Читать книгу Matchmaking Mona - Diana Mars - Страница 9

Three

“You really think she’ll go for it, Uncle Coop?”

“Monie, unless you call her, we’ll never know, will we?” Cooper answered for the third time as he carefully hung his suit jacket on the chair facing the somewhat decrepit desk. He took off his cuff links, and laid them by the tie that was already neatly folded on the desk. He wished he had other clothes to change into, but the best he could manage was a quick shower. Ms. Livingston did not strike him as a woman who spent too much time getting ready. But he had not had a chance to go shopping and get some casual clothes.

Mona moved toward the phone. “What if she says no?”

“Then you go over tomorrow, work your little fanny off and hope she asks you to the site again. And tonight we’ll rent movies and gorge on pizza and ice cream.”

“You know I can’t eat too much junk, now that I’m a starter on the team,” Mona began, chewing her lip as she played with the receiver. Seeing storm signals in her uncle’s eyes—a rare but definitely serious occurrence—Mona began dialing. “You’ll bring me another time if she says no?”

Cooper suppressed a sigh of impatience. Had he ever been such a combination of cocky self-assurance one moment, and then jellyfish indecision the next? Smiling at his niece, he decided, yes, he had. And probably worse.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he intoned, laughing at Mona’s dramatic rolling of eyes.

He went toward the bathroom, getting towels and soap ready—thoughtfully, Mona had asked for fresh towels, as three large fluffy ones lay in total disarray on the bathroom floor—and listened to the conversation briefly. When Mona’s eyes lit up like Buckingham Fountain on a clear summer night, he waited...

And watched his niece pump her fists in the air, and jump up and down. Affectionately, Cooper reflected that not only was Mona likely to get a firstclass scholarship, but that she could probably play pro ball in Europe—if she wasn’t so dead set on being the next Margaret Mead. Or better yet, Indiana Jones.

“Where to, Unc Coop?” Mona excitedly cut into his musings.

“Don’t know the area. Ask Ms. Livingston to suggest a restaurant, and we’ll meet her there in half an hour. Unless she wants us to pick her up?”

Unrepentantly, Cooper watched his jumping-jack niece relay his answer to her idol. It was cowardly, a truly craven thing to do, but on Wall Street he’d learned the end justified the means. Anything to procure that goal.

In this case, not only did Mona’s happiness depend on this, but he was quite willing to ride on his niece’s coattails. Until, that is, Ms. Livingston got to know him a little better, and he could erase that godawful first impression he must have made on her.

Once Mona had the details down, Cooper went for his shower, which set an all-time personal best for brevity.

“What made you decide to go into the field of anthropology, Ms. Livingston?” an excited Mona asked forty-five minutes later.

LJ. put down her glass of red wine and smiled at the youngster.

“I’ve always loved learning, and adventure, Mona. There were so many things I wanted to study—astronomy, geology, zoology, history...so I picked the science of man. It encompasses everything and I get to live vicariously every time we discover something of significance, something that allows us to shed light on where we come from, how we got here—and hopefully will help us predict where we are going.”

“But isn’t it somewhat boring?” Cooper asked. “I mean, most people think of skeletons and lost mines and rediscovered ancient civilizations, but very few scientists ever find another King Tut’s Tomb, King Solomon’s Mines—or even a reconstituted T-Rex or raptor.”

“And the real scientist doesn’t expect it, nor particularly desire it, Mr. Channahon,” L.J. said in even tones. But the look in her eyes as she pinned him to the chair told Cooper Ms. Livingston had seen through his somewhat thin ruse of using Mona to get her to have dinner with him—and didn’t think much of his maneuvering, or him.

“Please call me Cooper,” he began, but Mona, bless her heart, bridged the awkward moment, and with her youthful tunnel vision, pursued her own interest.

“But that’s exactly what I want to do,” Mona said. “I want to be the next Indy Jones.”

LJ. turned her gaze on Mona, and the green eyes miraculously softened. Cooper felt his chest tighten at the thought of those bedroom eyes trained on him with less animosity and in more secluded surroundings.

“That’s not what a real anthropologist is all about, Mona,” she said softly. “I’m afraid that while the Indiana Jones series makes for wonderfully entertaining films, they cause the serious archaeologist to shudder at the inaccuracies and careless handling of what would be priceless relics, had they really existed.”

Mona squared her little chin pugnaciously and said, “Well, I intend to combine both accuracy and adventure in my work. I’m sure I can rediscover an Atlantis, or a new mummy’s tomb.”

“What about your basketball, Mona? Just a year or two ago you were intent on becoming pro,” Cooper reminded her.

“If I do join a woman’s league in Europe or South America, I’ll just be postponing my real dream,” Mona said after taking a sip of orange juice. “And if I do, it will be only long enough to finance my education and my research trips and expeditions.”

“Well, I’m sure if anyone can accomplish combining Mead, Leakey and Indy into a career, it’s you,” LJ. said.

As the waiter approached with a tray laden with food—most of it Mona’s—L.J. asked Cooper, “That was an astute observation, Mr. Channahon. Have you ever taken an anthropology course?”

Cooper waited until they sorted out their dinners. He noticed LJ.’s hidden quick smile at the plethora of plates surrounding Mona like Indians circling the proverbial wagon train in those musty Westerns, and felt his spirits lift. Anyone that attuned to a youngster could not remain unthawed for long.

At least he hoped not. So far, Dr. Livingston did not seem to be responding to what his sister, Corliss, had called his legendary charm.

Which reminded him. “Would you prefer to be addressed as Dr. Livingston?” LJ.’s initial friendliness toward him had deteriorated after Mona’s lethal comments, and he wanted to make sure Mona did not overstep her boundaries.

LJ. almost choked on a piece of shrimp. “For heaven’s sake, no! Not only does it remind me of that old African Continent chestnut I’ve had to hear all my life, but it’s far too stuffy.” Turning to Mona, who was helping tame her spaghetti with a fork and a bagel, she offered, “You may call me LJ.”

Mona’s eyes lit up, but she waited until she gulped her spaghetti down before saying, “Thank you, Ms. Livingston. I mean, L.J.,” she added shyly.

Cooper hadn’t seen the shy side of his niece in ages. She really had a bad case of hero worship.

He just hoped that Dr. Livingston—he would always remember their inauspicious beginning, and it was going to take a while for him to accustom himself to thinking of her as L.J.—realized it.

As their eyes met across the table, Cooper saw that L.J. had, indeed, recognized the extent of Mona’s adoration. Her look was less frosty, and her gaze telegraphed reassurance.

Cooper’s fierce protectiveness quieted. He had been at the hospital when Mona had been born. His brother, Corbett, had been out of town on business, and because of a blizzard, had not been able to return immediately when the baby had made a premature appearance. Corliss had still been away at school, and Cooper had been at Lauren’s and Mona’s sides when the doctors had not been sure if either of them would pull through.

As much as he liked L. J. Livingston, he would never let anyone harm Mona or make her unhappy.

Not even a woman he was coming to like and admire as much as L.J.

Mona’s piping voice distracted him from those dark hours, a long time ago...

“You stated you were not married, right, L.J.?”

His niece’s question alerted all of Cooper’s senses. It sounded like the beginning of a typical Mona interrogation.

He knew there had to be one good thing about being closely related to a teenager...they really did go where angels feared to tread.

“No, I’m not,” L.J. said, her voice laced with amusement.

To disguise his curiosity, Cooper offered her some more wine, which she declined. He served himself one more glass, and set the bottle down.

“Because I was wondering, like, if you had a husband, or boyfriend, or something, wouldn’t it be hard to be here, so far away.... I mean, won’t it take you weeks to excavate this site?”

“Months, actually,” LJ. answered after slowly chewing some rice. She wiped her mouth delicately with a white cloth napkin, and added, “I wasn’t supposed to be here for another few weeks, because of the weather—it’s been unusually rainy, as well as unseasonably cold—but I couldn’t take a chance with the APs.”

“Accounting Programmers?” Cooper asked, perplexed.

Well, that answered one question, L.J. thought. He was not one of the Aliens and Other Paranormals true believers.

Smiling, she answered, “I wish that were the case. No such luck. There is a convention of Aliens and Paranormals in the farm field next to the site, and I came down early to make sure they don’t disturb anything while chasing and investigating flying saucers and other phenomena. While one of their directors, Serena, seems a levelheaded young woman, the more extreme members keep drilling me as to whether I’ve found the link with lost civilizations.”

“Then it’s true?” Mona asked excitedly. “My teacher, Ms. Thompson, said you were trying to uncover connections to the Maya and Aztecs.”

“It’s too early to tell. Supposedly stones depicting Great Temple altars and Maya glyphs were found by some farmers, but we still have to do carbon dating, and ensure that artifacts were not intentionally interred. A certain AP element believe that the Maya were ancient voyagers, and that the lights they sighted in the sky signal their return in their advanced vessels.”

“With the popularity of Independence Day, ‘X-Files’ and ‘Dark Skies,’ there are a lot of people who seem to believe in UFO’s and extraterrestrials. The more ruthless elements could really do some damage,” Cooper said thoughtfully, pouring the last of the sour cream on a potato already heaping with butter and cheddar cheese. He saw both Mona and LJ. observing him, and added some more butter. He didn’t often indulge like this, but watching LJ.’s generous mouth thin with concern for his arteries, he figured he would brave some hardening of his vital vessels if it got him some attention from the aloof doctor.

While LJ. politely refrained from chastising him on his unhealthy habits, Mona had no such compunction.

“Too much cholesterol,” Mona said with typical teenage inconsistency. Her many plates more than doubled Cooper’s intake of heart-sabotaging foods. “You know Mom said it will be the death of you, yet.” To LJ., she confided, “My Mom used to be a nurse.”

“Oh, did she change careers? Or did she just want to stay home for a while?” L.J. asked, spearing her last shrimp.

“Oh, neither. Mom died a year ago. A heart attack.”