Whatever Comes

“At the Hyatt.”

“Ever been to Indiana? We’ve lots of wonders to see.” And he had eased her past talking about who he might look like—or indeed, who he might be.

They talked of hotels, Indiana, California, people, and she introduced him to several people as Tris. Two asked if they knew him. Was he a publicist? He looked familiar somehow. He replied, “Well, if you’ve ever been to Indiana there are a good many of us around, and we tend to have the family look. My mother was a Fell, and her family were Davie and Hughs. And there are some...” But oddly enough by then the questioner had lost interest.

At the buffet, he crossed glances with Jamie and gave him a bland, vague look of a stranger. Jamie coughed then choked quite hard, and he had to be slapped on the back.

Tris said to Amabel, “He’s probably drunk. Most reporters drink too much. Do you?”

“He isn’t a reporter—in fact he’s Sean Morant’s publicist. No woman drinks too much if she’s as opposed to men as I am.”

“Now why would you be opposed to men?” he inquired in great surprise.

“Basically... Well, that word says it all. Men are very basic.”

Tris snagged them each another drink from a passing tray—carried, of course, by a waiter—and he handed one to Amabel before he lifted his as he said, “Here’s to the good old days, when men were men and women were barefoot and pregnant.”

She refrained from sipping the drink and cautioned, “I can see we need to talk about women’s rights. I do believe you’ve been somewhat out of touch? And that’s especially bad for a news—”

But then a sly and droll woman’s voice interrupted, “You still here, Mab? I thought you had left.”

“Not yet.” And Tris was delighted to see Mab blush faintly. “I’m still here.”

And the woman eyed Tris as she replied in very slow, drawling tones, “So I see.”

Amabel ignored that and didn’t introduce Tris but asked him, “Has our sunshine staggered your physical balance and given you a cold? You’re a little hoarse.”

Tris replied quite easily, “All hog callers are hoarse.” And with some pleasure in his own ready tongue, he added, “Pigs are deaf.”

“You’ve said you were never a farmer, and since you’re new to the newspaper business, what did you do before? I have such a strange feeling I know you. Have I seen you somewhere?”

“Interesting you say that. It’s the oddest thing, but women often say that to me. Maybe it’s our past lives, my Viking ancestors raiding villages and carrying off women, and there’s now a basic, genetic fear of me.” He smiled. “Are you afraid of me?”

And that strange shiver shimmered inside her from her core to her nipples. She glanced aside and decided it wasn’t Tris; it was the damp cloth on her chest. She asked, “Have you been in porno flicks?”

“Do you watch them?”

“No, of course not.” He puzzled her and she was a tad impatient as she went on. “But you seem reluctant to tell me what you did before you began work on a newspaper.”

“The Journal Gazette,” he supplied the name as if to her inquiry.

She accepted that. “Before you began to work for the Journal Gazette, what did you do?”

“Is this an interview?” His eyes glinted. He was enjoying himself.

“No, of course not.”

“I’m perfectly willing, you know. This is your great opportunity.” He gave her a wicked smile. “If there are any questions at all, I’ll answer them truthfully. Fire away.”

“What did you do before you began reporting for the Journal Gazette?” She pretended to get out a pad and poised an invisible pencil as she looked up, elaborately attentive.

“I am only just associated with the Journal. I have yet to turn in my first article.” All true.

“And...what did you do before that?”

“A multitude of things, nothing with any future. I’ve been the background for Vogue fashion models a couple of times.” That was true. “I’ve helped do a Public Broadcast conservation tape.” That was true. “And I’m a poet.” He wrote lyrics.

“Make me a poem.”

“Uh, there once was a woman named Mab, who with men would flirt just a tad, but when it came to brass tack, she would just turn her back, and leave the men weeping and mad.”

She laughed. “Limericks are easy.”

“Poems take longer. Anything worthwhile takes longer. Like friendship.” He watched her. “Snap judgments are generally a disaster. I’m a good man.” That, too, was true.

She sobered. “Did I give the impression I thought you otherwise? I don’t know you well enough to make such a decision.”

“Very true.” His face was serious.

“And do you think I am really as heartless as your limerick?”

He smiled. “I’ll find out.”

“We were speaking of women’s rights,” she began. “After all this time, in our struggle, and with you being in the newspaper business, it seems incredible you can be so out of touch.” She was amused by his rash stance.

He didn’t bend. He replied, “You’ll be glad it’s over. It was nonsense. Thank God you all have come to your senses!”

“God is on our side,” she countered.

“If you tell that old, old joke about God being a woman, you’re going to make me cranky.”

They looked at each other, and although they smiled, amused by their chatter, their bodies moved almost as if they were squaring off for some kind of combat. He understood it, but she wasn’t really aware of more than the feeling. Both felt the strong attraction between them and each had a very good reason to be wary of the other.

She was cautious with men so that around her there was a solid wall of protective reserve, but while she felt he was a male threat, she saw the humor and attractiveness of this Tris Roald.

He had a very unfair advantage in knowing her identity when she didn’t know who he was; but he had the greater reason for his calculation. He intended to teach her a lesson. He excused himself, saying he had to make a phone call—and it was with a satisfaction, of hunter for prey, when he saw she was still there waiting for him when he returned.

They didn’t see anyone else in that crowd, as they sipped the wine and nibbled from the elaborate buffet. Mab only spoke to others who spoke to her. No one spoke to Tris, for no one knew him.

The two laughed and talked. She teased him, saying she was one of three non-Indian “natives” living in Los Angeles, everyone else was immigrant. Then she added the truth, telling him in actual Los Angeles, her family really went back only two hundred years. “My great-grandfather jumped ship on the way back to Boston. Ezekiel was a misfit, from the stern and rockbound coast of Massachusetts, who apparently wasn’t spoken about as kin by that branch of the family until after World War I!

“Ezekiel very boldly stole a Chinese girl from the ship’s hold. And he lived with the girl here in the sun of southern California. They had fourteen children, all of whom lived. He was a shrewd Yankee trader and he did excessively well.”

Tris nodded, watching her face. “Our families have much in common. Adventure, independence and trade.”

She agreed as she said, “And apparently a love for the written word. That grandfather had also stolen the captain’s pocket Bible, and his two-volume set of the works of Shakespeare. A family story tells to what lengths Ezekiel went, in order to eventually trace down the captain, to return the carefully kept books. Charming. Very sentimental.”

With his steady eyes on Amabel, Tris commented, “Another thing we have in common—honor. Our good names. Ezekiel had to clear his books of his theft. Did he also pay for the Chinese girl he stole? He did marry her?”