Calculated Risk (24 page)

“And you kept up with every sports comment and question he threw at you. You were awesome.”

Tempted as he was to earn hero status in her eyes, he'd forego encouraging the present tack. “I hope you're not expecting me to become your weapon against your father as you stand up to him. That would smack of whittling another notch in your challenge belt.”

She halted and looked up him, shocked. Had his comment ended their evening before it started? He shouldn't have said anything, even if he was right.

“I think that's exactly what I was doing. Not the challenge-belt thing, but in trying to get over seeing him as merely human, I was starting to enjoy watching him squirm. I don't want to go there. I want to honor my father, who has raised me in love, even if he does exasperate me now and then.”

They wove their way through parked cars to his car. He couldn't have asked for a better answer. Commuting between Richmond and Charlotte sounded better the more he got to know this woman.

He opened the sedan's passenger door. “Are you ready for something different?”

Would she enjoy what he'd planned for the evening, or would she hightail it back to her father, lauding his assessment of actuaries?

 

****

 

Cisney had two questions left in playing Twenty Questions to get Nick to reveal where they were going. She'd ruled out a movie, a play, bowling, indoor putt-putt golf, and going for ice cream.

She could do this. “Is it something you think I've never done before?”

“Yes.” He looked over at her. “You better make your last question a good one.”

If she couldn't win the game, at least she could elicit his dimple. “We're going to a bar to get drunk?”

He laughed.

A win. Whether he'd agree or not.

Nick looked over at her. “By the way, Mom got your thank-you note. She said that receiving a real snail-mail thank-you card was rare. She told me to tell you she loved it.”

“I did learn a few things from my mom.”

Nick turned the car into the Chesterfield Towne Center parking lot.

They were going shopping? If he wanted her to help him Christmas shop, she'd gladly assist him, but he should have told her up front, instead of letting her think he could be imaginative.

He parked and sat back. “You're quiet all of a sudden.”

“I'm trying to think what we could do here besides shop.”

He opened his door. “We're not shopping, but we could if you'd rather.”

Anticipation crept back in. “No. Unless you were planning to shop for bungee cords, I'm fine on everything else.”

“Good. I have to warn you, though. You may think shopping more exciting.” He retrieved a tan leather bag from the backseat.

If he didn't tell her soon, she'd explode. She got out and met him at the back of his car and eyed his bag. What could they be doing that was BYOS—bring-your-own-something? He probably wouldn't tell her if she asked.

They entered the mall through the food court doors. Several tables formed the perimeter of a large square, replacing the normal arrangement of tables. Inside the square, a man with a black beard, dressed in a gray turtleneck, black sports coat, and grey corduroy trousers, leaned against a table. He conversed with a bald man sitting in one of the chairs that lined only the outside edges of the square. Did this have something to do with their evening?

Other men, a few youth, and one woman roamed the area, toting boxes or bags similar to Nick's. People coming into the food court from outdoors and from inside the mall stopped and watched the milling box-and-bag people.

Phil from Actuarial came through the doors and headed toward them, carrying his own black pouch. His eyes widened when he saw her with Nick.

“Hi.” Phil stepped aside and grasped the arm of the tiny woman who'd followed him. “Nick, Cisney, this is my wife, Natalie.”

Doe-eyed Natalie stuck out her hand to Cisney. “It will be nice to have someone to stand with.”

Stand with her to do what? Cisney smiled and shook Natalie's hand. “Nice to meet you, Natalie.”

The top of Natalie's head barely reached Phil's armpit. How did they have engaging conversations while they walked together? Maybe that's why Natalie followed Phil in. What was the point of her keeping up with his long-legged strides when they'd have to yell at each other to be heard?

The box-and-bag people moved closer to the tables, pulled out chairs, and unloaded their bags.

Chessmen?

Cisney gasped. This cliché was not happening. Wasn't Nick different from the Phil-type actuaries of the world? She raised her gaze to Nick.

He gave her a sheepish grin. “Welcome to the annual simultaneous chess exhibition, in which our chess club members are pitted against a National Master.” He indicated the bearded man caged inside the square.

Wouldn't it take hours and hours for that one man to play all those participants? Where were bungee cords on sale? “How fun.”

Nick laughed. “Every muscle in your face says you're—let's say, fibbing.”

Natalie's doe eyes brightened. “It
is
fun. Paul was fourth to the last eliminated last year. I thought I'd pass out holding my breath.”

Yeah, sounded as much fun as holding her breath watching trees grow. If she'd known the plan, she'd have worn her orthopedics to stand with Natalie, instead of her high-heeled boots. “Won't the mall close before the master plays all those people?”

The three chuckled.

Nick took Cisney's hand and drew her closer to the square, where plastic checkerboards stuck to the tables like cellophane. He laid his leather bag next to a chessboard. “The master plays all of us at the same time. After we make our first moves, he walks around the square and makes his initial move at each chessboard. We have until he returns to make our next move, unless we take a pass.”

“Oh.” That sounded better, but they'd still be there a long time while the master thought out each of his…she counted the males and added the one woman…each of his twenty-four moves.

Phil folded his long body into the chair next to Nick and arranged his pieces on his board. Natalie squeezed Phil's shoulder, and then backed to stand a few feet behind his chair.

Still standing, Nick set up his chessboard. He turned from his task and looked at Cisney. “Have you ever played chess?”

“Daddy taught me the basic moves, but he gave up teaching me strategy when I fell asleep a couple of times during games.”

Nick straightened. “I guess I blew it. You can wander the mall if you like.”

“No. I'll stay.”

He pulled out his chair and sat.

Feeling like a traitor for not squeezing his shoulder like a chess groupie, she stepped back to join Natalie.

A heavyset man near the tables signaled the participants to make their first moves. Barely pausing at each board, the master strode around the inside perimeter, playing black chess pieces in a snatch-and-plant manner. The players jotted notes on papers next to their boards. Logging their moves?

“Wow, that was fast,” Cisney whispered to Natalie.

“Opening moves are usually a no-brainer, especially for a national master.”

Cisney craned her neck to see Nick's next move. He lifted his knight and placed it on a white square.

The senior master completed his second circuit as fast as his first. Maybe the tournament would finish before bunions formed on her toes.

As the master made his rounds, the participants, in various poses of thought, seemed to gravitate closer to their boards. The frequency in which participants slouched, forked their hair, or ran their hands over their faces seemed to reflect how well their games progressed.

Cisney observed Nick. He sat erect, his forearms resting on the table. That was her Risk Man. Cool, calm, and confident.

While stopping at the board of a baby-faced man, the master made his final move, spoke a quiet checkmate, and extended his hand, which the man shook. Two boards over, he repeated the pattern with a youth. Cisney's heart went out to the teen while he bagged his chessmen.

After the master removed a white bishop from Phil's chessboard and moved on to Nick's match, Natalie relaxed her shoulders. The master stopped and studied Nick's board while he pinched and pulled on his beard. Then he picked up a black knight, deposited it on to a square, and stepped to the next game.

Cisney exhaled a breath. Had she really been holding her breath? She leaned to the side and studied Nick's face. Total concentration.
Come on, Risk Man, you can make it through another round.

Several more participants lost to the master in his next two circuits. Cisney counted fourteen players remaining. Now the master lingered at each board, caressing his beard before playing a piece.

The master approached Nick. Cisney jiggled her leg, bit her lip, and clasped her steepled hands to her chin until the master played a piece and moved on. She checked the spectators on either side. Her nervous behavior, more appropriate for a close basketball game, hadn't seemed to distract them.

The master soon reduced the number of contestants to four: an African-American youth, the woman, Phil, and Nick.

Phil's hands slid through his red hair and clenched his head.

Natalie's shoulders sagged.

Cisney turned to the doe-eyed woman. “What?” she whispered.

Natalie frowned. “Phil's in trouble.”

Cisney gave Natalie a sympathetic look. She turned and analyzed Nick's posture. His arms remained resting on the table, but his head bent closer to his board. Was he in trouble?

When the master stood one chessboard away from Phil's, Natalie's hand groped for Cisney's fingers and gripped them.

Cisney startled, and then squeezed encouragement into the tiny woman's hand.

The master studied Phil's board. He took Phil's queen with his piece and sidestepped to Nick.

Natalie let out a breath.

The master planted his hands on the table, framing Nick's chessboard. A black strand of the master's hair flopped onto his forehead.

Cisney's chest muscles froze, trapping air in her lungs.

Natalie increased the pressure of her grip.

The master's fingers hesitated over his black bishop, plucked it from the board and then replaced Nick's pawn with it. He headed across the square to the woman's board. Nick was safe for another round. Cisney sucked in oxygen and gave Natalie her I-thought-I'd-die look.

They released each other's numb hands and shook out the tingles.

While the master eliminated the woman from the tournament, Phil sat back in his chair, dropping his long arms to hang at his sides.

“Phil knows he's lost,” Natalie whispered.

“I'm sorry.” She truly was.

The master played a piece at the youth's board and returned to Phil, where he took Phil's pawn with his queen. “Checkmate,” he said. He shook Phil's hand and stepped to Nick's board. Phil left his pieces where they lay and examined Nick's game.

Cisney clasped her hands together, her palms sweaty and her heart beating double-time.
Come on, Risk Man. You can make it through another round.

The master stroked his beard and pondered his next move.

Cisney crossed her fidgeting arms to control them.

Nick and the master each had a king, a rook, and a bishop, but Nick had only one pawn whereas the master had two. Why hadn't she paid more attention when Daddy tried to teach her the game? At least she knew Nick down one pawn didn't bode well. Did Nick have a chance? Obviously, his play was a challenge to Mr. Beard-in-the-Hand.

The master moved his rook and walked over to the youth.

Nick's body remained as still as his white king.

Don't let your enemies get your king, Nick.

The master bent over the youth's game. The young man looked about fourteen. Had Nick played against national masters when he was that young? Probably.

The master captured one of the teen's white chessmen and walked toward Nick, but Nick hadn't played a piece. Would he be disqualified?
Move a man, Nick. You know which one. The one that will keep Mr. Beard-in-the-Hand from checkmating your king.

Nick remained as immobile as he did during his long deliberations in her office. Would he come up with an attack like he often did against her marketing strategies, or was this the end for Nick? Would he concede the game? Knock his king over? Isn't that what losers did, knock their kings over?
Keep your fingers away from your king, Nick LeCrone. Just move a man. Please.

Nick retreated his bishop.

“Thank you,” Cisney said, exhaling. She clamped her hand over her mouth. Her cheeks burned. Turning full circle, she mouthed apologies to the nearby spectators.

Natalie patted her arm. “It's intense, isn't it,” she whispered.

Cisney nodded vigorously.

During her faux pas, the master had made his move and returned to the youth's table. Had she unnerved Nick with her outburst? Would he lose because of her?
Please, Lord, let him forget we even came here together. Give him the power to concentrate.

The master offered the teen a small smile, his first during the tournament, and shook the youth's hand. His eyes focused on Nick's game as he sauntered back to Nick.

Nick took one of the master's pawns with his bishop. That evened the men's pieces on the board.

The master captured Nick's bishop with his rook.

No, not your bishop!

Nick moved his rook. “Check.”

That was more like it. She dabbed her perspiring brow with the back of her hand.

The master moved his king, and Nick captured his opponent's last pawn with his rook.

Why was Nick settling for peons instead of going after the master's big guns?

Her phone played the marimba.