Once in a Blue Moon

by Diane Darcy

  Carl shrugged. “Jeff’s wife has a lot of success selling art in her gallery.”

  “Hmm.” Sam took a sip of soda. He looked at all the arty, flaky types with their long hair, wild jewelry and heavy make-up. Even some of the men wore make-up. “What was Jeff thinking to get these two groups of people together?”

  Carl grinned. “Be careful who you chat with. I had one of them hit me up to buy a painting.”

  Sam snorted. “Don’t worry. I don’t know them and I don’t want to know them.”

  Carl glanced at Sam’s drink. “Are you drinking soda? Come on, this is New Year’s Eve. Live a little. Let me get you a glass of champagne. It’ll give you courage.”

  Sam glared at him. “I have plenty of courage.”

  “Maybe it’ll loosen you up a bit.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Carl smirked. “So, do you think Jeff liked your book?”

  At his expression Sam sighed. Why did he hang around with Carl? Did he like to be abused? “I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

  “Are you still sending it to that publisher in New York?”

  Sam shifted his feet. He’d told everyone he had a publisher interested. The truth was, he hadn’t actually talked to an editor. A secretary told him to send it. She had said they’d take a look. He met Carl’s gaze and smiled. “When Jeff hears about it, he’ll probably beg me to accept tenure.”

  Carl grinned. “Right.” He tilted his head. “It’s guys like Randall that get offered tenure. Not guys like us.”

  Sam skimmed the crowd until he found Randall Barton. With his short hair slicked forward and his trendy square glasses glinting in the light, he actually looked like he fit in better with the artists than the professors. “Brown-nosers, you mean.”

  Carl snickered. “You’ve got to admit, he shows a certain talent for butt kissing.”

  Sam shrugged. “The two books and five articles he’s published in the last three years haven’t hurt.”

  “Well, you’ve planned conferences.”

  “So has Randall. Do you realize he’s only thirty-four? That’s four years younger than me.”

  “Is that why you wrote your text book? To compete with Randall?”

  Sam made a sound of disgust. “Of course not.” As he continued to stare, he watched as the elusive Jeff walked up and clapped Randall on the back. Randall spoke, and Jeff’s sandy, graying head tilted back as he laughed. Sam’s stomach clenched and he straightened. “Do you see that? They look cozy don’t they?” His lips tightened. “Don’t you hate office politics? If you’re not best friends with the boss, you can forget about getting anywhere.”

  Carl shrugged. “You’re headed in the right direction. You’ve written a new history text. Jeff has to respect that.” He drained his glass then set it on the side table. “By this time next year maybe you’ll even have tenure.”

  Sam continued to watch Jeff and Randall, his insides twisting. “Respect. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” He glanced at Carl. “When I got here tonight Jeff patted my stomach and said ‘hey Sam, only bears need to store up for hibernation.’” Sam glared at Randall. “Randall runs the St. George marathon every year. I’ll bet Jeff respects that.”

  Carl laughed. “I have to admit I’ve been wondering why you wore a tux that’s too small.” He reached out and tugged the lapels together. “Why didn’t you rent one that fit?”

  Sam jerked away. “Just shut up, okay?” He grimaced at Randall and Jeff. “What burns my butt is that this is the third university I’ve worked for. I like Utah and I want to stay here. Emily wants to stay here.” He turned his glower onto Carl. “But if you don’t perfect the fine art of butt kissing you’re never offered tenure. And if you don’t have tenure, you don’t have job security.” He gestured in a circle with his drink, almost spilling it. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Pucker up?” Carl laughed and when Sam scowled at him, held up his hands in self-defense. “Come on, you’re getting too serious.” He pointed over at a group of professors. “Let’s go mingle.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. You’re not going to get any chances standing over here by yourself.”

  Carl was right. Sighing, Sam set down his drink. “Okay.” He looked around for Emily, didn’t see her, then vaulted away from the wall. “Let’s go.”

  As they approached, laughter exploded within the circle of men, and even Randall’s simultaneous arrival didn’t stop the smile tugging at Sam’s lips. He could ignore Golden Boy. Hopefully socializing would take his mind off his problems for a while. “What’s so funny?”

  Dr. Mark Friedman, a large man in his late forties with a shock of faded red hair and a booming voice stepped back, widening the circle so they could join in. He lifted one enormous paw to Sam’s shoulder. When Sam smelled alcohol on his breath, he tried not to recoil.

  “Sam, Carl, Randall, come here, you’ll like this.” Glancing down at Sam’s tuxedo, Mark raised a brow but didn’t comment. He gestured with his drink to a man Sam didn’t recognize. “This is Pete Saunders. He’s collecting New Year’s resolutions and we’ve all been sharing ours.”

  Pete was about the same height, age and coloring as Sam, but the similarities ended there. His slightly hooked nose, sharp, almost black eyes, and shoulder length hair gave him a harsh appearance. A gold earring glinted on his left ear, and his lean, tuxedo-clad frame looked almost dangerous. He appeared successful, sophisticated, and intense. He definitely seemed out of place among professors.

  Suddenly, Sam realized Pete was assessing him just as throughly and something uncomfortable prickled at the back of his neck. His eyelids flickered and he swallowed, then shook the hand Pete held out. Sam cleared his throat. “Are you from around here? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Pete held onto his hand, squeezing. Startled, Sam met his gaze squarely, and only then did Pete let go. He smiled. “Actually, no. I’m just passing through Salt Lake City. I was lucky to be invited to the party.” His voice was deep and rasping, his smile amused.

  Sam’s spine straightened. Was Pete laughing at him? His mouth tightened. He wasn’t going to let some weirdo intimidate him. His lip twisted as realization dawned. Pete was one of the artist weirdos. “So, you’re an artist?”

  “No.”

  Sam lifted his chin. “Then what do you do?”

  Mark interrupted, slurring his words slightly, “He collects New Year’s Resolutions.” He leaned forward. “Gary, tell Sam yours.”

  Shaking his chubby, bearded head, Gary smiled. “Jeeze Mark, I don’t know why you thought it was so funny.” Glancing at the newcomers, he shrugged. “I have two. I want to get an article published in University Press, and exercise for as much time as I spend eating.” He patted his huge middle, laughing along with the group.

  Forcing a smile, Sam sucked in his stomach. He knew what was coming, and didn’t have long to wait before Carl spoke. “Sam you ought to make the same resolution.” He reached over, patted Sam’s stomach and set everyone off again.

  Bunch of drunks. “Ha, ha.” Sam glared at Carl briefly before turning to the others. Everyone was smiling except Pete. “For your information, I don’t need any help making New Year’s resolutions. I already have a few of my own.” He glanced at Randall, then away, before staring straight into Pete’s eyes. His intense, animated gaze startled Sam. What was with the guy?

  Phillip Moseley leaned forward, his bald head gleaming in the light. “Well, what are they?”

  Sam eyed his co-workers. “Tell me yours first.”

  Phillip smiled. “You already know Gary’s. I’m thinking about reading a book this year. Mark wants to take his wife to Hawaii. Roger wants to try river rafting, and Pete wants to accomplish goals without any outside influence.” He grinned at Pete. “Whatever that means.”

  Sam studied Pete. Was the guy on drugs? An alcoholic? Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he appeared. And why was he so interested in everyone’s resolutions? Pete’s head swivelled
, his piercing gaze moving to Sam again. Sam turned away. Definitely drugs.

  Phillip grinned at Randall. “What are yours?”

  Randall’s full, girly lips tilted into a cheesy smile. Mr. Smooth with his slicked forward hair, and his tuxedo that fit to perfection. Dork.

  “I want to run the St. George Marathon again, finish the text book I’m writing and begin rereading Shakespeare.”

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  Pete looked interested. “You’ve run the St. George Marathon before?”

  Randall’s overlarge head nodded in a supposedly modest way. Smug jerk.

  “Have you ever written a book?”

  “Yes, several.”

  Pete nodded, then moved his attention to Carl. Everyone followed his gaze. “What about you?”

  Carl shifted his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Hmm, I’ve already mastered female anatomy so I guess that’s out.” His grin widened when everyone laughed. “I don’t know, I could probably eat better. My wife keeps nagging me about my high cholesterol, so maybe I’ll watch my eating habits this year. It’ll make her happy, anyway.”

  Pete folded his arms, his eyes drilling into Carl’s. “What would make you happy?”

  Carl shrugged and Sam had the impression Pete was frustrated. Obviously the guy took this seriously. Or maybe he just needed a fix.

  “I don’t know.” Carl smiled self-consciously. “Maybe that’s my problem.”

  When Pete turned his gaze to Sam, his chest tightened. This whole conversation felt way too deep. “What about you? If you could have anything you wanted during the next year, what would it be?”

  Sam tried not to squirm. He tried to think of a flippant response, but was suddenly overpowered by bitter self-hatred. Anything he wanted? Yeah, right. His life was half over, he had nothing to show for it, and he knew it.

  His brows pulled together. But if he could have anything he really wanted? He glanced at Randall, then beyond him, spying Jeff talking to a group of ladies, then down to his straining tux. His gaze turned to his co-workers, none of whom ever took him seriously or gave him the credit he deserved. Fierce, all-consuming desire gripped him. He lifted his head, gazed directly into Pete’s eyes, and opened his mouth. “I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete.”

  Silence. A horrible dead silence. Then huge gulps of air, and laughter, hard and uncontrolled. Carl slapped Sam on the shoulder and Sam fell against Mark. Mark spilled his drink, Gary held his stomach, and Phillip threw back his head and howled while Roger clung to his arm. Laughter and more laughter. Even Randall, Mr. calm and controlled, tried to bite back a smile. Sam didn’t look at Pete. Couldn’t.

  Heat crept into his face, swift and unrelenting, but Sam smiled tightly. They thought he was joking. Fine. Why had he said anything? And what had made him say that? Why tell these bozos anything, let alone his innermost desires?

  Finally, he turned to Pete. He wasn’t laughing. If anything, his expression was more alive, more vivid. Pete smiled, nodded as if in approval and leaned forward to speak.

  Carl slapped Sam on the back again, Sam blinked, and the moment was gone. “Good one, Sam.” Carl pointed across the room. “Look who’s talking to our wives.” Sam’s head shot up to see Jeff with Emily and Cheryl. Carl bent to whisper. “Come on. This might be your chance.”

  As they left the group, Sam followed Carl through the crowd. Glancing back he saw Pete staring after him and a chill ran up his spine. What an oddball. He turned away, and tried to concentrate on what he’d say to Jeff.

  Reaching Emily, he slipped his arm around her waist and she stiffened. He kissed her cheek. “It’s just me, Honey.” Did she want to blow this for him?

  Sam glanced at Carl, who took the hint and wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her away. “We’ll see you two later.” He winked, then whispered to Cheryl as they made their way through the crowd.

  Facing Jeff, Sam took a deep breath. “Hi Jeff. Great party.”

  Jeff clasped both hands behind his reed-thin body in his customary position. His sandy-gray head tilted back and he smiled, causing his eyes to nearly disappear behind his half- glasses. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yeah, sure, uh...great party.” Sam cleared his throat. “I’ve been wondering what you thought of my book? Did you get the chance to read it?” He smiled and tried not to seem anxious.

  Jeff glanced at Emily and then back to Sam. “Don’t you think we should talk about this after school starts?”

  Sam’s stomach clenched. “Well sure, but I just thought you could give me your initial impression of the manuscript. What did you think?”

  Jeff’s eyes flickered to Emily once more, then he sighed. “Well, to tell you the truth, Sam, the book is pretty much like a lot of other Civil War texts already out. I think it could really benefit from some changes. Spice it up. Make it more original. Why don’t you do that, then let me see it again?”

  Sam’s throat tightened and heat crawled up his chest and into his neck and face. His stomach twisted and he inhaled. “But I’ve already talked to an editor about it. He wants to see it.” His voice was thin, reedy. He coughed.

  Jeff smiled. “Well, if they want it now, they’ll want it after you’ve made improvements.” He glanced at Sam’s tuxedo. “Better watch those brownies. Or take up running like me.” He patted his own lean stomach. Someone called Jeff’s name and he looked up, smiled and nodded. “Will you excuse me? Enjoy the party.” He strode off.

  Sam closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his fists to unclench. Rewrite it? After all the time and effort he’d put into writing the book? When it was practically perfect?

  Emily lightly touched his arm. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  Sam looked into her eyes and saw compassion there. Compassion he didn’t want or need. Why hadn’t he waited until school started to question Jeff? Now his wife thought he was a loser.

  “Thanks,” he said tersely. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her through the crowd toward the buffet table.

  She stopped. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He inhaled. “About what? The fact that I hate my job, my boss, my life? No, I don’t.” He ignored the way her face tightened and pushed against her slender back. “Come on.”

  As they approached the table, a voice shouted out, “Ten more minutes!” In ten minutes the New Year started. Whoopee. Another year to slog through.

  Carl and Cheryl were at the table filling plates and Sam willed his face to relax. No need to advertise the fact that his life was a disaster.

  “Sam,” Carl shouted against the growing noise. “What did he say?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Sam shouted back.

  Regardless of the lateness of the hour the buffet still had plenty of food and Sam hadn’t eaten anything. He piled food on his plate. Deliberately took two brownies. Screw Jeff. He made himself a turkey sandwich, grabbed a few pickles and a handful of chips. Then looked at the food and set the plate on the table with a disgusted shake of his head. He wasn’t hungry. Even if he were, he shouldn’t eat anything while wearing clothes three sizes too small.

  What did Jeff mean, spice it up? How could he spice up a history text book? What was the big deal if it was like a lot of other books out there? That was a given. History was history and it didn’t change. What did Jeff want, a corrupted version?

  He lifted his head and immediately noticed Randall Barton. Talking, laughing, carefree and happy. Sam’s mouth twisted. No doubt Randall was happy. He was the boss’s Golden Boy. His work was always considered original. And he ran marathons every year. Same hobby as the boss. Tenure for him was just a matter of time.

  Sam’s mouth set. He needed this book published if he was to get tenure this year. Publish or perish, an academic fact of life. It had been too long since Sam had raked up any credits, and he didn’t have time to rewrite.

  His eyes narrowed. Showing hi
s manuscript to Jeff had been a courtesy, nothing more. Come January second, he’d send his book to the publisher. As is. If the board members were impressed with publication credits then he could certainly impress them without any help from Jeff.

  He scanned the room, spotted Pete Saunders and remembered the resolution. To have everyone’s respect and the body of an athlete. Yeah, right. Either you had respect or you didn’t. And Sam didn’t. Had Randall turned in the same manuscript, Jeff would have drooled all over it.

  Emily placed her hand on his shoulder. “Just two minutes until midnight. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

  He turned. Her eyes were soft. Again. She always did have a thing for the underdog. For losers. A sure way to deflate her anger toward anyone was to point out what failures they were. Her expression said it all. Sam was a major loser. She’d been ice cold for weeks, and now she watched him with soft, caring eyes? He didn’t want or need her pity.

  He shrugged her hand off his shoulder as the crowd started the countdown. Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight! Fifty-seven!...” Yes, I made a few New Year’s resolutions. Did you?”

  Anger chased across her features, as he knew it would. But even anger was better than pity. Fifty-one! Fifty! Forty-nine! Forty-eight!...The noise grew as more voices joined the chanting, the artist crowd getting even the stodgy professors and their spouses fired up and excited. He leaned down so she could talk into his ear and still she had to shout. “Yes, I’ve decided to take up art again!”

  He moved back to gaze into her face, lifting a brow. Forty-two! Forty-one! Forty!...” I thought you’d given up that nonsense.” He glanced around. “Do you want to end up like these flakes?”

  The noise continued to swirl around them as her features tightened, contorted. Fury blazed in her eyes, then slowly, very slowly, her expression changed, leaving only sadness behind. Leaving Sam unsettled. She leaned closer. “What about you? What are your New Year’s resolutions?” Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! Twenty-seven!...