Page 30 of Tributary

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Asa

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE fireworks and the town people deciding to throw Hunter into the creek, I lost track of Diana. Each time I try to step away and find her, another Oak Creek resident pulls me into conversations about vacant storefronts on Main Street or the summer tourist season that picks up when all the potential Oak Creek College students and their families flood the town.

“Ed Hasting, Oak Creek Gazette.” An old man stumbles over to me while I’m trying to scoop up potato salad. I set down my bottle of beer to shake his hand. “And you’re Asa Wexler,” he continues, eyeing me up, not letting go of my hand. “You just bought the old Espenshade house, correct?”

“So I’ve heard.”

Ed pulls out a digital recorder and shoves it in my face. “What’s your plan here in Oak Creek, Mr. Wexler? You’ve financed Hunter Crawford and other researchers on the Oak Creek faculty.”

“Ed, mind if we sit down for this interview?” From what I hear, I’ll need to choose my words carefully or I will be peppered across Oak Creek social media all out of context. I try to steer his questions toward Wexler Holdings, but he keeps asking about my personal life. Somewhere between talking about my Bar Mitzvah and my masters project at Wharton, I spy Indigo and Abigail dragging Diana and Hunter out on the dance floor.

“Ed, can you excuse me? I owe Dr. Crawford a dance.”

Tipping my head at Hunter as he stiffly dances with a swirling Abigail, I reach for Diana and tap her on the shoulder. “Can I cut in?” I whisper against her neck, savoring the faint scent of her sweat as she shakes her hips.

Indigo grins and shoves her into my arms. “I need to go put up my feet anyhow.”

Diana pouts, even as she leans back against my body, like she’s drawn in and afraid all at once. “You’re barely pregnant, Indigo. Your feet aren’t swollen.” But she’s already bobbing over to Sara, who pats the space next to her on a hay bale.

“Now you’re stuck with me,” I whisper again, pulling her tight enough against my body for her to feel what she does to me. I’m in a constant state of semi- or full arousal when I see, smell or think about Diana Crawford. And I’m enjoying every second of it.

She shrugs and sways a bit to the music, eventually turning in my arms to study my face. “I don’t want you to want more than sex,” she says.

“Who says I want more than that?”

She rolls her eyes. “You tell me that all the time, Wexler.”

“What’s wrong with admitting you like spending time with me? I’m told I can be quite charming.”

“We haven’t actually really spent much time together,” she points out. “Mostly we are just having sex. Which is what I’d like to go and do right now.”

“Fuck me,” I hiss as she reaches between our bodies and rakes her hand along my shaft.

“Exactly,” she says, tugging my hand and pulling me down the street. We tumble in the door of my house and christen the living room floor, the wall in the hallway, and finally my bed, where I try to convince her to stay and sleep.

“If you stay,” I tell her, “I can wake you up with my tongue between your legs and you can yell at me until I get my technique just right.”

Diana seems to ponder that for a moment and lets herself drift off to sleep. When I wake up, she’s gone and the bed is cold.

I find Moorely and Hunter on campus, waiting for me by a row of forsythia bushes in full bloom. I can see why people are drawn into this town, despite its quirky residents and lack of alcohol or night life. When I walk up to them, the pair is deep in conversation about Moorely’s research. Hunter apparently missed some updates while he was in space. “I’m astonished that my sister reached out to you for help,” Hunter says. Moorely shrugs.

“She’s the one helping me. I would never have thought of an agricultural application for my sensors. I feel like I have entire new economies open to me now.”

I clap him on the back. “Opportunity is invigorating. You should thank her.”

Moorely guffaws. “From what I hear, she’s only accepting specific favors from you these days.”

I feel my insides clench. “That isn’t what I meant at all.”

“I know what my sister wants,” Hunter interjects before I launch into full caveman mode. “She wants to go to the botany conference.”

“Well why doesn’t she just go?”

Hunter scratches his chin a bit and looks back and forth between us. “Abigail feels Diana has lost her confidence. She has had some…setbacks. Diana claims she just can’t afford to go.”

Moorely snaps his fingers. “I’m going to list her as co-investigator when I send my article off for publication. I mean, it’s true, even if she doesn’t currently have affiliation. Should I list her business as her affiliation, do you reckon?”

While Hunter and Moorely debate the logistics of crediting Diana’s work in some fancy scholarly journal, I whip out my phone to text Andrea. Can we sponsor a botany conference?

I don’t see why not. But why would we want to?

Give them however much to get me a ticket and sponsor a researcher.

I bet I can guess which researcher. You ever going to fill me in on the potential project?

I send Andrea a quick email with the info and instructions for getting Diana to the conference. I know she won’t accept another gift from me directly. While I go over paperwork at the college, I let my mind wander to the promised thrill of having Diana in New York, of taking her home and into my bed. Of, maybe someday, keeping her there.

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