"Exactly my point," he laughed. "That was a slum, really, when you think about it. But those were wonderful days. What was it you called yourselves? The Dovercourt…"
"Divas," I said. "And I believe you dated all of us, more than one at the same time, if the revelations in the bar the other night are anything to go by."
"Mmmm," he said. "Did I?"
"I think so," I said. "Although, obviously I refused to admit it to myself at the time."
"I may have been dating more than one of you at first, but you are the one I was with exclusively for quite awhile. I was enamored, you know."
"Me, too," I said. "But that was a long time ago."
"I suppose it was," he said. "You called yourselves divas, in other words, goddesses. Now that I think about it, you all had goddess names. Diana, Roman goddess of wisdom and the chase. Anna, a very ancient goddess, Ana or Anu, Cybil is Cybele, an Asiatic fertility goddess, and in Rome, the consort of Attis, Vesta was the Roman goddess of the hearth. Vesta still has a goddess name, incidentally. Morgan is Celtic. As for Grace, not a real goddess, perhaps, but the three Graces, companions of the goddess of Love."
"All goddesses except me," I said.
"No, no, you too," he said. "You don't know about the Dea Muta?"
"I guess not," I said.
"Lara was a Nymph, one that was asked by Zeus to help him in his planned seduction, or should I say rape, of another Nymph. Lara not only refused, but she told Hera, Zeus's wife, about his plans. In revenge, Zeus ripped out her tongue and banished her to the Underworld. She became known as the Dea Muta, the Silent Goddess, because she could no longer speak. She is supposed to be the averter of malicious gossip. Some consider her a Muse. In Roman times, she became Tacita, from which we get words like taciturn. Appropriate name for you, I think. I have spilled my guts on my marriage and my parents, and my guilty conscience, and you have told me very little. That is perhaps because, like the male chauvinist I undoubtedly am, I have done all the talking."
"I've told you all kinds of things!" I protested. "My shop, my marriage, my just-ended relationship."
"You have given me a chronology of events. I did this, I married him, I did that. You have not revealed your heart to me. I think there is something you are holding back, but that's an impression only. Perhaps I'm imagining it, or perhaps you are just reserved because it has been so many years, and you're not sure whether to trust me."
Sometimes inadvertently people say things that come just a little too close to the bone. Here I was flirting with this man, all the while trying to get information out of him so that I could help my former college mates destroy him, professionally speaking. At least I thought that was what I was doing. Or maybe not.
"I suppose this evening must come to an end," he said, when I didn't reply. "I'll get the bill."
"I'll split it with you," I said.
"No, you won't," he said. "In the first place, I invited you, and in the second, I have not done nearly enough groveling yet to make up for the other night. Excuse me for a minute, will you?"
So he was off to the men's room, leaving his glasses sitting on the table. How tempting it was to reach over and put them on, to see if his vision was anywhere near as bad as he implied it was. My hand reached out, but then I drew it back. Some things it's best not to know.
I looked about the restaurant and was surprised to see Morgan and Woodward Watson at a table on the far side, although I don't know why I should have been. It was a very popular neighborhood bistro. So engrossed had I been in my conversation with Karoly that I hadn't seen them come in. She quite obviously knew I was there. I gave her the slightest nod of the head, but she didn't acknowledge me, and her expression was unreadable. I turned my attention back to the glasses.
I was still looking at them when he returned. "Did you try them?" he said. If he'd seen Morgan he didn't mention it.
"Try what?" I said, as if I didn't know.
"My glasses. To see if my vision was sufficiently bad that I wouldn't recognize you."
"No," I replied. "I'll take your word for it."
"Maybe you shouldn't," he said.
"Okay, let me rephrase that, since you have accused me of holding back. I wasn't sure my fragile ego could cope with the truth. Is it time to go?" I said, in as casual a voice as I could muster.
"The truth?" he said sitting down and reaching across the table to take my hand. "Let me tell you about that evening. It should have been a triumph. I accepted the job at the Cottingham with no great expectations. My marriage to the British aristocracy was over. I hadn't got along well with many of the curators of the Bramley. I thought they were resistant to any kind of change, and certainly, museums do have to get more in touch with what the public wants or they will just molder away. They thought I was ignoring their advice, and running roughshod over good museum practice. Dumbing down, I think they called what I was trying to do, which was to get people in the door. I had the support of the board of governors, but I got tired of all the battles—both personal and professional. I just wanted to come home, and Toronto is the place I consider home, even after all these years. At that point in time I was prepared to stay, to lick my wounds, to languish forever in a small museum like the Cottingham.
"But through what some would call serendipity, others, less generous, dumb luck, I had happened upon an almost twenty-five-thousand-year-old Venus. It should have been one of the best nights of my life. But minutes before I walked to the podium I was told by our accountants that someone I'd hired, someone I'd known a long time, and had placed in a position of trust, had violated that trust. I fired the person that evening. It was unpleasant, no, way beyond unpleasant. It was ugly.
"If that wasn't enough, I'd been in a relationship—one's judgment immediately following a marriage breakup is, I'm sure, impaired. Bad idea, I know, taking up with someone on the rebound. Just how bad an idea it was became very clear to me that evening. I broke it off. So when I was sitting there signing books, Sophia Loren, Queen Elizabeth, Jennifer Lopez, you name it, could have shown up and I wouldn't have recognized her. All I can say is I'm sorry, please forgive me."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?" he said. "Okay what?"
"Okay, I forgive you."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that," I said. He could not know that I'd been lurking outside his office and knew exactly what he was talking about. But I felt better somehow. It did explain rather a lot about what I'd seen that evening, enough that I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, it was very good to see him again.
"Did you drive?" he said.
"I took a taxi," I said. "My car is in for repairs for a couple of days."
"I'll take you home," he said.
He walked with me along the lane way that led to my house from the street, then past the white picket fence, right up to my door. There he kissed me lightly on the lips, before walking to the gate. He turned then, and looked back at me. For a moment or two I thought he was going to ask to come in, and I think I wanted him to.
"The Dea Muta," he said instead. "I wonder what it is you aren't telling me." Then he blew me a kiss and was gone.
CHAPTERFIVE
September 11
"YOU SLEPT WITH HIM. I KNOW YOU DID," MORGAN SAID.
"Whaaa?" I said, or something like that. I was sure I had just dropped off to sleep, having wandered around most of the night, and there was that persistent ringing sound again. Being awakened by an unpleasant phone call was becoming an annoying part of my daily routine.
"I saw the way you looked at each other last night," she said. "You were practically gobbling each other up with your eyes."