Free Ornaments of Death by Jane K. Cleland Page B

failed. “I’m sorry,” I said, once I regained my composure. “You must know how funny that sounds.”
    â€œNo,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Tell me.”
    I shook my head, embarrassed. “Do you work at Reynard, too?”
    â€œLike a dog.” He carried the mugs to the table. “Milk? Sugar?”
    â€œMilk is good, thanks.”
    He took a green floral jug from the fridge and slid it across to me, peeling away the plastic film covering the opening.
    â€œRoom with a Brit,” he said, “and you serve milk in a jug. Becca can’t stand plastic containers set out on the table.”
    â€œI’m with her. I latch on to any excuse to use my nice china.”
    â€œDo you know Becca well?” he asked.
    â€œWe’ve never met. I heard about her from her dad. Have you ever met him?”
    â€œNo.” He sat two stools down from me. “Tell me about being an antiques dealer.”
    â€œI love it. I get to spend most of my time researching beautiful objects.”
    â€œResearch is my chief passion, too. Don’t even talk to me about writing.”
    â€œIs research also Becca’s favorite part?” I asked, hoping my dragging Becca back into our conversation wasn’t too obvious.
    â€œBecca excels at everything. She’s only about three years out of grad school, but she already has a world-class reputation in the bivalve mollusk community.”
    â€œDoes your work ever overlap?”
    â€œAll the time.” He held up crossed fingers. “Becca is considering letting me piggyback on one of her grant applications, which would be a gift and a half since poor little me has had three grant applications rejected in the last year, and for a tenure-track assistant professor, the only thing that would be worse is if he hadn’t had any publications accepted, either. Oh, wait! I haven’t!”
    His self-deprecating humor was infectious.
    â€œWhy were your grant applications rejected? Do you know?”
    He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “Same old, same old. Shrinking funding. Increased competition. Similar projects. It’s criminal and it’s stupid. My work revolves around helping communities like Florida’s Gulf Coast and the New England shoreline restore their nearly extinct oyster populations—a certain way to boost the economy and feed the people. You’d think they’d be lining up to put their name on a project guaranteed to win awards and acclaim, but they’re not.”
    â€œFrustrating,” I said.
    He waved it away. “I cope well. I get out of town as often as I can to go diving.”
    I smiled, attracted to his cheerful, breezy attitude toward life. “Where are you going?”
    â€œI’m just back, actually. From Florida. A friend is tracking lionfish, among the most aggressively invasive species on earth. Just right for my current mood. I figured I could learn something I could apply to academia.”
    â€œIt sounds like you’re having a tough go of it.”
    â€œAh! But it’s a marathon, not a sprint, right? I’ll finish the race triumphant, just you wait and see.”
    â€œI believe you,” I said, smiling, hoping it was true. I finished my coffee. “I need to go. Do you have any idea when Becca will be back?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œIs she still in Nova Scotia?” I asked as I placed my mug in the sink and gathered up my tote bag.
    â€œNo. She’s in New Hampshire.”
    â€œNew Hampshire! That’s where I’m from.”
    â€œDo you know Rocky Point Oceanographic Institute? Reynard partners with them. She often bunks up there.”
    I laughed, buoyed. “I live and work in Rocky Point.” Maybe Becca and Ian had connected on Sunday and he simply forgot his other plans in the excitement of seeing his daughter.
    He laughed, too. “And you drove down here to see her?”
    â€œAnd