by Lexi Eddings
He rose and pulled out a chair for her.
Very gentlemanly.
As she took it, his gaze sizzled over her slowly from head to toe.
Not so gentlemanly.
“Don’t you look good enough to eat,” he murmured into her ear as he pushed her chair in.
“Down, boy. I’m only here for a drink.” She and Peter had always been quick with innuendo. It meant nothing now, but his frank admiration still made her feel good about how she looked.
She hoped Seth would be as appreciative when he saw how much trouble she’d taken with her appearance tonight.
Peter sat opposite her at the bistro table, signaled the server, and a bottle of chilled Chardonnay appeared.
“I only agreed to one drink,” she reminded him as she eyed the bottle.
“One’s a good start,” he said amicably. “Let’s just see where the night takes us.”
“It takes me out of here in”—she consulted her phone—“about thirty minutes. I told you I have other plans this evening.”
A shadow seemed to pass behind Peter’s eyes, but his smile was still firmly in place.
“All right. Straight to business, then,” Peter said, leaning one elbow on the table while he filled both their glasses. He raised his and she felt obliged to follow suit.
“To new beginnings,” he said, and clinked the rim of his goblet with hers.
Angie repeated the toast, but she was sure the beginning she meant wasn’t the same as Peter’s. She and Seth were about to start something wonderful together. She was certain of it.
Then she was suddenly stabbed by a shard of guilt. Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed to meet Peter like this.Thankful that Harper’s lighting was on the dim side, she hoped no one noticed her there with him and felt obligated to tell Seth about their meeting.
Not that she was doing anything wrong. She was just having a drink with an old . . . friend. Yes, that’s what Peter had become. Nothing more. In a city, they might have met anytime like this with no one the wiser, but this was Coldwater Cove. Nothing happened in a vacuum here.
And she was uncomfortably sure she didn’t want Seth to hear about this little tête-à-tête from anyone but her.
Peter took a long sip of his wine and then set down the glass. “My firm is planning to start talks with Bates College about endowing a chair in the English department.”
“That’s great,” she said, truly impressed. Peter’s firm must really be successful if they could afford to fund a professorship, even at a small college like Bates. “The college intends to beef up its STEM classes, but it’s foolish to ignore the liberal arts completely. There needs to be a balance between the two.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Peter said, “because as part of our negotiations, I’ll tell the college we want you to have the position.”
“Me?” If he’d said he wanted to give her a seat on a mission to colonize Mars, she couldn’t have been more surprised.
“Why not you?” Peter said. “You’ve got a master’s degree. You’ve been published. Now, don’t look so surprised. I checked up on you. Your paper on the novels of Jane Austen is highly regarded in academic circles. You’re more than qualified to teach at the college level.”
“I never thought about it that way.” She sipped the wine. It was full-bodied and buttery, and left her mouth with a crisp note of citrus. “I suppose I am qualified.”
“Of course you are, Ange. More than qualified,” he said. “Honestly, wouldn’t you rather be teaching Shakespeare to English majors instead of high school punks?”
“My kids aren’t punks. But I’d probably get less pushback from older students,” she admitted. Elizabethan English was tough for some of her pupils. A few were barely reading at grade level anyway. “But if they don’t get Shakespeare from me, a lot of my high school students won’t ever be exposed to it.”
“They might not ever be exposed to cholera either, but I doubt you’d hear them complain.”
She leaned forward. “You don’t understand. Shakespeare is good for them. It’s like . . . taking vitamins for the mind. When you have to work to understand something, it stretches you. Then when the light goes on and the kids finally make sense of it, they feel so good about themselves. They’ve worked hard and they’ve accomplished something,” Angie said with a contented sigh. “It’s rewarding in a way that I don’t think could be matched by teaching older students.”
“Oh, I bet some older students could use some stretching, too.”
She nodded slightly, conceding his point. A number of students at Bates were probably coasting through their classes. If she were their professor, they wouldn’t be. When Angie had decided to be a teacher, she’d also decided to be a tough one. Those were the ones she remembered. The ones who’d challenged her, who taught her to question and reason things out. She wanted to pass on the gift of critical judgment and independent thought to her students, whatever their grade level.
“Say you’ll think about it,” Peter urged. “The salary bump alone is considerable.”
He slid a piece of paper across the table to her. The figure he’d written on it was more than double her current pay.
“And let’s face it,” he added. “Which sounds better—high school teacher or tenured college professor?”
When Angie imagined the lively discussions she could have with students who took literature seriously, the offer was tempting. But she didn’t like the idea of being beholden to Peter for her livelihood.
Seth would probably like it even less.
“I’ll think about it,” she promised. That was true as far as it went. She wouldn’t agree to it, but she’d think about it. Especially on days when her ninth graders were giving her a tough time.
Oh, my gosh. I’m parsing my words like a lawyer.
“No, you know what?” she said, sitting up straight and putting down her wineglass. “That’s not entirely honest. I won’t take the position and no amount of thinking about it will change my mind.”
“Why not?”
“If you attach strings to the endowment so the college can’t hire whomever they want, you’ve hobbled the English department’s academic freedom. That’s not right,” she said. “And I can’t accept something, not even a professorship, that’s just handed to me.”
“I don’t understand your objection,” Peter said. “People do things like this all the time.”
“Not this people. If the college offered me a position under those circumstances and I accepted it, I’d have no integrity. How can I teach my students that things that are difficult to achieve are still worth having if my job was given to me as a favor?” she said. “Someday, I may teach at the college, but if I do, it’ll be because I worked my way there. Because I earned my place, not because you bribed Bates to hire me.”
“Ange, it’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.”
“Wow. When you claim the moral high ground, you take no prisoners,” he said. “What’s gotten into you? You didn’t used to be so black and white, so . . . rigid.”
“I am not rigid,” she said, aware that her affronted tone made her sound precisely that. “Look, I know not everything is black and white. There are gray areas. But there’s far less gray out there than you think.”
“God help us poor lawyers, then,” Peter said with a chuckle. “Those gray areas are where we make our living.”
“Look, Peter, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me and I hope your firm will gift the college with another English chair. They need it,” she said, thinking about the one professor Bates already had. According to Crystal, Dr. Barclay loved to push the boundaries with experimental and radical means of expression. Someone who loved the classics would provide a nice balance. “But please don’t insist on my filling the position.”
“You’re sure it wouldn’t make you happy?”
She sighed. It might make her happy at first, and she could certainly use the extra pay, but in
the long run, if she hadn’t earned the job, she wouldn’t be okay with it. Angie slowly shook her head.
“Then you’re right to turn it down,” he said.
She knew Peter well enough to recognize this as a strategic retreat. He hadn’t abandoned his position yet.
“To be honest, Ange, I guess I was just looking for a way to make it up to you for . . . well, for how things ended between us.”
Angie snorted. “And you thought giving me a leg up on my career would make everything all right? That’s a little like saying . . . oh, I don’t know . . . something like ‘Hey, I nearly sliced off your finger and it’s dangling by a tendon. Here, have a Band-Aid.’ ”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could stuff them back in. They were an admission of how deeply he’d hurt her. They laid her pain bare.
Peter didn’t say anything for about half a minute. “I was an ass.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Probably still am.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Feel free to dispute the point.” When she still didn’t speak, he went on. “All right. I’m not the best one to judge whether or not I’m still an ass since . . . well, let’s just say my moral compass hasn’t been what it should be for a long while.”
“Might be from hanging out in the gray area all the time.”
“You’re probably right. Seems you usually are,” he said. “Let’s change the subject before I downgrade myself from ass to total waste of skin.”
That made her laugh. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me about that Christmas pageant of yours.”
“Do I have to?” she said with a sigh.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really.” Then because Angie believed in being truthful, she went on, “It’s just not going quite as planned.”
“Few things do,” Peter said, raising his glass again and refilling hers. “I expected to be toasting Bates College’s newest professor tonight and now look at me. Trying to escape being labeled a human toxic waste dump.”
“I never said any such thing,” Angie said. “Let it go.”
“Only if you tell me about that pageant of yours,” he said. “I can see it’s preying on your mind. Tell me. Is that thing that resembles a broken-down manger at the lakeside park part of the problem?”
“Only part.” Angie told him how Junior had demolished the manger with his truck, a bale of straw, and a couple of ropes. “But don’t worry. Seth can fix it.”
Angie expected him to say something snide about Seth, but he didn’t. Maybe Peter was more mature than she thought. Instead, Peter started asking where the pageant would be held, at the park or on the Square.
“It’s always been on the Square. Even though there’s more room at the park, the Square location is about the only thing I’m not changing this year. I have to keep it on the Square.” She told him about her casting choices for the pageant and how excited she was about the budding friendship between the Muslim math professor and the Jewish merchant she’d cast as magi.
“Wow, I didn’t expect a place as ‘white bread’ as Coldwater Cove to have that much diversity,” Peter said.
“Wait till you see our Asian Angel of the Lord. She’s going to be terrifyingly gorgeous,” Angie said. “And yes, I cast all of them partly because I want the pageant to show that the town embraces people of all races and faiths.”
“Commendable.”
Christian, she almost said, but towns couldn’t be Christian. Only individual people could. Then she described what she thought would be the crowning glory of the pageant—Riley Addleberry’s appearance as the star. She was so caught up in her vision of the child floating toward the courthouse that she didn’t even feel her phone vibrating in the clutch she’d set next to her hip in the padded chair.
Peter seemed truly interested in all the pageant details, which surprised her to pieces. So she shared with him her hope that casting the Addleberry family would lead to a reconciliation between Riley’s estranged parents before Christmas.
“Fixing a breakup?” Peter grimaced. “That’s asking a lot of a Christmas play.”
“That’s what Seth said.”
“He’s smarter than he looks, then.”
Maybe Peter’s not so mature after all.
Then it hit her.
“Oh! Seth! Oh, no!” She grabbed her phone to check the time. She’d overstayed by a lot. The thirty minutes she’d allotted to Peter had turned into nearly sixty. “Thanks for the wine and . . . and for the Bates offer. I do appreciate it but—”
“No need to hurry off,” he cut in.
“Oh, yes, there is. I’m late. Oh, gosh, I’m so late.” She rose so quickly, she knocked the chair behind her backward. “I’ve got to go.”
Angie practically flew out the door. Her heels were slowing her down, so she kicked them off and ran across the Square, clutching the strappy shoes to her chest. She was so intent on getting home quickly she didn’t even feel the cold sidewalk under her bare feet. She unlocked the front door that opened down at street level and took the dark steps up to her apartment as fast as she could. When she hit her living room, she turned on the light.
That’s when she heard the banging noise. Someone was pounding on her back door.
“Coming!”
The pounding grew more insistent.
“Oh, no. Oh, Seth,” she mumbled as she skittered into the kitchen and threw open the back door.
Most evenings, he dressed down, rocking a plaid shirt and jeans. On his well-muscled body, they just worked. By anyone’s measure, Seth Parker was hot, no matter what he wore. This evening, Seth had gone to the trouble of trying to look “date nice.” His dark hair was still a little damp from his shower and he smelled wonderfully of leather and spice and clean male. His open collar shirt was topped by a well-tailored sports coat and his dark blue jeans were crisp and new.
“There you are,” she said, trying not to let him see how short of breath she was.
“Yeah, here I are,” he said with a trace of sarcasm. “Where were you? I’ve been here five minutes at least. I was about to call the cops and break in to see if you were okay.”
“Well, that’s overreacting a bit.”
“Depends.”
Oh, no. It’s never a good sign when he speaks in one word sentences.
“On what?” she asked, keeping her expression carefully neutral. She’d been told she didn’t have a poker face, but that didn’t stop her from trying to appear innocent.
Dang it all, I am innocent!
“It depends on where you were, dressed like that,” he said as he stepped over the threshold and into her little kitchen.
She swatted his chest with the back of her hand. “I’ll have you know I dressed like this for you, you big dope.”
She bent over to shove her feet back into the heels. When she straightened, Seth was just looking at her. He didn’t say a word as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh, all right, I was over at Harper’s if you must know,” she said with exasperation. “I met someone for a drink, but I’m here now and—”
“Who?”
“Whom?” she corrected.
“Really?” he said. “You want to play it like that?”
He was right. Seth had the moral high ground. She had technically been out with another guy, for however brief a time. Trying to fix his grammar wouldn’t save her now. Her only play left was outrage.
“You know, if I want to meet a friend for a drink, I don’t need to ask for your permission.”
“A friend,” he repeated. “Is that what you’re calling Peter Manning now?”
“How do you know I was with him?” Even the Methodist prayer chain couldn’t spread the word that fast.
“I saw his girly little roadster parked in front of Harper’s when I came around the Square. Then when I find you’re not home, well, I may be a few bricks short of a load when it comes t
o your literature stuff, but I can add two and two,” he said, his jaw tense. “Why, Angie?”
It was so unfair for him to be angry. She hadn’t done anything. Not really. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Seth.”
He didn’t exactly flinch, but pain flicked across his face all the same.
“No. You don’t owe me anything I guess,” he said slowly. “My mistake.”
Then he turned and left without another word.
Chapter 27
Treating a woman like a princess don’t work no more. You gotta treat her like a queen.
—Lester Scott, who’s not the best one to give advice on women
Seth slapped a putty knife full of spackle on the freshly hung drywall and spread it more or less evenly. His crew would be surprised when they came in tomorrow morning to find the classroom walls had been mudded and taped and were ready to sand before painting.
“There you are,” Lester said, as he pushed back the plastic sheeting that covered the entrance and joined Seth in the unfinished classroom. He picked his way across the floor, careful not to trip on the wires that powered the flood lights Seth had rigged up to illuminate his work. “Been lookin’ for you, boy.”
“Why? I told you to go on home.” Seth turned back to mudding the drywall. He had hired Lester to serve dinner at his house again that evening, but when he and Angie had their blowup, he couldn’t bear to go back to his ranch house and face the old man without her. He hadn’t confided in Lester that he’d hoped to propose that night, but the veteran had guessed and was full of suggestions Seth hadn’t been able to put to use. After Seth had stormed out of Angie’s place, he’d called Lester and told him to pack up the dinner, blow out the candles and take the leftovers home with him.
Seth didn’t care if he ever saw another broiled lobster tail again.
“You deaf, boy?” Lester said. “I asked what you’re doing.”
“What’s it look like? We’re behind on this project. I’m trying to catch up.” He smacked the wall with his putty knife harder than necessary.
“Easy, son. That wall didn’t do nothin’ to ya,” Lester said. “So what happened with the girl this time? She blow you off again?”