by his predictability, such as the casually worn, yet intact, field uniform. As an anthropologist, she prided herself on her analytical abilities, though they had sometimes failed her where men were concerned.
“More than a visit this time, honey. I’m coming here to work. A new project at an Etruscan UNESCO site. Very exciting!” he said, pausing in expectation of excited or complimentary responses.
Justine felt surprised—and confused. She smiled, choosing to provide her father with the positive response he desired. She knew that she would now have to deal more directly with the misogynist tendencies she had put up with since adolescence.
Lucrezia gave him an indulgent smile and waited for details. She picked up her fork and pushed a strawberry round and round through a dollop of yogurt.
“Archaeology is a crowded business here,” Justine cautioned. “Everyone and his sister wants to live and dig in Italy, so I’m assuming you have something good up your sleeve. My father, the famous archaeologist, would hardly be interested in a typical Roman excavation,” she said, reaching for a croissant. Maria, the family cook, had prepared a spread fit for the visiting royal she considered Justine’s father to be. Forever enchanted with Dr. Morgan, Maria—much more than a family cook—inevitably treated him like a nobleman; he reciprocated with gallantry and compliments to her cooking.
Morgan stood, stretched his muscular arms, and walked to the carved nineteenth-century buffet table, methodically filling his plate with cold cuts, tomatoes, eggs, and a large piece of banana bread, Maria’s specialty. “You’re right, honey. Not the usual Roman dig.” He placed a whole egg in his mouth before returning to the table.
“Tell us about it,” coaxed Lucrezia, falling effortlessly into her familiar role as attentive Creta, as he often called her. Her backlit black hair gleamed, and her arched eyebrows shadowed luminous green eyes that reminded Justine of a silent movie star. Only direct light revealed the hairline wrinkles around her eyes and tiny creases above her lips.
It seemed to Justine, even now, that her mother needed Morgan to find her attractive. What woman wouldn’t, especially one who had shared his bed for so many years?
“Thanks for the invitation, Creta.” Taking a large bite of banana bread, he assumed a relaxed pose at the head of the table, and smiled charmingly when Maria reentered the breakfast room with a large plate of fruits. Like her mother before her, Maria had worked for Lucrezia’s family all her life. Justine always felt reassured by Maria’s maternal presence—round face, generously curved body. Even her feet were round. She was all that “round” implies: warmth, connection, accessibility. Good food.
“It’s an Etruscan dig at a UNESCO site in Cerveteri. Do you know the place?” He gazed at Lucrezia, and his temples flushed with excitement. “Teams from the local superintendent’s office have been excavating there for a couple of years, but now they may be onto something new. Startling, really. UNESCO insisted on an international team, so they called me. The superintendent resisted hiring a foreigner at first, but I think she’s come around. Or will.” As a professor emeritus at the University of California, Berkeley, Morgan knew he had choices.
“I know Cerveteri a little,” said Justine, refilling her coffee cup and taking a heaping spoonful of the fruit salad. “About an hour’s drive north of Ostia, isn’t it? Charming little town.” She paused. “Not much is known about the Etruscans, I understand. Not sure why.”
“What’s going on there?” Lucrezia asked.
“That’s the strange part. I know little. They’ve been very mysterious . . . which makes me think this is something big.”
“You wouldn’t take the job unless it was promising, Dad. You know something,” challenged Justine. “Another origin myth?”
“They didn’t mention origins, but yes, I suspect that’s what they have up their sleeves. Finding evidence of the genesis of the Etruscans—or the source of their isolated language—could change the course of history!”
“Ah . . .” Justine studied her father’s sculpted face. “Now that is something worth getting excited about. Are we Neanderthal or Turkish? Or Egyptian?” adding the last option for fun. He knows more, but is holding back.
“The Etruscans are hotly debated in European history!” exclaimed Lucrezia. “Herodotus claimed they came from Lydia around 800 BC, but that theory has been nearly debunked by recent studies. At least we do know they taught the brutish Romans how to start an empire.”
“I’m impressed,” said Morgan, winking at his ex-wife. “I don’t think you can call yourself a casual scholar of ancient Italian history anymore.”
Lucrezia shifted uneasily in her chair and smoothed the lap of her linen kaftan.
Justine noticed her mother’s self-conscious move. They’re both such unremitting charmers. This flirting probably means nothing. Would I want it to? As these perplexing thoughts whirled through her mind, the eastern light penetrated the drawn gauze panels of the French doors. She forced her thoughts back into the room. “I thought no Etruscan artifacts had been discovered in Italy dating back earlier than eight or nine hundred BCE.”
“That’s what makes this hunt so appealing. And, of course, my favorite daughter is now in Italy.”
“Your favorite and only daughter, I assume,” said Lucrezia, one eyebrow arching.
“As far as I know,” Morgan teased. He stood up and circled the table, snatching grapes from Justine’s fruit salad. “For now, I’m concerned about the composition of the damn team. I haven’t been able to choose anyone to my liking, and they’ve now added a historian. Damn historians! Worse than anthropologists, if you ask me. What I need is a couple of seasoned archaeologists, like Ibrahim.” Morgan’s Egyptian mentor, Ibrahim El Shabry, was well into his eighties now, his arthritic knees barring him from archaeological digs.
Justine refused to take the bait. A few years ago she would have swiped at it like a kitten batting a ball of string. Not now. She smiled sweetly and picked at her fruit salad. “So what is it with you and historians?”
“Historians have theories. They try to make connections that aren’t supported by the facts.” He sat down and spread lemon curd on a second piece of banana bread, which he then devoured in one great swallow.
“All people have narratives, Dad.” Justine cut open her croissant before meeting her father’s intense cobalt eyes.
“Facts. That’s what’s important. The evidence should speak for itself. Find the evidence, verify its authorship and timeframe, and display it in museums so the public can understand how the ancients lived. Scientific. Straightforward.”
Lucrezia sighed. “That’s why museums are so lifeless, except for the one in Orvieto, perhaps. Generally the evidence is presented without a narrative. I find it tedious.”
Morgan laughed. “I see my girls are ganging up on me again.”
Lucrezia’s face recoiled. She had no intention of allowing her former spouse the pleasure of infantilizing and possessing her again. The spell of his charm was broken.
Maria reappeared in the doorway. “The phone. It’s for you, Justine.”
“Who is it?” Justine asked, feeling rescued by the interruption.
“A Dr. Andrea LeMartin.
