THREE

 

 

August 3rd, 2018

Boise, Idaho

 

DOCTOR OLSEN WADE stood near the door of the front reception area of the Institute of Historical Research. He had had no idea what to expect when he came to Boise for this interview, but finding the institute headquartered in a beautiful Victorian-style mansion perched on a ridgeline overlooking a river was not it.

The building had been designed to impress from the moment it had been built in the late 1880s, and it impressed him completely.

Warm Springs Avenue in front of the institute was lined with similar style mansions and clearly, back at the beginning of the last century, this neighborhood had been for the wealthy.

The very wealthy.

This front room just inside the massive wooden front door had towering ceilings, all with fine detail woodworking that would be far, far too expensive to do today. Windows filled two sides of the room. They had to be almost fifteen feet tall, framed in beautiful mahogany and old-fashioned heavy drapes pulled open to let in the light.

A wide stone fireplace filled the corner between the windows. It was made of smooth river rock laid in a clean pattern and it extended all the way through the ceiling.

From what he could tell, the fireplace was still used in the winter and wood was stacked neatly beside it.

Period furniture sat in front of the fireplace on a large ornate area rug over the dark floors. A couch and two overstuffed chairs were arranged in such a way as to take advantage of the fireplace in the winter. A mahogany coffee table with claw feet sat in front of the couch with old lace coasters.

He moved over and sat in one chair, letting his six-foot frame ease down into the soft cushions. Even ancient, the chair was comfortable and he could imagine himself spending an evening in the chair reading in front of the fire.

He stood and made sure his dress shirt was still tucked into his jeans. He ran a hand through his longish brown hair, wishing for the tenth time in the last few hours that he had gotten a haircut. His hair never seemed to stay in place.

At least he had managed to shave in the airport restroom on the way.

Across the room from the fireplace was a beautiful ornate grand staircase with polished mahogany rails and dark-stained pine stairs covered with a carpet runner up the middle. He moved over to it and ran his hand along the railing, feeling the polished smoothness of the wood.

The archway into what must have been a formal dining room in the past was partially blocked by a large wooden desk from the same period. Even the chair behind the desk fit the time period of the room. There was nothing at all on the desk.

He couldn’t see a detail out of place. What an amazing front office for a historical institute.

He stood there by the staircase, not really knowing what to do with himself at this point. He had left his travel bag near the front door and it looked tempting to just pick up and head back to Southern California.

But he knew if he did that, he would always regret not seeing this through.

He forced himself to take some deep breaths to try to calm down some. He had no idea why he was so nervous. He had more than enough money to do his own research on his own pace, so the institute financial help didn’t matter. But there was just something about the institute and its reputation for only accepting the best that challenged him.

At twenty-nine, he had grown tired of teaching and wanted a break. Actually, he needed a break. He had liked Southern California. Clearly different from his hometown of Boulder, Colorado. And he had liked the sun and the excitement of living there, even though he seldom got out or down to the beach or anywhere else for that matter.

And his former fiancée, Jean, had finally gotten tired of waiting for him and his strange ways of staying up all night lost in medical records in old books from western towns. She had met another humanities professor from Berkeley and had moved there in May to be with her new love.

Wade had no doubt he would be hearing that they were married at some point this winter. Jean hated waiting for him and really, really had a desire to be married. Pathological desire, at times, as far as he was concerned.

He had loved the fact that they fit together, loved that they both loved to surf, loved her passion for politics and her passion in bed. But as time went on, he had realized he didn’t really love her as a person.

After a few months now since she had left him all alone in their condo, he realized that his hesitation on getting married to her had been his subconscious telling him it wouldn’t be right.

At that moment a man about Wade’s height and age entered the room from the back, followed by a short, black-haired woman wearing a wide floppy blue hat. Both of them wore jeans and light shirts and the woman had on a light blue thin jacket as well that covered her arms and neck.

“Dr. Wade?” the man said as he came forward, extending his hand. “I’m Director Parks.”

Wade shook the director’s strong hand, smiling. “Great meeting you and thanks for allowing me to interview.”

Parks laughed. “Our pleasure, I assure you.”

Parks turned and said, “Dr. Wade, this is Professor Silverman.”

At that moment Professor Silverman looked up and into Wade’s eyes and Wade damn near froze as he extended his hand.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

And when they touched, he never wanted to let go.

And clearly as they held each other’s gaze, she was surprised at meeting him as well.

“Nice meeting you,” he finally managed to say.

He didn’t want to let go of her wonderful hand, but he did.

She nodded and just kept staring at him.

Director Parks didn’t seem to notice their interaction, thankfully, as he said, “Let’s sit and talk for a moment. And I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“Not at all,” Wade said, desperately trying to gather his wits about him like they were lost marbles scattering across the hardwood floor. This was an important interview. He really, really needed to get it together.

And fast.

Real fast.