by Cynthia Kuhn
“But the Denver reading—”
“I know, doll. It was a hot mess.” She shrugged. “He’s a handful. But I got him back here for you, didn’t I?”
I refrained from pointing out that it was my mother, as far as I knew, who had convinced Damon to honor his contract. Plus the doubled fee.
“Leave it to me. Tally’s got your back. He’ll show up this week.”
She seemed to have forgotten that the workshop we were heading toward at this very instant was supposed to involve Damon showing up.
“Hello, everyone,” Mina said to the classroom of attendees. The room was completely full—every chair was occupied and people leaned against all conceivable real estate along the back and side walls. The administration would certainly be pleased by the turnout. “I’m sorry to have to announce my father won’t be here today. He has fallen ill.” She paused while the sounds of surprise and displeasure dissipated. “But he has sent me as a replacement, and I hope I’ll be able to make the workshop worth your while. I do teach creative writing, so I will share some techniques with you, but more importantly for this gathering, I will tell you about my father’s own writing process.”
I had to give her credit for remaining calm in front of an obviously disgruntled audience. She smiled disarmingly, and the tension subsided slightly.
“Obviously, Damon Von Tussel is a genius,” she said, going into a description of the book which had garnered him so many accolades. “But after The Medusa Variation, he couldn’t finish a story for several decades.”
The sun through the window to her left reflected off of her bronze clothes and highlights, making her glow. You could feel the attention in the room rising as she continued to speak. She was like some kind of fairy tale creature, spinning her web of words around us. I noticed a number of my Modernism students sitting in the front few rows. They were listening intently, and Keandra was busily taking notes.
“He wrote every day. It was just that after a certain amount of time, he would lose interest. His one constant thought was this: ‘If it’s boring me, it will bore everyone else too.’ Those of you who write are familiar with such fear—right?” She raised an eyebrow and heads around the room began to nod.
“So,” she said, warming to her topic, “he told himself he would write one story a month until one of them caught fire.” She smiled. “Metaphorically, of course. Every month, he would start a new story. And by the end of the month, he would have abandoned it. Eventually, he tried to begin at the end of the story instead, thinking he could write his way back toward the initial scene somehow. But that didn’t work either. This went on for years. He wrote and wrote and wrote, without finishing anything.”
She paused and looked slowly around the room. “A lesser author might have quit. He wasn’t publishing anything—why bother? But my father is nothing if not determined. Eventually, it came to him.” She held up a fist, then she twisted her wrist upright and unfolded her fingers slowly, like a flower blooming. The gold bangles jingled emphatically and her voice grew louder. “If the middle part was what he loved best, then why not just write the middle? That’s where all the action is, anyway. And In Medias Res was born.”
The audience broke out into applause. She bowed her head gracefully and walked over to the whiteboard. Uncapping the black pen, she wrote FIND THE HEART OF YOUR STORY.
“Now, let’s do some writing.”
After the audience members were guided through several creative exercises by Mina, the workshop ended.
Nate slid into the seat next to me.
“Hey, you. What do you think?”
“She’s a very talented teacher,” I said. “Engaging. I think my students really enjoyed it.”
“Agreed.” He patted his legs in a sort of drum roll. His jeans had a hole in the knee, which was endearing somehow. “Did you?”
“It was interesting,” I said. “I didn’t know Damon had trouble producing anything. I thought he was just coasting on the success of the first book, I guess.”
“I’d never heard that before…but I dig hearing how authors create. I wish I could have interviewed Nathaniel Hawthorne about it myself,” he said, invoking his favorite author.
“Do you like Von Tussel’s stories?”
He nodded. “They’re cool. Do you?”
“Yes…” I paused.
“But…” he said, brows raised, encouraging me to finish my sentence.
I frowned, gathering my thoughts.
“Why Miz Lila, I do believe you have more to say.”
“It’s just...hmm. I guess I’m not clear on why Damon’s work is so celebrated. A lot of contemporary fiction seems to do the same thing, leave out exposition and denouement. Heck, some of them even do far more fascinating things with form than he does.”
“Ah,” Nate said, stroking an imaginary beard. “Touché.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, though.”
“Okay, you’re right—half the stories I read these days don’t seem to have beginnings or endings. Why are we all talking about this guy?”
We chuckled for a minute. Then Nate continued, “Come to think of it, he seems to have less of an arc than even some of the flash fictions I’ve read.”
“That’s true,” I said slowly.
“Which makes it even more middle-centric.”
“I see your point,” I said.
Nate nodded thoughtfully. “But mostly I think it’s because he wrapped up the collection in his ‘literary catapult’ theory. I’d love to write an article on how having both at once affects the reading experience, but Francisco’s been working on his Von Tussel book for years. It’s his thing. Don’t want to cramp his style. But it’s fascinating, anyway.”
“That reminds me. I sent in my first proposal today.”
“Good for you!” he said, giving my arm a small squeeze. “Where did you send it?”
We had fallen into a discussion of university presses and academic publishers when we were joined by drama professor Willa Hartwell, her chestnut curls piled on top of her head in a loose bun that was threatening to topple over.
“What are we debating?” she said in her melodious English accent, face alight with curiosity.
“Lila’s book proposal,” Nate said.
“Lovely. How is it going?” she asked, turning her full attention to me.
“Great, actually. I just sent it in today.”
“You sent it in? Was it your study of Dare’s work?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, that’s not going to be accepted,” Willa said, zipping up her purple fleece vest.
“Oh,” I said, temporarily at a loss for words.
“No harm done, I’m sure. You can always send it somewhere else.” She nodded briskly, her coiffure sliding a few degrees to the east.
Nate looked as confused as I was. We exchanged glances, then he spoke up first. “What do you mean, Willa?”
Her eyes widened, as if stunned at our denseness. “Well, they aren’t going to publish a critical study on an author no one has heard of.”
She was probably right. I felt my body wilt.
“You’ll need to send both proposals at once—or perhaps focus on getting the primary texts published in critical editions first, then submit your analytical study.”
“They might go hand in hand, I think,” I said slowly.
“Do let us have tea and talk about it at your earliest convenience,” Willa implored. “I would love to help in whatever small way might be useful.”
Anything other than bursting my tiny bubble of hope would have been nice. I knew her intentions were good, but: ow.
She sailed off, her proper carriage, as always, an inspiration, though I wasn’t sure her hairdo would survive the next hour.
Nate patted my shoulder. “Don’t listen to her. She’s not the boss of you. And wh
o knows? Maybe they’ll take it anyway.”
I shrugged. “It was only my first submission.”
“There you go,” he said. He surveyed the room, then jerked his head toward three of the panelists from last night—Gilles Valmont, Alonzo Ferrara, and Jasper Haines—clumped together in the back corner of the room. “Now, let’s go say hello to Monsieur de Valmont and company.”
That made me laugh.
“I dare you to call him Monsieur de Valmont to his face,” I said, as we made our way along an empty row of chairs.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Nate retorted. “I’ll recite a whole speech from Dangerous Liaisons if the price is right.”
As we approached the circle of panelists in the corner, Mina flew past us and flung herself into Jasper’s arms.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said as he hugged her.
“I wanted to. I’m fine,” he said, kissing her. He looked fine too in a black leather jacket paired with jeans—just as hale and hearty as he had been when he strode up to the lectern.
“Hi everyone,” Nate said. I waved at the general group.
“We were talking about the accident,” said Alonzo, who looked less painfully thin today in a thick green fisherman sweater which brought to mind a turtle shell. He blinked several times in concert with the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. There was more than a pinch of Ichabod Crane about him. “I’m still bothered.”
“Me, too,” said Gilles, his eyes slits behind his horn-rimmed glasses, which he readjusted carefully. His blue wool blazer had a crest on the pocket, but I couldn’t see the design clearly. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t recognize what school it stood for. It could be Hogwarts for all I knew.
I would however be able to recognize the Stonedale University crest, which featured books and stars. Not too subtle, that. At one of our mentoring meetings, we’d received a sticker with the crest and the school motto, “Ever More,” on it. We were instructed to “display it proudly.” I’d thumbtacked mine to the bulletin board over my desk. Hope that counted.
“Don’t stress about the accident,” said Jasper. “Things happen.”
“I hope you’re feeling well,” I said.
“Yup,” said Jasper. He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. The other was draped over Mina’s shoulder. She gazed at him lovingly. “Luckily, Mina here kept an eye on me last night.”
“And did I hear correctly that you two are engaged?” I smiled at them.
Mina blushed prettily. “Yes,” she said, her generous mouth stretching into a dazzling smile. “He proposed at Christmas.”
We all congratulated them.
“You didn’t forget, right?” Mina said fondly. “With your concussion and all.”
“I didn’t forget,” Jasper assured her, squeezing her against him. “Time to take it to the next level.”
“Soon? Or…” one of the panelists said.
“We haven’t had much time to plan, but we’d rather have a ceremony sooner rather than later.” Mina looked into Jasper’s eyes.
“Best wishes to you both,” said Nate.
A cloud crossed Jasper’s face.
“What?” the ever-attentive Mina asked gently.
“Campus Security called this morning. They told me the light didn’t just fall. Someone messed with it. There’s no way it could come loose by itself. It had to have been removed and thrown from the catwalk above the stage.”
“What?” Mina shrieked.
“Don’t worry,” Jasper said to her. “I just wanted to tell Lila and Nate to make sure someone has eyes on the catwalk before your father reads.”
“Oh my God,” wailed Mina. “Someone tried to hurt you on purpose? And may be going after my father? Why?”
Jasper shrugged helplessly.
“Do you have any enemies?” Nate asked.
“Not that I know of,” Jasper said, looking uncomfortable.
“Does your father?” Nate addressed Mina.
“Not that I know of.”
There was a long silence. Francisco’s face popped into my mind, but he had been on the stage the whole time. He couldn’t be in two places at once.
I turned to Mina. “We’ll talk to the stage manager about securing the catwalk before your father reads.”
They thanked me.
“So relieved you’re better today, hon,” Mina said, glowing up at Jasper. He pulled her close and nuzzled the top of her head.
It seemed time to make our exit.
Chapter 12
Outside, the air had turned cooler; I was grateful to have my wrap, which I threw around my shoulders. When we passed the edge of the building, I briefly contemplated the mauve and purple sunset over the mountains to the west. I didn’t think I would ever get tired of the sight, and I was taking it in when I heard Francisco’s voice.
“Lila and Nate—do you want to grab a bite?” he called.
I turned around to see him holding open the door of Crandall, through which Calista soon traipsed out.
Why not? All I had waiting at home was a can of soup. They caught up to us, and we headed toward The Peak House, a microbrewery a few blocks from campus. It was warm and inviting inside, crowded with people celebrating happy hour, but they were able to seat us right away in a large booth. We opened the menus to study them, then gave our orders to the server and settled in to wait.
“Hey, Dr. Maclean.” I turned to find Keandra standing next to me, a glass of amber liquid in her hand. She set it down on the table. “Did you go to the workshop?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was in the back. Did you like it?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “To hear his daughter talk about Mr. Von Tussel having trouble... just like the rest of us. It was,” she put her free hand across her heart, “inspirational.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” I said, caught up in her enthusiasm.
“Oh, and don’t worry about not setting up the author thing.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the students taking Mr. Von Tussel around.”
“I did recommend you to the organizer,” I said, slowly.
She looked confused. “Dr. Raleigh said you were organizing everything.”
“That’s not true. There must have been a mix up. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” I fought to keep my tone even, countering a sudden surge of anger at Simone.
“It’s all good,” Keandra said, tossing her braids over her shoulders. “I went up and talked to Mina after the workshop.” Her dark eyes glowed with admiration. “She offered to introduce me to Mr. Von Tussel on Saturday after the reading.”
“Wonderful. Hope you enjoy it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Have a good night, Dr. Maclean.”
As she wandered away, Nate turned to me. “What was that about Simone?”
“Oh,” I said, choosing my words carefully since I was in a group. “There was a miscommunication about organizing the volunteers to help Damon while he was visiting.”
Across the table, Francisco snorted. “That’s not what Simone said.” He raked his hand through his hair, grabbed the beer just placed in front of him, and took a long swig.
“What do you mean?” I asked, unsure if I wanted to hear the answer.
“She said you were in charge but just blew it off.”
My stomach lurched. I should have known Simone was setting me up. At first, I thought she was just passing the responsibility buck because she forgot or something, but now I understood she was blaming me to anyone who would listen.
I shook my head, my lips pressed tight.
“You weren’t in charge?” He stared at me.
“No. Simone came up to me at the library after our planning meeting and offered to handle everything.”
“Well, that’s not wh
at she’s saying now.”
“Actually—” I saw no way around it. I had to give them the rundown of the whole Simone saga. Or at least a general outline. Because she was messing with my reputation now, which I needed to protect if I wanted to stay at Stonedale University. And I did.
Francisco might understand, given what he’d gone through with Jasper. Heck, he might even have some pointers for navigating the situation.
Calista, next to Francisco, looked expectantly at me.
“What I’m about to say has to stay just among the four of us, okay? Because I will name multiple ways in which Simone Raleigh has tried to sabotage me. She’s evil.”
Calista’s eyes widened and her body made an awkward jolt, which culminated in her pointing with her chin to the space beside me.
Because of course that’s where Simone was standing.
She didn’t look at me as she addressed the table. “Just thought I’d come over and say hello. I’m here with Chancellor Wellington and my mother, who flew in for the weekend.” She gestured toward another booth across the room, where the chancellor was chatting with a blonde woman in an obviously expensive suit with a circle of colossal pearls around her neck.
The chancellor at a pub? I admired his willingness to mingle with the common people.
Then again, it wasn’t as though there were many restaurants in Stonedale. I’d heard this one had excellent food too, so maybe that played a factor.
“The chancellor owns this restaurant,” Simone continued, as if reading my thoughts. “Did you know that?”
I focused my eyes on the drink in front of me. I’d gotten a Diet Coke but now wished I’d chosen something with a kick. The chancellor owned this place? Hmmm. I’d assumed “Peak” in the restaurant title referred to nearby Pikes Peak, but perhaps it was a subtle reference to the chancellor’s vantage point in the power hierarchy of Stonedale.
“So, Lila,” Simone said, her tone carefully modulated. “You were saying something?”
“What?”
I could play innocent too. My cheeks burned though as I met her gaze.
“Yes, you were saying something about me. I gather you are unhappy. Perhaps I could share some thoughts?” I could only imagine what would happen if I stepped aside and let her narrate our adventures to date.
