London Broil (13 page)

"Now it's your
turn. You promised to tell me your fantasies. Have you ever had
a fantasy about a college lad?" She considered his question, and
realized that she felt shy about telling him. A flush started to
bloom on her cheeks as she hesitated. "I'm embarrassed. You'll
think my fantasies are silly. You'll make fun of me."

"Laura, I just
trusted you with something I've never told anyone, and it felt
good to tell it. You never have to lie to me or hold anything
back. Isn't that a comfort?" He put down his beer on a stone
coaster and pulled her back to lean against his chest, wrapping
his arms around her. "Now tell me. What do you think about..."
his voice dropped to a whisper, "when you touch yourself?"

"Every year in
Philadelphia there's a crew event, a regatta. The varsity rowers
from Temple are all big guys, well over six feet, and I love
watching them row. In my fantasy, I'm covered with something
delicious and gooey, and... all eight of them lick it off me."

She paused,
wondering what his reaction was, since she couldn't see his
face. He seemed very still. Finally he said, "What are you
covered with?"

"Usually
béarnaise sauce, though sometimes hollandaise." Now she could
feel his chest shaking and she knew he was laughing.

"See? I knew
you'd do that."

He tried to stop
laughing, but couldn't. His arms squeezed her more tightly.
"It's just the thought of you covered with béarnaise. That's
usually served on steak, you know. I thought you had an
objection to being compared with meat."

"I do. You should
try béarnaise on a green vegetable. It would be good for your
soul," she said grumpily.

"Right then,
moving on," he said soothingly. "Tell me another."

She lay back
again and thought for a moment. "Sometimes I think about being
blindfolded--with a silk scarf, that's very important-- and
being fed creamy dairy products. Don't laugh!" She jabbed him
with her fist. "
Crème fra
î
che
.
Sour cream. Whipped cream, sweetened, or mixed with brandy.
Mascarpone. Heavy cream. That wonderful stuff you have
here...clotted cream."

"Who feeds it to
you?"

"A man, but I
can't see him, so I don't know who he is. I have to guess which
type I'm eating. First he uses a spoon, and then his finger, and
then... other parts of him."

"I'm beginning to
like this fantasy. It has definite potential. But don't you have
any fantasies that are non-food-related?"

"Yes, there's one
where I'm in the bathtub taking a bubble bath and George Clooney
walks in."

"He just happens
to be in the neighborhood?"

"Yes. Don't
overanalyze it. He appears magically, and starts confessing that
his most secret and cherished desire in life is to suck on my
toes. And then he does." She was smiling, but she wasn't sure
whether he could hear it in her voice.

"You're having me
on, aren't you?" he said, and started to tickle her ribs. As she
doubled up with laughter, he pressed her back onto the bed and
untied the bathrobe she was wearing. "And now it's time to turn
to home improvements. I believe you have a wee nail in need of
my attention."

17.
Chardonnay with a
Serpent

On Monday in the
Porteous library, as she was musing over a particularly
delightful 1676 edition of Vergil with a foldout map and a swan
engraved on the title page, Hamish suddenly walked in.

"Miss
Livingston-- may I call you Laura? I've been remiss in not
finding a chance to have a cozy chat before now." Hamish was
dressed in black jeans and a cream-colored linen shirt with
black loafers. He crossed over to shake hands with her and when
he took her hand in his tight grip, she thought that he held on
to it slightly longer than was necessary.

"There was no
need. I'm sure you're a very busy man, and I feel privileged to
have the chance to visit here."

"No, it's a
pleasure for us to have a scholar of your stature working with
our collection. I googled you, of course. I'd like to learn more
about your work. Perhaps you'd come into the kitchen and have a
drink with me?"

She was surprised
at his sudden interest, and suspicious of his motives, but could
hardly refuse the invitation. She closed her laptop and followed
as he led her out of the library and down the hallway toward the
back of the house. As they walked, she noticed his impressive
physique, and the way the muscles of his back were set off by a
custom-tailored shirt. His collar sat well off his neck,
revealing the spot where his blond hair came down to a point at
the nape, and the smooth, hairless, tanned skin below. Her gaze
dropped down to his rear end, which was nearly as stunning as
Ellen's in its own, masculine way.

The kitchen was a
long, narrow space with an array of impressive appliances,
copper pots hanging from racks, and expensive-looking marbled
countertops. At one end was a nook rather like a large
restaurant booth; he indicated that she should sit there.

"White wine?" he
said, taking a bottle from a dedicated fridge and opening it. He
didn't look at her to see whether she would agree. "I have a
Littorai Chardonnay by Ted Lemon. As an American, you may be
familiar with this." She made an appreciative sound; the Sonoma
winemaker's bottles were hard to come by. He brought the wine
paraphernalia over on a tray with a dark wood board holding a
cheese, some crackers and a small dish of a chunky red
substance. Laura's interest was immediately piqued, and she
asked about the cheese.

"It's a comté,
and this is a good English tomato pickle," he said. "Perfect for
a mountain cheese like this. But try the wine first." It was
delicious and they sat for a moment sipping it and enjoying the
cheese, which was fully ripe and at room temperature. He must
have planned this, she thought. She could already feel the
impact of the wine as her empty stomach absorbed the alcohol.
Hamish turned his brilliant blue gaze on her and held her eyes
with his. He had the same magnetic charm as his sister. He said,
"Now, tell me about your project."

"Are you sure you
want to hear this? Most people's eyes glaze over after thirty
seconds."

"I hope to
survive the ordeal, given that I've been collecting since I was
ten and helping Father acquire books for the last decade," he
said, smiling wryly. She wondered how old he was. He looked to
be in his mid thirties. Quite a bit younger than she, and far
better looking. He could have no sexual interest in her, yet she
felt ridiculously flattered by his attention.

She explained
that she studied the contents of writers' libraries and the
relationships between the works they wrote and the works they
owned. "I'm particularly interested in books owned by Alexander
Pope," she said. "There is no sale catalog from his library and
limited evidence about his books, though I know he was a
subscriber when Pine engraved his Horace. You have a copy of the
Horace, but I didn't see anything that could identify it,
unfortunately."

Hamish nodded,
and casually placed his arm along the back of the seat. He was
sitting surprisingly close to her, his thigh almost touching
hers. She wondered whether the heat she felt radiating from it
was just her imagination.

"We have a couple
of books owned by Joseph Addison. Some fine Elzevirs in
contemporary bindings. I'll show you. You belong to that small
group of people who can truly savor their loveliness." They
talked on, sipping the wine and discussing the seventeenth
century book trade and the high points of the Porteous
collection.

"And what opinion
did my father have about the Pine's previous ownership when you
spoke to him?" he suddenly asked. Her heart jolted inside her
chest and she immediately felt sober.

"I've not spoken
to your father," she answered slowly, looking him in the eye.
"You told me the first day I visited that he was quite ill. I'd
love to see him if he's better now, " she added quickly. "Would
that be possible?"

He ignored her
question. "I thought perhaps he'd asked to see you or that
Charlotte had taken you upstairs..." His voice trailed off and
he looked at her with his blue eyes, questioning, probing. She
felt like a small furry animal mesmerized by a viper. She simply
shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything more, and
let her eyes roam over his face, let herself mindlessly
contemplate his good looks. He was as handsome as a Greek
statue, and almost close enough to kiss her. She felt a flush
rising in her cheeks and silently railed against it, willing the
blood not to flood into her face.

After a moment he
turned away and drained the rest of his wine. He'd seen the
blush, she thought, but attributed it to the modesty of a dowdy
librarian captivated by his good looks. It was partly true. "And
how much longer will you be working with us?" he asked. His
manner had subtly changed and she knew their interview was over.
"Only another few weeks," she said lightly. "I'm leaving in
early September." Inwardly, she sighed in relief that she hadn't
told him about the note and letter in the Pine. That was
Alexander Porteous' business, not his son's. If she had told
him, she would have been breaking a confidence.

"I wish you
success in your work, Laura. If there's anything I can help you
with, please let Charlotte know." As they got up, Laura cast a
regretful glance at the half-consumed bottle of Littorai
Chardonnay. She hoped it would not go to waste. Perhaps
Charlotte would enjoy it.

18.
Nolly's Vegetarian
Pleasures

James called her
later that week and asked if she would come out to eat with him
and Nolly, his food critic friend. Nolly had an assignment to
write about a vegetarian restaurant, and they thought Laura
could provide useful commentary on the cuisine. She agreed,
provided it would be an early night. She had plenty of work
planned for the next morning.

When she arrived
at Fava, James and Nolly were already seated at a table in a
semi-private room upstairs, drinking martinis. They stood up as
she came to the table. Nolly was a tall, undeniably fat man with
a ski-slope nose and a thick fringe of hair in mingled grey and
reddish-brown; he had a sizable bald spot on the back of his
head. "My dear Laura!" He took her proffered hand and instead of
shaking it, raised it to his lips. "Do sit down and have a
cocktail with us. We've put off looking at the menu until your
arrival." Laura ordered a martini (Bombay Sapphire, up, not too
dry, olive) from the hovering server, and sat between Nolly and
James.

"James tells me
you're an English professor with a philosophical bent," said
Nolly in his Masterpiece Theatre accent. "I'm all agog to hear
more. I read English at Oxford myself." So, she thought with
satisfaction, James did realize that she was a professor rather
than a librarian. She hadn't been entirely certain on that
point.

She smiled at
Nolly. "I couldn't decide between Classics and English, so I had
coursework in both, though my PhD is in English," she said. "The
philosophy is just a personal interest. I'm particularly
attracted to the Epicureans."

"Hah! The
epicure meets the Epicurean," put in James.

"What's the
difference?" asked Nolly as her martini arrived, and she savored
a sip of the chilled drink before answering. "An epicure is a
gourmet, of course, but an Epicurean believes that pleasures
have to be tempered with discipline."

"Be still, my
beating heart," said Nolly dramatically, pressing a hand to his
chest. "Why, I adore discipline! I don't suppose you'd want to
pop over one day and be my tutrix?" And he waggled his eyebrows
suggestively while James rolled his eyes.

"Well, from what
I've heard about your gout, it sounds as though you could use a
few lessons," she said tartly. "And to be frank, people with
gout would be wise to learn my kind of discipline and steer
clear of yours. Unless you enjoy the thought of a riding crop
connecting with your toes?"

Nolly winced.
"You see what I have to put up with?" said James.

"Not at all, not
at all," replied Nolly, appraising Laura with new respect. "Why,
there is nothing to equal a woman of wit. My third wife Phyllida
was very learned, you know. I loved to listen as she discoursed
on Kant, especially since she insisted that the correct German
pronunciation was..." (and here he lowered his voice to a stage
whisper) "Cunt!" Nolly and James both guffawed at this, and
Laura sighed, wondering if it was going to be a long night.
"Shall we look at the menus?" she asked.

"Of course," said
Nolly, picking up his menu. "My dear, the one thing you need to
know about me is that I'm a complete and utter idiot..." (Here
he waved a dismissive hand at James, who was strenuously
objecting that "wanker" would be a more accurate description)
"...and you must never listen to a thing I say. Now, can you
help us with the decipherment? What the devil is seitan?" Nolly
giggled at his own pun.

"It's a meat
analog made of wheat gluten, and it's very good," she said. "But
I wouldn't recommend it for either of you carnivores. If you
think of it as fake meat, you're bound to be disappointed. You
should stick to more familiar dishes like the spring vegetable
risotto with leeks, or the morel ravioli."

"But no! If I am
to write intelligently about this food, I must be initiated into
both the major and minor arcana, all the esoteric secrets, and
you shall be my high priestess," said Nolly, his voice rising in
what seemed to be genuine excitement.

"If you insist,"
she replied, amused. She looked over at James, who shrugged.

"The danger with
a place like this," she began, "is that the menu is so eclectic.
You could end up having guacamole as a starter, nori rolls for
your main dish, and gelato for dessert... I mean pudding. That
would be monstrous, at least to my way of thinking. So my advice
is to choose carefully and make sure that your meal is coherent.
And of course, get a good wine."

Nolly almost
clapped his hands together in delight. "James, what a lucky man
you are. Where have you been hiding this treasure? Now, Laura,
what do you say to the grilled artichokes? They would be a good
match for the lasagna, would they not?-- but what does 'live
zucchini' mean?" After consulting with the sommelier at length,
they ordered several dishes and agreed to share all of them
along with a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. Nolly asked
about Laura's research, and she replied that she was studying
Alexander Pope.

"Ah, the wicked
wasp of Twickenham," he said, and quoted, "I am his Highness'
dog at Kew; pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?"

She laughed, and
he asked, "Have you been to Twickenham to see what's left of his
grotto? It's rather dreary, I'm afraid." Pope had been an
admirer of the cave of the nymphs in the
Odyssey
, a book he
spent years translating, and had built a rustic, shady grotto in
his garden.

"No, I think I'd
rather imagine it as it was when he was in residence, with water
trickling in little fountains, and the walls covered with shells
and pretty stones. I wonder if he ever met any tempting nymphs
there, mortal or otherwise?"