After dinner, she sipped her coffee and mused, would he consider her rude to ask? Finally, with her curiosity bursting, she plunged in. “Tell me. When did you begin painting?”
He stared down at his bread pudding and cleared his throat. His jaw hardened as if made of marble. “I am not sure. All my early memories include some form of art. I colored, sketched, and painted all my life.”
His response reflected a deep sadness within him. Her own childhood memories were filled with happiness. “No wonder you’re so good. Did you have a tutor or are you self-taught?”
He wiped his mouth. “My childhood was complicated. Can we change the subject?”
Angie reached across the table and took his hand. “There is nothing you can’t tell me. I am a friend.”
He stared out the window. A lone tear ran down his cheek.
Angie squeezed his hand. “Did you come from a broken home?”
He turned back, biting his lower lip. “I loved art all my life. My dad, a Sargent in the army, hated it.” He laid his hands on the table, tightly fisted. “I never had any friends. Why try to make a friend? We moved from state to state with his career. He was embarrassed by his sissy kid.”
“How awful.”
“Yes. Very hard. I hated sports. He demanded I play baseball. He forced me to take Tae Kwando. I never achieved his love or respect.” He sighed. “Please do not make me relive this miserable past.”
“Of course, I never meant to pry. Consider the subject closed.”
They headed back to Knoxville shortly after eight o’clock. Once in the car, the professor sang and whistled all the way home.
Upon their arrival back at the cottage, he took her and walked slowly to the cabin. “Let’s have some wine and watch the moon rise.”
She had no time to object. He was back in a flash with a bottle of White Zinfandel already chilled. “Tell me about you,” he asked. She talked about her childhood, her parents, even her marriage, such as it was. She realized she was doing all the talking and most of the drinking.
“I suppose we must call it a night,” he said.
As she rose to her feet, she found her wrapped in his arms, as he kissed her with a deep passion. It lingered. She allowed the moment. Then she realized how wrong this seemed and pushed away. “I’m sorry. I’m married. We shouldn’t have.”
“I apologize. I’m sorry too.” He pulled her closer and put his arm around her shoulder. “It won’t happen again. I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I met you. Now it’s out of my system.” He ran his hand over her cheek. “This has been a wonderful day. You can’t know how much your presence means to me.”
She tingled at his touch. Surprised by the warmth of his embrace, she nestled closer to him. Gazing up at the full moon, she sighed. “It was a perfect day. Thank you for such a wonderful surprise.”
“We will have many good days while you are here. Be prepared to work hard and to play even harder.”
As they reached the front porch of the log cabin, he released his grasp and gently kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, beautiful Angie.”
“Good night to you my friend.”
Whether the wine or the professor caused her elation, it was bitter sweet. She’d crossed a line and broken Jonathon’s trust. Luckily, she had the sense to stop, and the professor was gentleman enough to apologize.
He wanted to kiss me from the first day he met me. How romantic.
Such a magical day, she thought, as she stepped inside her summer abode. She was happy for the first time in an eternity. She felt so special when she spent time with him. And with his tutoring, she could do anything she desired. He was the key.
She slowly undressed. Brushing her hair, she gazed into the mirror and wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Floating to the sofa, she gazed at the painting resting against the back of the couch. A perfect example in dramatic use of watercolor, he’d wanted her to have this picture. When she returned home, it would occupy a special place of honor—over her king-sized bed—a beautiful reminder of her time in Knoxville.
Exhausted, she collapsed into bed. She needed to call Vicki and Jonathan, but her desperate need for sleep took first place. She would make her phone calls in the morning.
#
The professor loped up the stairs to his bedroom. What a delightful day. Angie would remember this day all her life. He’d thought of everything.
Paula loved Gatlinburg. And when he purchased that special watercolor painting for her, she’d melted into his arms later that same night. He could still smell her fragrant rose perfume, and see her jeweled eyes sparkle as he caressed her tenderly. She was certainly a prize. He no longer wanted Paula. He would have Angie—she would never leave him. He’d planted the aura of romance, and she bit.
Chapter 26
After two weeks of classes, Angie was exhausted, but encouraged. The professor graded her work thus far as an A+. He lavished her with praise and shocked her with a surprise invitation. She had to be ready in thirty minutes. Frantically, she tried on the third outfit she’d pulled from the closet, viewed herself in the full-length mirror, and undressed again. The outfit thrown on the bed, cast aside with the first two she had tried on. What could she wear? Why hadn’t she packed dressier clothes? Who knew she would be going out to dinner with the professor? Finally, Angie chose a long black crepe skirt, a pale pink silk blouse, and her favorite set of pearls.
The whole day had been like a fairytale. The professor continually praised her work, and informed her that she would now move into his advanced level. Then he invited her to be his guest for dinner. Tonight they were attending the art banquet at the university museum. The winners of the art show would be announced. He could have shared this experience with anyone. But, he’d chosen her. He insisted he would only go if she joined him. She accepted. Her breathing grew shallow, as excited as if her own painting was being judged. Of course, he’d place first in the competition. His watercolor deserved best in show.
She wondered about their romantic night the week before. Had she defused his interest? She hoped so. Angie checked her cell phone. No new calls from Chicago. She knew Jonathan and Vicki would be worried. She hadn’t returned their calls. But she never seemed to have any time. The professor had plans for every minute of her day. Even when she wasn’t in class with him, he was still constantly around. He insisted on giving her additional instructions, bringing her meals, and spending time with her every afternoon for tea. He’d even asked if he could begin his new exercise program by running with her in the mornings.
The rule was no phone calls until evening. By the end of the day, she was exhausted. Last night she’d fallen asleep on the couch and didn’t awake until morning. Now evening had arrived again, and she had to leave for the competition. She promised herself. When they returned tonight, she’d make those calls.
She’d left home in anger. Jonathan hadn’t understood why she had to leave. Now, her anger gone, her painful situation appeared hopeless, her marriage in ruin, her friendship with Vicki strained. How would they ever understand her motives? Would she lose everything she valued for one chance at the unfulfilled dream of her college days?
The sound of a tap-tap brought her back from the dark place her mind had gone. She raced over and flung open the door. Professor Turner filled the doorway, looking like Justin Timberlake at the Oscars, dressed in a black tuxedo, paisley blue waistband, suspenders, and matching lapel hankie.
Clutching a single red rose in his hand, he glided into the cottage and presented his gift. “Our chariot awaits, my fine lady. Please pin this rose in your hair and off we’ll go.”
“What a beautiful rose, the perfect touch for my hairdo.” Angie tucked the flower into her hair, accenting her up-do for the evening. She stepped backward and gazed at the vision standing in her doorway. He looked amazing. She had realized how handsome he was, but, wow. He wore his dark wavy hair, a tad too long. His constant five o’clock shadow, and chocolate brown eyes, c
ould make a girl forget he taught the class. She shook off this magnificent vision and said, “Are you ready to accept first place tonight?”
“I never count on winning. Last year was my first honorable mention. That result was awful. This year will be different. You are my lucky charm. We will accept the blue ribbon together. Let’s go. I’m starved.”
The banquet hall, filled with approximately four hundred patrons of the arts, glowed with golden candlelight and sparkling-silver glitter. The huge room held a sea of round tables seating eight people each. Along with the white linen cloths and napkins were centerpieces of red roses. A tall numbered-flag perched next to the bouquet to assist in the seating plan. Each invitation and ticket held the table number for the invited guests. The artists who entered the competition were seated at the front row of tables. The rectangular head table occupied by the keynote speaker, the master of ceremonies, and the six judges, faced the artists. The room rustled with voices like an orchestra warming up before a performance.
Dinner served promptly at seven o’clock, dessert and coffee dishes all cleared, time had arrived for the ceremony. The keynote speaker provided interesting details from the history of the museum and the art competition. He had retired from the university over five years earlier, but his love of art shone in the energy of his storytelling.
The winners were being announced. Angie watched the professor as he sat on the edge of his chair, ready to spring. After the honorable mentions, the master of ceremonies introduced the third-place winner, and then the second-place was declared. She held her breath. The first place winner was…? His face reddened. He hadn’t been selected—not even honorable mention. How could that be?
“We’re leaving, now. These idiots don’t deserve my presence.”
Angie attempted to stand. Her knees quivered. She struggled to prevent a fall, scooting the chair back.
“Get up. I can’t stand to be around these people.” He grabbed her arm at the elbow and jerked her up from the wobbly chair. His grasp pinched. He held on tight enough to create a bruise.
“I’m so sorry. How could you not win?”
His icy glare frightened her. Why was he reacting like a madman? The tension produced a sharp pain between her shoulder blades.
“They’re stupid. They don’t know a master when they see one. Come on.”
Angie grabbed her small purse, as he dragged her out of the hall. His anger made Jonathan’s fits seem insignificant. Who was this man? “They’re just jealous of your talent.” She said, hoping to appease him. She got into the car before being instructed to do so.
The professor slammed the door of his car, fired the ignition, and screeched the tires as he sped out of the parking lot. “Damn those pompous, idiots”
She sunk into her seat in silence and strapped on the seatbelt. She bit her lower lip, as she squeezed the door armrest. Frozen in place, barely breathing she shivered as the professor drove in and out of traffic, sped up on cars in front of him, and then slammed on his brakes. “Slow down,” she screamed.
His dark eyes turned to her, “Quiet. I’m a fantastic driver. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”
His tone, hard and cold, left her trembling.
Home at last, he pulled up into the driveway and slammed on the brakes. As he sat motionless in the front seat, Angie opened the passenger car door and pried herself from the steaming professor. She headed directly to the cottage without speaking. Her hands shook as she went inside and locked the door. Once in the safety of her temporary residence, she collapsed onto the bed.
What had she gotten herself into?
An hour later, a soft knock and a gentle voice called out, “Angie, it’s me. May I please come in? I’m so sorry about my black mood. Please?”
“I’m tired. We can talk tomorrow.”
“No. Tomorrow’s too late. I can’t sleep without making up with you.”
Angie sat frozen on the edge of the bed. She had no plans on letting this madman into her room tonight. “I’m exhausted. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Please, Angie. If you won’t let me in, will you at least listen to me? I can’t go to bed knowing you are upset.”
Angie held her breath. Her stomach churned. He would not get his way tonight. This was not class time. “You can have five minutes, but I won’t let you in.”
A scuffling noise came from the other side of the door. It was as if he’d slid down, with his back against the door, and sat on the porch floor.
“I have no excuse for my behavior tonight. This evening was to be my time to shine, my time to validate your trust in my artistic talent. And what happens?” His sucking in air been breaths proved he was sobbing. I’m embarrassed in front of my best student. I let both you and myself down. It will never happen again. If you had not been there, I would have been fine. Don’t you understand?”
How could his behavior have been her fault?
“Please tell me you forgive me. You’re the most promising talent I’ve seen since my Paula. I must have your respect.”
She shifted her position on the bed and put her head down into her hands. “I can’t process this tonight. I’m too tired and upset. Let me rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
A shuffling noise said he must have stood up. “I’ll respect your request. Please consider my plea. You are so important to me. I will see you tomorrow.”
She let out a deep breath. He had left, and she could get some sleep. Tomorrow she’d attempt to make sense of it all, if that were possible. She was too exhausted to think clearly. Rest—she needed rest.
#
Angie awoke the next morning, drenched in sweat and tangled in her covers. Her mind replayed terrifying dreams from the night before. She’d fought wild chimps attempting to eat her alive. Three times, she awoke only to have another nightmare when sleep returned. By five o’clock in the morning, she’d given up the battle. Peering out the windows, relief settled over her—no sign of the professor. She showered and snuck outside for an early run.
The fresh air cleared her head. Back in the cottage, she put on coffee and sat by the north window to watch the sunrise. How could a gentle, kind man like the professor be so violent, vile, and crude? Were all men Jekyll and Hyde personalities? Perhaps the nicer they were, the meaner they got.
She rubbed her shoulder. No one had ever manhandled her as he had last night. Isolated, her fear grew—stranded with no car, housed in his cottage, and meals from his hand. He never allowed free time. His assignments demanded total concentration. Had he imprisoned her? Nonsense, one call to Delta Airlines and she would be on her way back to Chicago. She controlled her own future for the first time in years. Why give up her independence? He’d warned her that his teaching methods were unorthodox. Until last night, he had been nothing but a gentleman.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She stiffened her spine and stomped over to let him in. To her surprise, instead of finding him on the porch, there sat a bouquet of red roses. At least two dozen perfectly shaped, half-opened buds with gentle sprays of Baby’s Breath accenting the deep red color.
Angie leaned over to pick up the vase, noticed a small pink envelope resting between the flowers and the crystal, and pulled out the card instead. The card, addressed to her from the professor, gave her pause. Opening it with shaking fingers, she read the note.
My dear Angie,
I wept most of the night. My shame overwhelms me. My embarrassment consumes me. Please forgive me and allow me the opportunity to bring your talents to their full potential. I may not ever be famous, but you will. Please say yes.
Professor T.
Returning to the cottage, flowers in hand, she inhaled the sweet fragrance and smiled. After displaying the roses on the coffee table in front of the fireplace, she jogged to the main house. On the back porch, she stopped, took a deep breath, and then gently tapped with her fingertips. The door opened immediately, as if he had been there all along, watching.
“Of course I forgive you. We
all have bad moods at times.”
He sighed. “I’m so relieved.”
She gave him a big hug. “Let’s say it never happened.”
Chapter 27
The hungry-baby robins chirped outside her window as the sun warmed her through the glass panes. Angie rolled over in bed, stretched, and pulled up the bedcovers to her chin. Not time to get up yet.
Normally, Angie embraced each day with expectation. But today she fought an overwhelming sadness she had not anticipated. The memory of the professor’s description of his childhood played and replayed in her mind. His rules and mood swings made more sense. A little boy couldn’t deal with his father’s disapproval and not be scarred?
Her own home life had not been perfect. Her father doted on her, and she experienced jealousy from her mother. But even with these conflicts in her home, somehow, she knew she was loved. She grieved for his lost childhood. Professor Turner buried his pain—hidden just below the surface.
She was grateful for so much. Her life, no longer on hold, held promise of a career she had always desired. She loved her husband. And yet, here she was, focusing her attention on a man she barely knew, and Jonathan’s phone calls went unanswered.
Early in their marriage, they planned for a life they both wanted—his law career, a couple of kids, and her pursuit of the arts. But after a few years with his law firm, his priorities changed.
His plans sounded so logical. Eight years younger than he was, she’d believed she had time to put her dreams on hold. Many women waited until their thirties to start a family or a career. Had she understood what she was giving up, she would have fought harder. Why hadn’t she seen that both of their dreams could be reached?
She crawled out of bed and stumbled over to the small table where she had placed her cell phone the night before. As she picked it up, she realized it had been turned off since yesterday evening. The screen came alive—six missed calls. Vicki and Jonathan would be frantic.
She called Jonathan first. He picked up at the first ring. “Finally, I hear from you. Are you all right?”
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