A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,43
He thought about that and then frowned briefly. “Unfortunately, that’s the clinical definition of hubris and one doesn’t really beat the gods at their own game. But no matter.”
“Look, Michael, I’ve been thinking about what you said last night—” I began.
His dopey adolescent grin returned. “Last night? Last night? What happened last night?”
“Well, we both used the word callous, and I think—”
I stopped when Michael continued to look confused. For a minute, I thought he was trying to embarrass me into recounting the entire situation, but then his face cleared. “Oh. That? You actually listened to what I said? And then you thought about it? To borrow a phrase from Jack, dearie gracious me. Ah, no matter. I’m pretty certain there should be no lasting harmful effects.” He vaulted up onto his feet, actually no mean trick as he was still entangled in the loose tails of his coat. “Down, boy, down!” he said, slapping the overcoat away. “My editor said that those tests that the FDA performed on my last book were inconclusive at best.”
“As long as there are no hard feelings—” I offered.
Michael abruptly coughed violently, spraying a mouthful of coffee all over the sink. Startled, I tried to pat him on the back, but he waved me off while he tried to draw a clear breath, coughing all the while. And standing so close by, I was forced to notice that he was wearing an unabashedly musky cologne; I was suddenly and forcefully reminded of all the documentaries I’d seen where they described how male animals marked their territory and attracted mates by smell. Jack’s Brut seemed like a meek afterthought, by comparison.
“Ach, Nicole Miller ties are not enhanced by staining—good thing I had my overcoat, eh?”
I shook my head sadly.
“You speak of hard feelings,” he continued, “not knowing I’m about to meet the vituperative Wife Number Three. She rang up this morning, trying to get more alimony out of me, when she knows there can’t possibly be a farthing left in the coffers. Numbers One and Two—”
My jaw dropped. “You’ve been married three times?” He couldn’t have been too far off forty-five, at most.
“Four, actually.” Michael looked annoyed. “I was about to say, Numbers One and Two are currently plotting with Number Four. I think Number Three is acting on her own this time—the other Weird Sisters would never consider anything so banal as mere finance. The four of them are constantly scheming, fighting, dispersing, regrouping. And yet, always to my disadvantage.”
He went on thoughtfully, index finger raised as if trying to articulate a bit of life wisdom. “Never marry anyone who teaches at the same college you do, Emma, you wouldn’t believe how it can work against you.”
Michael raised a second finger to tick off the next of his tenets. “And if you do marry someone who teaches where you do, make sure you don’t do it more than three times—I’m pretty sure now that four’s beyond the safe limit.” He sipped. “Anyway, Number Three is meeting me in Boston today to wrangle.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I remembered that I had been meaning to ask him about the quote in Madam Chandler’s diary, but other events had distracted me. “Well, maybe after you get back, you’d be willing to look at a quote for me. I think it’s a Classical philosopher, but I don’t know for certain. That might cheer you up—”
Michael was impatient and forgiving all at once. “Dear child, there’ll be no need of cheering.” He explained: “When Number Three says she wants to discuss money, she really means that she wants to work herself into such a violent froth of animosity that the only relief for the little piranha is to rend our mutual clothing and attempt to subdue me through coitus. I’m happy to say that I give in every time.”
I was still trying to wrap my head around this when Michael took his leave, still looking uncharacteristically jaunty.
“Ta-ta, Auntie. Send the SWAT teams to the Parker House if I’m not back by Sunday night.” He rubbed his hands together greedily. “With any luck, there’ll be a hostage situation!”
I watched as Michael started up his rattletrap Mazda and roared off with one of Edith Piaf’s melancholy songs blaring through the rolled-up windows. He had to be the most outlandish, most mercurial person I’d ever met; jaded and charismatic, incisive, rude, brilliant, and at times, just plain weird.
And if I was being perfectly honest, damned attractive. I’d found myself carefully resisting his odd