part0015

Archaeology Professor James Acton’s wife, Laura Palmer, eyed him. “I’m not sure that’s a look you could pull off.”

He laughed. “I think I could pull off any look, though passing out testicles for invitations to fancy galas might not be making the best use of my anatomy.”

She grabbed a boob in each hand, lifting them up. “Maybe I could donate one of the girls?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Never! I lay claim to those puppies!”

She let go and he enjoyed the bounce. She wagged a finger. “Don’t you go getting all randy on me now. We have to be at Greg and Sandra’s in an hour.”

“An hour, hell, I could get ’er done four times and still be able to shower.”

“I’m not sure that’s something to brag about, nor do I think you are physically capable of that anymore, old man.”

He threw a pillow at her and she caught it, whipping it back at him. “Who you callin’ old?”

She pushed him back and straddled him, running her fingers through his hair then stopping. “There’s a gray, there’s a gray, there’s a—”

He rolled her off him. “Hey, that’s not fair. You realize how stressful it is keeping all those young hunks from hitting on my gorgeous wife? It’s a full-time job.”

“Oh, sure, I don’t know how I get anything done with all the men that are after me.” She climbed off the bed and continued dressing.

“So, this isn’t happening?”

“After we get home?”

He jumped off the bed. “Good enough for me.” He stood in the mirror, staring at his junk. “You don’t think I could pull it off, huh?”

She smacked his bare ass. “Get in the shower and make it cold. Somebody is at half-mast with a mind of his own.”

He gave a toothy grin. “Umm, any body parts of yours that have minds of their own?”

She put her bra on, killing half the show, then pointed to the bathroom. “Go. Now.”

“You’re no fun. Even your fun parts.”

He climbed in the shower and turned on the water, still hot from Laura’s turn minutes ago. He reduced the temperature a little too much and shivered. A few minutes later, he was done and toweling off, Laura now fully dressed, perched in a chair in the corner, tablet in hand.

“It would be a treat for you to see it.”

Hope returned, something twinged, and a smile spread. “It would be!”

“Not that, you pervert. I mean the Bible.”

Acton sighed, no nookie in his immediate future. He grabbed some underwear instead. “It would be.”

“Then why not make it happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, didn’t you say you knew Professor Marchand? Why not call him?”

Acton shook his head as he slipped his socks on. “He’s probably getting hundreds of calls. Besides, I haven’t seen him in years, and we only exchange maybe half a dozen emails a year.”

She shrugged. “That’s probably more than most of those contacting him for free tickets.” She wagged her tablet at him. “Why don’t you send him an email congratulating him? Don’t ask to see it, just congratulate him. If he wants you there, he’ll suggest it. He knows we can afford the tickets, but he also knows they’re sold out.”

Acton tugged his shirt down then ran his fingers through his hair as he stared in the mirror, not spotting any of the grays his wife had teased him about earlier. She was right. They could afford the tickets, and Marchand was aware of her—and now their—wealth, a wealth he wasn’t certain he’d ever get used to. If her suggestion worked, and they were invited, he would offer to pay for the tickets, or at least make a generous donation to a charity of the man’s choice.

Though it still didn’t sit well with him.

Yet he desperately wanted to see what was a most incredible find. A near-perfectly preserved Bible, a previously unknown copy made by the monks at Wearmouth-Jarrow Abbey over 1300 years ago, found under a blacksmith’s forge in France, marred only by the fact it was in two halves, the stitching separated for some unknown reason, a narrow hole through the center of one half, and what had been determined to be blood saturating several of the pages.

It was a find that rivaled one of the original three created by those same monks, the Codex Amiatinus. One had been destroyed over the years, one was in tatters, and the third, the Codex Amiatinus, was mostly intact.

He had to see this fourth Bible.

“I suppose there’s no harm in congratulating him, even if he sees right through me.”

Laura tossed the tablet onto the bed and he grabbed it, quickly firing off an email to a man he considered a casual friend at best.

His stomach churned with guilt as he handed the tablet back.

“Maybe I can call Mary and see if she can get some tickets for us. She’s not just a travel agent. She has incredible connections. It might be a nice getaway. We could invite Hugh to join us.” The tablet beeped and she looked at it. “Well, it seems like you’re better friends than you thought.”

“Huh?” She handed him the tablet and he opened the email from Marchand. He grinned. “He thanks me for the email, and would love it if the two of us would be his personal guests for a private viewing at the gala!”

Laura beamed. “That sounds fantastic!” She paused. “Oh, what about Hugh?”

He tilted his head. “Do you really want me to push our luck?”

“I supposed not. But he’ll be so disappointed.”

He eyed her. “He doesn’t even know about it. Besides, you know how he feels about these types of things.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

He could hear the disappointment in her voice. “How about we drop by to visit him on the way back?”

“Let’s! It’s been too long.”

“You’re right. What has it been? Two weeks?”

She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t get smart with me, mister. You know I love that man.”

“If I didn’t know it was like a father, then I’d be jealous.” He fired back a reply to Marchand, accepting the invitation, then handed the tablet back to Laura.

“When is it again?”

“Next Saturday.” He hopped up and down on his toes, unable to contain his excitement. “I can’t wait!”

She gave him a withering look. “Don’t let any of your friends see you doing that. Especially those Delta boys. They’ll insist you return your Man Card.”

He stopped, suddenly self-conscious. “Can’t a guy just be excited about something without being judged? You do know what year it is, right?”

She shrugged. “Yes, it’s the year when everybody gets judged for everything they do, even if they did it forty years ago.”