She returned to the photo of Dr. Margaret Dorian. Still pretty, yes.
But maybe Jack was longing for more.
CHAPTER 21
JACK
“I’d say Taryn Moore’s a shoo-in,” Ray McGuire said. He’d just come out of the grad committee meeting, and he stood in Jack’s doorway, grinning at him. “Her application’s so strong we waived the deadline requirement.”
“That’s great! She’ll be thrilled to hear it.”
“Official acceptance letters don’t go out for another few weeks, but the vote was unanimous. She’s got a three-nine-something GPA. And her letters of recommendation all read like she’s the next Gloria Steinem.”
Jack couldn’t help but feel a bolt of pride. “She’s really psyched about the program.”
“I hope she didn’t apply to Harvard.”
“Nope. Just here. This was her first choice.”
“Excellent. The writing sample she submitted was a paper she wrote for you on The Aeneid. I’m not up on classical scholarship, but it actually looks publishable. An elegant analysis that Virgil’s really telling us, through subtext, that instead of committing suicide, Queen Dido should have thrust that sword into Aeneas.” He laughed. “Kind of a scary take on it, actually.” He turned to leave, then paused. “By the way, if she joins our program, she’ll raise our female hotness average from its current minus five. But I guess that’s not very PC of me to say, eh?”
“You are a superficial sexist pig.”
Ray smiled. “Yeah, and proud of it.”
A day later, Taryn practically danced into Jack’s office.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she burst out and leaned across his desk, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her face aglow.
“I take it you’ve heard some good news?” he said, smiling.
“Yes! Professor McGuire stopped me in the hall just now, and he said it’s almost certainly going to happen!” With a joyful sigh, she dropped into the chair facing his desk. That was how comfortable she’d become with him. They’d spent so much time together discussing her application and her thesis that she now needed no invitation to make herself at home in his office. “And it’s all because of you.”
“Taryn, I wasn’t the one who wrote those papers. Or earned those grades.”
“But you showed me the possibilities. You made me believe in myself.”
Flustered by her praise, he couldn’t think of anything to say. They regarded each other for a moment as he took in the beautiful disarray of her hair, the pink flush of her cheeks. She was more tempting than any Heloise could ever be, and he felt as bewitched as Abelard.
He looked down at his desk, hunting for a distraction, and saw the conference brochure he’d received a few weeks earlier. A welcome change of topic.
“This might interest you,” he said, handing the brochure to her.
“A conference on comparative lit?”
“It’s at the UMass campus in Amherst. Some of these presentations might interest you. Maybe even give you ideas for a future dissertation. Some of the best scholars in your field will be there.”
She studied the session titles he had highlighted. “‘The Invention of Men’?”
“About how classical literature is ultimately the history of men.”
She read the description. “‘Beginning with Homer, male writers and historians have focused only on men, leaving women as mere shadows in history.’” She looked at him. “It’s a talk by Maxine Vogel!”
“So you’re familiar with the name?”
“She’s one of the best-known feminist critics in the world.”
“She recently published a paper very similar to your interpretation of Heloise.”
“Oh my God, I’d love to go. Is it too late to register?”
“I don’t think you’d have a problem getting in.”
“I wonder if there’s bus service to Amherst. Since I don’t have a car.”
“I’m going too. I can drive you and any other students who want to attend. I’ll mention it in class, see if we can drum up some interest.”
She frowned at the conference fees. “Oh. I’d need to pay for a hotel.”
“I’ll check with Ray McGuire to see if he can come up with student travel funds. Especially since there’s a good chance you’ll be joining our grad program.”
She smiled at the brochure. “My first-ever literary conference. I just know I’m going to love it.”
Taryn stood on the edge of the campus quadrangle, where she’d promised to be waiting for him. Even from half a block away, he could spot her slim figure, dressed in dark-pink tights and a black jacket, her hair fluttering in the wind.
No other students. Just Taryn.
This was a mistake. He knew it, of course, but he couldn’t back out now, not after he’d promised to drive her to the conference. Not after all the arrangements had been made.
He pulled up at the curb. She tossed her overnight bag into the back seat and slid in beside him.
“Isn’t anyone else coming?” he asked.
“Just me.”
“I thought you were going to talk a few classmates into joining us. I assumed Cody, at least, was coming.”
“I tried, but no one else was interested.” She flicked back her hair and smiled. “Oh well. Looks like it’s just you and me, Professor.”
A mile down the avenue at Copley Square, he turned onto the Mass Pike west, his stomach churning. Taryn and he, alone in a car, headed out of town like two lovers. As they entered the tunnel under the Prudential Center, he asked himself, What are we doing? What am I doing? As soon as they arrived at the hotel, he needed to call Maggie. If only to remind himself he was married. That he was doing this for only the right reasons.
Although she’d registered late, a few rooms had still been available at the conference hotel, which was a short walk from the campus where the sessions would take place. As they headed into the lobby and approached the reception desk, he felt his heart rate quicken. Did they look like lovers? Had anyone noticed they’d arrived in the same car? He glanced around the lobby, which looked like the lobbies of countless other corporate hotels, and was relieved to see no one he knew.
“Your key, sir,” the desk clerk said, handing Jack the envelope with a key card to room 445. “I can put you both on the same floor,” he offered.
Before Jack could respond, Taryn said: “That’d be nice.”
The clerk gave her the key to room 437. Four doors away from Jack’s room, but still far too close for comfort.
I’m her teacher. She’s my student, he reminded himself as they stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor. We’re here for the conference, nothing else.
“See you in a bit?” she said as they approached his door.
“Um, yeah.”
“Lobby in twenty minutes?”
“Okay.”
He let himself into the room, and as the door swung shut behind him, his breath whooshed out. Okay. Okay, this will be fine, he thought.
Time to call Maggie.
He sat on the bed and dialed her cell phone, needing to hear her voice. To be reminded of what they had together, all the history, all the love. But the call went to voice mail, and all he heard was, “This is Dr. Dorian. I’m unavailable to answer your call.”
He disconnected and sat slumped on the bed. He had skipped lunch, and his stomach felt hollowed out, not from hunger but from nervousness. He was standing on the edge of an abyss, trying to keep his balance and not tumble into the darkness.
Half an hour later, he and Taryn walked into the building where other attendees milled about, greeting colleagues and checking billboard posters and schedules. Maxine Vogel’s lecture, “The Invention of Men,” was about to start, and the auditorium was filling fast. They claimed two seats on the aisle, and Taryn opened her laptop to take notes.
“I’ll see if I can introduce you to her after the speech,” he said.
“What should I say?”
<
br /> “Ask about her latest research and take it from there. Every scholar loves to talk shop, and flattery never hurts.”
“Okay. Okay. God, this is so exciting.” She looked around at the attendees waving hellos and shaking hands, a world of scholars that she longed to join someday. The auditorium lights dimmed, and her attention snapped forward to the screen, where the first slide was now displayed. It was a woodcut print of a woman in a flowing gown, bent over her loom.
Maxine Vogel walked to the podium, where she stood bathed in the spotlight. “I’m sure you all recognize the woman in this slide. Penelope,” said Dr. Vogel, sweeping an arm toward the screen. “For twenty long years, she remained ever faithful, ever patient, spurning all suitors as she waited for her husband, Odysseus, to return from the Trojan War. Scholars and poets point to her as the example of perfect womanhood.” Vogel turned to her audience and snorted. “What utter bullshit.”
And with that, she had the audience spellbound.
Jack glanced at Taryn and saw her lean forward, so rapt with attention that she’d forgotten to take notes. She was too focused on Vogel’s defense of unconventional heroines, the women whose unruly passions and inconvenient desires pitted them against the mores of society. No wonder Vogel was a star in her field; he felt a twinge of envy at how completely she captivated her audience. And he envied Taryn, too, for all the possibilities in her future. Possibilities that he could feel slipping away with each passing year.
When Vogel’s lecture ended and the lights came up again, Taryn was already on her feet and moving up the aisle toward Vogel. There was no need for Jack to introduce them; Taryn was a self-guided missile, aimed straight for her target. From across the auditorium, he saw her shake hands with Vogel, saw the older woman smile and nod as they walked together toward the room where the conference cocktail party awaited.
Mission accomplished, he thought. Taryn was doing fine on her own, and now was the time to make his escape.
He returned to his room alone, showered, and climbed into bed. He was annoyed that Maggie hadn’t called back, but then he saw the email she’d sent an hour ago:
Spending the night with Dad. He’s having a rough time with back pain. Hope conference is going well—call you in the morning.
Of course, she’d be at her father’s. They had no idea how much longer Charlie had left to live, and she wanted to spend every free moment she had with him.
He decided not to call her again tonight. He turned off the lamp and had just settled back on the pillow when his phone rang. Maggie?
But it was Taryn’s voice he heard. “Are you in your room?” she asked. “I need to tell you something!”
“Can it wait until breakfast? It’s eleven thirty.”
“But this is so exciting I can’t wait! I’ll be right up!”
With a sigh, he turned on the lamp and got dressed. He’d just buckled his belt when he heard her knock on the door. He opened it to find Taryn standing in the hallway, holding up a bottle of wine.
“Why the wine?” he asked.
“You’re not going to believe this. Maxine suggested we coauthor a paper together! Just her and me!”
Maxine. Not Dr. Vogel. “Seriously? How did that happen?”
“I told her I thought Queen Dido has been completely mischaracterized by male scholars. I said it’s because Dido challenged their ideals of masculinity. And she loved the premise.” Taryn gave a laugh of triumph. “Can you imagine it? My name would be right under hers on the paper!”
“That’s pretty astonishing,” he said, genuinely impressed. “And I hope you realize how generous she is to be doing it. Most scholars with her stature would never even consider—”
“Let’s celebrate! I had the bartender uncork this for us.” She hunted down two glass tumblers in the room, filled them with wine, and handed one to Jack.
How could he refuse? She was practically dancing with joy, and he couldn’t help smiling at her triumph. They clinked glasses and sipped. “Congratulations, Taryn,” he said. “You’re well on your way!”
She took another gulp of wine. “And it’s all because of you.”
“I wasn’t the one who charmed Maxine Vogel.”
“We talked for hours at the cocktail party, brainstorming our paper. We could’ve kept going, but the bar was closing. Luckily I took a ton of notes.”
“Good thinking,” he said, his head buzzing from the wine. He’d scarcely eaten dinner, and now he was paying for it as the alcohol roared straight into his bloodstream.
She drained her glass, poured another, and topped off his. “We’ll have to collaborate by email. You know, I send her pages, and she sends me comments and suggestions. Then we coedit the final version, and she’ll submit it. She knows the editors of all the major journals. And to think none of this would have happened without you, Jack.” Her eyes were huge, dark pools. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t encouraged me.”
He suddenly registered the fact that she’d called him Jack, not Professor Dorian. When had that started? When had they slipped into such easy familiarity? He knew he shouldn’t have more to drink, but he gulped down the wine anyway and set down the empty glass.
She moved toward him so swiftly he didn’t have time to react. He felt her breath against his hair as she whispered: “Thank you.”
He stood paralyzed as she kissed him. This was not a thank-you peck. This was a full-lip kiss that lasted longer than any thank-you. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and he felt his stomach drop away, felt his body respond.
This can’t be happening.
“I want you,” she whispered, and she slipped her hand into his trousers. Found him already, involuntarily, erect.
He groaned and tried to pull away.
“Jack, please,” she begged. “Just for tonight. Just you and me.”
This is so wrong.
But it was happening, and he was unable to fight it. Unable to resist the hunger that had been building all these weeks. Already their mouths were joined, their bodies moving against each other. He didn’t remember how their clothes came off. Her naked body was a sculpted work of beauty—tight and athletic, long and firm. He didn’t remember who led whom to the bed, but suddenly there they were, and he was on top of her, thrusting between her thighs as she gave tiny yelps of pleasure.
And then it was over, and they lay side by side, saying not a word.
She turned to kiss him, and he felt the wetness on her face, the heat of her cheeks. She took his hand and kissed his palm as well. “That was wonderful,” she whispered. “That was everything I dreamed it would be.”
He didn’t answer. He simply lay beside her in silence, thinking that he had just lost something precious. And he would never get it back.
CHAPTER 22
TARYN
He lay beside her, silent and still, but by the pattern of his breathing, she knew that he was awake. She wanted him to wrap her in his arms. She wanted him to say all the things lovers should say after they had feasted so joyously on each other’s bodies, but he did not say a word, and she could guess why.
He was thinking about his wife. About how everything had changed because they’d just made love.
She reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but neither did he squeeze hers. His hand lay rigid in her grasp, and she could feel the tension coursing through him. That was how she knew he had never before strayed from his wife, and it made what had just happened between them all the more significant. She was his first.
“You’re feeling guilty. Aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He turned to look at her. “How can I not feel guilty? I shouldn’t have let this happen. I can’t believe I—”
“Jack.” Gently she stroked his face. “You’re feeling guilty only because you’re a good man.”
“A good man?” He shook his head. “A good man would have resisted temptation.”
“Is that all I am to you? Temptation?”<
br />
“No. No, Taryn.” He touched her face, cupped her cheek in his hand. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. You’re beautiful and brilliant and everything any man would want. And you should be with someone who’s better for you than I am.”
“You’re the one I want.”
“I’m twenty years older than you.”
“And twenty years wiser than any boy my age. All these years, the only one I cared about was Liam. I thought he was the best there was, the best I would ever find. Now I realize how shallow he is, how shallow most boys are. You made the difference. You showed me what I’ve been missing.”
He sighed. “This was a mistake.”
“For me? Or for you?” She couldn’t hide the edge in her voice, the unmistakable note of anger, and when he frowned, she knew she was on the verge of losing him. At once she smiled and reached out for his hand. She pressed it against her face. “Even if it was a mistake, it’s one I’ll never regret. Not for as long as I live. Because I’m in love with you.”
“Taryn . . .”
“Don’t say anything. You don’t have to tell me you love me. You don’t have to pretend I’m what you want.”
“My God, you’re every man’s dream.”
“I only want to be your dream.”
They stared at each other, drinking in each other’s gazes. She knew he was tormented by guilt. A good man would be, and that was why she was willing to be patient and give him time to see how much she meant to him, how much better she was for him than his wife. She’d let him go home to her. Let him lie in bed beside that wife and think of her, long for her instead.
“I don’t want any man but you. I know you think I’m too young for you, but I’m old enough to know who I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“There’s not just you and me to think of. There’s also . . .”
“Your wife.”
At those two words, his hand went as still as a corpse’s. “Yes,” he whispered.
She pulled away from him and sat up on the side of the bed. “I understand. I really do. But I need you to know that for me, this isn’t just a onetime thing. This is much, much more. I could make you so happy.”
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