Page 47 of Fire and Bones

“You always do.” The words sluiced like cold shards through the miles between us.

“I—”

“This happens all the time, Tempe. We make plans, you back out. Your commitments to me mean nothing. Rien.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

We were both forcing our voices calm. But I sensed an entire soap opera’s worth of anger and resentment pouring from Ryan.

Felt similar emotions sprouting in me.

“You would have me refuse Thacker?” I asked, the effort to keep my voice down actually hurting my throat. “Have me turn my back on the innocent people who lost their lives in that fire?”

“Here’s the thing, Tempe. I’m tired of performing somersaults to fit into your schedule. Tired of always putting my needs second to yours. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe we need some time apart.”

Three beeps.

Dead air.

I sat, mobile pressed to my sternum, emotions roiling in my brain. Anger. Hurt. Confusion.

Mostly confusion.

Why such flash-fire rage? It wasn’t like Ryan. Was he correct? Was I always putting myself before him? Was I taking him for granted?

Or was Ryan being unreasonable? I felt a responsibility to the Foggy Bottom victims. Was his reaction to my commitment inapprop-riate?

Contrary to my earlier expectation, sleep was a long time coming.

When it came, it did so hard and deep.

It was almost nine when I awoke from a dream I couldn’t remember. Uncertain of my location, I sleepily surveyed my surroundings. Cavernous room. Space rocket lamp. Wooded view of half the East Coast.

Right.

Lan insisted on making an omelet for me. Doyle was gone, so I ate her marvelous eggs alone at the shiny marble table.

My mind kept replaying the previous night’s quarrel. I debated whether to call Ryan to apologize.

A gaggle of kindhearted neurons urged me to pick up the phone. A less-forgiving cluster said absolutely no.

In the hours since the argument, I’d decided that Ryan’s response had been childlike and selfish. I was certain I’d never ask him to put my desires ahead of his professional obligations.

Given that, I decided to go with the nos. Let the guy cool down for a while.

After breakfast, I took coffee to my room and booted my laptop.

I began by checking my inboxes.

Seven emails from political candidates, all asking for money. Three from TV stations informing me of upcoming shows. Two from Chewy alerting me to products for cats. One from an online retailer from whom I’d purchased makeup two years earlier. One from an outfit trying to sell me solar panels.

The only personal message had come from my mother. Daisy was considering signing up for a cruise along the western coast of Africa. Wanted my thoughts.

Deleting all but Mama’s communique, which I would address later, I began my research by googling the phrase “historic burlap sack.” This produced a half dozen links for buyers and sellers of antique bags. Apparently, there was a small but enthusiastic community of collectors. Who knew?

I clicked over to the website of the NYP Corp., a company that described itself as a provider of burlap and other agricultural supplies and textiles. NYP’s home page offered contact information for locations in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Missouri, Ohio, and my own fair state.

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