Second Chance (9 page)

“I suppose that’s true,” Isabel chuckled.

“But man, Bishou, you lucked out,” said Sondra. “The hot, unmarried one is the one who passes out on your couch. I am envious, girl, reputation or not.”

“You’re all married,” grinned Bishou. “You can talk.”

“Don’t you think he’s cute?” Sondra asked.

“Sure he is,” Bishou defended herself, “but I’m bespoke. By East Virginia University.”

“EVU will be done by the end of the year,” Sondra predicted. “If I were you, I’d keep that guy’s number in my little black book.”

“What’re you going to do after you graduate from here?” Isabel asked.

“Get a job. But to teach at the college level, I need that degree first.”

“Any idea where yet?”

“Not a clue. When I get set up, I’ve got to help my brother, Bat, take care of our younger brothers. Our parents are pretty much too old and helpless to do it.”

“Then are you gonna get married?” asked Sondra.

“I don’t know when or if I’m going to be able to fit that in,” Bishou admitted, “if I find the right man.”

“The right man’s on that couch,” said Sondra. “Don’t lose that number.”

Morning came. Bishou had slept soundly. She’d heard Louis moving around during the night, from the couch to the bathroom, and once she thought the kitchen light came on. When her alarm chimed, she shut it off, tottered into the bathroom to wash up, and then back into the bedroom to change her clothes. Then she went into her tiny living room-study.

Louis’s beard had grown during the night, and of course he had slept in his clothes. He looked tatty, but no worse than her brother would have. He yawned and stretched. “Mmm — time to get up?”

“Yes. It’s six-thirty. I can make some coffee, if you wish.”

“No, thank you. I will wait until I wash and change at the hotel. The
médecin
was right. I feel much stronger now.”

He didn’t look it.

Bishou wrung out a washcloth, and brought it out to Louis, who still lay, tired and dispirited, on the couch. She sat down on the wooden chair and leaned toward him.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked him, in French.

“I did not sleep much,” he admitted. Even his voice was tired. “I am hot, and I feel very foolish.”

“Don’t feel that way.” She took the washcloth from him and folded it. “Here, let me put this cool compress on your forehead. It will help.”

Louis closed his eyes and leaned back again. He let her press the damp cloth in place. “Mmm. Feels good.”

Bishou rose and got aspirin and a tumbler of water from her tiny bathroom. “And one aspirin should be all you need.” Bishou placed the aspirin in his hand. Louis opened his eyes and took it, swallowing it with difficulty. He took a drink of water to help it down.

“I don’t take much medicine,” he said, “so a little should do much.”

Bishou smiled. “That’s what Dr. Ferenc said.”

His eyes opened suddenly and he sat up. “Ferenc?
My
Doctor Ferenc?”

“Will you lie down?”

“I will not. How did you contact him? You don’t even have a telephone here.”

“That’s the advantage of being a researcher. I used the library teletype services to send a message to Dessant Industries. The library thought it was research because it was in French, and didn’t charge me for it. Then they got a French answer, again a mystery to them, from a man named Etien Campard.”

“My partner!” Louis seemed surprised, but he was also delighted. “I hope you didn’t scare him.”

“Oh,
non, non
. I told him you had fainted, and wondered if it were
décalage
and fatigue. He said probably yes, it had happened before, and that you would be all right with mild treatment. Dr. Ferenc said compresses, aspirin, and maybe physical therapy if I knew a masseur. But I don’t know one, except my brother, and he’s too far away.”

“That’s all right. The rest will help.” The smile remained on his lips and in his eyes. “Etien. I am so sorry to worry him.”

“Then promise him, even if he cannot hear you, that you will go straight home after the conference. He’s worried enough to meet you at Orly.”

Louis admitted shyly, “Actually, I would like him to meet me at Orly. I hate traveling alone.”

“Good, because he’ll be there. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part, so be sure you act surprised when you see him.”

Louis smiled in delight, reached out, and drew Bishou against him. He hugged her. “Thank you,
mon amie
.”

“
De rien
. Now let go, before someone sees us and we get into trouble.”

“
Oui
, Mademoiselle.” Still smiling, Louis released her. “You are a good friend, Mademoiselle.”

“And you are one hell of an education, Monsieur.”

He laughed, almost boyishly.

There was a knock at the door. Bishou opened it to find a university staff member there.

“I’m here to pick up Mr. Dessant,” he said.

“Ah.” Louis stood up — without falling over, this time. “My ride.” He made sure he had his wallet, pen, and other things in his pockets, and put on his jacket. “This gentleman will take me back to my hotel room, so I can wash and change. Will I see you at the lecture this morning?”

“Probably not. I must see Dr. Roth today.”

“Oh.” Louis’s face grew serious. “You are still in trouble — a man in your apartment, and what the neighbors will say.”

“If you don’t say a word, I can probably bare-face them out of this,” said Bishou. “Just don’t help,
d’accord
?”

Again he laughed. “
D’accord
. I am Monsieur Dessant, of the World Tobacco Conference, nothing more.” Louis reached out a hand at the same moment Bishou did, and they shook solemnly. “
Au revoir
, Mademoiselle.”

“
Au revoir
, Monsieur.”

• • •

Dr. Roth pulled out his bottom file drawer for use as a footstool, as was his custom. Bishou took the only other chair in his tiny office. The door was shut.

“You must have sweated bullets over this.”

“I’ll say,” Bishou agreed.

“And you’re working on a thesis on passion. Good God, Bishou, that man is sex in a white package.”

“Something like that.”

“I think we’ve soldiered through it okay.” Dr. Roth continued to use the pronoun “we,” which was a good sign. “Are you willing to assist him for the next week, or do you need to come up for air?”

“Who else could do it?” Bishou asked reasonably. “And besides, I think we’re through the worst.”

“What was ‘the worst,’ exactly?” Roth wanted to know. “Something kicked this off, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” Bishou grimaced ruefully. “Monsieur Dessant and I have agreed to bury it, but it was my fault, in a way. I got copies of some articles from the
Paris Gazette
about modern passion, which included a picture and story about him. When he glanced at my desk, he saw his face staring up at him. That’s why he fainted.”

“I don’t get it. Modern passion?”

“Louis Dessant did seven years at hard labor for a crime of passion,” Bishou explained.

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, well. That wasn’t even the reason I had the article. I had it because its author, Georges Goulard, wrote a book,
Sans Merci
. Heard of it? Published five years ago.”

“Yes, I read something. Major prize, wasn’t it?”

“Honorable mention, yes. But anyway, there was this feature article about crimes of passion, sitting on my desk — ”

“And in comes one of its subjects, to pick up his coat.”

“Exactly. As I said to Monsieur Dessant, what an education I’ve gotten out of this. I bet I’ve apologized to him at least half a dozen times. I also had to promise him that nothing about him or his case will ever appear in my dissertation.”

“That shouldn’t cripple you. It’s not researchable,” Dr. Roth observed.

Bishou nodded. “I explained to him about references and reproducibility. Tough concepts to explain to non-academics, but I think he got it. More along the lines of, I have to be able to pick up the same book in Calgary and follow your argument.”

“True enough.” Dr. Roth sounded relieved. “Let’s us bury it, too.”

“Fine by me. It’s tough enough that he’s, as you put it, sex in a white package.”

Dr. Roth smiled and cocked an eye at her. “Makes you sweat, does he?”

“And how. He says every time that article is reprinted anywhere, he gets scads of marriage proposals, offers to rehabilitate him, and worse.”

Roth laughed. “Most men dream of being in that situation.”

“He doesn’t. I can’t imagine how he can be so — unspoiled — after all he’s been through. No, that’s not the right word. But anyway, he’s only vaguely aware of it.”

“Maybe he
is
aware of it, Bishou.”

She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure not. My brother Bat has what Louis Dessant has, but the American version. So I recognize it when I see it, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“It’s the old S.A.,” Roth replied. “Sex Appeal and no mistake. One more week, and it’s over, Bishou, and you won’t see him again.”

Bat’s letter was waiting for her when she picked up her mail on the way to the conference.

Bishou smiled and folded the letter. His words reinforced her thoughts. Her “hitch” here was almost finished. Then, on to greater things. The World Tobacco Conference would fade to just another interesting event in her life.

At the front door of the Medlin Conference Center, she picked up a badge from Annie and wrote her name on it.

“How’s Mr. Dessant?” the elderly secretary asked her.

“You’ve probably seen him since I have,” Bishou replied. “Isn’t he inside? No point in me going in, if he isn’t.”

Annie admitted, “Yes, I saw him go in.”

The Twiggy look-alike dealt herself in, and commented, “I heard you had an exciting night.”

“If you mean someone fainting and me calling Emergency Services, yes, I suppose that could be called exciting.” Bishou recapped the marker and set it back on the table. She gave them a quick smile and hurried inside.

Louis had saved a seat for her. He smiled as she sat down. This lecture’s topic was “Tobacco Genetics.” She understood some things that she had read about nucleic acids and cell biology, but this was a strain to follow. Louis was growling wordlessly, and as she looked around the lecture hall, she realized everyone else was just as lost. She raised her hand. The scientist, of course, looked past her.

Then a deep voice spoke up from the back — Vig Hansen. “Doctor Hunt, I think you should let the lady professor talk.” It did not sound like a mere suggestion.

“Yes, then — Professor?” said Dr. Hunt, half-heartedly.

Very humbly, Bishou said, “Dr. Hunt, I think you’re losing your audience. They aren’t academics, and they aren’t trained in genetics. They’re farmers.”

“And you have suggestions, of course?” he asked coldly.

“No, sir,” she said. “It’s your lecture. I’m merely an observer.”

A few more men’s voices cut in. Beside her, Louis Dessant was grinning. From his seat near the back, Vig Hansen said, “Ten bucks says even Bishou Howard can’t explain the difference between a phenotype and a genotype to me and make me give a damn.”

There was plenty of laughter.

But Louis Dessant slapped his desk and said, “Deal! I will cover.”

Bishou stared at him. “Mr. Dessant, are you nuts? I’m a literature professor.” She remembered too late that he said he took risks.

“Do it,” he challenged her.

Bishou sighed and stood. She walked up to Dr. Hunt, leaned over, and murmured in his ear, “Crap. I’m really sorry about this. I should’ve warned you they’re getting restless and ugly.”

Hunt sensed a kindred spirit at last, and murmured, “What are you going to do?”

“Win the bet or die trying,” she murmured in reply, then raised her voice. “All right. Phenotype and genotype. And the World Tobacco Conference donates money to the EVU Scholarship Fund, right?”

They turned to look at Gray Jackson, standing in an aisle, who grinned and said, “Right.”

“Okay, here we go. Use your imaginations.” Bishou started shaping things in the air, on an imaginary table. “I’ve got three warming racks here, like you see at banquets. Each one has a heat source underneath, and on top, I’ve got three pans with water in them. Okay so far?”

Masculine grunts.

“Okay, this first pan has water in it. Underneath is canned heat, and I’ve got one of those clicker flints to start it. Clack — there’s my clicker — the canned heat lights up. After a while, the burning stuff heats up the water. There’s my hot water. You don’t need to know what went into the doings in order to appreciate the hot water at the end. Are you still with me?”