The Sixes

The doorbell rang at a little past seven thirty, just as she had finished beating the Parmesan cheese into the eggs. She’d already fried the pancetta, and the house was redolent with the scent of meat and garlic. It smells like a damn souvlaki stand in here, she thought with annoyance, wiping her hands quickly on a dish towel.

She swung open the door. Even though she expected Duncan, seeing him on her doorstep startled her a little. She realized that she was still not used to him sans beard and mustache.

“Come in,” she said, offering a smile.

“Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I spent the afternoon with thirty feisty little rats, and I decided I’d better shower again. . . . Wait, this is Herb Jack’s place, isn’t it? At first glance, I’d say you’ve improved on it by about 400 percent.”

Phoebe laughed. “Thanks. Lucky for me he decided to put all his Civil War memorabilia in storage before he went on sabbatical.”

“You are lucky. I can’t really picture you surrounded by bayonets and muskets.” Duncan handed her a bottle in a shiny silver sack. “You said pasta, so I brought a Brunello di Montepulciano.”

“Terrific,” she said, impressed by his choice.

She hung up his coat, opened the wine in the kitchen, and returned to the living room with a glass for each of them. Duncan accepted his and sank into the sofa, one leg crossed over the thigh of the other. Beneath his jeans he was wearing weathered black cowboy boots.

“That must have been tough this morning at the river,” he said, as she took a seat in the old rocker across from him. “How are you doing?”

“It was tough,” she admitted. “And it’s hard to chase the image out of my mind.”

Duncan rubbed his thumb back and forth along the curves of the wineglass. “Have you learned anything about how the girl died?” he asked, looking back at her. “You have the inside track, of course.”

“I know as little as you do. But coincidentally, I had an interesting encounter with Lily two weeks ago.” She described the rushed conversation in the rain, and then decided to share what she learned from Glenda and Stockton about the Sixes.

Duncan placed his wineglass on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch. He was wearing a beige henley shirt with his jeans, the top two buttons undone, and though not tight, it fit his body well enough for Phoebe to see what good shape he was in.

“What do you think?” she said.

“Hmm,” he said. “On one hand, no, I’ve never heard about any secret society. But as soon as you said the words, it pricked a nerve with me. I’ve had the weirdest sensation from time to time—when I’m around some of the students.”

It was the kind of creepy comment, Phoebe thought, that someone makes in a horror movie, when they begin to sense that their house is haunted by a girl who died a hundred years ago.

“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.

“Hard to describe—in fact you’re the first person I’ve even mentioned this to because it’s been so vague. Sometimes when I’m talking to kids—usually outside the classroom—I have a weird sense there’s something they’re just not saying. Have you ever suspected you’re the only person in a group that doesn’t know something? You’ll see someone shoot another person an odd look. That kind of thing.” Tom Stockton had seen a look exchanged, too, Phoebe recalled. “Are you thinking Lily was a member?”

“Yes, she may have been.”

“If the right moment ever presents itself, I’ll probe the students a little.”

“That would be great—I’m trying to find out all I can. Speaking of the right moment, are you hungry?”

“Famished, actually,” he said. “I never broke for lunch today.”

She’d set up the drop-leaf table in the living room for dinner, and while Duncan refilled their wineglasses, she dumped the spaghetti in the pot of boiling water and then served the salads.

“So you know Herb, then?” she asked, after they’d begun to eat.

“Not super well,” Duncan said. “But I’ve been to a couple of his Christmas parties here.”

“Is there a lot of socializing among the faculty?

“About average, I’d say.” He craned his head around. “Why am I remembering a dining room? I keep picturing a big table with a steaming crock-pot of Swedish meat balls.”

Phoebe laughed, though she wondered why he’d been so quick to change the subject.

“It’s through that door over there,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “But I’ve set it up as my office. Herb used the second bedroom upstairs as his, but it’s under the eaves and feels so claustrophobic to me.”

“I can imagine a lot about Lyle makes you feel claustrophobic. Has it been hard leaving Manhattan behind?”

“Definitely a little strange. But I felt I had to get away. I was looking for a place to think, to regroup, that sort of thing.” She smiled, feeling a little self-conscious. “And then Glenda made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Someone told me you two went to the same boarding school.”

“More or less.”

He cocked his head in a gesture that said, Please explain. He’s a little like me, Phoebe thought. He likes to go below the surface.

“Glenda graduated from there,” she said. “I ended up staying for just my sophomore year and then finished up back at my hometown high school.” She paused for a moment. “Homesick.”

He narrowed his brown eyes, studying her.

“You don’t seem like the kind of girl that gets homesick.”

“Well, I’ve had my wuss moments in life,” Phoebe said. She looked away involuntarily and kicked herself for it.

“What’s amazing,” Duncan said, “is that you and Glenda stayed friends after knowing each other for just a year when you were, what, fifteen?”

“I know. But she’d helped me through a tough situation, and we forged a pretty strong bond. We did drift apart for a bit—this was before cell phones and e-mail. But right after college we both ended up in New York—I was in the magazine business, and she was getting her doctorate at Columbia—and we started spending time together again. It was fantastic to reconnect, and since then we’ve been very close.”

“And are you glad you accepted her offer to come here?”

“By and large, yes. But like I said, I miss the city.” She smiled. “You cannot get a red velvet cupcake in this town. But at the same time I’ve enjoyed the quiet, the lack of chaos. And teaching has given me something to focus on besides my recent fuckup.”

“I bet the kids find you utterly fascinating.”

“Oh, yeah, but not necessarily in a good way. There’s that whole elephant-in-the-room thing to contend with—with both students and faculty.”

He cocked his head. “Meaning?”

“The whole scandale,” Phoebe said. “The plagiarism charges. I know people start buzzing about me the minute I walk into a room. I feel like Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby. They’re all wondering whether I really cheated in that golf tournament.”

“Did you?” he asked, holding her eyes intensely. It was the first time she’d been asked so bluntly, and she found it strangely appealing.

“No,” she said, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “A freelance researcher mislabeled some research notes. And yet . . .”

He didn’t say a word, just looked at her. So he knows how to do the pregnant pause just like I do, she thought.

She shrugged. “I’m not blameless. I’ve always been such a stickler for detail, but in this case I hired a person without the right experience and didn’t pay enough attention to the process.”

“Maybe something about the process didn’t interest you anymore.”

“Maybe,” she said.

God, she thought, how did I get into this? He was asking all the questions. Mercifully the timer she’d set for the pasta went off just then.

In the kitchen, she tested a strand of the linguine, drained the pot, and then stirred the creamy sauce into