“I gotcha secret right here!” Even if the president of the United States were there eating peanuts. What could you say? Big Al was a loose cannon and best served up to the public or maybe someday to Michael in a controlled environment.
As at last the beginnings of daylight appeared and the light in the room began to rise, I realized with the sounds of the alarm clock and the smells of coffee brewing that I had in fact fallen into a dreamless sleep. Michael was already in the shower. I poured two mugs of coffee, and when I returned to the bedroom he was dressing.
“Hey, g’morning,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Thanks!” he said, taking the coffee. “I’m fine. You?”
“I didn’t sleep all that great.” I pulled a white linen skirt from the closet and began to rummage around for a top. “Whatever…I have so much to do…You home for dinner tonight?” I reached down for my low-heeled green pumps and threw them behind me on the bed.
“Yep.”
“Good. I’m cooking.”
Michael looked at me and smiled. “I’ll bring home some wine.”
Within the hour, the steamy bathroom had raised the temperature of the house by five degrees, but the dishwasher hummed, the bed was made, the garbage had been put by the curb, and we were off to our respective places of employment. For the moment Michael seemed perfectly fine, and I decided to put his troubles aside for the day.
When I arrived at my office, the phones were ringing off the hook. I thumbed through the waiting stack of messages while Joanie, the receptionist, answered and redirected calls to various people.
“Bomze wants to see you on the double,” Joanie said, and answered another line. “Bomze Platinum Travel. How may I direct your call? That line is busy. Would you like his voice mail?”
“Well, it’s right after a holiday,” I said.
“You can say that again! Bomze Platinum Travel…”
I jammed my messages into the side flap of my bag, making my way down the hallway saying “Hello! How was your Fourth?” to a number of coworkers and their assistants, and arrived at Eric Bomze’s door. I rapped my knuckles lightly on the frame.
“Come in!” he called out. He was on the phone with the Baroness. “Yes, my angel! Yes, my precious! I’ll be there! Don’t worry!”
I stood just inside his door, waiting for him to end the conversation.
“ Yes, my sweet. No! It’s all arranged. She just came in. I’ll call you back!” Bomze hung up the phone, took a deep breath and looked up at me. “Being married to royalty can be a royal pain.”
“Yeah, right? I’m sure. Okay, so what have we got on Sardinia?”
The morning blew by with phone calls and faxes flooding the wires with details. The guest list for Sardinia was made up of trustees and actual and potential donors from a major university in Atlanta who had a special interest in architecture and archaeology. I liked architecture well enough, but I had zero interest in or knowledge of archaeology. Missy had had the foresight to engage the services of a historian from Emory University who studied and lectured on both topics. Dr. Geraldine Post had just returned from the islands around Greece and said she couldmake herself available to us in Charleston as soon as her clothes returned from the dry cleaners.
“I’m sure I can be there by Wednesday,” she told me.
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I just want to go over everything with you.”
“Sure thing. These nice folks are gonna get the weirdest education. Sardinia—home of nuraghi and dolmens.”
“Yeah, I was about to bring them up. Are we speaking English here?”
Dr. Post had a good laugh then. “Actually, I’m sure not! Probably some derivative of some Roman language…but anyway, between the Phoenicians and the Barbarians…”
Dr. Post was quite a character—obviously knowledgeable about the obscure and the ancient. She would add some scholarship laced with good humor to the days just ahead. That
As at last the beginnings of daylight appeared and the light in the room began to rise, I realized with the sounds of the alarm clock and the smells of coffee brewing that I had in fact fallen into a dreamless sleep. Michael was already in the shower. I poured two mugs of coffee, and when I returned to the bedroom he was dressing.
“Hey, g’morning,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Thanks!” he said, taking the coffee. “I’m fine. You?”
“I didn’t sleep all that great.” I pulled a white linen skirt from the closet and began to rummage around for a top. “Whatever…I have so much to do…You home for dinner tonight?” I reached down for my low-heeled green pumps and threw them behind me on the bed.
“Yep.”
“Good. I’m cooking.”
Michael looked at me and smiled. “I’ll bring home some wine.”
Within the hour, the steamy bathroom had raised the temperature of the house by five degrees, but the dishwasher hummed, the bed was made, the garbage had been put by the curb, and we were off to our respective places of employment. For the moment Michael seemed perfectly fine, and I decided to put his troubles aside for the day.
When I arrived at my office, the phones were ringing off the hook. I thumbed through the waiting stack of messages while Joanie, the receptionist, answered and redirected calls to various people.
“Bomze wants to see you on the double,” Joanie said, and answered another line. “Bomze Platinum Travel. How may I direct your call? That line is busy. Would you like his voice mail?”
“Well, it’s right after a holiday,” I said.
“You can say that again! Bomze Platinum Travel…”
I jammed my messages into the side flap of my bag, making my way down the hallway saying “Hello! How was your Fourth?” to a number of coworkers and their assistants, and arrived at Eric Bomze’s door. I rapped my knuckles lightly on the frame.
“Come in!” he called out. He was on the phone with the Baroness. “Yes, my angel! Yes, my precious! I’ll be there! Don’t worry!”
I stood just inside his door, waiting for him to end the conversation.
“ Yes, my sweet. No! It’s all arranged. She just came in. I’ll call you back!” Bomze hung up the phone, took a deep breath and looked up at me. “Being married to royalty can be a royal pain.”
“Yeah, right? I’m sure. Okay, so what have we got on Sardinia?”
The morning blew by with phone calls and faxes flooding the wires with details. The guest list for Sardinia was made up of trustees and actual and potential donors from a major university in Atlanta who had a special interest in architecture and archaeology. I liked architecture well enough, but I had zero interest in or knowledge of archaeology. Missy had had the foresight to engage the services of a historian from Emory University who studied and lectured on both topics. Dr. Geraldine Post had just returned from the islands around Greece and said she couldmake herself available to us in Charleston as soon as her clothes returned from the dry cleaners.
“I’m sure I can be there by Wednesday,” she told me.
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I just want to go over everything with you.”
“Sure thing. These nice folks are gonna get the weirdest education. Sardinia—home of nuraghi and dolmens.”
“Yeah, I was about to bring them up. Are we speaking English here?”
Dr. Post had a good laugh then. “Actually, I’m sure not! Probably some derivative of some Roman language…but anyway, between the Phoenicians and the Barbarians…”
Dr. Post was quite a character—obviously knowledgeable about the obscure and the ancient. She would add some scholarship laced with good humor to the days just ahead. That
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