On Turpentine Lane(25)

“We did—nothing! So I asked the clerk again, but I think she was getting sick of us—”

“Is there going to be a payoff to this story?” I asked.

“Not yet. But we’re heading to the library to look at Echo microfiche. Well, I am. Your father is itching to get back to Boston.”

“Call me if you find the actual obituaries,” I said, implying, Not interested in your chats with fellow patrons and research librarians.

“That was my mother,” I told the four walls. “She and my dad are doing a little detective work about those babies I mentioned. The dead ones.”

When Nick didn’t react, I started collecting my notecards, my envelopes, my fountain pen, and my phone while huffing in offended fashion. I said I was going over to the student center. To write. To have a cappuccino. And he’d have the privacy he clearly desired.

He didn’t say, Sorry. I’m being rude. This is your office, too. What he said was “Fine.”

This was not normal, engaged, collegial Nick; this was sarcastic Nick, whom I’d only experienced alongside an annoying alum or an administrative Judas.

“And you don’t have to worry,” I said rather grandly, “because when I return, I’m minding my own business. I hope you’re not ill. I hope no one died. But maybe you need to answer Brooke’s calls.” I paused at the door. “Oh, and if I find out why my house is a crime scene, I won’t trouble you with that update.”

Finally, I got his attention. “Seriously?” he asked. “A crime scene? As in murder?” Then he said, “Sit down. I’ll explain.”





18





What a Pal


IT WAS THIS: Brookehad given him an ultimatum along the lines of propose, marry, propagate.

“Out of the blue?” I asked, provoking a minor Brooke-based tirade.

“With all our conversations from day one about marriage not being in the equation?” he demanded. “And now ‘Where is this going?’ You can bet her girlfriends put her up to this. They’re all relationship strategists. One of them—Lauren, Laura?—tried the same thing and her boyfriend caved. Game over! A magic marriage bullet!”

He further volunteered that she expected a ring, the cost of which should be equal to or greater than two months’ salary. And they’d marry in a year, but sooner if the hoped-for venue was available. “Do you believe that?” he demanded. “The venue!”

I wholly believed it. “That’s really important to some brides,” I said.

That collective noun provoked something of a shudder. There were more questions I wanted to ask, such as why was marriage never in the equation? Was it the person or the institution itself? The question I finally asked was “When did this conversation take place?”

“All weekend.”

“Are you getting married?”

“Jesus, no! I thought that was clear.”

I said I was sorry. It couldn’t be easy whether you’re the breaker-upper or the breakee . . . I mean, even though I was the one who broke up with Stuart . . . oh, never mind. Sorry for being so inarticulate but I wasn’t sure, given his miserable mood, whether I should be offering condolences or congratulations. And I couldn’t help noticing that Brooke had been calling rather assiduously.

“Slippage,” he said. “Regret is seeping in. She was sure I would get down on one knee and say, ‘Yes, darling. Will you be my lawfully wedded wife?’?”

Our neglected e-mails were pinging. Phone calls were going to voice mail. He gestured with an impatient wave. Gotta answer these.

Of course, it was that moment when Reggie entered, announcing that he’d been over in Admissions, meeting parents whose kid, a hockey star at Cathedral, twenty-five goals last season, was applying for a PG year.

“How are his grades?” I asked.

“Who cares?” Then to Nick: “I didn’t know you had a trip this week. Where you off to?”

“Nowhere.”

“Isn’t that your suitcase in the coat closet?”

“Technically, a duffel,” said Nick.

“Vacation? Because I’m supposed to know about such things.”

Nick finally turned away from his keyboard. “If you must know, there’s been a change in my living arrangements.”

This news incited Reggie to drag a chair to Nick’s desk, his enthusiasm barely contained. “No kidding! What happened?”

“Take a guess.”

“She kicked you out?”

I winced; I picked up my fountain pen, pretending to be lost in sentence contemplation but secretly pleased to have Reggie take over the third degree.

“It was mutual,” Nick said. And less audibly: “At least that’s the party line.”

“Maybe Nick doesn’t want to talk about his private life, Reg,” I said.

Nick, for the first time all morning, laughed. “Well, if that isn’t a pile of horseshit!”

“Me?” said Reggie. “What did I say?”

“No. Miss Innocent. She’d love to get the 411 on this.”

What to do? Laugh or take offense? I said, “Brooke could be calling me back any second. Or ringing my doorbell. It would help if I had a little more intel.”