Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  “Yes! Please,” Malcolm hollered back, bracing against the condensed ache in his head. “Pantry. Bottom shelf.”

  He listened a moment to the click of cabinetry.

  “Found it!”

  And then Malcolm heard the distinct mewling of impatience that marked Ricardo’s dinner routine. He could also hear, to his heart’s delight, Maren’s cooing words as she told his feline that he was such a good boy.

  He heard water running, and more encouraging tones that left her lips, though the words were lost to him. Malcolm pulled back the covers and slipped between them, relishing the way his house had come to life again with her presence. He leaned against the headboard, gave a great sigh—a contented sigh—and felt sleepy for the first time in days.

  His drowsiness fled as soon as Maren returned with a small feast. In one hand she held a plate of sliced apples, pears, and Havarti cheese, centered around a mound of smoked almonds. A bottle of water in the other. Balancing these, she climbed onto his bed, kicking her shoes off and reigniting his smile.

  “I hope you don’t object to a picnic in bed,” she said, smiling back and setting down her dish.

  “I do object,” he countered. “You need to put your pajamas on first.”

  He tossed her the t-shirt, and she eyed it with suspicion.

  “Wasn’t this supposed to be yours?”

  “We’re sharing, right?” he asked, pointing to the little repast. “Food. Drink. PJs. Now, get changed before I have to get up and help you.”

  He loved the way that her eyes lit and her cheeks blushed, even as she tried to contain her smile. She pushed the plate toward him, and Malcolm absently grabbed an apple slice, but he never took his eyes off her.

  Maren then slipped off the far side of the bed, and he watched her shimmy out of her jeans. She let the weight of her hair fall over her face, and Malcolm saw it as mark of her shyness, her self-consciousness. He found it utterly unbelievable that she did not understand that every glimpse he had of her was a gift. Malcolm vowed then to never let her forget it.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked her, undisguised awe in his voice.

  Maren rolled her eyes, grabbed the hem of her sweater and peeled it over her shoulders, leaving her in matching beige bra and panties. The landscape of shoulder, sternum, navel, hip, thigh delivered him from rational thought.

  Still shy, she turned from him to unhook her bra. The sight of her spine, the curve of her waist made him sigh with longing.

  “God, I love you,” he murmured.

  Maren smiled at him over her shoulder before pulling on the t-shirt. She crawled across the bed to him and tucked herself under the covers.

  “I love you, too,” she said with equal warmth.

  The picnic plate sat between them, but their feet seemed to find each other, intertwining under the blankets. Malcolm raised the apple slice he held to her mouth. She took it with a smile and replied in kind.

  She was too far away. In one motion, Malcolm lifted the plate that separated them and pulled her against him. He tucked her under his arm and resettled the plate in his lap.

  Maren accepted his demand with only a startled smile, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, letting him trace his fingers up and down the length of her arm. She plucked a slice of pear from the plate and fed it to him, laughing when he sucked her fingers.

  The delight in her eyes deepened to something more soulful as she looked into his. He watched her, marveling. As strong as he knew she was, she seemed so small and vulnerable cradled against him. She had been through hell in the last week. It was evident in the shadows beneath her eyes. Even the angles of her face looked sharper; she had lost weight.

  The primal protectiveness that she always evoked in him flared again. It was suddenly necessary to layer an apple slice with Havarti and press it to her lips. He decided that he would spend tomorrow cooking for her. When they weren’t making love, of course. Surely, she did not think that she could keep him still for that long.

  The cast of her eyes turned pensive.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, accepting another bite from him.

  “Making plans,” he said, vaguely, squeezing her to him. Maren brightened again.

  “Like?”

  “Banana pecan pancakes, for starters. For lunch, maybe a spinach and mozzarella Panini with a tomato bisque—I have some in the freezer.” They needn’t leave the house. He pictured the deep green of the seared spinach and the vermilion of the soup, and he could see her more restored with every bite. “And for dinner, I was thinking pan-fried tilapia with a vegetable curry.”

  Her eyes had grown wide as he had detailed the menu.

  “You’re that hungry?” she asked, astonished. Malcolm grinned.

  “That’s for you. You’re far too thin.” He eyed her again, noting for the first time the prominence of the collarbone that disappeared under his t-shirt.

  “You’re always feeding me,” she said, softly.

  Malcolm hesitated for two heartbeats, but then he decided to let her in on the secret, the sacred truth of what it meant. He felt a tugging in his chest as he spoke.

  “It has always been my connection to you,” he said, hoping she sensed the depth that was beyond words. Maren pressed her hand against his heart in response.

  “It’s real…and it’s metaphor,” he struggled to explain, encouraged by the growing warmth and wonder in her eyes.

  “It’s sensual. It’s pleasurable. And more. It’s…life,” he held his breath. The tugging in his chest, just under her palm, seemed fit to burst. Malcolm could hear the humbling rawness in his voice, but he surrendered the words anyway. “Even with all the ways that I am awful, all the ways that I fail, if my love turns harvest and heat and labor and time into your life, then I am found,…not lost.”

  Maren gazed at him for a moment before her mouth crashed into his. He was dimly aware of the plate clattering to the floor. Her breasts pressed against him as her hands locked behind his neck. Maren’s honeysuckle tongue came home to his mouth, and he moaned.

  Her kiss was yin and yang. Her mouth demanded of him and surrendered to him; her tongue desired him and fulfilled him. She was the lover and the beloved. With her kiss, Maren did more than claim him; Malcolm felt as though he was being handed up into sunlight, delivered from underground depths. Humbled and exalted, he understood without words that he was her choice, just as he was.

  For the first time in memory, Malcolm felt worthy. It was almost painful, this happiness.

  Maren wrenched her mouth away, panting, and pinned her hands against his shoulders.

  “Don’t. Move.” She gave this order, and before his eyes, she yanked off the t-shirt, tucked out of her panties, and knelt next to him.

  Malcolm was still leaning against the headboard, and he had only to lift his hips when she grabbed the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprang free, tight with desire, and despite her warning not to move, he gathered her in his arms when she climbed on top of him.

  Malcolm pulled her to his mouth and smiled through his kiss. With her astride him, his hands were free to feel all of her, every exhilarating inch. Her long back arched under his touch, and he kissed his way down her neck, lingering in the spot where neck became shoulder. Malcolm sheathed his teeth with his lips and bit the tender flesh, something he already knew Maren loved. She collapsed against his chest with a little cry.

  He could feel her wetness against him, and when he took a nipple in his mouth, Maren sighed and began to slide up and down the length of him. He shuddered in ecstasy.

  “You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, fighting for control, stiffening beneath her.

  “Be still,” she whispered against his mouth before running her tongue over his lips. “You are not allowed to bump your head against the headboard. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, still kissing her. He would have said yes to anything, but she clasped her hands protectively behind his head anyway. Malcolm took the o
pportunity to reach down for her, and she raised her hips to give him room.

  “Oh, God, Maren,” he swore when his fingers found her slick with desire. Maren’s breath caught as his fingers swam over her, into her, and Malcolm feared he would come just looking at her. There could be nothing sexier than her arousal. And there it was, splashed against her chest in the loveliest of blushes.

  She swiveled her hips in response to his touch, and her half-lidded eyes met his. Wordless, they peered into each other. Without breaking her gaze, Maren reached between them, took him, and held him beneath her.

  When Malcolm entered her, he gasped at the depths. Her eyes. Her body. Her love. She watched him for a moment and then began to drive them to the precipice. Malcolm had to shut his eyes; just the sight of her on top of him threatened to send him over the edge. For an age, they moved together, and to keep his composure, he became his hands and lips. His whisper was a caress against her ear.

  “Madreselva, tu eres mio.”

  He lapped at each nipple, and lapping became biting and suckling as the tempo of her breath instructed him. He gripped her thighs, and all the while his thumb rolled against her.

  “Malcolm.” His name was a sob in her throat, and he chanced to open his eyes to see her climbing, climbing, the agony of her pleasure etched across her face. She was so beautiful.

  Without a shred of restraint left to him, he bucked beneath her, driving deeper and igniting her cries. The shock of her climax closed around him a first, a second, a third time before he was lost in the maelstrom of his rapture. She was the sea in which he drowned, gladly, eagerly.

  When his blood calmed and his breathing slowed, Malcolm could feel the thump of his pulse at the roof of his mouth and the breath of his beloved against his chest. Maren placed a kiss on his sternum before meeting his eyes. She ran her fingers down his cheek.

  “I love you so much.” She said it with such conviction that his heart quivered. He squeezed her against himself.

  “You are my love. Mine,” he said, his awful happiness growing at an alarming rate. “And I am scared to death, Maren.”

  Maren smiled at him in her righteous, self-assured way and hugged him more tightly.

  “You should be scared, Malcolm C. Vashal.” A quizzical frown overtook her brow. “Wait. What’s the ‘C’ for? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  She looked so adorable, he rolled her down to the bed so he could lie on top of her. He’d slipped from her body, but it didn’t matter because he was going to hold her all night.

  “Charles,” he said.

  A wistful smile came to her eyes.

  “After your mother?” she guessed. He nodded.

  “Well, then, you should be scared, Malcolm Charles Vashal,” she said, locking her arms behind his neck and her legs around his hips. “Because you are mine, and I am never letting you go.”

  “Thank God,” he said, staring down into the warm maple of her eyes that claimed him and welcomed him all at once.

  The night was young. Still, after the trials he survived, she survived, they should have been tired, but they held each other in the lamplight and talked and touched for more than an hour. About everything. Her middle name was Elise. His birthday was in March.

  “Halfway to 70,” she’d teased, and he swatted her bottom. Then kissed it.

  And after the light was out, they talked and touched for hours more. Maren discovered that she could make his breath hitch by dragging her fingernails, very lightly, over his nipples. Malcolm learned that she hated being cold. She’d come back to bed after a dash to the bathroom and shamelessly pressed her frozen feet against his calves.

  “Warm me,” she’d said, through chattering teeth.

  “Always,” he promised, running his hands devotedly over her body.

  Maren found that his voice grew deeper as the night lengthened. Malcolm relished the knowledge that he could hear her smile in the dark as she sang David Bowie’s “China Girl” when he’d confessed to knowing all of the lyrics to every song on the Let’s Dance album. (Charlotte had played it constantly during his first 10 years of life.)

  Some hours before dawn, they allowed themselves to fall asleep. The night would end, but they were just beginning.

  Epilogue

  May

  Maren would be home any minute. Her master’s comp exams finished at 4:30, and his Paella de Marisco sat assembled on the counter. It would need just 20 minutes in the oven once she came back, had the chance to vent about the trials of the exam, and sampled the bottle of 2011 Columna Albarina Rias Baixas he had chilled.

  Malcolm had promised her the meal to celebrate the academic milestone, her last hurdle before she earned her master’s degree. She had not wanted to take time from studying to mark the occasion of her successful thesis defense the week before. In fact, Maren had not even allowed him to attend, a right that he surrendered as a member of the faculty. Naturally, he had indulged her, though it galled him to hear MacIntosh and St. Martin gush later over how well she had done. Still, he was incredibly proud. As proud as any lover—secret or not—could possibly be.

  To his endless surprise, they had managed to keep their relationship sub-rosa. Of course, they had been very careful. Maren never visited his office now, and while he could not resist a stolen touch as they passed each other now and then on the second floor of Griffin Hall, they simply did not allow themselves to be seen together on campus.

  Malcolm had been sure that a scandal was imminent when Helene confessed to Maren that Jess was in on the secret, too, but the punk had surprised him thus far. Jess had kept his mouth shut, but the boy took great pleasure in giving him a conspiratorial grin every time he saw Malcolm and Maren in the same place. And once, during a Creative Writing meeting, Jess had seen a look pass between Malcolm and his beloved, and the impertinent graduate student had blown him a kiss. Helene was the only one aside from himself who noticed, but her stifled giggles had caught the attention of those around her. It was Maren’s pallor that had made Malcolm nearly choke with rage. Jess and Helene’s invitation to dinner a week later had been flatly refused.

  What continued to amaze him was Maren’s toleration of the secret, of their social isolation. Of course, they were at the Gardner home at least once mid-week and every Sunday dinner. With that alone, Malcolm had more society than he’d ever dreamed. At Thanksgiving, just over a week after Mark’s funeral, the Gardners discovered Malcolm’s culinary talents, and from then on, he joined Erin in the kitchen to assemble family meals. The pride he saw in Maren’s eyes every time her brother or sister fell over themselves for his dishes made him blush. And Maren said blushing was sexy.

  In the beginning, he’d been afraid of how much he wanted to belong, not just to Maren, but to her family. Carlos had asked him, casually, if he wanted to give fear his power. Malcolm had cursed the therapist in Spanish for that one. The Argentinian native had laughed, as he always did, and told Malcolm to concentrate instead on being curious about the Gardners. Carlos explained that Malcolm was a novice when it came to family, and if it helped, he should distract the fear by watching Lane and Laurel. It had worked. Lane’s playfulness and Laurel’s compassion—even when they argued—took him out of himself, and he soon became part of the dynamic. The family’s enthusiastic welcome didn’t hurt.

  His own home felt deliciously full. Malcolm looked down at the rotund Perry who snoozed strategically in front of the oven. Perry had grown quite devoted to him—despite Malcolm’s maleness—once the canine learned that his mistress’s mate was forever in the kitchen. If possible, the little terrier had only grown more round in recent months. This fact was puzzling since Perry and Ricardo had not quite settled the question of dominance.

  Upon Perry’s first visit, the dog had assumed that he would reign supreme, tearing after Ricardo with menacing growls. One swipe from Ricardo had taught Perry a great deal of respect. The two still lay in wait for each other on a regular basis. When one unsuspecting pet strolled by the other’s hiding
place, a chase ensued that occasionally involved hissing and growling, but no other wounds had been inflicted. Still, since this little dance of dominance occurred several times a day, one would assume that Perry would have trimmed down some. Not so.

  Of course, Perry was not at the house every day. Maren still technically had a rent house, and she would return to it once or twice a week. And if she wanted to stay the night, Malcolm stayed with her.

  In the last six months, the only nights they had spent apart were the ten days over the semester break when Malcolm had travelled to Antigua to finalize his agreement with Sister Alejandro and her bishop, spending a whole week as a guest at the orphanage to inform his translation.

  The Stone Fountain, by Sister Alejandro Perez, translation by Malcolm C. Vashal, would be published by the university press in late July. What was even better was that Sister Alejandro was at work on another volume, and she had requested Malcolm’s services for that one as well. A contract had already been signed. Proceeds from both books, though surely modest, would go directly to the orphanage.

  In his kitchen, Malcolm smiled. He looked forward to attending Dorothy’s fall party next semester with that feather in his cap, but his heart sped with the hope that he would also have something infinitely better.

  For the fiftieth time that afternoon, he fingered the small, velvet box in his pocket.

  She’ll say yes, he told himself.

  Carlos was a damnably insistent man. In one of their earlier sessions, Malcolm had confessed the dark voice that so often berated him.

  “Name it,” he’d instructed, nodding without a doubt. Malcolm had regarded the compact therapist with the wavy, thinning hair and twinkling eyes. It was always so difficult to dismiss his advice. There was something of the mystical about him, as if he could transfigure objects or make a vase of flowers levitate when one wasn’t looking. It didn’t help this notion that he was always right in his suggestions.

  So “Duende the Shadow Voice” was born. And when Duende berated or mocked him, Malcolm was to tell him to shut the hell up. And it helped. Somehow, the wicked voice seemed less authoritative, more nuisance.