“Albus is not fictional, though,” he countered. “And you are plotting his murder.”
“I am no happier about it than you are. Truly. As I said, I consider it a great shame.”
“Then don’t do it!”
“The ornithological community isn’t simply going to take me at my word. I need evidence to prove what I have found.”
“Then I will draw him for you. As many illustrations as you need. My talents are at your exclusive and full disposal until you are well satisfied.” John raised his hand, promising as if in court. “And, one day, when Albus departs this mortal plane, I will personally ensure that he is placed at your feet, in the name of science.”
Ora considered the offer. It was not how things were usually done. Birds were notorious for not staying still for long, which is why most illustrations were completed using both observations in the field and specimens brought back to the lab as models. But she had seen many examples of John’s work and knew it to be truly remarkable. It spoke of a sense of movement absent from other artists’ depictions. He had an unmatched gift forcapturing the liveliness of his subjects—perhaps because said subjects were actually alive for the full duration of his study.
Maybe it made her overly sentimental. Surely her male colleagues would shoot the thing with little remorse. Yet all she could think of was its poor mate, mourning its loss. The way she did her late husband. The way she would now have to mourn the man she’d grown to believe John Otis Morse was before she learned of his deception.
“An article and matching illustrations are all well and good, and will do wonders for my reputation. But there are things we may only learn by looking at samples under a microscope. And future generations deserve to have access to it, for whatever testing scientific advancement has made possible for them,” she said. “Imusthave it when it comes to the end of its life.”
“I swear to you on my own, Ora, that you will,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”
THIRTY
Annie
Jeff in theAmerican Museum of Natural History’s Collections Department responds to our email Thursday evening saying he has no idea what we’re talking about but is happy to look into it further if we can bring the goose up to New York, preferably before close of business on Friday since he’ll be out of the office for the Thanksgiving holiday next week.
“That’ll be a fun road trip,” I say, reading the message over Cal’s shoulder in bed. “Just you, me, the open road, and a big ol’ dead bird.”
“As idyllic as that sounds, I think it’s better if it’s just one of us, the open road, and a big ol’ dead bird. That way we don’t have to close the shop for the day.”
“That makes sense. Do you want me to take it, then, and you can handle things here at Virtu?”
“No, I think I should go. It was my responsibility in the first place. Besides, our customers like you better,” he says, idlybrushing his fingertips up and down the leg I have thrown over his hip. “Not that I can blame them. Who wouldn’t?”
I tap him on the arm. “Oh, cut it out. I certainly have my charms, but you have plenty of your own. So thoughtful, knowledgeable, passionate. Handsome.” I bite my bottom lip as I give myself a moment to appreciate the beautiful angles of his face, the now-familiar terrain of his body. “You know, I actually think you’re pretty fantastic,” I whisper, unable to resist pressing my lips to the most convenient patch of his warm skin—right over his heart. While I’m disappointed I won’t get to join him in bringing this bizarre adventure to (what will hopefully be) its conclusion, having Cal’s trust in me to take care of the thing he loves most in this world does a lot to make up for it. That’s all I really wanted from him when we met. Although now that I have it, it’s difficult not to want so much more. To want everything.
But everything has never been on offer, and there’s no point in deluding myself that it could be now.
“And I think you have questionable tastes,” he replies, nudging my shoulder until I roll onto my back. “Though I’m not inclined to complain.” Cal trails kisses along my neck, but instead of the escalation I’m expecting, he lies beside me and takes my hand in his. His thumb rhythmically caresses my palm as he studies it intently, and I’m nearly lulled to sleep by the hypnotic comfort of it when he asks, “Can we talk about something for a minute?”
The slight hesitance in his voice has me fully awake. I’m not sure if I like where this is heading. “Sure. What’s up?”
He shifts, resting his back against the turned spindles of the headboard. I look up at him from the pillow, and he takes a moment to run his fingers through my hair before he speaks. “Ididn’t know that you were planning to open your own shop in Asbury Park.”
“Oh, uh…” I falter, surprised by his choice of topic, along with the odd cloud of gravity that hovers over the words. “Yeah. It’s something I’ve been working toward for a while now. One of the reasons I was willing to come down here and help out for a few weeks was so I could learn more about brick-and-mortar retail.”
“You never mentioned it to me,” he says quietly. “Why?”
Huh. I guess I never did bring it up. “It didn’t really seem to matter?”
“It’s something you care about, Annie. Of course it matters.”
“I mean, it isn’t like I was trying tohideit or anything,” I explain. “It’s just, well, when we first met, there didn’t seem to be a point in telling you I hoped to open a business of my own when you were treating me like I was barely competent enough to use a vacuum.”
Cal takes in my words and says, “I really am sorry for that.”
I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “You’re forgiven,” I assure him. “And then, you know, after things changed between us…” My eyes focus on the ceiling, searching the texture there for both the right words and the courage I need to say them. “I’ve really enjoyed this time we’ve spent together. Here, in your bed. Down in the shop. Across half the city while tracking down an illicit goose.” I smile up at him briefly, and force myself to keep looking at his face as I continue. “I didn’t want to talk about the future, because it felt like acknowledging that this all will have to end.”
His palm comes to cup my face. “Does it, though? Does it really have to?”
A question I have asked myself several times over the last fewdays, always answered with the same worry that, even if Cal doesn’t realize it now, he’ll get bored with me one day. The lust currently influencing his feelings will fade. And then I’ll be left with nothing except a shattered heart. Or, even worse, I’ll try to contort myself into someone else, someone with whom he believes he can build a life, in a desperate attempt to keep him.
