by Ann Warner
“We still need to figure out what we’re going to do,” she said.
“I thought we had.”
She tipped her chin to meet his eyes.
“We’re going to San Francisco, and. . . ” His voice drifted to a halt.
Her world sped up, then abruptly slowed. Images that had been hurtling by too quickly for her to identify came into stark focus. Beyond the clear blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair. Beyond the breadth of his shoulders and the corded muscles of his arms, how well did she know this man? And was this what being married to him would be like? Sudden announcements—he’d bought a house, a car, changed jobs—without it ever occurring to him to consult her before he did it?
A fleck of lint clung to the side of his mouth, and her eyes locked on that speck.
“What?” Greg swiped at his face, dislodging the lint.
Kathy blinked, noticing for the first time his hair was beginning to thin at the temples. A sudden image of Greg with thinning hair and an expanding paunch made her smile.
He grinned back. “Good. It’s settled.”
She closed her eyes, shutting out the vivid blue of the sky and the fresh spring green, struggling to come to terms with the idea.
“You’re scaring me, babe. Come on. It’s not the end of the world, you know.”
But it was the end of something.
“What can I do to make this easier for you?”
She wished she knew.
~ ~ ~
Later she decided if this had happened to a friend—the friend’s fiancé announcing a major decision without any consideration for her friend’s wants and needs—she’d have advised that friend to tell the fiancé, now downgraded to eye-of-newt, what he could do with his decision.
But look at her. Note how she’d handled her fiancé’s announcement—made without any concern for her dreams and hopes—that they were moving to San Francisco.
Yeah, just look at her.
She was packing.
And why was that, exactly?
Because she loved him, of course. It was their first. . . no not a fight. A difference of opinion. He hadn’t stopped to think, but once he did, he’d apologized. Sincerely.
Sitting next to him, listening to his reasons, seeing how much he wanted to go to San Francisco, she’d been unable to deny him.
Compromise. Essential to any relationship. This time, his turn to get what he wanted, next time, hers. Sacrificing for someone you loved was noble. And since that afternoon, they’d worked things out. Everything was fine again. Would be fine. The bright glow had dimmed only a little. After all, his dedication to his career was one of the things she loved about him.
She’d dated enough to know a man who treated her with such care and thoughtfulness—well, most of the time—wasn’t as rare as hens’ teeth. But men like that sure weren’t thick on the ground either.
With a sigh, she opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, lifted out a pile of sweaters, and plopped them willy-nilly into one of the cartons Greg had dropped off.
San Francisco. It was, as he’d pointed out, only two years. She could manage two years. Except. . .
She froze in the act of adding a pair of jeans to the sweaters and sat back on her heels. How could she have overlooked that one, casual line. “My pick of positions when I finish.”
She’d been so focused on the main issue of the move, she’d let him slip right by her the hint that after his residency he might accept a position someplace he considered more prestigious than Denver.
But would he, really?
Before he announced his plan to go to San Francisco, she would have said, no way.
And now?
She narrowed her eyes, staring at the photo of Greg on the small table to her right.
Darn right he would.
So, was this how she planned to handle it? Pack and meekly tag along? As if everything she wanted, needed, was unimportant when stacked up against Greg’s “career.”
Startled, she stared at the shreds of cardboard in her hands and realized she was halfway through tearing apart a box.
Listen to your heart, Kathleen. It’s telling you what to do.
This was certainly a fine time for her Emily tape to start.
Except, it was really. The exact right time.
Because whenever she was confused or worried, all she needed to do was tap into an Emily memory or dig out one of Emily’s diaries, the way some people did the Bible. She’d pick up one of the small, leather books, open it at random and read. It always calmed her and, from that calm, her answer would come.
“Kathy dear, how is the packing coming?”
Kathy’s tiny landlady stood in the doorway, her halo of white hair backlit by light from the hallway.
Kathy shifted her gaze from Mrs. Costello to the shreds of cardboard she was still holding. “Oh, just peachy.”
“That’s good to hear.” Mrs. C raised her eyebrows a notch, eyeing the demolished box. “You know, dear, we’re going to miss you something fierce when you leave.”
“Oh, and I’m going to miss you, Mrs. C.” Kathy scrambled to her feet to give her landlady, who smelled of warm bread and cinnamon, a hug. Mrs. C’s foundation garment made her feel stiff, but Kathy felt the returned affection in the pats the older woman gave her.
Mrs. C stepped back and used her apron to wipe moisture from her eyes. “What a couple of sillies we are.” She patted Kathy’s arm. “You go on with your packing, dear. You don’t want to hold up that young man of yours. I just wanted to tell you, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Kathy leaned on the doorjamb after Mrs. C left, looking at her room: the floral carpet with its pattern of pink cabbage roses, the four-poster bed with its white chenille spread, the vanity with its stiffly starched doily centered on top.
Chances were good it had looked exactly the same for at least fifty years. But maybe that was why she was so attached to it.
When she’d rented the room, she’d planned on staying only a week or two, until she found someone to share the expense of an apartment, but five years had now passed, and she was still here.
She’d stayed, not only because Mrs. C was a wonderful cook and the house only a short walk to Calico Cat Books where she worked, but because she’d grown to love the Costellos who treated her like a favorite granddaughter.
She’d even chosen to remain there after her engagement to Greg, despite his efforts to get her to move in with him. But really, it made no sense to add a forty-minute commute to each end of her day when Greg spent most of his nights at the hospital.
And did it make any more sense for her to leave a job and a city she loved for the short time Greg would be in San Francisco?
Of course, staying in Denver would mean putting off the wedding, and Greg probably wouldn’t be happy about that.
Still. . .
She closed her eyes, concentrating. I have an idea. It’s not ideal, but I know we can make it work. Why don’t I stay in Denver? You’ll be so busy at the hospital, you won’t have all that much free time anyway, so really, it makes sense. And whenever you get a break, I’ll come for a visit.
Okay, not bad. It could use sharpening, but those were the main points.
She had a sudden vivid picture of Greg running his hands through his hair the way he did when he was tired or nervous. “But if you really loved me, you’d come with me.”
Her eyes flew open. The words rang so clear, she almost expected Greg to be standing in front of her.
But was that really what he’d say?
Probably.
We’ll stay close. By writing and talking, she told the phantom Greg. Two years is nothing.
Good. His own argument used against him. Before you know it, you’ll be finished and moving back to Denver. The time will fly.
“I need to think about all this, Kitten. I didn’t expect it.”
She hated being called Kitten, but it wasn’t easy to point that out to someone who wasn’t there.
>
Chapter Three
Alan stood and stretched. Time for his first one-on-one, get-acquainted meeting with his new department head. Not something he was looking forward to after Hilstrom’s unexpected visit to his class.
He slipped his tie over his head, pulled the knot snug, then plucked his jacket from the back of the door and shrugged it on.
Hilstrom’s assistant glanced up when he walked in. “Professor Francini. My, you’re prompt. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
As she made the call, Alan shifted until the toe-dancer in the picture hanging over the assistant’s head seemed to be rising out of her tangle of gray curls. It was an amusing and curiously satisfying image; one that would have appealed to Meg.
Meg. . .
“. . . right in,” the assistant said. “She’s ready for you.”
It happened that way sometimes. A sudden vision of Meg, bending over a wildflower maybe, or taking off her hat to let the breeze blow her hair, and the real world would fade. It was a relief when the dream released him before anybody noticed his distraction.
He stepped through the doorway into the inner office and felt momentarily disoriented. The old chairman’s filing system had consisted of proliferating stacks of paper covering every available surface, and his only concession to the gods of decoration and order had been floor to ceiling bookshelves. Now all that was gone. A desk and computer work-station were tucked into a corner like an afterthought, while most of the space was given over to a chair, sofa, and coffee table ensemble.
Hilstrom greeted him, gesturing toward the sofa. He sat and glanced around, his gaze coming to rest on two framed prints on the opposite wall—a Picasso, its dark, slashing lines contrasting with a Monet, indefinite as fog. The juxtaposition hinted Hilstrom either had hidden depths—something he’d begun to doubt—or she was clueless.
He looked away from the pictures, trying to regain his focus as she picked up a folder from the desk and came to sit in the chair across from him. “I thought we might start with you telling me what you consider to be your major accomplishment in your five years here.” She sat back, ceding the floor to him.
He’d expected the question or something similar, but took a moment to gather his thoughts anyway before speaking briefly about the techniques he’d developed to teach grammar, after reading about the positive effects of music on learning.
When he stopped speaking, she waited a beat, perhaps to give him a chance to add more. When he didn’t, she spoke briskly, saying the approach sounded interesting, her favorite word it seemed.
“I see you’ll be coming up for tenure this fall. That means we need to discuss your publication record.” She glanced at the file. “It appears you’ve been writing primarily for education journals.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “What I want to know is whether you have any plans to write fiction.”
“Is that an issue?” He’d heard the rumors about Hilstrom’s plan to turn Denver State into a fiction-writing Mecca to rival Iowa; he just hadn’t completely believed it. Had chosen to label it an interesting but unlikely approach.
She pulled off her glasses and looked him in the eye. “Fiction is our future, Alan, and I don’t intend to support anyone for appointment, reappointment, tenure, or promotion who isn’t writing it.”
The shock froze him, until a welcome spurt of annoyance thawed the sudden cold. Good lord, the woman ought to be writing ad copy somewhere, not directing a large, complex department at a major university. What had the search committee and the dean been thinking? He sat back, adding distance between them.
“There’s entirely too much deadwood writing non-fiction in our tenured ranks already,” she added.
So, what was deadwood using to write its non-fiction with these days? Pen? Typewriter? Computer? He pictured a row of bare tree branches holding pens and leaning over sheets of paper and almost smiled.
She paused, apparently to allow him an opportunity to respond, but he had nothing to say.
“You’re not much of a talker.” She cocked her head and twirled her glasses examining him.
“Better to be thought a fool. . . ” He kept his tone calm and neutral, something he’d discovered was useful whether he was dealing with an agitated student, a frightened animal, or an academic administrator.
“Than to open your mouth and remove all doubt,” Hilstrom finished when he didn’t. “Yes, I do realize I’m changing the rules on you late in the game, but you have six months to make adjustments before you turn in your dossier.” She tapped the glasses on her teeth. “I know you’ll need time to think about all this. Then if you have questions or concerns, simply ask to see me.” She set his file and her peripatetic glasses on the table. “After all, that’s what I’m here for.”
Then, with a professional smile and a brief, hard handclasp, she dismissed him.
~ ~ ~
Juggling beers and hot dogs, Alan and Charles Larimore settled into their seats at Coors Field. Charles, who hated to miss even a single hamstring stretch or warm-up pitch, focused immediately on the players who were scattered around the field.
Alan took a gulp of beer. “How goes the fight against the forces of evil?”
Charles, who was a deputy district attorney, spoke without turning his head. “Another week, another fifteen drug dealers, two robbers, and a rapist back on the street.”
“You could always give up the frustration and go for the big corporate bucks.”
Charles grimaced at Alan over the rim of his beer. “Somebody’s got to be stemming the tide. Besides, most corporate law’s as dull as a machete used to chop rocks.”
“Ever think maybe there’s a good reason ‘stemming’ rhymes with ‘lemming’?”
“You’re no better. Stemming the tide of illiterate lemmings at DSU.”
They stood to let a group into the row, then sat back down.
“I met with the new chair last week.” Alan’s gut tightened as he recalled the meeting. Hilstrom was a menace.
“How’s she settling in?”
“Fine. She’s sure not someone I’d choose to be marooned with, though.”
“And let me guess who that might be. I’d have to say your horse. What’s his name again?”
“I’ll give you a personal introduction anytime you say.”
“Nope.” Charles shook his head emphatically. “Urban cowboy through and through, that’s me. Four on the floor means a gearshift, not hooves. You do realize horses are large, dangerous animals.”
It was a well-established position. Although Charles was a regular visitor to the ranch, he politely and pointedly declined any opportunity to get near a horse.
The sharp plop and crack of balls hitting gloves and bats began to punctuate their conversation.
“You need to jolly the lady along a bit,” Charles said, returning to the original subject. “Tell her she’s looking fine. Soften her up.”
A picture popped into Alan’s head of Hilstrom sliding off her chair and melting into a small colorful puddle with her glasses floating on top. Rather like the Wicked Witch of the West who, come to think of it, Hilstrom resembled.
It was one of the things Alan liked best about Charles, that the other man always said something that brought an amusing image to mind.
The amusement was short-lived, however, as Alan told Charles the rest. “She’s trying to change the tenure rules. Her entire focus is on writing fiction.”
Charles gave him the gimlet look he no doubt used to good effect on reluctant witnesses. “But that’s what you’re writing, right? It’s got to be a thousand pages by now.”
“She only counts what’s published.” His book wasn’t finished. And was never going to be. A fact he had no intention of sharing with Charles. Or anyone else.
The familiar, hollow feeling kicked in, and he tried to smother it with more beer and the last bite of hot dog.
“She can’t change the rules after the fact,” Charles said. “You can put their asses in a sling with a
suit.”
“A suit would be as hard on me as them.” No way was he suing, and Charles knew it.
“You can always try dangling the possibility of a suit. Ask the lady to document where being published in fiction was a requirement for tenure. If it wasn’t mentioned before, she doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
Charles stopped to take a gulp of beer, but Alan saw the wheels were still turning.
“Partly she may be running up a flag to see who salutes.”
“It’s politics.”
“Yeah. Not your strong suit. You don’t need to fawn. Just suck up a little.”
Alan shook his head, grimacing. “You put things so elegantly.”
“Hey, I was an English major too.”
“Then threw your lot in with obfuscators.”
“Excuse me. Legal language is renowned for its unambiguous, articulate, and erudite phraseology.”
Alan snorted, and Charles grinned before he turned serious again. “I know you fight only when it’s important to you, but you can’t let them screw you on this.”
Charles had that right.
They stood for the national anthem, and when it ended, Charles lifted his cup to signal the beer vendor. Once the fresh beers arrived, Charles took a drink, then spoke, obviously trying to sound casual. “A friend of Tiffany’s is coming for a visit. I’ve seen a picture. She’s hot. How about I set something up for the four of us next weekend?”
“I’m going to the ranch.”
“Lame, Francini.”
Alan clamped down on his irritation. This was the part of spending time with Charles he could do without. He tolerated it only because, with the exception of that one flaw, Charles was a good friend.
“You’re right. But it’s what I’m doing.” Over the years, Alan had found partial agreement more effective than giving Charles an opening to start a debate.
“I miss her too.” Charles treated the catch in his voice with a gulp of beer. “She’d want you to go out, you know.”
