by Ann McMan
Grace looked at her watch.
Fuck. She wanted to get a jump on holiday traffic herself and head out for her parents’ farm in Pennsylvania before it started getting dark. But now she’d be stuck here with everyone else. There was a follow-up e-mail from her department chair that stated that all members of the English faculty who were still on campus would be expected to attend the announcement.
Not that she would want to miss it. An event like this one was a big deal in the life of a small college. The last two presidents of Welles had been pulled from business backgrounds. This time, the faculty was hopeful that they’d get a real academic at the helm—someone who would take a greater interest in curricular development and scholarship, rather than shaking the money tree.
She sighed. Fat chance. It was all about raising money these days. Still . . . it would be interesting to see which one of their dried-up old clones the big boys flushed out this go-round.
She shut down her computer and picked up her backpack. She’d have just enough time to run home and grab a sandwich before the meeting. She got outside and saw, with a sinking feeling, that it had started to snow. And it was already sticking. Great. The drive to Pennsylvania in the dark should be a real blast.
The auditorium was packed.
And things were definitely looking up. Grace exchanged surprised glances with Tom Shepard as the board chair finished talking about the methodology used by the search committee and finally shared details from the Chosen One’s curriculum vitae.
It slowly became clear that, this time, the committee had actually listened to the faculty. The new president was an academic with a solid background in research and scholarly publication—a teacher and a thinker with stellar credentials, including an undergraduate degree from Dartmouth, and a Ph.D. in History from the University of Chicago. The winning candidate had authored a list of books and articles half a mile long, had served for six years as a full professor and associate vice president at Duke, and had two years of executive experience directing the Z. Smith Reynolds Foundation—one of the largest, private endowments in the country.
It was a slam dunk, and the board chair knew it. The normally unimpressed members of the Welles faculty were literally sitting on the ends of their seats, waiting for the big reveal. You could’ve heard a pin drop in that joint.
He made them wait.
“When she joins us on January fifteenth, we will begin a new chapter in the life of this exceptional institution of higher learning,” he said.
Tom and Grace looked at each other in shock. She?
An audible titter of conversation spread across the hall.
The board chair smiled. “No, that wasn’t a mistake. I said ‘she.’”
The hall erupted in applause. People got to their feet.
The chair shouted over the din, “It gives me great pleasure to introduce the twenty-second President of Welles College, Elizabeth Abbott Williams.”
The applause in the hall was deafening. People were whooping and cheering. Grace got to her feet and strained to see around the bobbing rows of heads in front of her.
The cheers and the applause went on and on. This was a seminal event in the life of this college—the first female president in its two-hundred-and-twenty-year history.
Grace finally took a step out into the aisle so she could get a glimpse of their new leader, who had taken the stage and now stood towering over the board chair, smiling and nodding at the audience. Grace stared, stunned, and dropped back into her seat.
Jesus H. Christ.
Her hands were shaking. She felt light-headed and feared she might pass out. She knew that Tom was looking at her strangely.
This was not happening.
It was Abbie.
Grace’s mother was pissed when she called to tell her that she hadn’t been able to leave because of a last-minute, mandatory faculty meeting—and that it now was snowing so hard she didn’t think she’d be able to make the long drive to the farm that night.
“I’ll try in the morning,” she said. But she knew she probably wouldn’t. Even if the snow didn’t amount to much. It wasn’t supposed to. The big system that had been wreaking havoc in the northern plains all week was still inching its way across the country, but it wouldn’t reach Ohio until the first of the week at the earliest.
The truth was, Grace just didn’t have the focus or stamina to attempt the trip. Not now. Not after seeing Abbie.
Correction. Not after seeing the new president of Welles—her boss.
God.
It was like some kind of twisted Eugene O’Neill play. A ludicrous joke—and she was the punch line. These things didn’t happen in real life. These things only happened in literature to characters like Oedipus—or in movies to actors like Deborah Kerr.
What the hell was she supposed to do now? Pack up and move to Idaho?
She scoffed and took another big swig from the Grey Goose bottle. It had been part of a thank-you goodie basket sent to her from members of the curriculum committee she’d chaired all semester.
Pear-flavored vodka. How . . . inventive. It was only a pint bottle, but right now, it was getting the job done just fine.
She was sitting on the back steps of her small house. The snow was still coming down. Big, wet flakes that stuck to every surface—including her. She knew that her jacket and her hair were covered, but she didn’t really care. Maybe if she sat here long enough, she’d blend right into the landscape, and she’d never have to worry about how Abbie would react when she finally noticed her.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Tom Shepard had asked earlier, as he caught up with her outside the auditorium after the announcement. “And why are you walking so goddamn fast?”
Grace just shook him off. “I don’t feel so well. I think it must’ve been those hot dogs I ate at the Commons.”
He looked skeptical. “You ate hot dogs at the Welles cafeteria? Is this some new self-flagellation technique?”
“Could be.” She didn’t want to prolong the conversation. “Look, Tom, I really feel sick.” It wasn’t far from the truth.
“Oh, man.” He ran a hand through his short Afro. “I really wanted to talk about this. Call me later?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
She veered off on a brick sidewalk that led away from Ames Hall, where the English department offices were located. “See you after the break, okay?”
He continued to stand there as she walked away. “Hey, Grace?”
She stopped and turned around.
“She’s pretty hot, isn’t she?” He winked at her. “Just your type, too.”
Grace hadn’t really eaten any hot dogs that day, but right then, she really felt like throwing up.
“Yeah,” she said, turning away. Snow was pelting her in the face. It felt like it had bits of sleet in it. “She’s just my type.”
Christ. She took another drink. Once the vodka was gone she knew she’d start feeling how fucking cold it was out here.
The nine o’clock dog was barking.
Every twelve hours at precisely nine o’clock, her neighbor’s dog barked—without fail. In rain, sleet, or snow—on the brightest of days, or the darkest of nights—if it was nine o’clock, Grendel barked. The nine o’clock dog was one of the constants in her life—just like grading papers, watching reruns of Frasier, or meeting the wrong goddamn women.
She checked her watch. Yep. Nine o’clock. Straight up.
She raised the bottle in a toast. “More power to ya, Grendel. If I had the chops, I’d be barking, too.”
But Grendel wasn’t paying any attention to her. Grendel was frantically pacing back and forth along the fence that flanked her yard. This was a much more vigilant display than usual, and she was barking well beyond the requirements of her customary alert. Clearly, someone was coming to kill them all, and Grendel didn’t understand why no one else seemed to care.
Grace didn’t have the patience to try, either. She’d just about decide
d to get up and go inside when she caught sight of someone coming around the corner of the house.
Shit. Company was the last thing she needed. And who the hell would show up at this time of night the Wednesday before Thanksgiving?
A person, wearing a long black coat with a hood, stood there a moment in the swirling snow before advancing toward the porch. Grace felt a moment of panic. Maybe Grendel was right? Then the figure tossed back its hood.
The warm buzz she’d been feeling from the vodka evaporated in a nanosecond. It was Abbie. Again.
“Jesus Christ,” she blurted. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Abbie stopped in front of her. Her expression was ominous—like a reflection of the storm. “Now . . . or earlier today?”
Grace shrugged. “Take your pick.”
“Can I sit down?”
“Can I stop you?”
Abbie sighed. “You can if you want to.”
Grace hesitated.
“I guess showing up here was a bad idea,” Abbie said.
“Now—or earlier today?” Grace quoted.
“Very funny.”
“I do try.”
“I remember.”
“How did you find me?” Grace asked.
Abbie shrugged.
Grace gave a bitter laugh. “I guess rank has its privileges.”
“I saw you from the stage.”
“You did?”
Abbie nodded. “I was stunned.”
“That makes two of us.”
Grendel was still barking.
“You might as well come inside,” Grace said. “She’ll never stop if we stay out here.”
“Would that be okay? My feet are freezing.”
Grace looked down at her shoes. “You walked here in those?”
“I didn’t exactly plan on hiking through the snow when I got dressed this morning.”
Grace nodded. “Shit happens.”
“That’s true.”
Abbie stared over her shoulder at the barking dog, which was standing up on its hind legs and leaning against the fence. She looked back at Grace. “Its tail is wagging.”
“She’s conflicted.” Grace shrugged. “It’s going around.”
Abbie actually smiled. She gestured at the bottle Grace was holding. “What are you drinking?”
Grace held it up. “This? It’s pear-flavored vodka.”
Abbie made a face. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Wise decision.”
“Got anything else?”
Grace stood up and opened the door so Abbie could enter the house. “Only one way to find out.”
They went inside. Grace kicked off her shoes, then removed her soggy jacket and hung it up on a hook near the door. She turned to Abbie. “May I take your shroud?”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “Sure.” She shrugged out of her long coat and handed it to Grace.
They were standing in a small, glassed-in porch that overlooked Grace’s back yard. It was simply furnished with several distressed-looking Adirondack chairs that were painted in bold colors and a faded outdoor rug. A tower of papers stood on a table next to one of the chairs.
“This is a great porch,” Abbie said. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”
Grace nodded. “I try to. It takes some of the sting out of all the hours I spend grading papers.”
“I can imagine.”
“That’s right. You’ve done your time in the classroom, too, haven’t you?”
Abbie shrugged.
“Don’t be so modest, Dr. Williams.”
Abbie looked at her. “You seem determined to make this harder than it already is.”
“Define ‘this.’” Grace made air quotes with her fingers.
“Our . . . predicament.”
Grace folded her arms. “We have a predicament?”
“I’d say so.”
Grace knew that she was acting like a bitch, and she needed to snap out of it. This mess wasn’t Abbie’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Take off your wet shoes and come on into the house where it’s warmer.”
Abbie took off her shoes and followed Grace into the kitchen. It was small, but cozy and well appointed.
“Have a seat.” Grace indicated a small table and two chairs in the corner of the room. She walked to a tall cabinet and withdrew two glasses and a fat brown bottle. “Like cognac?”
Abbie nodded. “Got any coffee to go with it?”
“At nine o’clock at night?”
Abbie shrugged. “I don’t think I need to worry about it keeping me awake.”
“I see your point. I’ll make us a fresh pot.”
Abbie sat down and looked around the kitchen while Grace made the coffee. “How long have you been here?”
“Do you mean in this house, or at Welles?”
Abbie smiled at her. “Yes.”
Grace carried the bottle and the two glasses to the table and sat down across from her. “Four years. I came up for tenure last year.”
“And you got it.”
“Yep.” She poured them each a generous splash of cognac. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“Well,” Abbie picked up her glass, “you have to admit, it does simplify some things.”
“Like?” Grace was intrigued.
“You’re a tenured professor—that means there is less opportunity for conflict of interest concerns.”
“You mean because you’re my new boss?”
“Technically, I’m not your boss. I’m your boss’s boss.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Abbie shook her head. “Not really.”
Grace twirled her glass around. “This is a mess.”
“I know.”
She met Abbie’s incredible gray eyes. “I keep thinking about what Oscar Wilde said.”
“What’s that?”
Grace sighed. “That there are only two tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, and the other is getting it.”
“Which one is this?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m not sure I know yet.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Grace could hear sleet hitting the kitchen window.
“I thought about trying to find you,” Abbie said in a quiet voice. “More than once.”
Grace put her glass down. She didn’t really need anything else to drink. “Why didn’t you?”
Abbie looked down at the tabletop. “I was a mess. I was confused. I didn’t know what I wanted.”
“And now?”
“Now? I’m still a mess—and I’m still confused.” She raised her eyes. “But I think I know what I want.”
Grace could feel her heart starting to pound. “You do?”
Abbie nodded. “But it’s complicated.”
Grace laughed out loud. “You think?”
Abbie smiled. “Did you ever think about trying to find me?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Abbie shook her head.
“Of course I did.” She hesitated. “I nearly called Rizzo a dozen times. You know, I’ve never done anything like that before. It was . . . amazing.”
“Yes. It was.”
Grace waved a hand in frustration. “But you never said anything. You never asked me for my phone number—or even for my last name.” She took a drink of the cognac. It went down her throat like liquid fire. She knew she’d pay for this tomorrow.
“I didn’t think I could. I felt too . . . vulnerable. Too exposed and inexperienced.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“No.” Abbie laid a hand on top of Grace’s. “Don’t be. It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”
Grace felt an increase of excitement and trepidation in nearly equal measure.
But this was impossible. There was no way for them to go forward from here.
She turned her hand beneath Abbie’s over. “Did you know I worked here?”
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“No.” Abbie squeezed her fingers. “I had no idea. I was as shocked to see you as I’m certain you were to see me.”
“How did you find me?”
Abbie shrugged. “After dinner with the trustees, I had a few minutes alone so I could peruse the English department web site. Once I found the profile for Grace Warner, I asked my assistant to get me your home address. I told her that we had friends in common, and that I had promised to look you up.”
“Plausible.”
“That’s what I thought.”
They lapsed into silence again, but they continued to sit there, holding hands. The coffeemaker beeped to signify that it had finished brewing, but they both ignored it. Abbie’s fingers felt strong and solid. Grace was reminded of the time when she was ten, and had been horsing around on the farm with her brother. They had been playing on top of a partially-filled grain silo, and Grace had slipped and fallen into it. When her brother was unable to get her out, he panicked and ran off to get their father, who climbed down the bin ladder and rescued her. She remembered the relief she felt when she finally grabbed onto him. Right now, Abbie’s hand felt the same way—like a sure and certain lifeline that could lift her out of this dark vat of professional quicksand.
She squeezed the fingers beneath hers. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Abbie replied.
Grace shook her head.
“I took this job—this particular job at Welles—because this appeared to be an open community . . . one that allows and encourages people to be who they are.”
“That’s true,” Grace said. Before the Civil War, Welles had been a stop on the Underground Railroad. It had also been one of the first colleges in the country to admit students of color—and women. Grace had been an out lesbian the whole time she’d taught here—and it had never been an issue. Hell . . . it probably helped her get tenure.
“So you came here because you thought it would be a safe place to experiment with an alternative lifestyle?”
“No, Grace,” Abbie said. “I came here because I wanted—finally—to have the latitude to be who I really am.”