Free A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron Page A

weren’t trying to come off as an older brother instead of a flirt, he would have left “lubricant.”
    Beneath that was one of Marty’s hastily scribbled notes, familiar from our college days together:
    Dearie, if this child doesn’t make her appearance soon, I’m going in there after her with an eviction notice. In the meantime, one of us has to have a good time, so have a sup and think of me and my bottle of fizzy water. À bientôt.
    M.
    So, Marty still wasn’t telling us what the name of the baby would be. I couldn’t wait to see what kind of a mother she’d make, or what the baby would be like, as far as that went. As a matter of fact, I recalled with a frown, it seemed as though all of my friends were considering these issues. I’d just had an e-mail from my friend Jane in England, who told me in her matter-of-fact way that her work on the abbey was moving along splendidly, and by the way, she was due with twins in the early fall: Trust her to fit in one last field season beforehand. A longer e-mail from her husband, Greg, filled in some of the blanks: Jane seemed untroubled by morning sickness and showed no sign of any nesting instinct and was quite her old self, though she was smiling more often now. Before I could embrace the thought that Jane might have mellowed a bit, he followed that news with, “The students and I still feel the lash and are very interested to see what changes the ‘bliss’ will eventually bring. I suspect the babies will not be as susceptible to Jane’s efficiency as the rest of us.”
    There must be something in the water, I thought, and then caught myself. No, it’s not the water. It’s how old we all are, it’s the time when people decide these things. Well, I certainly haven’t time for that, I thought, but then again brought myself up short. If Jane Compton, workaholic extraordinaire and, once upon a time, girl rocketing up the academic ladder could imagine—nay, was actually having—children, then it was entirely possible that I should put this topic on my list of things to consider before I got too much older.
    That thought was more than enough for the moment; I slammed the lid on that particular piece of Tupperware and shoved it to the back of the refrigerator of my mind to deal with later. Armed with my two talismans, my whiskey and bracelet, I went down to reestablish my place in Shrewsbury and the rest of the world.
    No one was about—a notice on the little bulletin board in the front foyer suggested that the others were probably attending a lecture at Amherst. Fine, I decided, I would just commandeer the house library for myself.
    That room was every fantasy a serious reader could have imagined. The walls were covered with built-in bookcases that reached the twelve-foot ceiling; a bank of French windows was opposite the sliding doors I had come through. The plaster design on the ceiling was nearly as complex as the pattern on the oriental rugs that broke the room into discrete areas. An enormous stone fireplace dominated the center of another wall, with matching bookcases on either side. In one corner was an escritoire filled with Shrewsbury stationery, while the other furniture consisted of two plump leather couches and a couple of wingback chairs, closest to the fireplace.
    Now, I pondered, if I were a crystal sherry set, where would I be kept? Familiarity with P. G. Wodehouse rather than an in-depth acquaintance with life in grand houses led me in the right direction—the cupboard to the right held a dozen short glasses, several long-banished ashtrays, and a box of matches.
    The wood box was not at all dusty and the kindling was free from cobwebs: Someone intended this to be a working fireplace. Emboldened by the bottle and the thought of a fire to add a little emotional warmth to the room, and armed with the matches and the posted instructions, I opened the flue, checked for a draft, and stacked up a reasonably cozy pile of papers, kindling, and logs. It