Ironwood Ridge Read online

  “Hello, Professor. Hey, you were gone a long time this morning. I missed you.”

  “Today was my last day at JSU. I decided to get my vacation started the right way, so I ran an extra couple of miles. But I saw you drive off just as I turned onto our street.”

  “Health nut! Hey, where are you?”

  “The food court at the mall. I just traded out that defunct phone for a new one. Do you want the new number?”

  “It looks like it’s on my phone, but I’ll write it down anyway and put it beside my office phone. Just a minute.” He waited, imagining Darcy pawing through her drawer for a pad of sticky notes. Across the open space at the edge of the food court, he caught the eye of the Chinese salesman sixty feet away, standing in the doorway of the Worldwide Communications store, a booming new franchise that had set Wall Street buzzing when it went public a few months ago. Broc raised his thumb to signal that his new phone was working; the salesman waved back.

  Darcy’s voice came floating back. “There, now I can find you even if I misplace my cell phone. So, you’re on vacation now, huh?”

  “Filed my grades a couple of hours ago and thought maybe we could celebrate.”

  “It’s Thursday, Professor, I’ve got to be up at six tomorrow morning.”

  “Why so early?”

  “Brushing, combing, primping, the usual sorcery. Anyway, that’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point? I wasn’t planning an all-nighter, just dinner at the Skyscape.” The rotating restaurant thirty stories above the city was one of Darcy’s favorite spots.

  “That’s all?”

  “We won’t be out all night, just long enough for dinner. We could be home by nine thirty.”

  He listened to the silence at the other end. “That’s all?”

  “Oh, maybe some Irish Cream afterward at my place.”

  “Hey, Professor, I have to get up at six. How do I know you’ll behave?”

  “I always behave at my place.”

  “But this time, maybe you won’t. You’re on vacation; you can sleep in.”

  “Well, if you’re nervous about my place, how about your place, Counselor?”

  “Sounds wonderful!”

  “Why the hell will you never do it at my place? It always has to be at your place.”

  “Just a quirk. How does six thirty sound?”

  Broc’s watch showed four thirty. “Fine, I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “So long, Professor. But remember — since it’s my place, you bring the Irish Cream.”

  “Done!”

  He pushed the off button and thumbed through his notebook for another number. Her place, his place: it was crazy. They lived at the same place, shared the same bedroom, slept in the same bed. But every date had to end up at “her” place, not “his.” You bring the Irish Cream. That was the standard ritual. He couldn’t remember whether they had any at home; he should go by the liquor store down the mall.

  O’Neill punched up Alan Creighton’s number, directed his new phone to save it, then waited while the network sorted through its millions of customers. Creighton lived a couple of hundred miles away, one area code west, and taught at a branch of the University of Illinois at Edwardsville. He was in the same academic field as Broc, American history, but Alan had followed two tours of duty in Vietnam with graduate school at Berkeley and four books on high-tech military warfare.

  While the phone rang, Broc eyed an offprint of his article. The bold-print title spread over three lines with the excessive but precise wording required in the scholarly community: “An Early Policy Directive from President Truman: The Origins of Clandestine Domestic Operations by the National Security Agency.”

  The scariest thing I’ve read all semester— O’Neill smiled to himself. She was young with a pristine innocence his generation had missed. He calculated: in her late twenties, born toward the end of the Vietnam War — too late to be saddled with the disillusionment and guilt that had obsessed a whole generation of young Americans. He read his article title again. Makes me go cold just thinking about it. O’Neill supposed it could be disturbing from one point of view. After all, the document he had found and analyzed was a hitherto unknown directive from President Truman establishing the ground rules for a new intelligence-gathering operation that had soon become the most secret branch of the federal government.

  Alan Creighton answered on the eighth ring — out of breath.

  “Alan, my article on the founding of the NSA just came out. I’m going to mail you one. Also, sections of a couple of Truman documents plus some notes of analysis. I’m wondering whether you could read my analyses for the usual, glaring errors, jumps in logic, my tendency to theorize before all the facts are certain.”

  “Sure, Broc, but I’ve got a fax modem in my new machine. That’ll be quicker.”

  “Busy weekend ahead, but I’ll get it to you by Monday.

  Chapter Two

  Darcy O’Neill followed the waiter as he led her and Broc through the maze of tables toward the west-facing windows where the evening sun lit up a stack of pink and yellow clouds. The waiter seated Darcy in the most elegant style of service available anywhere in the city. Broc pulled in his own chair.

  He thanked the host. Darcy noted how his dark eyes caught the candlelight as he touched the silverware and glanced at the sky. Then he turned to her and she felt the force of his presence, the thick shock of chestnut hair across his forehead, his eyes moving from her hair over her face to her lips, then to her eyes.

  “This was such a good idea!” Her eyes moved from the brown-suited width of his shoulders to his hands, his gold wedding band, his gold watch, a gift bought with her Christmas bonus. She wriggled in her chair and pulled off her gray tweed jacket.

  “My God. Do you go to work in things like that?” he wondered, his eyes on the plunging neckline and frills around her bodice.

  She touched the fine gold chain at her neck and saw his eyes follow it to the hanging emerald against her skin. “You like it? So do all the guys on my floor.” She felt a little devilment as she watched his eyes. The fact was she had laid out a nondescript blue blouse with her jacket for today’s work. She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “But the goodies are just for you, Professor.”

  “When did you have a chance to get home and change?”

  “I didn’t,” she confessed, fluffing the ruffles. “I bought this a couple of months back. Left it in my office closet for emergencies.”

  “This is an emergency?”

  “When your hubby wants a date, it’s always an emergency.” She watched his eyes, and the knowing smile, feeling a little flutter of excitement. She reached across the table, beckoning him to lean forward, and proceeded to adjust the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. “You should talk, Professor. This getup wasn’t what you wore this morning. Do you keep extra suits at your office to dazzle all those sweet co-eds?”

  “I had time to go home and change.”

  She ran her fingers down the collar, admiring the tie, then caught his eyes again. She squeezed his hand and they gazed together over the city as the restaurant turned almost imperceptibly toward the darker northern sky.

  Broc ordered ice water and a bottle of German Riesling, three-year-old vintage, which they sipped while watching the restaurant fill up. A quarter hour later the waiter took their order. Broc was acting relaxed and wealthy as he always did, facing three months of summer vacation. He ordered pepper steak with baked potato and snow peas; she ordered a lighter meal of seafood and dinner salad.

  “So you’re on vacation! Does that mean you’re going to loaf all through my last week of slavery at the law patch? If so, I just want to say it’s disgusting!” She loved to remind him he had a soft job with too many afternoons free and obscenely long vacations while she put in a respectable day from nine to five. Even if she stayed home, she’d put in more hours shopping and cooking. Once she told him it was another male plot to keep women in bondage, and he counter
ed with his usual accusation that temptresses signing up for university courses — “As you did!” — was an equally sinister female plot.

  “Actually, while you’re slaving away next week, I’ve got to run into Indianapolis.” Darcy waited while he sipped his wine. “I got a call today from Samuel Whiterock. He’s invited me to meet him next week.”

  “Whiterock?” Her memory worked. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “It took me a minute, too,” Broc admitted. “He was a Democrat in Congress until he got booted out in the Republican housecleaning of ‘94.”

  “I don’t remember a thing about him. Fill me in.”

  “There isn’t much to remember. I think he’s from Virginia. He served one term in the House.”

  “What’s he doing now? What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know much,” he said, distracted by the lights of Jefferson’s skyscrapers slowly passing their window. “He’s running some sort of consulting firm or foundation, no idea what. He says he wants to make an offer.”

  “An offer! Hey, Professor, are you going to take it?”

  Broc moved his hand in a gesture of finality. “I’m going to drive up to Indianapolis next Wednesday out of courtesy and see what’s on his mind. That’s all. I doubt that anything he could offer would be more interesting than the next ten weeks.”

  Darcy used his reminder as her cue. “Okay! Here’s what we’ve got! She opened her purse and pulled out a packet of envelopes, which she laid out in a row on the table. “I finish up here a week Friday. I figure we need a weekend to get organized.” She opened up one of the red, white, and blue envelopes. “I’ve got us tickets to Washington for the following Tuesday. American Airlines, nine in the morning. You think you can get up early enough to make it?”

  “Depends. Where are we staying the night before, your place or mine?”

  “It better be yours,” she advised; “you might not be able to handle that much excitement right before we fly.”

  “I vote for your place; I’m on vacation and by then you will be, too. You’ll just have to deal with the situation.”

  “Then you’ll have to bring the Irish Cream.”

  “Again? We haven’t even opened today’s bottle and you’re putting in orders for the week after next. Don’t you know that drinking before flying is not good for you?”

  “Maybe not for pilots,” she quipped. “Anyway, we better enjoy ourselves while we can. I hereby issue an invitation. No more nights at your place, every night till we fly at my place.”

  Broc appeared confused. “You’re acting a little nutty! What’s going on? And what’s this about while we can?”

  “I got a phone call from the doc today.”

  “What about?”

  Darcy felt little bubbles of excitement inside. Broc hadn’t even known she had an appointment. “You’re going to be a father, Professor; that’s what!”

  Astonished, he was unable to speak. It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. He was such a handsome devil, but right now he looked like a dumbfounded kid.

  “So that’s what I mean, while we can. I’ve been reading up on this. Apparently, we’re supposed to be celibate for six weeks before and six weeks after.”

  “Before and after what?”

  “Before and after the baby comes, silly. So we haven’t much time. Apparently, I’m three months pregnant, the doc says the baby is due in November. We can play all summer but have to be good starting at the end of September.”

  Stunned by the news and struggling for words, he ran his fingers through his hair. She reached across and cradled his hand again. “Don’t men ever think to hold a lady’s hand?”

  “My God! A baby. Diapers in the washer, pablum on the floor, Legos on the driveway. How can you be so calm?”

  “What’s this about Legos in the driveway?”

  “Dad once ran over my Lego castle. I’ll have to train him to build inside.”

  “Him? What makes you think it’s a him? I built great Lego castles when I was a kid. And I was better than my brother. You could have a daughter.”

  “This is really going to disrupt everything.”

  “What on Earth did you think? That we would go on leading this Yuppie lifestyle forever?”

  “But we’ve been married without kids for ten years.”

  “That’s the point, Professor. It’s time! Anyway” — she pulled her hand away and started rearranging envelopes on the table — “we’ve got these flights out of here on the twenty-seventh. I’ve booked us into the Ritz in Washington for five days. That will give us time to walk around the Mall, meet your friend at Georgetown U, and maybe see the Smithsonian, which you’ve been lusting after for years.”

  Broc didn’t quite appear to be concentrating, but it didn’t matter. It would be fun telling it all twice. “Then” — she touched his hand to get his attention — “I’ve rented a car for thirteen weeks, all of June, July, and August. We can head out to the cabin first of June and — vacation begins!”

  “Cabin?”

  Darcy smiled at him across the table, feeling as amused at his confusion as she was excited about the summer. “I’ve been studying the map. I’ve booked a cabin down on Choptank Bay. Right on the water! There are all these quaint little towns with British names like Tilghman and Oxford and Sherwood and Christ’s Rock. And you can ferry into Washington whenever you can’t stay away. Me? I don’t plan to budge from the beach the whole summer!” She felt a little like a romantic adolescent.

  “A car for three months, and a cabin,” he paused, “that’s a bunch of money.”

  “Never mind, Professor, I got a huge bonus from that oil litigation we settled last month. Twenty-six thousand extra dollars!”

  “My God, I’m in the wrong profession!”

  “So, I’ve decided to book a little vacation.”

  “Little! A waterfront cabin for three months? That’s a vacation to end all vacations?”

  “Not quite!” She lowered her eyes and then up at him mischievously. “Choptank Bay is just for starters. I’ve fixed us a little getaway in the middle — last week in July, first two weeks in August.” Darcy picked up another envelope. “See, here it is.” Beaming from ear to ear, she passed the ticket across the table.

  Broc read the ticket. American Airlines. Washington to Los Angeles… L.A. to Singapore, July 22nd. Astonished, he looked up at her.

  “See, Professor, we’re going to have this baby in November. After that, it’s all Pampers and rocking a baby in the middle of the night. So we need to have one big fling. You always said you wanted to see Asia. From what I hear, Singapore’s a world-class city.”

  The waiter arrived with a tray and steaming plates. She watched him moving his wine glass and flatware to make room, his thick hair falling a little farther down his forehead as he examined everything. But even the pepper steak could not quite distract him from all the news. She watched the waiter sprinkle cheese on her spinach salad.

  Broc was looking at her when she looked up. “What a summer! I thought I was making a big splash booking a table up here” — he waved his hand to take in the candlelit tables, now all full — “but nothing like the splash you’ve planned.” She smiled and held up her wineglass. He raised his and clinked it against hers.

  “You know, Darcy, you’re in the wrong profession. You should have gone into tourism.”

  “You’ve forgotten,” she observed, her fork poised, “but it was before we met; it’s no wonder you forgot. Two-year program, Franklin College, remember — in Travel and Tourism.”

  Broc sliced through his steak and she dug into her salad. She had met Broc twelve years ago when she enrolled at Jefferson State University with two years of transfer credit from New Jersey. She had taken one American history class from him, majored in business, and they had been married in August the summer after she graduated. Then she had gone into law school, completed bar exams three years later, and joined Sanderson & Sanderson, a low-key law f
irm with a dozen partners at a beginning salary of eighty-five thousand, plus bonuses. Their savings account had started to grow. It was time, she thought, to celebrate. She had worked hard and he had supported her ambitions in every way. Both of them deserved a big splashy vacation.

  Broc followed her BMW — last year’s Z3 affectionately known as “Beemy” — which fulfilled her need to play the role of the big-time attorney. He felt full and well fed, and he was very much in love with his wife. He remembered her dark eyes glittering across the table and her midnight black hair framing her face. Pregnant! Of course, he shouldn’t be surprised, the way they spent all their spare time.

  He pulled his Honda Accord into the driveway beside Beemy and turned off the motor; it was nine fifty-five. She leaned her head on his shoulder as he found the key.

  From somewhere in the distance — a dozen blocks away — they heard a muffled volley of pops. They paused, listening. It was difficult to tell the direction of the sound.

  “I thought Chinese New Year was over.” Darcy turned toward the house. Another burst of pops sounded like firecrackers.

  Broc followed her in and flicked on the lights. She dropped her jacket on the hall chair and walked to the middle of the living room. She was a picture of beauty. A memory flashed across his mind: he remembered the first day he had met her; she had come up to the podium at the end of class and asked a question about an assignment. He remembered how she turned afterward, and how she had looked as she walked toward the door. Tonight, twelve years later, she still looked that way, as slim and fit as that day when she was barely twenty-two.

  Darcy flung her arms out and spun around in the middle of the room, stopped, and pointed at the crooked lamp shade beside his reading chair. “See, Professor, your place is so messy, like that package on the chair–”

  “It’s my new license plates for Honda.”

  “It’s been there for three days.”