“Good evening,” he said, nodding to them both, and he was greeted with a shy smile from Maren.
“Hello, Dr. Vashal,” she replied, softly.
“Dr. Vashal,” Jess nodded, seeming to recover his posture and regain his confidence, simpering. Malcolm could not help but wonder if this lording stemmed from the fact that Malcolm had been witness to the altercation between them and, thus, Maren’s lapse.
For the second time in under a month, Malcolm desired to punish him. But he held himself back.
“Do we have enough registration packets to last the night,” he asked, eyeing the boxes behind them.
“We have a box and a half, so about 18,” Maren answered. “Dr. Wilson was finishing his shift when I arrived, and he said that they’d only gone through one box since lunch.”
“Hmm…We’ll probably get a few more than that during the evening,” he observed. Area teachers often came to the Friday sessions and social, earning CLUs and enjoying the chance to mingle as well.
Malcolm seated himself in between the two grad students who sat on opposite ends of the registration table and set about double-checking the number of registered participants, the number of invoices from the day, and the number of names on the pre-registered list. As he worked, he was aware of Jess stealing glances at Maren by leaning back in his seat. Maren ignored him with her nose in English Romantic Writers, 12th Ed. Malcolm quietly applauded her resolve.
The clock edged past 5 p.m., and as he had anticipated, more people arrived in search of the registration table. Malcolm went up to the departmental office for another box of packets, and before he reached the table upon his return, he could hear the two of them arguing in hushed tones.
“I was just teasing. What’s the big deal?” Dalton whined in exasperation.
“You mocked her, Jess. It’s just mean,” Maren rasped.
“It was nothing.”
“You shouted a marriage proposal across the parking lot at Barnes & Noble. It’s hardly noth—”
Malcolm’s arrival stilled Maren’s tongue, and he set the box down on the table and opened it, pretending not to hear or care about their conversation. Dalton had moved from the far right of the table closer to Maren, so Malcolm took his abandoned chair.
Two women came up to register for the conference, one approaching Malcolm, and the other Maren. Dalton seized his opportunity to whisper his retort, and Malcolm found his attention stretching across the table in an attempt to listen.
“It was a joke. What does she care?”
Malcolm heard Maren’s sigh without having to look at her. Maren reached back to grab one of the packets.
“You’re such an idiot,” she hissed.
Malcolm eyed the woman Maren was helping. If she’d heard the exchange, she gave no sign of it.
“Okay, you’re all set,” Maren said, handing her a packet. “Enjoy the conference.”
Malcolm had almost forgotten about the woman in front of him, but hastily handed her a packet as well and sent her on her way.
“What? Why did you say that?” Jess asked, genuinely perplexed.
“Never mind” Maren sat down again and picked up her book, refusing to look at him. Both seemed to have forgotten that he was there, listening, so he kept his eyes from them, pretending to study the registration ledger.
“No, Maren, really. What do you mean?” Jess’s voice betrayed a hint of dawning realization and, if Malcolm wasn’t mistaken, a little fear.
“Forget I said anything,” she replied, still not meeting his eyes
Jess grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back to look at him.
“Tell me!”
Malcolm was out of his chair in an instant.
“Dalton!” he barked, startling all three of them. Jess and Maren’s eyes were wide as Jess released her arm.
Don’t touch her.
He wanted to shove him, chase him away, banish him. He knew that he could not conceivably do any of these things, so he drew in a long breath through flared nostrils and gave himself two seconds to think.
He dug his keys out of his pocket and singled out one of them.
“Go to the office and get us another box of packets.”
“But you just—”
“Go,” he said, coldly.
Defeated, the boy took the proffered keys and headed toward the stairs.
“Freak out much?” He heard Jess mutter, but he chose to ignore it.
Maren stared at him with an unreadable expression before dropping her gaze to her lap. A heavy awkwardness settled over them. Malcolm slowly sat back down.
“Are you alright?” he asked, nearly whispering.
Her dark eyes met his again, and she brushed her bangs away from her face. Malcolm had noticed that she had forgone her usual French braid and that her hair fell in gentle ribbons down her back. It looked as soft as water.
“Yes,….just…”
“Just what?”
“Just embarrassed,” she admitted, a weak smile claiming her mouth. “Again.”
“Why on Earth are you embarrassed?” Malcolm asked, incredulous, but absorbed as he watched color come to her cheeks. Her blush seemed to scorch him.
“I think I allow Jess to bring out the worst in me.”
Malcolm considered what he’d witnessed in the last 24 hours.
“If a little name calling is your worst, then your villainy leaves much to be desired,” he said, wryly.
She rewarded him with a musical laugh, and Malcolm realized that he had been leaning in to talk to her. He pulled back abruptly and got to his feet.
“I’m…I’m going to go get coffee….Would you like some?”
She declined, politely, and seemed to drag her eyes back to her poetry book. Malcolm headed to the conference hall where tables and refreshments for the social had been prepared. He didn’t really want coffee. In fact, the back of his neck was damp with sweat. Agitation needled him, and he checked his breathing, wary that the panic would show itself. But he didn’t feel panicked, exactly.
The conference hall was nearly empty, just a few uniform-dressed dining hall staffers finishing their preparations. He plucked a chilled bottle of water from its icy tub, cracked the seal, and drained half its contents.
The urge to body-check Jess Dalton had surprised him. It had been as immediate as it was primal. Malcolm could imagine the satisfaction of sending him flying with a shoulder to his sternum, the look of shock that would have rounded his eyes.
Malcolm shook his head. To indulge in such fantasies was dangerous. As it was, he celebrated the power he held to send Jess away, even for only a few minutes. But Malcolm realized that he was probably already back with the unneeded box of packets, possibly harassing Maren again, so he hastily headed back to the registration table.
Chapter 9
Maren
Maren had her mom’s car for one more day, so on Saturday morning, she drove to Keller’s Bakery before returning to school for her last (Thank God!) shift at the registration table. Last night had been awful and mortifying with Jess and his relentless hounding and Dr. Vashal’s intervention as referee. And that she could have tolerated well enough, but it was the stony silence that had followed Jess’s return to the table that finished her off. Whenever they had dared to glance at each other, Jess had looked both shame-faced and confused, and Maren had wanted to say something, but she didn’t dare. As it was, she had practically let it slip that Helene’s feelings for Jess were more than casual, something that could not hold up against his teasing.
Maren had not decided if she should tell her friend about the exchange, so as she faced another three-hour shift, she braced herself to suffer alone.
Thus the bakery.
Keller’s was the oldest bakery in Lafayette, and, in Maren’s estimation, it was the best. Some of Maren’s friends, and even her brother, Lane, thought that Meche’s won out. Meche’s did have three locations in Lafayette, which testified to their success, but their doughnuts were monstrous—flaky with sugar or c
oated with a chocolate topping so thick it was almost waxy. The king cakes they sold before Mardi Gras were giant doughnut braids dripping with green, gold, and purple icing, a promise of instant diabetes.
Keller’s, by contrast, offered doughnuts that were modestly sized, lightly glazed or topped in a thin, dark chocolate frosting that left you wanting just a little more. Their king cakes were sleek rings of Danish pastry layered with filling and delicately iced in the festival tricolor. Maren’s favorite was raspberry walnut. Her dad loved the amaretto walnut cream cheese. Maren jangled the bell on the bakery door as she entered and pushed aside the dispiriting thought that king cakes would not be available again until January.
It was 7:40, and a line had formed. Maren recognized the two black women behind the counter who had worked there for years. They were always smiling and laughing with customers. She grinned at the sight of them, glad that some things did not seem to change. Maren waited for her turn, eyeing the apple turnovers and cinnamon twists in the display cases. She would have to be sure not to let her eyes get bigger than her stomach.
“Whatcha need, suga?” The older of the two women called to her. Maren read the smiling woman’s name tag, Sally, and promised herself she’d remember it next time.
“One dozen, half and half, please.”
“Yes, Lawd, yes. Got some hot ones!” Sally boasted, filling her box directly from the tray that had just come from the kitchen. “You bringin’ these to ya boy-fren, honay?
Maren laughed and handed over a $10.
“No, no boyfriend,” she replied, taking the box of hot doughnuts.
“Aw, you gotta get a boy-fren, den send him out to get you doughnuts on a Sat-a-day mawnin’!”
“Well, that would be nice,” Maren admitted, laughing again. “Though I think I was still buying the doughnuts for the last one.”
Of course, it hadn’t been doughnuts with Ben. Coffee and bagels, yes. But she had been the one to surprise him with those small, thoughtful gifts. Never the other way around.
“Live and learn, girl,” Sally sighed. “Live and learn.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Maren grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser on the counter, thanked Sally for the doughnuts, and carried her peace offering back to the car. That’s what it was, of course, a token to try to put yesterday behind them, and it made her feel just a little less uneasy about heading back to Griffin Hall.
She got there right at 8:00, speed-walking from the parking lot, and found only Dr. Vashal setting up the table. Jess was nowhere in sight.
“Good morning, Dr. Vashal. I brought us some breakfast. I hope I’m not late,” she stammered. “Here, I’ll help with that.”
His eyes tracked from hers, to the doughnuts, to his watch, and to the box of packets she was already taking from him.
“Hi. Thanks. No. Okay.” He gave her a half smile, but she stared at him in confusion.
“What?” She paused with the box of packets half open before her. Dr. Vashal reached for a napkin and helped himself to a chocolate-covered.
“‘Hi’ to your ‘Good morning.’ ‘Thanks’ for the doughnuts. ‘No’ you are not late, and ‘okay,’ you may pry this box from my hands.” He finished his explanation by taking a huge bite of doughnut and attempting to hide his amusement, but it shone in his gray-green eyes.
After a beat, she had to laugh at herself, but he saved her from too much embarrassment.
“Mmm. These are still hot. Where did you get them?” he asked, flipping the box lid back down to read it. “Keller’s. My favorite.”
“Yeah, they’re the best,” she said, setting the opened box of packets behind them and proceeding to straighten the stack of registration forms on the table, but she watched him, too. As he engulfed the rest of his doughnut, with obvious enjoyment, he looked like a kid. He was without his usual jacket and tie, just a button-down white dress shirt, and Maren could detect the outline of biceps and pectorals through the fabric. She caught herself wondering what it would feel like to run her hands over them and hastily pulled her gaze back to the papers in front of her.
He reached for the box of doughnuts, grabbed a second, and bit into it before a realization seemed to strike him.
“That can wait.” He nodded to the papers and held the doughnut box out to her. “Here, have one of your doughnuts.”
Maren suppressed a smile, took a napkin, and plucked a glazed out of the box.
“No chocolate?” He eyed her with disbelief. Her smile broke free.
“I like chocolate. I just like to have a glazed first,” she explained, taking a bite of the golden perfection. “They’re the best when hot.”
“I’ll have to try that next,” he noted, and his voice was softer and more relaxed than she’d ever heard it. Who knew that the fearsome Dr. Vashal could be tamed with a box of doughnuts? What would Helene think?
The last thought made her check her watch. A quarter after 8.
“Where’s Jess?” she asked.
Dr. Vashal frowned.
“He said last night that he wouldn’t be here until 9:30….I should have told him not to bother coming at all,” he added, bitterly.
Maren didn’t know how to respond to this, and she was glad when a handful of people approached the registration table and put them both to work. Once there was a lull, Maren pulled out her Romantics text and returned to Christabel. Even though she’d just turned in a research paper for Dr. Sheridan, the department head had announced that she would give them an in-class essay test on Monday concerning the Coleridge poem. Dr. Sheridan had encouraged the class to read in the area of its most notable criticism, but she also warned them that their responses on the essay test needed to emphasize their own original thought.
And Maren had read. And read. And read.
“You’ve been staring at that page for nearly 20 minutes,” Dr. Vashal declared with a hint of impatience. “For God’s sake, what are you stuck on?”
“It’s Christabel,” she said, looking up from the lines that she hadn’t really been reading.
“Yes, I can see that,” he deadpanned.
Maren puffed her bangs out of her eyes and slumped in her seat.
“I’m just trying to see it from a new perspective,” she explained, feeling defeated. After a moment, Dr. Vashal gestured to the book in front of her.
“May I?”
She slid the book toward him. Maren didn’t want to ask him for help, but she was willing to accept it if he offered. She watched him as he languidly flipped through the gothic poem,…and then she just watched him.
There was no doubt about it. He was beautiful. In profile, as he looked down at the words, his lashes had a life of their own. The fine muscles below his golden cheek and around his mouth were European in their tautness, evidence of the fact that he was fluent in another language. The straight slope of his nose drew her eyes down to the alluring flesh of his lips and his strong chin.
Yes, he was beautiful. But there was more than beauty. She remembered the condemned look in his eyes she had seen a few weeks before, and her heart twisted. Absorbed in the reading, there was the tender humanness of him. The singularity, the essence of him that was vulnerable and sacred. And, somehow, she could see it. As she sat beside him, realizing that she was witnessing him, she knew the moment would end too quickly. And it did.
“What do you know about ‘This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison’?” he asked, turning to look at her.
Maren tried to close down the wonder that must have shown on her face, but she wasn’t sure that she had done it in time. She cleared her throat, blinked her eyes, and took the book back from him before answering.
“Well,…it came out of a disappointment,” she stammered. “Coleridge was supposed to go on an outing with friends, but he wasn’t well, so he stayed back in the garden. And what started out as bitterness became transcendence as he imagined the pleasure of his friends.”
Dr. Vashal smiled in appreciation.
“That�
��s right. His wife, Sara, spilled scalding milk on his foot, and so he was laid up while his friends enjoyed their jaunt in the English countryside.” His smile grew as he talked, but his eyes narrowed. “Now, Coleridge’s was a loveless marriage. He fell in love with Sara Hutchinson two years later and made no attempts to hide his heart or his infidelities. What I’ve always wondered is, how long was Coleridge an adulterer? And was that spilt milk really an accident?”
She was about to ask what this had to do with Christabel, but she stopped herself. If there was a connection of any kind, she wanted to figure it out herself.
“This has nothing to do with Christabel,” he said, practically reading her mind. “It just leaps to mind when I think about Coleridge.”
He gave a short chuckle and reached for the book again, but she stopped him.
“No,…I think I’m good,” she said, musing.
He helped himself to another doughnut.
“Well, that was never in doubt,” he mumbled.
Jess showed up an hour later, but he was so distracted that there wasn’t even an opportunity for Maren to feel awkward about what had transpired the night before. While checking in an older man, Jess had to ask him twice to repeat his name, and, once, he handed back the check a woman had just written instead of giving her the conference materials.
Dr. Vashal had grumbled at this and sent Jess to get coffee for the three of them. Maren was more than grateful when 11:00 rolled around without incident. She bid the two men goodbye and headed home, and it wasn’t until she got there that she checked her phone, which she had silenced that morning.
CALL ME!
Helene’s text, coupled with Jess’s obvious weirdness, set her heart pumping, filling her veins with guilt.
With trepidation, she tapped Helene’s number. Helene answered on the first ring.
“Are you home?” Helene’s voice was all business, giving nothing away.
“Um…yes…?”
“Can I come over?” Maren judged that she at least didn’t sound angry or tearful.
“Sure. Should I make tea?”
“God, yes. Make some tea.” Helene said before hanging up.
Fall Semester Page 8
