by Ann Warner
Kathy stood in the doorway at Calico Cat Books, imagining the room filled with women in graceful gowns and men in formal dress instead of the chaos of tables, desks, and file cabinets all stacked with lopsided piles of paper. Yesteryear’s ballroom, today’s publishing company. What she’d traded Greg for.
She thought about her work. The excitement of a new find. The daily conversations, jokes, and laughter. The feeling of accomplishment when a book came out. And she thought about the people. Calico’s co-owners—Polly Lewis and Columba Whitlow. Polly with her quirky sense of humor and careless clothes and Columba, with her dry wit and Jackie Kennedy elegance. And Jade Mizoguchi, her fellow editor. Jade, whose serenity kept the rest of them sane.
So, would she have made the same choice to stay in Denver had she known from the beginning Greg would forget her almost as soon as she disappeared from his rear view mirror?
But it was a different question now. Because now she knew Greg was the kind of man who would sleep with a woman as if he were checking out a pair of shoes or test-driving a car.
Remembering that part of it, she felt as dumb as a pet rock. Did the whole miserable sequence of events really have to play out before she could see through the dazzle that Greg wasn’t the man she thought he was? And that was the important point. The point she needed to focus on whenever the anger and grief choked her.
He wasn’t the man she thought he was.
“Kathy?”
With a start, she turned to find Jade, face full of concern, staring at her.
“I didn’t think you were coming back until next week.”
“Yeah, that was the plan.” Kathy held up her bare left hand.
Jade took Kathy’s hand and folded it between hers. “Oh, honey. What happened?”
“Someone named Julie.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. Are you okay?”
Kathy took a deep breath and looked around Calico and then back at Jade. She wasn’t ready to smile yet, but at least she no longer felt like crying. She had been saved, after all, from becoming Greg’s wife, something she now knew would have eventually made her more miserable than she currently was.
“You know, I think I am, actually.”
Or she would be eventually.
Chapter Five
Hilary Hilstrom peered at Alan over her glasses. “I asked to see you in order to let you know I’m bringing in an editor from a local press to teach the writing seminar in the spring.”
This was even worse than their last meeting with its fiction-is-our-future declaration.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity for our students,” she added.
She was no doubt expecting him to be ecstatic at having his teaching load reduced. And probably any normal faculty member would be. But for him, the students were a welcome distraction, and he particularly enjoyed teaching the seminar.
“I also need a favor.” Hilstrom pulled off her glasses and twirled them. “Ms. Jamison will need office space. The adjunct area is simply unacceptable. I thought perhaps the second desk in your office...”
Giving up his favorite course wasn’t bad enough, now he had to share his office? It felt like Hilstrom had picked up his life and shaken it the way a dog would a dead rabbit.
“It shouldn’t inconvenience you. She’ll only be there evenings, and it would help me enormously.” She leaned toward him, her glasses dangling from one hand.
Knowing he had no good reason to object to the request, he nodded in acquiescence.
Hilstrom sat back, looking satisfied. “I very much appreciate your cooperation in the matter of Ms. Jamison, Alan.”
Right. As if he had a choice with tenure on the line.
Charles had his usual tongue-in-cheek solution. “I know a good lawyer, you want to sue.”
“Yeah. And kiss tenure goodbye.” Alan struggled to keep his tone light, but the subject of tenure was anything but light. He’d recently turned in his dossier, knowing that if he didn’t get tenure, he might have to leave Denver and, if he left Denver, he might end up too far from his family’s ranch to spend his weekends there.
“Tenure is an outmoded concept anyway,” Charles said. “Guaranteeing someone a job for life based on six or seven years of effort.” He snorted. “Can you imagine what would happen if the Rockies operated like that?”
A swift image of a white-haired Andres Galarraga rounding third and heading for home waving a cane, made Alan smile. But while that image was amusing, nothing else about this situation was. “I need tenure in order to keep the job.”
“There is that.” Charles sighed. “The editor. Male or female?”
“What?” For a moment Alan had no idea what Charles was talking about. Then he did. “Oh, female.”
“Maybe she’ll fit the bill.”
Yeah. Right. That was about as likely as one of the women Charles wanted to set him up with knowing something about literature.
~ ~ ~
Kathy wiped the last dish and put it away, then stood looking out the window at the Costellos’ backyard. Mr. Costello was out there fussing with his roses.
It was three weeks since she came back from San Francisco, more than enough time for her to stop picking over her shattered dreams. It was done, over with. She knew the drill. She’d spent her entire life doing it. Saying goodbye, letting go.
So. From now on. No more staring into space, thinking of all the things she could have said, could have done. No more trying to figure out how she’d overlooked the flaws in Greg’s character. No more seeking clues to his treachery.
Instead, she needed to nurture the feeling of relief that every once in a while replaced the tangle of anger and regret. After all, she’d barely avoided making a huge mistake.
And maybe eventually, she’d be able to write a darn good story about it.
But not yet.
Still, writing about something. . . it was how she’d gotten through rough times before. It was worth trying again. She could start someplace simple. Perhaps a name.
She went upstairs and got her book of names, sat at the kitchen table, and flipped through it, jotting down any name that jumped out at her. After several minutes, she sat back to look at what she had: Andrea, Andy. Nope, too tomboyish. Sofia? Too pretentious. Lynette. Too feminine and kind of icky, actually, now that she considered it. Ramona, too old-fashioned. Amanda, Mandy. Not bad. She might enjoy getting acquainted with an Amanda.
Okay. Amanda it was.
Tomorrow she would make a fresh start. In a fresh place. Hilary Hilstrom had recently called to invite her to teach a writing seminar at DSU next spring. Kathy had met Hilary at a writers’ conference, but had never expected the woman to follow up on her offhand comment about Kathy teaching a course.
But even better than being invited to teach was the fact Hilary had offered her the use of an office.
Kathy had hung up after talking to Hilary feeling excited and relieved. Serendipity, missing from her life the last six months, now seemed to be back in operation, bringing her the perfect opportunity at the perfect moment. She would go to DSU every evening and write for at least an hour about. . . Amanda.
~ ~ ~
“Professor Francini?”
Alan looked up from the stack of papers he was grading to find a young woman with copper-colored hair standing in his doorway.
At his acknowledgement, she stepped into the room, and he noticed other things: eyes that appeared tired, or maybe sad, and cheekbones that were a touch too prominent, as if she’d lost weight recently.
In spite of the brightness trapped in those strands of smooth hair, she seemed dimmed.
One of the new graduate students? If so, she would have been hard to overlook. Her face not so much beautiful, but something better. Interesting. Arresting.
“I’m Kathy Jamison.” She cocked her head, and her hair shifted and slid, catching the light. “Dr. Hilstrom told me to see you about a desk.”
This was the editor Hilstrom hired? He’d expected someone considerably.
. . well, older for one thing. Besides. . . “You’re early, aren’t you?”
She looked puzzled, and a small crease formed between her eyes. “It’s six o’clock.”
He shook his head. “It’s September. Your seminar isn’t until spring semester.”
Quick comprehension dawned along with a blush that turned her face rosy. She tucked the strand of hair behind her ear, and he watched as it slid right back to brush against her cheek.
“Hilary said it was okay for me to start using the office now.”
Hilary? What happened to Dr. Hilstrom?
“I need a place to write.”
So, go to the library. He didn’t say it out loud. Not fair to take his anger at Hilstrom out on this stranger. After all, he had told Hilstrom he would share his office. He just thought it would be for one night a week and for only the duration of the seminar.
“I should have called.”
A call wouldn’t have helped. He passed a hand across his brow, trying to figure out how to handle it. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
She examined his office, taking in, no doubt, its lack of amenities, its almost fanatical neatness, a hold-over from his college days of rooming with Charles. I say, Francini. You do realize a neat office is the sign of a sick mind, was how one colleague put it.
Her mouth trembled, and she blinked rapidly. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, except that didn’t make any sense. Her glance came to rest on the extra desk sitting in the corner. Like his, its oak top was scarred from years of service. A wad of paper folded into a thick square shimmed one of its legs.
Still staring at the desk, her chin came up, and her mouth firmed. “I understand. You didn’t think you could turn Hilary down. But, really, you don’t want to share.” She concluded her assessment of the other desk and gave him a quick, intent look out of eyes as dark and light as shade and sunlight on a mountain stream.
He thought about how to answer her. But the plain truth? She was right. He didn’t want to share.
“I’ll make other arrangements, then. I certainly wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” Her hands were so tightly clenched the knuckles were turning white. “Nice meeting you.” Her tone, at odds with the words, was in perfect concert with the clenched hands. Without giving him a chance to respond, she whirled and walked out, pulling the door shut with a sharp click.
He stared at the closed door without moving. Too bad. All of it, because he’d liked the way she’d brightened the office with that hair. Liked as well her voice, musical, low-pitched. Would have liked a chance to. . . but no. Better this way.
Chasing her off was what he wanted. But he’d also made her angry. She’d probably run directly to Hilstrom to complain. And that really would cook his tenure goose.
He ought to chase after her, apologize. Beg her to come back.
Instead, he sat there, allowing the seconds to tick away until it was too late.
~ ~ ~
Men!
Kathy’s racket connected with a satisfying thunk as she sent the tennis ball back at the practice wall. As if dealing with her residual anger at Greg wasn’t enough. No. She had to have the additional pleasure of an encounter with the most arrogant, whack, insufferable, whack, obnoxious, whack, office-hogging professor she’d ever met. If she’d been a large, rabid cockroach, he couldn’t have been more obviously appalled at the idea of sharing his office with her. Even worse, he’d almost made her cry.
“I think you’ve killed it.” The masculine drawl distracted Kathy, and the ball went sailing past her racket. She glared at the man, then jogged after her ball.
That was the problem with the practice walls at City Park. Some guy always figured you for a pick-up. And if she was ever not in the mood, it was now. Especially given the man so strongly resembled Greg. One blond Greek god in her life was more than sufficient, thank you very much. She suppressed a shudder.
“There’s a court free, if you’d like a game,” the man said as she returned with her ball.
“No thanks.” She didn’t look at him, not caring she was being rude, and she was hardly ever rude. In fact, whenever she was, she always regretted it afterward. But not this time.
She tossed the ball and, with a smooth stroke, slammed it into the wall thinking how satisfying it would be to be aiming at Greg. Or that selfish, arrogant professor.
The return sailed past her racket, and the man loped after it just like a blinking bloody golden retriever. He tossed it to her.
She turned her back on him and continued to stroke the ball at the wall, but whenever she checked, she found him still watching. It appeared the only way to get rid of him was to leave. But she was not, whack, going to let some man, whack, chase her away before she was ready to go, whack.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said, when she finally stopped for a drink of water.
She didn’t even glance at him. “Nope.”
“Charles Larimore.” He extended his hand.
She stood holding her racket, a ball, and her bottle of water staring at his hand until he lowered it, grinning at her. “You do seem a bit tied up at the moment.”
“I am.” She gave him a steady look she hoped he would find off-putting.
“You’re single. An editor.” He closed his eyes as if mentally reading a checklist. “Graduate degree. Against the death penalty.”
Her eyes narrowed. Was he guessing or stalking her?
“You still don’t remember, do you?”
She shrugged and took another drink of water.
“Really know how to smash a guy’s ego to smithereens.” He shook his head in what was obviously mock sorrow. “Juror number. . . seven, wasn’t it?”
Memory stirred. Eight months ago, she’d been summoned for jury duty and subsequently called for a panel, a murder case. But when asked if she opposed the death penalty, she said she did and was excused.
With that memory settled, another came of when they’d first taken their seats in the jury box. The woman next to her had taken one look at the prosecutor, sucked air in through her teeth, and whispered, “Sheesh. Wouldn’t you like that coming home to you every night.”
But Kathy had been immune to Charles Larimore. After all she had been dating a man every bit as attractive, professional, and intelligent as the prosecutor appeared to be.
“Look, I’m not trying to pick you up,” Charles said, jerking her back to the present.
Right. As if she believed that.
“I have a girlfriend. What I need at the moment is a tennis partner. I was supposed to meet a friend for a game, but he called to say he can’t make it.” He gave her what he no doubt thought was a winning smile.
She stood for a moment, thinking about his invitation. Maybe it would be more comfortable to play a set with him, rather than have him continue to stand there watching her. “Okay. You’re on.”
They played two sets which he won, but she made him work for it. She felt better when they finished. Hot, sweaty, and exhausted, but better.
“Here’s hoping you’re available the next time my friend stands me up.” He gave her a sunny smile and held up crossed fingers, before slipping his racket into its case. He extended his hand. “So long.”
This time she shook it. “Thanks,” she said, meaning, thanks for the game and thanks for not trying to hit on me afterward.
Chapter Six
The head of the reappointment, promotion and tenure committee stopped by Alan’s office.
“Thought we might chat about your situation,” Grenville said, smoothing one hand over his thinning hair. “Professor Hilstrom has made her position quite clear.” He cleared his throat with a harsh noise. “Deuced inconvenient.”
Grenville’s area of expertise was British literature and, although he didn’t go so far as to assume an accent, he did cultivate the speech patterns and grooming of an upper crust Englishman of the nineteenth century.
Alan nodded. “Yeah. I know. No fiction, no tenure.”
<
br /> Grenville gave him a sharp look, and Alan looked blandly back, his stomach gathering in a tight knot.
“No matter what the committee does, if your dossier doesn’t include fiction, she’ll give you a negative recommendation.” Grenville rolled the papers he was carrying into a tube and tapped them on his leg. “Given she’s brand, shiny new, unlikely the dean will oppose her.”
“Have you looked at my appointment letter?” Alan’s tone kept his bland look company, but his calm was only a thin veneer.
“Of course.”
“Then you know it says a good publication record is a must, but there’s no mention of what type of publication.”
Grenville’s eyebrow arched. “Would you sue?”
Perfect. All the man needed was a monocle. Alan looked steadily at Grenville. “Wouldn’t you?” It was as far as he was willing to take Charles’s advice.
Grenville sighed. “I’m glad it’s not an issue for me. But Hilstrom appears to be committed to her position.”
“And the lady does like getting her way.” Alan felt a brief pang of sympathy for Hilstrom’s husband.
Grenville harrumphed. “Deuced woman is even putting the screws to those of us with tenure. Says we’re resting on our laurels. Has absolutely no comprehension of current market conditions.”
Grenville had published a single novel, an obvious and tedious tribute to Jane Austen, shortly before he was granted tenure. As far as Alan knew, he hadn’t tested market conditions since.
Grenville continued to tap the rolled papers against his leg. “You may win a battle or two, old chap. But, if I were you, I’d be prepared to lose the war.”
It was what kept Alan awake nights—that possibility. And now Grenville’s words had added weight to those fears.
~ ~ ~
Alan opened his closet and pushed his clothes out of the way in order to get at the box in the back corner. Reluctantly, he pulled it out and opened it.