by Claire Adams
"Yes, it's all my fault. I've, I've been drinking but you're wrong, he's not a professor, he's—"
I cut Clarity off before she could lie for me. "Libby knows who I am."
"I sure do, Professor Bauer," Libby snapped.
I snatched up my rented tuxedo coat and marched through the leaves to where Libby bounced near the sidewalk. I caught her elbow in a hard grip and pulled her farther down the sidewalk away from Clarity. "A word, Ms. Blackwell?"
Clarity wrapped her arms around her waist and backed away to the far curve of the sidewalk, out of ear shot.
Libby yanked her elbow from my grip and hissed up at me. "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. You're torturing me. Did my roommates tell you my regular route, or have you been watching me?"
I suppressed a disgusted shudder as Libby licked her lips. "This has nothing to do with you, Libby, and you're going to keep it that way."
"Am I?" Libby put her fists on her hips. "I think it has everything to do with me. You're trying to make me jealous, aren't you, Ford? Two years apart and you're losing it. Well, you don't have to pretend to be a cruel ex-boyfriend anymore. You don't have to hide in the bushes just to get my attention."
I wrapped my fingers into fists. "I am not your ex-boyfriend, Libby. You need to get that straight. We made a mistake. I was a new professor and you were a wild freshman. Just because we slept together a few times does not mean we had a relationship. It was a mistake, and it's time you let it go."
"Let it go? I remember you really let go on the floor of your apartment. We couldn't even make it to the bedroom. So hot."
I stepped back before she could reach for me. "I was drinking too much back then and I'm not proud of what I did."
"Lots of professors would be proud to have such a hot, steamy, insatiable affair with a student like me."
My heart hammered as I looked to see if Clarity had overheard. She was preoccupied with an approaching group of partiers, clearly on their way to the frat house.
Libby followed my glance and her voice was sharp with jealousy. "You at it again, professor? Seriously? You know her father is the dean of students, right? Oh, it is going to be too fun to tell him what I saw."
I forced myself to unwind my fists and take a deep breath. "Go ahead, Libby. I'm not going to let you blackmail or bully me. I'll tell the dean the truth myself."
"And what about pretty Ms. Clarity over there? Are you going to tell her how you had me over and over again?" Libby's narrow eyes were mean.
"Of course I'm going to tell her. She deserves the truth." My throat constricted but I forced the words out anyway. "I'll tell her right now."
Libby tossed her bleached-blonde ponytail and jogged over to Clarity before I could stop her. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."
"What secret?" Clarity asked. Her wide eyes shone wet under the lamppost. "It was an accident, a mistake."
"Yeah, I guess that's what some people call it," Libby's giggle was brittle. "Sometimes people try to cover up the truth by calling it a mistake."
"Libby, please, you don't understand," Clarity said.
"Oh, no, I totally get it. Trust me I get it."
"Enough, Libby," I said.
She brushed her pointer finger across my lips. "Shhh, professor, don't worry about it. As a favor to you, I'll keep your dirty little mistake a secret. You never know when I might need one or the other of you to do me a solid in return."
"That's not how this works—"
"Thank you, Libby," Clarity interrupted. "She's had run-ins with the Honor Council and my father before. She knows what he can be like."
Libby raised a dark eyebrow. "And just imagine what he'd say when it's his own daughter. Don't worry, I'll keep quiet. For now."
She ran off before I could stop her. The vacuum of her interruption left Clarity and I alone on the sidewalk.
Clarity did not meet my eye. She shivered in the cool air and wrapped her arms tighter around her waist. Then she watched as the group of revelers approached. They sang and danced and stumbled their way down the sidewalk, and when they were close enough, we could hear the Landsman College fight song.
She stepped off the sidewalk, her high heels sinking into the grass, and I reached out an arm to steady her. Our eyes clashed and I felt the worry in her look chill me to the bone.
I didn't care about the rules. To me, the honor code was an administrative safety net that kept the school from lawsuits. What killed me was the thought of overstepping Clarity's personal boundaries.
It didn't matter that she had reciprocated the kiss, that she had wrapped her arm around me and not hesitated either. Any sign of regret would kill me.
Despite the rowdy students on the path, we stared at each other in silence. I felt her probing for my intentions, so I squeezed her arm gently. I had no regrets, only longing for more.
When the cheering crowd faded into the distance, Clarity clutched my sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Ford, I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll tell my father I did it. It was all my fault. A silly schoolgirl crush."
I shook my head. "He won't believe you. You've never done a silly thing in your life. I should have had more self-control."
Clarity shivered again, and this time I insisted she wear my tuxedo jacket. She shrugged into it and started slowly down the sidewalk. Then she stopped and gave me another pained look. "I can't believe Libby would be so quick to tell the Honor Council. Why was she so unreasonable? What did you say to calm her down?"
I resisted the urge to cup her cheek. "If you want to tell the Honor Council, I completely understand, Clarity. I won't keep you from telling the truth."
Her emerald eyes flashed and she started walking again fast. "The truth. The truth is we're two consenting adults, and so what if there's an age difference. None of this would matter if we were on a normal street corner in a real city, not on the suffocating grounds of Landsman."
Sweet relief washed over me and I had to stop. I caught Clarity's arm again. She swung back to face me and I took a deep breath. I needed to tell her the truth about Libby. I needed her to know there was a difference between the drunken, foolhardy mistake I had made as an angry first-year professor, and the moment we had just shared.
Clarity stamped her heel against the sidewalk. "I can't stand when people are hypocrites. For a second there I thought Libby was going to pretend that everyone on campus hasn't heard the rumors about her."
"What rumors?" I choked.
"She seduced some poor sap of a professor when she was a freshman, then bragged all around campus that they were in love. No one ever saw her imaginary boyfriend. No one believes it was anything more than her trying to prove her worth through sex." Clarity spun and walked towards her father's house.
"Don't you feel bad for her?" I asked.
Clarity shook her head. "I feel bad for the professor dumb enough to fall for her cheap seduction. That's where the honor code is important. It's supposed to stop less discerning people from making stupid mistakes."
I reached out but let her keep walking. I had held on to my shame for two years, but I had never gotten angry at myself until that moment. Sure, I was stinging from being discredited as a journalist, and I was self-medicating my frustration with too much alcohol, but I had never heard it wrapped up so succinctly. I had been stupid and fallen for something cheap and meaningless.
Clarity slowed and our steps fell into sync. "You don't think I'm stupid and undiscerning, do you?" she asked.
My head was reeling. "I think you're probably a lot smarter than me." It was on the tip of my tongue to confess my terrible mistake, but her sweet smile made me swallow hard. "And I think you shouldn't compromise any of that ever again."
She nodded and looked down to shuffle her feet. "I know. It won't happen again. I understand that I'm just your student and there won't be anything more between us. Besides," she brushed a hand over her nose and sniffed, "the women you date are probably a lot more interesting than me."
&
nbsp; I shook my head. "Clarity, I'm not seeing anyone right now. I know men are supposed to juggle half a dozen women a week, but that's not me."
"This isn't me, either. I don't go around lying to security guards and kissing people under campus trees. Can we just blame it on the full moon and forget about it?"
She was right. I couldn't burden her with my confession about Libby. Clarity didn't deserve to have me heaping any more of my problems on her. I needed to reign myself in, get myself under control, like I should have been from the first moment I realized who she was.
It felt good to put myself back on the right path, but as we walked up the front steps and stood on the porch of her father's house, I felt a dull ache. Of course the only woman who made me laugh, made me forget myself for long wonderful moments, had to be completely off-limits.
She handed me back my tuxedo jacket and gave me a brave smile. "Goodnight, Professor Bauer."
"Goodnight," I said. I walked down the steps and felt like I was falling. Clarity could never know how I felt about her and that realization was a painful, gaping void in my heart.
CHAPTER NINE
Clarity
Nine was an awkward number to fit around our long, oak dining room table. After shifting each plate setting three times, I settled on my father at the head of the table and four people on either side.
"Where are you going to sit?" he asked, peeking in the door from the kitchen.
"On your right hand side. Don't worry, we won't mistake you for any form of royalty," I joked.
"People are more likely to mistake me for the maid in this apron," my father responded. "Oh, hold on, that's my oven timer!"
He rushed back into the kitchen. I chuckled and walked around the long table again, polishing wine glasses with a white towel. The center of the table was scattered with dried, pressed leaves in deep autumn colors. Cream-colored taper candles waited in silver candleholders and brass trivets waited for the bowls and platters of our Thanksgiving feast.
I had even broken down and put up the silly decals my father had purchased for our windows. I skipped the goofy, smiling turkeys and artfully arranged the stick-on acorns, gourds, and leaves. I looked around with satisfaction; everything looked great.
More than the decorations, the house was filled with the sounds and smells of cooking. My father had gotten up early in the morning to wrestle the giant turkey into the oven. I heard him whistling as I walked into the steamy kitchen.
"Dad! What are you trying to do, kill yourself?" I ran around the kitchen island and pulled a wooden spoon from his hand.
My father stood next to the oven and laughed. "I can mash potatoes with my left hand. It doesn't necessitate a lot of finesse."
"Then I can handle mashing the potatoes while you finish basting the turkey. You don't need to be trying to do both at the same time." I traded out the wooden spoon for our silver masher and put the heavy crockery bowl on the lower kitchen table.
"Make sure you add plenty of butter and milk and maybe a little garlic," my dad reminded me.
"I got it. I can handle it," I laughed.
Inside, though, my stomach quivered. I wasn't sure I could handle Thanksgiving at all. My father had invited an interesting mix of people but that included Ford. Ever since the donors' dinner, we had kept things strictly student/professor, and I was worried how it would feel to have him in our home as a guest.
Without the regulated setting of the lecture hall or campus, I knew I would have trouble seeing Ford as a professor. Too often he had been appearing in my daydreams as the handsome man with midnight-blue eyes that had kissed me under a maple tree. How was I going to keep that memory and the subsequent fantasies at bay?
My father had purchased plenty of wine and told me I was free to enjoy it as payment for my holiday labor. I imagined pouring a glass for Ford, feeling his gaze sweep up my arm to the outfit I had agonized over. Would he smile at me the way he had before we kissed?
As hostess, I was supposed to give each guest a tour of the house, and there were too many nooks where Ford and I could be alone. The hidden space under the back stairs where we first met, the alcove just inside the library doors, or the narrow hall past the front stairs where the coat closet was tucked out of sight.
Stop being so silly, I reprimanded myself.
The twinges of excitement I felt in my belly were only anticipation of a cure. Ford would be polite, cool, and aloof, even in the casual atmosphere. I hoped he would pat my shoulder or talk about me to my father right in front of me as if I was an insignificant child. That would wipe away all my schoolgirl fantasies and cure me of my growing crush.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was more, but the kitchen timer rang again and saved me. "I got it," I told my father. I turned off our crockpot and opened the lid. "I hope these are good."
"Put those toasted mini-marshmallows on top and it'll be perfect. Spiced yams, what an inspiration!"
I neglected to tell my father the idea was not mine at all. I had overheard Ford telling our class that candied yams covered with marshmallows was the only Thanksgiving food he ever craved.
"I think Ford should sit on my left hand side," my father said.
I jumped and turned around. "What? Why?"
He raised a red eyebrow at me. "The other six guests are couples. You and Ford are the only singles at the table."
"What about you?" I asked.
My father chuckled and changed the subject. "You know, I've been thinking about setting Ford up with someone. Maybe you can help me think of someone for him?"
I dropped a dozen marshmallows on the floor. "Since when are you into matchmaking?" I asked.
"I like Ford," my father said. "He's a good man. A little rough around the edges and a little angry at the world, but that's nothing the love of a good woman couldn't cure."
"Says the confirmed bachelor," I snapped.
My father laughed. "Now, Clarity, would you really rather talk about potential dates for me?"
"I'd rather make sure we don't get lumps in the gravy."
My father chuckled and turned back to the stove. "Don't think I don't know how much attention Ford gets from his students. He's young, he's very good-looking, and that can only cause problems for a professor."
"There's nothing illegal about it," I said.
"Illegal, no, but inappropriate, yes," my father said. He stirred the gravy with a thoughtful, repetitive motion. "If he had a serious relationship, the girls wouldn't be nearly so gaga over him."
"You know, most the women at Landsman are over eighteen years of age and perfectly capable of handling relationships no matter what age their partner is."
"Clarity," my father said with exasperation, "you're the one that helped with the wording of the honor code. Don't you remember?"
This time it was the doorbell that saved me.
I recognized the art professor's bright smile as soon as I opened the door. "Hello, Professor Paulson, so good to see you again."
There was a loud clatter from the kitchen and my father joined us in the foyer. He tore off his apron, tossed it back in the kitchen, and rushed forward to take both of Professor Paulson's hands. "Polly, I'm so glad you could make it," he beamed.
The art professor was a small, elfish woman with an infectious smile, bright black eyes, and wild, wiry black hair. Seeing her with my father always gave me a warm feeling even though the two were perpetually acting casual.
"Patrick," she said, "you were so good to invite us. Thank you! May I introduce our newest artist-in-residence, Damien Baptiste? Damien, this is Dean Dunkirk."
"Please, call me Patrick," my father said. His smile slipped slightly when he shook the artist's hand.
Damien Baptiste was stocky and muscular with sun-kissed hair and twinkling, hazel eyes. "Ah, the dean, I've heard so many good things about you. I love that you have managed to pen an honor code that your students both despise and respect. That is quite an honorable accomplishment."
"Thank you, I think,
" my father chuckled. He led the way into the living room.
"Your home is beautiful, such order, such lovely straight lines," Damien said.
"That's me," my father admitted. "I admire the artist's life, the passion and chaos of creativity, but I'm strictly by the books, myself."
"Damien's a sculptor," Professor Paulson said to me. "Damien, this is Patrick's daughter, Clarity."
"Enchanted," he said with a flourish.
"Well, hello," Lexi crooned from the doorway.
I swatted my friend, then dragged her into the living room. Behind her came her running back boyfriend. Carl was the opposite of the small, pert, and boisterous Lexi. He was beefy, tall, white blond, and said next to nothing.
"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Lexi and Carl," I said.
"Of course, welcome, Lexi, you know a holiday wouldn't be the same without you," my father hugged her. "And, Carl, congratulations on helping your team to victory this year. Carl's our star running back."
I introduced Professor Paulson and her date, Damien. Lexi frowned. "I really wish you had let us set you up with a date, Clarity. There are plenty of guys that wouldn't have been scared off by dinner with the dean."
"Adam still asks about you," Carl said.
"Sorry, but I'm too busy helping my father tonight to handle a date," I said. Before my father could protest, two more guests arrived.
"Professor Rumsfeld," Lexi grinned. I immediately held out my hand to his wife. "I'm Lexi, I took your husband's course freshman year. I would never have gotten my English credit if he didn't know how to make Shakespeare understandable to normal people."
"Nice to meet you, Lexi. I'm Alice," the professor's wife said.
"Please, can we just be normal people today? Call me Jackson."
"Excellent idea," Polly agreed. "After all, you're not children and conversation will be a hell of a lot more interesting if you don't hold back because of arbitrary titles. Right, Patrick?"
My father couldn't refuse her. "Fine, though I hope, perhaps my daughter will refrain from calling me Patty. She used to do that when she was three and it was flustering."