Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  Chapter 17

  Maren

  Malcolm would not allow her to clear her own dishes after she finished the best chicken and rice meal of her life.

  “Finish your wine. I’ll make coffee, and we’ll have dessert on the back porch.”

  Maren hugged his oversized sweatshirt to her and watched the God of Gorgeous walk away. When he’d answered the door in his t-shirt and jeans—and barefoot, for heaven’s sake—Maren could scarcely keep from drooling. He was incredibly sexy, the t-shirt and jeans revealing so much more of his body than his usual dress shirt and jacket could—not that Malcolm Vashal didn’t also totally rock the professional look. He had that down.

  But this? Oh my.

  In the short sleeves, his defined biceps and triceps were bare and beckoning. She could detect pecs and obliques beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt, and she imagined running her fingers down his chest and waist. And the nakedness of his feet was so unexpected, so intimate. In her limited experience, feet—even on men whom she found quite attractive—could look cartoonish or primitive. Malcolm’s were divine in their elegance.

  Her attraction to his body threatened to swallow her whole, but the real danger came from the way he treated her. He was so gentle, so considerate. Malcolm made her feel treasured. He had more than welcomed her into his home; he had beseeched her to stay. She felt wanted.

  She watched him measuring out the coffee. After the fantastic meal and her third glass of wine, she was replete and relaxed. Maren found herself wondering why on Earth they had agreed on friendship and all of its limitations. This had been the best date of her life.

  But it’s not a date, she reminded herself. You crashed his dinner, and he let you stay.

  Maren sighed, catching Malcolm’s attention.

  “You’re suddenly, awfully quiet,” he noted, archly, as he filled the coffee carafe with water.

  Heat rose on her cheeks. She groped for something to say and blurted out the question that had hounded her all night.

  “So, how come you’re not married?”

  Malcolm’s eyebrows leapt. He shut off the faucet and stared at it for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered, sitting bolt upright. “That came out wrong. Please scratch that.”

  She bit her lip and watched him. For a several seconds, he didn’t move, but a look of confusion passed over his face, and he frowned.

  “No,…it’s alright,” he said, still frowning and not looking at her.

  Maren was mortified at herself, and though she was ready to apologize again, the kaleidoscope of emotions that seemed to play out on his face made her hold her tongue. He filled the coffee maker and replaced the carafe.

  “I was married,” he said, finally, still staring at the coffee pot. He blindly took down cups and saucers from the cabinet above him, lost in thought. “We divorced. Almost three years ago.”

  He looked up at her then, but his expression was impossible to read. Maren hoped he could see the contrition in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, cautiously.

  He looked away again and opened the drawer in front of him, plucking out two teaspoons.

  “It didn’t last long. We were together for a couple of years.” He said this and met her eyes again. Maren could see pain in his. “I don’t think she…I don’t think we knew what we were getting ourselves into.”

  Maren pushed herself away from the table, wanting to close the distance between them, but wary of cornering him. She instead walked to the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of milk.

  “I’m sorry for asking such a personal question,” she offered, joining him by the coffee and placing the milk before him. “It was very rude.”

  To her surprise, Malcolm’s eyes danced before he smiled, gently.

  “That’s what’s so funny….I usually don’t like talking about it,” he began. “But I don’t mind that you asked…not at all.”

  Maren’s shoulders loosened, and she smiled in return.

  “That’s a relief,” she murmured. “I would hate for you to be mad at me.”

  “Yeah, like I see that happening,” he deadpanned, raising a brow at her. Maren covered her mouth and laughed, feeling forgiven. Malcolm’s sage green eyes softened on her and seemed to look deep into her for the second time that night. They stood less than a foot apart, both leaning their hips into the counter, and under the aroma of the brewing coffee, Maren could smell the warm leather and lemongrass scent of him that seemed to call her name. He had given her an unopened bar of natural lemongrass soap when she changed, and she’d had to bite her tongue to keep from giggling like a teenager. Now, she pictured pressing her nose into the curve of his neck to discover the source of the leather edge.

  Maren cleared her throat and stood straighter. Whatever look she had been giving Malcolm, it was certainly more than friendly. He straightened, too, and motioned across the kitchen.

  “Would you get us two dessert plates?”

  She obliged while he fished a pretty, crystal dish with a scalloped edge from the cabinet in the island.

  “Now, for the moment of truth,” he said with mock drama. Maren watched him invert the crystal dish over the pie pan. He gripped both sides and in an instant flipped them. He carefully removed the pie pan to reveal a disk of golden perfection.

  “I am very impressed!” She clapped in appreciation.

  “Wait until you taste it,” Malcolm gloated, making her laugh again. He produced a large serving spoon and scooped generous, jiggling portions of flan onto both of their dessert plates.

  “Do you take sugar?” he asked, moving back to the coffee and filling the two cups.

  “Just a little.”

  “And milk, I gather?”

  “A splash. How do you take yours?” Maren watched him prepare her cup, again feeling so cared for.

  “The same.” She made a mental note, hoping that she would have the opportunity to return the favor. He took the two cups and saucers with the spoon and nodded at the dessert.

  “Please carry those and follow me.” He set off for the living room.

  “Yes, sir!” she teased, but obeyed.

  He crooked an eyebrow at her over his shoulder.

  “I did say ‘please’.”

  He led her to the back door, set one coffee down on a distressed, gray accent table that Maren thought was lovely, and opened the door. Maren gasped as a tawny Siamese cat shot through the doorway and tore past her before skidding down the hall.

  “You have a cat!” she exclaimed, needlessly.

  “That would be Ricardo,” Malcolm grumbled, apologetically. “He’s…wary of strangers.”

  Malcolm led them out onto the darkened screened porch and flipped on flood lights that illuminated the yard and cast a yellow glow into the shadowy enclosure. The porch offered a cane bottom rocker, two wrought iron patio chairs with a matching table, and a cypress swing suspended from the ceiling, which made Maren’s heart leap.

  “Ooh, can we sit on the swing?” she begged, unable to conceal her delight.

  Malcolm chuckled at her glee.

  “Sure.” And he nudged the table closer to the swing before setting down the coffees. He took one of the dessert plates from her, gave her a spoon, and waited for her to settle herself onto the swing.

  “I love swings. We had one like this on an A-frame in the yard when I was little,” she said, sitting down and noting the timeless creak of the chain. He sat next to her, his heft setting the swing in motion, and his right hip and thigh brushing against her left. Memories of her childhood swing flew away, and she was rooted in the moment by the closeness of his body. The touch of his hand on hers had been thrilling as he’d pulled her into the house and led her on the tour; she had liked it so much that she had even dared to touch him in the same vein, but the press of his thigh against hers set her heart racing. It was firm, lean…carnal.

  “Taste this…,” Malcolm used his spoon to point to the flan on her plate. “And the
n tell me what happened to your swing.”

  Maren welcomed the distraction and scooped a spoonful of custard into her mouth.

  “Mmmm….” she moaned in spite of herself. Silken vanilla and caramelized sugar slid over her tongue and melted in her mouth. “Malcolm, you are a great cook. I am in awe.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he teased, helping himself to a taste. “Mmm. Mmm.”

  Maren giggled and silently gave thanks that she was not the only one who reveled in the yumminess.

  “Now,” he ordered through a mouthful. “What about this swing?”

  Maren frowned and tried to remember.

  “I don’t really know. I can picture Lane and me swinging on it, but I don’t remember Laurel ever joining us,” she said, searching her mind’s eye. “Maybe it dry rotted. Who knows?”

  “Laurel? Is she a sister?” he asked, a wistful smile just hinting on his lips.

  “Yeah, she’s 18.”

  “And your brother? Lane? How old is he?”

  “He’s 22.”

  “So, you’re the oldest.” It wasn’t a question, but he searched her eyes carefully.

  “Yes…I’m 24…”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, and, although she was mystified by his look, she could see that the wheels were turning. He angled himself on the swing to face her directly.

  “Is that why you moved home? When your father became ill? Because you are the oldest?”

  She blinked, unsure how to respond. She set her plate down and picked up her coffee.

  “Not entirely…I wanted to come home to be with him,” she started, taking a sip to sort out her response. She had to acknowledge the truth in what he said. “But, yes, I felt like it was my responsibility to be here.”

  Malcolm set his dessert aside and likewise picked up his cup but never took his eyes from her.

  “UL is no Denver, Maren,” he leveled. “Do they understand what you gave up?”

  She shook her head once, firmly.

  “No, and they don’t need to.”

  He lightly patted her shoulder with the tips of his fingers.

  “I didn’t mean that,” he consoled. “I just meant that…I know what you gave up. It must have been very difficult.”

  The look of recognition—for it was recognition, not pity—in his eyes touched a sore spot inside her. She felt laid bare. At first, it frightened her for him to see her pain, but when he didn’t flinch or pull back from it, it simply soothed her. It made her feel more brave than she had felt in a long while.

  “It was. For a lot of reasons.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying all of that,” he offered, humbly.

  Maren sipped from her coffee and shook her head.

  “No, but now I get to ask the questions.”

  “By all means,” he said, giving a gallant bow that made her laugh. She shifted in her seat so she could face him now.

  “What about you? Any brothers and sisters?”

  “No.” The wistful look had returned, and she wondered if she should tread carefully.

  “What about your parents?”

  Malcolm swallowed before answering.

  “My parents divorced when I was nine. My father moved away and remarried. My mother died when I was 19.”

  Maren heard herself gasp.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. It was a long time ago,” he said, but sadness crimped his eyes, and Maren brushed his knee with her fingers in comfort.

  “How did she die?”

  “She had Crohn’s Disease. She was sick for a long time.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  Maren put down her empty cup, and it was her turn not to look away.

  “Apparently, it was too hard for Glenn Vashal,” Malcolm said, bitterly. “He supported us, and, later, me, through my undergraduate studies, but he was not cut out for the whole ‘in sickness and in health’ contract.”

  An old anger, fortified by time, rolled off him in waves. Maren could not imagine either of her parents bolting under the same circumstances. Indeed, Erin and Mark would have done the opposite. Their devotion to one another would have only galvanized.

  “Having me was really hard on her body,” he continued, regret lacing his voice. “She couldn’t have survived any more children….He’d always wanted a big family.”

  “Oh, Malcolm” was all she could say, but she refused to look away. A thought struck her, and she had clarity.

  “He had other children, but you don’t count them as your siblings.”

  “Yes.”

  Maren could not imagine the sense of betrayal he must have lived with, how much rejection he must have felt. She knew without having to hear that his mother had loved him with everything she was, and that her devotion to him must have only made his father’s indifference that much more acute. She wished she could comfort him.

  “What was your mother’s name?”

  Malcolm smiled a sad smile.

  “Charlotte.”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “She was beautiful,” he said, softly.

  “Well, she’d have to be, right? I mean, she had you?” It was out before Maren could stop it, but Malcolm burst into such delighted laughter that she did not regret her admission.

  “Does that mean I’m beautiful?” he asked, still amused.

  Maren narrowed her eyes at him.

  “You know you are, so don’t make me say it.”

  “Hmmm.” He leaned his elbow along the back of the swing and studied her.

  “Hmmm, what?” she asked, mirroring his pose.

  “You’re the beautiful one,” he said, just above a whisper.

  For the third time that night he looked deep into her. Three times was one too many. Maren felt his look trail all the way down inside her. He might as well have spread his hand across her beating heart. Willfully forgetting about the boundaries of friendship, the danger of scandal, and every possible consequence, Maren leaned forward to close the inches between them and pressed her lips to his.

  They were surprisingly soft, but they seemed to catch her slow fall, warm and ready, even as she registered his surprise. For a moment, it was like pushing off from shore in a rowboat, as smooth and buoyant as gliding over sunlit water, and Maren felt her stomach flip at the sensation. She tilted her head and opened her mouth just enough to taste him, and his mouth mirrored hers, yielding moist lips that welcomed her. Her tongue ventured out and met his slick lips, tasting vanilla and coffee and something else that she understood was fundamentally Malcolm. When she felt his tongue slide out to meet hers, she moaned, and a fever took her. She raised her hands to his lovely face and pressed harder against him, hungry enough to kiss him for hours. When she felt his hands on her shoulders, she thought he would take her in his arms. Instead, with gentle but insistent pressure, he pushed her away.

  “Maren,…I can’t do this,” he whispered, hoarsely.

  “What…?” She was still breathless, still surfacing from the tumult of the kiss, but the look in his eyes—the look that said she had ruined everything—brought her to her senses with an icy suddenness.

  “I’m sorry…I can’t,” he said, again.

  “Oh my God!” She pulled out of his grasp and stood up.

  What have I done? He’s a professor!

  A sinkhole of shame opened up in her belly and swallowed everything except a shiny, new pain that lanced through her.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Maren,…I-” He stood, but she could not even look at him.

  “Dr. Vashal, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, heading for the house, but barking her shin painfully against the wrought iron table as she did.

  “No, Maren, I’m sorry.” He moved toward her, but she side-stepped him.

  “I have to go,” she said, turning away and bolting through the door, ready to run home that instant until she skidded on his wood floors in his socks.

  Shit. She had left her clothes a
nd shoes in the bathroom.

  “Maren, wait!” She heard him come through the door behind her.

  Realizing that there was no way to make this any less humiliating, she turned down the hall to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

  She picked up her shoes and sat on the edge of the tub.

  I will not cry here. I. WILL NOT. CRY. HERE.

  But this proved to be a tremendous challenge as she stripped off the socks that she’d thought so sweet of him to give her. She didn’t waste time changing into her own clothes; she just pulled on her socks and shoes so she could get the hell out of there.

  When her laces were tied, she looked at the door of the bathroom with dread. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stood up. She gathered her running clothes, placed a hand on the knob, and with a silent prayer for divine intervention, opened the door.

  He stood in the hallway holding his car keys and wearing an unreadable expression. Maren noticed he had put on his shoes.

  “I can walk home. It’s not even 9 o’clock.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, grimly.

  She sighed, still willing herself not to cry, and let a mask of indifference settle over her features.

  “Fine.” She turned on her heel and walked through the house to the carport. As she passed through the kitchen, highlights of the evening assaulted her. What they had laughed about. Talked about. Shared with their eyes. Could she have misread everything? Beneath her disgrace, which drenched her, Maren felt confusion…and a blooming anger.

  Outside, she wanted to run, desperately, but it would only make her look more foolish, so she sunk into the passenger seat of his car and stared fixedly out of the side window as he got in with what seemed like glacial slowness and closed the door.

  She waited for him to start the car. He did not.

  “Maren,…This is all my fault.” His voice sounded papery and dry, but Maren could not look at him.

  “Please, just take me home.”

  She heard him place the key into the ignition, but he didn’t start it.

  “You don’t understand,” he continued. “It’s not that—”

  “Please don’t say anything. I feel humiliated enough as it is.”

  He was quiet for a moment before starting the car. In silence, he pulled the car out of the driveway and onto St. Patrick Street. Maren told herself that it would be such a short drive, she could even hold her breath until she was home, but in truth, the ride seemed the longest of her life. In the shadows between two street lamps on St. Thomas, she chanced a glance in his direction. He sat rigid in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel like he could bend it. Seeing his misery only served to confirm that what she had done was abhorrent to him.