“You’ve never read any of the books I recommend, so I’m not holding out hope that you’ll read one about Roosevelt.”
“Doesn’t he have his face on that mountain?”
“Geez. Tell me you didn’t just ask that.” Ensley rolled her eyes. “He’s on Mount Rushmore with Lincoln, Washington, and Jefferson. And he’s widely regarded as the first modern president of the United States. He was a fascinating man.”
And now I’m no longer editing a book about him.
“Right. I knew it was somewhere out there where you used to live and play Junior Ranger.”
“I lived in North Dakota. Mount Rushmore is in the Black Hills of South Dakota.”
“I’m in finance, sweetie. History isn’t my thing.”
“Neither is geography,” Ensley said with a snicker.
Barb switched legs and stretched her other quad. “Hey, don’t be cruel.”
“You know… It’s time we both broadened our horizons. I’ll talk to George about fixing me up with someone, and you can read the Roosevelt book when it’s released.”
Barb picked up her phone and started walking down the trail, passing the wildflower meadow. “Since that book won’t be out until next year, I can safely agree to broaden my horizons. I doubt either one of us will remember this conversation. Well, maybe you will. You have one of those eidetic memories.”
“Not quite.”
“Close enough. Hey, you know what?” Barb said. “When your Roosevelt guy was in the White House, modern sports emerged in America, and the athletic paradigm still reigns today.”
“How in the world do you know that?”
“It was a question on Jeopardy.”
“I should have known.”
“Okay, I’ve got to put my phone away and pay attention to where I am. I’ll call you soon.”
“Stay safe.” Ensley put the phone down and carried her wine and suitcase upstairs. She couldn’t stay out late tonight because tomorrow was her first face-to-face meeting with her new client.
What the hell was she thinking? She didn’t have a client meeting tomorrow. She didn’t even have a job.
Don’t cry. George will know something is wrong. And I don’t want my disappointment to interfere with dinner.
She hefted her suitcase onto the luggage rack, noting that she had just enough time to rinse, dry, dress, and add a touch of makeup. If she wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat, she’d pull her long hair up in a messy bun, but tonight it would hang down her back.
She finished her wine, then jumped in the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, she zipped up her jeans, shoved her feet into her cowboy boots, slipped on a denim jacket, and tied a red-checkered scarf around her neck. She’d dug it out of a trunk full of clothes and memorabilia she moved from the ranch. The scarf was a high school 4-H project made from an old tablecloth, and it even had a built-in face mask. Yeehaw!
George was due any minute now, and she had to set aside all thoughts of her job loss.
She posed in front of the mirror. Except for the hurt in her eyes, she looked spectacular, if she did say so herself. But the jacket could use some bling to pull everyone’s attention away from her sad face.
She picked through the several pieces of her mother’s jewelry she brought with her to wear with this weekend’s outfits. The antique Celtic brooch originally belonged to her four-times-great-grandmother, and it would look gorgeous with the denim jacket. The center stone glowed like the sun at sunset, plus it was big and bright with plenty of bling—a showstopper piece.
Her mother once said that the stone restored the enjoyment of life to the wearer.
We’ll see about that.
She held it up to the light and noticed a small crack around the stone. Had the jeweler damaged it while cleaning it recently? Noticing a tiny clasp at the edge of the stone, she flicked it with her fingernail. The stone popped open and revealed an inscription.
Ensley ran her finger over the words engraved on the inside, thinking they looked Gaelic. She’d edited a series of Scottish romances that used similar words.
She sounded them out. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
As soon as she spoke the last word, a misty substance spread out around her feet. “Christ!”
She jumped out of the way, but the mist followed her, stinking up the room with an earthy smell. She grabbed her hat and fanned the fog, but it only grew and thickened around her.
The brooch heated, burning her hand, and, heart racing and adrenaline pumping, she threw the damn thing and ran out of the room, but the mist followed her.
She couldn’t outrun it or fan it away.
Go outside!
But by the time she hit the bottom step, the mist completely engulfed her. “Help!” she screamed, frantically waving her hat and arms, but she was stuck in the thick of it now.
And that was the last she knew.
5
Cambridge, MA—James Cullen
James Cullen Fraser relaxed in the billiard hall of the exclusive undergraduate Porcellian Club in Cambridge, sipping whisky. At the same time, he stared up at Teddy Roosevelt’s portrait, one of a long line of famous members of the centuries-old club.
JC had spent countless hours in this four-story stone and brick building during his undergraduate studies and law school. But this was the first time he’d entered one of Harvard’s most secretive, men-only social clubs since graduating four years ago.
And nothing in the club had changed. It still had the same smell of cigar smoke, the same buttery softness of cowhide leather chairs, and the same mustiness created by the hundreds of old leather-bound books in the library.
The purpose of his Cambridge visit was to meet with the Manager of Donor Services for the law school. The appointment was at nine tomorrow morning, but instead of taking an early flight, he came up from DC late this afternoon.
Since he was here alone, he stopped by the club, hoping to find a friend to join him for dinner. But so far, no luck.
