Second Time Around

by Beth Kendrick

  “Can’t find my car keys.” A tall, stalwart woman with broad shoulders and a thick auburn braid hanging halfway down her back strode into the kitchen. She started yanking open drawers and shoving aside sheet pans until she snatched up a ring of keys. “Got ’em.”

  Then she turned her full attention to Anna. Her gaze was unflinching and more than a little hostile. “So you’re the one.”

  Anna blinked at her. “The one what?”

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Seth murmured and slipped out of the kitchen.

  The Amazon in the spotless white chef jacket didn’t acknowledge his departure. She kept staring down Anna with those fierce brown eyes. “The one who decided she could waltz right in and snatch up all my kitchen time. Not to mention my business.”

  “Um.” Anna straightened her collar and forced herself to maintain eye contact. “Have we met?”

  “Not officially, but I’ve heard all about you. I’m Trish Selway.” Her voice rose. “The baker.”

  “Ah yes.” Anna nodded as the pieces started coming together. “The baker who wouldn’t do the college anniversary cake.”

  “Not wouldn’t.” Trish bristled. “Couldn’t.”

  “Okay.” Anna shrugged and opened up the carton of supplies she’d brought over from Brooke’s place. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t need all the details. I’m just going to set up my space and—”

  “Help yourself to more of my customers?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I take a few weeks off work because my morning sickness makes me puke every time I smell vinegar or even look at raw eggs, and you zoom in and start poaching my most important clients.”

  Under any other circumstances, Anna would have delivered to this harpy the smackdown she so richly deserved, but the words “morning sickness” derailed her. “You’re pregnant?”

  “Four months along.” Trish placed a protective hand over her belly. “Aren’t you ashamed to be taking work away from a woman who’s going to have a child to support?”

  For a split second, Anna did feel ashamed. Then she caught a gleam of triumph in Trish’s eyes and something inside her rebelled. “No. No, I am not. I’m a damn good baker and fertility—yours or mine—has nothing to do with this.”

  “A damn good baker? Give me a break.” Trish snickered. “You’re just another legacy kid using her connections to get ahead.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Anna said. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

  “How long have you been in town? A week? Two weeks?”

  “Almost a week,” Anna admitted.

  “And the college already booked you for a major event.” Trish put her index finger to her chin in mock contemplation. “Hmm. What a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence or not, my food was so good that I’m already booking other events.”

  “College events?” Trish pressed.

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let me guess. You woke up one morning, decided it would be fun to play pastry chef, got your Thurwell sorority sisters to make a few calls for you, and all of a sudden, you’re the Ace of Cakes. You know, some of us have to actually earn our referrals.”

  “First of all, Thurwell doesn’t have a Greek system,” Anna said. “And secondly, if you hadn’t been turning down business, you wouldn’t be in this position, so don’t blame me.”

  Trish paused. “I’m going to ask nicely, with cream and sugar on top: Put down your spatula, get off my turf, and we’ll save ourselves a whole lot of drama.”

  “According to the rental agreement I just signed, it’s my turf now,” Anna retorted. “Three nights a week, anyway. And I have a lot of work to do, so I’m going to have to ask you to get out of my kitchen.”

  “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Trish pivoted and made for the door, but not before tossing back over her shoulder, “Legacy.”

  “Loon,” Anna muttered.

  Slam.

  “Writing only leads to more writing.”

  —Colette, The Blue Lantern

  There.” Brooke finished applying foundation and dusted Cait’s face with translucent powder. “You can hardly even see the bruising.”

  “Masterful work. You’re like Mary Cassatt with a makeup brush.” Cait checked herself out in the bathroom mirror. “I look so much more alluring without the black eye.” She leaned over the sink basin to examine a red smudge beside her eyebrow. “What is that? Am I bleeding?”

  “No, I am.” Brooke turned on the faucet and ran her right hand under the tap. “Sorry. One of my cuts must have reopened.” She pressed a folded square of toilet paper against her index finger. “Will you please check the medicine cabinet and see if we have any Band-Aids left?”

  Cait obligingly opened the mirrored door and scanned the shelves. “I don’t see any in here.”

  “Dang.” Brooke removed the tiny tissue compress and examined her raw skin and ripped cuticle. “I must have used the last one yesterday.”

  “I think I have some in the travel kit I keep in my suitcase,” Anna said. “But what on earth are you doing to yourself that requires a whole box of bandages?”

  Brooke shrugged. “Wiring.”

  “Here you all are.” Jamie’s tanned, freckled face appeared in the doorway. “What are we doing?”

  Cait scented a faint trace of cigarette smoke. Evidently, Anna did, too, because she made a big show of wrinkling her nose and asking, “Has someone been smoking?”

  “Not I.” Jamie crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

  “Really.” Anna pursed her lips. “Because you smell like an ashtray.”

  “Must be my new shampoo.”

  “Huh. I didn’t realize Marlboro had put out a line of hair care products.”

  “Oh yeah. It’s all the rage.”

  “And is your mouthwash also by Philip Morris?”

  “Ladies.” Cait stepped in between them and called for a cease-fire. “I hate to interrupt, but could we please focus for a minute while I decide what I’m wearing?”

  Anna glanced at Cait’s plum-colored top, dangly turquoise earrings, and a dark denim pencil skirt. “You decided half an hour ago. You look fine.”

  “But I don’t want to look fine.” Cait ran her hands through her hair. “I want to look, you know, fiiine.”

  Jamie grinned. “Oh right; it’s your big date with the loin-stirring man of letters. How could I forget?”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind lately,” Brooke said. Her voice held an ominous undertone, but Cait had no idea what she was hinting at. “Have you called them back yet?”

  “Called who back?” Anna asked.

  “Never mind, it’s not important,” Jamie said hurriedly. “What is important is that Cait look as ravishing as possible. And I hate to say this, but that outfit’s all wrong.” Jamie shook her head. “Your neckline should be about three inches lower and your hemline should be about six inches higher.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little desperate?” Cait said. “It’s bad enough that I’m his former student. I want him to see me as a grown woman now, not some shameless teenybopper falling all over myself to get his attention.”

  “Most guys actually prefer the shameless teenyboppers,” Jamie said. “Take my word for it. I have a no-fail halter dress. Guaranteed to get your man into bed every time. Want to borrow it?”

  “No!” Anna and Brooke cried in unison.

  “We’re going for understated sophistication,” Brooke added.

  “In Thurwell, New York?” Jamie laughed. “Good luck with that.” She turned back to Cait. “At least wear red lipstick with your wimple and your chastity belt.”

  Cait turned to Brooke for approval. Brooke sifted through the contents of her makeup bag and pulled out a tube of lip color. “Well. I suppose a nice shade of cranberry would be permissible.”

  “Thank you, Mother Superior.” Jamie s
aid. “I won’t even waste my breath arguing for a padded bra and another coat of mascara.”

  Cait frowned down at her cleavage. “I could be talked into a padded bra.”

  “Stop trying to hussy her up,” Anna scolded Jamie. “She’s not that kind of girl.”

  Cait applied the red lipstick and said nothing. Her recent forays into literary lasciviousness had forced her to admit that she no longer knew exactly what kind of girl she was. Up until a few weeks ago, she had prided herself on being a scholar and a serious writer, but now that she was facing the blank page every morning, she found herself preoccupied with topics that she suspected her colleagues would dismiss as shallow and frivolous. Like falling in love. And romantic conflicts.

  And sex. Lots of sex.

  She gnawed on the inside of her cheek as doubt started to set in. “This is so weird.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jamie said. “It’s your dream date with your dream man. Over ten years in the making.”

  “But think about it, you guys, it’s Professor Clayburn. I know he’s technically my peer now, but I spent all those years thinking of him as an authority figure. Totally off-limits.”

  “Forbidden,” Brooke said with a little shiver.

  Anna fanned her face with her hand. “It’s gonna be hot.”

  Cait paced between the sink and the shower. “What if he kisses me at the end of the night?” Then a horrible thought struck. “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Stop obsessing.” Anna leaned out into the hall and glanced out the window. “A car just pulled up out front.”

  “You look beautiful.” Brooke bestowed one last pouf of the powder puff. “Do us proud.”

  “Yeah, you’re living the fantasy of every English major who’s ever undressed him with her eyes while he lectured about Seamus Heaney,” Jamie said. “Have fun. Be safe.”

  “Don’t do anything Jamie wouldn’t do,” Anna said.

  Cait laughed and hurried out the door with her handbag. Through the darkening twilight, she could see Gavin getting out of the driver’s side of his Jeep. He’d swapped his professorial blazer for khakis and a hunter green polo shirt that made his coffee-brown eyes appear even darker. He smiled when he saw her, then came around the car to open the passenger door.

  Cait didn’t even get a chance to say hello before she heard giggles emanating from the porch behind her.

  “Caitlin.” Gavin pressed her hand between both of his. “Nice to see you again. You look—”

  Whatever he’d been about to say was lost amid another outbreak of female laughter and one high-pitched catcall.

  Gavin laughed, too, low and deep. “Your chaperones, I presume?”

  Cait covered her eyes with her free hand. “I’m so mortified right now.”

  “Don’t be.” He helped her into the seat. “Some of those chaperones look familiar.”

  “That would be because most of them took at least one class from you back in the day.”

  “And you’re all having a private reunion weekend at Henley House?”

  “Something like that. I’ll explain over dinner.”

  Gavin waved to the trio on the porch. “I’ll have her back by midnight, ladies!”

  “Take your time!” Anna called back.

  “We won’t wait up!” Jamie yelled.

  “Liars,” Cait said as Gavin buckled up next to her. “They’re going to pounce on me the second I walk back through that door and interrogate me in flagrant violation of the Geneva Convention.”

  Gavin started the car. “Well, then, we better make sure you’ve got something juicy to report.”

  Is Italian okay for dinner?” Gavin asked as the Jeep pulled away from the curb. “The options around here are limited, as you know.”

  “Absolutely,” Cait said. “Sounds perfect.”

  “And I hope you don’t mind a quick stop back on campus. I left my wallet at the library. One of the student workers called my cell on the way over here.”

  “Left your wallet?” Cait relaxed enough to flirt a little. “A likely story. Admit it: You just want to get me down to Archivist’s Alley.”

  He looked puzzled. “Archivist’s Alley?”

  “Yeah. You know, the archivist’s office down in the basement by the geology texts and the map room?”

  “What happens down there?”

  “Everything.”

  “And by everything, you’re referring to …”

  “Snogging. Scamming. Canoodling. You name it.” She shook her head. “How is it possible that you’ve been at Thurwell for over a decade and this is the first you’re hearing about Archivist’s Alley?”

  “I’m asking myself that same question.”

  “Well, the students have good reason to keep it secret. You know, one faculty member finds out, he tells another faculty member, then word leaks to the dean and next thing you know, they’re cracking down and expecting everyone to use the library for studying and sleeping instead of drinking and carousing.”

  He shot her a sidelong glance. “You used to booze it up in the basement of the library?”

  “Well, not me personally,” Cait admitted. “I was always too paranoid about getting caught. But some of my chaperones back there at Henley House? They could tell you a few stories.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Come on, don’t tell me the instructors don’t have their own secret hideaways for angsting and assignations.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

  “Really? At Shayland, the English profs pass around a key that gives us access to the roof of the building. Any student caught up there faces disciplinary hearings, but you can always find a faculty member up there with a bottle of wine when the weather’s nice.” As she said this, Cait couldn’t help thinking about Charles and the romantic interludes they’d shared up there, watching the moon rise and the stars come out. But French kissing alfresco was as far as they’d ever taken it; neither one of them had really gotten a thrill from exhibitionism.

  “And you left that job why?”

  Cait was scrambling to formulate a response when something bumped against her bare ankle. She reached down and pulled from beneath the seat a pair of paperback books. One was a dog-eared copy of Great Expectations. The other looked brand-new and featured a cover illustration of an eerily lit silver obelisk on the cover.

  “Prevnon’s Pantheon.” Cait read the title aloud and glanced over at Gavin with surprise. “Is this yours?”

  He grabbed the book out of her hand and tossed it over his shoulder into the backseat. “You never saw that.”

  “What? Your secret sci-fi novel?”

  “It’s not mine.” He looked supremely embarrassed. “My brother must have left that here when he was in town last month.”

  “Sure, sure; that’s what they all say.”

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to change the subject.”

  “So you have a thing for Klingons and Vulcans,” she teased. “I won’t tell anyone. I think it’s refreshing, to tell you the truth.”

  “Genre fiction has its place; I don’t deny that.” His rakish grin returned. “But come on. We’re literature professors. Imagine if you went around telling your colleagues that you spend your free time reading, I don’t know, romance novels. You’d never live it down.”

  “Mmm.” Cait turned her face toward the window.

  He parked the car in a reserved faculty space next to the library. “I’ll make this quick,” he promised. “Would you rather come in or wait out here?”

  “I’ll come in,” she said. “It’ll be a blast from the past.”

  He held the door and Cait stepped into the high-ceilinged vestibule of the library’s main floor. The “Libe,” as it was affectionately referred to, had been designed and built during the 1960s. The exterior featured a façade of arched cement columns that bore a striking resemblance to an old-timey floor radiator, but the inside felt airy and modern. When Cait closed her eyes, s
he immediately recognized the scent of photocopy ink and stress permeating the walls.

  She wandered over to examine a glass display case filled with college memorabilia from the past 150 years—old yearbooks, varsity jackets, even a propeller beanie in Thurwell’s school colors—while Gavin spoke to the worker at the circulation desk. A few minutes later, he joined her, wallet in hand. “Problem solved.”

  Cait looked up at him and smiled. “I’m ready when you are.”

  He hesitated for half a second, then asked, “Can I talk you into a quick detour? I have to see Archivist’s Alley.”

  “Right now?”

  “Why not? It’s Friday night; the whole building is deserted. At least we won’t be disturbing anyone’s drunken debauchery.”

  “Well.” She feigned a crisis of conscience. “All right. But I refuse to be responsible for ruining a time-honored student tradition. You have to swear never to reveal what you’re about to see to The Powers That Be.”

  “I swear on that propeller beanie.” He placed one hand on the glass case and his other in the air. “I shall never knuckle under to the tyrannical overlords. Death before dishonor.”

  “Exactly. Long live the rebel alliance.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You know, like in Star Trek.”

  “That’s Star Wars, not Star Trek.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the elevator.

  As Gavin had predicted, the basement was deserted at this hour on a Friday evening. The towering bookshelves down here were more closely spaced than on the upper floors, and there were no chairs or study carrels. The gray carpeting and exposed concrete walls added to the drab, utilitarian atmosphere.

  “Follow me.” Cait led the way through the maze of shelves and metal wall cabinets. “It’s back in the corner.”

  The total silence seemed to amplify the rustle of their clothes and their muffled footfalls against the carpet.

  “This would be a great setting for a slasher film,” Gavin whispered. “The college should charge movie studios to come film down here.”

  “And I thought I had a wild imagination,” Cait whispered back.

  “Why are we whispering?”