Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

fireplace and carefully set the photo on the mantle.
    In the two years of seeing him battle the impolitic politics of university life, she’d never seen him this defensive or wounded. “I didn’t mean that, Professor Cross.”
    Simon gripped the edge of the mantle and stared into the blazing fire. The muscles of his back, tense and formidable, stood out in relief against the taut fabric of his sweater. A loud, crackling pop accentuated the silence.
    “I know it’s none of my business,” she continued, throwing caution to the wind. “But—”
    ”You’re right.” Simon turned to face her, any sign of his turmoil replaced with an implacable hardness. “It’s none of your business.”
    Stung by his rebuke and feeling foolish for having tried, Elizabeth said, “I guess I should be going then.”
    Simon clenched his jaw, a deep frown furrowing his brow.
    Elizabeth waited for another tense moment, courting the hope that he might ask her to stay. Finally, she gathered her wits and the shreds of her dignity. “Goodnight, Professor.”
    She was nearly at the foyer when she heard his voice, demanding and pleading at the same time. “Wait.”
    She stopped and slowly turned to face him.
    “I’m— I’m sorry, Miss West.”
    Simon glanced back at the photo of his grandfather, as if he could find the answer to some unspoken question in the faded Kodachrome. She’d never seen him like this—so at a loss. It was strangely appealing and more than a little unnerving.
    “There’s something I’d like to show you,” he said. “That is, if you don’t have another engagement.”
    Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. He was actually asking her to stay, and she knew him well enough to know it cost him dearly to ask. Trying not to appear too giddy at the prospect and failing miserably, she said, “I’m all yours.”
    He nodded, the ghost of a grateful smile in his eyes. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the sofa.
    Simon waited until she’d taken her seat before he sat opposite her in the overstuffed wingback. He looked down at his hands, and the silence stretched out between them. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Can I offer you something to drink? A glass of wine?”
    She wondered if the earth had shifted on its axis. Two apologies from Simon Cross in under a minute. “Thank you.”
    He excused himself and went into the kitchen. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what had come over him. One minute he was distrustful and caustic, the next he was a gracious, even nervous, host.
    She glanced around the room and hoped to find some clues to explain his aberrant behavior of the last few days. Small statues, one of them a very well endowed fertility god, were strewn around at the base of the boxes. Vases and more picture frames poked out of the crates. She noticed an ornate box on the coffee table in front of her. It was made of deep, rich mahogany and about the size of a shoe box. An intricate gold and porcelain inlay of a globe adorned on the lid. As she leaned in to get a better look, Simon came back into the room.
    “I’m afraid I only have Cabernet,” he said and handed her the glass.
    Taking a sip of wine she leaned back into the soft cushions. “That’s beautiful,” she said, indicating the box on the table.
    Simon glanced down at the small chest. “It was my grandfather’s. All of this was his.”
    She knew from what little she’d read about Sebastian Cross that he’d died nearly thirty years ago. Why were the belongings just now being passed on?
    As if sensing her question, Simon lifted his eyes to hers. “My aunt died last week and the family sent these along.”
    “Were you close? To your aunt, I mean.”
    “Hardly,” Simon said. ”She had a unique talent for making you feel very, very small. My family wasn’t exactly what you’d call...” He frowned searching for the right word. “Functional.”
    “Functional is relative. Sorry, bad pun.”
    Simon took a sip of wine and set his glass down. “I wasn’t very close to my family, except for my grandfather. I spent my summers away from boarding school with him in Sussex.”
    “He’s the reason you teach occult.”
    Simon seemed startled by her insight, not that it was any great leap of logic. He leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. His expression eased from surprise to reluctant admiration. “He specialized in anthropology of the supernatural. And, not surprisingly, was ignored and ridiculed for what most saw as a