by Kate White
She crossed the room quickly and opened the door.
“Miles called and told me the news,” Duncan said as he stepped inside. “Are you okay?”
Phoebe sighed. “To be honest, I feel pretty rattled. God, that’s a bad pun, isn’t it?” She led him into the living room. “Were the rats yours?”
“Fortunately, no,” Duncan said. “In fact, there are no rats missing at all from the science center. They were probably bought at a pet store or a student may have owned them.” He took a seat on the couch. “So tell me what happened. I’ve only heard pieces of the story.”
Phoebe gave him the highlights. As Duncan listened, he shook his head in disgust.
“But the cops cleaned everything up?” he asked.
“Craig said they did the best they could for now, and I haven’t dared look. I just won’t ever eat sorbet again.”
“How did someone manage to get access?”
“I think by making a copy of my key the day they left the apples. Would you like a shot of brandy, by the way? I’m suddenly feeling in need of one.”
“That would be great,” Duncan said. “So you’re pretty sure it was this group again—the Sixes?”
He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall on the couch. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on earlier—jeans, button-down dress shirt—but they were slightly rumpled, as if he’d stripped them off, dropped them on the floor, and then retrieved them ten minutes ago. Phoebe wondered if Val was back at his place, keeping the bed warm.
“Yep, pretty sure,” Phoebe said. She crossed the room to a small butler’s table where she’d set up a few bottles of after-dinner liqueurs. “There were six rats, just as there were six apples. And remember that slightly hostile conversation I had with Blair Usher today? This feels like retaliation.”
As Phoebe opened the brandy bottle, she remembered that she was in her damn pajamas. The bottoms were decent enough, but the top was just a tissuey T-shirt that you could practically see her breasts through.
“Miles said we’re supposed to keep all of this quiet from the cops for now?” Duncan said.
“Yes. Craig Ball wants to dig up more evidence, and figure out for sure which girls were involved. I guess he’s afraid that if the cops are called in now, it’ll be a mess on campus. I’m going to have the locks changed tomorrow, so they won’t be able to get in again, and once Ball knows who broke in, he’ll hand them over to the police.”
“Reasonable from a PR standpoint for the college, but not exactly comforting for you.”
“I just keep reminding myself that they’re a bunch of twenty-year-old girls, not master criminals.” She wished she felt as confident as her words boasted.
With brandy glasses in hand, Phoebe crossed back across the room to Duncan. When she handed him his glass and sat down next to him, their fingers brushed and she felt the same charge she’d experienced earlier at the party. I want him, she thought. Where did this come from?
“Still, this is pretty serious stuff,” Duncan said. He smiled for the first time that night. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you when you found them—knowing how unfond you are of the little creatures.”
“Well, I really appreciate you coming over and checking on me,” Phoebe said. She looked at him coyly, unable to resist making the next comment. “I just hope it didn’t throw a wrench in your plans tonight.”
It took him a moment to realize what she’d meant, and he threw his head back and laughed.
“Oh—Val,” he said. “It’s funny—suddenly she’s completely interested in me. Maybe as a feminist she was operating under the premise that it’s wrong for a woman to make a play for a widower until his wife has been dead and buried for well over a year. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to discourage her.”
“So you aren’t seeing her, then?” Phoebe asked. She’d meant it to come out lightly, but her tone had sounded urgent, betraying her eagerness to know.
“God, no,” Duncan said. He studied Phoebe for a moment. “I can tell by your face that you don’t totally believe me.”
Phoebe shrugged. “As a writer, I’ve always given far more credence to what people do than what they say.”
“Right—and of course I left the party with Val. Will you believe me when I say she begged for a ride, claiming her generator was on the blink?”
“Ahhh,” Phoebe said. “Did she mean her car’s generator or her own?”
Duncan laughed again.
“Well, if actions dazzle you more than words, let me make a stronger case for myself, then,” he said.
He reached his right arm behind her, pulled her toward him, and kissed her. His lips were warm and soft, and as they pressed deeply into her mouth, she felt a rush of intense desire spread through her lower body.
All too quickly, he pulled away. She caught her breath. Don’t stop, she wanted to say. Duncan stared into her eyes so intensely she had to fight the urge to look away.
“Did I convince you?” he said.
“Almost,” she whispered.
He took her glass from her hand and set it down on the table. Cupping her face in his hand, he kissed her again, this time more urgently, and within seconds his tongue was in her mouth, exploring. She reached her arms around him and kissed him back, harder and deeper. Her body felt on fire now.
Without taking his mouth from hers, he began exploring her breasts with one hand, massaging them through the tissuey fabric and circling her nipples with his thumb. Involuntarily Phoebe let out a moan, and pressed her body into his.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked, pulling away again. “Do you believe me now that I don’t give a rat’s ass—if you’ll excuse the expression—about Val?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said softly. She realized that she was trembling a little—from desire, from everything the night had entailed. Duncan said nothing back, just held her eyes, and she knew then that the next move would have to be hers. The kiss had come because she’d challenged him with her comment about actions versus words, but he wasn’t going to push it. He’d learned his lesson with his first dinner invitation.
“Would you like to stay?” she asked him. God, I’m really doing this, she thought. “I mean, I may not be at the top of my game, considering everything that’s happened, but I’d give it my best shot.”
“Something tells me that not the top of your game is very good,” he said.
She led Duncan upstairs. She was glad she’d left just the one bedside lamp burning in her bedroom. Though she was in good enough shape, she felt self-conscious suddenly. The last time she’d made love to a new man, it had been Alec and she’d been thirty-seven, with firmer breasts and a flatter stomach. But as Duncan pulled her pajama top over her head, she just stopped thinking. He took her breasts in his hands, stroking and kneading them. He kissed her urgently at the same time. He stepped back just long enough to nearly tear his shirt off and toss it on the small armchair. His chest was smooth and well defined. She ran her hands over it, feeling the softness of his skin.
Pulling her closer again, he slipped his hand inside her pajama bottoms. His fingers began to explore, softly at first, teasing her, and then more firmly. And then suddenly his finger was inside her, making her gasp. Phoebe reached between his legs and stroked him.
“Why don’t we get in bed,” he said.
While she found a condom in the dresser, Duncan peeled off his blue jeans and boxer briefs. As she reached the bed, he stripped back the comforter in one move and lay her down. He tugged off her pajama bottoms and began to explore her with his mouth and his tongue. She pulled on his hair, urging him up and inside her. The strokes he used at first were long and torturously slow, and she writhed beneath him. Suddenly he quickened his pace, moving faster and faster, and it was only seconds before she climaxed. He slowed his speed so that she could concentrate on the waves, and then moved faster and faster until she felt him come inside her.
Afterward he held her, spooning. He stroked her hair with his hand
. “Was the invitation for the entire night?” he murmured into her ear.
“Absolutely,” she said.
A little while later she thought she sensed him drift off to sleep. She had thought the sex would enable her to fall back asleep easily, but she suddenly felt wired. The image of the dead rats came rushing back. After lying quietly for a while, unsuccessfully willing sleep to come, she slipped out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. In the mirror she saw that her cheeks were still flushed red. She wet a washcloth with cold water and, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, held it to her face. Had she been crazy to go to bed with Duncan, to start up a fling with someone at the school? Maybe, she thought mockingly, I was suffering from posttraumatic rat syndrome and couldn’t think straight tonight. But she knew that wasn’t true. Her desire for him had been building since he’d sat across the table from her eating spaghetti carbonara. And what she knew for sure was that tonight had done nothing to quell that desire. She wanted him all over again.
She stood up, hung the washcloth on the towel rod, and massaged lotion into her face. It was now after midnight, and she had to force herself to sleep so she would seem reasonably sane in class tomorrow. She switched off the bathroom light and snuck quietly down the hallway. The darkness made her heart skip just a little. As she approached the bedroom, she stopped in her tracks. She could hear the murmur of Duncan’s voice. He was talking to someone.
12
A S PHOEBE STEPPED into the room, she saw a pinpoint of light floating above the bed. It was from Duncan’s cell phone, she realized; he was talking into it in a low voice, propped up on an elbow. He muttered a good-bye, and from the dim glow of the night light, Phoebe watched him toss the phone onto the chair where his clothes were lying and flop onto his back.
“Everything okay?” she asked, puzzled.
“I was just checking my voice mail to see if Miles had called with any news. He was going to search the lab again just to be sure.”
“Oh, I thought I heard you talking,” she said, puzzled.
“I left a message on his voice mail at work, telling him to call me if he found anything. How you doing? Still feeling a little rattled?”
“Not so much,” she said, shrugging off her robe. She slipped back into bed. Duncan shifted position so his body was facing hers. “You have a nice way of calming a girl down.”
“Oh, is that right?” Duncan said. She could sense his mouth form into a smile. He dragged his other hand down the length of her body. They made love again, this time even more intensely, and seconds after he pulled out of her, she fell into a deep sleep.
Her alarm went off at six. Phoebe stirred, then reached up and slapped the snooze button. Suddenly she remembered Duncan, and her eyes shot open. The opposite side of the bed was empty. Oh, please, she thought. Don’t tell me he’s just taken off.
Then she heard him on the stairs. He came into the room—pants on, shirt off—carrying two espressos.
“I hope you don’t mind me co-opting your prized espresso machine,” he said.
“Hardly,” Phoebe said. “And I can’t believe I’m being served in bed.”
He lowered himself next to her, and after Phoebe propped herself up, he passed her one of the small cups. The smell of the coffee mixed with the musky smell of Duncan’s body. Phoebe wondered if in the rude light of day she would begin to find him wanting in some way, but no, that didn’t happen. She liked the way he looked and sounded and smelled.
“I also took the liberty of tidying up your freezer a bit,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, wow, that’s even better than coffee in bed,” Phoebe said. “I don’t think I even would have worked up the courage to open that door again.”
“I’m a bit more comfortable with rat fur than you are, and I hacked out the remaining traces of it. Besides, I had to figure out some way to thank you for last night.”
I can think of one, she thought. Come back to my bed again soon.
She pulled on her robe while Duncan dressed. As they left the room a few minutes later, Duncan nodded at the night-light by the door.
“You know what I love about that,” Duncan said.
“Oh, God, I can’t believe you noticed it,” Phoebe said, rolling her eyes
“No, no, it’s good. It gave me another glimpse of the soft, tender side of Phoebe Hall.”
“Hey, I’m in a strange house,” she said. She nudged him with her elbow. “I need to wake up at night and know where I am.”
A few minutes later they descended the stairs, and when they reached the front door, Duncan pulled Phoebe toward him and kissed her softly on the lips.
“So are you going to let me cook for you one night?” he asked.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“How about Friday night?” he asked. “Unless, of course, you have plans to eat alone at Tony’s.”
She smiled. “What do I have to do so you’ll finally let me off the hook about that?”
He laughed.
“Trust me, I’ll think of something between now and Friday.”
As she heard Duncan’s footsteps tripping down the steps of her porch, some of the discomfort from the previous night rushed back. She walked hesitantly into the kitchen. It looked exactly as it had when she’d left yesterday afternoon: the two glasses in the drainer, the faded yellow dish towel threaded through the drawer pull, the row of small gourds on the windowsill above the sink.
Get it over with, she told herself, and yanked open the door of the freezer. Duncan had been good to his word—there wasn’t a trace of anything foul in there. It was also totally empty inside; he’d tossed out her two tubs of sorbet and she found that he’d put the ice cube trays in the dishwasher.
An hour later, showered and dressed, Phoebe double-checked all the windows and doors before leaving the house. She took her car to campus this time, and bought a cappuccino and bagel at Café Lyle—since she hadn’t had the stomach to fix anything in her kitchen. Just as she planted herself at a table, Glenda called.
“You okay, Fee?”
“Yeah. I keep waiting to develop symptoms of bubonic plague, but so far I’m not hacking up any blood.”
“You didn’t stay up all night in a panic, did you?”
“No, no, I managed to get some sleep,” Phoebe said.
There was no way she could blurt out the details about her night with Duncan, not smack in the middle of the campus café anyway, and yet holding back made her uneasy. She hadn’t even told Glenda about her first dinner date with Duncan, and the longer she waited, the weirder it would seem—the two of them had always been open with each other about their personal lives. Phoebe sensed that she might be dragging her heels this time for a reason. Was it because she thought Glenda would disapprove of her becoming involved with another member of the faculty?
“I wish I could say it helped to know Buddy was patrolling the neighborhood,” Phoebe added quickly. “But he seems like the kind of guy people still give wedgies to. Any news from your end?”
“So far Craig hasn’t been able to flush out any of the Sixes, but he’s on it big-time. And I have the information you needed—Alexis’s admission file. I know you have a class at eight, but can you come over afterward and pick it up?”
Phoebe agreed, and after nearly wolfing down her breakfast, she hurried to Arthur Hall. She’d told her students to come prepared to comment on the writing styles in the pieces she’d passed out on Monday, and she planned to save time at the end of today’s class to describe some of the principles she’d learned from editors she’d worked with over the years. But as the students began tossing out comments, she found herself only half concentrating; instead her mind ricocheted between the dead rats, Blair, Lily—and Duncan, too. At one point she realized that one of the few boys in the class was calling out a question. She was forced to ask him to repeat himself.
“Isn’t it silly for us to be studying magazine articles when print is on its last legs? I mean, many of us may never write for
magazines.”
“I disagree,” Phoebe said. “Yes, if you write professionally, a lot of your content will probably be for the Web—and that’s why I have you doing blogs. But there’s no reason to believe that magazines are going to be dead any time soon. There’s still a big market for long-form articles. In fact, I think that eventually you’ll find far more long-form articles on the Web.”
This led to lots of back-and-forth between the kids, leaving little time for Phoebe to share the editor wisdom she’d planned to dispense, but that was okay, since she didn’t feel focused enough to do it justice. At the end of class she gave an assignment for Monday—write a pitch for any magazine of your choice—and was out the door before any students could grab her for questions or offer additional commentary on the tottering future of print journalism.
The president’s office was across campus in the administration building, an older structure with marble floors and wide corridors. As Phoebe hurried up the stairs to the second floor, she nearly collided with Glenda’s husband, Mark. He looked dapper as usual in brown pants, a beige car coat, and a thin brown scarf around his neck.
“Oh, hi, Mark,” Phoebe said, greeting him with a smile
“Someone’s in a hurry,” he said in response. He forced a smile after his comment, but she’d detected something snide in his tone. She knew she wasn’t imagining it. Since she’d been in Lyle, he definitely seemed to be snubbing her.
“I was just going to catch Glenda between my classes. She’s up there, right?” Phoebe said.
“You mean, instead of putting out fires all over campus? Yes, the president is ensconced.”
Now that was definitely dripping in sarcasm, Phoebe thought. But she couldn’t tell if she or Glenda was the catalyst.
“Well, I’ll see you later, then,” she said, eager to extricate herself before the conversation deteriorated. “Have a good day.”
“Ditto,” he called as he descended the stairs. Ditto, she thought. What the hell was going on with him?
Phoebe waited for Glenda’s assistant to announce her arrival before stepping into the office. She was struck, as she had been the first time she’d visited, by the duality of the room’s personality. The throw pillows on the couch and citrusy scent from bowls of potpourri made the space inviting, but at the same time the formidable desk clearly conveyed that someone powerful held court here.
