by Jill Winters
"Me? I didn't do anything," Reese replied. "Look, I just... it's hard to explain. I don't really feel like getting into it right now."
"But—"
"Anyway, it's not like Kenneth and I are having an official relationship."
"Well, not yet, but I thought—"
"You thought I could get my 'hooks' into a nice, quiet intellectual, I know." Joanna didn't bother denying the charge. "Face it, Mom, the only reason you like Kenneth so much is because he reminds you of Remmi Collindyne's husband. You even said so."
"That's not true!"
"Uh-huh."
"Yes, he has a similar demeanor as Remmi's husband—who's a wonderful provider, by the way—but I like Kenneth for who he is."
"You met him once."
Joanna held up her hands. "Honey, if it doesn't work out with Kenneth, so be it. That's fine. But I don't want you to ruin an opportunity, that's all. You need a man who's sweet and smart, and one who'll put up with all your quirks."
"Mom, please—what quirks?" Suddenly Joanna got all wide-eyed and shrug-crazy. And Reese decided she didn't really want the answer anyway. Besides, it was futile to reason with her on the subject of men, because no matter what Joanna said, she was obsessed with Reese "hooking" Kenneth Peel, and she was obsessed with emulating the Goldwood Women's Club president, Remmi Collindyne, and her self-proclaimed picture-perfect life.
Reese said, "Fine, I’ll keep my eye out. Now let's drop it."
"But you've got to be open-minded, honey." Mom's version of dropping it. "You're not gonna have a solid relationship unless you give people a chance." People meaning Kenneth. Very subtle, my mother.
"And, I mean, you've got to take some chances, sweetheart," Joanna was saying. "You know, you've gotta be in it, to win it."
She's applying Lotto slogans to my love life—this is getting depressing. "Let's change the subject, okay?" Reese asked, stopping just short of begging.
"Okay, okay," Joanna said, holding up her hands even higher. "Fine, whatever you want. I'm only trying to help you."
Reese locked her jaw and fixed her eyes on the TV screen—or more specifically, on Rodney and Claire, who were now smashing wedding cake all over each other's faces, getting icing clogged up each other's noses, and laughing like it was hilarious.
"They're cute," Joanna remarked. "I predict that they'll make it, because he's so devoted to her. And if he's an architect, there's no way she'll let him go."
"Mmm-hmm."
"By the way, you brought your laptop home, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
Joanna shrugged. "Just so that way you'll be able to work on your dissertation while you're home. The sooner you finish, the sooner I'll be able to call you 'doctor.'" She followed up with a trying-too-hard smile that was intended as nagging compensation. Reese feebly smiled back (okay, smirked).
Then she thought about her nonexistent doctoral thesis, and felt the familiar coiling of stress in her abdomen. God, she had less than zero interest in working on it. Even worse, she had no discipline, which meant it was never going to happen. Plus, she was more determined than ever to start her novel.
And even if all she ever had to show for it was determination, that was still more than she had to show for her dissertation.
But of course she couldn't explain any of this to her mother. Joanna would never understand. She'd only wonder why Reese was wasting her time with a fantasy when she was already spread way too thin with classes, Kimble, and shifts at Roland & Fisk.
"Do you want some tea?" Joanna asked, motioning with her World's Greatest Mere mug. "I have leaves from Cannes that are supposed to cleanse the system of toxins." Reese cocked her head, and her mother qualified, "I'm making some for myself, too. I thought you'd like to join me, that's all."
Reese grinned. "Okay, actually that sounds good. I'll go say hi to Dad and meet you back here in five minutes." Joanna pushed off her quilt, and both of them headed up the three steps to the kitchen, which was separated only by a stone half wall and a hanging plant.
Joanna went to fill her kettle, while Reese continued around the bend and down the front hall. "Honey!" she heard her mother's voice call out.
"Yeah?" When she turned back, she saw her mother standing in the open archway of the kitchen, with her soft, round body and haphazard golden hair that looked vaguely familiar.
"I'm just so glad you're home," she said, smiling.
* * *
Reese found her dad at his large oak desk, paying bills, smoking a pipe that smelled of pinewood and dried cherries. "Hi!" he greeted enthusiastically when he saw her crossing the thick navy carpet.
"Hey, Dad, how are you?" She met him halfway for a hug.
"Oh, I'm fine. Just paying the bills." She'd been hearing that refrain for twenty-seven years, so she'd already guessed that. In fact, she was well aware that virtually all Michael Brock did was pay bills, and virtually all Joanna Brock did was "sacrifice and slave." It was all very much common knowledge in the household.
She did a double take when she spotted Poor Richard's Almanac on the corner of her father's desk. "Oh, no, Dad." She grimaced. "Not again."
"What?"
"You're not back on that Ben Franklin kick, are you?" She motioned to the book with her hand, and sank into an adjacent high-backed chair.
"Oh, that," he said calmly. "It's not a kick. I was just looking through some of my books, and I rediscovered this one. I think it has some timeless insights, that's all."
"Mmm-hmm." It was hard not to be skeptical; the last time her father had reread Poor Richard's Almanac, he'd gone around quoting truisms like there was no tomorrow. She could only hope he'd learned to internalize his love for the book this time around.
"So how is your doctoral work coming?" Michael asked with interest in his voice, and what Reese recognized immediately as pride. Her gut churned. Damn it, why did that Ph.D. have to mean so much to her parents? And why did it suddenly have to mean so little to her? "Is your thesis coming along?" he asked.
"Yep," she said cheerfully, lying through her gritted teeth.
He nodded. "I'm glad. You know, your mother and I are so proud of you."
She swallowed and forced a smile. "I know, Dad."
"I've always regretted not finishing my master's degree," he went on, stroking the bowl of his pipe and looking up at the ceiling. "But your mother was pregnant with Angela, and other things took precedence. I wouldn't have had it any other way, of course. But still, it means so much to her and I that you've accomplished what we never could, and more."
Reese shrank guiltily in her seat. Could her parents just rip her heart out and stick it in the waffle iron?
"But enough of my musing," Michael said. "Now tell me, how's that professor you work for?"
Hmm... "Stalinesque" might be too academic, but "fat and ugly" seemed like a low blow. "He's okay, I guess," Reese said on a sigh. Really, she wasn't looking to complain, but sometimes just thinking about Professor Kimble could give her anxiety. The man was such a textbook washed-up hack with a diva complex, it bordered on ridiculous. Apparently he'd peaked with his first (and only) book the year he'd gotten tenure, and now, twelve years later, he was still desperately trying to achieve another academic publication before he officially became the laughingstock of the elitist, backstabbing history department.
This was Reese's third semester working for him, and she'd probably have a couple more to go, so she was trying to make the best of it. Next year she'd be ABD—or All but Dissertation—which meant she'd have completed her own course work and could focus solely on her doctoral thesis. Or that was what it meant to the average student. Since she was on fellowship, however, it meant that she'd have even more free time to do Kimble's bidding.
At least she had this break. Over winter vacation she planned to avoid even thinking about school. No Kimble. No bidding. She wondered if she deserved that kind of pleasure, but even if she didn't, she was still going to snatch it up with abandon.
"What's
he got you working on now?" her dad asked.
"Well, I'm sort of ghostwriting most of his next book," she said, trying to keep the dread out of her voice.
"Ghostwriting?" he echoed, a little annoyed. "What kind of job is that? Are you even going to get any credit?"
"Nope. None." Okay, so much for not complaining. Hey, she'd tried... sort of.
Michael shook his head and brought his lighter to his pipe. Through serene-smelling puffs he said, "I've got to tell you, sweetheart, I don't like this guy."
"Nobody does. We had a department party last week, and everyone was invited with a guest. The entire faculty brought their significant others, but you know who Professor Kimble brought? No one. He went alone, misquoting something from Emerson about the essence of the individual."
Reese's father tilted his head, as if considering it, and said, "Well, there's nothing wrong with that, I suppose."
"Please, Dad, who's buying it?" He chuckled. "In fact, the rumor was, Kimble just couldn't find anyone to take—not one single person who could bear to spend a whole evening in his company." Not a rumor, really. Reese had come up with that theory herself. But she'd told Angela, who'd told Ally, and they'd all talked about it, so as far as she was concerned, that qualified as a grapevine.
Anyway, there was no way she believed Kimble's explanation. Not that she'd heard it firsthand, of course. Kenneth had told her about the party, because Reese hadn't been able to go. Kimble had put her on some draconian deadline for the sixth chapter of his book, and she had had to work day and night to make it.
Funny how Kenneth didn't seem to have half as much work to do for their professor as Reese did, but it wasn't his fault that Kimble was a sexist. Sure, Kimble couldn't act on it within the hyper politically correct walls of academe, where exhibiting blatant social bias was a sign of lower intelligence. But Reese could tell, at the core, Kimble was a good ol' boy who resented women for infiltrating the university and then far surpassing his own achievements.
But really, how hard was that to do? The man had "written" one book about the history of the BB gun twelve years ago, and now was forcing a twenty-seven-year-old student to compose another uninspiring treatise in his name. Surprisingly, it gave Reese little pleasure to know that despite her efforts, Kimble's book was just so dull and pointless it would ultimately be publishable only by a masochist. And even that was a gamble.
"The guy is desperate," she muttered.
"I take your word on that," Michael said, nodding.
"So what's this book about? The one that you're writing?"
"Oh... it's... well, it's sort of tedious."
Amiably, her father said, "Don't worry; I'm resilient. Let's hear it."
"Well, let's see... the basic thesis of Kimble's book is that history teaches people what they can learn about the discovery of the past."
Michael furrowed his eyebrows, confused—as well he should've been—and said, "I don't think I follow."
"Yeah, it's probably best not to try."
"Isn't that sort of the definition of history?"
"Uh, pretty much."
He squinted, still perplexed, and Reese shook her head. "I know, Dad. Believe me, I know."
"So is that his whole 'argument'?" Michael snorted. "Well, what are you supposed to do with that?"
She shrugged. "I don't know, this and that. Whatever fills the page, usually. But it's not all me. Professor Kimble usually gives me some notes or tapes of dictation, stuff like that."
"But what notes? I mean, what sources is the man using?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised how many books there are to misappropriate passages from." A small laugh burst suddenly from her throat, and then her father cracked up, too. When you really think about it, hell, it is ridiculous. Sort of like my life.
Michael chuckled a little more. He shook his head, puffed his dried-cherry pipe twice, and stated, "As I said, sweetheart, I don't like this guy."
Jill Winters is a summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Boston College. She has published five novels with Penguin Group, which have been featured on Barnes & Noble's Bestseller Lists and Booksense's Top Ten. Her debut novel, Plum Girl, was a finalist for the Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence. In addition to reissuing her backlist, Jill is hard at work on a new mystery series. Stay tuned for the first book in the series, The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle, coming soon! In the meantime, you can find updates from Jill on Facebook and Twitter, or reach her via email, at her website: www.jillwinters.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dear Reader
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part II
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Excerpt from BLUSHING PINK by Jill Winters
Meet Jill Winters
