by Libby Malin
***
Tom wished he had a camera. When Beewater opened his door to them, the man’s jaw literally dropped. He stammered. He stared. Mostly at DeeDee. Mostly at her cleavage. If she’d been a student, he would have hired her on the spot.
In fact, Tom wasn’t sure if Beewater was more surprised by his date or by the fact that he’d shown up uninvited. Inspired by DeeDee’s audacity, Tom smiled at his chairman and nonchalantly announced that his invitation must have gotten lost in the mail but “not to worry -- I got the deets from Gloria,” before breezing into the living room to greet his colleagues.
Beewater’s home was small but pricey, on a tiny piece of real estate in exclusive Roland Park. A two-story Tudor with hobbit-like rooms, most sporting floor to ceiling bookcases, it was now crammed with professors and their partners, chatting and drinking, munching on the elegant canapés Beewater always put out at these events -- fig jam and goat cheese on Swedish crackers, caviar with toast points, smoked salmon and bruschetta. This wasn’t a meatball and cheese dip crowd.
Tom immediately went to the kitchen to retrieve drinks -- a Scotch for himself and a Rolling Rock for DeeDee. Of course the only beers Beewater had stocked were German or microbrewery offerings. DeeDee asked for a vodka instead, promising it would be her first and last. Tom figured she deserved it.
While there, Tom ran into a colleague and decided there was no time like the present for introducing DeeDee around.
“Darling, this is Collin Hollingswood. He's a creative writing professor."
“Nice to meet you.”
Had she said “meetcha?” He smiled. No matter, Hollingswood seemed just as smitten as Beewater.
“So, you’re a writer?” she asked batting her lashes. Perfect question for Hollingswood who, Tom knew, was bursting with pride over the recent news of a sale of some poetry.
“Why, yes, I am. I'm going to have a collection of poems published. By Seaweed Sweat. Called Dusty Shoes.”
“Seashore Sweats? My, that does sound interesting,” DeeDee cooed appropriately.
“Seaweed Sweat,” Hollingswood corrected.
“What a funny title,” DeeDee drawled.
“That’s the publisher,” Tom corrected her. “It’s a small press.”
“I thought that was Dusty Shores,” she murmured, putting her finger to her mouth.
“No, Dusty Shoes,” Hollingswood interjected, less cheerful now. “Dusty Shoes is the title.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard of them,” DeeDee said, continuing her Dumb Blonde act. “Are they like Simon and Schuster?”
“No, they’re not. I mean Seaweed Sweat is not,” Collin said, growing frustrated. “It's a very prestigious small press, not one of those corporate behemoths located in New York. It's very choosy.”
“Did they settle their bankruptcy problem?” Tom asked.
“Oh, almost, almost,” Collin said, his mood brightening again. “They've assured me that it won't affect my publication in 2014. And the initial print run will be at least one-hundred-and-fifty copies.”
Collin saw a fellow writing professor across the room and left hastily. Tom winked at DeeDee and took her arm. From there, it was a trip into the garden and patio outside, where Tom saw Gloria by Heather Whitstone’s side. He waved and smiled and was gratified to see Gloria’s face freeze as she took in DeeDee. Maybe Gloria had had a thing for him.
Coming over to the two women, Tom introduced DeeDee as “an old friend with whom I’ve recently become reacquainted.”
“Nice to meet you,” Gloria said, extending a limp hand.
“Mutual, I’m sure,” DeeDee said in a perfect re-creation of a hapless chorus girl.
Heather just nodded, then turned her attention to Tom.
“We have another interdisciplinary committee meeting coming up, Tom. If you can’t stay for the entire time, I can handle your Aefle stuff.”
Stuff? Maybe he should be grateful. At least she hadn’t called them “texts.”
“No problem, Heather,” he said. “I will be more than happy to talk about my research. I have some new material to add, in fact, that will blow your socks off.” He looked down at her Birkenstock-clad feet. “Or whatever footwear suits your paradigm.”
She scowled. “We’re inviting a guest professor, a consultant, to come to campus this summer, you know, to help us in our work. I just received word my grant for the visit came through. It’s quite an honor. I’ll email you particulars. Maybe you could spare us some time to help out.” She sipped at a glass of white wine, then looked pointedly at DeeDee. “If you’re not too busy with other things, that is.”
“I’d love to help out,” he said in an exaggerated tone of good cheer. “I live to support the interdisciplinary committee. It makes my life worthwhile.”
“Tom,” Gloria interjected. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Just this one,” he said, sipping at his whiskey. Tom noticed his male colleagues giving DeeDee the once-over as they passed by, often talking in hushed tones to each other as they moved on. He could guess what they were saying. Actually, he didn’t have to guess long when Jonathan Belcamp approached her, holding out his hand.
“You must be DeeDee McGowan,” he said. “I’ve read about you.”
So here was one professor who read the student rag.
“I’m sure what you’ve read is only one part truth and ten parts bull--fiction,” she said with a sugary smile to match her tone.
Heather harrumphed. “Penny Hilman is a scrupulous writer and excellent student. I’m sure she reported accurately and fully.”
Ah-ha. So Penny Hilman, the reportress, was a student of Heather’s. So Heather had also read the story. Which meant Gloria had probably seen it, too.
“As long as they spell my name right, I’m as happy as a pig in shit,” DeeDee cooed before launching into a long, rambling narrative about her car dealership that included numerous jabs at foreign cars, as well as the “ratbastard regulators who think plugging a car into a coal-operated electrical socket means the planet’s being kept in the same fucking shape they knew when they grew up, as if they were the center of the goddamned universe.” This and other pronouncements caused an occasional gasp, first from Belcamp, then from Gloria, and eventually from Beewater, who’d joined their circle.
When DeeDee excused herself to “powder her nose,” Beewater pulled Tom aside.
“I can understand your date’s charms,” he said, after clearing his throat. “But her views indicate she’d be more comfortable in a brown shirt than that red sheath.”
“You’re calling her a fascist?” Tom couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. He knew they’d all find DeeDee “different,” but to lump her in with goose-stepping maniacs…all the humor drained from the situation with a sickening gurgle.
Beewater raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate the point was so obvious discussion was unnecessary. He took a drink from his tall gin and tonic, flavored with a lemon slice -- his favorite drink, Tom knew, because it was the way it was served in Hong Kong.
“She’s a nice diversion,” Beewater continued. “But hardly a good influence.”
A good influence? Since when had Beewater turned into a Puritan?
He didn’t have time to pursue the thread of conversation, though, because Beewater was called into another group by a friend. As the department chair wandered away, Tom studied the crowd, thinking of Beewater’s comment.
They were all puritans in their own way. They dressed the same -- tan khakis for the men, meticulously bohemian skirts for the women, expensive beaten-looking boating shoes or canvas sneakers on their feet. They ate the same organic foods and drank the same fair trade teas with wild honey. They drove the same Priuses. They taught from the same bible of secular humanism. And they shunned -- sometimes with startling coldness -- unbelievers.
When DeeDee’s red figure appeared in a corner of a room, Tom beamed with recognition. Her dress was a scarlet A in this crowd, a bold
statement of sin against their rigid creed.
***
“I wasn’t too much, was I?” she asked when they pulled up to his apartment a few hours later.
“Hell, no!” he said exuberantly, looking at her with affection and admiration across the console. “You were perfect.”
“I told you it would be fun,” she said, smiling at him.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For showing me what real courage is.”
She looked down, shyly embarrassed.
“Say, would you like to come up to my place for a nightcap?”
He knew she knew what that meant.
She looked up. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“MY LAWYER said I should stay away from you.” DeeDee looked over at Tom across the pillow, staring into his deep brown eyes. Although she’d not planned on renewing their affair, she hadn’t been able to deny the growing attraction she’d felt for him over the past few days. She’d been thinking about him a lot, and even the annoying thoughts had been passionate ones.
Tom drew her closer for a deep kiss. He’d been a much better lover this time around. She probably had been, too, though he’d had no complaints last time. They were both older, and a bed was a heck of a lot more comfortable than a backseat.
“My sister told me the same thing,” he whispered. “But I didn’t agree.”
“Well, it’s probably a good idea for you to keep your distance,” she told him. “I mean, for me, it doesn’t really matter. I left the altar. That’s the crux of his case against me. But with you -- your sister’s right to try to prove I would have left anyway. It’s a good strategy.”
He leaned on one elbow. “She didn’t have to be so aggressive about it.”
“She’s being a good lawyer.” DeeDee smiled. “And a good sister.”
He grabbed her free hand and kissed it. “DeeDee, you’re one remarkable woman.”
“Even if I am some uneducated hick?” She rubbed his mussed hair.
“You have more wisdom in your pinkie than all those professors we partied with tonight.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Tom. I might not have gone to college, but I’m not willing to badmouth those who did.” She liked that Tom was finally appreciating her intellect, but she was smart enough to know that you needed to dance with the one that brung you. Tom’s career depended on him appreciating his coworkers, too.
“More evidence of your wisdom.” He smiled. “Your mind is open, unlike theirs.”
“But you don’t need to worry on that count anymore, right? You told me you’d made this big new discovery that’ll get your promotion and all.”
He lay on his back, hands behind his head. “I’m reasonably secure, yes. But that Heather Whitstone -- the one with the keffiyeh scarf-- would probably question the validity of even the most rock-solid research on Aefle.”
“Okay, I give. What’s that mean?”
“It means she wants to throw doubt on the importance of Aefle,” he huffed.
Despite her affection for Tom, she shook her head and swatted him gently on the shoulder. “Well, why’s that such a bad thing? Don’t you need to know why folks need to know about him, or your students need to study him? You did say he was kind of obscure.”
His head turned toward her, a hurt look creasing his face. “Et tu,” he said, then started to explain the Latin when she growled and stopped him.
“I know what that means, Big Shot. C’mon, get back to your monk pal and his peeps. Why is he so darn important to anyone besides you? Why’s he more than, say, a History Channel show that has you thinking, ‘well, that was interesting,’ before you go to sleep?”
“Because, because….” He sputtered and sat up, leaning against the headboard, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“Because you said so?” DeeDee prodded, grinning. “Because you don’t like a woman questioning you?” She pulled a pillow out and hit him on the head.
“Hey -- it’s a woman who’s making this research so groundbreaking! Aefle’s love for Gisela… I told you about her…”
She could see him trying to stay mad, but he soon joined in the fun, and they were both lost in each other’s arms within moments.
***
DeeDee bade him farewell after coffee and toast. She wanted to grab her things from the hotel and hit the road, she said. Despite their night of lovemaking, she was adamant about him following his sister’s advice.
“If this is going anywhere,” she said, tapping him playfully on the nose, “it can wait a little until you’re out of legal doo-doo. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“But I don’t want to hide you. I want to shout it out from the rooftops that we’re… together.” He felt besotted with her, a headier pull than when he’d been younger and more prone to lustful yearnings. He hated seeing her leave. He already felt her absence.
“We can talk on the phone.” Her smile faded. “Although you know what? Probably better if we don’t. The whole phone records thing hasn’t been resolved yet.”
“I have to come to town soon,” he said, desperately searching for ways to remain in contact. “Take care of my dad.”
“Oh, yeah. We could meet clandestinely.” She grinned. “Bet you didn’t know I knew that word.”
“I’m coming to the fast conclusion that you are rich in knowledge as well as wisdom, DeeDee McGowan.”
“Well, hold that thought. I’ll throw it back at ya the next time you disagree with me!”
They kissed, and he walked her to her car, where they kissed again, lingering in the morning sunlight, not caring who saw them.
“I’ll figure out a way to contact you,” he said at last.
“Be careful about that. I can wait.” She got into her car, and he wanted to memorize the bright look of happiness on her face, a perfect reflection of his own.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THOMAS FOUND it difficult to concentrate. Even Aefle’s love poems held his attention only for brief bursts of time as he drifted into daydreaming about DeeDee throughout the days that followed her visit.
He phoned her the day after she left, but it went to voice mail, and she didn’t return the call. He told himself it was because she wanted to be careful, but he couldn’t help worrying that she had rued her night with him already.
Midweek, he was able to put that worry to rest. He opened his email to find a note caught in his spam filter from an unlisted contact named… Gisela.
It had to be DeeDee.
“Dear Aefle,” she wrote, to his deepest delight, “You know we can’t be in touch. Be patient, little monk. Our day will come. I’m working hard to make all our troubles go away. G.”
His heart soared. He was excited, not merely by the contact. She’d shown him she remembered his other dearest “friends.”
With fingers trembling with impatience, he set up a new email account, just as she had done, using the name Aefle in the address.
And then he stalled. How could he pour his feelings into a sterile email? How could he tell her what her presence had meant to him, how much he’d learned from her behavior at the party, from her kindness, her good nature?
After several feeble attempts, his stare lit on the papers by his desk, translations of Aefle’s poetry. Without thinking, he copied the first poem into the email:
Fair Gisela
Whose blue eyes
Deepen my love of the ocean
Whose golden hair
Puts gold to shame.
She must have been at her computer because a reply came back within five minutes:
“Aw, Aef, honey, that was the sweetest ever thing. The only poems I know start with ‘Roses are red’ or ‘There was a young lady from Venus…’ Anyway, it really lifted my spirits. Hope to have some good news for us soon. G.”
He sat back and smiled. His spirits lifted, he finally dove into his research with a clear mind.
***
If Thomas had known precisely what plan DeeDee was working, he might not have been so happy.
On the drive home from Baltimore, she’d thought calmly of the entire scenario of the past few weeks, from her doubts about marrying Buck through the mess of a wedding and her behavior after. In particular, she recalled what Jane-Ann had told her in an early meeting. Buck had felt humiliated by her. If he believed the score was even, he’d calm down.
Everything he’d done so far had been aimed at making that humiliation take place -- from the billboards to the bumper stickers to the outright offer for the dealership. None of them had proved satisfying enough, though, to make the litigation go away. If anything, he was escalating hostilities by siccing his sister on Tom’s dad. She knew Buck didn’t love her. He had Gretchen. Why didn't he just put the whole wedding thing behind him and enjoy his new life?
The answer came to her that Wednesday morning as she sat behind her father’s old desk at the dealership. The sun winked behind drifting clouds outside, making the chrome on the new cars sparkle. She imagined Buck sitting here surveying the same scene. Would he feel closure then?
No. She couldn’t see it. Even if Buck owned all this, she thought, his ego would still feel bruised. He’d probably still find ways to get at her and all she loved.
It wasn’t just because he’d been embarrassed, she realized. It had been because he’d been rejected in front of hundreds of people. People didn’t reject Buck. He always charmed or bullied them into agreement. She had set a dangerous new precedent in his life.
That’s what he needed. To fling the same back at her, to be the one rejecting her.
But how to engineer that? She couldn’t just ask for a do-over, letting him leave her at the altar.
She stared out at the beautiful spring day, remembering Tom’s affection and his sweet bit of poetry that morning. She longed more than ever to get this ridiculous incident behind her so she could see if she and Tom had a chance. She’d thought at one time that they might. Now they were both older and wiser. And she hated the fact that Buck had dragged Tom into this mess. She wished she could just challenge Buck to a public duel and…