show the depth of his feelings.”
“Take my skepticism as interest, then.”
“In me or my company?”
“Oh, definitely,” Nick said, intentionally vague.
She smiled brilliantly, without pretense. Her eyes lingered on his face and then darted off to scan the crowd, as if Nick could read her thoughts through her pupils.
Ah, if only I could…
“I’ve always admired teachers,” she said. “A friend of mine took a course with you a few years ago. He said it was a wonderful experience. Have you ever thought of giving courses in genealogy? Maybe I could arrange another grant from Artemis Holdings.”
“Another grant?” Nick asked, puzzled.
“Have you forgotten so quickly? That smacks of ingratitude.”
She thinks I’m teasing, but I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about.
“Oh, of course. What grant?” she teased back, giving a stagey wink and biting her bottom lip as if she’d been caught at something naughty.
His heart raced at the sight of her wet white teeth depressing her luscious red lip.
“I know all about it,” she said. “No sense being coy. Mother has told me about the funding you’re receiving now. She has her pet projects, her own enthusiastic, perhaps impulsive, way of doing things, which sometimes I don’t find out about until the machinery is already in motion. I understand: she’s obviously asked you to keep the grant quiet. So many worthy projects out there. Discretion is the better part of philanthropy.”
Nick decided to nod. Mrs. Armiger was lying to her own daughter about him and his mission. Why? He hated backing up lies not his own.
“You know how older people can be about passing on control to the next generation?” Zola said. “So, when will the book be ready?”
You ought to hear about some of your mother’s other special projects, Nick wanted to say. She didn’t know about the sordid foundations of Artemis Holdings, the company and family history of treachery, bigotry, and who-knows-what-else. She was completely innocent. The playful look in her eyes, devoid of any double-meaning, the bantering, childlike tone of her conversation, convinced him that in life, as in her stock-picking, this beautiful woman yet saw the world as she wanted it to be.
“The book. Oh, sure,” he said, playing along. “Well, you know how these things are. Lots of research, travel, that sort of thing. Maybe in a year, year and a half…”
The lights dimmed a few times, signaling the dawdlers to return to their seats.
“I’d enjoy hearing more about it, Nick. Angus at the Plutarch said your friends call you that. I hope you don’t mind.” And after a moment’s hesitation: “Some of my friends and I are going out after the play, to hit some bars over on Magazine. There’s just so much high culture I can take in one night. Why not come with us? I’ve always been interested in genealogy and would love to hear your thoughts. And bring Professor Kern. The Rotting Fish-heads from Pluto are playing at the Gumbo Club. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”
Though he hadn’t, he said, “Got all their 45s.”
Zola caught on immediately to his jesting insincerity. “Well, find me after the play if you’re interested. Keith Richards is supposed to sit in for a jam session…. Did you hurt yourself?”
“Oh, this?” Nick asked, touching his face. “Electric razor malfunction.”
Zola didn’t know quite what to make of the answer. In farewell, she let her hand rest in Nick’s for a delicious moment that felt to him like a lifetime. “Hope to see you soon,” she said.
Shaking himself free of the gorgeous woman’s spell, he searched the lobby for Una, but she was gone.
“I thought you were bringing me a champagne.” Una was pouting. “You forgot me. The story of our friendship.”
“Damn, I’m sorry,” said Nick. “I got mired in a conversation with a bigwig on the board or something at the Plutarch. Time just got away from me.”
“I know who she is. Rather pretty, isn’t she?”
“If you like that sort of look, I guess.”
Two or three people hissed them into silence. There was a definite chill coming from Una’s vicinity as they watched the play resolve itself into dancing and marriages–a happy ending that depressed Nick terribly.
In the shadows of the parking lot, Nick gave Una the spoils of his two-day Natchitoches rampage.
A sporty red Volvo pulled up beside them.
“Nick, Una! Come with us, please. There’s plenty of room,” Zola, in the front passenger seat, shouted out to them over the car stereo and the engine noise. Two other women and a man in the back