Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  “Coming!” She tried to call, but her voice was muffled with congestion, and she ended up submitting to a fit of coughing. Maren struggled to her feet, wrapped her robe around herself, adjusted the towel still on her head, and checked her alarm clock: 5:15 p.m. She crossed the kitchen, expecting Helene to be at the door, and wondering why Perry would not shut up.

  “Hush, Perry!” She fussed as she undid the deadbolt and opened the door to Dr. Malcolm Vashal, who wore a look of extreme apprehension.

  “Oh!” she honked as Perry snarled and aimed to charge him. Maren held him back with her left foot and hissed at him. “Perry! Bed!”

  The rat terrier’s posture deflated at the command, and he turned obediently and trotted to the bedroom, but he made sure to note his disapproval with a low growl.

  Maren turned back to the professor, unsure of which detail was more humiliating, Perry’s terrorist attack or her current appearance in loungewear, robe, and terry-cloth turban. Her head began to pound again.

  “Dr. Vashal,…I’m so sorry…,” she gestured vaguely to the bedroom and Perry and then to her state of attire.

  “Nonsense, Perry is an excellent sentry.” He gave her a half smile and a nod as he brushed a stray chestnut lock out of his eyes. “And you clearly have him well trained.”

  Maren leaned against the door, not quite believing that he stood on her stoop, and she wondered idly if she were dreaming again. Dr. Vashal seemed to swallow and shift the weight on his feet before raising up a bulging white paper bag.

  “May I… come in…?” he asked, hesitantly.

  Whether she was dreaming or not, Maren would never be rude to him. She stepped back from the door the let him in.

  “Of course…Please come i—” She had to smother her coughing in the crook of her arm as he entered and closed the door. “But I don’t want to get you sick.”

  He shook his head dismissively, but he looked at her with concern.

  “I had a flu shot earlier this month. I wish you had, too. Have you seen a doctor?” He set his paper bag on the counter, and before she could answer, he brought a hand to her forehead.

  “You still have a fever!” He sounded alarmed and, Maren thought, guilty. “I should have checked on you sooner.”

  It was her turn to protest.

  “No, certainly not. I went to the infirmary yesterday. The Tamiflu is already helping, but I think I’m overdue for some Tylenol.”

  “Ah! Just a moment,” he said, seeming to remember something as he dug through the pockets of his jacket and produced a bottle of Advil. “I didn’t see any here on Friday, and it’ll last longer than the Tylenol.”

  He handed her the sealed bottle, and she knew that she could not hide the stunned look on her face as she took it from him.

  “Thank you…Please, excuse me for a moment…Have a seat…anywhere,” she stammered as she took off for her bedroom and shut the door behind her. Perry stood up on the foot of her bed and wagged expectantly. Maren sat next to him and stroked him absentmindedly. She felt as though she had sandbags tied to her head, but even without her fever, she would have had trouble processing Dr. Vashal’s sudden appearance in her home. Was he here out of a sense of duty? Some Samaritan’s tie of responsibility? Had he been worried about her?

  Maren opened the bottle of medicine and chased down two of the gel caps with a sip of water from the Camelbak bottle on her bedside table. She grabbed a handful of tissues and tried to blow her nose as quietly as possible, which was not very quiet, but she was not about to return to him all snotty and repulsive. She unwound the towel from her head, and damp hair fell around her. Maren found a comb on her dresser and raked out the tangles that had formed while she napped.

  She checked herself in the mirror of her dresser and decided that she had never looked worse. Pale skin. Red nose. Watery eyes.

  Get over it. He’s not here for a date.

  She opened the door to her bedroom and immediately shut herself in the bathroom. She washed her hands in the sink, which was freezing, and she took a swig of Scope. She thanked God that she had brushed her teeth before she showered, but she couldn’t be sure how fresh her breath was since she couldn’t smell anything.

  Maren stuffed clean tissues into the pockets of her robe before she emerged, now shivering, from the bathroom. The effort of making herself presentable had worn her out, and she just wanted to curl up on the couch and study her visitor.

  Dr. Vashal had seated himself at the dinette, but he stood when she entered, and he immediately frowned.

  “Your hair is still wet,” he reproached. “That won’t do.”

  “It’s alright,” she brushed off his concern. “Shall we sit in the living room?”

  “It is not alright,” he upbraided, his frown deepening. “You have a fever and a cough, and it’s drafty in here. You’ll catch pneumonia like that.”

  At his scolding tone, the last of her energy drained out of her, and Maren sunk into a kitchen chair, laying her forehead in her hands and her elbows on the table.

  Why is he so angry?

  “Dr. Vashal,…I just don’t have it in me to dry my hair right now. Please. I need to sit down.”

  Maren was sure that she, in fact, needed to lie down. She couldn’t even bring herself to look up at him, so it was the appearance of his black Steve Madden Oxfords entering her field of vision that told her he approached. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Let me help you,” he said softly, all scolding gone. “Come.”

  He took her arm and gently guided her until she was on her feet again, and he plucked up her chair in his other hand and led them into the bathroom. Even though this was the strangest thing to ever happen in her life, Maren was too bemused to resist. She allowed him to seat her in front of the sink, and, without a word, he took down her hair dryer from the caddy above the toilet and turned it on. Maren noticed that he tested its heat and force against his own hand before aiming it at her.

  Warm air caressed her, and when he grabbed the hairbrush from the same caddy and began carefully pulling it through her hair, Maren thought her bones had gone liquid. She resumed her slumped posture, elbows on the sink and head in hands, and she closed her eyes.

  Oh my God.

  He was deliberate and gentle, catching her hair in the brush at the roots and following it down to the ends. The fine hairs on her neck stood on end, and goose bumps erupted down her arms. Maren’s scalp tingled every time the bristles of the brush stroked against it. She drowned in a sea of sensation.

  A moan escaped her throat before she could catch herself.

  She couldn’t help it—she could only hope that he had not heard her over the hair dryer. Maren could not remember feeling so carefully and intimately attended. It was heavenly.

  What is this?

  When every strand of hair on her head was dry, he turned off the dryer and set it down. He ran his fingers tentatively through her hair to the nape of her neck.

  “That’s better,” he said, softly.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, still cradling her head in her hands. Abashed, she wasn’t sure that she could look at him and conceal her awe.

  “Come. Let’s get you settled.” He helped her to her feet again. “Am I correct in assuming that you have not had your dinner?”

  She felt herself grin at his formality.

  “That is correct.”

  “Good, then the half-gallon of chicken and sausage gumbo from Don’s will not go to waste,” he said, leading her through the kitchen into the living room.

  “Half-gallon?” She gaped at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Instead he busied himself with fluffing the cushions on her couch.

  “Yes, just let me heat it up for you, and I’ll be on my way.” He reached for her arm to guide her to the couch, but she would not yield. If he thought he was leaving now, he was dead wrong.

  “I won’t have any unless you stay and join me,” she insisted, willing him to meet her eyes. When he first looked at her, she
saw doubt, but then his eyes softened, and he nodded.

  “Fair enough.”

  Chapter 14

  Malcolm

  Malcolm Vashal had never been so careless. Never, never in his professional life had he visited the home of a graduate student—much less a female graduate student. While that alone was not in direct violation of university policy, it certainly left him vulnerable to judgment and censure. And if Maren Gardner filed a harassment complaint against him? He’d be crucified.

  These thoughts fired through his prefrontal cortex, but as he ladled chicken and sausage gumbo out of Styrofoam containers into a saucepan in Maren’s kitchen, he did not care. From the moment she’d opened the door to him in her fevered and weakened state, there had been only one conceivable course of action: to take care of her.

  Eschewing the microwave, Malcolm placed the saucepan on one of the gas burners of Maren’s small stove and set it on low. Maren had told him where to find two trays, and he readied them with bowls of rice, spoons, and napkins. Maren coughed roughly from the living room, and he winced at the sound. He wished he had thought to pick up some cough syrup when he stopped to buy the Advil. Of course, he had been rattled by the flower displays at the grocery store and had spent five minutes debating on the appropriateness of a small bouquet of freesia. In the end, he decided that medicine and food were more essential under the circumstances, and, thus, they would be the most acceptable.

  The surreality of the situation danced in the periphery of his mind as he stood in Maren’s kitchen and stirred the gumbo. It was startling how easily she had accepted his presence, his help. He had offered to dry her hair out of necessity—there was no question of her leaving it wet—but when he actually began the delicate task, he’d found himself completely enraptured.

  The experience was a feast for the senses. Even drooping against the sink, Maren was graceful loveliness. Her yielding and vulnerability only made her more beautiful. As he lifted and dried each lock, the perfume of her shampoo surrounded him, and it called to mind jasmine pearl tea. He had almost dropped the hair dryer when he heard her moan in pleasure—the sound grasped him deep in his belly, and he couldn’t keep himself from whispering his praises.

  “Estás preciosa….No me pudiera resistir.”

  When he had finished, her hair was a cascade of shining waves, and he permitted himself the briefest caress before chastising himself and backing away. As she’d stood, he noticed that the color had come back to her cheeks to a distracting degree. The urge to touch her face had been overwhelming.

  Steam hovered over the little pot of gumbo, pulling Malcolm out of his reverie. He was grateful that Maren could not see his addled state from where he had nestled her in the living room. He spooned a generous helping of sausage, chicken, and roux-brown broth into Maren’s bowl and gave himself a modest serving, wanting her to have ample leftovers. The order had come with a small loaf of buttered French bread. He broke half of this and set it on her plate, rewrapping the rest in foil. Carefully, he carried both trays to the small living room and set them down on the coffee table in front of a dozing Maren. She leaned back against the arm of her mocha-toned couch with her head to one side as she clutched a blanket under her arms. He gave thanks that the sound of his arrival caused her to stir because he could not have woken her otherwise.

  She blinked up at him and smiled before surveying the trays with some surprise.

  “Wow! So much! And it looks delicious.” She met his eyes again. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It is my pleasure,” he answered, truthfully.

  She allowed him to set her tray in her lap, and she helped herself to a spoonful.

  “Mmmm…perfect. Just what the doctor ordered,” she said between bites. When Malcolm saw that she had everything she needed, he began to eat as well. The gumbo was rich, spicy, and deliciously warm. He congratulated himself on an excellent choice. He watched her dunk a piece of bread into the broth and savor it, and this gave him an odd sense of pride. Malcolm hid his smile in a bite of gumbo.

  “What made you decide to do this for me?” she asked, shyly, flicking her eyes back and forth between her bowl and his face. Malcolm took his time swallowing and didn’t meet her look when he answered.

  “I wanted to check on you and make sure you were alright.”

  Maren seemed to contemplate his answer as she casually swirled her spoon in her bowl.

  “Why?” she asked, finally.

  Malcolm stared into his gumbo for a long moment before looking up at her.

  “Because I mean to be your friend.” In a sense, it was an honest answer, just not a completely honest answer, but he couldn’t very well tell her that he was there because he couldn’t stay away.

  Her expression was unreadable.

  “Do you have many friends, Dr. Vashal?” Her tone was free of irony, but she watched him closely.

  “No.” He answered without apology or self-pity, just candor. Those things had never been important to him.

  Her expression was unreadable as she turned her attention back to her meal. As they ate in silence, Malcolm worried that he had made her uncomfortable. He quickly finished his dinner so he could prepare to leave.

  “I think I would like that…very much,” she said, softly. At first, Malcolm assumed that she had understood his silent haste and was endorsing his decision to leave at once—until she spoke again.

  “And I would like to be your friend,” she added. Maren gave him a self-conscious smile, and she could only meet his eyes for a moment before she looked down again and hid her own behind feathery lashes. The uncontrived smile, the blush that came to her cheeks, the warmth in her voice all testified to her honesty.

  Malcolm could not remember a time when he had felt such a sense of welcome. It was a tangled thrill of warmth and ache in equal measure, a slightly alarming sensation that he wanted to tuck away and explore later.

  “I’m afraid I’ll get the better end of the bargain,” he said, wryly.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, arching her brow in a way that Malcolm found particularly becoming. Maren gestured to her empty bowl. “I don’t see how I can compete with gumbo and French bread. You’ve already set the bar pretty high.”

  “Would you like more? There’s plenty,” he offered.

  “No. Thank you. Truly.” She shook her head, looking drowsy and content. “I couldn’t eat any more.”

  “Then I’ll just take these,” he said, standing and gathering up the dishes and trays.

  “Oh, you really don’t need to…,” she began to protest before coughing again.

  “I insist,” he said, brooking no argument and carrying the dishes into her kitchen. Malcolm stopped her sink and filled it with hot water and dish soap. He had made light of it, but he had not been joking when he said that he would fare better than she. Malcolm knew that he could not be less deserving of her friendship and whatever that meant—her time, her attention, her goodness. He wasn’t inclined to examine the doubt too closely, but he found himself wondering if his association might harm her, and not just because he was a professor and she was a graduate student. Malcolm knew himself. He knew that he could take a woman who was ignited with youth and happiness and ruin her. J.J. had been exceedingly clear about that the day she left him.

  You know just how to drain the life out of me….Loving you was the worst mistake of my life.

  Malcolm scrubbed the saucepan as though he could debride himself of the painful memory. She had been right, of course. Malcolm had failed miserably as a husband. He had never been unfaithful—he would not have dreamed of that; he had never been violent, despite his temper; he hadn’t drunk more than the average man, and he hadn’t used money against her. Malcolm’s love had fallen short. In the beginning he had believed that his love was enough to compensate for his dark moods, his egotism, his lack of society. Indeed, in the beginning, Malcolm thought that J.J. had loved these things about him. Instead of being daunted, she had
laughed at these traits, calling him her “wicked loner”. Shortly after they were married, J.J. had tried to “reform” him, condition him with her cheerfulness, her teasing, her parties. When this showed no effect—save a stubborn resolve on his part—amusement became tolerance. Tolerance gave way to disappointment. Disappointment matured to disgust.

  No, Malcolm should never have married. Not J.J. Not anyone. He did not have the capacity for it.

  Everyone would be better off if you became a fucking hermit.

  It was true. And here he was—doing God knows what with a graduate student. It was a recipe for disaster. He needed to leave. Now.

  “I’m sure that dish is quite clean,” Maren said from behind him. She was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him. He had no idea how long he’d been at the sink, scouring the same pan. He also had no idea how long she had observed him. For the first time in a very long while, Malcolm blushed.

  “You can’t be too careful,” he mumbled, clearing his throat. Maren crossed the room and stood next to him at the sink. She took the pan from his hands with a puzzled smile and rinsed it one final time, setting it on the draining board with the rest of their dishes.

  “You shouldn’t be up and about,” he gently admonished. Even though she looked more restored than when he’d arrived, she was still too pale. Too frail. And that fever…

  “You should be lying down.”

  “I came to see what was taking you so long.” She glanced at the small pile of clean dishes with mirth. “OCD? Are we?”

  “Funny,” he deadpanned. She laughed. Despite his impulse to bolt a moment before, Malcolm had to suppress the urge to touch her, to graze her sleeve or grab the tie of her robe and tug her toward him.

  Her laugh became a cough. She turned away from him and buried her face into the crook of her elbow, nearly crumpling as the racking shook her. It sounded terrible, dangerous even. Without thinking about it, Malcolm laid a hand on her back and rubbed her gently. Finally, she straightened and breathed cautiously. He frowned at her.

  “You might have bronchitis or the beginnings of pneumonia. Do I need to take you to a walk-in clinic?”