Finally, she slipped a finger under the paper, popped the tape that held the wrapping in place, and removed it. She lifted the box’s top and peeked inside.
She gasped. Conversation at the other tables ceased, and heads turned in her direction.
“Karen, do you recall the last time we went sailing?”
She nodded.
“I suggested we sail all the way to Bermuda, and you told me…”
“It would be like marriage, pointing a boat into dangerous, uncharted waters.” A smile spread across Karen’s face.
“I’m ready to sail.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “Will my best friend come with me?” Mark almost whispered the words.
“Oh, Mark, yes,” Karen exclaimed. “Count me in.”
Applause and cheers ran through the restaurant as Mark slid the ring onto her finger and kissed her.
Karen wiped tears from her eyes. “I’ll make you happy, Mark,” she whispered.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You already do.”
Reception
“I’m going to be late. I’m going to be late,” Karen repeated as she washed her face and applied fresh makeup. She ran a brush though her hair and fastened a gold chain around her neck. Then she turned to the floor-to-ceiling mirror that hung on one wall of the restroom, running her eyes up and down her body.
Seeing a white mark on her left knee, she moistened a paper towel and skimmed it across her trousers, hoping to wipe the smudge away.
Good, she thought. It was just dust. Probably picked it up when she knelt on the floor to move that three-foot-tall Chinese vase.
She checked herself a second time and sighed. Why did the president of the college have to have a reception on the day that exhibits were rotating, one coming in and the other going out?
She’d arrived at the museum just before six this morning, having to summon the watchman to unlock the door to let her in, hoping the two extra hours before other staff arrived would give her the time to slip out at three o’clock, rush down the street, and return to finish up her assignments.
She should have known better. Work always seemed to expand to fill however much time she had.
She had brought a black dress with her to work, planning to change before dashing out to the reception, but she’d noticed a tear along the back seam as she had taken it from the hanger a few minutes earlier. At least she had pulled on khakis and a crisp white shirt this morning rather than jeans and the faded tee she generally wore on “work” days.
You must never embarrass your husband in public.
One of her mother’s rules for being a good wife flashed through her mind. The rules, her mother had told her, were particularly important if your marriage was one of convenience, since supporting your husband’s career was a part of the bargain.
Mark would simply have to understand.
Actually…Mark was not expecting her.
He had mentioned the reception a couple of weeks earlier.
“The president hosts a reception each year in early June, near the close of the school year. If you could get away for even a few minutes, I’d like you to meet the other members of the faculty.”
She was certain he had seen her panicked expression, because he had held up his hand, saying, “Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry at all. You can meet them another time.”
He had said no more about it.
You must always support your husband in his career, no matter how inconvenient it may be.
More of her mother’s words…but her mother’s admonition was not the real reason Karen was rushing out to the reception.
She wanted to go.
She wanted to see Mark. She wanted to meet his friends and colleagues. Things that were important to Mark had become important to her.
She found it amazing what a difference an accepted proposal made in her feelings. As Mark had slipped the engagement ring on her finger she had looked at him in a different way. Perhaps it was the commitment implied by their engagement. Maybe it was because she now had a future to imagine. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes, and the tenderness with which he held her hand, and the feeling of his lips when had kissed her, lingering on hers an extra few seconds.
The feeling of excitement had continued. She had found reasons, invented them if need be, to see Mark almost every day, looking forward to the time when one of them would not feel the need to leave as the evening wore on.
“I’m going to be late.”
Karen tore past the lobby, through the front door, racing down Meeting Street, toward the college.
***
Mark stood at one of the large windows in the library at the president’s house, gazing at the formal garden in front. He had already greeted the president, spoken to his dean, shaken hands with the chair of the tenure and promotion committee, and traded jokes with a number of colleagues. As he gazed into the garden, deciding how soon he could slip away without seeming rude, he tasted one of the French pastries he had collected as he’d passed through the drawing room. He smiled. He would definitely stay long enough to visit the buffet table again.
He noticed movement in the garden and, turning to look, spied Sam Jonas, one of the philosophy professors, and his wife. Normally, he would have walked out to the entrance hall to greet Sam. The two of them had an on-going discussion—argument Karen insisted—about whether it was possible for a statement to be both true and false at the same time.
Sam argued that such a condition was very possible, resorting to various Eastern forms of logic to support his position. Sam would be eager to resume their debate since, when they had last broken off their discussion, Mark had been winning, having asserted that the statement in question was simply nonsense and, therefore, neither true nor false, rather than both true and false.
Karen and Sam’s wife had both been listening to the discussion as they finished dinner at a café near the college. Karen had simply laughed, but Sam’s wife had ended the discussion by demanding dessert and turning her attention to the menu.
Mark glanced toward the walkway leading to the front door, looking for Karen. He would have liked Karen to attend the reception. He had never talked much about his personal life at work, but since their engagement, he had spoken of her so often that both the faculty and the staff were curious.
“I definitely need to meet the woman who melted the Ice Man,” Jennifer Hunt, the department secretary, had said one afternoon when she had thought Mark was out of earshot.
He had invited Karen to the reception before he had realized it would occur as the museum was changing its exhibitions. He had not reminded her, though, thinking her work to be more important than a party.
His feelings toward Karen had shifted since their engagement. In truth, he had thought there was a fair chance she would refuse his proposal. He had not completely bought her statement that love was no longer as important to her as it had once been, and he knew she did not love him.
When she had accepted the ring, though, he had looked at her through different eyes. Behaviors he had previously dismissed as flirting now seemed to be fun-loving and playful. Her eagerness to hold his hand in public now seemed affectionate, rather than possessive. When he kissed her now, she never made a move to end it. He wondered if it was Karen or his perception that had changed.
He did know he thought about her throughout the day and called her frequently. He did know he resented having to leave her at the end of the evening.
He glanced through the window again.
“I’m acting silly,” he said to himself. “She doesn’t even remember there is a reception this afternoon.”
“Mark, there you are.” Sam’s voice carried across the room.
As Mark turned to greet Sam, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a young woman hurrying up the front steps. Karen was a few steps behind her.
***
Karen stopped running as she reached the president’s residence, panting as she leaned against one of
the brick pillars that flanked the entrance to the property. Groups of students ambled past, book bags hanging over their shoulders. A girl with purple hair had her arm around the waist of a guy with a tattoo of some kind, a bird maybe, covering his entire left arm. Karen recalled that the religion department was located in the house next door and a dormitory stood around the corner. Greek letters hung from the balconies of four old houses nearby, identifying them as Greek houses.
The residence towered above the buildings on each side, and it might have appeared out of place if Grace Cathedral had not stood across the narrow street, dwarfing the residence and all other structures for blocks on either side. A black wrought-iron fence enclosed the property, and the house itself was turned away from the street, facing a formal garden. A brick walk led from the gate through the garden, to the front steps, which rose directly to the second floor. Leafy trees shaded the garden, yellow flowers, the first blooms of summer, waved in the breeze, and water gurgled in a small fountain.
As Karen took a final deep breath and stepped through the gate, a woman about her age brushed past her and dashed up the steps. She was dressed much as Karen was, and Karen felt a surge of relief, realizing that she would not be the only person who was dressed informally.
As she began to climb the steps, Karen heard a man’s voice coming from the landing at the top.
“And just what part of ‘semi-formal’ do you not understand? In what world does it include slacks and a wrinkled shirt?”
She looked up to see a man confronting the woman, his hands resting on his hips and a scowl covering his face.
The man was certainly dressed for the occasion. His black suit matched his slicked-back hair, providing a stark contrast with his pale skin, white shirt, and gray striped tie. Even from where she stood, Karen could see light reflecting from his black shoes as if they were fashioned of metal rather than leather. Spit-shined, she decided.
“I’m sorry, Peter. You know I wear a uniform at work and I told you I would have no time to change.” The woman began to cry.
“Go,” the man growled.
The woman wiped her eyes. “Please understand…”
“Go away,” he ordered, pointing toward the gate. “People are expecting to meet you this afternoon, and I won’t present my fiancée dressed as a shop girl on King Street.”
“But…”
“I said to leave.” The man grasped her shoulders and shoved.
The woman yelped as she tripped and fell. Karen dashed toward the landing, catching her before she tumbled all the way down the steps.
“Change your clothes and get back here. I’ve made excuses for your tardiness. I won’t excuse your absence.”
“You pig…” Karen spat the words at the man, but he had turned away and was already entering the house.
“Are you all right?” Karen steadied the woman. “Can I help you?”
The woman didn’t speak. She shook her head and pulled away, wrapping her arms tightly around her body.
“Let me call someone to…”
“There is nothing you can do.” The front door of the residence stood open, the woman gazing through it as if searching for the man. “I’ll find something to wear. I’ll be back.”
Karen watched as she scurried away.
As the woman disappeared into the garden, Karen’s eyes ran over her slacks and shirt. Perhaps she should leave now. Mark was not expecting her. He would not even know she had come. An embarrassment was not the surprise she had planned.
“Karen.” Mark called her name as she turned back down the steps. He appeared at the door, a smile on his face.
“You remembered. I didn’t expect to see you. This is such a nice surprise.”
He kissed her cheek and took her hand.
“I’m sorry I’m late, it was so hectic…”
“I can’t believe you came at all. Come on inside.”
Karen resisted. “Mark, I brought a dress to wear, but it was torn. I’m not dressed appropriately. It would be better if I left. I can meet your colleagues another…”
Mark glanced down at her. “You look wonderful.”
He put his arm around her shoulder. He seemed so surprised to see her, so pleased she had come, that Karen allowed him to propel her through the door, into the residence.
“Come with me. You remember Dean Williams, don’t you?”
“Dean Williams.” Mark approached an older woman with white hair, wearing a soft gray cocktail dress. Her diamond necklace and earrings made her appear to sparkle. Karen gulped.
“Dean Williams, this is my fiancée, Karen Wingate. The two of you met at my lecture at the Library Society last fall.”
“Of course we did. I was so pleased to learn the two of you are to be married, and I’m happy you could slip away from the museum for a few minutes today. Mark tells me you are in the midst of changing exhibits.”
Karen looked at Mark questioningly. He smiled and shrugged.
“I once worked as a curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and I understand that your new exhibit is drawn from our collection.” Dean Williams laughed. “Their collection, I suppose. Sometimes I feel as if I never left, although it has been over a quarter of a century…Oh, have some punch.” A waiter walked past and she took a glass from his tray. “Tell me, I understand you’ve assembled a number of abstract works.”
They talked for almost fifteen minutes before Mark returned to reclaim her.
“I’m looking forward to your exhibit,” Dean Williams told Karen as she turned to speak someone else. “Seeing it will be like going home for a visit.”
An hour later, Karen had met the president of the college, his wife, several deans, and most of the members of the math department and their spouses. Mark had gone for refreshments—he had highly recommended the small cups of crab soup and the pastries—and Karen stood in the library, looking out at the garden.
No one had commented on how she was dressed, although she was certain they had noticed, being too polite to say anything, not directly to her, at any rate.
As she idly inspected the garden, she spied the woman who had arrived at the same time she had. She had changed to a dark blue dress with a short skirt. Stopping at the foot of the steps, she took off her shoes, and slipped on a pair of sparkly sandals. Looking up toward the front door, she seemed to take a deep breath, then, leaving her shoes beneath a small bush, she mounted the steps.
As the woman reached the top, Karen noticed a tag attached to her dress fluttering in the breeze, and she realized the woman had been shopping. She bit her lower lip. She could have done the same thing rather than embarrass Mark.
“Here you are.”
Mark carried two plates, balancing three small cups and a pastry on each. Karen took one of the plates. In addition to a glass of punch, Karen found one contained the crab soup Mark liked so well, and the other held a serving of seafood stew.
“Dean Williams was talking about you just now.”
Karen could feel her muscles tensing. She could imagine what the dean had said.
“She told the president’s wife she envied you, that she had such happy memories of when she worked at a museum in New York.”
“She worked at the Museum of Modern Art.”
“Wow. I had forgotten she was chair of the art department at a college in the northeast before coming here as dean.” Mark looked over her shoulder. “There’s Peter Watson. I don’t think you’ve met.”
Karen’s eyes followed his and she saw the man she had encountered on the front steps. All smiles now, he was holding the arm of the woman and was tugging her through the crowd, introducing her to everyone they passed.
Showing her off, Karen thought.
“Peter.” Mark raised his hand in greeting, motioning him over.
“Karen, this is Peter Watson. He’s an instructor in the math department. He joined us in the fall. Peter, this is my fiancée, Karen Wingate.”
“Karen, it’s nice to meet you.” Peter g
ripped her hand, not seeming to be concerned with how she was dressed. “Mark, Karen, this is my fiancée, Maria Sutton.”
Poor girl.
“Maria, Mark is an assistant professor in the department,” Peter continued.
“Hello, Maria.” Karen’s eyes met hers.
Maria blushed. Her eyes took in Karen’s shirt and slacks. She glanced at Mark, whose hand rested lightly on Karen’s shoulder. She glared at Peter.
“What do you do, Maria?” Karen asked.
“I’m a clerk…”
“Maria works in guest relations at the Hammond Inn,” Peter said. His eyes focused beyond Mark. “If you’ll excuse us, there is someone I want Maria to meet.”
Peter led Maria away, his arm draped possessively around her shoulder.
“What is Peter like?” Karen asked Mark as they walked away. “Do you like him?”
“He’s arrogant and impolite, but one very, very good mathematician. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“He’s the kind of person who should be engaged in research rather than teaching,” Mark continued. “Unfortunately, as an instructor, his job is teaching, and instructors are assigned to the basic courses.” Mark shook his head. “Peter is already complaining that his talents are being wasted in College Algebra. I expect he’ll move on fairly quickly.”
Mark glanced at his watch. “Speaking of moving on, shouldn’t you be getting back?”
“I really should…” Karen gazed around the room. She shouldn’t rush in late and leave early. “No, I can stay a while longer.”
“I’ll walk you back.” Mark handed their plates and glasses to a passing waiter. “I’m ready to leave,” he added as Karen tried to protest, “and I can blame you for my early departure.” He half-smiled, indicating he was teasing her.
They spoke to Dean Williams as they left.
“I understand completely,” she told Karen. “Changing exhibits is such a chore.”
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