Read Online Bloodied Ivy by Robert Goldsborough - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Goldsborough
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course. And I’m afraid I must have bored you, judging by the length of your stay.”
“Not at all. It’s just that I wanted to see as much of the campus as—”
Greenbaum laughed. “You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Goodman. The Whigs are not one of my favorite topics, either.” In this setting, he didn’t seem quite so dry and humorless.
“Oh, I don’t know, Ted, I think you’d make a pretty good Whig,” Schmidt said with a wheezing chuckle. “Personally, I’ve always been struck by your resemblance to William Henry Harrison.”
“Our one-month president,” Cortland chimed in with relish. “He caught his death of pneumonia because he insisted on delivering a three-hour inaugural speech in the rain. Maybe you’d better shorten your lectures, Ted.”
Greenbaum was about to defend himself when we were joined by an attractive, exotic-looking brunette with her hair parted down the center and pulled back to show off large gold hoop earrings. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. “Mind if I crash this stag party?” she asked in a slightly husky voice.
“Of course not, Elena,” Schmidt said, polishing off his third roll. “We never do mind. And would it make any difference if we did?”
“None at all,” she replied, winking and sliding into a chair.
“Elena, we have a guest today, so try to behave yourself,” Greenbaum said. “This is Arnold Goodman, a friend of Walter’s; he’s looking the place over for a nephew who feels, oddly enough, that he might like to tread these sacred halls. Mr. Goodman, meet Elena Moreau, who’s in the History Department, but we let her sit with us occasionally anyway. We feel it’ll do her good—a little of our erudition might actually rub off on her someday.”
“The only thing from any of you that’s likely to rub off on me is cobwebs,” she fired back with a wicked smile. “Mr. Goodman, I’m glad to meet you, and I apologize for these Philistines. Lord knows, I’ve tried to work with them, but…” She shrugged expressively. “Your nephew—what is he thinking of majoring in?”
“I hadn’t mentioned this to Walter before, but…well, history,” I said, inspired.
“Voilà!” Elena looked around the table triumphantly. “Sounds like a young man who’s done his homework. He knows where the strength of this university lies.”
The three men groaned, but it was good-natured, and soon all four professors were involved in a lively skirmish about the latest presidential polls. Despite what Cortland had told me about both Schmidt and Greenbaum, I noticed that he seemed to get along with them well, although maybe he was on his best behavior with an outsider present. I was glad to be out of the spotlight as they talked—that way I was able to observe all of them, particularly Elena Moreau, who was definitely worth observing. I now put her at somewhere in her early forties, but that didn’t bother me—quite the contrary. Her dark eyes danced when she talked, and her oval face was full of expression. If Markham had indeed been playing games with her, as Cortland suggested, I gave him good marks for his taste. May I be thus blessed at age seventy-three.
Their banter went on for several minutes, until I noticed Cortland look over his shoulder. “Ah, our noble leader is present,” he said. He gestured toward a figure who was standing just inside the entrance to the dining room.
The newcomer was maybe six-one, slender, dark-haired, moderately handsome, and wearing a brown suit that probably set him back at least five bills. He looked around, then waved and headed for a table on the far side of the room.
“That, Mr. Goodman, is our president, the right honorable Keith Alan Potter, B.A., Dartmouth; M.A., Harvard; Ph.D., Oxford, and don’t you forget it,” Elena said. “We would have been happy to introduce you, but for some reason, he never condescends to join our little salon.”
“Now, be fair, Elena,” Schmidt admonished
“Not at all. It’s just that I wanted to see as much of the campus as—”
Greenbaum laughed. “You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Goodman. The Whigs are not one of my favorite topics, either.” In this setting, he didn’t seem quite so dry and humorless.
“Oh, I don’t know, Ted, I think you’d make a pretty good Whig,” Schmidt said with a wheezing chuckle. “Personally, I’ve always been struck by your resemblance to William Henry Harrison.”
“Our one-month president,” Cortland chimed in with relish. “He caught his death of pneumonia because he insisted on delivering a three-hour inaugural speech in the rain. Maybe you’d better shorten your lectures, Ted.”
Greenbaum was about to defend himself when we were joined by an attractive, exotic-looking brunette with her hair parted down the center and pulled back to show off large gold hoop earrings. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. “Mind if I crash this stag party?” she asked in a slightly husky voice.
“Of course not, Elena,” Schmidt said, polishing off his third roll. “We never do mind. And would it make any difference if we did?”
“None at all,” she replied, winking and sliding into a chair.
“Elena, we have a guest today, so try to behave yourself,” Greenbaum said. “This is Arnold Goodman, a friend of Walter’s; he’s looking the place over for a nephew who feels, oddly enough, that he might like to tread these sacred halls. Mr. Goodman, meet Elena Moreau, who’s in the History Department, but we let her sit with us occasionally anyway. We feel it’ll do her good—a little of our erudition might actually rub off on her someday.”
“The only thing from any of you that’s likely to rub off on me is cobwebs,” she fired back with a wicked smile. “Mr. Goodman, I’m glad to meet you, and I apologize for these Philistines. Lord knows, I’ve tried to work with them, but…” She shrugged expressively. “Your nephew—what is he thinking of majoring in?”
“I hadn’t mentioned this to Walter before, but…well, history,” I said, inspired.
“Voilà!” Elena looked around the table triumphantly. “Sounds like a young man who’s done his homework. He knows where the strength of this university lies.”
The three men groaned, but it was good-natured, and soon all four professors were involved in a lively skirmish about the latest presidential polls. Despite what Cortland had told me about both Schmidt and Greenbaum, I noticed that he seemed to get along with them well, although maybe he was on his best behavior with an outsider present. I was glad to be out of the spotlight as they talked—that way I was able to observe all of them, particularly Elena Moreau, who was definitely worth observing. I now put her at somewhere in her early forties, but that didn’t bother me—quite the contrary. Her dark eyes danced when she talked, and her oval face was full of expression. If Markham had indeed been playing games with her, as Cortland suggested, I gave him good marks for his taste. May I be thus blessed at age seventy-three.
Their banter went on for several minutes, until I noticed Cortland look over his shoulder. “Ah, our noble leader is present,” he said. He gestured toward a figure who was standing just inside the entrance to the dining room.
The newcomer was maybe six-one, slender, dark-haired, moderately handsome, and wearing a brown suit that probably set him back at least five bills. He looked around, then waved and headed for a table on the far side of the room.
“That, Mr. Goodman, is our president, the right honorable Keith Alan Potter, B.A., Dartmouth; M.A., Harvard; Ph.D., Oxford, and don’t you forget it,” Elena said. “We would have been happy to introduce you, but for some reason, he never condescends to join our little salon.”
“Now, be fair, Elena,” Schmidt admonished
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