by Claire Adams
I missed most of his lecture that day, but I knew it wouldn't bother me to watch him again on the recording my laptop made. My notes were a jumble of attempted phrases and minute descriptions—a mess of writing that had nothing to do with journalism.
As long as no one noticed, I was recklessly following my own instincts. If anyone saw me acting so free-spirited and irresponsible, I knew the unsaid comparison to my mother would drive it all away. Writing a creative short story felt wild, impractical, and wonderful as long as I had it all to myself.
With that thought in mind, I scooped up all my things and crammed them into my book bag. The other upside of my secret project was it helped me to avoid thinking about Ford. Sure, one of the characters resembled him in flattering ways, but writing about him was safer than flirting with the real thing.
"Hey, Clarity!" Thomas jogged to catch up to me in the foyer of Thompson Hall. "How about a coffee? Unless you're heading out to get some fresh air. Want some company?"
It was a beautiful, November day, with bright sunshine that held the last dregs of summer's warmth. Everyone was flooding out of the building and onto the lawns to feel the sun on their faces. All I wanted to do was scramble back down to the library basement and be left in peace.
"Sorry, Thomas, I've got to study. See you around," I called as I headed across the courtyard to the library.
I took a different route just to make sure Thomas didn't follow me. He was shy, but persistent, and I wasn't sure how far he would pursue me. I was just translating that thought into a memory for my main character when I came around the corner of the archive stacks and almost screamed.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed instead.
Ford leaned his head back on the hidden armchair and smiled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm waiting for you."
"How did you know I was coming here?" my whisper cracked with irritation.
Ford stood up and motioned for me to take the arm chair. When I shook my head and crossed my arms tight across my chest, he sighed and explained, "I questioned your friend, Thomas. I'm sorry to say, but he's the best kind of source: anxious to talk if he likes the subject. You do know he likes you, right?"
"Leave poor Thomas out of this. Why are you here, Ford?" My breath caught. I always called him by his first name in my head. That's how we first met, and I felt I had some claim to his given name as long as I didn't say it aloud.
Ford paused at the sound of it too. A smile played around his lips, only to be swallowed away. "I'm just curious. Thomas, on the other hand, is worried. He thinks you're working too hard. But, if the smile I saw as you came down those steps is any indication, you like whatever you've been working on."
I ground my teeth and scowled. "I did until you came along and interrupted me."
Ford gestured to the open armchair. "Please, don't let me get in your way. Like I said, I was just curious."
I inched past him, refusing to inhale the intoxicating scent of his soap. The last time I caught a whiff of sandalwood in a candle store, I had gotten weak in the knees. I stopped, and we were caught, the backs of my knees hard against the seat of the armchair and Ford pressed against the wall. We were inches apart.
"Yes?" he asked and the word was barely more than a whisper.
This was what I had wanted all along. I wanted someone to find me, someone to be curious enough to check on me. I wanted someone to discover my secret project, and Ford was the exact person I had wished it would be. Not just because being near him felt like a fast car ride with all the windows down, but because he could give me an honest opinion.
I flopped into the armchair and surrendered. "It's a short story."
Ford's eyes brightened, and he dropped down to squat comfortably next to the arm of my chair. "And you're hiding it from your father because it would make him too happy?"
"He'll never give me an honest opinion," I said. "All he'll do is gush about the joys of creativity and how he wished he had pursued his art."
"So you're looking for an honest opinion?" Ford laid a hand on the armchair, and I had the insane desire to rest my cheek against it.
"Yes." I distracted myself from his proximity by reaching into my book bag and dragging out the spiral-bound notebook. "I haven't even typed it up yet, but there's a clean copy in the back of this."
He didn't laugh in my face; he just studied it with a disconcerting level of interest. "Just a general opinion or actual feedback? How specific? Like down to word choice, or just my overall impression?"
My hand shook as I shoved the notebook at him, and it was hard to tell what was sparking my nerves. Our fingers brushed, and the lightning sensation of his skin along mine shot right to the balls of my feet.
I cleared my throat. "Be specific," I squeaked. "Tell me what I need to improve on."
Ford stood up and flipped open the spiral notebook. Then he leaned against the wall, and his eyes flashed across the page.
I dropped my book bag and leapt up out of the armchair. "Not now!"
"Why? No time like the present, right?" Ford asked with a wicked smile.
I flapped my hands at him. "Not in front of me. I'll die. Just take it and read it when you have the time. Maybe you can give it to me next class."
Ford chuckled and used the notebook to fend off my buffeting attack. "Next class is after Thanksgiving."
I raked both hands through my hair. "Oh my god, I have to go buy a turkey!"
"Wait, now?"
"Yes, now, before the store runs out of the right size." I gathered up my book bag. "My father's gotten it into his head that he wants a real Thanksgiving gathering this year. I spent half of last night trying to figure out what fruit looked best in a cornucopia. How insane does that sound?"
Ford laughed, then stopped on a long, barely audible sigh. "Actually, that's sounds wonderful."
I watched his face and saw the shift from amused to wistful. "Why? What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I asked.
"Nothing," Ford shook his head. "It's no big deal. Liz is volunteering in the city and doesn't want to be away from school long enough to drive up here for the weekend, which I totally understand. Still, the microwave dinner selections for Thanksgiving were pretty bleak."
My pulse jumped into a riotous jig, but I managed to speak calmly. "My father is determined to have a big Thanksgiving meal. And he still wants to thank you for braving the frat party check with him the other night. I'll have him call you, but you should plan on coming to our house for Thanksgiving."
"Are you sure?"
I rolled my eyes, "My father will be happy you're there."
"Will you be?" Ford bit his lip as if the question had escaped.
I couldn't breathe, so I nodded until I could manage to say, "Just don't say anything about my short story."
Chapter Six
Ford
I folded the title page of every article so that I couldn't see the student names. It helped me judge the writing and check if my journalism students had mastered a neutral tone. Jackson taught me the trick he had learned from tackling hundreds of creative writing essays and stories.
Clarity's short story rose to the surface of my mind again, and I leaned back in my office chair to avoid it. The characters were clear in my mind, the overlapping paths they took a common knot that tied my thoughts to them.
I shook it off and groaned at the stack of grading. "I have to stop giving my students homework that gives me homework."
I snatched up the next article and knew by the first sentence it was Clarity's. Her open curiosity was contagious, and her leads were getting better. She needed to work on simplifying her language, but her enthusiasm kept me reading for three paragraphs before I realized I hadn't written a single comment.
What could I say to her?
It was impossible to erase all the thoughts that had popped into my head the night I met her. If only I didn't need my job so much.
My mind drifted back to the cocktail dress she was wearing when the door to my office crashed o
pen. "Sleeping on the job?" Jackson asked.
"You know, for a bookish, lit professor, you’re loud enough to wake the dead." I settled back in my office chair and unclenched my fists.
"And you're a little too jumpy. What's on your mind?" Jackson strolled around my narrow office, hands in pockets, studying the bookshelves.
"What's on my mind? You came to my office, remember? Unless your entire plan was to give me a heart attack."
Jackson chuckled then turned back to point at the bookshelves. "A little Spartan, don't you think? I thought you were finally settling in and resolving to be a Landsman man."
I swallowed the instant distaste that thought brought up. "Maybe I just have something against crowded bookshelves. Maybe I'm Feng Shui."
"Feng full of shit," Jackson said. "I'd take it personally if I didn't know how much you miss journalism. But you really should get rid of the temporary vibe in here if you want your department head to stop sharpening her axe."
"She can't fire me before the holidays." I grinned.
"Speaking of the holidays, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" Jackson leaned on the corner of my desk.
"Apparently I'm grading articles." I gestured to the slipping stack on my desk, then caught it before it toppled. "Any more tricks of the trade that could speed this up?"
"So you don't have any plans for Thanksgiving? I know Liz is staying in the city."
I sighed and stacked the papers back into a neat pile. "Liz could probably use the break, but she won't give herself one. She thinks just because I'm helping her out a little here and there that she has to work like a dog."
Jackson crossed his arms. "I wouldn't call covering her rent and paying for her car a little, but stop trying to change the subject. We're not going to let you starve alone on Thanksgiving."
"Sorry, but I have plans." I swallowed hard and hoped he didn't ask for details.
Jackson studied my face for a moment with a curious smile. "So, Alice and I are going to Dean Dunkirk's for Thanksgiving. He's invited a small group and told me you were on the list."
"Oh, good, that'll be great. I wasn't sure I was going to go, but now it sounds good," I said.
"You weren’t going to go before I told you we were invited? What's with the secrecy?" Jackson stood up and tapped his chin as he studied me again.
I held up both hands in surrender. "I'm not a big fan of turkey, alright? You caught me."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the dean's daughter being your student, would it?"
"Speaking of students," I jumped out of my office chair, "I have to get ready. My students and I are attending the alumni/donor dinner tonight. I have to wear a tuxedo."
Jackson allowed me to shoo him back to the door so I could get the garment bag off the hook. "You're really going? But you hate those people."
"Smug, entitled, rich folks that only want to spend money so people notice them? Nah, I love 'em. Besides, my students need to report on it for the school newspaper." I unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the rented tuxedo.
"So that means you have to go, too?" Jackson asked.
"It was the only way the college president would allow students to mingle. I suppose he's afraid they're going to spike the punch or pull some other prank." I sighed, "God, I hate being a chaperone."
Jackson laughed and made himself comfortable in my office chair. "The student newspaper crew is a pretty responsible bunch. Isn't Clarity Dunkirk on staff? According to some of my kids, her name alone is chaperone enough. Poor girl. I bet she doesn't get to break out and have much fun being the dean's daughter."
"She's too focused for fun, way too mature," I muttered.
"What was that?" Jackson drummed his fingers on the edge of my desk and smiled up at me.
"You any good at shining shoes? My dress shoes haven't seen the light of day in years," I said.
Jackson shook his head. "Nope, sorry. What else you got?"
I sat down on my small couch and opened my shoe polish kit. "I have to pair up the staff. It's going to be a co-written assignment, make 'em learn how to work under a shared byline."
"Oh, that I can do," Jackson sat up and hunched over my desk. He wrote out the names of the students on the newspaper staff, then cut names out. Then, he tossed them in a hat and held it to me.
I decided no one was going to look at my shoes, so I reached for the folded names instead. Jackson typed them up, and we got down to the last three names before we realized there was a problem.
"You're going to have partner up, too, otherwise it's uneven," Jackson said.
"Fine, yeah."
"Thomas and Allison. That leaves you with Clarity." Jackson hooted with laughter. "Luck of the draw, eh? Or maybe you're just trying to get in good with the Dunkirks so you get extra pecan pie at Thanksgiving."
"Isn't it about time you go home to your wife?" I stood up and held my office door open for Jackson. "I've got to change."
"Never change, man, that's what they want. Fight the power!"
I shoved Jackson out of my office and locked the door. I wavered between the garment bag and my computer. Either I retyped the list and was late, or I just went with it.
I hit print. Anything else would admit I had trouble being near Clarity. And, knowing Jackson, he would ask our mutual students about the dinner and find out if I switched partners.
Luck of the draw, I thought. Now the only question was if my luck was good or bad.
#
"So we missed the dinner part?" Thomas asked as his stomach grumbled.
"You didn't miss it. You weren't invited," I said. "Dinner was over one hundred dollars a plate, which is why it was for alumni and donors only. The college president has been nice enough to invite us for the reception so you can mingle and find interesting stories."
"Can we drink?" another student asked.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose. "If you are twenty-one-years-old, then you are legally allowed to drink. I will assume each of you can make a responsible choice. Can we get on to the assignment now?"
"Shouldn't we wait for Clarity?" Thomas asked.
Allison piped up. "She's coming with her father."
I handed Allison the list. "Here are your partners. Remember that co-writing is about balancing opposite or complimentary viewpoints. I suggest you start by getting to know your partner. There was an uneven number of students, so I'm taking part in the assignment as well."
I congratulated myself on sounding casual, then turned and caught a glimpse of Clarity.
Instead of her normal low ponytail, Clarity's hair was swept up into a complicated knot that still could not contain all her dark-red curls. Gold earrings danced on either side of her easy smile, and a wave crashed inside me. Delicate straps were the only interruption along the creamy expanse of her bare shoulders. The neckline plunged until I held my breath. Despite the floor length fall of the black dress, her slender curves were revealed with each step.
Besides the subtly flashing gold earrings, the only jewelry Clarity wore was an emerald, beaded bracelet—the exact same shade as her eyes when she caught me staring.
"Professor Bauer, sorry I'm late. My father likes to make an entrance," Clarity said.
"All my fault," Dean Dunkirk chuckled, "she was never one to fuss in front of a mirror, but these darn bow ties always give me trouble."
Clarity's image burned in front of my eyes even as I turned to her father. "Dean Dunkirk, they didn't give you a free plate at the dinner?"
"Nothing's free when it comes to raising money for a new theater complex. Not even the drinks, so you all can stop worrying. If you're willing to pay what they're asking for them, I'm not going to stop you." The Dean of Students smiled at my gathered newspaper staff. "Your professor has given you one hell of a challenge: find something interesting here that won't step on any toes. Remember, a lot of people here guard their privacy for good reasons."
"Like pretending they're old money," Thomas whispered to Clarity.
&n
bsp; She smiled but shook her head. "Well, I'm ready to mingle."
My newspaper staff split up into partners and went into the decorated dining hall. Clarity said goodbye to her father and then turned to me with one auburn eyebrow raised.
"It's a shared byline assignment," I said. "Everyone was assigned partners."
"Except there's an uneven amount of students," Clarity's exquisite shoulders slumped. "I always liked co-authored articles because the counterpoints are so interesting."
I was going to release her from the assignment and let her write her own article, but she looked so dejected. "Actually, I'm your partner." I held out the list to prove it. "Jackson, I mean, Professor Rumsfeld, helped me draw the names from a hat."
"What, no one draws straws anymore?" Clarity asked.
I gave in and offered her my arm. "It's probably unfair to the others, really. You have an inside track already."
She took my arm, and we walked into the dining hall. Elegant flower arrangements graced every table. An orchestra quietly took their places on the far stage, and a crystal chandelier sparkled over the polished dance floor. Most guests mingled near the bar or the silent auction.
"Professor Bauer, how nice to see you again." The older woman smiled as she stopped us.
"Mrs. McGuire, I'm so glad you enjoyed your tour of Thompson Hall," I said.
"Now, now, aren't you going to introduce me to your lovely fiancé? Hello, dear," Mrs. McGuire shook Clarity's hand and winked. "You know, my Derrick is fifteen years older than me, and if you ask me, it's the secret to our long marriage. Nearly forty years! It's a smart woman that chooses a mature man."
I could feel Clarity's blush, and the temperature rose between us. "No, Mrs. McGuire, Clarity is one of my students. I'm here chaperoning the student newspaper."
She patted my arm and shook her head. "Oh, pish. I know a good match when I see one. Oh, dear, my husband's waving me down. I hope to see you on the dance floor!"
Clarity and I stood arm-in-arm, unmoving, and I didn't know what to say. Then her father appeared. "Did Mrs. McGuire mention dancing? Because that's exactly what I came over here to talk to you about," Dean Dunkirk said.