“I’ll put a couple of gooey, frosting-loaded cinnamon rolls in the box for you to take to him tomorrow. Maybe you won’t even have to apologize—he’ll know what you’re trying to say. You messed up, and this is a sweet way to say you’re sorry.”
Ethel set the timer for ten minutes—the duration of Katherine’s dough-kneading workout.
“It’s useless to argue with you, Grandma. But, I want you to know that I’ve learned something from this lesson.”
“Oh, what have you learned?” Ethel pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose.
“The next time I get a B and complain to a professor about it, I’m not going to tell you.”
She didn’t know why Katherine had to be so spiteful. “Just wait, honey, the cinnamon rolls are going to work like a charm.”
Ж
Ethel knew her granddaughter’s morning routine. While Katherine brushed her teeth, she hurried to the kitchen and waited, holding the box of cinnamon rolls, ready for the hand-off. Katherine strolled through the doorway from the living room and, kissed her on the cheek, and it was then that the exchange was made.
Her granddaughter promptly set the box down on the table and opened the fridge.
“What’s something I can take for a healthy snack?” She peered inside.
“Raisins. I just bought some of those snack-sized boxes.” Ethel turned, opened the snack drawer, wrestled a box free from the packaging, and tossed it to her.
“Love you, Grandma. Thanks for breakfast.” Katherine waved.
“Love you, honey.” Ethel glanced at the corner of the table. The box was gone. Good, she’d taken it. From the picture window, which overlooked the backyard, Ethel watched her granddaughter close the picket gate and then head west toward campus. With her right elbow propped against her side, she definitely carried the shoebox.
Ethel giggled and sat down to enjoy her remaining cup of coffee. She reached for the crossword puzzle book that she kept in the napkin holder next to the Scrabble dictionary. Crossword calisthenics were good for the aging brain. She slid a pencil behind one ear and glanced toward her gardening hats in the backroom. She’d work in the yard a little this morning while the sky was blue. That is after she filled in, at least, three words.
“What’s a five-letter word for a common pantry item? Hmmm…” Her gaze traveled about the small, white, boxy kitchen. “Salt… no, that’s four letters.” Something pink caught her eye. Backtracking, she scanned the top of the fridge. There sat the box of cinnamon rolls. Katherine! She’d tucked it there, and had only pretended to be carrying the box. That girl!
I’ll show her.
Ethel changed into her lime-green T-shirt, the one that her good friend Sharon had puff painted a row of pansies on right above the chest area, and her comfy elastic-waistband denim. As soon as she returned home, she planned to garden before it rained. May weather on the Palouse was unpredictable; blue skies were a gift.
She dialed the university and waited with her pencil ready. “Can you tell me where Professor Benton’s office is? B… as in Benton,” she told the receptionist.
“His office is located on the third floor of the Administration Building. The hall secretary will direct you.”
“Thank you.” Ethel smiled. She was partial to the Admin, a lovely old brick building with a clock tower.
In the back room, she donned her wide-brimmed straw hat—the one with the checkered yellow-and-white ribbon and a cluster of plastic strawberries pinned to the side. Halfway between the house and her red Chevy Nova, Ethel paused to pray. “Dear Lord, please don’t let her see me. If Katherine was as awful as she says, a little sweetness is not going to hurt, amen.”
Ethel headed west out of her gravel drive. A half mile later, the vast lawns and towering elm trees of the U of I campus came into view. With both hands on the wheel, she concentrated on finding a parking spot near the century-old brick building. Six minutes elapsed as she drove her car around and around the five-lane lot. How frustrating. As always, there were plenty of handicapped parking spaces available. Latah County should change at least half of their handicapped spaces to also accommodate senior citizens. The signs could have a turtle with a cane for the emblem. Being elderly was often a handicap.
Ethel finally gave up the search and parked in a handicapped space. She’d heard once that the U of I made so much money from their parking fees that they were able to pay off their new four-story library. It sounded a little far-fetched to her. Maybe they didn’t have enough parking on purpose. She tucked the box of cinnamon rolls beneath her arm and ambled toward the side entrance. Inside the building, an expansive granite stairwell greeted her. Three flights! What the old place needed was an escalator, like at the big, fancy department stores in Spokane.
Ethel made it to the third floor only slightly out of breath. She walked to the end of the wide corridor. A middle-aged woman with tight, curly hair and good posture sat at a desk. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Professor Benton’s office.” Ethel patted the shoebox beneath her arm.
“It’s at the end of the hallway.” The secretary peered over her bifocals at Ethel as she pointed to her left. “Professor Benton’s door is the one with the yellow paper in the window.”
“Is he in?” Maybe she should take off her hat.
“Yes, his office hours this morning are from eight thirty to nine thirty.”
She thought he’d be busy professing. Ethel rummaged through her purse and found her late husband’s old cigarillo tin, in which she stored a pad of neon-pink sticky notes and a mini blue ink pen. She wrote a simple note, stuck it to the box, and set it down on the corner of the desk. Taking a step back, she pondered the package. The bright pink-and-white box appeared so innocent. It was the message that read: From, Katherine King that Professor B. might find threatening.
He’d think it was a bomb.
What had Katherine said? I was not a good loser. I was not diplomatic. Ethel crumpled the note, thanked the secretary for her time, and started down the hallway toward his office. Up close the yellow paper read: “Quinn Benton, Ph.D. Professor of History.” Despite what Katherine had said about him, his title sounded smart enough. She rapped twice on the wooden door.
“Come in.”
She paused. What in the world was she going to say? She glanced over her shoulder. The secretary was watching her over the top of her bifocals—shoot! There was no going back. Katherine would hear about it, and she’d be livid.
Seated with his back to her, the dark-haired professor busily penned something.
Ethel closed the door behind her. The small room was more like a walk-in closet than an office. Similar to Katherine’s style of decorating, books were squished into shelves and, piled on top of the desk, the filing cabinet, and even the tiny windowsill.
The professor glanced over his shoulder at her. He was much younger than she’d expected. His hair wasn’t a toupee, but a natural, deep brown. He smiled—the easy, effortless smile of a kindred spirit. How could Katherine not like the man?
Chapter Three
Quinn Benton spun his chair a quarter turn. A lean, elderly woman wearing a wide-brimmed gardening hat closed his office door behind her. She cradled a pink shoebox under one arm.
“Hello.” He smiled. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m here because of my granddaughter.” She patted the shoebox and ambled toward him. “We made you cinnamon rolls.” She set the box on top of a pile of nearby textbooks and, removing her hat, sat down in the chair kitty-corner to his desk. Her permanent tight curls were a mix of mousy brown and gray.
He hoped her granddaughter wasn’t Angel LeFave. She’d already visited his office thrice this semester.
“I’m Quinn Benton.” Leaning forward, he extended his right hand.
“I’m Ethel.” She gave his hand a firm shake. Her round, pale blue eyes were oddly familiar. “To be honest, I expected some grouchy old miser with white hair and a pop belly.�
�
“Do you mean potbelly?” He suppressed a chuckle.
Her skimpy brows gathered. “Oh, pooh, I’ve been saying it wrong for years.”
“Is that how your granddaughter described me?”
“No. Um, she didn’t describe your outward appearance. She’s more into describing people’s brains and… intelligence.”
“Who is your granddaughter?” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair.
“She’s one of your brightest students.” She nudged her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose.
Definitely not Angel, though grandmothers were usually biased.
“She came home yesterday in tears.”
Yesterday, three out of the four female students in his Civil War class had visited his office to complain about their grade, and Angel had been one of them.
“Stubbornness is a strong King trait,” Ethel said, dropping the bomb.
The pen he’d been holding catapulted out of his grip and bounced across his desk. Otherwise, he tried to appear natural. “King, as in Katherine King?” After she’d made her D-day comment, Katherine’s round blue eyes had nearly popped out of her head.
“While stubbornness is a strong King trait, so are brilliance and fortitude.” There was a soft cadence to the elderly woman’s voice. “Kings are also known for their compassion. Though Katherine’s strong competitive spirit sometimes gets in the way.”
“Did you say Katherine helped make the cinnamon rolls?” His gaze shifted to the box. Did it contain anthrax?
“She kneaded the dough for ten minutes yesterday during a study break.”
“And she knows you’re delivering them to me?”
“Not exactly.” Ethel’s mouth bunched. “I thought she’d taken the cinnamon rolls with her this morning, but when I was enjoying my cup of coffee, I saw the box sitting on top of the fridge. Of all places.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “So she intentionally forgot it.”
“I suppose there is a slight possibility that she forgot, though our Katherine rarely forgets a thing.” She nudged her glasses higher up her nose. “She’s always had an enormous memory.”
Dennis Evans, a good friend, and fellow professor, referred to Katherine’s academic ability as sagacious and, as her adviser was encouraging her to pursue her doctorate.
“The rolls are from you, Mrs. King, not your granddaughter.”
“Yes, Katherine thought the cinnamon rolls would be brownnosing.” Ethel’s chin lifted. “But I told her they could be a sweet way to say she’s sorry.”
“Is she?”
“She cried. She said—”
“Mrs. King”—he suppressed a chuckle—“your granddaughter is very fixated on her grades. If she cried, it was solely on account of the B, not because of the way she handled herself in my office.”
Mrs. King’s gaze traveled from his slightly wrinkled polo collar to his bare left hand. He’d been in a hurry this morning and grabbed the shirt from the to-iron pile.
“Please call me Ethel. And, you’re right, Katherine didn’t cry-cry. She’s a King. In case she hasn’t told you, the name’s derived from nobility, not apples. Kings rarely cry.”
Wait till he told Evans about this visitor.
“She intends to apologize . . . when the time is right, for her, um…” Ethel tipped back her head and studied the antique-white ceiling. “Her lack of diplomacy.”
“Is that how she worded it?”
“Yes. Katherine’s passion is history and being excellent at it, Mr. …” Ethel’s gaze scanned his desk. “She’s brilliant, not fixated. Stuck is a better word for her. Katherine gets stuck on her opinion of things…”
“I agree with you.” He nodded. “Your granddaughter is brilliant and stuck on her own opinion of things.”
Ethel’s wide smile exposed a dimple, one on each side of her face. She set her hat back on and tied the bow beneath her chin.
“It was her closing statement that was weak.”
“I thought I’d just be a minute, so I parked in a handicapped spot.”
“Oooh, that’s too bad. They recently raised parking fines to twenty-five dollars.”
“Twenty-five dollars!” Ethel grabbed her purse and started for the door.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. King.” He chuckled and retrieved his pen.
“You, too, Professor B.”
“Huh?” Had he heard her correctly? “Mrs. King…” The base of his chair squeaked as he swiveled.
With her hand on the doorknob, Ethel’s slightly hunched back appeared frozen. She slowly turned to face him.
“Is Professor B. what Katherine calls me?” He set his elbows on the arms of his chair and tapped the steeple area of his index fingers softly against his chin. Ethel’s wide-eyed look of alarm told him it was a genuine slip.
Katherine King had a nickname for him as well.
Chapter Four
Friday morning, Katherine made sure she didn’t arrive early to Professor Benton’s U.S history class. One minute before the bell, she took her usual seat in the second row. She arranged her notebook at a forty-five-degree angle on the T-bone-shaped melamine desk and avoided looking toward the front of the room.
“Are we still on for the movie tonight at your grandma’s?” Angel whispered.
“Yes. Seven o’clock.” Katherine glanced toward Professor Benton. Good, he wasn’t watching.
“Last night, Greg and I celebrated our three-month anniversary,” Angel whispered. “He’s been building me up for weeks about taking me someplace nice. I thought we were going to go to Alex’s in Pullman or that fancy restaurant on the hill.” She rolled her eyes. “I got all dolled up for Big Bob’s Burgers.”
“Wow. I’m sorry.”
Professor Benton cleared his throat. “Good morning, class. We left off on Wednesday with the First Battle of Bull Run.”
Katherine wrote on the edge of her notebook: “Maybe you should plan your four-month anniversary,” and angled the paper so Angel could read.
Angel nodded.
“Lincoln originally called for seventy-five thousand men to serve for three months. The day after the Union’s defeat at Bull Run, he signed another bill for the enlistment of half a million men for the next three years. As I mentioned earlier, the American Civil War was often a war of firsts. America’s first military draft being one of them.”
Angel leaned toward her. “I wonder if Big Bob’s Burgers is his idea of a romantic dinner?” she whispered.
Maybe they shouldn’t encourage Angel to see Doctor Zhivago.
“With those eyes, even Big Bob’s Burgers would be romantic.”
How could Angel even think about the man? He’d given her a D.
After two pages of notes, Katherine lifted her gaze. She had immediate eye contact with Professor B. Her stomach twisted like a wrung-out sponge. Only half the class hour had passed. Lord, help me to take my last semester one lecture at a time.
“In 1861, in the First Battle of Bull Run, there were close to five thousand casualties.” Professor Benton paused mid-sentence. Seated on the front of his desk, he appeared to be chewing something. How odd, right in the middle of his lecture, he was eating right in front of everyone. On top of his trousered knee, something white and blockish sat on a yellow paper napkin. Upon closer examination, it was a frosted cinnamon roll.
The hair on the back of Katherine’s neck stood up. It couldn’t possibly be… She leaned slightly toward Angel. Behind Professor Benton sat a bright pink Naturalizer shoebox. Grandma! She hadn’t… Her heart knotted in her chest. Crud, she had!
Ever so self-indulgently, Quinn Benton tucked the coveted section, the cinnamon roll heart, into his mouth and wiped his fingers on the napkin. He was having a field day, pretending they were delicious. They weren’t. Grandma had forgotten an important ingredient in the sweet dough, salt. And then she’d rolled it too thick and topped it with a skimpy coating of cinnamon. But the gooey cream cheese frosting had turned out all righ
t.
She must have delivered the rolls yesterday. That’s why she’d acted so strangely at dinner. Giggly and then silent. Probably wearing one of her goofy gardening hats, Grandma had pleaded for her, tried to pardon her. That’s why he toyed with her now—because he was God and he knew it.
Ж
Professor Evans ended his Lewis and Clark lecture with: “Katherine, I’d like to speak with you after class.” There were only nine students in the four-and five-hundred level course; everyone was on a first-name basis.
Ever since she’d taken History of England her freshman year, Dennis Evans had been her favorite professor. A gifted lecturer, Evans played on his English accent and often leaned toward theatrical tendencies.
Katherine moved from the second row to the first and watched as he shoved transparencies into a file two inches thick. He was six feet tall, nearing sixty, with an Uncle Sam—white, well-groomed beard.
Perhaps, he wanted to discuss the most recent exam. Please, not another B. Perhaps, she was slipping. Her final semester in the master’s program, she was losing her brain.
“Have you had a chance to review the exams?” She managed to sound matter of fact.
“As always, you received an A in my book.” He glanced up at her. “Was your exam indeed a B in Professor Benton’s?”
“Yes-sss.” She sighed. Before her visit to Professor Benton’s office, she’d confided in Evans. That was when he’d nicknamed him Professor B.
“Your first B.” Evans shook his head. Though papers squished out the sides of his bulky leather briefcase, he managed to latch it.
“In the past year, there’s been so much female traffic to Professor Benton’s office that our department chair is considering installing surveillance cameras in the hallway. Tell me, Katherine, does it have more to do with his Ph.D. being from Duke, or the fact that he’s a young, good-looking, local boy?”
Wow . . . Duke! He must be more intelligent than met the eye.
“What do you mean local?”
Sticky Notes - A clean romance (Ethel King Series Book 1) Page 2
