Groaning, her brother raised a hand. “Don’t even think about asking me to take you back to the men’s room at the airport. It was a mistake. You and your scientific study.”
“There might be valuable lessons there. Think about what a trained, yet unbiased eye could glean. Maybe true insight into the differences between the sexes.”
“Yes, the differences are very obvious at a urinal. You could call it the Stall Theory. Sorry, Sis, but I doubt any serious academic publication would pick it up.”
Ava sighed and returned her attention to the boxes. “Well, that would be no change from what’s going on now. No peer-reviewed journals want to publish my research on the lost sexual customs of the world, either.”
Thad stooped to pick up another box. “So that’s why you decided to write it up as a book.”
“That, and the fact my research funding dried up, and it’s too late now to find a teaching job. No university would take me on until fall. And now the publisher wants to help me fine-tune it, make it more attuned to today’s reader. Whatever that means. As if people won’t find the way I’ve written on sociocultural and kinship patterns attention-grabbing.”
“Yeah, I can see how that wouldn’t be a problem,” he told her drily.
Ava glanced over to see her brother’s lips twisting into a smile. “Okay, maybe I could do with a little lightening up.”
“Face it, sis, you haven’t been living in the real world for…well, at all. Mom and Dad toted you around to every dig since you could carry a shovel. Then you went straight to college and basically never left.”
“You had those same experiences,” she pointed out.
“Except I chose to have a life between classes.” Thad placed his hands on her shoulders and she looked into the green eyes so much like her own. “You know what, I think not finding a job is a good thing for you.”
Ava scoffed, her bangs ruffling. “Apart from the tiny problem of paying for food and utilities.”
Thad wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her beside his tall frame. Why did he have to inherit all the height genes?
They’d always been close. Sometimes they were the only two children on a dig site, and they’d grown to read each other’s moods. “Ava, listen. This is your opportunity to fly. Mom and Dad didn’t give you that name for you to sit and mope. Avis, our eagle, now’s your time to soar. So you’re not teaching anthropology to a bunch of freshmen who probably don’t want to sit in your class anyway. That’s a good thing.”
“I just thought I’d always teach and lecture. Share the love of traditions and learning of other cultures to fresh, new, young minds.”
Another huge disappointment in the daughter department. She’d chosen to go for anthropology rather than follow her parent’s path and continue their research in mythology and the ancient Greek cultures. They’d have loved nothing better than to always have her by their side at the digs in Greece—the magical place where her parents fell in love.
She had no doubt if she’d pursued archaeology she would have found half a dozen jobs at any major university across the country. Her last name alone would guarantee it.
But she didn’t want to rely on that last name even on such short notice.
So she didn’t have a job. She didn’t have anything published impressive enough to get her a job in her chosen field.
So what? She did have a prospect. In two days, Miriam Cole from Cole Publishing would be here to “help” her explore the concepts best suited for her book. Writing her book with a little bit of help wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to earn a paycheck…but she’d adapt. Wasn’t that one of the cornerstones of her teaching anyway? How cultures, people, throughout time changed to meet the problems that faced them?
She could be flexible. She’d show Miriam just how interesting ancient dead cultures and their sexual habits could be. Show her that they were relevant to the twenty-first century woman.
“That’s it,” she said, suddenly ready to clear the moving distraction out of her way. She had a stage to set for the head of Cole Publishing.
“What’s it?” Thad asked.
Determination filled her, and Ava squared her shoulders. “I’m going to demonstrate that this book can be exciting. That people will want to read it. I’m going to knock her socks off. When Miriam Cole gets here, I’ll greet her in the ceremonial wedding attire of the Wayterian people.”
Thad lost his smile. “Isn’t that basically just pa—”
Ava smiled. “Exactly.”
IAN CIRCLED AROUND THE one-way streets of downtown Oklahoma City for a third time, looking for a place to park. Why couldn’t the doc live in a normal place, not some converted old warehouse? Like maybe some place that didn’t need to be validated.
For that matter, why’d she have to live in flyover country anyway? At least he’d had no layovers. He estimated he’d lost two years of quality life just sitting in a plane due to a lack of direct flights. The skills paid off this time. With no connections, he had some uninterrupted hours to review the project.
Just as on any assignment, he liked the broad details, but kept away from the finer points so he wouldn’t be biased in one direction over another. He’d spent the flight to Oklahoma reviewing the doc’s work that she’d turned in to Miriam. The writing style was abysmal. Something between technical anthropological jargon and absolute incoherence.
The sex stuff was the only thing that seemed remotely promising. But discussing it with a grandma-like Margaret Mead stretched before him and seemed as tantalizing as many hours of cuddling and spooning.
Finally, he parked in the redbrick garage he’d found, paid his five bucks and hiked the few blocks to her warehouse loft apartment, lugging his camera, minirecorder and laptop. He looked down at the paper in his hand, confirming her address. Top floor. Of course. She buzzed him in, and he headed for the elevator. He hated elevators. Every family member he had insisted on living on the top floor. He’d rather be chased to the border than be trapped in a metal box suspended by a string.
This kind of elevator was awful, one of those large service lifts. He’d have to pull the top and bottom gate closed. He’d take the stairs. He’d hiked through worse, and with all his equipment strapped to his back.
There was no mistaking which apartment was the doc’s. A brown ceramic snake stood beside the front door. A snake with large breasts and fake red flowers coming out of its mouth. Weird.
This photo shoot and discussion was going to be worse than he’d first imagined. His sister owed him something good after this. She’d have to send him someplace dirty. Somewhere he could trudge through swamps and fight off rebels as he followed a band of radicals, a camera in one hand, a knife in the other. Ah, good times.
He knocked on the door. A strange exotic scent lingered in the air, tantalizing his nose. Subtle, yet almost…arousing. He took a few more sniffs of the air, then realized the scent came from underneath the door. At least the doc would smell better than the radicals.
Impatient, Cole knocked again. He already hated the assignment. And the doc. Now she wasn’t even here to greet him. He’d make his sister cook for that. She hated cooking. He was about to leave when he heard a noise behind the door. Then some strange, elemental music. Was that drums?
The knob twisted and the door opened.
“Welcome,” said the woman in front of him, a smile forming along the red fullness of her lips.
“Pai—” he managed to get out, then stopped.
He’d had a thought. It was there just a second ago.
The woman took a quick step backward, the smile fading from her face. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Paint.”
His eyes lowered, following the elaborate swirls and colors that adorned her skin. Paint and nothing much else. He tried to swallow. He’d obviously prejudged this assignment too harshly.
Her eyes met his squarely. Not a trace of embarrassment or awkwardness in her body language. “Yes, the Wayterian people would adorn themselves in paints before their wedding, signifying their past. After the ceremony they rinse off in each other’s presence, starting clean and fresh together.”