International Exchange Concert

Inga gave Debbie a warning look. "Robby's as human as you are. Just because he has pointed ears doesn't make him a Vulcan, eh? He may not know what to do with a girl yet, but he's unschooled, not stupid. We're working on that."

"You aren't kidding, are you."

"No," Inga said, putting words to her feelings for the first time. "I like him. He's smart and straightforward. I think he's a natural leader. He doesn't follow the herd, and not only because your high school herd has rejected him. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so. He does what's the right thing to do because he thinks it's the right thing to do, no matter what anyone else may think. I know the Godfather was madder than hell at him for a while on the USO tour we did this summer. A unit out in the boonies borrowed him for something that was supposed to take a few hours, but he was gone for a day and a half, didn't check in and almost missed a show. The Godfather was ready to send him home, he was so mad. Then an officer showed up and smoothed it over. I don't know the details. I don't think anyone but Spock and the Godfather do, and neither one is talking. Maybe he'd tell you? I'm not the only one who wants to know how he escaped from that jam. Dr. Sella has thrown people out of the Wind Ensemble for less than that. We maintain professional discipline, but Spock broke the rules and got away with it. It's, like, unprecedented, you know?"

"If I find out, you'll find out," Inga promised, with a significant look at her bed. Debbie took the hint and left.

The next day was Friday, with final rehearsals for the Friday night football game's halftime show. After school, the Godfather ran the group through the numbers and showpieces one at a time, and then once with no waits and no breaks. They finished with the instrumentalists in three dense blocks across the field from the 20-yard line to the end zone. He raised his voice and addressed them from where he stood.

"All right, it's time for you to learn who the three 'periods' are going to be this week. For the benefit of our Canadian observers, we always end our halftime shows by forming the school letters, separated by periods. The 'periods' are members of the group who have done something noteworthy in the preceding week.

"This week, the three periods are: Mark Thomaston, for winning his light-heavyweight wrestling match and putting Buckthorn over the top against Rockingham; Andrea Porter, for being accepted at Ohio State, my old alma mater; and Robert Jabez, for saving Debbie Province from choking to death on a slice of pizza."

There was applause for the three. A sharp peep from the Godfather's whistle brought instant silence. He looked significantly at the drum major, who raised his mace to the 'ready' and blew his own whistle, then brought it down sharply. The Rangers began to move, to the tune of the "French National Defi" march.

The trademark number of the Ohio State University Marching Band is their script 'Ohio' done to a custom arrangement of the "French National Defi." What the Rangers were doing was not script, though to those in the know the connection to OSU's signature evolution was plain. The drum major didn't lead the line as Ohio State's did; the marchers moved on their own, three lines of Rangers moving across the field toward the eastern goalposts. As the upper line leader hit the far 30-yard line, he made a left flank turn and headed for the north sideline. He made a right oblique movement and began to draw a curve. The rest of his block followed him and formed the letter B.

While the first block was forming the B, the second block marched to the 45-yard line. The sax player leading the line made his flanking turn and headed north. The line followed him, splitting twice; one halfway up the left leg with the marchers heading right and splitting again at the far 45 yard line to alternate left and right turns to form the second leg of the H, with the Rangers at the end of the block completing the bottom of the left leg.

The third block reached the near 35-yard line and turned north too. The clarinets, flutes, piccolos and low winds split apart and made two curves to form a letter S. The color guard at the end of the block split left, reached the center of the H and as one did a right flank and marched down 15 yards toward the south sideline.

The flags and interspersed rifles began to move in a double file. Breaking off from the first and third blocks of instrumentalists, they underlined the letters. They stopped, and four beats later three musicians broke out of their letters and high-stepped their way to the spaces after each letter to become the 'periods,' so the letters on the field read, "B.H.S." Each took of his or her hat and bowed, then resumed playing. The "Defi" concluded, and there was a pause.

The Rangers exploded into sound. As one, they stepped off toward the sideline and swung into the finale of "The William Tell Overture," the Buckthorn High School fight song. The number ended with the letters collapsing into blocks as the drum line set a fast street beat for them to clear the field. The Canadians were impressed. They were a good parade outfit, able to hold the rigid ranks and files required of a marching band on the street, which isn't as easy as it sounds; but the Kensington musicians were not accustomed to the exotic evolutions of precision field work.

The band halted. The Godfather nodded to the drum major, who about-faced, raised his mace, and ordered, "Dis-MISS!" as he brought it down. The mass of musicians paused for an instant, and then dissolved into an amorphous crowd, walking for the stadium exits. Inga caught up with Robby outside the stadium.

"It's about 4:15. What happens between now and game time?"

"That depends. Some of us go home for dinner. Most of us stay here and eat takeout. A couple of kids will take orders and run to the burger joint to bring back food. Then we get into uniform, and heaven help anyone who isn't in uniform with spit-shined boots, instrument in hand, ready to go at 6:30. We march out and do the pregame show at 6:45. Kickoff, heaven help us, is at 7:05 sharp." They reached the Jag and Robby put the horizontal bells and harness into the trunk.

"What do you do about eating?" she asked.

"Usually I run home. I'd rather eat Ms. Phoebe's cooking than fast food any time." He paused.

"Would you like to come home with me for dinner?" he asked hesitantly.

Inga smiled. "I'd love to. Let me text Debbie." They both pulled out their phones and two minutes later were on their way to Robby's house.

It wasn't far from the high school, a large, old Stockbroker's Tudor bordering on mansion size built as a three sided square, with a huge slate patio opening onto an old cobblestone courtyard with a small stable and carriage house converted to garages opposite it. A glassed in swimming pool off to the right of the patio opposite the ex-carriage house and a conservatory that were obviously later additions spoiled the symmetry somewhat, but Inga felt instantly at home. Robby parked in the courtyard and led Inga in through a side door off the patio.

"What's for dinner?" he asked as they walked into a large eat-in kitchen. A wiry, slender black woman with a Halle Berry hairstyle turned from the pot she was stirring and fixed Robby with a gimlet eye.

"Robert, I've taught you better than that. Do please introduce me to your friend."

Robby blushed and his scars sprang out. "Yes, Ms. Phoebe. Inga Gustafson, please permit me to introduce you to Ms. Phoebe Davis. She's our housekeeper, the only mother I've ever known. Ms. Phoebe, this is Inga, who is first chair first flute from Kensington High, in Canada."

"I'm pleased to meet you," said Inga, extending a hand. Ms. Phoebe shifted a wooden spoon from right to left and took it, looking her over with a swift, probing glance that made Inga feel as if she'd been deep-scanned before breaking into a smile and giving her a nod of approval.

"A pleasure to meet you. You're the first girl Robby has ever brought home for dinner. Supper will be early because Robby has to change for the game and get back. Robby - oh, good. Don't forget soup bowls; I've made gumbo tonight." Robby, without being asked, was setting the table by the fireplace. Inga moved to stand near him as he spread a fresh tablecloth and dealt flatware, napkins, cups and saucers, plates, bowls, and stemware with the ease of long practice.

"Do you always set a formal table?" she asked.

"This isn't formal," Robby assured her as he set a silver butter dish on the table and added a small silver pepper grinder and salt shaker. "If you'd like to feel useful, you could fill the water pitcher from the water cooler over there. Ice is in the fridge. Father says there's no point in having linens, silver and crystal if you don't use them. The formal china, silver and crystal are in the dining room. Our family's lived here for more than a century. When a family is in the same house for generations things do accumulate."

"They certainly do," agreed Ms. Phoebe. "The folks from Cash in the Attic would have a field day in this place! As far as I can tell, the Jabezes never throw anything away." Inga helped carry the food to the table and the three of them sat down to eat.

She reflected Robby had good reason to prefer home cooking to fast food. The gumbo was followed by salad, barbecued chicken breast, baked potatoes, sweet peas, ice cream and tea. As they rose from the table, Inga made as if to carry the dishes to the sink, but Ms. Phoebe waved her off.

"Don't bother; I'll take care of the dishes. Robby, why don't you show Inga the house? But keep track of the time so you aren't late."

"Yes, ma'am." They left the kitchen and walked through a swinging door into a pantry separating the kitchen from the dining room. Inga whistled as she took in an antique mahogany table that could easily seat the 12 chairs that lined it, with more neatly lined against the wall and French doors that opened onto the patio.

"My great great-grandfather and great-grandfather were bankers who dabbled in politics," Robby explained as they turned right and passed through the two sliding doors that led across the hall to a formal sitting room with a concert grand by the leaded glass bay window that overlooked the semicircular drive and a lawn that sloped gently to the street. "Father told me that Great-Grandfather bought that piano for his daughter, my grandmother. It seems I get my musical talent, such as it is, from her. She was a minor concert pianist in the 'Teens and the Roaring '20s. It still plays well, which is all that matters to me."

Robby leading the way down the passageway, they passed a couple of guest rooms on the front side of the house, and a library and a gun room on the left. Robby brought Inga into it and she stopped. Animal heads from three continents hung on walls decorated with Zulu shields and spears, Sudanese broadswords, North African jezail muskets, stretched tiger and leopard skins and Indian howdah pistols. Glass-fronted gun cabinets lined two of the walls, and two locked gun safes flanked a worktable on a third. The guns in the display ranged from old double-barreled shotguns to modern military rifles, with all sorts of bolt actions, vintage firearms, over-and-under shotguns for trapshooting, and what looked to be war souvenirs. Thinking back to her conversation with Carissa, she said, "So which one of these is Natasha?"

Robby's eyebrows rose and his mouth quirked upward at the corners. "I can't believe you remembered that! Here she is." He opened a cabinet and took out a rifle with the external magazine that hollers "sporterized military rifle" to the cognoscenti. The Monte Carlo stock with its high cheekpiece was made of walnut, and a large, powerful scope sat over the bolt. The iron sights had been removed and a cylindrical muzzle brake adorned the business end of the gun. Robby opened the action to confirm it wasn't loaded and handed it to Inga with the air of one presenting a jewel. Inga checked the action, closed the bolt and smoothly brought it to her shoulder, looking through the scope into the yard past the pool, whistling as a tree spring into sharp relief.

"She's zeroed for 200 yards," Robby said casually, "and I know the adjustments for everything out to 1,000 yards. But at 200 yards she'll put five rounds into a 2-inch circle. That's good enough for most purposes."

"I'll say. Dad's old .303 Enfield wouldn't do that well." She handed Natasha back and he reflexively checked to confirm the rifle wasn't loaded before racking it again. They continued on the tour.

Passing through an octagonal greenhouse the size of the dining room with its mix of fresh vegetables, herbs and flowers, Robby paused by a rose bush and clipped a tea rose, which he presented to Inga with a flourish. She smiled and tucked it behind a hair clip as they walked on through to the glassed-in pool.

"Father had this put in after my accident so I could swim and strengthen my arms and legs, and do in-the-water aerobics. He calls it his aquatic tax write-off because all three of us use it for exercise as well as for fun. The wall on the courtyard end folds back for parties; it turns the pool and its apron into an extension of the patio. I'd say the chances are about 50-50 that someone will fall in at the Halloween party." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better go upstairs and change into uniform."

They went up the staircase in the front hall by the living room. Robby waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. "Down that way there's a solarium and storerooms, the stairs to the attic and a servants' staircase that comes out in the kitchen, and Ms. Phoebe's apartment. Over this way," with a wave down the corridor that paralleled the one below, "are another guest room, Father's library, his study and the master suite. My room is here at the head of the stairs. Excuse me, I won't be long." He ducked into his room and closed the door.

Inga turned and walked down the hall to the right. She saw what had to be Dr. Jabez's study from the Duchess's description of it and went inside, looking at the pictures on the wall. They ranged from an oil painting of a man with a pencil mustache in turn of the 20th Century morning clothes that hung over the fireplace to 8x10 color photographs of Robby and a tall man with a sharp, jutting chin posing proudly beside an elk, rifles in hand. She spent a minute looking at that one, comparing the faces. Not one facial feature matched up, and as Carissa had said Robby's blond hair was in vivid contrast to the Doctor's jet black with silver threads sprinkled through it.

Before she left, she stepped over to the Doctor's desk and looked at it. There was a computer screen that could hook into a laptop, and a lamp, and a bronze inkstand; but perhaps significantly, not a family photograph. She walked back up the corridor, considering, before she ducked into a guest room for a minute.

Robby came out of his private bathroom - all the bedrooms in the house had their own baths, thanks to what had been radical thinking on plumbing when the house was built - bare-chested and freshly shaved. He had already donned the dark green trousers of the Buckthorn Rangers' field band uniform with the black stripe running down the side. The black-frogged green tunic and black English-style kepi that went with it were sitting on the chair by his desk. He found Inga sitting on his bed. She gracefully rose to her feet and glided across the room to him.

"Do we have to rush back?" she purred, trailing her manicured nails over his pectorals as she slowly circled him. He caught her hand and drew her in.

"No, I don't have to be back just yet," he said softly, voice trembling. A pair of silk panties dropped to the floor from Inga's other hand.

"Good," she whispered. "Kiss me."

She wrapped herself around him as their lips met, already parted. Their kiss turned hot instantly. Tongues dueled and hands roamed over each other's bodies, seeking and stimulating. She strained hard against him, her big boobs flattening against the hard planes of his chest, moaning as his hands slid down to her small, tight ass cheeks to pull her close. One hand slid under her skirt to discover that no panties barred its way. She pulled him to the bed, falling half across his lap as they dropped onto it.

His hand tentatively touched her mound. Her hand covered his and instead of pushing it away, pulled it to where she wanted it. He found her slit.

"That's right, darling! Finger me! I want you to! Finger-fuck me! Please!"

His hand parted her nether lips as they kissed with the passion of teenage lust. First one finger and then another slipped between her labia, dipping into Inga's honeypot, feeling an aroused woman's wetness for the first time. They moved in and out of her, slowly at first and then with more confidence when she didn't stop him. She moaned against his mouth, her hips starting to rise to meet his hand as they squirmed on the three-quarter bed. She gasped as his thumb instinctively found her clitoris and brushed against it.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Right there! Like that, Robby! Just a touch, not too hard! Don't stop! Please, don't stop! Stroke it! Yes! Just like that! Oh! Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh, y-e-e-s-s-s!"

Her hips bucked against his hand, forcing his fingers deeper into her pussy as moisture leaked out of her. She pulled his head down, finding his mouth and locking hers to it, her nails digging into his scalp as she controlled the kiss, accepting the stiffened tongue he thrust into her mouth. With one last push, she arched her back and screamed into his mouth as she came, her velvet trap clenching and spasming on his fingers as orgasm took her. After a minute, she relaxed against him and he withdrew his hand while hers caressed him.

"Thank you, darling. Thank you for that." She took the hand that had masturbated her to climax and sensuously licked the fingers clean, an act Robby found incredibly erotic. "You may not be experienced, but you're going to be a good lover. A girl can tell."

"You really think so?" he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I can tell," she repeated. "And if we had more time, I'd do more than just tell you. But I'm afraid we need to be leaving. Dammit."

A glance at the clock was all he needed to confirm it. She swung her legs off him and Robby quickly scrambled into t-shirt, tunic and hat. When he was dressed, Inga came to him and kissed him again before cuddling against his chest.

"We're going to be here in Buckthorn for days yet. I'm sure someone as clever as you can arrange for time and privacy where we can be together without having to worry about being caught. Think about it, darling - if you want to."

"Oh, I want to," he said. "You don't know how much I want to!"

Holding hands, they walked down the front stairs, cut through the dining room and out the French doors onto the patio. A minute later the Jaguar's engine came to life and they were on their way back to the high school, holding hands between their seats.

They arrived at the school with time to spare and parked by the back fence. They got out and leaned against the trunk, arms around each other, simply enjoying the physical contact, so still that the people arriving for the game didn't even notice them. At last Inga kissed Robby gently and said, "If you don't get going you're going to be late. I'll catch up with you after the game." She helped him hook up his bells and with a final caress of his cheek headed for the stadium.

Robby fell in with the drum line in the courtyard, sticks in hand, just before the Godfather's whistle blew Attention. The other percussionists gave him questioning looks. Mr. Spock never arrived just before the Attention, ever. Before any of them could ask why he'd almost been late, the Godfather was talking.