place in particular. Just enjoying the fire and the cottage’s warmth.”
“I can’t believe you weren’t doing something,” Stephanie commented. “All those books! I bet you were reading something.”
“I’d be embarrassed to tell you,” Darby smiled. He took his seat at the head of the table and unfolded his napkin politely. “How’s everyone doing? You know, when I was studying group dynamics as a priest, we were discouraged from asking anything personal. Like: ‘How are you?’ Or ‘What are your thoughts?’ Instead, we were instructed to ask: ‘Well, how’s it going?’ leaving the person to define it. Frankly, I found that impersonal. You’re either fine or not, happy or sad, reflective or garrulous. So, I trust everyone did have a decent day, however miserable it might have been.”
Parker smiled. “I took a jog in the afternoon. Even coaxed Celeste to go with me,” he turned sheepishly toward her.
She looked up hesitantly toward Darby, smiled; then glanced away. He focused on her mouth, her lips—how tightly she pursed them—before he too glanced at the others.
“I saw that!” Tunstan quipped as he observed their interaction. “I once had a paramour. Paid for her studio. Taught her how to paint, to blend pigments and create shadows. She was young,” he said haltingly, glancing toward Stephanie. “She went on to higher and bigger and better things, then dropped it all to marry a Spanish bull breeder. Imagine that? A toreador’s consort! I wish I knew where she was. Her husband’s ranch was somewhere between El Greco’s Toledo and Velazquez’s Madrid. Maybe one day she’ll resurface and take up the brush again.” His lips parted unable to disguise his disappointment. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Do I dare ask about you?” he confronted Darby.
“Ask all you wish. But some things aren’t divulge-able! I know that isn’t a word, but that’s the case.”
Celeste, who was seated to Darby’s right, laid her fork beside her salad plate and stared directly into Darby’s eyes. “Come, Professor Peterson! Even philosophers stumble from time to time. Bertrand Russell, anyone? Or Sartre or Abelard? No?” she smiled in a deliberate challenge. “You don’t strike me as being a ‘mouse of the scrolls.’”
“Mrs. Martin, I’ve made my mistakes, many of them, I assure you. But life goes on, even for us mortals,” he replied with a pleasant smile.
She drew her face back slightly, placed her napkin against the edge of her lips, and touched his forearm with her left hand. “That’s what fascinates me—the going-on part. Us mortals!” she repeated his words. “Here we are, for whatever reasons we’ve come, and none of us knows each other’s secrets, nor needs to. But I wish I knew what I wanted out of life. That always seems to evade me. You’re supposed to have the answer, aren’t you? Or at least an idea? Isn’t that what philosophy’s about?”
“My science teacher says it’s dead!” Stephanie piped up. “Philosophers don’t have answers, least not important ones. Only science can provide them. Or so he says. No offense, sir!” she smiled at Darby with imploring eyes.
“None taken, my dear! In part he’s right, you know. Ideally, philosophy’s task is to make us critical of the unexamined answers we end up settling for.” He lowered his voice momentarily. “In truth, it can’t give us the answers we need. It can only encourage us be honest with ourselves. To what Heidegger calls, the search for ‘an authentic existence.’ I don’t think the search ever ends. If there were some one purpose, above all purposes, that we’re to live by, wouldn’t we have discovered it by now? It’s just that at various stages some purposes make more sense than others, and later we exchange those for others.”
“I don’t know what I want,” said Stephanie. “I just want my life to be happy! I wish my father would come back, wherever he is. I wouldn’t even care where he’s been. I just want him home.”
“I’d say that’s pretty sensible!” remarked Tunstan. “I’m still searching, too.”
“Good Heavens!” Linda moaned, as she entered the dining room. In one hand she carried a platter of braised chicken, and in the other a tray of yellow rice and broccoli. “You all look morbid. Darby, you’re supposed to enliven our guests, not turn them into zombies.”
Everyone laughed.
“I’d say he’s doing a good job,” Parker announced. “I hope were having apple pie for dessert. I’ve been smelling it all afternoon.”
“That’s right. Our own Stephanie picked them,” she smiled at the girl, “plus the philosopher here,” she nudged Darby’s right shoulder with her left hip.
“Well, here’s a story for you,” Darby smiled with a fey sigh, “if that’s what you want. Maybe it’ll make all of us misérables happy. I forget the source—perhaps Durant—but once upon a time there was a philosopher who lived in the Duchy of Luxembourg, back in the era of Napoleon. He wrote philosophy books, all of which he dedicated to the Prince. One day the Prince called him into his study and demanded to know why the court’s critic constantly found fault with the philosopher’s works. ‘Doesn’t that make me look bad?’ questioned the Prince, ‘since they’re dedicated to me?’ ‘Well, your Excellence, you have to look at it this way,’ replied the philosopher. ‘A book is like a mirror. If an ass looks in, don’t expect to hear an angel sing.’”
“Now that’s more like it,” chuckled Linda. “The next time Jon Paul’s shaving, I’ll ask him if he’s ever seen an angel.”
“Well, wait till we’ve had our pie,” said Parker. “Then we can all look in the mirror.”
“Speak for yourself!” sighed Celeste, as she glanced, eyes down, toward Darby.
* * *
Following dinner, the guests migrated to the living room. Stephanie wandered over to a CD player and began sorting through a stack of CDs. She found several she liked and placed them in the player’s tray. Soon her selections filled the room with their hip-hop and light-rock sounds. Tunstan appeared a bit annoyed, until “Soul Sister” came on. Its spirited melody and hypnotic lyrics opened something deep of long ago in his being. He rose from the chair, in which he had slumped, and took Stephanie’s left hand. “May I have this dance?” he bowed.
“Of course!” the girl replied, as she rolled her eyes toward Darby. “I’d love to.”
Quickly Parker turned toward Celeste, where she was standing by the fireplace, and took her hands. “You know we haven’t in a long time,” he said. He drew her hungrily against his chest and began to move to the beat of the music. Her body submitted to his tug. Her feet stepped gracefully to the CD’s rhythm. Darby watched with envy.
About that time, Linda entered the room. He held his hands out to her. “Will Jon Paul mind?”
“Don’t think about it,” she smiled. “He’s a fabulous cook, but two feet in reverse on the dance floor.” She glanced up at Darby. “Hold me, Darby. Just hold me, that’s all,” she whispered.
More discs were placed in the player: shag, rock-n-roll, tunes from the 70s and 80s. Darby continued dancing with Linda, then Stephanie, and finally Celeste. He knew Parker’s eyes scrutinized their every gesture, glance, and movement.
“I guess he told you everything,” she looked up into Darby’s eyes. Her intense gray pupils bore into his manhood. It was as if
