Lagoon of Dreams

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

For the past month I’d been too busy working on my dissertation to find someone to replace Frederick, the last in the long line of men I’d let have me. I was about to take a break and change that when Father contacted me.

“You’re having dinner with your mother and me,” he informed me.

“You do realize I’m in Haslet, don’t you?” Haslet was the university town in Delaware where Coombe was located.

“I’m aware of that. Must I repeat myself?”

“No, sir.” I glanced at the watch on my right wrist. The drive would take more than four hours.

“Very well. And pack a bag. Your mother will expect you to stay overnight.”

“I have a class tomorrow.”

“Pack a bag,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.” I knew it was useless to bring up any further objections. If I left now, I should arrive in Darien in time to dress for dinner and present myself.

“Excellent. We’ll see you then.” He hung up before I could ask why it was so imperative I be there now.

I returned the receiver to its hook, went into the bedroom, and began to pack an overnight bag.

But I thought about it as I hefted my bag into the trunk of my car.

I thought about it as I began the long drive up to Connecticut.

And I thought about it as I unpacked in the bedroom that had been mine as a child.

I just never came up with a reason that made any sense as to why he wanted me home.

* * * *

I came down punctually at eight and joined my parents at the dining table that could comfortably seat twenty. Father sat at the head, Mother sat at the foot, I sat somewhere in the middle, and as usual, dinner was a stilted affair. Mother spoke of her newest charity events and what plans she had for them, while Father discussed the latest deals that had successfully added to the company’s coffers. I hummed or nodded each time a comment seemed directed toward me.

The servants came and went on silent feet, bringing in each course, removing used plates, refilling our wine glasses. The food was excellent—Cornish game hens, roasted asparagus, and mashed sweet potatoes with mushrooms and bacon—but it would never be anything less. However, as the meal progressed and Father showed no indication of explaining why he’d been so insistent I drive here, I began to wonder if I could come up with an excuse to return to campus this evening.

“I’d like a word with you, David,” my father finally said as he blotted his mouth with his napkin.

His request startled me; we rarely had much to say to each other. “Of course, sir. I’m at your service.”

“You seem to be entirely too much of that.” He frowned, and when I raised an eyebrow, his frown deepened. However, he turned to Mother. “If you’ll excuse us, Catherine?”

“Certainly.” Mother reached for her wine, using the glass in an attempt to disguise the tight line of her mouth.

Whatever was going on? I placed my napkin beside my plate, rose, and followed Father out of the room. His spine was stiff and straight, and I worried my lower lip.

“What did you wish to say, Father?” I lingered in the doorway, uncertain how long this conversation would last.

“I have a favor to request of you.” He gestured toward the seat on the opposite side of his desk.

“Of course.” I entered and sat down.

He opened a box of cigars, selected one, and pushed the box toward me.

“No, thank you.” I’d never cared for the taste. Instead, I took a pack of Camels from a pocket and shook out a cigarette. “What can I do for you?” I lit the cigarette and brought it to my lips.

“This has to do with Knight, Inc.” He gave a deprecating chuckle. “I’m afraid it’s a bit cloak and dagger-ish.”

“I’m intrigued. What is it?”

“A Brazilian archaeologist has requested funding from the company.”

“An archaeologist?” Knight, Inc. had its fingers in a good many pies, but the study of things past wasn’t one of them.

“Precisely. However, the whys and wherefores aren’t important.”

“If you say so, Father.”

“I do say so. Now, what I’d like you to do is spend some time with this man, make him feel welcome—”

“Exactly how welcome?” Was Father pimping me out? He was quite aware I’d been head over heels for Justin, but he persisted in regarding it as a phase I’d outgrow as soon as I found the right woman. I’d stopped telling him it wasn’t likely I’d ever bring home a young women.

He scowled at me. “Not what you’re obviously thinking, young man.”

“In that case, I beg your pardon.”

“And so you should.” He made a fuss over preparing his cigar, cutting and lighting it, before seeing it drew to his satisfaction. Finally, he peered at me through the smoke that curled up and over his head and continued. “I want you to make sure he’s who he says he is. The last thing we need is some radical giving the company your great-grandfather started a black eye.”

“Let me get this straight, Father. A radical? From Brazil? Why not use Chase?” Knight, Inc. employed the skills of a very knowledgeable firm of private investigators who could deal with the matter much better than I.

“This must be kept strictly within the family.”

“I don’t understand—”

He stared into my eyes. “I’ve never asked you for anything, David. The least you can do is—”

“Of course I’ll help. Didn’t I already agree?” Because my father asked me to, something he never did, I would. Although it was odd. Why did he expect me to outright refuse?

“Yes. Well…I simply want your impression of him. Have a conversation with him, over drinks or dinner perhaps. See what you think. You’re a good judge of character.”

I was so pleased, so flattered to hear that, it didn’t occur to me to question he’d never thought so before. “Where am I to meet him?”

He rested his cigar on his ashtray, poured us a couple snifters of brandy, and began to explain where I was supposed to go and what I was supposed to do.

* * * *

Later that week, after I’d had a few days to think it over, to recover from the unexpected pleasure of my father giving me credit for something—and to look into Dr. Carlos Avila, who was not only an archaeologist but was a renowned professor of archaeology—I began to wonder why Father would ask this favor of me.

What had I been thinking? The man was a professor, after all, and I made it a point never to get involved with my professors. I knew the end result would be the usual one—they would demand more of me than I could give, and when they realized I’d never reciprocate, I would wind up with a failing grade.

I refused to take that chance, and I made the decision on the spot to come up with some excuse that would hopefully appease my father. If not, well…

However, word had it Dr. Avila was a powerful speaker, so there I sat in the front row of Putnam Hall, waiting to hear this lecture.

I really had no reason to be there; it wasn’t necessary as an elective, or required for either of my degrees in ichthyology or herpetology—it had seemed to be a natural segue from fish to amphibians and reptiles. However, if anyone should have asked, I’d simply say I’d been intrigued by the description of the lecture, and since only a few were permitted to audit it, I’d made a point of signing up.

Actually, Father had pulled some strings, and I’d have been able to get a seat even if I’d been too late to get my name on the signup sheet.

Dr. Avila was quite attractive for an older man, a compactly built Brazilian with dark good looks and a fascination with his chosen field of archaeology that flashed in his brown eyes.

In spite of myself, I was enthralled by the guest speaker, by his words, and I completely pushed aside my father’s instructions.

Dr. Avila spoke of the strange cities he’d explored and helped excavate and the peoples who at one time had inhabited them—an Inca citadel in Peru, a religious temple in Cambodia, ruins in French Tunisia. However, his primary interest lay along the sss, and that drew me in and intrigued me most of all. I wanted to explore the river that almost bisected the South American continent.

Leaning forward to take in each word that fell from his lips, I touched my tongue to my own lips, wondering what his might taste like. I was fascinated by this man—the last thing my father intended, I was sure—and I felt my…interest begin to stir. Periodically his tongue would peek out to moisten those full, sculpted lips as he paused to gather his thoughts.

“And so,” he said, bringing his lecture to a conclusion, “we continue to learn from those who came before us—” He added something totally unexpected—“whether mammalian or amphibian, or a curious blend of the two. Remember, gentlemen. And you, also, young lady.” He nodded graciously to the coed who sat before him, her legs folded decorously to the side, but her skirt showing a hint of knee. “The record of life is in the land, waiting to be found and deciphered.”

There was applause, and Dr. Avila beamed appreciatively.

I would have liked to remain behind, to talk further with him, and not because it was what my father had asked me to do. That remark about a link between mammal and amphibian was intriguing.

However, his attention had been claimed by the young woman who was now leaning forward, her arms folded under her bounteous endowments as if offering them to him. I’m surprised her mother let her out of the house wearing a sweater that tight, I thought sourly.

And then I gritted my teeth. It wasn’t important. He wasn’t the type I usually made a play for: lean, blue-eyed men who were a few years older and a few inches taller than I. I liked the contrast they made to my own brunet looks as we lay together in bed. In addition, Dr. Avila was perhaps a few inches shorter than my five foot ten and rather…stout, but oh so pleasantly so. Or perhaps it was his compact size that made him appear heavier than he was. Although I had to concede whatever it was, it didn’t seem to matter to him as he strutted across the front of the hall.

My goal was to be the youngest PhD in the university’s history. At twenty, I already had my master’s in ichthyology, and I hoped to defend my thesis on the bait ball phenomena along the east coast of Africa for my PhD within the year. I’d found it fascinating how different species—dolphins, sharks, seals, birds—worked to harvest the sardines. As for my master’s in herpetology—

“One moment, young man!”

I turned, startled to discover Dr. Avila was addressing me. He gathered his briefcase and fedora, gave the girl a charming smile, and left her sitting there, rather disgruntled, as he hurried to where I waited.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“You are David Knight, yes?”

“Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“I have my…how do you say…sources?” His smile was charming, and I regretted that I would be unable to taste it.

“What can I do for you, Doctor?”

He set his fedora on his head at a rakish angle, linked his arm through mine, and urged me to walk with him. “We go have a coffee, yes? And you will tell me what you thought of my lecture?”

I was flattered. Usually, when I was interested in someone, I was the one who made the first move. Life was too short to wait for the object of my fascination to decide to approach me—my reputation, Iago—they feared being rejected. And if I were turned down, well, there was always the next one.

The next one…That was something I found puzzling. Knowing I had a reputation as someone who would leave them the moment words of love were spoken, why would they be willing to accept my offer of a few dates that would culminate in a few hours in my bed?

Unless they thought they’d be the one to tame me, that I’d fall for them enough to change my wicked ways?

More fool they. I’d never fall in love.

I grinned at Dr. Avila. “We go have a coffee, yes.”