He’d received a cooler reception from Anderton’s daughter, Lorna, a forty-something (going on sixty, he was sure) woman who had a collection of Anderton memorabilia on display in the sunporch of her house in Gulf City, Florida. Desmond had spent a few days with Lorna in the early stages of his research and had found her to be a suspicious person who acted as if he were trying to siphon money out of her bank account but who eventually had come around. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised or disappointed to hear that the book was still unfinished, and was wary of the new project. “A TV show?” she’d asked. “Well, we’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

It was only a little after noon, but already the Deerforth campus was emptying out and beginning to feel like a lush, shadowy park. College campuses, along with youth, are wasted on the young. From his office window high above the rolling lawns and colorful trees, Desmond could see students packing cars and lined up for the shuttle bus to Boston with their knapsacks and suitcases heaped up around their feet. The start of a long weekend. There was something about the whole indulgent concept of a “long weekend,” not to mention the very words themselves, that suggested romantic possibilities. He’d told Russell he was going to arrive on Saturday, but he’d woken up this morning so caught up in this autumnal urge for going and the predatory desire to make this long weekend as long as possible, that he’d decided to bring his schoolwork with him and leave today.

As he was about to call Russell’s store and tell him about the change in his plans, the phone rang.

“Is this Desmond?”

A recognizable voice, although one he didn’t recognize. “Yes?”

“You’re never in your office, Desmond. I’m surprised I caught you. It’s Brian Cody.”

Desmond glanced toward the door to make sure it was closed, and then to make sure it stayed closed, stretched out the phone cord and turned the deadbolt. “Brian, hello.” He lay down on Professor Crandersall’s puffy, bedspread-covered sofa and put his feet up on the armrest.

“You sound as if you’re in a rush.”

“No, not exactly.”

“Not too busy taking care of your students?” There was a faint suggestion of something lewd under this, as if he assumed Desmond spent the bulk of his time prowling the streets or luring students into his office so he could “take care of” them. Desmond had found that most of the closeted men he knew assumed that all openly gay men spent at least ten of their sixteen waking hours pursuing or engaging in sex. It was an insulting assumption that took profligate promiscuity for granted and discounted the possibility of professional pursuits and emotional fidelity; the actual number of hours was probably much closer to six.