by Caro Carson
Now, twenty years later, she greeted the guests of honor politely and then stood next to Vincent for the entire evening. Silently.
Her gaze drifted to the corner where the man in the black T-shirt had disappeared.
“O, Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
Bridget’s plea came floating down from the balcony. On the stage, Kristopher threw up his hands in disgust. “Not yet. I say my lines first.”
Not yet, not yet.
Someday.
Chapter Three
Connor carried the empty keg toward the storeroom, down the hall that marked the end of the original building and the start of the addition Mr. Murphy had added in the 1980s, but Connor’s thoughts stayed with the woman who’d preferred her book to her real life.
She’s gone. So are her problems.
Mr. Murphy had looked very serious—as serious as a man who looked like a wizened leprechaun could look—when he’d warned Connor that he’d burn out if he couldn’t let other people’s sadness roll off his back.
You poured them a pint, they poured out their problems to you, and that’s the end of it. You made them feel better for a moment. That is what a pub can do, but that is all a pub can do. Don’t be taking everyone’s sad tales out of this pub with you. Leave them here when the workday is through.
Easier said than done, some nights—and this afternoon.
Connor set down the keg and unlocked the door to the storage room. The floor was cement. The lighting was fluorescent. There were no windows.
Mr. Murphy had guessed, as he’d guessed so many things about Connor, that this room was a constant reminder of the one place where Connor never wanted to be again.
But you control the doors here, lad. And what do we lock within them? The ale we sell to keep this roof over our heads. To a true businessman like myself, this room is more beautiful than the ones we show our guests. It will be the same for you one day, or my father never called me Seamus Murphy.
The day Mr. Murphy had sold the Tipsy Musketeer to Connor, they’d conducted a formal walk-through with the real estate attorney. It was in this room that Mr. Murphy had passed him the keys to the kingdom. It hadn’t been accidental, Connor was certain.
Connor kicked a wedge under the door to keep it open. Mr. Murphy couldn’t be right about everything: Connor still hated this room.
After he rolled a full keg into the hallway, he dislodged the doorstop with his heel. A heavy-duty dolly waited in its usual place by the door. His employees used it to move kegs, but Connor did not. A full keg weighed 150 pounds, but if Connor couldn’t carry a 150-pound steel barrel into the bar, then he couldn’t escort a 200-pound troublemaker out of the bar, either, before anyone might have a cause to call the police. Now and then, escort might be a euphemism for lift him to his toes by his shirt collar and make him scurry along, but never, in all ten years that he’d been here, had Connor thrown a punch.
He never would. Texas law would normally be on the side of a property owner who defended himself in a fight, but as a felon, Connor wasn’t willing to bet an assault charge would go easily for him. Many a lawyer had sat at the bar to celebrate the dismissal of a client’s case, but the client had still waited in jail before that dismissal. That was not going to happen to Connor. Not again.
Connor dead-lifted the heavy keg and returned to the bar where he’d spend the rest of his day—and probably the rest of all his days—making sure everyone else enjoyed the trouble-free world he created for them in the Tipsy Musketeer.
He hoped everyone would include the woman with her secret sadness and the blue book she hid. If she came back, he would talk to her, and maybe she would stay a little while, absorb some of the safe and friendly atmosphere, then leave her sadness here. It was what a good pub could do for a person.
It was all Connor could do for her.
If she came back.
Someday.
* * *
“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”
Delphinia listened to Romeo’s lines. Kristopher said them breathlessly, a young man so ready for the most exciting thing to happen in his life. Romeo knew he should rein in his passion for the woman he’d been instantly attracted to, but that didn’t mean he could.
“I am too bold.” Every action was driven by a burning lust.
The bartender walked back into the bar, carrying another keg.
Delphinia tried not to stare, but that man was impossible to not see. This keg was clearly heavier, because his muscles weren’t just flexed; they were working. Hard.
Still, the man moved with confidence, as if he lugged kegs around all the time and knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing and how much he could handle.
Delphinia perched on the edge of the bench so she could see farther past the partition. His path took him out of her line of sight.
She leaned forward a little bit more. He walked behind the bar and set the barrel down, then he straightened, facing away from her, stretching the muscles in his back and shaking out his arms. He began to turn toward the stage.
She sat back quickly.
Kristopher forgot his next line. Delphinia would have prompted him, but she’d lost track of what was going on, too.
Bridget shouted Kristopher’s line from the balcony. “‘Her vestal livery is but sick and green,’ you dweeb.”
Kristopher picked up his part once more. The next few lines about Juliet’s eyeballs leaving her head to shine in the sky had always struck Delphinia as a ridiculous way for a young man to express lust. Even Shakespeare couldn’t be right all the time.
She leaned forward again, just far enough to peek at the rest of the pub. The bartender was watching the play with his full attention—more than she was giving it—his hands braced against the rich wood of the bar. The short sleeve stretched snugly around the circumference of his biceps. His body was perfect.
Perfection. That was it—that was why she was so fascinated. He was the embodiment of a Victorian obsession, the subject of many an essay: The Greek Ideal. Perfect male beauty.
During the Victorian era, the classical statues had been unearthed for the first time. The essayists had concluded that the sculptors must have been working from imagination, because the bodies of the Greek gods were perfect in statue after statue. Along with six-pack abs, every chiseled muscle was proportional, with an ideal mathematical ratio between neck and shoulders, thighs and calves.
The bodies of the Greek gods were so strong that when they hurled a trident or wrestled a lion, their beautiful muscles were flexed and defined, but never straining. That was why Delphinia hadn’t been able to stop staring as he’d carried that keg. It was a feat that required strength, but he had the body to do it without straining his muscles to the breaking point.
The statues also had an ideal facial expression: calm, almost bored, even when depicted in battle. For purely academic reasons, Delphinia let her gaze rise from the bartender’s biceps to his shoulder to his face. His expression was even, revealing no strong emotions. Not a warrior, not a lover. Just an aloof god, capable of taming whatever needed taming, should he feel like it.
He was truly the Greek Ideal, except for a scar that noticeably nicked his right eyebrow. Perhaps he’d been in a bike accident or a car crash at some point in his life. She liked the scar; it revealed him to be merely mortal.
He shifted to more of a resting position, leaning forward to set his forearms on the bar. The motion made the sleeve of his T-shirt rise up, revealing part of a tattoo, a curve of black ink.
Fascinating. Tattoos were not Victorian. They weren’t common in academia, either. Delphinia didn’t know anyone with a tattoo. Not her father. Certainly not Vincent.
“Start over,” Bridget ordered from above.
Kristopher began again. “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”
> Delphinia forced her attention to the stage. Once more, Romeo failed to rein in his bold desire. Again, he rhapsodized about celestial eyeballs.
Delphinia’s favorite line was coming up, one so good that it made her forgive the eyeballs-in-heaven stuff that came immediately before it. Juliet would rest her chin in her hand, and Romeo would wish he were a glove on her hand, just so he could touch the bare skin of her cheek. What must it feel like to love someone so much, you would become something so humble if it allowed you the most innocent brush with their skin?
With a black curve of ink on their tan skin?
Delphinia had never touched someone’s tattoo. Was there a different feel to the skin? If her eyes were closed and she brushed her hand down the bartender’s arm, would she be able to tell when her fingertips brushed over ink?
“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.”
She leaned forward to peek at the bartender’s tattoo, but her gaze caught on his mouth, the perfect, masculine curve of his lips, because he was reciting the lines, murmuring the words under his breath. Did he even know he was doing it? But, oh, he knew the words, all the words, her favorite words spoken by a strong, beautiful man.
“Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek.”
Their eyes met. He did a little double take, as if he were surprised to see her. As if he recognized her.
She jolted back behind the partition.
He couldn’t have recognized her. Delphinia had never met him before. He was not the kind of man to whom one would forget being introduced. She’d never seen him from afar, either. A Greek god with a scar on one eyebrow and a tattoo on one arm could not walk around the campus unnoticed.
But had he seen her before? She’d been reading by a window earlier. Perhaps he’d noticed her. Her cheeks felt warm at the thought. She took a sip of ice water. Or a gulp.
Romeo and Juliet continued their scene. Delphinia let it restore some order to her mind. She knew the lines, the play, the students. She knew herself and her role in life. She was the professor who read, semester after semester, the essays of long-dead men. She was the woman who stood beside a law professor, unnoticed, and agreed he was her perfect match. She was Professor Delphinia Acanthia Beatrix Ray.
“O! Be some other name,” Juliet pleaded.
Such a futile, adolescent wish.
Delphinia set down her glass and plopped her cloth book bag onto her lap. The hard edges of her course’s textbook and the softer edge of her paperback novel rested on her thighs. She was who she was, the brainy girl who loved books. She wasn’t the kind to catch a passionate man’s attention, not like Juliet. She wasn’t anything like the alluring heroine in her paperback novel, either.
Therefore, she’d imagined that double take from the bartender. It was the only sensible conclusion. Her mistake.
She cleared her throat. She sat up straighter...and peeked around the partition.
He was still looking at her. That handsome face, that strong physique, all that calm confidence were zeroed in on her.
He noticed her.
Excitement swept through her, an effervescence that left her light-headed.
From above, Juliet called down to her Romeo. “It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. Too like the lightning...”
Delphinia ignored Juliet’s dire warning. She might feel somewhat giddy, but this couldn’t be the start of an epic romance. She already had a suitable suitor, and that bartender surely had women falling for him daily. Hourly.
But he’d noticed her.
She was flattered. They were at a safe distance, and she’d be going home directly after this, so she ventured a smile. It was nice of you to notice me.
Then she sat back. Lust and angst were over. Juliet came down the stairs. Romeo didn’t even notice her as she stalked past him.
Delphinia could never stalk past Vincent. She’d see him tonight, in fact, because he’d invited himself to be her plus-one at her parents’ soiree. She hadn’t planned on attending, but Vincent would want her to justify herself if she said so. I don’t feel like it was a very weak argument in a lawyer’s eyes. It was easier just to attend.
A new student took the stage. “This selection is from The Tragedy of Othello.”
Ah, an entire play about obliterating romance. Delphinia reached for her glass once more, but it was empty. No matter; it wasn’t as if she were in any danger of overheating.
For any reason.
Chapter Four
She was still here.
Ms. Rembrandt must be a student, after all. She was right in the mix of the drama kids who were using Connor’s stage. It made sense now, the way Kristopher had first run over to her and then talked to her too long. They were in the same class.
She’d never left. The entire time Connor had been in the storeroom, she’d been hanging out with her fellow drama majors. The whole time he’d wondered what great sadness she held deep inside, she’d been chatting with Bridget and Kristopher and the rest.
He’d misread her book hangover. Her life was not worse than her book. Her book could have been sadder than anything she could imagine in her real life. That had to be it.
And yet—
The picture of her by the window was burned into his brain. She’d been deeply unhappy after closing her book.
Mr. Murphy would chide him for having an overactive imagination. He would surely tell Connor not to forget to take his nose out of his books and look at the real world now and then.
Connor was looking now.
She was looking back. After a long moment, she smiled. Then she sat back, out of sight.
That wasn’t a come and get me smile. She wasn’t flirting. He’d been pursued often enough—it was routine, a part of his world as a bartender—to know when a woman was trying to get him interested. Rembrandt wasn’t.
Connor pushed himself away from the bar. This was the hour he usually took for himself. The bar was ready for the evening rush. Kristopher would handle any stray customers who might wander in early, so Connor should head upstairs. His home, like all the publicans before him, was the entire third floor of this building. He’d shower and shave, eat something for dinner, read another chapter or three of the book he was in the middle of.
Or, he could stay here and watch more Shakespeare. It was the same as reading a book, practically, like having one read aloud.
Romeo and Juliet were through. Kristopher and Bridget were sitting on opposite sides of the room, pretending each other didn’t exist. After some murmuring among the students, a young man took the stage, clutched his heart and hung his head.
Connor felt just as disappointed. He’d hoped to see Rembrandt’s performance. He’d read all of Shakespeare’s plays. He wanted to know which one suited her taste, her style, her interest.
“He holds his soul light. He dies upon his motion.” The forlorn young man on the stage dropped to his knees, pleading now to the heavens. “Silence that dreadful bell.”
Wait—Connor knew this bit. It was from Othello. This scene was a bar fight, which was probably why it had stuck in Connor’s head. Too much alcohol had been drunk for too long, and the army’s military officers were fighting among themselves.
Not in this student’s version. He recited Othello’s lines as if he were mourning a long-lost love. So much for flipped tables, spilled beer and treachery.
The other students were listening attentively, nodding sagely. Ms. Rembrandt had left her partitioned area to stand closer to the stage, frowning in concentration. Connor crossed his arms over his chest and watched the dead-wrong interpretation.
With a wail of despair, the student finished his soliloquy on his knees, looking down to address an imaginary lover who was apparently dying. “On thy love, I charge thee.”
Connor rubbed his jaw, using his hand to cover his mouth a bit so h
e wouldn’t laugh out loud.
He heard a squeak. He knew that sound: Rembrandt’s squeak of amusement when she’d turned the page of her book. She bit her lip and turned away from the stage, struggling not to laugh.
Their eyes met again. They were the only two who were getting the joke. He grinned at her—and then the boy on the stage let out a final groan and collapsed in a heap.
It was too much. She lost her struggle, and her laugh escaped as a few bright notes before she swallowed the rest. She sobered up before turning back to the stage. “Stop. Let’s stop here for a second.”
So, she was a woman who took charge, was she? Connor felt all kinds of interest stirring in all kinds of places as he watched her step up on the stage. She was color in motion, that dark hair, that pastel skirt. If Connor could paint, he would paint her.
“I’m afraid if you do it that way,” she said, “the professor will know you didn’t read the play. Do you know what Othello’s job is?”
Her fellow student got to his feet. “He’s a military guy.”
“Yes, but not just any military guy. He’s the top commander. Even though he’s not from Venice, even though it’s the sixteenth century and Othello is not the same race as those under his command, he’s so brilliant that he’s been entrusted with the safety of the whole country. He even married one of the noblemen’s daughters without her father’s permission. Anyone else would have been jailed, but he got promoted. That’s how much of a badass he is.”
All of the students chuckled. Connor smiled as he rubbed his jaw. He’d thought it odd that a quiet reader would choose drama as her major, but now he could see how naturally she addressed an audience.