by Cynthia Kuhn
“Are you a doctoral student too?”
“No. I’m in the master’s program, creative writing. And you know how complicated literary theory is—you can’t just process it like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Anyway, Jasper and I spent a lot of time together, and we fell in love.”
“Sounds like it was meant to be.”
“It was.” Her eyes sparkled.
The server delivered a round of drinks. Taking advantage of the fact that most of my dining companions were not available to look at me askance, I relocated a heap of cubes from my water glass into my cabernet.
Mina raised her eyebrows.
“I call it a ‘wine slushie.’ Apologies if you are a purist.”
“Slush away. In fact, I’ll give it a try myself.” After performing the identical maneuver, she swirled her glass for a moment then tasted it. “I can’t believe I’ve never done that before. I may now be in danger of increasing my wine intake.”
“Cheers.” I held up my glass. She clinked mine and we both took a sip. Heavenly.
“How are you feeling after your fall down the stairs?”
“I’m fine. A few tender spots, but it scared me more than anything else. I’m embarrassed that I let it rile me up so much.”
“It would have riled up anyone,” I consoled her. “Any idea about who might have done it?”
She looked around the restaurant before leaning forward and lowering her voice. I leaned forward too. “You know Alonzo and Gilles? They’re kind of creepy. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“What do you mean by ‘creepy’?”
She turned the stem of her wineglass a few times before answering. “They’re obsessed with my father. This week, they’ve been begging Jasper to invite them along wherever Damon is going. It’s very trying for Jasper. I mean, he likes them and all, but...enough is enough.”
“I thought he’d been good friends with them for awhile.”
“They do go to the same conferences,” she said. “I don’t know how much interaction they have in between. You’re right though—he was glad they were going to be on the same panel here. Plus...” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“What?”
“Well, they agreed that participating had the added bonus of proving themselves to Francisco, whom all three have come to fear over the years because Francisco always questions points in their papers at conferences in a really condescending way.” She gave me a commiserative look. “And you know how sensitive scholars are.”
I acknowledged that with a nod. Even though I was one.
“Have you read Jasper’s dissertation?” I asked her.
“I have,” she said. “He was pretty adamant about not letting me see it—like all the stressed-out grad students we know who are plagued with self-doubt—but I finally made it happen.”
“How?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Honey, we’re engaged. I gave him a kiss and picked his pocket.”
That should be a bumper sticker.
“Just kidding. I snagged his cell phone when he went out for a run and read the backup copy he emailed to himself. He was furious at first, but then he came to appreciate my enthusiastic commentary. Anyway, I’m the only one who has seen it besides his advisors and the university press publishing it.”
A university press publication right away meant Jasper would probably be snapped up by some school very quickly. I wondered if they’d talked about the fact that it might be somewhere far away from NYC. She seemed so intent on being near Damon.
I didn’t bring it up. None of my business, anyway.
Jasper returned and performed a quick drum roll on the table top. “You’re never going to believe this, babe. My grandmother is coming to Stonedale tomorrow.”
Mina looked stunned. “The one from Iowa?”
“The very same,” he said, grinning. “I sent her a picture from when we went to Royal Gorge, which led to a discussion about why we were in Colorado, blah blah blah. Anyway, long story short: she wants to meet you.”
Mina blushed becomingly and smoothed back her hair.
“She’s a character. You’ll love her. After the reading, we can all have dinner together.”
“I can’t wait,” she said, beaming at him.
Jasper slid into the booth. “Wait, what were you guys talking about?”
“You,” Mina said.
“Good things, I hope.”
“Yes, about how brilliant your dissertation is.”
He lit up. “You’re biased.”
“Perhaps,” she said sweetly, “But it’s still true. Then I was telling Lila about Gilles and Alonzo being kind of pushy...”
Jasper rolled his eyes. “They just keep asking to get to Damon. Then they act all ticked off that I can’t make it happen.”
“How far do you think they’d go?” I asked. “Could they have anything to do with what’s been going on this week? Are they maybe resentful in an if-we-can’t-have-Damon-nobody-can kind of way?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Might you be overthinking things?”
“I’m a professor. That’s what we do.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
I kept pressing. “So do you think Gilles and Alonzo may be possible suspects?”
Mina nodded immediately, but Jasper leaned back and considered the question. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “They were onstage during the panel, right? So how could they be involved?”
“Good point,” Mina admitted. “But maybe they got someone else to drop the spotlight.”
“Why, though?” Jasper said, looking vaguely sick—perhaps at the memory of being hit.
“They could be jealous of you,” I said.
“Yes,” Mina added firmly. “They are completely jealous of Jasper.”
“But why would they drug Damon?”
We all sat and pondered this.
“I don’t understand how criminal minds work,” Jasper said finally. “But I do know that the night he was drugged, Damon’s cup was just sitting there in the green room, and anyone could have dosed it.”
“Right,” Mina agreed. “People were coming in and out the whole time. And we walked down the hall to speak to the chancellor—”
“And another time to talk to a reporter—” Jasper interjected.
“Though Damon didn’t give him a single quote he could use.” Mina laughed.
“As usual,” Jasper said, chuckling along with her.
It reminded me of my own attempt to get a quote. Although it had only been a few weeks ago, it seemed like eons. So much had happened since then.
One more event, then this Arts Week nightmare was over. I just hoped we all made it through safely.
Chapter 20
My mother had elected to spend the night with Damon, so when I awoke the next morning, the house was quiet. After taking care of some quotidian duties, I made myself a pot of coffee and settled down on my sofa with the laptop.
I was surprised to discover, at the top of my inbox, an email from my ex-boyfriend Zane, as if he’d known somehow that he—or his bad driving, to be precise—had fleetingly crossed my mind last night so had dutifully responded. We’d had a horrible breakup in grad school, involving cheating (him) and crying (me).
I still remembered the confusion of our final night as a couple—watching him walk out of a party hand in hand with an unfamiliar blonde, even though Zane and I had been together for several years. It turned my stomach even now to think of it. They had paused on the threshold of the house and kissed; her hair was backlit by the porch light, so she looked like some kind of angel. I stared in disbelief, clutching my cup of cheap beer, unable to move or make a sound. Then Zane leaned over to close the door, his longish brown hair brushing against his cheek in the sexy way that had made me fall for him in the first pla
ce. He never looked up.
And I had never looked back.
I thought briefly about opening the email to see if he had finally composed a long-overdue apology, which would be healing. Then again...
Delete.
I was grateful that common sense prevailed, which wasn’t usually the case for me. Where Zane was concerned, however, an iron will was in order.
I clicked on the next one without really looking. As soon as I read it, I froze.
Do not let Damon Von Tussel read tonight. This is your final warning.
Again with the anonymous threats? Goosebumps dotted my arms. I didn’t know if it was a crackpot or the person who was responsible for the recent attacks. And frankly, I didn’t want to know. I checked the header on the email: it had a different email address and sender from the first one, but that didn’t mean much. It only takes two seconds to set up a new email account. Even though the whole committee had probably received the same email, I immediately forwarded it to Spencer, the dean, and the chancellor. I knew they were in touch with the authorities and taking precautions as necessary. After a slight hesitation, I forwarded it to Lex as well—we’d already told him about the first email, and I’d rather err on the side of caution in this case.
Although the anonymous threats were alarming, I couldn’t allow myself to dwell on them if I was going to make it through the final event of Arts Week. I deliberately turned my attention to the rest of my inbox, trying to ignore the misgivings I felt about tonight, and soon I’d waded through the rest of my emails. Typical fare: notices about university activities, pleas from students for help and/or extensions, and department business. Judith had also emailed to remind me I had promised to facilitate the discussion on Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons at an upcoming meeting of the Stonedale Literary Society. I sketched out a quick outline of ideas. It was one of my favorite Stein texts, so that was a bonus.
Speaking of books, I wished the university press would respond more quickly to my proposal. It had only been a few days since I had clicked submit, and I couldn’t stop wondering when I might hear from them, even though I knew not to expect a response for at least several months or more. I fully expected them to reject it, after what Willa had said. But it would be a relief to get it over with so I could move on.
I paused, wondering if I should just write the next proposal for editing Isabella’s novels and send it along to be considered with my existing proposal. At least that way, the publisher would know the author about whom I’d written was an existing literary voice.
But no one submitted a book proposal on top of an existing book proposal, right? The press would think I didn’t know what I was doing.
I didn’t know what I was doing, of course, but I didn’t want them to think that.
I had faith in my topic, regardless of being new to the submission process. Isabella Dare deserved to be known. And everyone who submitted work had to start somewhere. Perhaps someday—some glorious day in the future—I’d finally be a full professor, with a few books under my belt even. Perhaps Future Full Professor Me would have accomplished enough to satisfy university requirements at last and could thereafter glide across campus without a care in the world.
At the present time, I could not even imagine such a thing. All I felt now was frantic to prepare each class well, frantic to grade and return papers in a reasonable amount of time, frantic to complete the necessary service work, and frantic to publish enough to keep this job. On the positive side, I had a job, which was a miracle, and it was located somewhere I rather liked. So I’d work insanely hard and see what happened. They must have had some belief in my ability to perform since they hired me, right? I just needed to pretend I believed in my ability to perform too.
Fake it ’til you make it.
An hour later, a text arrived: my mother, asking me to bring her an outfit to wear to the reading. She was still at Damon’s hotel and planning to shower and dress there. In typical Violet fashion, she’d detailed not only the specific items she wanted me to bring but also exactly where they were located. I gathered up the “citron sheath and beaded jacket, hanging in the closet, third from the left,” as well as “the black Louboutin heels, in the bag beneath the net side of the suitcase” and packed them in the car. Then I took a shower and dressed myself for the reading in a long black blazer over a white tee, with jeans and boots. I braided my hair, added a pair of dangly silver earrings, and headed over to the hotel.
My mother answered the door in a robe, fresh out of the shower. She gave me a quick hug and returned to the bathroom, where she began applying her foundation layer. We were opposites where that was concerned; I applied the bare minimum in the morning—sunscreen, mascara, and tinted lip balm—and threw them back into the drawer, calling it done; she lugged around a bag full of makeup everywhere she went and could reapply completely at any time. Her readiness for potential adventure sharply contrasted my boring old expectation I’d be home again at night with no exciting activities for which I might need to refresh myself on the horizon. Le sigh.
Damon’s hotel room was fairly spacious, with a neatly made king-sized bed in the center. A desk was positioned against the opposite wall, next to a dresser and a closed armoire that presumably held a television. The decor was brown and ivory, dotted with pictures of pottery and cactus flowers. I placed her dress carefully on the bed and settled in the corner wing chair.
“Did you have a nice night?” I asked my mother.
“Oh yes. I’d forgotten how lovely Damon is when he wants to be,” she said, sounding like a schoolgirl in the throes of a crush. “Or maybe he’s happier these days.”
“Why?” I certainly hadn’t seen the lovely side of Damon. Yet.
“Because of Mina, darling. I think fatherhood is good for him.”
“Were Minerva and Damon married?”
My mother paused, an eyeshadow applicator in her hand, and smiled at me.
“They were never serious romantically. Just friends with benefits. Until Mina was born. You know what I mean by benefits, right, Lila?”
“Yes, Mom. I know what you mean.” Honestly. Sometimes she acted like I was a Puritan goodwife.
“Their friendship became even deeper, and they made good co-parents.”
“So you knew Damon back then?”
“Oh, yes. But he was Minerva’s. And after her overdose—she struggled with such an addiction to painkillers, you might remember—Damon withdrew from all of us for a very long time. It was only a chance encounter at the Met last year that put us back in touch.”
“I’m sorry about Minerva,” I said.
“You remember her, don’t you, darling? Minerva was one of my dearest friends back in the day. She was such a vibrant being. She came to visit when Aunt Rose and Uncle Paul were still alive, just after Calista was born. Then again for Rose and Paul’s funeral.”
“I don’t,” I admitted. “I’m sorry.” Calista was born two years before I was, and the period around my aunt and uncle’s fatal car accident was hazy at best. I had seen countless photos of Minerva in magazines, of course—she was one of the original supermodels and her face was everywhere. She was known for her Amazonian stature and piercing glare.
“Mina favors her,” my mother said, resuming her eye shadow application. “She could be a model as well.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “She doesn’t look like Damon at all.”
“Well,” my mother said, “he may not be her father.” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
I walked over to the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, fumbling with her false eyelash case.
“Mom, you can’t just drop that comment and tell me to ignore it.” I reached out and touched her arm. “Please go on.”
“Well,” she said, applying glue to a strip of spiky long lashes and positioning it in
place, “this has to stay between us, okay?”
“Of course.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she turned to face me. Only one side of her beloved false eyelashes applied so far gave her a very Clockwork Orange look. I stifled a smile.
“This is for your ears only, Lila Annabel Maclean. Do you absolutely swear to keep it to yourself?”
“I swear.”
“When she found out she was pregnant, I went to the doctor with her. The father was either Damon or a one-night stand she met at a club, whom she described only as ‘a Hot French guy.’ She decided to proceed as if it were Damon. She made me promise never to tell him, so I haven’t.”
“Wow,” I said.
She let out another deep breath. “It feels good to say it out loud. I’ve been carrying that around for years. Damon has really been kind to Mina, so I think Minerva made the right choice.”
“What about Mina?” I said. “Don’t you think maybe you should tell her too?”
“When she’s just been reunited with her father? She’s happy, he’s happy. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, but...” I trailed off. We were dancing dangerously close to our own situation. No matter what I said next, it would sound as though I was talking about my own father. My mother had always flat-out refused to tell me who my father was. She said she had her reasons, but I didn’t even know what they were. It was simply a topic she refused to address and something I could never understand. I wished there wasn’t something so complicated between us. We were at an impasse.
A strange look passed over her face. A similar thought must have occurred to her.
“Anyway, darling,” she said brightly, “Damon just called a few minutes ago. He went out to dinner with Mina and planned to go straight to the reading, but he forgot his briefcase, so they’re going to swing back here and pick it, and me, up. Could you please set it on the bed?”
