WHENEVER WILL WOKE UP WITH THE BLANKETS KNOTTED AT HIS hips and his chest soaked with sweat, he knew he’d been having the thunder dream. But he did not dwell on the details; in fact, over the years, even though the number of dreams increased, he found it easier and easier to dismiss them. He’d get up and shower, sloughing off with the sweat the memories that bound him to the Sioux.
Having been scheduled for the evening shift on Thursday, Will slept in and dreamed of the thunder until the phone jolted him awake. “This is Frances Bean at the library,” a voice said. “We have the materials you requested.”
“I didn’t request any materials,” Will started to mumble, stretching to place the receiver back in its cradle.
“. . . anthropology.”
The word was all he heard, faint and fading, and he pulled the phone back to his ear.
The library was small and dark and quiet as a tomb on a Thursday morning. After identifying himself at the front desk, Will was handed a sheaf of papers secured with a rubber band. “Thanks,” Will said to the librarian, moving to a spot where he could read Cassie’s articles.
Two were from technical journals. The third was fromNational Ge-
ographic, and it was composed of dozens of photographs of the illustrious Dr. Cassandra Barrett at the Tanzania site that had yielded the hand.
Will quickly read the anthropological significance of the hand and its stone tool, but found nothing Cassie hadn’t mentioned. He skimmed ahead to the paragraphs that mentioned Cassie herself.
“Dr. Barrett, young enough to look more like one of theUCLAstudents she often brings on excavations than the head scientist, admits she’s more comfortable on a muddy site than on the lecture circuit.”
Will mouthed the words silently, staring at a photograph on the facing page of Cassie bent over the ground, dusting off half of a long, yellow bone. Will skipped to the final line of the copy: “In a field dominated by men, Dr. Barrett seems to emerge as a leader,handsdown.”
“Patronizing bastard,” he murmured. He scanned the page, looking for another picture of Cassie. Seeing none, he flipped back to the beginning of the article. On page 36 of the magazine was a photo of the hand itself; and spread beneath it for comparison was Cassie’s hand.
Another picture of her took up the rest of the page. She was caught in shadow, with the sun behind her the way all thoseNational Geographic
photographers liked, and her chin was tilted up just the slightest bit.
Will touched his thumb to her throat. The photo was too dark to show her eyes. He would have given anything to see her eyes.
He wondered how a woman perfectly at home in the African grasslands could also be happy being hounded by paparazzi at premieres. He wondered how you could go from writing a piece for a scholarly journal to scanning theEnquirerfor stories that defamed your husband’s character. He wondered how the hell Alex Rivers had met Cassandra Barrett; what they did on Sunday mornings; what they talked about at night, wrapped around each other, when no one else was there to listen.
Will left the articles on the table, everything but that one page with the picture of Cassie in silhouette. He folded the picture when the librarian’s head was bowed to her computer screen, and then tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He thought about walking home with it there, knowing it would get soft and faded at the edges until he could barely see Cassie’s face at all.
CHAPTERSIX
CASSIEopened the front door of the apartment, and there stood the most beautiful woman in the world. At first, she could do nothing but stare at the woman’s long, shining hair; her spring-green eyes. She wore a silk shirt the color of the inside of a casaba melon, a cashmere beret, a tremendous scarf wrapped twice around to serve as a skirt. “Can you believe this, Cass?” she said in a thin, reedy voice that didn’t match anything else about her. She pushed past Cassie, holding her right arm with her left, as if it were something she’d rather be rid of.
The woman’s arm was encased from wrist to elbow in a black plaster cast. “Tell me,” the woman whined. “What am I supposed to do about Clorox?”
“Clorox?” Cassie murmured, stumbling up the stairs behind her and watching this stranger pour a glass of orange juice from her own refrigerator.
The woman smirked. “What’s the matter? Alex have you up half the night talking about himself again?”
Cassie’s hands clenched defensively at her sides. She did not know who this woman was, but Alex had been incredibly considerate. Yesterday while Cassie slept on the beach, he’d had John, his driver, bring over every photo album and slide carousel that could be found at the house. When she’d awakened, Alex had sat beside her in the dark, quiet library in the apartment. He had connected names with unfamiliar faces, sketched a past for Cassie in simple lines. He had added long descriptions of the minutes that had mattered, and Cassie had leaned against the easy comfort of Alex’s shoulder, closed her eyes, and watched her life explode with shape and color.
The woman drained her glass of orange juice, sat down on a tall maple stool, and wrapped her legs around it. Cassie narrowed her eyes, trying to recall a picture Alex had showed her yesterday from an album she’d put together in college. “Didn’t you used to be blond?” she said.
The woman wrinkled her nose. “Like a zillion years ago. Jesus,” she said. “Whathas gotten into you?”
Alex crept up so quietly behind Cassie that the only indication she had of his approach was the darkening of the woman’s eyes. He was wearing only a towel knotted around his waist. “Ophelia,” he said coolly, tossing an arm around Cassie. “Nothing quite like seeing you first thing in the morning.”
“Yeah,” Ophelia snorted. “The pleasure is mine.”
Fascinated, Cassie watched them, glancing at Ophelia again. No wonder she hadn’t felt threatened. The most beautiful woman Cassie had ever seen had shown up on her doorstep, but she paid as much attention to Alex as she did to her orange juice, and Alex only wanted to leave.
Alex pointed to her black cast. “Tendinitis? Overexertion? Some other occupational hazard?”
“Fuck you,” Ophelia said lightly. “I slipped on a sidewalk.”
