Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (96 page)

"An almond torte," Stasi said with satisfaction. "Six thin layers of almond cake with light chocolate frosting between each one and vanilla cream on top."

"Golly," Lewis said. He cut the trussing on the turkey with his pocketknife. "That sounds complicated."

"It's more impressive looking than complicated," she said, stirring the milk in gently. "Now, a Dobos torte is complicated. It's the caramel sheets for the top that are tricky. Vanilla cream is simple."

Lewis looked up from the turkey. "You really can bake."

"It's my one respectable skill." She glanced over at Lewis arranging the turkey in the biggest roasting pan. "And where did you learn to cook?"

"I was the baby," Lewis said. "And it's a good thing I did learn, because Alma can't boil water and Mitch can just about make breakfast on a good day." He tied the drumsticks neatly with twine and got out the earthenware jug of olive oil. "This is just the way my mami did it. She always brushed the skin of fowl with olive oil because that would give it the beautiful brown color and keep it moist inside. And two lemons and a fresh chile for the cavity, but I don't have any chiles so just the lemons today."

Stasi watched him with interest as he stuffed the turkey. "Are your parents alive?"

Lewis shook his head, but the memory was more fond than painful. "No. My father died when I was three. My mother passed on a few years ago. She was a wonderful woman, God rest her soul. My two older sisters are living, though, both in San Diego. I have eight nieces and nephews." He looped the kitchen twine to close the cavity. "My family's been in San Diego forever, since a soldier named Segura married a
conversa
in 1780. It's all there in the mission church -- her baptism, their marriage, Christenings for thirteen children, their deaths. We think she was a Kumeyaay Indian, but of course there aren't good records of that or of her original name. She was baptized Maria Consuela." Lewis shrugged. "A lot of
mestizos
in Alta California. But that was a hundred and fifty years ago, so who knows?"

Stasi was looking at him with utter fascination. "I never heard any of that when I was in San Diego."

Lewis shrugged again. "People think we all got here yesterday. But my family's been American a lot longer than Alma's. Her father came from Ireland fifty years ago." And who knows where Stasi had come from. Probably not Russia. That her father baked was the most he'd ever heard her say that he actually believed. He carefully didn't look at her as he dabbed olive oil over the skin of the turkey. "Do you have family?"

"I don't know." She got up, going to pour herself another cup of coffee, her back to him. "I don't know if they're still alive or not. But if they are…. If they are, they probably don't want to hear from me. I haven't exactly led an exemplary life."

"Still," Lewis said, looking for the right words. "You're their daughter."

Her back was to him, straight backed in front of the window over the sink, Mitch's big old work shirt over her dress to keep it clean. "The last thing my father ever said to me was that if I left I was no longer his daughter. I don't expect he's changed his mind. Whether he's alive or dead."

"That's rough," Lewis said.

"My father was a righteous man, and God gave me to him for a trial," she said. "But he's probably dead, and I'm not. And I certainly prefer it that way."

Lewis nodded even though her back was to him. At least his mother had been proud of him. She'd been so proud when he'd won the DSC in France, though not nearly as happy as when he'd come home -- her boy, an officer and a gentleman and a hero. Her memory would always be warm to him. He had nothing to regret. And Stasi -- well, she really didn't have anyone, did she? He was a lucky man, with a wife and friends and a good job that he loved, and if God didn't see fit to give them a baby, nobody got it all. He and Alma were both forty-two. It was probably just too late. But they had each other and all the rest of this strange family, and so there was room at the table for anyone who wanted to sit down.

"I'm glad you're not dead," Lewis said.

She turned around quizzically.

"Who'd make the almond torte if you were?"

Stasi grinned. "There is that."

"And I could use some help with the rest of the dinner too," Lewis said. "You heard Rayburn's in town, right? Came out to see if he can salvage his plane? So since he and his mechanic are stuck here over the holiday, Alma asked them to Thanksgiving dinner. So that's two more people than I'd expected. Can you make mashed potatoes?"

"Can I make mashed potatoes, he asks!" she implored of the heavens, or at least of the ceiling. "I can make mashed potatoes you would grovel and beg for!"

"Ok," Lewis said. "You're on. If anyone grovels and begs for your mashed potatoes, I'll give you a dollar."

"Deal," Stasi said, holding out her hand.

Lewis shook it. "Deal," he said.

J
erry finished shaving and ran his hand over his chin, savoring an unexpected feeling of well-being. He'd managed to sleep in, drowsing under the quilted spread even after the sun came pouring in the windows, then read the papers over the carafe of coffee delivered by a bustling Club waiter in lieu of the usual breakfast, and now it was time to meet Iskinder for the Club's elaborate Thanksgiving dinner. He still felt a little guilty for making someone else work on the holiday, and for not being back in Colorado Springs, but certainly there was no time to do the latter. No, he'd go back for Christmas — he'd know then whether the job was going to be extended or if there were any other contracts opening up in the spring. It was always easier to tell Alma his plans than to give her a chance to object. Which wasn't entirely fair. Al hardly begrudged him the chance to get back to his true vocation.

He knotted his tie — crimson silk, a nod to the College even if it wasn't a Club tie — and glanced at his reflection in the room's one long mirror. He looked entirely respectable in his best blue suit, the color dark enough not to fight his sallow complexion, the vivid tie his one flourish for the day. He checked his pockets — keys, watch, cigarettes and lighter, then collected his cane, and started for the lobby.

It was crowded, as he'd expected: this was one of the days when members brought not just their wives but their entire families. An elderly woman in deep gray had been ensconced in one of the large armchairs by the fireplace, two middle-aged men hovering, looking so much like her that they had to be her sons. A larger group was gathered across from them, two older couples, a young man and woman, and a handful of older children — newlyweds, perhaps, or maybe newly engaged, the families feeling each other out for the first time. A smart young couple hovered by the dining room door, the woman in a miniature trilby that would have looked good on Alma's blonde waves. Several small girls in velvet dresses darted between their chatting elders, and two boys in knicker suits were eying each other warily by the magazine rack. In the background, the club staff bustled between the smoking room and the main dining room, and the air was thick with the scent of cigarettes and roasting turkey.

He fished his watch from his pocket, confirming that he was a few minutes early, but he couldn't say he minded very much. He liked the noise and the bustle, the competing conversations, the elegant clothes and the luxuries, large and small. He stepped out of the way of a waiter with a tray of what the Club claimed unblushingly was merely sparkling cider, and dodged a very determined-looking small boy in a sailor suit who carried a wooden airplane like a club. His mother darted after him, retrieved him with a quick apology, and a man in a gray glen plaid suit turned to check on the disturbance.

Jerry froze. Surely that wasn't possible — it couldn't be Piers Harradine, not now. Surely he was still in Boston, except that, no, the last Class Report had said he'd taken a position with the family firm in New York. And for all that he was twenty years older, that was unmistakably Piers. The other man was staring at him with the same wild-eyed look of a deer caught in headlights, and any minute now someone would notice. Jerry forced a smile. "Piers."

"Jerry." The other man caught the shoulder of a tow-headed girl in a burgundy velvet coat. "Alida, help your mother wrangle your brother, please."

He should turn away, Jerry knew, they should both turn and walk away and pretend they'd never seen each other again, but the tall woman in the impeccable eau de nil shantung had corralled the toddler and was looking curiously at them. She had to be Piers' wife, Jerry thought, and Piers managed a tight smile.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"I'm working at the Met," Jerry said. "Just for a few months." And that was heard as the reassurance he had meant, because he saw Piers' shoulders relax fractionally. God, he was still good-looking, lean and fair, though lines bracketed his mouth and spread at the corners of his eyes. They'd both come within an ace of being expelled their senior year, when a proctor had walked in on them when they were supposed to be studying — they hadn't been doing much, by Jerry's current standards, but the intent had been unmistakable. They'd each claimed to be the instigator, and Piers' father and Jerry's tutor and Iskinder's father had all exerted their influence to hush it up, but the whisper of scandal had followed Jerry to Chicago, and it had taken years for him to live it down. He wondered now what it had cost Piers.

The woman in the shantung dress was still waiting, looking from one to the other, hazel eyes wary, and Piers put his hand on her waist. "My dear, this is an old friend from college, Jerry Ballard. He was a professor at Chicago, the last I heard. Jerry, this is my wife Emily."

"A pleasure," Jerry said, and took the hand that was extended to him. "If you'll excuse me —"

In the same moment, Piers said, "Your leg — France?"

"Italy," Jerry answered. He had too many questions himself, and none of them were safe to ask. But he would have liked to know that things were well with Piers. "You?"

"France," Piers answered, and there was a brief moment of silence.

Emily Harradine filled it as though from long practice. "We took the children to see the parade, Dr. Ballard. I'm afraid they're a bit over-excited."

"Understandably," Jerry said. "It's quite a spectacle."

The little boy with the airplane scowled, but his mother held him firmly.

"You're not dining alone, surely," Piers said.

"No," Jerry said, with more force than was strictly polite. The last thing he wanted was to be invited to join them. "I'm meeting my old roommate. You remember Iskinder, Piers, I'm sure."

"Of course."

Jerry looked past him, hoping to see Iskinder arriving — anything to make his escape before one of them did something foolish — but instead a handsome matron in a lavender suit moved to join them. "There you are, dear," she said, to Emily, and smiled expectantly at Jerry.

"Mother, this is Dr. Ballard. He was at school with Piers," Emily said obediently. "My mother, Mrs. Binney, Dr. Ballard."

Jerry took her hand as well, murmuring a suitable response, and to his relief saw Iskinder at the door, the crowd parting before him. Iskinder saw him in the same moment and turned toward them, breaking stride only as he recognized Piers. Mrs. Binney's eyebrows had reached the brim of her conservative cloche.

"Mother, Emily," Piers said quickly, "allow me to present Prince Iskinder, of Ethiopia."

"Charmed," she said, and there was only the briefest of hesitations before she offered her hand.

Iskinder made the usual half-bow that he reserved for situations like this. "A pleasure to meet you, ladies. And it's good to see you again, Piers. But I hope you'll forgive me — Jerry, our table is ready."

"Of course," Jerry said. He felt as though he was moving underwater, made himself shake hands with Piers and Emily, saying all the proper things, before he could finally turn away.

Iskinder led them not to the dining hall but to the smaller smoking room, and claimed a table in the corner, waving to the nearest waiter. "Two double whiskeys," he said. "Jerry, wait right here."

Jerry nodded, fumbling for a cigarette, and lit it with hands that only shook a little. He supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised: Piers had family in New York, it was only reasonable to expect him to move back here in the end, and he'd had the warning from the last Class Report. He was filled with questions, none of which he could have asked — none of which he would have dared ask, even in private, because they would have betrayed his own vulnerabilities.

The waiter arrived with the drinks, and he downed half of his in a gulp. He couldn't afford to have anyone rake up that old scandal, not when he was trying to get back into the field — not when he'd found a possible key to the Soma. He needed to seem as respectable as possible, the sort of man you could rely on to organize a dig and keep the workers happy, to spend the museum's money wisely and well. Piers wouldn't say anything, though. They'd proved their loyalty twenty years ago.

That didn't mean his wife wouldn't say something if she suspected, or the mother-in-law. Or Piers' own father, if the old man was still alive. It was probably a good thing that the Met job was short-term. But without the Met, how would he get access to the medallion? How would he find someone to sponsor a dig?

"All right." Iskinder dropped into the chair opposite him, shaking his head, and reached for his own whiskey. "I tipped the Club Steward rather heavily, and we will be seated in the Crimson Room. Mr. Harradine and his party are in the Ivy."

"Thank you." Jerry took a more careful sip of his drink. "Believe me, I was not expecting that."

"The pair of you looked like someone had shot you," Iskinder said. The words were light, but his meaning was clear, and Jerry grimaced.

"That bad?"

"I don't think anyone noticed but me," Iskinder said. "Perhaps his wife?"

"I have no idea what their arrangement is, or if they have one."

"Let's hope so."

"Believe me," Jerry said, "I hadn't thought about him in years."