The bubble burst. The man blinked, then turned to look down at Jen, the person he’d flattened, as if he’d only then remembered that she existed. He stepped to her side—Bird realized that no more than a few seconds could have passed, though it had felt like hours—and held a hand down to her. “Madam, please accept my heartfelt apologies.”
He spoke with a slight accent, one which Bird didn’t recognize but found pleasant.
Jen reached up cautiously, and his long-fingered hand gripped her biker’s gauntlet. She was only an inch or so shorter than him and a whole lot wider, especially with all her padding. But he hauled her to her feet with no apparent effort.
The man gave a short but graceful bow, then addressed them all. “My apologies for my untimely interruption. I assure you it was well meant.”
Godiva cackled. “If it looked real enough that you decided to swoop in to save the day, then by damn we got it right. C’mon campers, time to hump our asses back up the hills. Coffee’s on me when we reach the top.”
And as Bird brushed damp sand off herself, suddenly—and for the first time in years—aware of how the wet fabric was clinging to her body, Godiva added, “You’re pretty fast, there, bucko. I didn’t see you coming until all of a sudden, you tackled Jen here like it was Superbowl Sunday. Where were you?”
“I beg your pardon,” the man said. He wore a light safari jacket over jeans. His well-cut but casual outfit was incongruous next to his gilt-edged carved walking stick, which was like something a king would carry in the days of old.
A spurt of depression washed over Bird. It was so unfair that a man could look great at any age, while she had always been dumpy and now was dumpier. The way she’d “let herself go” after the birth of her children was just one of the long catalogue of shortcomings that Bartholomew had felt obliged to relate, in exquisitely painful detail, in court twenty-seven years ago.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man turned back to Bird and met her eyes as if the others weren’t even there. His soft voice resonated through every nerve in her body as he said in a light manner that did not quite mask a curious formality, “I am . . .” She got the odd feeling that he was about to say something else, before he murmured quickly, “I am Mikhail Long, Visiting Professor of Art History.”
Now she knew his name. Mikhail Long. It was just a name, yet it felt strangely significant. Her throat went dry, her heart thumped, and every cell in her body tingled.
“Say what?” Godiva asked in her loud squawk.
That shattered the moment, and Bird could breathe again. How very odd. A single glance from a man she’d only just met, and she felt like a teenager again.
Mikhail turned, smiled, and in a different voice altogether, said, “I’m a professor currently connected to the local university, tasked to survey yon caves for possible finds, subsequent to the recent earthquake.”
Yon caves, Bird thought. He didn’t just look like a knight from a fairytale disguising himself in modern clothes, he talked like one too.
Doris said, “Those caves are strictly off limits, I thought.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “The ground is considered unstable pending further examination by your state authorities. I looked in briefly just now, and though I don’t believe it’s going to come down, it would be unsafe for playing around in.”
“There’s nothing authentic in there,” Godiva said. “Those caves have been scoured out by party-hearty teenagers, all the way back to the psychedelic trips under the influence of Maui Wowee in 1969. How do you think I got here?” She cackled again.
Mikhail’s eyes crinkled as he smiled her way. They looked even more silvery in the light reflecting off the sea, now that the sun had come up. But no one had silver eyes. They must just be a very pale gray...
“You may well be right,” he said to Godiva. “But I’m still obliged to investigate, before the authorities decide whether to board up the site entirely. I was taking a preliminary look around when I happened to see the four of you, and, ah, leaped to incorrect conclusions. I apologize once again.”
He made a slight, graceful old-world bow. As he straightened, his grip changed on the walking stick. Bird saw that the handle, which reminded her of a sword hilt in the swashbuckler style, was actually a dragon head.
“Well, you can be forgiven for those conclusions,” Doris said briskly. “Since we were doing our darndest to make it look real.” She pocketed her cell. “We’d better move our patoots from the scene of the crime. We don’t have permission to be here.”
“Ah, so you’re filmmakers?” Mikhail said, once more turning his gaze to Bird. “This is California. I should have guessed.”
For just a moment, Bird felt as if her entire body had been outlined in light. Then she looked away. Surely he was just staring at her because of her ridiculous appearance, splattered in fake blood and wearing the world’s most hideous tie.
“No, we’re writers,” Doris said. “Godiva here is G.T. Hidalgo, the famous mystery novelist.”
As Doris spoke, Bird shuffled through the sand to where she’d left her jacket on a rock. She pulled it over her gory shirt, then yanked off the yoga wrap and shook out her wild graying curls, hopefully hiding the worst of the sticky red on her neck and cheek.
“I’m Doris Lebowitz, only famous if you happen to like cookbooks and cooking for one,” Doris went on. “Jen there is Jennifer O’Keefe, award winning journalist.” Jen’s pale skin flushed, but her sober expression didn’t change. “And Bird here writes and illustrates wonderful children’s books.”
Wrote, Bird thought.
“Bird?” Mikhail asked.
Bird looked up, to find that once again he’d turned to face her. She couldn’t keep herself from one more peek at his eyes. It wasn’t just her imagination: they really were silver.
“Bird is her nickname,” Doris said.