Again, a voice in the distance.
“Good idea.” Katy reengaged. “Lija says bring him to the party.”
“When is this gala?”
“Tomorrow night. We thought it might be fun to dress up.”
I looked at Ryan. After our shower, the studmuffin had swapped the luau shirt and shorts for cutoffs, tank, and flip-flops.
“What time?”
At nine-seventeen the next morning Ryan and I entered an office on the third floor of the McEniry Building at UNCC. Though not large, the room was sunny and bright, with a colorful throw rug overlying the institutional wall-to-wall. Woven in primary colors, stylized nests formed an outer border, and a long-legged heron took flight in the center.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled the wall to the left. Those to the right held dozens of aviary prints and photos. Brilliant, dull, tropical, arctic, predatory, flightless. The variety in beaks and plumage was astonishing.
Carved and sculpted birds perched on the desk and filing cabinets, and peeked from atop and between shelved books. Tapestry bird pillows rested on the window ledge. A parrot marionette hung from the ceiling in one corner.
The place looked as though someone had hired an ornithologist, then consulted a “Birds Us” catalog to equip the office with what were thought to be exemplary furnishings.
Actually, Rachel had done it herself. One of the foremost ornithologists in the country, Rachel Mendelson was passionate about her science. She lived, breathed, slept, dressed, and probably dreamed birds. Her home, like her office, was resplendent with feathered subjects, both living and inanimate. On each visit I expected a shrike or a spoon-bill to swoop in, settle in the recliner, and begin hogging the remote.
A window filled the upper half of the wall opposite the door. The blinds were half open, allowing a partial view of Van Landingham Glen. The rhododendron forest shimmered like a mirage in the mid-morning heat.
A desk sat squarely in front of the window. Two chairs faced it, standard-issue metal with upholstered seats. One held a stuffed puffin, the other a pelican.
The desk chair looked like something designed for astronauts with orthopedic complaints. It held Dr. Rachel Mendelson.
Barely.
She looked up when we entered, but didn’t rise.
“Good morning,” Rachel said, then sneezed twice. Her head double-dipped, and her topknot bobbed.
“Sorry we’re late,” I said when Rachel had recovered. “Traffic was terrible on Harris Boulevard.”
“That’s why I’m always on the road by first light.” Even her voice was birdlike, with an odd, chirpy quality to it.
Rachel pulled a tissue from a painted owl holder, and blew her nose loudly.
“Sorry. Allergies.”
She wadded the tissue, tossed it into something below the desk, and lumbered to her feet.
It wasn’t much of a lumber, since Rachel stood only five feet tall. But what the woman lacked in height she made up for in breadth.
And color. Today Rachel was wearing lime green and turquoise. Lots of it.
For as long as I’d known Rachel, she had struggled with her weight. Diet after diet had enthused then failed her. Five years back she’d tried a regimen of veggies and canned shakes and dropped to 180, her all-time postpubescent best.
But try as she might, nothing lasted. By some bizarre chromosomal trick, Rachel’s set point seemed stuck at 227.
As though to compensate, her double helices granted Rachel thick, auburn hair, and the most beautiful skin I have ever seen.
And a heart big enough to accommodate a Radio City Music Hall Rockettes finale.
Ryan kissed the back of her fingers.
“
Rachel’s eyes swung to me. Her brows rose and her lips rounded into a tiny O.
“Just say ‘down, boy,’ ” I said.
Ryan released her hand.
“Down, boy.” Rachel made a palms-down movement with both hands. “And girl.”
We all sat.
Ryan pointed to a metal sculpture atop a pile of exam books.
“Nice duck.”
