Shadows 7 (18 page)

But her address to the food—ah, that was exquisite. Her fork balanced in a firm hand, Pristine studied the entree, turned it this way and that in the manner of an inquisitive coroner, then, resigned that the chef could come no closer to her ideals, speared, chewed, and reluctantly swallowed. Solebury's lips parted in silent admiration. He dared to hope.

"The best is none too good, is it?" he winked at her, then applied the test. Would she join him soon again in a dinner of his own preparation? "I'm something of an expert on dining. In a small way."

"Small way" was the code phrase that separated
cognoscenti
from the uninitiated. He was instantly gratified.

"Why don't we?" Pristine touched her white hand to his, strong fingers curving around intimately to touch his callused palm. She wrinkled her upturned nose at him. "It sounds memorable."

Solebury leaned forward and their eyes met over the forgotten trout almandine. "I think it could be. You know what it means to meet someone you can truly share with?"

"Yes, yes. I know." Pristine stroked the back of his slightly trembling hand. "So seldom. So rare."

A bubble of happiness swelled in Solebury's chest. "You're very beautiful."

"I feel beautiful tonight," said Pristine Solent.

They got out of the taxi a few blocks before her apartment, not wanting the evening to end, holding hands, heads close together. Solebury kissed her with clumsy ardor at her outside door. Pristine swayed into him, then threw back her head to the night sky with a little mew of contentment.

"What an evening. Oh, Addison, I hope there'll be a moon next time. I'm so damned romantic about these things. And a moon is part of it."

"It is. So important." Solebury positively quivered with joy.

"And what's a romantic dinner without moonlight?" Pristine squeezed his hand. "G'night."

If there was a sidewalk under him, Solebury didn't feel it. He floated to the corner and let three cabs approach, slow tentatively, and pass on before remembering he wanted one.

Like Lancelot, Solebury's love quest lay through great deeds. Such a dinner could not be conjured for the next evening or even within a week. Pristine would consider that careless. This called for his full mastery. Since the bone of genius is discipline, Solebury went back to basics, to research.

His own office, the library reference room, was his usual start. All the dailies were searched, torrents of fine print skimmed for the form of his menu. All professionals have their secrets; one of Solebury's lay in his insistence on a slightly pungent spice overlooked by all but a few masters and not commonly used for centuries. Only one establishment, Whittakers, still used it in their prepared seasonings. Just a tiny dollop, but to Solebury it was
sine qua non,
adding an overtaste delicate as it was incomparable.

At length his entree was found. In a rising fever of concentration Solebury turned his attention to the treacherous but crucial matter of wine.

Only a tyro considered geriatric vintages automatically best. Like any living thing, the grape had its youth, prime, and declining age. Of recent years he gave serious consideration to only one: '76 of course—but '76 what? Even within the confines dictated by a white-meat entree, there were nuances of choice. Some masters—and Pristine could well be one—preferred a
demi-sec
where he would choose a drier variety. A blunder here, one false step, could shadow Pristine's judgment. She'd be kind, but Solebury would feel a door closing behind her charity, and successive evenings would find her otherwise engaged.

He let instinct guide him, recalling a champagne he'd chosen not two months back, a superb Chardonnay
brut.
His usual shop produced one remaining bottle at a larcenous price, but Solebury's heart sang as he hurried home. He knew all this was preamble, part of the labor of love. A great deal of delving remained.

One more choice awaited him: the time, more of a gamble than all the rest. Pristine wanted a moon, but though Solebury scanned the papers and the skies, one promised nothing and the other remained perversely overcast. At last came an evening when the early autumn moon entered like a diva from a proscenium of fleecy cumulus clouds. Solebury turned from his window and reached for the phone, at once stabbed to the heart and uplifted by Pristine's throaty greeting.

"Hel
lo,
Addison. I was just thinking of you."

He choked on his ecstasy. "You were?"

"Must be ESP. I was looking at the moon and thinking tonight might be—"

"Yes. Perfect. That's why I called. You wanted a romantic moon. Shall we dine? Something
very
special?"

"In a small way. Love to," Pristine whispered over the wire. "I'm famished for something special."

A world of promise throbbed in her honeyed contralto.

Solebury always dined late. Pristine was not surprised by the hour or the address, neither that fashionable.

"It's a perfect time, Addison. I'm never hungry much earlier than that. I'll be there."

Solebury hung up in a soft rush of joy. Here was a mate for all reasons.

Humming with busy pleasure, Solebury twirled the '76 down into the waiting ice. Even now, before Pristine arrived, there was spadework. He miscalculated slightly and was only half ready with final preparations when she appeared. If her first dinner costume had been sensible, her clothing tonight was downright utilitarian—jeans and boots and a windbreaker against the cool. She gave Solebury a cheerful little peck and surveyed his labors.

"Can I help?" she asked politely.

"Oh no, really. There's just a little further—"

"No, let me. You've already worked so hard."

It flattered Solebury to see Pristine pitch in. She was very sturdy, but no dining of this caliber was ever accomplished without hard physical labor. At length Pristine paused, wiping her brow with the back of one white hand, and drew the champagne from its bucket to browse the label with admiration.

"Lovely year, Addison." She turned again briefly to the last shovel work, then stepped aside for her host. "You'll want to open up and carve."

"Of course. You are a dear, Pristine." Descending into the grave, Solebury wielded his implement with a practiced economy of movement. Three deft snaps with the crowbar broke the casket seals. With a gustatory flourish, he threw it open for her approval.

"Bon appetit, darling."

He hovered waiting under the October moon for the sunbeam of her approval, but he saw only a frown of disappointment.

"Beautifully aged," he assayed against her silence. "Buried Thursday."

Pristine sat down on the freshly turned earth. "Oh, Addison. Oh dear . . ."

"What—what's wrong?"

"Everything!" she wailed.

He felt a premonitory chill. "But he's perfect. Buried from Whittaker's last Thursday. I use them exclusively, the only undertakers who still use myrrh in their preparation. You must know that."

Pristine's disappointment turned brittle. "Of course I know that. There is Whittaker's and only Whittaker's. But as you see, the entree is hardly Caucasian."

True, the entree was decidedly dark. There was no mention of that in the obituary. He'd assumed white meat; a minor variant and trivial. Solebury vaulted out of the grave to sit facing Pristine like a teacher. "Pristine, that doesn't really matter. Expertise is one thing, ivory tower another."

"Doesn't matter?" Pristine corrected him like an errant child. "Surely you know non-Caucasian flesh doesn't take the myrrh flavor well at all. It cancels it out."

"I
beg
to disagree." Solebury's pride was at stake, and she was dead wrong. "A difference, yes. A subtle piquance, if you will, but hardly canceled."

"Even if that were true," Pristine countered in a voice cool as the churchyard dark, "it completely negates champagne."

Solebury began to feel a bit waspish despite himself. "Oh, really! The principle is the same as dark meat on fowl. I took days choosing that champagne. I am not an amateur."

But her pretty head wagged back and forth through his protestations. "Cold Duck, Mister Solebury. Nothing else."

He went falsetto at the sacrilege. "Cold
Duck?
It's so bloody common!"

"But," Pristine riposted with a raised forefinger, "the
un
common choice." Her assertiveness quavered and broke. "I'm sorry, Addison, but I—"

"Oh, please, Pristine. I worked so hard."

"I know, but it's all so
wrong."

"Please stay. I adore you."

"Oh, go to hell. Go to McDonald's—no. No, please, dear Addison, I didn't mean that. That was filthy. Just—" Her voice caught and shattered on a sob. "Just that I was looking for someone, too, someone to share with. It's so lonely being the best. And I thought you . . ."

"I am, Pristine, darling. We could share so much."

"No, not with differences as wide as these. Don't say anything, just goodbye. I'm leaving. I won't look back. Don't call me. Oh, my dear Addison. You were so close to perfection."

Solebury choked out something in farewell and admission of his sins, following Pristine with the eyes of tragedy as she receded forlornly through the cemetery gate. He slumped down on the turned earth, working without relish at the champagne cork. The
pop
was hollow as his hopes.

"So close to perfection," she had said. All right. He raised the glass to his better, though it cost him a love to learn. Life was still lonely near the top. The moon went down and the wind before dawn was desolate.

He could barely pick at supper.

It's curious how success often breeds paranoia—they're out to get you, you see, because you're on top and they don't want you there. It's seldom explained, however, who "they" are. Often, it's just as well you don't know.

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's latest novel is
Nomads,
and her collection from Scream Press should be in print by the time you read this.

Ben crumpled the telegram in his fist, smiling weakly at Heather. "It's just . . . some kind of joke."

She reached out to take the wadded yellow paper from him, not quite frowning as she did. "What on earth, then—"

He snatched it away from her and began to tear at it, so that bits of it fluttered down onto his half-eaten poached eggs. "It's nothing," he said more vehemently. "Don't make such a big thing about it." He put the shredded telegram next to his spoon. "Somebody at the office, I guess. They get prankish about the time summer comes."

Now Heather was definitely curious. "But what
was
it, honey? If it's just a prank, why not let me in on it?" She automatically poured more coffee for him. "Do you want me to be on the alert for more . . . pranks?"

His head jerked up. "More?" There was a pale line around his mouth and the muscles in his jaw worked. "There won't be any more," he promised her as he reached for his mug.

"All right. If you're sure." She could tell that he was still irritated, so she tactfully changed the subject. "I'll be working late at the library. Denise has both her boys home with measles and I said I'd fill in for her for the rest of the week."

"Oh—yeah," Ben said distractedly. His eyes were still on the remains of the telegram, and he was not paying much attention to her.

Heather knew that look well and accepted it philosophically. She would have time enough later to examine the telegram and find out what it was that had disturbed Ben.

When he had finished his eggs, he got up from the table. "Gotta run," he told her, as he did every morning before going to work. He reached down and took the torn paper, and without a word went and dropped it in the trash. "I'll call you if I'm going to be late."

"At the library," she reminded him, hoping he would remember.

She retrieved the telegram half an hour after Ben had left the house. With care she smoothed it out on the kitchen counter and began the painstaking task of putting it back together. She stared at it as the words took shape:

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND THE FUNERAL OF BENEDICT TURNER SATURDAY JUNE 23 4 PM

There was no signature, and the date was ten days away.

With hands that were not quite steady, Heather put the telegram back in the trash, handling it carefully, as if she feared it would explode. "A joke?" she asked the air, her voice shriller than usual. What kind of idiot, she wondered, made light of inviting a man to his own funeral? As if to rid the house of vermin, she closed the plastic sack that held the trash and carried it out to the curbside before gathering together her purse and notebook and leaving for work. As she double-locked the front door, she worried for the first time in over a year about the risk of leaving their home unattended.

"You got a moment, Carl?" Ben asked from the door of the vice-president's office. He had been debating for the better part of the morning if he should speak to his superior about some of the company clowns.

Carl Hurley looked over the rims of his glasses. He was neatly barricaded behind his desk, but still gave the impression of peering out at a dangerous world. "Sure. What is it, Ben?"

"I was . . . curious about Tim Hoopes. What's he up to these days?" It was a safe beginning, a way to approach his question without being obvious.

"Tim's been on leave, you know," Carl said cautiously.

Ben made a gesture showing he knew that. "When's he supposed to come back?"

"Not for a while yet. His doctors have been hedging their bets about him. It might be a couple more months yet." He waited a second. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. It's been a little dull around here without him, is all." He hoped that Carl would give him a chance to expand on this notion.

"The way Tim can be, that's not such a bad thing." Carl put aside the contracts he had been examining. "What's the matter? Have you been hearing the rumors too?"

This startled Ben. "Rumors? No." He tried to conceal his anxiety. "What are the rumors?"

Carl chuckled, which was rare, and indicated to Ben that he should sit down, which was rarer. "Well, it isn't likely that Tim will be able to resume his old job. He isn't up to managing an office any longer, or won't be for some time. We can't have this company going rudderless for that long. So there has been some speculation about who will be promoted. Are you
sure
you haven't heard any rumors about this, Ben?"