by Nina Lane
I look at Kelsey again. She shrugs, then gives a barely perceptible nod. Not even she can refute Allie’s statement.
I pick up my satchel and sling it over my shoulder. After giving Allie a hug good-bye, I follow Kelsey outside and we walk to Matilda’s Teapot. A grandmotherly woman seats us near the window and serves us homemade soup, quiche, fruit salad, and Assam tea.
I give Kelsey a brief outline of how things went for us in California. I’m not ready to tell her about the miscarriage—not ready to tell anyone—and I have no idea if or when I’ll be able to.
I do wish I could tell her about Maggie Hamilton. Kelsey would go into firestorm mode if she knew Dean was being threatened with a false charge. I’ve never actually seen Kelsey in firestorm mode, but I imagine she’d be a highly impressive and unstoppable force.
I turn the conversation to her work so I don’t give in to the temptation to confess. We split a plate of petit fours before gathering our things to leave. We part ways at Kelsey’s car, and I decline her offer of a ride home.
Instead I walk back to Avalon Street. There’s a fancy baby boutique located about halfway down the street, not far from the Wildwood Inn. I pull open the door and am greeted by the scent of lavender and the gentle cadence of a lullaby. Everything is in shades of pink, cream, blue, and yellow. The cribs are made of gleaming wood, the bedding looks fluffy and pretty, and artwork of cuddly animals lines the walls.
“Hello.” A well-dressed woman approaches me from behind the counter. “Can I help you find something?”
“Just looking, thanks.” I enter with a touch of caution, closing the door behind me.
I look at the tiny baby clothes, the ruffled bassinets, and patterned diaper bags. There are pink-and-white striped stepstools, hand-carved wooden blocks, butterfly lamps, and rocking chairs.
I stop beside a wall of baby clothes and pick up a blue cotton hat that is soft as a cloud.
“That’s one of our most popular newborn hats,” the saleswoman says. “Made of organic cotton and hand-stitched. Comes with a full matching layette too.”
I have no idea what a “layette” is. I didn’t have a chance to find out. I pick up another hat, the same as the blue one but in a shade of pastel pink.
“I’ll just take these.”
“Shall I wrap them up?” She goes behind the counter and rings up the hats. “Are they a gift?”
I hesitate. “Um, sure.”
“For twins?” She starts to package them up in a yellow-striped box with tissue paper.
“No. Just for… for a friend.”
“Oh, how lovely.” She finishes wrapping the box and ties it with a big yellow bow.
I pay for the hats, then go back outside into the cold winter air. Once I’m home again, I slide the box underneath the bed and tell myself not to remember it’s there.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DEAN
FEBRUARY 8
ce crusts the window of the conference room. The sky is a sheet of gray. Students trudge through the dirty slush covering the quad.
I shift my gaze from the window to the other side of the table. Ben Stafford from the Office of Judicial Affairs is reviewing his notes. Frances Hunter is sitting beside me.
“I’m speaking with Miss Hamilton the week after next,” Stafford tells us. “She’s been out of town since the alleged incident, but will be back mid-month. After I interview her, we’ll try to schedule a mediation meeting in the hopes of coming to a resolution. In the meantime…” He clears his throat. “I am obliged to conduct a full investigation.”
Anger burns my chest.
“Why do you have to conduct an investigation when she hasn’t filed a formal charge?” I ask.
“Miss Hamilton’s father has contacted me with… concerns about ensuring that no stone is left unturned,” Stafford explains.
“You mean he wants you to follow his orders.”
Frances shoots me a look of warning. She’d told me not to bring in my lawyer yet, though I wish I hadn’t listened to her. Edward Hamilton is a lawyer, and he’ll know exactly how to fuck with me.
“No way can you keep this confidential if you’re doing an investigation,” I tell Stafford.
“I assure you we’ll do our best.”
“Dean, we don’t want this publicized any more than you do,” Frances says. “The university does take strong measures to ensure the privacy of everyone involved.”
“But there are some steps we must take in the interim, Professor West,” Stafford says. “Steps involving your contact with other students.”
A tense silence descends. I tug at the knot of my necktie. Frances puts her hand on my arm.
“Dean…”
Fuck. Her tone is both conciliatory and regretful. I don’t want to hear this.
“You can’t be at King’s while the investigation is ongoing,” she says.
“I have a lecture and a seminar to teach this semester, Frances.” I force my voice to stay level, though I’m ready to throw something at the wall. “I have five students working on their dissertations and theses.”
“You need to take a leave of absence.”
“No.”
Frances and Stafford exchange glances.
“Professor West, university policy dictates that you should be suspended during the course of the investigation,” Stafford says. “But at this point, you can excuse your absence as a semester’s leave.”
“Which will do no harm to your reputation, given the IHR grant,” Frances adds. “We’ll announce that your workload precludes you from teaching this semester.”
My jaw is locked tight. Pain radiates over my skull.
“I need to work, Frances.”
“You still can. Just… not at King’s.” Her voice falters, as if she knows what cold comfort that is. “It’s either a leave of absence or a suspension, Dean. I’m sorry.”
I swivel the chair around to stare out at the gunmetal sky. “What about my students?”
“I’ll ask Professors Worth and Collins to substitute until we can find an adequate replacement.” She pauses. “No changes will be made to your salary at this time.”
I couldn’t give a fuck about my salary, but her remark outlines one stark fact. This could all end badly. Even if I’m vindicated.
My career and reputation could be destroyed by the malignant lies of one girl. If this goes public—and it’s only a matter of time before it does—even if Maggie Hamilton is proved a liar, my name will be tainted with the sordid accusation of sexual harassment.
“Professor West, either way you’ll be required to stay away from the university campus,” Stafford says. “You’ll be allowed to continue advising your current graduate students on their work, but we ask that you limit your association to emails and that you BCC Professor Hunter and myself on your correspondence with them.”
“Christ.” The word escapes me on a hiss. “Want me to wear a fucking monitoring device too?”
“Dean, this is as much for your protection as anything else,” Frances says.
“Bullshit. There’s no way a suspension is standard procedure when a student lies about a professor.”
Frances and Stafford are both silent.
Anger scalds my insides. I know they’re doing this to ward off Edward Hamilton. If I’m out of the picture, they can assure him they’ve already taken disciplinary measures.
Edward Hamilton’s father has a university building named after him, and Edward has carried on the legacy of big donorship. The administration doesn’t want to lose that. If they could grant Maggie Hamilton a PhD just to appease Edward Hamilton, they would.
“What does she want?” I turn to look at Frances. “Does she want me to sign off on her thesis? Because I will, if it’ll shut her up.”
“Our goal is not to shut students up, Professor West,” Stafford says.
Frances narrows her eyes at me disapprovingly before slanting a glance at Stafford. “If that’s all, Mr. Stafford, I’ll be in touch.�
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Stafford closes his briefcase. “Send me the paperwork approving the leave of absence, as well. Assuming that will be your course of action. I hope we can complete the investigation within a month or two, Professor West, but sometimes these things take longer.”
He nods at us, then strides out of the room. The door clicks shut behind him.
“What Miss Hamilton wants,” Frances tells me, “is either to seek justice for a—”
“I didn’t harass her!”
“For a perceived wrong,” Frances continues tersely, “or she’s an angry student who is using a powerful weapon against a man in a position of authority with whom she has had a contentious relationship. And while you know quite well I am strongly inclined to believe the latter, it is my duty as chairperson not to discount the former.”
I shove to my feet. “She’s doing this so she can blame me for not graduating. So her father won’t cut her off. She wants to save her own ass.”
“Dean, you can’t talk about her like that, especially in front of Stafford.” Frances sighs. “Look, I hate to lose you for a whole semester, but really, you need to stay away from the university. I meant it when I said it’s for your own protection. Would you please request a leave of absence for research purposes?”
I’ve taught at universities for the past seventeen years, first as a teaching assistant then as a professor. The only year I didn’t spend in a classroom was when my grandfather was sick. I’d hated not having the familiarity of academia, scholarship, routine. And when Liv and I were apart, I’d spent most of my time at the university because it was the only place I’d felt like I knew what the hell I was doing.
Liv.
My chest constricts. “Frances, if I can’t teach right now, I’ll go fucking insane.”
“You don’t have a choice, Dean. Between you and me… you’re banned from King’s University until further notice.”
“You don’t have the authority to ban me.”
“Do you want me to go to the board of directors to get it?”
I drag my hands over my face, hating the helplessness and anger.
“I’ll expect your request in my office mailbox before the end of the day.” Frances walks to the door. “Your leave will be effective starting on Monday, the first day of the spring semester.”
She pauses. “I’m sorry, Dean. But you need to let the process work itself through, which means you need to stay out of it or risk getting into further trouble.”
Her heels click down the hall. I go in the opposite direction to my office. Before I can think too much about it, I sit at my computer and write a terse request to Frances and the board of directors requesting a leave to conduct “unexpected and time-sensitive research with the support of my IHR grant award.”
I send the email to the board members, the chancellor, Frances, and Stafford, then print out paper copies to sign and date. I bring the letters to Grace, the administrative assistant, who assures me cheerfully she’ll get them sent out right away.
I return to my office and hammer out an email to my graduate students, explaining that I won’t be on campus this semester for research reasons but will still be available for advising and any help they need via email and phone. In a useless act of defiance, I don’t BCC either Frances or Stafford on the email.
I take some books from the shelves, shove a bunch of lecture notes and papers into my briefcase, stack folders to pick up over the weekend. I send Liv an email that I need to work late.
What I need to do is figure out how I’m going to tell her about this.
I get some work done, organizing the curricula that I now have to hand over to another professor. At seven-thirty, I shut down my computer and head to the gym. Run a couple of miles on the indoor track, lift weights, hit the heavy bag like it can fight back.
When I stop to get my water bottle, Kelsey the pit viper is waiting for me by the benches, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed.
Just what I need. Another harpy telling me what I should or shouldn’t do.
“What happened?” she asks.
“What’re you talking about?”
“When I saw Liv the other day, she looked like some pale, heartbroken waif from a Victorian melodrama.”
Goddammit. I don’t want to hear this.
“Are you guys having trouble again?” Kelsey asks.
I look at her for a long minute. I don’t have the energy to battle her. Part of me wants to break down and confess everything, for no other reason except to get it out. But I’ll never do that, not even to Kelsey.
“Kelsey…”
She blinks at me through her glasses, her blue eyes suddenly wary—as if she knows this is worse than the time Liv and I separated.
“Dean?” She grabs my wrist. “What happened?”
“It’s…” I don’t even know what to say. “Look, I love you, right? You know that.”
“You’d better fucking love me considering how much crap you put me through,” she replies tartly.
“But I’m not going to talk about this.” I pull my arm from her grip. “I can’t.”
She stares at me. Dismay colors her eyes, muting her sharp gaze. She steps back.
“Okay, Professor Marvel.” She jerks her thumb toward the other side of the gym. “Let’s go so I can kick your ass at racquetball.”
We play two games, and I decline her offer of a third before heading to the men’s locker room. After a shower, I change into jeans and a sweatshirt and drive home.
It’s a freezing night, ice covering the sidewalks. I let myself into the apartment and drop my briefcase and coat by the front door.
A single lamp glows in the living room. Liv is curled up in an overstuffed chair, her legs tucked beneath her old quilt and a notebook open on her lap. She’s wearing one of my old San Francisco Giants sweatshirts, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. The light shines on her long hair. She gives me that smile that makes my heart pound.
I love her. God, how I love her.
“There you are.” She puts the notebook on the sofa. “I was getting worried.”
“Sorry. Bunch of stuff to get done and went to the gym.” I approach her. “Thought you might be asleep by now.”
“I was waiting for you.” She gestures to the coffee table.
A chocolate cake is on a platter alongside two plates and forks. There’s a note propped against one of the plates:
I stop. “It’s my birthday?”
“All day.” Her smile widens. “I wanted to wish you happy birthday this morning, but you were already gone when I woke up. So I waited to tell you in person.”
I sink onto the sofa. “Thanks for remembering.”
“We’ll go out to dinner soon to celebrate.” Liv unwraps a package of candles and puts a few on the cake. “I know you’ve been busy this week, so maybe next weekend.”
“Did you make the cake?”
“Yes, earlier today. Chocolate layer with chocolate-orange ganache and orange buttercream.”
“Wow. Gourmet.”
“Only the best for you.” She lights the candles, which cast a reddish glow on her pretty face. She slides the cake toward me. “Make a wish.”
My one wish comes without any thought, but with my entire heart.
I lean forward and blow out the candles. Liv cuts two slices of cake and puts them on the plates. She hands me one and sits back in her chair with the other.
I take a bite of cake. “This is amazing.”
“Not bad, huh?”
We eat in silence for a while. Liv licks a drop of icing off her finger.
“How was the meeting?” she asks.
“Not good.” I can’t look at her, but her responding dismay lodges in me like a knife.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Later. Tell me about your day.”
“I worked at the library, then helped Allie start planning a treasure hunt day, which is the next big event after her Willy Wonka party.” Amusement softens her
voice. “She thinks the promise of chocolate coins will bring in hordes of people.”
“She might be right.”
“I give her credit. She never gives up.”
Liv sets her half-empty plate on the table and picks up her quilt, then moves over to sit on the sofa. She tucks herself against me.
I put my empty plate aside and pull her closer. “That was great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She spreads the quilt over both our legs.
She’s had the quilt for as long as I can remember, but I realize I’ve never known where it came from. It’s a faded old quilt with blue, green, and purple rectangles. The edges are frayed and some of the threads are coming loose.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“I never told you?” Liv plucks at one of the threads. “The second time I was at Twelve Oaks, another girl and I went to a few of those antique shops along the coast. I found this at one of them. The guy told me it was vintage homemade, but considering it’s falling apart, I don’t think he was quite telling the truth. I think vintage homemade quilts are supposed to last forever. Anyway, it’s warm and has always reminded me of Twelve Oaks.”
“You ever think of going back?”
“Why would I go back when I have you?”
“Just to visit.”
“No. I loved it when I was there, but it’s part of a totally different life. Like a magical place that you realize still isn’t home.”
She burrows farther underneath the quilt, against my chest. Her notebook drops to the floor. I reach down to pick it up. Liv’s Manifesto is written on the cover.
“What’s this?”
“Hmm? Oh, I started that a few weeks ago.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
I open the book and leaf through several pages of her handwriting.
I close the book. My throat is tight.
“Just promises to myself.” Liv takes the book. “Well, stuff about the future, anyway.”
I will learn what I’m good at.
“But I still haven’t done anything, Dean.”
