“Lucy Bell has a special cinnamon foot cream,” piped up the blonde. “It’s delicious.”
“It’s edible?” asked Rachel. She glanced at Lark.
Tell me this isn’t real.
“In fact,” the blonde chirped, “we’ve arranged it with the conference coordinator to let us set up a chair in the vending area starting tomorrow. Isn’t that sweet?”
The brunette shoved a piece of paper into Rachel’s hand. “Here’s a discount coupon.” She passed some out to the others, then looked them all up and down. “We also do total makeovers.”
“Thanks.” Rachel pushed past her, feeling slightly offended. Lark and Dorothy followed her, but Cecilia lagged behind.
“Come on,” ordered Dorothy.
“A foot massage sounds nice.”
Not when the foot cream costs ten dollars an ounce.
Rachel dropped back, smiled at the Lucy Bell girls, and propelled Cecilia onto the curb. Once they were out of earshot, she whispered, “Take it from a New Yorker: Never stop and chat with anyone handing out flyers.”
For all its outside glamour, the registration area inside the convention hall looked like any other. Gray industrial carpeting blanketed the floor, and white walls climbed to a high ceiling. Toward the back wall, two men were setting up folding chairs and draping long tables in burgundy and white. Near the front of the foyer, three people busied themselves stuffing canvas bags with magazines, literature, and birding tchotchkes.
Rachel dropped her Lucy Bell flyer in the nearest trash receptacle and stepped up to the table with Lark. The man closest to them glanced up.
“We’re not open yet,” he said. “We don’t open ’til five.”
He sounded like Dorothy, thought Rachel. Strident. “We know we’re early, but—”
Lark elbowed her in the ribs. “Any chance you could make an exception for us?”
The man looked from one to the other. “If we did that, we’d have to make an exception for everybody.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Harold, help the girls,” said one of the women, a dark-haired matronly type with an ample bosom. She pushed him toward several open boxes of envelopes. “What are your last names?”
Grudgingly, he pulled their registration envelopes, while the woman handed each of them a badge holder and a canvas bag. “Your tickets and name tags are inside the envelope,” she explained. “Check and make sure that you have tickets for every field trip, workshop, and banquet you signed up for. You may have gotten your second choice. We had so many registrations a few of the field trips filled up fast.”
They thanked her, and checked their tickets. The four of them had lucked out. They each had been assigned their number-one field trip choices—Sapelo Island on Monday, Little St. Simons on Wednesday, and the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge canoe trip on Friday. Their workshop schedules varied. Rachel had signed up for the all-day “Digiscoping Workshop” on Thursday while Dorothy, Cecilia, and Lark had chosen more esoteric classes such as “Identifying Georgia’s Shorebirds” and “Listing for the Advanced Birder.” All of them had banquet tickets for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.
“It looks like everything’s here,” said Rachel, stuffing the envelope into her bag. “Thanks again.” She had started toward the entrance, when a tall man banged through the double doors.
“Where the hell is Evan?” he demanded, jostling her aside. When he slammed his fist on the table, Rachel jumped.
The man brandished a program at the volunteers. “
This
is bullshit. I want to talk to Evan,
now
!”
“Calm down, Dr. Becker,” said Harold, pulling his skinny frame to its full height. “Trudy’s going to get him,” he said, gesturing for the woman who’d intervened on their behalf to go find Evan.
Rachel decided that, judging by the reaction of the registration staff, Becker was important. He didn’t look familiar to her. Like Saxby, he was decked out in the latest birding fashion—vented shirt, pants, and a khaki vest covered with pockets. Tall, with brown hair and smallish brown eyes, he paced the length of the registration table, tugging at the corners of a thin, brown moustache.
Rachel looked at the others. Dorothy and Cecilia stood with their mouths slightly agape, swiveling their heads as he paced back and forth, like Taco Bell Chihuahuas at a tennis match. Lark returned Rachel’s gaze and shrugged.
Finally Trudy returned with a wiry, gray-haired man.
“What’s the problem, Paul?”
Becker jabbed the cover of the program with his finger. “We had a deal. I was supposed to have the Saturday keynote slot, and then I open up this to discover you’ve listed me on Friday and given my slot to Saxby.”
The man named Evan paled. “Look, Paul, the committee felt—”
“Don’t give me that crap,” said Becker. “You’re the conference coordinator. It’s your decision.”
“Unfortunately, the committee—”
Becker threw down the booklet. “I’m the headliner this year. I’m the draw. Either I speak on Saturday night or you can take me off the program.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“By God, I do.”
A small group of volunteers had gathered, including Saxby, who must have been in the back.
“What’s going on here?” he asked Rachel.
“You know damn well what’s going on,” Becker responded, spinning around to face him. “For some unfathomable reason, you’ve been given my keynote slot.”
Saxby looked at Evan.
The man raised up his bony arms. “The commit—”
“Screw the committee,” hollered Becker. “You promised me Saturday night when you brought me on board. Do you intend to honor the agreement or not?”
Evan tented his fingers and pressed them against his lips. After what seemed an interminable time he lowered them to a prayer position. “You’re right, Paul. I did promise you the slot. But—” He raised his hand to silence Becker. “That was before we brought Guy on board. Once he had agreed to attend, the
committee
”—he stressed the word—“felt that Saturday night should be his. I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands.”
“Then I’m gone.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Saxby, stopping Becker midway to the door. Reaching out, he laid a hand on Becker’s arm. Becker sloughed it off.
“Paul, listen to me,” said Saxby. “There are a lot of people looking forward to hearing you speak. You can’t just leave. What does is matter if you speak Friday or Saturday? The turnout is always the same.”
“Then you take Friday.”
There was a collective gasp, and the entire room full of people seemed to suck in their breath.
The silence stretched.
Saxby’s eyes narrowed, and he worked his jaw.
Becker waited, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Well?”
“Why not?” said Saxby. “Like I said, Friday or Saturday, what does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” replied Becker.
Based on Saxby’s expression, Rachel figured it mattered to him, too. But what could he do after making a statement saying the night didn’t matter?
“What do you say, Evan?” asked Saxby. “The programs and brochures are already printed. I’m afraid it might upset the commit—”
“Ah, to hell with the committee,” said Evan. “I’ll just announce the change, and we can slip something into the packets.” Evan clapped him on the shoulder. “This is extremely generous of you, Guy.”
“Yes,” said Becker.
“Generous.”
His sarcasm didn’t escape any of them, and Dorothy was still fuming a few minutes later when they were back at the car.
“What a horrible man!”
“Now, Dot,” scolded Cecilia. “You don’t know why he wanted the Saturday-night slot. For all you know, he may have a very good reason.”
“Such as wanting the limelight?”
Now who was being sarcastic.
Rachel bit down on her lip.
“I know bad behavior when I see it,” continued Dorothy. “Someone needs to teach that young man some manners.”
“Who was he, anyway?” asked Lark, flipping backward through the pages of her program. “He must have a bio in here somewhere.”
“If he’s a keynote speaker it should be near the front,” said Rachel starting the car, and backing out of the parking slot.
Lark stopped flipping.
“It says here that ‘Paul Becker is a wildlife research biologist for the University of Georgia,’ ” she read. “ ‘A graduate of the university, he worked with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for twelve years, before returning to UGA to head up a specialized ten-year research study on painted buntings.’” Lark looked up. “That means he works in Saxby’s department at the university.”
“Which explains the animosity,” said Rachel, turning the car onto the main road.
“How so?” asked Cecilia.
“Because Saxby’s the department head,” answered Dorothy.
“Right,” said Rachel. “And I’m willing to bet he’s tenured. Becker wouldn’t be if his bio is correct. He worked for the government for twelve years, and he’s got to be ten years younger than Saxby.”
“At least,” said the others.
“Professional jealousy,” murmured Cecilia.
“Or any number of things.” Rachel flipped the turn signal, and turned left onto Hyde Island Club Road. “Project funding, personalities, office space—”
“Notoriety,” added Dorothy.
“That, too,” said Rachel. “What else does it say about him?”
Lark bent over the program. “ ‘Becker has received numerous awards for his efforts on behalf of Georgia’s endangered species. An avid birder with an emphasis on North American species, his life list totals 825.’ ”
“Oh my!” blurted Cecilia. “He certainly has my record beat.”
“
Our
records,” corrected Dorothy.
Lark stuck the program between the center console and the seat. “Everyone’s records. That number puts him within reach of the top ten listers in America.”
Dorothy sniffed. “Do we care?”
Rachel thought back to her conversation with Saxby about the painted buntings. “I wonder how many birds Saxby has listed. He seems like the type of guy who likes to win.”
Rachel took a roundabout way back to the hotel, circling the island to get the lay of the land. White-sand beaches to the south gave way to driftwood to the north, then salt marshes. Gulls, wood storks, cattle egrets, and pelicans gave way to great blue herons and greater yellowlegs.
When they arrived back at the hotel, Saxby stood at the front desk talking to the clerk.
“But the Becker reservation is a couple,” the clerk was saying.
“I don’t care,” Saxby replied. “I want a room at least as good as the one he has, or better.”
“We’re booked solid, sir. I assure you, I don’t have any available rooms, and it’s not in my power to move any of our guests. I apologize if your present accommodations are unsatisfactory—”
“Exactly,” Saxby said. “My present accommodations are unsatisfactory. I don’t intend to accept second best here.”
The desk clerk frowned. “One moment, sir.”
The desk clerk picked up the phone, held a quiet conversation, and a minute later handed Saxby a new key. “This room is in the west wing.”
Our wing,
thought Rachel.
“It’s the first suite to the left on the third floor. Our best,” said the clerk. “I’ll send up a porter to move your things.”
“Thank you.” Saxby’s response was polite, if equally stiff. He half turned, spotted the women, and smiled, nodding recognition to Rachel as they passed.
“They’re both jerks,” said Rachel.
“Who, the clerk?” asked Dorothy.
“No. Becker and Saxby.”
“Becker, yes,” agreed Dorothy as they ascended the stairs. “But Saxby just got rooked out of the Saturday keynote. Maybe Evan told him to ask for an upgrade for his magnanimous gesture.”
Rachel looked askance. “Then why didn’t he just say so?”
Chapter 3
T
he rest of the evening went smoother. Dinner was a quiet affair, and they all steered clear of talking about the scene at the registration desk. Instead, conversation swirled around common friends, Elk Park, and the excitement each felt about the next day’s trip to Sapelo Island.
Retiring early, Rachel showered, donned her pajamas, and propped herself up in bed with the program and her guidebook while Lark brushed out her hair.
“This reminds me of when we were kids having sleepovers at the Drummond,” said Rachel.
They had been friends growing up, spending their summers together in Elk Park, playing in the meadow between Bird Haven and the Drummond Hotel. After Lark’s grandfather died, she had stopped coming, but years later they had reconnected. The same summer Rachel had met Kirk Udall.
“Do you have any secrets to share?” asked Rachel.
Lark blushed.
“Dish,” demanded Rachel, scooting toward the edge of the bed.
“Eric and I are talking about getting married.”
“Really?” Rachel clapped her hands in excitement, and Lark brought her finger to her lips.
“Shhhhh.” She gestured toward the adjoining door. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”
“You will call me as soon as it happens?”
“Of course,” said Lark, “when,
if
, we make plans. Right now, we’re just exploring the idea.” She went back to brushing her hair. “What about you and Kirk?”
Rachel settled back against the headboard.
What about me and Kirk?
“We’re friends, that’s all.”
Friends who sleep together on occasion, and who spend a lot of time together. But after her disastrous first marriage, Rachel wasn’t sure she ever wanted to hear someone utter the
M
word again. Not in relation to her.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Rae.”
“What’s that old saying, ‘once burned, twice shy’?”
“Don’t let your experience with Roger get in the way of your happiness. You’d only be letting him win that way.”
It was hard to argue with logic. Still, Lark didn’t know how awful it was to go through a divorce. It had taken her a year to settle things with Roger, and that had tainted her “friendship” with Kirk.