“How many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb?”
Brooke curled her soft, manicured fingers into a fist and rapped on the door.
For a moment, she heard nothing. She exhaled in relief. Now she could go home free of guilt, secure in the knowledge that she’d performed what Arden would call “due diligence.” Then a voice emanated from the other side of the door: “Come in.”
Brooke turned the knob and pushed, revealing the interior of a typical faculty office: dusty chalkboard scrawled with indecipherable equations, framed posters of a geodesic dome and Marie Curie, and a desktop cluttered with papers, textbooks, and a potted green plant, which—given the absence of sunlight—had to be fake.
A regal, willowy woman with short blond hair and impeccable posture sat behind the desk, red pen in hand. She wore a navy cashmere turtleneck, a single gold bangle, and an air of implicit authority. When she glanced up from her grading, Brooke started stammering.
“Hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt. I saw that you were having office hours this afternoon, and even though I’m not a student—well, I was, once upon a time, but now I work here, in the alumni affairs office.”
Dr. Cassandra Rutkin put down her pen and peered at Brooke over the top of her reading glasses. “How may I help you?”
“I enrolled in your Intro to Physics course about twelve years ago.” Brooke’s entire face felt as though it was about to burst into flames.
“Brooke Asplind. Ah yes, I remember you.”
Brooke closed her eyes for a second and prayed for a quick, merciful death. “You do?”
“More to the point, I remember your midterm exam. A teacher encounters that sort of thing only once in a career.”
Brooke had known from the very beginning that Introductory Physics was going to be trouble. Symbolic logic and abstract spatial relationships had never been her forte, but Thurwell College required students to take a certain number of “distribution courses” to ensure their education included all aspects of the liberal arts, and that included the physical sciences. So Brooke had signed up for physics, hoping that she could squeak through and maintain her place on the dean’s list with a little luck, a lot of hard work, and her God-given gift for using a smoke screen of fancy words to obscure the fact that she wasn’t saying anything of substance.
Then came the midterm. Dr. Rutkin’s teaching assistant had held a pre-exam review session, during which he let slip that the essay portion of the exam would require a thorough explanation of the laws of thermodynamics. Brooke devoted the forty-eight hours before the test to memorizing everything she could about the history and application of each law, along with the corresponding equations.
The moment she had the midterm in hand, Brooke had flipped to the final page, ready to disgorge all her knowledge of thermodynamics. There, to her horror, she found an open-ended theoretical question on electromagnetic force.
She had spent the next half hour staring down at the blank page, hyperventilating and clutching her forehead. She didn’t answer any of the multiple-choice questions. She didn’t even glance at the short-answer computations. Finally, drenched in flop sweat and despair, she had started scratching away with her number 2 pencil: “I realize that this question has nothing to do with the laws of thermodynamics, but that’s the only thing I can intelligently discuss so that’s what I’m going to write about. …”
She’d gotten the exam back via campus mail right after spring break. Written on the final page in a slanted, elegant penmanship was a curt pronouncement that Brooke could recite verbatim even twelve years later:
“Pathetic but bold. D+”
Brooke had gone straight to the registrar’s office and dropped the class. And she’d managed to avoid all contact with the physics department faculty for the rest of her time at Thurwell.
Until now.
The professor was looking at her expectantly, and Brooke realized that Dr. Rutkin must have asked her a question. “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”
“I was saying that I admire your moxie in coming to see me today. My door is always open to any student, present or former. I assume that, after all this time, you’re not just popping by to say hello?”
Brooke nodded. “You may have heard that the college sold Henley House? Well, I’m the sucker who bought it. I’m turning it into a bed-and-breakfast.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Yes, it sounds lovely, but in actual fact, it is the opposite of lovely. I just found out I have knob-and-tube wiring.”
Dr. Rutkin adjusted her eyeglasses. “That’s a problem.”
“Yes. And I’m trying to rewire it myself and, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, I’m totally incompetent.”
The older woman didn’t argue or agree. She sat silently, her head tilted to one side, waiting for Brooke to finish.
Brooke clasped her hands in front of her. “Word in the theater crowd is that you’re something of an expert in electrical wiring, and I could really use a few pointers. I’ve done some preliminary research online and ordered a few how-to manuals, but honestly, I’m getting tangled up in all the terminology. Circuit breakers, conduits, volts, amps—it’s one thing to read about a theory and quite another to implement it.”
“That it is.” Professor Rutkin sat back in her chair. “And you’re determined to do this by yourself?”
“It’s really my only option.” Brooke addressed the carpet. “I know, I know: pathetic but bold.”
“Very bold,” the professor agreed. “But not pathetic. Because this time you’re going to do more than memorize and recite a few pages of theorems. This time you’re going to have to master the principles at work behind the words.”
“Well. About that. The fact is, I only have a few weeks, so I was kind of hoping for a shortcut.”
“The scientific method wasn’t built on shortcuts. It is, however, comprised of small, discrete steps. And your first step will be to the hardware store. Do you have a pen and paper?”
Brooke rummaged through her briefcase, then wrote down the long list of equipment the professor rattled off.
“All right, so once I buy all this, what then?” Brooke asked.
“Then call me and we’ll take it from there. I’m going to give you my home number. Guard it with your life.” The instructor passed a square of scrap paper across the desktop. “This is a chance for you to empower yourself, you know. Scientific literacy is the cornerstone of true education.”
“Hmm,” was Brooke’s only response to that. She glanced up at the diploma hanging behind the desk. “You must have done your graduate work at a time when there weren’t too many female physicists, right?”
“There aren’t many now. But yes, I was considered something of an oddity.”
“Did you ever get any … jokes?”
Professor Rutkin raised one eyebrow. “Jokes?”
“From your male colleagues. You know, how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb, that sort of thing?”
“As the only woman working in a lab full of sexually frustrated quark jockeys before the days of lawsuits and harassment policies? I had to contend with a lot more than blonde jokes. But I believe that Eleanor Roosevelt was correct in saying that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. If you want something badly enough, other people’s censure doesn’t matter.” Her expression went from steely to impish. “Besides, we have a different version of that joke around here. How many physicists does it take to change a lightbulb?”
Brooke shrugged. “I give up.”
“Two: one to do it, and one to renormalize the wave function.” Her green eyes sparkled when she laughed. “Get it?”
Brooke smiled weakly. “Hilarious.”
A string of bells tinkled when Brooke pushed open the door to the hardware store five minutes before closing time. Rather than trying to navigate the long aisles jam-packed with equipment, she walked right up to the counter and produced Professor Rutkin’s list.
<
br /> A tall, lanky man in his twenties looked up from his magazine. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and a watch with a scratched face and band, but his strong, smooth hands and sensual lips provided a startling contrast to his utilitarian, outdoorsy clothing. “Hi there. Can I help you?”
Brooke, who was not in the habit of scoping out younger men’s lips, tried to stay on task. “I hope so. I’m going to need, let’s see … a thirty-two-circuit breaker box, at least five boxes of Romex wire, a few rolls of electrical tape, a voltage tester, a pair of leather gloves, a wire stripper, a pair of electrical pliers, a utility knife, a set of screwdrivers, a hammer, the sturdiest power drill you have, a set of drill bits, a set of speed bores, and, oh yes, some fishline if you stock it. Please.”
“That’s quite an order.” The employee closed his periodical, a glossy publication called Outdoor Photographer that Brooke had never heard of. “Mind if I take that for a second?” He held out his hand.
She relinquished the piece of notebook paper, careful not to cast any more inappropriate glances at his hands. Or his lips. Or his intriguing gray eyes—damn it.
He disappeared into the aisles and eventually reemerged pushing a shopping cart full of home improvement equipment. “You must be working on a big project.”
“I’m just starting one. Trying to, anyway.” She waited for the rush of total empowerment that Professor Rutkin had assured her was on the way. “I may be back in a few days to return all this if things don’t go well.”
“That’s fine.”
“But, if things do go well, I’ll be back to buy more wiring.” She tried to project confidence. “A lot more. An entire house’s worth of wiring.”
“That’ll work, too.” He ducked back behind the counter and started to ring up her purchases. He paused before calculating the total and sales tax. “I assume you qualify for the contractor rate?”
“I really look like a contractor?” She couldn’t have felt more flattered if he’d asked if she was a model.
He shrugged. “You do if you want the contractor rate.”
“Oh.” She stopped congratulating herself. “Then yes.”
He tapped a few keys on the register. “Name?”
“Brooke Asplind.” She dug her credit card out of her wallet and confessed, “But honestly, I’m not an electrician or an engineer or anything like that. I don’t even know how to use half this stuff.” She glanced over at his reading material. “Are you a professional photographer?”
“Only in my own mind.” His laugh was rich and deep. “I wanted to be, back in school. Thought I was the next Ansel Adams.”
“Fine arts major?”
“Worse. Philosophy.” He spread his arms out to encompass his realm of drywall and crowbars and PVC pipes. “See where four years of Aristotle and Descartes’ll get you?” He held out his right hand. “I’m Everett.”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding her palm against his. His touch was warm and strong and sure … don’t go there! “You must be new in town. I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
He grinned. “I get the feeling you don’t spend much time in the hardware store.”
“I’ve been living in Thurwell for over ten years and this is my first time in here,” she admitted. “I just bought a house. Gave up a perfectly nice apartment with a perfectly nice landlord I could call whenever something needed fixing.” She sighed. “It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Here’s hoping I don’t electrocute myself.”
“You’ll do fine.” He rubbed the fine layer of stubble on his jawline. “But just in case, I’ll keep an eye out for you. People in the middle of these home improvement projects always come back—sometimes two or three times a day.” He started packing all her supplies into brown paper bags and large cardboard cartons. “If you aren’t back for more wiring and duct tape in the next forty-eight hours, I’ll send out a search party.”
“That’s very gentlemanly of you.” She desperately wanted to slip him her number but lost her nerve at the last moment. “See you in forty-eight hours or less.”
Everett didn’t glance up from the box he was filling, but she could tell he was smiling again. “Looking forward to it.”
“One of the most time-consuming things is to have an enemy.”
—E. B. White, A Report in January
How can I put this tactfully?” Anna scowled down at the tin of sunken chocolate cupcakes. “This oven sucks. For serious.”
“Well, don’t tell Brooke that,” Cait said. “She’s got enough home improvement projects already.” She nodded toward the cellar door through which Brooke had descended an hour ago, armed with a flashlight, a pair of pliers, and an expression of grim determination. “Do you have any idea what she’s doing down there?”
“None whatsoever. I asked, and she gave me this convoluted lecture about wiring, complete with diagrams, but I have to admit, I didn’t follow at all.”
“Me, neither. I think the gist of it is, the electrical system in this place is FUBAR.”
“As is this oven.” Anna tossed the cupcake tin into the kitchen sink. “I think our big baking marathon the other day must have killed it once and for all. The thing’s gotta be twenty years old. Jamie’s client is coming this weekend, and I need to provide her with some cake samples that don’t taste like excrement.”
“Please. Nothing you bake could ever taste like excrement.”
“Oh really?” Anna peeled the foil liner off one of the cakes. “Care to sample?”
Cait took a big bite, then made a face and spat into the sink. “This oven sucks.”
“It does?” Brooke peeked out from the cellar doorway. “Since when?”
Anna stared for a second, trying to figure out why Brooke looked so different, and then realized that Brooke was wearing a baseball cap for possibly the first time ever. Her golden hair was pulled through the back in a ponytail.
Brooke threw them a sassy smile. “What are you looking at?”
“You’re a Dodgers fan?” Anna asked.
“Jamie is. I appropriated this from the top of her dresser. Do you think she’ll mind?”
“Hell no.” Jamie strolled in from the living room with a mug of coffee in one hand and the latest issue of Modern Bride in the other. “I can’t stand the Dodgers. I’m a Yankees fan.”
Cait frowned. “Then why … ?”
“Ex-boyfriend’s,” Jamie said. “And now Brooke’s. Wear it in good health, sugarplum.”
Brooke plucked a strand of cobweb off her shirtsleeve and returned to the topic at hand. “So my oven sucks?”
“Blame Anna,” Cait said. “She worked it to death.”
“Well, put it on the list of things I need to repair,” Brooke said.
“No, no, don’t worry about it.” Anna shot Cait a look, which Cait pretended not to notice. “This is not your problem.”
“My house, my oven, my problem,” Brooke insisted, then added sardonically, “Welcome to Paradise Found.”
“Seriously, don’t sweat it,” Anna urged. “I won’t be monopolizing all your counter and fridge space much longer.” She prepared to break the big news. “I got a call from the English department this morning. They heard about the historical dessert tray I did for the anniversary bash, and they want me to bake for a faculty reception next week. I told them I’d do a literary theme: Jane Austen almond cake, Tristram Shandy sticky pudding, Beowulf mead, that kind of thing.”
“What?” Cait whapped her playfully on the arm. “I’m so excited for you! But how dare you hold out on me all afternoon.”
“Anna, that’s amazing,” Brooke chimed in. “Today, the English department, tomorrow the world!”
“I see big things ahead for you,” Jamie predicted. “Like a Food Network series. A bestselling cookbook. Your own line of outrageously overpriced pots and pans.”
“That’s a great idea,” Cait said. “She could inscribe the bottom of each with an inspiring literary quote.”
“�
�Food for Thought’ by Anna McCauley,” Brooke suggested.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Anna laughed. “There are a few minor details to take care of before I roll out my culinary cottage industry. Right now, I’m just looking into renting some commercial kitchen space. I need industrial-grade equipment and space to store all my supplies. Where I’m going to find all that in a town this size, I have no idea.”
“I know the perfect place,” Brooke said. “Pranza, that little café on Pine Street. They’re only open for breakfast and lunch. I bet they’d let you use the back room at night. My coworker’s cousin is engaged to the owner. Want me to give him a call?”
Anna joined Cait and Jamie in a moment of silent admiration for the blonde in the baseball cap. Then Jamie shook her head. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“It’s amazing what one can accomplish with determination, duct tape, and good manners.” Brooke waved her pliers at them and headed down the hall. “They call me the Stealth Magnolia.”
“… So that about covers it. All the bowls are in the bottom cabinet, and the spoons and spatulas are in those drawers.” Seth Becker, Brooke’s restaurant connection, concluded Anna’s tour of Pranza’s kitchen space. “All I ask is that you clean up after yourself and remember to turn on the dishwasher so that the opening crew can get started on time in the morning.”
“No problem,” Anna assured him. “I really appreciate you leasing the space and equipment to me.”
“Sorry I can only give you three nights a week, but if you like working here, and you’re willing to outbid the other baker who leases the space, you can increase your hours next month.”
“I’m gone five minutes and you’re already renting the place out from under me? For shame, Seth!”
Seth whirled around to face the back door. “Trish? What are you doing here? I thought you went home for the night.”
Second Time Around Page 9
