Aefle & Giesla Read online

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THOMAS SAILED happily into his week's work. By Wednesday, he had in his possession black-and-white copies of the previous Aefle manuscripts, and, as he’d suspected, they all contained numerous love messages about his Gisela.

  So excited was he about this discovery that Thomas had to force himself to eat and sleep, preferring instead to spend every waking second peering at the documents, translating his little monk’s ruminations.

  With each line, Thomas felt closer to his medieval friend. Poor Aefle not only wrote of his lady love’s charms, but of the domineering monks in the scriptorium who, although they had the world’s knowledge at their fingertips, understood not a whit about what motivated the common man -- or, in Gisela’s case, the common woman.

  Aefle often found himself commiserating with her over the “unGodley sacrificies to thie Abbey thie brethern admonished thie Villeneaus to make in the Blessed Name of Devotion, while the verie same such bretheren of the Cross theymselves full-put thine Bellies on Fatten-ed Swine, freshe milke and golden honey from the Field.”

  Was this not unseemly, poor Aefle wondered. And, more important, was it not unkind to urge one’s fellow creatures to live by one set of rules while the monks lived by others? Aefle confided on his pages that he often secreted extra bread and fruit under his robe to share with his “fair Gisela.”

  And what was even more exciting -- he wrote her poetry! Awkward lines of poetry, yes, but poems all the same. So he’d moved from platonic to romantic verse -- an amazing discovery.

  Sitting at his desk tapping his fingers, Tom bubbled over with enthusiasm and decided he had to notify his department chair about his research findings. Beewater would be astonished, impressed. He’d fast-track Thomas’s tenure process for sure, once he knew how valuable Tom was to the university.

  Already, Tom could envision a magnificent gallery display of the Aefle texts combined with a small conference of other medievalists that Tom would coordinate and lead. Aefle’s love story would have popular appeal, as well, and Tom could also see in his head the magazine stories, the television interviews.

  With heady confidence, he picked up the phone and called Beewater, blurting out that he had some amazing new material on Aefle to share with him.

  “That’s wonderful, Thomas,” Beewater said in a distracted tone of voice. Why did he sound so cold? “What is it exactly?”

  Did he just yawn?

  Beewater’s ambivalence deflated Tom’s exuberance. Perhaps he’d been hasty in calling him. “Uh… if you don’t mind, I’d like to write it up to do it justice.”

  Beewater chuckled. “What -- is it a nuclear secret? The identity of a stranger on the grassy knoll? Should we arrange a clandestine drop-off, perhaps something in a pumpkin patch at a Maryland farm?”

  Beewater’s mocking tone just confirmed Tom’s wariness. Like Heather, Beewater had another agenda, advancing his newest protégé, Belcamp. If Tom wasn’t careful, Beewater might take charge of the discovery, making it appear that if it were not for his scholarly encouragement, Tom wouldn’t have found the new material. Beewater, after all, had okayed the departmental grant that had resulted in the manuscripts’ purchase. He might even drag Belcamp into the limelight with it.

  Tom had been imprudent calling Beewater. It was just so damned exciting, though, and sharing it with one’s department chair seemed the natural course of action.

  “No, no,” Tom responded in what he hoped was a jovial voice while feeling flat as a spent balloon inside. “But it is sufficiently remarkable that I think I’d like to make a presentation, maybe at the next faculty meeting. And then perhaps we can notify the university public relations machine. It’s that big, Q.T.” He added the nickname in an attempt to telegraph how confident he felt about this latest discovery.

  “Oh. Oh, well, then. That’s coming up very soon… I think…” His next words were lost in the soft beep indicating a new call was coming in. Tom asked Beewater to hold one second and was proud of himself as he switched to the other line on the university phone system, which he’d barely managed to master.

  “Tom, glad I caught you.”

  DeeDee! His hopes took flight -- maybe she’d managed to get Buck to drop the suit. It did seem as if Thomas’s luck had turned. Perhaps more comprehensively than he'd even hoped.

  But it was a different kind of luck that greeted him in her message. She wanted to see him. Or rather, she wanted to spend a weekend in Baltimore, to “get away from Oyster Point” as her lawyer had advised. “I had to throw that damned bat away,” she confessed to him.

  Megan was taking a deposition from her on Friday morning, DeeDee said, and she thought she would sightsee the rest of the weekend. If Thomas was free, she’d like a companion.

  Of course he was free!

  Or rather, his schedule went to hell when he heard his own cream-faced dairy maid speaking across the miles. She was a woman in distress. He was her champion.

  “Yes, please do come,” he said. “The weather’s going to be great, and I’ll be happy to take you out.”

  She brightened and promised to call with a specific arrival time once she hit the road.

  When he clicked back to Beewater, the man was still talking -- he’d obviously missed Tom’s interruption about the new call.

  “…so next week I think I can call a special meeting, and you can do your latest little dog-and-pony show then.”

  Tom ignored the jab. He was too happy about DeeDee visiting. As for his research, it would bowl over the department, as well as other faculty he intended on inviting to the meeting. Tom controlled his destiny now.

  “Maybe we can talk about your tenure quest some time before then,” Beewater added.

  Okay, maybe Tom didn’t control all of his destiny.

  “Yes?” He cleared his throat. “Is something amiss?”

  “Letters of support, man. You’re supposed to wrangle two, remember. Where are they?”

  The university itself requested letters from professors at other institutions who’d had contact with Thomas or his research. But the tenure applicant himself was allowed to solicit two from presumably surefire supporters. Thomas had requested one from a well-known Harvard historian and another from a long-time faculty member at Princeton who’d been short-listed for a Nobel.

  Tom had shot for the moon with his selections after he’d finished a particularly fine presentation at a panel discussion at Boston College last fall. His two references had both been there, had both spoken glowingly of his work and had both responded warmly to his request -- if after several weeks and a second sending of his original email.

  “I’ll get right on it. That is, I’ll follow up right away,” said Thomas. He’d had no idea the letters hadn’t yet come in. He’d thought they would go directly to Beewater and the tenure committee. He clicked off and immediately pulled out his tenure file, quickly finding the men’s numbers.

  When he phoned the first, he was chagrined to learn from the Harvard prof’s secretary that he had just left for a Buddhist retreat in China and would be virtually inaccessible for at least a month, if not longer. The Princeton professor answered his own phone, but it hardly helped Thomas. The man could not hide the fact that he barely remembered Thomas and his request, and he was about to retire. He was happy to get to it after he cleaned out his office on campus.

  Thomas didn’t trust that to work well.

  Now nervous, he called Beewater back, but the man must have left, and the department secretary picked up the phone instead. When Thomas explained he was having trouble with his two support letters for tenure, she expressed sympathy, but then added, “I know Professor Beewater was concerned about your tenure situation.”

  Tenure situation? When had it escalated to a situation? He prodded the secretary for more information.

  “Oh, he just seemed kind of sad about it being stalled,” she offered after his subtle probes.

  Stalled? Was that why Beewater had wanted to talk about i
t?

  Besides the missing letters of support, Thomas hadn’t committed any errors. Beewater couldn’t deny him tenure based on nothing. The machinery had started. Only outright duplicity and manipulation could keep him from tenure.

  After thanking the secretary, he sat at his desk furiously tapping his fingers on the wood surface. What had he done wrong? His reluctance to kowtow to the interdisciplinary committee came to mind. And he had accidentally wandered into a Patriot Day celebration a month ago -- had Heather seen him? There was also the matter of his father’s gas-guzzling SUV. Belcamp had made a snide remark about that this winter when Thomas had given the poseur a ride to a conference in Philadelphia. Later, he’d learned that Belcamp himself drove a 1960s vintage Mustang, which belched so many exhaust fumes it probably resulted in microbursts of global warming in its wake. The hypocrite -- admonishing others to…

  To make “ungodlie sacrificies” in his brethren’s names.

  Thomas smiled. He was in communion with Aefle, whose own experiences with hypocrisy and callous power reached across the ages to comfort him.

  He straightened. All right. He wasn’t going to allow these particular “brethren” to win. He looked at the list he’d compiled in his tenure file of possible collegial supporters. He was pleased to note several with whom he’d corresponded over the past year, professors who’d not only appreciated his work, but who had been sincerely interested in hearing more about it.

  He copied and pasted the original request email he’d sent to his top choices to several others further down his list, personalizing each one, and asking for a speedy response. After that, he headed home, a ball of nervous energy.

  He’d neglected to ask DeeDee where she’d stay. Would it be with him? If so, he had a lot of tidying up to do.

  ***

  By seven that evening, he’d not only cleaned and polished his small flat to a gleam, he’d also stocked up on wine and gourmet food and fresh flowers, arranging several bunches in the living room and bedroom.

  The bedroom -- he had to admit when he thought of DeeDee, his passion for her flamed anew. Back in the day, they’d both been in the throes of hormone-driven lust. During their affair, they’d done everything but make love, mostly because he was trying to adhere to a gentlemanly code he’d set for himself after witnessing the nihilistic debauchery of his classmates at college. She’d been appreciative of his respect, but more than willing to “seal the deal.” Circumstances, too, had prevented them from being intimate. They both had still lived with parents, and lovers around Oyster Point were hard-pressed to find private spots that weren’t already occupied.

  Right before they’d broken up, their defenses had broken down, and they’d had one amazing afternoon of uninhibited passion -- that is, as much uninhibited passion as one could manage in the back seat of his father’s Buick. But it had been a magical day, when they’d picnicked along the river, gone swimming, basked in a late-summer sun and unseasonably moderate temperatures. They’d had some wine with their lunch, and one thing had led to another…

  He shivered thinking about it. Of course he would think of those days longingly.

  His doorbell buzzing broke his reverie, and there she was, in the flesh, in his small foyer.

  Suddenly, he felt as nervous as a schoolboy.

  “So glad you came,” he muttered after awkwardly placing a kiss on her cheek in greeting. Even that touch seared him. Did she feel it, too? He searched her eyes for an answer and saw distress instead.

  “You must be tired,” he said, ushering her into his living room.

  “Tired and spent,” she answered, sitting on his sofa. Her face brightened as she looked at the flowers he’d put out for her. “Aw, this is nice, Tom, the flowers and all. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble on my account.” But it was clear she liked the fact that he’d fussed over her.

  He offered her a glass of wine, and here was his first disappointment.

  “No, thanks. I’m driving. I mean, I have to drive to the hotel. I’m staying at the Marriott.”

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d looked forward to being her host until she said those words. He felt a sudden downward shift inside, as if his body had changed gears, and the smile on his face now felt forced.

  Within a few moments, however, his congeniality returned. As part of her de-stressing plan, she announced she intended to make the weekend fun, despite the deposition scheduled for the next morning. To that end, she insisted on treating him to dinner.

  Since her hotel was in town, he suggested something near the harbor within walking distance of the Marriott, where she could have a glass of wine and not worry about driving.

  They scrupulously avoided talking about the lawsuit and went off to the harbor, he in his SUV following her SUV. He hoped someone on campus would see him.

  ***

  Flickering candles, a gentle breeze, a sky painted purple and pink in the oncoming twilight. Good food, good music, good company. A stroll around the harbor, holding hands.

  He felt new.

  He felt as if he’d just discovered life’s opportunities, as if the whole world opened up before him.

  They talked of everything and nothing, of gossip in Oyster Point -- nothing related to Buck -- of movies they’d seen and enjoyed, of music they liked.

  By the time Tom walked her back to her hotel where he’d fetch his own car from the parking lot, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap his arms around her and give her a deep, heartfelt kiss.

  To his amazement and joy, she responded in kind.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE KISS lingered in DeeDee’s memory as she prepared for her deposition the next morning. It created a warm feeling of affection and acceptance, just what she needed before once again facing the lions’ den of lawyers. At least Buck wouldn’t be at this meeting. She already knew he was staying in Oyster Point at his lawyer’s suggestion. Dickie Faulkes probably didn’t want his client saying something inappropriate, Jane-Ann had told her the day before.

  Jane-Ann was actually happy to do the depo in Baltimore. She was hoping a big-city law firm office would intimidate Dickie. She’d heard, she’d told DeeDee, that Megan Charlemagne had a very good reputation.

  In her good pantsuit, with classy pearl studs in her ears and a designer scarf around her neck, DeeDee showed up at Megan’s office within the half hour. On the fourteenth floor of a building overlooking the harbor, the office was all hushed voices, plush carpet, wood paneling and the smell of money earned only through courteous ferocity.

  DeeDee was ushered into a conference room with a spectacular view of the harbor, relieved to see Jane-Ann already there.

  “Honey, I’m glad you’re early. We have some things to discuss,” Jane-Ann said with no introduction while pulling some papers from her briefcase. “Dickie brought a new offer with him--”

  Before she had a chance to go further, the door opened and Megan stepped in, followed by an assistant of some kind, Dickie and then… Tom!

  Her eyes brightened at his smile. He’d come to support her -- how sweet!

  But her happiness immediately shifted when Megan looked at her brother and said, “Thanks for coming at late notice. We can get your deposition out of the way at the same time.”

  So he’d not come to support her but to cram his deposition in while Dickie and Jane-Ann were up from Oyster Point. Oh, well. She still smiled at him, and he nodded toward her, a bit sheepishly.

  His shy smile irritated rather than warmed her. Was he feeling uncomfortable about their kiss? Or was he embarrassed to be thrown into this legal stew with her? Was he ashamed just to be associated with her at all? Megan was introducing him as “Dr. Charlemagne” to Dickie and the others in the room. DeeDee sat back and crossed her arms.

  If she had walked in loaded for bear, it wasn’t long before she was shooting from the hip.

  After some straightforward questions about her name, residence, business ownership, length of engagement, Megan
Charlemagne wasted no time in going for the kill.

  “Ms. McGowan, did you not threaten to bash in the windshield of Mr. Bewley’s car…”

  DeeDee looked over at Tom, aghast. He’d shared that story with his sister?

  After DeeDee answered that question, Megan went on to others that clearly were trying to establish a pattern of hotheaded impulsiveness, so that she could argue DeeDee’s decision to bolt the altar was due solely to her flightiness in general and not to Tom’s objection.

  DeeDee seethed. She was willing to own up to her decision to reject Buck at the altar. But she'd be damned if she’d let Tom’s sister paint her as a dumb blonde.

  She answered each question with growing scorn. Jane-Ann shook her head a tiny bit at one particularly sharp answer but otherwise said nothing. Megan went on to establish that DeeDee had not immediately recognized Tom when he stood to object to the wedding, probably trying to show that she would have fled with anyone at that moment, and Tom just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

  “No, I didn’t recognize him at first,” DeeDee drawled, glaring at Tom. “I just thought he was some scrawny, weird-looking dude who’d wandered in.”

  Tom reddened.

  Megan pressed on. “So, you were going to leave with this stranger without knowing if he could do you harm or --”

  DeeDee let out a snort of laughter. “Do me harm? Seriously? Him?” She nodded toward Tom, who straightened in a feeble attempt to look more powerful.

  More of this line of questioning continued, and DeeDee didn’t waste an opportunity to heap more insults on Tom. He deserved it, she reasoned. He’d set her up, providing information to his sister/lawyer that was being used against her.

  “You’re wasting our time,” DeeDee said at last to Megan after she’d presented one more example of DeeDee’s temper and recklessness. “I’ve not hidden the fact that I intended to leave Mr. Bewley at the altar, even though I had no intention in the world of hooking up with Dr. Charlemagne, who happened to be in the church at that moment getting his courage on because he was still blind-drunk from a wild one the night before.”