in us.”

  Cal­ho­un us­he­red them in­to the smal­ler par­lor on the ot­her si­de of the ho­use. Smal­ler was a re­la­ti­ve term, and this ro­om was just as for­mal as the ot­her. Twin ca­mel-back so­fas up­hol­s­te­red in yel­low silk flan­ked a mar­b­le fi­rep­la­ce whe­re Char­lot­te sto­od con­ver­sing with gu­ests who had ar­ri­ved be­fo­re them.

  All three tur­ned to fa­ce them. “How won­der­ful you co­uld co­me.” Char­lot­te ex­ten­ded her hand to Em­mie and Ca­leb. “Emmie, I’m su­re I don’t ne­ed to in­t­ro­du­ce you to the­se gu­ests. Chi­ef Du­la­ude, this is Dr. Blo­unt Sat­ter­fi­eld and Dr. Sally Ar­mi­ta­ge.”

  Emmie tri­ed to ke­ep an alert ex­p­res­si­on whi­le Blo­unt, Sally, and Char­lot­te dis­cus­sed the po­li­tics wit­hin the sta­te uni­ver­sity system. Char­lot­te had gra­du­ated mag­na cum la­ude and now sat on the bo­ard of re­gents of the uni­ver­sity in an ap­po­in­ted, non-vo­ting ca­pa­city, but she ma­de it cle­ar she to­ok her po­si­ti­on se­ri­o­usly and wor­ked hard at it.

  Ever­yo­ne, in­c­lu­ding Em­mie, had as­su­med she wo­uld wish to par­ti­ci­pa­te in the­ir dis­cus­si­on, sin­ce she had the most in com­mon with them. As she lis­te­ned she ma­de an im­por­tant dis­co­very. She didn’t lack the abi­lity to han­d­le her­self with them. She just didn’t ca­re. She tri­ed to think of a way she co­uld jo­in Vicky and Ca­leb in a cor­ner. Af­ter Vicky had be­en shus­hed a co­up­le ti­mes, and her mot­her had apo­lo­gi­zed twi­ce for al­lo­wing her to jo­in the adults, Ca­leb had drawn Vicky away. Now she lis­te­ned en­rapt as he told her a story that in­vol­ved a lot of hand mo­ti­ons.

  Emmie might even ha­ve li­ked to talk to Un­c­le Te­ague, and sin­ce he had known her mot­her as a girl, ask him qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut her and her gran­d­mot­her. Sin­ce the ad­vent of ema­il, Vicky kept in da­ily or ne­arly da­ily con­tact with her pa­rents, but of the pe­op­le he­re in Wil­min­g­ton, Cal­ho­un pro­bably knew the most abo­ut her fa­mily’s past. Ed­ward Fa­ir­c­hild had drawn him out of the ro­om hal­f­way thro­ugh the me­al, sa­ying the­re was a call he had to ta­ke. He hadn’t re­tur­ned, al­t­ho­ugh Em­mie had se­en Fa­ir­c­hild pass by in the hall se­ve­ral ti­mes.

  “Char­lot­te, “ she sa­id, “I was won­de­ring if might use yo­ur pow­der ro­om?”

  “Emmie, what are you do­ing with a man li­ke that?” Ed­ward Fa­ir­c­hild’s vo­ice was pit­c­hed low. Fa­ir­c­hild had ac­cos­ted her in the hall as she re­tur­ned from the pow­der ro­om. She had se­en him twi­ce that eve­ning al­t­ho­ugh he hadn’t jo­ined them at din­ner. Char­lot­te had ex­p­la­ined that Fa­ir­c­hild had an of­fi­ce on the gro­und flo­or and that he “kept his own ho­urs.” Ap­pa­rently, that me­ant that he had the run of the ho­use. She had the fe­eling he had be­en lying in wa­it for her, de­ter­mi­ned to talk to her out of the ot­hers’ he­aring. “Emmie, do you know what he is?”

  Emmie pa­used to think over the qu­es­ti­on ca­re­ful­ly, kno­wing the­re might be sub­t­le po­wer plays at work he­re. At the uni­ver­sity she was used to the lec­tu­rer’s trick of rhe­to­ri­cal qu­es­ti­ons, set up to re­ve­al per­so­nal bril­li­an­ce or pro­ve the lis­te­ner stu­pid. In this ca­se, she sus­pec­ted the lat­ter. “A SE­AL?”

  “Don’t you know abo­ut SE­ALs?” he de­man­ded. “They’re tra­ined kil­lers-as­sas­sins.”

  “Are you un­der the im­p­res­si­on that an­yo­ne in the ar­med for­ces isn’t tra­ined to kill?”

  “That’s not my po­int.”

  “Oh.”

  Fa­ir­c­hild blin­ked at the de­li­be­ra­tely drop­ped con­ver­sa­ti­onal ball, but qu­ickly re­co­ve­red. “My po­int is that you can’t trust him.”

  “Trust him to what?”

  Fa­ir­c­hild wa­ved that away. “Emmie, I’m trying to warn you. Yo­ur gran­d­mot­her was a de­ar fri­end. I’m trying to gi­ve you the sa­me ad­vi­ce she wo­uld ha­ve: stay away from him. If you know what’s go­od for you, stay away from him.”

  “I can’t tell whet­her you are war­ning me or thre­ate­ning me.”

  “My de­ar- ” Fa­ir­c­hild sho­ok his he­ad sadly. “I’m war­ning you, of co­ur­se. But be­ing se­en with a SE­AL won’t im­p­ro­ve yo­ur stan­ding in the aca­de­mic com­mu­nity.”

  Emmie stu­di­ed the se­na­tor’s ad­vi­sor. He was no mo­re than an inch or two tal­ler than she, and we­aring he­els, Em­mie co­uld lo­ok stra­ight in­to his pa­le blue, but still sharp eyes. He kept cla­iming a ne­ed to lo­ok af­ter her ba­sed on de­ep fri­en­d­s­hip with her gran­d­mot­her. She co­uldn’t re­mem­ber her gran­d­mot­her spe­aking as fondly abo­ut Fa­ir­c­hild. Em­mie wis­hed she had pa­id mo­re at­ten­ti­on to who was who in her gran­d­mot­her’s ac­ti­vi­ti­es. All she knew was he’d ne­ver tri­ed to co­un­sel her be­fo­re.

  “You’re smart, Em­mie. Yo­ur re­se­arch cre­den­ti­als are no­te­worthy, and you ha­ve the right con­nec­ti­ons. You can cho­ose whe­re you want to go in the uni­ver­sity system. All I’m sa­ying is don’t sho­ot yo­ur­self in the fo­ot by al­lying yo­ur­self with so­me­one who will be a li­abi­lity.”

  Emmie’s jaw tig­h­te­ned. She might ha­ve no gift for po­li­tics, but she knew she’d just be­en told if she went along, she co­uld wri­te her own tic­ket. If she didn’t, her ca­re­er was li­kely to stall. Char­lot­te and Te­ague had the clo­ut to ac­com­p­lish all Fa­ir­c­hild pro­mi­sed with no mo­re than a word drop­ped he­re or the­re. Most uni­ver­si­ti­es had far fe­wer te­nu­red po­si­ti­ons than they used to. Just li­ke big bu­si­ness, they had fi­gu­red out that hi­ring short-term con­t­ract em­p­lo­ye­es who didn’t ha­ve to be gi­ven be­ne­fits, who we­ren’t ear­ning se­ni­ority, and who didn’t even ha­ve to be fi­red-they simply we­ren’t re­ne­wed the next qu­ar­ter-sa­ved a lot of mo­ney. Te­nu­re-track po­si­ti­ons, such as Em­mie’s, we­re hal­f­way bet­we­en no job se­cu­rity at all and the holy gra­il of te­nu­re. The com­pe­ti­ti­on for them was fi­er­ce.

  Once in li­ne for a te­nu­red po­si­ti­on, the com­pe­ti­ti­on tur­ned fi­er­cer. No mat­ter what an­yo­ne sa­id abo­ut ri­go­ro­us scho­lar­s­hip, the na­me of the ga­me was mo­ney. Who co­uld bring the most mo­ney in­to the de­par­t­ment by ob­ta­ining grants for re­se­arch. And who had po­wer­ful con­nec­ti­ons with the le­gis­la­tu­re and po­lic­y­ma­kers.

  This was he­avy, and cut­ting Ca­leb out must be vi­tal­ly im­por­tant to so­me­one.

  The­re was the im­p­li­ca­ti­on that Fa­ir­c­hild was car­rying out so­me­one’s di­rec­ti­ons, but he might be ac­ting on his own. He ob­vi­o­usly had a lot of auto­nomy in the Cal­ho­un ho­use­hold and the Cal­ho­un or­ga­ni­za­ti­on. She co­uldn’t be­li­eve Cal­ho­un and Char­lot­te wo­uld in­vi­te her and Ca­leb to din­ner and then sic Fa­ir­c­hild on her to do a hat­c­het job-but it was the sort of bac­k­s­tab­bing she had se­en be­fo­re.

  It was a si­tu­ati­on she ha­ted and had avo­ided as much as pos­sib­le. She had no idea what to say next. She was al­most re­li­eved when Blo­unt, stylishly pro­fes­so­ri­al in a cho­co­la­te le­at­her sport co­at and tur­t­le­neck, ca­me in­to the hall. “Emmie,” he squ­e­ezed her sho­ul­der in a one-ar­med hug, whi­le ex­ten­ding his right hand to Fa­ir­c­hild. “Go­od eve­ning, sir. I’m Blo­unt Sat­ter­fi­eld. Em­mie and I are col­le­agu­es.”

  Cri­pes, this eve­ning had got­ten stran­ge all of a sud­den. Blo­unt was to­uc­hing her in pub­lic and ac­ting li­ke they we­re the best of fri­ends and may­be mo­re. She la­ug­hed out lo­ud when she got it. Em­mie re­mo­ved his hand from her arm. “Blo­unt, if you’r
e ho­ping to ma­ke po­ints with Mr. Fa­ir­c­hild by cla­iming clo­se as­so­ci­ati­on with me, yo­ur ti­ming co­uldn’t pos­sibly be wor­se. He thinks I ha­ve po­or tas­te in the com­pany I ke­ep.”

  Emmie tur­ned on her si­de so she co­uld run her hand ac­ross Ca­leb’s ba­re chest. “You know what I li­ked best abo­ut to­night?”

  Ca­leb cap­tu­red her hand and twi­ned his fin­gers with hers. He smi­led out of the cor­ner of his eyes. “Chatty, are we?”

  “You know how I get.” “Okay, what did you li­ke best abo­ut to­night?” “Wat­c­hing you with Vicky. You’re so go­od with her.” “I li­ke kids. As much as I can I vo­lun­te­er with SE­AL Pups. The chil­d­ren of SE­ALs don’t spend a lot of ti­me with the­ir fat­hers. Ot­her SE­ALs try to be a ma­le pre­sen­ce in the­ir li­ves.”

  “And you know what el­se? I tho­ught I co­uld see a fa­mily re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en you. It’s funny, ne­it­her of you lo­oks li­ke Te­ague.”

  “Do you do that to turn me on?” Em­mie as­ked, not lo­oking up from the eco­logy text she was hal­f­way thro­ugh.

  Ca­leb did lo­ok up from his bo­ok. Ex­cept for re­ading, the only thing he had be­en do­ing was lying be­si­de Em­mie in bed, oh, and he had his hand on her sho­ul­der.

  Most pe­op­le had an agen­da when they as­ked a qu­es­ti­on. They we­re trying to plan the­ir next mo­ve or they ne­eded you to ag­ree to so­met­hing. Not Em­mie. Em­mie as­ked be­ca­use she wan­ted to know. As ne­ar as he co­uld tell, she li­ked to know ever­y­t­hing, but par­ti­cu­larly how this bit con­nec­ted to that bit. Pro­bably what led her in­to a study of eco­logy.

  The fact that she didn’t ha­ve an agen­da-she sim­p­ly li­ked to ac­qu­ire in­for­ma­ti­on-sho­uldn’t blind him to the fact that she lo­oked for con­nec­ti­ons all the ti­me, and she might ha­ve as­ked the qu­es­ti­on be­ca­use she saw a pos­sib­le con­nec­ti­on. Re­mem­be­ring this sa­li­ent de­ta­il was the only way it was pos­sib­le to ke­ep up with her.

  He drew a cir­c­le on her sa­tiny skin with his fin­ger. “I do it be­ca­use I li­ke to. He clo­sed his bo­ok and set it in the small bo­ok­rack on the nig­h­t­s­tand. The­se days the­re was a mat­c­hing bo­ok­rack on Em­mie’s si­de of the bed too. “ Do­es it turn you on?”

  “Yes.”

  He stro­ked the top of her arm over the fe­mi­ni­ne swell of the del­to­id. “He­re?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll ke­ep that in mind.” He slid down the bed to get a bet­ter an­g­le on her mo­uth. Just be­fo­re his lips clo­sed on hers he tho­ught he de­tec­ted a cre­am-pot glim­mer. No agen­da, hell!

  She’d be­en run­ning an ex­pe­ri­ment. He’d be­en had!

  The­re is not­hing mo­re con­ta­gi­o­us than chuc­k­les when you’re in con­tact with the di­ap­h­ragm of the per­son chuc­k­ling.

  Chapter 31

  “Emmie, this is Char­lot­te Cal­ho­un.” Char­lot­te had a vo­ice li­ke the cen­ter of a Three Mus­ke­te­ers bar. It was swe­et, soft, so­ot­hing, just sub­s­tan­ti­al eno­ugh to say you co­uld al­ways de­pend upon her, but ne­ed ne­ver fe­ar she wo­uld be dif­fi­cult. Li­ke a Three Mus­ke­te­ers it was al­ways exactly the sa­me. Em­mie had be­en drag­ged to Char­lot­te’s wed­ding by her gran­d­mot­her. Char­lot­te and Te­ague had at­ten­ded her gran­d­mot­her’s fu­ne­ral, whe­re Te­ague had de­li­ve­red the eulogy. Ne­ver­t­he­less, un­til this mor­ning, Char­lot­te had ne­ver cal­led Em­mie. “How are you this mor­ning?”

  “I’m fi­ne, thank you. How are you?”

  “Fi­ne, thank you. I ho­pe you’ll for­gi­ve me for cal­ling so early. I cal­led be­ca­use I was ho­ping you’d know how to con­tact Chi­ef Du­la­ude.”

  Emmie chuc­k­led in­wardly and fi­led the ex­qu­isi­tely tac­t­ful phra­sing of Char­lot­te’s re­qu­est for fu­tu­re study. Now that she had ac­cep­ted that she sha­ded the truth from ti­me to ti­me, she had de­ci­ded she sho­uld be­co­me mo­re skil­led at it. Not­hing abo­ut her cho­ice of words sug­ges­ted Char­lot­te had cal­led her be­ca­use she fi­gu­red Ca­leb had spent the night at Em­mie’s ho­use. In her bed.

  “He’s not he­re right now, Char­lot­te, but I am ex­pec­ting him.” Em­mie was rat­her pro­ud of her an­s­wer. She wasn’t in Char­lot­te’s class, but she was ma­king prog­ress. Both sta­te­ments we­re true. He had kis­sed her thirty mi­nu­tes ago be­fo­re his mor­ning run and pro­mi­sed to re­turn. Ne­it­her sen­ten­ce ad­mit­ted he had spent the night. In her bed. “Can I gi­ve him a mes­sa­ge?” Em­mie re­ac­hed for a pen­cil to jot down a te­lep­ho­ne num­ber.

  Char­lot­te he­si­ta­ted. Em­mie co­uld he­ar a man tal­king in the bac­k­g­ro­und. “I ne­ed… I ne­ed to talk to him. Will he be the­re so­on?”

  Emmie to­ok back ever­y­t­hing she had tho­ught abo­ut Char­lot­te’s per­fectly con­t­rol­led vo­ice. Char­lot­te was just ba­rely han­ging on.

  “Pro­bably not too long, may­be half an ho­ur. Is so­met­hing wrong, Char­lot­te? Can I help?”

  “I’m at the doc­tor’s of­fi­ce with Vicky. He wants her to go to the hos­pi­tal to run so­me tests, but she’s… she’s hyste­ri­cal. She knows ‘tests’ me­an mo­re blo­od draws.” Aga­in, Em­mie tho­ught she he­ard a man’s vo­ice. Tho­ugh Em­mie co­uldn’t ma­ke out what he sa­id, Char­lot­te ap­pa­rently an­s­we­red who­ever it was. “She’s not a spo­iled child! She tri­es to be bra­ve, but she’s so sca­red of ne­ed­les. She’s had fo­ur blo­od draws in the last two we­eks, and it’s hor­rib­le for her. Every ti­me is wor­se than the last.”

  Not su­re if Char­lot­te had be­en spe­aking to her, Em­mie ma­de a sympat­he­tic so­und. “I’m so sorry. Do­es the doc­tor sus­pect so­met­hing se­ri­o­us? Silly qu­es­ti­on. Of co­ur­se, he do­es. What can I do?”

  “Vicky says she will stop fig­h­ting and go to the hos­pi­tal if Chi­ef Du­la­ude will co­me with her. I don’t know why she’s fi­xa­ted on him.” Em­mie tho­ught she he­ard a ma­le vo­ice in the bac­k­g­ro­und say, “… can’t be­li­eve you in­dul­ge her li­ke this.” Char­lot­te tal­ked over it. “Do you think Chi­ef Du­la­ude wo­uld do that?”

  “She’s trying to con­t­rol you,” the ma­le vo­ice in the bac­k­g­ro­und put in.

  “I’m su­re he’ll do what he can,” Em­mie re­as­su­red her. Af­ter get­ting Char­lot­te’s num­ber and the ad­dress of the doc­tor’s of­fi­ce, she as­su­red her she’d get right back to her.

  Ca­leb felt ri­di­cu­lo­usly go­od when he saw the pho­ne num­ber his cell pho­ne dis­p­la­yed. He’d cal­led Em­mie’s num­ber eno­ugh ti­mes to me­mo­ri­ze it. This was the first ti­me she’d cal­led him tho­ugh. He slo­wed down so that he wo­uldn’t be pan­ting when he cal­led her back. Man, it felt so go­od. He la­ug­hed at him­self. He was as eager as a kid. Wan­ting to be co­ol, to play it right. His he­art thum­ped with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on at tal­king to her, al­t­ho­ugh he’d left her less than for­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago. May­be she wan­ted him to pick up milk or ba­gels. That wo­uld be go­od. In fact, even if she didn’t ask, he might.

  “What’s up?” he as­ked, when she an­s­we­red on the first ring, kno­wing he had a hu­ge smi­le on his fa­ce.

  “I just had the stran­gest pho­ne call from Char­lot­te Cal­ho­un. Vicky ne­eds to go to the hos­pi­tal for so­me tests, and ap­pa­rently, she’s flin­ging a fit, un­less you’ll go with her.”

  “Why me?”

  “Char­lot­te says she do­esn’t know why. I think it’s be­ca­use she res­pects you, plus she’s got a bit of he­ro-wor­s­hip go­ing on. Do you want to know what’s re­al­ly stran­ge? Ca­leb, Vicky’s af­ra­id of ne­ed­les, just li­ke you. Do you think so­met­hing li­ke that co­uld be ge­ne­tic?”

  “Acc
or­ding to so­me stu­di­es, it may be. Abo­ut eig­h­ty per­cent of pe­op­le with trypa­nop­ho­bia ha­ve a re­la­ti­ve with it.” At the ti­me he had co­me ac­ross an ar­tic­le on the pho­bia, he hadn’t known any of his re­la­ti­ves- as­su­ming he had so­me-so the in­for­ma­ti­on had be­en to­tal­ly aca­de­mic. He hadn’t con­si­de­red how it wo­uld fe­el to re­cog­ni­ze kin­s­hip. Sud­denly, the im­p­li­ca­ti­ons of phra­ses li­ke mem­ber of the fa­mily, blo­od kin, li­ke a brot­her to me, to­ok on per­so­nal me­aning.

  He wasn’t star­ry-eyed abo­ut how well kin­s­hip al­ways wor­ked. A lot of his fri­ends tho­ught the­ir re­la­ti­ves we­re pa­ins in the ass. But pe­op­le li­ke that, pe­op­le who we­re kin to each ot­her, un­der­s­to­od at a de­ep cel­lu­lar le­vel what it was li­ke to li­ve with cer­ta­in tra­its. They un­der­s­to­od, from the in­si­de, what it was li­ke to be you.

  “That’s the me­di­cal na­me for it, trypa­nop­ho­bia?” He he­ard the scho­larly cu­ri­osity in her vo­ice and knew she was wri­ting it down, pro­bably to re­se­arch it the first chan­ce she got.

  “Or be­lo­nep­ho­bia. Or ne­ed­le pho­bia.”

  “So. Do you think this me­ans Un­c­le Te­ague re­al­ly is yo­ur fat­her, and she’s yo­ur half-sis­ter?” He hadn’t cor­rec­ted the im­p­res­si­on, okay, the lie, he’d han­ded Em­mie that he tho­ught Cal­ho­un might be his fat­her. The DNA test he’d had run on the glass Cal­ho­un had used at the wed­ding re­cep­ti­on ma­de pa­ter­nity ni­nety-ni­ne per­cent cer­ta­in. Stran­ge. The­re co­uld be a link with Vicky when he had not­hing at all in com­mon with Cal­ho­un. “Ca­leb?” Em­mie as­ked when he didn’t reply.

  “I’m get­ting used to the idea.”

  “I don’t un­der­s­tand. What is the­re to get used to? Do you think she’s yo­ur sis­ter?”

  Ca­leb wren­c­hed his mind from the tho­usands of com­pe­ting tho­ughts abo­ut what it me­ant to be re­la­ted to a lit­tle girl and ac­cep­ted that he was in char­ge of get­ting the kid to the hos­pi­tal. “Can you pick me up? I’ll call Char­lot­te and tell her we’re on the way, as so­on as I sho­wer.”