The Tempest by James Lilliefors Read Free Book Online

Charlotte asked, sidling up against him, and holding Luke’s good arm. He’d decided not to wear his sling tonight, mostly because of the comments it would elicit from Charlotte’s father. Charlotte looked fetching but casual in a beige dress and jacket.
    â€œMe? Nothing.”
    She steered him toward the dining room, where Lowell and Judy Carrington—­Charlotte’s parents—­were at a window table, early as always, her father leaning way back and waving them over. Lowell Carrington was a tall, urbane-­looking man, his white hair fashionably disheveled. Luke could see from the way his chair was turned that he’d been watching the pleasure boats come in; Judy, small and hunched over, frowned at her menu as if it were written in Mandarin. Charlotte’s parents lived in an old-­moneyed suburb of D.C. Once or twice each summer, they sailed across the Bay to Tidewater County and docked near the Old Shore Inn, so they could visit with their daughter and a ­couple of old friends who kept second or third homes here. Lowell Carrington had once been an economics professor at Georgetown and had served as a White House advisor during the Bush 41 administration. He was long retired now although he “dabbled” in real estate, as he put it, buying and selling luxury properties in the Bahamas, where the Carringtons owned a winter home.
    These dinners followed a pattern—­the four of them greeted one another with exchanges of “Great to see you!” and “You look wonderful!” then sat and began the process of evaluating the specials and new entrées—­taking turns picking an entrée for discussion, something someone would say “sounds good”; in each case, Charlotte’s mother would then say “Where’s that?” and her father would invariably find something wrong with it.
    Midway through the standard entrées discussion, Luke weighed in: “I wonder what rosemary-­infused cannellini beans are like.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” Judy said.
    â€œThe rockfish.” Luke pointed to it on her menu. “It says it comes with rosemary-­infused cannellini beans.”
    â€œMaybe they’ll let you switch it out for french fries,” Charlotte said. “Ketchup-­infused.”
    Lowell Carrington gave her a mock scowl over the top of his menu, probably not realizing that Charlotte was serious. Luke decided he’d stick with cannellini beans.
    They were well into their entrées—­the butter-­poached lobster for Judy, filet mignon and lobster tail for Lowell, lump crab cakes for Charlotte and the rockfish for Luke—­when Lowell Carrington said, “So, Luke, have you ever thought about going on television?”
    â€œTelevision? No. Not seriously.”
    â€œBecause I met a fellow the other week, he’s done this successfully in other markets. You broadcast your Sunday ser­vice—­live or delayed—­and begin to build an entirely new audience. From what he says, you can get in some markets now for just a few thousand dollars.”
    â€œInteresting.”
    â€œThen at the end of the broadcast, you sell your CDs or DVDs and direct ­people to your website—­that’s where you recoup the upfront. And, of course, at the same time, you’d be spreading your message to a larger audience. It’s a business model that’s worked in a number of markets.”
    Luke nodded, forking a cannellini bean.
    â€œI’ll give you this fellow’s name, if you’d like to talk to him.”
    â€œAppreciate it,” Luke said. “Although, I don’t know the congregation is quite ready to go in that direction.”
    â€œWell. You won’t know until you ask.” He smiled, his hard hazel eyes giving Luke a pointed look.
    â€œYes. We have asked, actually. Over the winter. The congregation was asked whether or not they wanted to