Saint and Scholar (12 page)

Chapter 8

Between Friday morning and Sunday evening, Carla had managed to only spend forty-five minutes with her new boyfriend. After leaving the rec center on Saturday, she got called in by Raleigh PD to sketch a hit and run driver. When she did touch base briefly with Grant, it was at the airport on Sunday morning where the airline was giving her a hard time with redeeming her voucher. She’d tried first by phone, but had grown tired of the runaround. She figured that was their scheme–to wear customers down to the point they’d stop caring about satisfaction.

Grant really meant it when he’d offered to help. By the time he arrived at the ticketing counter, she’d started to shake from frustration. He’d listened calmly to both sides of the drama, and asked the same very reasonable question Carla had. “What
can
you do?”

The agent didn’t look up from his keyboard as he dismissed him. “Nothing. Turn the ticket over and read the fine print. Next, please.”

Grant put up an arm to halt the person in line behind them. “Just a moment.” He slid the voucher across the counter. “It doesn’t say anything about blackouts.” He managed to sound quite pissed without actually raising his voice. “What it
does
say is that it expires in eight weeks. So, since she’s blacked out from using the sodding thing, that means it’s effectively void right now! Sounds like a heap of bullshit to me.”

“Grant, I can just buy a new ticket,” Carla said. She was ready to be done with the shit. She’d lost. The continued argument wasn’t worth the spike to her blood pressure.

“No, love, you shouldn’t have to. They should grandfather the voucher in, since it makes no mention of blackout dates. It’s not a discount. It’s a replacement. They’re playing games.”

A woman in the line somewhere behind them shouted, “I know, right? It’s some bullshit. I ain’t paying to check this bag, man. Y’all better put this shit underneath the plane and stop playin’ with me. I’m a goddamned veteran. Shit.”

The agent kept tapping keys. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience, sir. She’s welcome to try another airline for a last-minute flight.”

Grant drummed his fingers on the countertop and stared at the agent, who wouldn’t look back. The veins in his neck visibly pulsed.

Carla wrapped her hand around one of his wrists.
It’s like I transferred my anger to him.
“Grant, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He pulled a narrow folder out of his back pocket and slid it across the counter beside her voucher. “Here. Refund this.”

The agent finally looked up. “Sir?”

“Do it. Charge me the fuckin’ fee and refund my card the difference. You aren’t the only airline flying to Dublin via New York. Hell, your first class isn’t even all that great. You’re doing me a favor.”

Suddenly the agent got really cooperative. Grant’s ticket was first class, platinum status.

He looped his arm through Carla’s and said, “Hey, love. Want to get a bite?” as they walked toward the parking deck.

“Sure, but after that display of machismo I’m sort of hungry for other things.” Watching that usually pleasant man inch closer and closer to catastrophic meltdown had been the ultimate turn-on. Oh, he could get angry. She could tell. He reminded her something of her father–a generally easygoing guy who would snap in an instant if his family was threatened.

She also hadn’t noticed before how careful he was in suppressing that accent. He was nearly unintelligible when he got angry, especially when he got all growly. She wondered if he growled at other times, too, and giggled at the thought.

“Don’t tease me, love. I’ve had a rough couple of days. And what’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing. I was…uh…just thinking about something Sharon said.” Maybe the airline had somehow flagged her name from her last tantrum, just in case they needed to give her a hard time in the future.

After a quick lunch at Grant’s favorite barbecue joint, the two parted ways to finish last-minute chores before their flight. While she was at home snipping tags and pulling labels off the new clothes she’d purchased for the trip, the laptop she’d had open awaiting a conference call from Sharon and Meg pinged to notify her of a new message. It was from Grant. Upon seeing his name there in the from line–
Fennell, Dr. Grant D.
–she had an immediate gripping fear he’d done the cowardly thing and emailed her saying he’d changed his mind. She wouldn’t have been surprised, really, because the whole weekend had reeked of too good to be true. Of course he didn’t
really
want her, she thought. Just like every other man who’d she’d crossed paths with since puberty, he was probably only interested in what was between her legs.

She worried for nothing. The subject line put her at ease:
Found this for you.

Hey, love,
it started. She fell backward onto the floor and shrieked wordlessly much like she had as preteen when her favorite boy band came on the television screen. Then she got a grip. After all, she’d be twenty-six come November. She was way too old to be going all fan-girl over a man, especially one who was technically her boyfriend. Maybe that was what the problem was.
Boyfriend
. It felt odd to be referring to a man who was over thirty as her boyfriend. What else could she call him? Lover? No, not yet. Partner? Didn’t seem right either. She shrugged and maximized the message.

Packing? Be mindful of the baggage weight limits. We wouldn’t want to raise a fuss during check-in like our veteran friend, yeah? Try not to pack too many shoes.

She got up and tossed a pair of espadrilles and cork-soled platforms from her bag, before resuming her reading.

I connected some dots and found out that Phillip Callaghan entered the U.S. via Philadelphia with his brother Patrick. They were both indentured to a Delaware landowner named James Craig who paid their passage. Please take some comfort in the fact that they willingly indentured themselves. I believe if you study your family tree carefully, you’ll see that Phillip later married a Craig woman. That’s no coincidence. I have a contact at a church who located the marriage record and as well as a subsequent birth record. The marriage occurred in May. The birth occurred in July. Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there, just thought you’d find it interesting.

Phillip and Patrick sailed from Dublin, but weren’t from there. Dublin was just the major hub a lot of convicts and bondspeople were processed through. We found Patrick’s indenture contract in Craig’s personal papers and I learned they came from Ulster, probably County Cavan or Monaghan. I don’t know if they were Ulster-Scot or really old Irish, but I’ve made some inquiries, so I expect to have access to some more information by the time we land. Perhaps people will respond more quickly when they read the “Dr.” in front of my name. A guy can hope.

Can you pick me up from the car dealership off the Boulevard in the morning? I’m ending my car lease. We can go straight to the airport from there. If it’s out of the way for you, I can ask Seth or Curt.

He signed it with
-G
.

She trimmed the more private information and forwarded the rest of the message to Ashley. Next, she responded:

Of course I’ll pick you up. I wouldn’t want to deprive your friends of their last goodbye, but it’s probably best that you witness my bad driving sooner rather than later. If my Katherina temper doesn’t scare you off, my driving will. My mother says I drive like a Roman woman, but when she says it I swear it’s a compliment.

What is the “D” in your middle name an initial for?

He responded:

Daniel. Don’t worry about Frick and Frack. They’re here right now laying claim to my furniture and regaling me with tales I’d rather not rehear. See you in the morning, love.

No sooner had she minimized her mail, her cell phone started ringing at the same time the conference call from Sharon and Meg popped up. The phone call was from Ashley. She answered it and said, “I’ll call you back,” and quickly ended the call before he could get a word in edgewise. She accepted the incoming videoconference and fixed her computer screen so she could pack and be seen simultaneously.

“Hey, sweetie, I couldn’t keep your little rendezvous with the Irishman a secret from our Meggie,” Sharon said. “Meggie’s not too pleased.”

“That so, Meg?”

“Um,
yes
. Talking each other out of Very Bad Ideas is the cornerstone of our friendship, remember?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Sharon dissented. “We’ve also talked each other
into
some Very Bad Ideas. Remember Otto?”

“Look, I said I was sorry about Otto. Spike vouched for him.”

Carla held her tongue and busied herself with rolling up camisoles.

Sharon scoffed.

“Look, it’s a trip I probably would have taken anyway, but this way I won’t have to fly alone. He’s trustworthy, right? He’s a freaking professor. Well, he is
now
anyway.”

It was Megan’s turn to scoff. “Right. So was James Moriarty and he was a criminal genius. Oh! And he was Irish, too, right?”

Sharon didn’t get the reference, having been a communications major and not particularly interested in mystery fiction during college. Megan told her to visit her local library and to spend some time with Sir Doyle’s extensive backlist.

“You’re overreacting,” Carla mumbled with her mouth turned away from the mic.

“No, you’re
under
reacting,” Megan sniped. “Did you have sex with him?”

Carla barked with laughter. “What?”

“Don’t play coy. I saw the way he was looking at you at the club.”

“Explain,” Sharon said, putting her face closer to the camera of her laptop to better emphasize her arched brow.

“Sharon, he was looking at her like she was a dripping ice cream cone that needed a lick.”

“Ooh!”

“Oh, he was
not
!” Carla balked.

“You just didn’t notice what he was doing when he wasn’t sucking your face.”

“Meg, baby,” Sharon crooned, “if memory serves me correctly, didn’t you fail level two composition the first time through? Who taught that?”

Meg blanched, which was an impressive feat for someone as pale as she was. “Uh, I gotta go. Spike’s calling.” Suddenly, a third of the conference split screen went black.

Carla and Sharon stared at each other, then burst into laughter. “Call or text me at least three times per day while you’re there,” Sharon demanded.

Carla shook her head. “Once I land, I’m not even going to turn my phone on. I’m not paying those ridiculous international rates.”

“Then pick up a cheap prepaid phone when you get there and let me know the number. I’ll call
you
. That’s what I ended up doing in Australia.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

“You’d better. What does your mother think of the trip?”

Carla suddenly became concerned with the state of her cuticles.

“You didn’t tell her
either
?”

“No. And I won’t.”

“Wow, you’re an awful daughter.”

“Honey, it’s complicated. Right now I’m upset with my mom about a lot of things. Anything she would have to say on the subject would probably perturb me. I’m twenty-five. If I want to throw myself into the mouth of a shark, I think that’s my right.”

“Look, sweetie, you know how I feel about the situation. Just practice safe sex. I wouldn’t want you to fly over for a week and end up stuck on a sunless island, barefooted with a gaggle of pale Catholic children swarming you in a small kitchen and not giving you time to piss in peace. I mean, unless that’s what you
want
. That’s cool, too.”

“
What
?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Sharon said, wearing an oddly blank expression. “I’m just rambling.”

* * * *

Carla hadn’t been joking about her temper. She picked Grant up early Monday morning looking fresh as a daisy and chatted amiably about her excitement for the trip. Then some kid in a pickup truck cut her off on I-40, nearly clipping one of her headlights as it angled into her lane.

“Is he fucking kidding me?” she asked no one in particular while pounding the steering wheel.