going to say to her short-haired—always—husband when the story made its rounds back to him, as it inevitably would. But Max had a wonderful sense of humor. Usually.
NINE
Sunday afternoon
Unaware that the history of his hair length and its galvanizing effect upon Annie was about to become a topic of interested and occasionally ribald speculation in island watering holes, Max jammed an ink-stained hand through his short locks in complete frustration.
“Damn.” He leaned back in his chair, which was still vibrating cheerfully but hadn’t done a thing to ease the crick in his back from his extended—and fruitless—telephoning. He propped his tassel loafers on the desk—who cared if it had once been owned by a cardinal?—and flicked a second switch to add heat to the vibrations.
Easy does it, Maxwell, he told himself. Go with the flow. Remember? Surely he couldn’t be catching Annie’s intensity? He breathed deeply, thought briefly of his mantra (Laurel did mean well, and a woman’s only son couldn’t refuse a little thing like a mantra; it would be rudeness of the worst sort), and began to relax. He didn’t bother to analyze what turned the trick—the heat, the added oxygen, or the chant.
But he was beginning to feel like himself, which was, of course, laid back, comfortable, unstressed, and mellow. It wouldn’t add to his meager stock of information to attack the telephone like a Type A personality. He entertained himself for a moment, thinking of a number of interesting variations on possible expansions of the letter into descriptive summations, such as Airhead, Antbrain, and Asshole, all of which, in his view, aptly delineated people who threwthemselves through life without a passing glance at, much less a sniff of, the flowers.
Except for Annie, of course, his delightful, opinionated, high-strung, easily irritated, quickly angered, very sexy Annie. He beamed at her photograph. All the charm of a hedgehog, but much prettier.
Then he sighed. His dear little hedgehog was not going to be pleased at his unproductive afternoon. And Annie had such respect for his investigative abilities. (Of course she did.)
Besides, it was thwarting even to someone of his easygoing nature to throw out a net and come up with zero. Almost. Oh, he had a few facts, but not nearly enough. Always before, he’d found it easy to track down peoples pasts. Thoughtfully placed calls to banks, insurance companies, police, credit bureaus, employers, local societies, and former neighbors (especially former neighbors), plus quick scans of newspaper files, reference books, and yearbooks could retrieve the damnedest information imaginable. Birth dates. Marriages. Divorces. Family. Schools. Organizations. Jobs. Gossip, both kindly and not so kindly.
Not this time.
Once again, he tugged in exasperation at his short, thick hair, and the phone rang.
He dived for it. Maybe something was going to pop.
“Max, my dear, what
are
you doing
there?”
He blinked. “How did you know I was here, Mother?”
“I divined it, my dear.” A sigh. “And I must say I’m disappointed.” Laurel’s husky voice fell away like a distantly heard train whistle in the night.
Max had been dealing with Laurel for almost thirty years. Now he tilted his chair almost to horizontal and tried to sound suitably serious. “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie. What can I do that will fill you with parental pride?”
There was a thoughtful pause. For once, Laurel seemed to be at a loss for words. That
was
astounding.
Finally, delicately, she said, “Although I know you and Annie are most concerned about Ingrid’s disappearance, and I respect that and understand it, I do believe—and I’ve had a good
deal
of experience—that a marriage must have a proper
beginning.”
Pause. “Maxwell, one must
cleave
in marriage.”
Now Max was at a loss for words. Could Laurel, could his mother—Yes. She could. And was. Although in his heart he agreed with her
NINE
Sunday afternoon
Unaware that the history of his hair length and its galvanizing effect upon Annie was about to become a topic of interested and occasionally ribald speculation in island watering holes, Max jammed an ink-stained hand through his short locks in complete frustration.
“Damn.” He leaned back in his chair, which was still vibrating cheerfully but hadn’t done a thing to ease the crick in his back from his extended—and fruitless—telephoning. He propped his tassel loafers on the desk—who cared if it had once been owned by a cardinal?—and flicked a second switch to add heat to the vibrations.
Easy does it, Maxwell, he told himself. Go with the flow. Remember? Surely he couldn’t be catching Annie’s intensity? He breathed deeply, thought briefly of his mantra (Laurel did mean well, and a woman’s only son couldn’t refuse a little thing like a mantra; it would be rudeness of the worst sort), and began to relax. He didn’t bother to analyze what turned the trick—the heat, the added oxygen, or the chant.
But he was beginning to feel like himself, which was, of course, laid back, comfortable, unstressed, and mellow. It wouldn’t add to his meager stock of information to attack the telephone like a Type A personality. He entertained himself for a moment, thinking of a number of interesting variations on possible expansions of the letter into descriptive summations, such as Airhead, Antbrain, and Asshole, all of which, in his view, aptly delineated people who threwthemselves through life without a passing glance at, much less a sniff of, the flowers.
Except for Annie, of course, his delightful, opinionated, high-strung, easily irritated, quickly angered, very sexy Annie. He beamed at her photograph. All the charm of a hedgehog, but much prettier.
Then he sighed. His dear little hedgehog was not going to be pleased at his unproductive afternoon. And Annie had such respect for his investigative abilities. (Of course she did.)
Besides, it was thwarting even to someone of his easygoing nature to throw out a net and come up with zero. Almost. Oh, he had a few facts, but not nearly enough. Always before, he’d found it easy to track down peoples pasts. Thoughtfully placed calls to banks, insurance companies, police, credit bureaus, employers, local societies, and former neighbors (especially former neighbors), plus quick scans of newspaper files, reference books, and yearbooks could retrieve the damnedest information imaginable. Birth dates. Marriages. Divorces. Family. Schools. Organizations. Jobs. Gossip, both kindly and not so kindly.
Not this time.
Once again, he tugged in exasperation at his short, thick hair, and the phone rang.
He dived for it. Maybe something was going to pop.
“Max, my dear, what
are
you doing
there?”
He blinked. “How did you know I was here, Mother?”
“I divined it, my dear.” A sigh. “And I must say I’m disappointed.” Laurel’s husky voice fell away like a distantly heard train whistle in the night.
Max had been dealing with Laurel for almost thirty years. Now he tilted his chair almost to horizontal and tried to sound suitably serious. “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie. What can I do that will fill you with parental pride?”
There was a thoughtful pause. For once, Laurel seemed to be at a loss for words. That
was
astounding.
Finally, delicately, she said, “Although I know you and Annie are most concerned about Ingrid’s disappearance, and I respect that and understand it, I do believe—and I’ve had a good
deal
of experience—that a marriage must have a proper
beginning.”
Pause. “Maxwell, one must
cleave
in marriage.”
Now Max was at a loss for words. Could Laurel, could his mother—Yes. She could. And was. Although in his heart he agreed with her
Similar Books
