NUMB - Judy Colella (good beach reads txt) 📗

and she asked me to pick up a few things for her here. Seems they haven’t gotten all their luggage back yet, and she always keeps a few outfits in the studio. So go away.”

“Mind if we tag along?” The reporter blocking the door stepped back and leaned against it, clearly going nowhere.

“Right.” Ondine pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed 911.

At first, the reporters rolled their eyes, probably figuring the police wouldn’t want to be bothered, but when the girl said she had reason to believe one of them intended to do sexually deviant things to her if he managed to get her alone inside the building, all of them disappeared.

Smiling, Ondine unlocked the door, went in, and locked it again behind her before running up the stairs to the studio. Unlike Atarah, Ondine was tiny – only five-foot-three – and of a pixie-ish build. When she reached the top of the stairs, she wasn’t even winded.

Upon entering the studio, she paused to take deep, satisfied breath, enjoying as she always did the aromas that accompanied the industry. Atarah was standing near one of the marble blocks, a delicate frown on her lovely features.

“What do you see, my friend?”

“Ondine!” Atarah rushed over and gave the other girl a warm hug. “I see you, and that make me very, very happy! How did you get in without being tackled by the press?”

“Who said I wasn’t?”

“Ondine!”

“Okay, not literally. But they did surround me for a few minutes and tried to get in.”

“And?”

“I called the police, told them one of them looked like a sexual predator, and – voila! Ils ont disparu! Works every time.”

Atarah giggled. “Your French roots are showing.”

“As they often do in times of stress. So tell me about your honeymoon. Seriously. I want to know. What’s it like to make love with Jett?”

A deep flush made its way up Atarah’s throat and engulfed her face, and she ducked her head, her smile turning shy. “Immersive.”

Ondine gave her a crazy look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, my beautiful, nosy friend, that making love with Jett is like drowning in joy. The physical pleasure is only the surface – all that he is and all he means to me is the undertow, and honestly, I never wanted to come back up for air.” She grinned and went into the small kitchen off the main room.

“So poetic!” Ondine shook her head and laughed, following. “I wonder if that much dedication to one person is healthy.”

“No, probably not.” She pointed to the table in the middle of the room, which she’d set with antique, mismatched plates. “Sit. I made us salads and bread, and we have fruit and cheese for dessert.”

“You made the bread, too?”

“At Jett’s parents’ house, yes.”

Ondine sat, watching her friend take two full bowls from the refrigerator and set them on the plates. Returning to the fridge, Atarah took out a pitcher of lemonade, pouring it into the glasses before setting it down in the middle of the table. It was like watching a dance.

“When does Jett start his job?”

“The University asked him to come in a week early to help reconfigure the phys-ed curriculum, so he’ll be going in tomorrow.” She took a large, round loaf of bread from the oven as she spoke, brought it to a side table and cut it into neat, even slices. “He’ll be dividing his schedule between that and teaching mathematics. Clever boy.”

Yes, he is. Good-hearted, too. “I’m glad you guys finally married, even if I do think you’re both too young.”

“Nonsense. You can’t be too young when your love knows nothing about time-limits.”

“Stop sounding like a philosopher.” Ondine took a bite of her salad. “Mmm! Delicious! So have you talked to him about having kids?”

“I have – he’s delighted! Wants as many as we can have without it hurting me. After all, he knows he’s not the one who has to bear them, so if that means we have one, we have one. But if I’m happy with having more, then that’s what we’ll have. Simple.”

Nodding, Ondine wanted to say something about how perfect her friend’s life was, but something radiating the stench of superstition held her back. “I’m glad – you’ll make awesome parents.” There. Safer.

They ate the rest of the meal in easy silence. When they were finishing the last few strawberries, Ondine said she could definitely see the sculptress as a mom.

“I hope so. Oh, Ondine, I almost feel as if I don’t really deserve this much happiness, but I won’t reject it. I also think that maybe…” She looked down, reddening again.

“What is it?”

“A feeling. Not a certainty, of course. Intuition, maybe.”

“What are you talking about?”

Atarah reached suddenly across the table and grasped Ondine’s hand. “I think I may already be pregnant.”

“For real?” She wasn’t totally shocked.

“I think. It’s too soon to know unless I get a blood test.”

“When will you do that?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I haven’t said anything to Jett or his family, of course – or mine.”

“Speaking of your family, are they still in Greece?”

Atarah nodded and got up, taking her empty salad bowl to the sink. “They called last night, though. Said they were glad we got home safe, and that they’d be back in another two months.”

“That’ll be nice. Here – I’ll wash mine.” She had joined Atarah, shouldering her away from the sink with a smile.

“Well, yes, it will. Especially if I am pregnant. Coffee?”

“When have you ever had to ask?”

When at last they were done and everything was washed and put away, Ondine stretched, content, and stood. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Working on an idea. Care to hang around and keep me company? I have to do some sketches before I start hammering at that block.”

Ondine loved watching Atarah work. Their long friendship had taught her how to keep the artist company without being a distraction: watch, smile, speak only when asked something, be there. In return for her kind patience, she got to see beauty brought into being under the strong, graceful hands of her brilliant friend. “You aren’t going to do anything in that outfit, are you?” She waved at the diaphanous lavender sheath flowing around her friend’s lissome and magnificently-proportioned frame. A slender Amazon, Ondine thought. Only when standing next to her six-foot-six husband did she ever look more human and less like some classic goddess.

“No, silly. I’m putting on a sensible pair of jeans and an old sweater.”

“You know I love your clothes.”

“You covet them, too, I suspect. Like I often covet being as delicate and exquisite as you.”

Ondine sighed. “If you weren’t in love with Jett, would you be my girlfriend?”

Atarah laughed. “Only if you broke up with Wolfe.”

“Ah, yes. My fierce man-child.” She thought about the gentle-hearted man with whom she’d been sharing her bed – he was only a few inches taller than Ondine herself, but much stronger than his stature would make most people believe. “Don’t know what his parents were thinking when they named him, though.”“Have you asked them?

“Never had the courage. Besides, I’ve only seen them twice. It didn’t seem an appropriate question either time.”

Atarah nodded and opened the closet. They were back in the main room of the studio, where the sunlight had changed position and was currently bathing everything in lemon.

“Have you decided where you’re going to live, now that you’re back?”

“We were actually taking last night about getting a villa in Tuscany for vacations.” Atarah slipped the dress over her head and put it on a hanger, completely uninhibited about having nothing else on except a thong. “Other than that, no. We’ll probably look for a house somewhere between here and the University campus.”

“Tuscany – sounds like you really liked it there.”

“What we saw of it, yes. I’ve been to Rome and Florence, of course, and Venice once, but this was the first time I had a chance to see Tuscany.” She smiled, her eyes filling with something that Ondine suspected had nothing to do with the Italian countryside.

“So…you spent most of your time indoors?”

“Wicked girl. Yes.”

Laughing, Ondine got up from the chair where she’d been lounging, watching her friend change clothes, and went to the window. Her laughter faded.

There, looking up with a storm-cloud expression, was the reporter who had blocked the door. He was alone, from what she could see, but that didn’t make her feel any better. What if he tried to break in? “Looks like I need to make another call to our local constabulary,” she muttered.

Behind her, Atarah appeared unaware that anything was wrong; she was taking a battered sketchbook from the shelving, her back to the window. Not that the man down on the street could have seen her from there, but Ondine suddenly wished the studio had curtains.

Shaking her head and staring back at the paparazzo, she took out her phone. She’d made an enemy, and she knew it. Still, if this would keep her dearest friend safe, it was well worth any future risk that might come from it.

“Is this a police emergency?” asked the female voice on the other end.

“It is. I called a little while ago…”

*3*

 

 

Silence, stretching out like a languorous cat.

The Board of Directors of the Athletics Department had convened to establish the upcoming year’s curriculum. Normally, this was easily handled through emails, but this year, they had a new instructor, an alumnus who also happened to be wildly famous – an Olympic gold medalist, in fact. One whose abilities seemed to defy several laws of physics. So instead of opening with a discussion about how the year should shape up with this young man teaching Track and Field, Professor Pierre St. John, one of the Board members, had asked if anyone honestly believed the Olympian’s athleticism could have been achieved without the use of steroids.

Thus the silence.

No one had intended to go there, the Professor knew, even though more than one of the members had speculated about it – privately. Perhaps his query, stated with controlled anger, would have felt less uncomfortable had the young man in question not been in attendance.

After staring around at the group and noting their unwillingness to continue the discussion, much less answer his question, Professor St. John sat back, eyes narrowed, nodding. “I see. Fine. Let me ask you, then, Mr. Kinsley – do you, or have you ever, taken performance-enhancing drugs?”

“You know,” said Jett, “had I not already had so much blood drawn for testing that I was beginning to feel like the main course at a mosquito convention, I wouldn’t expect any of you to believe a denial. But, see, I have been tested – over and over again, before and after every game in which I participated, by Olympic Committee doctors from several different countries, doctors who work for the NCAA, and medical professionals from several other watchdog groups. Not a single test has come back positive, even after I was detained and monitored for a full week, during which I broke several records in a number of independent field trials for the decathlon. So I do expect you to believe this: no, sir, I have never taken performance-enhancing drugs. Of any kind. Ever. The thought of putting something even remotely as harmful as one of those drugs into