Free An Illustrated Death by Judi Culbertson Page B

who worshipped him, especially archeology students and aspiring poets. And to his family, as long as he approved of what we were doing.
    “How was Utah?” I asked, looking up from the menu. I had already decided on the lobster-stuffed ravioli with a truffle reduction, something I didn’t often make at home.
    “Too damn hot. We excavated some Anasazi dwellings, the usual kind. But I think I’ve had it with the Southwest.”
    “Really? Why?” I had loved traveling to that part of the world.
    “Wait.” He signaled the young waiter, who had already identified himself as Jeff, and ordered a bottle of vintage Côtes du Rhône. I was impressed.
    I also knew not to ask him anything else until the wine was poured.
    We were raising our glasses for the first momentous sip when he reached over to clink mine. “To new beginnings!”
    Whose new beginnings? Ours? Had he brought me here to tell me he had found someone else? This was the man who had moved out of the farmhouse almost a year ago, blaming me because his life lacked zest. The one who reminded me that since I hadn’t finished college, I was not fit to polish his commas.
    “Salut!” he insisted.
    “Salut,” I echoed, trying to remember which country it was from.
    “The truth is”—he lowered his eyes modestly—“they’ve offered me the chairmanship of the entire division.”
    “Wow. Congratulations. What does that mean exactly?”
    A break as our waiter set down the house salad of walnuts, blue cheese, pears, and baby greens. I gave the salad a fond look. It cost as much as my dress had.
    “More administrative decision making and less teaching, of course. More compensation, but they’ll expect me to be around more. And I’ll need to do more entertaining.” He gave me a meaningful look.
    I lowered the fork I had started to move toward my salad. Something about the way he was looking at me reminded me of Marty at the Old Frigate last week. While I had been happily trying to sell books, the men around me had been plotting an alternative universe.
    He tilted his head and looked into a rosy future. “A man reaches a certain point where he is no longer willing to live life on the fly.”
    Another familiar ring. But this one was Jane Austen, declaring that a single man in possession of a fortune must be in need of a wife.
    The trouble was, we had never had the fortune. Still, our life had been an adventure. I had been places I never would have gone. We’d always have Peru. And Berkeley. And Khartoum.
    “It’s time to buy a real house,” he was saying, “a house that suits who I’ve become. One of those grand old Victorians in Stony Brook or a captain’s home in Port Lewis. Somewhere we can give parties and hold receptions.” He took a bite of salad. “I know you never cared much about fixing up the farmhouse. But something like this might inspire you.”
    He was right about the farmhouse. Although I’d turned the barn into my book retreat, I had treated the house itself as if it were a motel to which we returned whenever we were in town. We could have negotiated with the university to replace the harvest gold kitchen appliances that needed mercy killing, and gone to sales to buy tasteful antiques. But we hadn’t. We were always off to another university for a guest lectureship, or sequestered at another archeological site. With three kids there were more pressing things to do when we were home.
    “We can fix up the top floor for the grandchildren.”
    Considering that Jason and Hannah were too young to think about marriage and Jane had sworn off serious relationships, I decided he was in Santa Claus mode.
    Jeff was back to clear our salad plates. I hadn’t touched mine yet.
    “Are you still working on that?”
    “Slaving away,” I assured him cheerfully.
    Colin snorted. When a disappointed Jeff had gone, he said, “You could think about finishing your education and deciding what you want to do.”
    “I am doing something. It’s called