Blushing Pink

by Jill Winters

  The voice snarled the total price, but Reese couldn't make it out, so she grabbed a handful of bills from her glove compartment and steered around to the pickup window. When she got to it, a scowling pubescent boy with symmetrical acne on his cheeks and a fuzzy hint of a mustache snatched her money and shut the window wordlessly.

  She waited. And waited. Made sure not to roll her eyes in case they had a hidden camera somewhere. And waited. Soon cars on line behind her starting beeping—long, dragged-out sounds that could only come from leaning on the horn like an ass. Still, it was flustering. What did they expect her to do?

  Come on, come on.

  Finally the maroon-clad preteen returned with her food and change. "Oh, thank you, thanks a lot," Reese said ingratiatingly. He didn't bother responding, or explaining what the delay had been. In fact, after he deposited her bag and soda, he slammed his screen shut and turned back to his mike. Okay. Reese's cup of soda felt like a brick, it had so much ice. And then she glanced down at the change in her lap, and realized it was wrong. She had handed him at least six bills, and gotten back only forty-two cents.

  Another horn sounded. She thought quickly. Okay, she supposed she could deal with being shortchanged, and diet soda really wasn't good for her anyway, but if there weren't extra pickles—

  Beep! Beep! Beeeeeeeeeeeep!

  As horns blasted, Reese threw her car into drive. She pounded her foot on the accelerator and blew out of the line. Soon she was on Route 46, having shamelessly bowed to peer pressure. But then, that was pretty fitting. There was something about coming home to Goldwood that always smacked of mental and emotional regression.

  Hey, she could live with that.

  Chapter 2

  Reese turned her car into the comfortingly familiar driveway of the stone-and-brick house she'd grown up in. It was set high up from the street, with lush evergreens enclosing it, as well as densely planted rhododendrons that would've been blooming a gorgeous deep pink if it weren't December.

  After she set the car in park, she cut the engine and sighed. No matter where else she ever lived, she knew she would always love this place. It was cozy but secluded, like the other homes on the street but special. She hadn't lived there full-time since that teenage angst known as high school. She'd gone to college in Boston, stayed there for her master's degree, and then moved to New York after Crewlyn had offered her a fellowship that included city housing. Still, she'd always have a room in the Goldwood house; her mom wouldn't have it any other way.

  As a matter of fact, her mother had recently remodeled Reese's old bedroom in expensive Victorian decor with the hopes that she'd move back after graduate school. Assuming, of course, that Reese was still single then, which wasn't too wild an assumption.

  "Hello?" Reese called out, shutting the heavy oak door behind her and immediately turning the dead bolt—a habit she'd formed after having five dead bolts installed in her New York apartment. The two duffel bags she'd taken out of her trunk were weighing her down, so she dropped them by the stairs. "Anyone home?" she said, walking down the front hall toward the kitchen.

  "Oh, hi, sweetheart!" Joanna called. "In here!" Reese followed her mother's voice, and rounded the bend through the kitchen to the family room. She found Joanna curled up in a little ball on the sofa, covered by a patchwork quilt. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, and some maudlin Wedding Story piano music resonating from the television.

  "Hi, Mommy," Reese said, smiling, and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

  Joanna angled the remote and pressed "stop." Reaching up, she hugged Reese tightly. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad you're home. Have you finished your toast for Ally's wedding?"

  "Mom, I don't even have my coat off."

  "Oh, well, I was just interested," she said innocently, and gave her another squeeze. Reese kissed her cheek once more, and pulled back to shrug off her hooded fleece jacket. "Oh, no, is that all you wore for a coat?" Joanna asked, alarmed. "For goodness' sake, it's December! Don't you have a winter coat?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "We're gonna buy you a winter coat while you're home."

  "I have one—"

  "Sit, sit. How was your ride? Let me hear all about it."

  "There's really not much to tell. What's new around here?"

  "Nothing, really. Just last-minute stuff for Ally's wedding."

  "Oh, yeah, I heard about her dress."

  Joanna put a soft, delicate hand to her forehead. "Please. Don't even get me started."

  Reese grinned. "Right, okay. So where is everybody?"

  "Ally's out with Ben, and your father's in his study. By the way, there's left over poulet a la crime in the fridge."

  "No, thanks. I had something on the way over." Stupid, stupid.

  Joanna's head shot up. "You did? What did you eat? What?"

  "Um—"

  "Not fast food, right? Please tell me it wasn't fast food." Reese hesitated, and Joanna groaned as if in pain. "Oh, please, not fast food."

  "It was just a cheeseburger, jeez." Reese felt a little embarrassed now, which was silly because this was her mother, but somehow the woman always managed to make her feel like a complete fool.

  "Oh, but why?" Joanna asked, and fell back against the sofa cushions in martyrdom.

  "I don't know...."

  She sprang back up. "Look, honey, I'm not trying to be a pain. All I'm saying is, why on earth have a greasy burger when you can eat something healthy and well-balanced here? You know I have good food. At the very least, you can always pick on the foie gras and brioche."

  "Okay, can we move on now?" Reese said, flopping down on the opposite couch.

  Joanna shrugged in response, as if it were no big deal, but she was obviously still itching to preach more on the extremely overdone topic.

  "What were you watching?" Reese asked, knowing full well, but she was determined to deflect the conversation.

  "Oh, I was bored, so I took out a tape of Wedding Story."

  "Oh."

  "Disc fourteen, episode two-b. Rodney and Claire."

  "Ah. Well, put it on; I'll watch, too."

  "Okay, great." She settled back under her quilt. "Did your roommates go home, too?"

  Reese shrugged. "I guess. Well, two of them graduated this semester, and the other wasn't there when I left." Graduate living was nothing like undergraduate; roommates came and went, and were usually too busy to stop and chat along the way.

  Joanna nodded and pressed play.

  Reese watched as Rodney and Claire's story unfolded. It was one of those nauseating "the minute I laid eyes on her, I knew" stories. Yuck. Not that Reese was cynical about love—she wasn't. In fact, deep down, she was a romantic. But she hated hearing people claim they "knew" the moment they looked at someone, because real life didn't work like that. If it did, she would still be with her ex-boyfriend, Pete, instead of getting an occasional postcard from him in South America, where he'd bolted three years ago to do volunteer work.

  She had looked at him, and only thought she knew. That was the point.

  "Isn't that so sweet?" Joanna crooned, clearly taken in by the televised emotions playing before her.

  "Uh-huh."

  "I love this episode," she gushed, "because Rodney is such a nice, quiet, intellectual type." Reese held back a gagging gesture. "Like Kenneth," she threw in. Reese said nothing. "So how is Kenneth?"

  "Fine."

  "Well, he's still coming to Ally's wedding, right?"

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "But have you made plans to see him over break? Besides the wedding, I mean. When do you think you'll see him? I want him to come to the house again so your father can meet him. What's he doing for Christmas?"

  "Mom," Reese interrupted, holding up her hand. Her mother might be an adorable little bundle but she was also a force that must be stopped. "I don't know what's going on with Kenneth, okay?"

  Joanna's eyebrows shot up with alarm; she popped upright on the couch again. "Well, what do you mean? Did
you two have a fight? Oh, no, what happened? What did you do?"

  "Me? I didn't do anything," Reese replied. "Look, I just... it's hard to explain. I don't really feel like getting into it right now."

  "But—"

  "Anyway, it's not like Kenneth and I are having an official relationship."

  "Well, not yet, but I thought—"

  "You thought I could get my 'hooks' into a nice, quiet intellectual, I know." Joanna didn't bother denying the charge. "Face it, Mom, the only reason you like Kenneth so much is because he reminds you of Remmi Collindyne's husband. You even said so."

  "That's not true!"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Yes, he has a similar demeanor as Remmi's husband—who's a wonderful provider, by the way—but I like Kenneth for who he is."

  "You met him once."

  Joanna held up her hands. "Honey, if it doesn't work out with Kenneth, so be it. That's fine. But I don't want you to ruin an opportunity, that's all. You need a man who's sweet and smart, and one who'll put up with all your quirks."

  "Mom, please—what quirks?" Suddenly Joanna got all wide-eyed and shrug-crazy. And Reese decided she didn't really want the answer anyway. Besides, it was futile to reason with her on the subject of men, because no matter what Joanna said, she was obsessed with Reese "hooking" Kenneth Peel, and she was obsessed with emulating the Goldwood Women's Club president, Remmi Collindyne, and her self-proclaimed picture-perfect life.

  Reese said, "Fine, I'll keep my eye out. Now let's drop it."

  "But you've got to be open-minded, honey." Mom's version of dropping it. "You're not gonna have a solid relationship unless you give people a chance." People meaning Kenneth. Very subtle, my mother.

  "And, I mean, you've got to take some chances, sweetheart," Joanna was saying. "You know, you've gotta be in it, to win it."

  She's applying Lotto slogans to my love life—this is getting depressing. "Let's change the subject, okay?" Reese asked, stopping just short of begging.

  "Okay, okay," Joanna said, holding up her hands even higher. "Fine, whatever you want. I'm only trying to help you."

  Reese locked her jaw and fixed her eyes on the TV screen—or more specifically, on Rodney and Claire, who were now smashing wedding cake all over each other's faces, getting icing clogged up each other's noses, and laughing like it was hilarious.

  "They're cute," Joanna remarked. "I predict that they'll make it, because he's so devoted to her. And if he's an architect, there's no way she'll let him go."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "By the way, you brought your laptop home, right?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  Joanna shrugged. "Just so that way you'll be able to work on your dissertation while you're home. The sooner you finish, the sooner I'll be able to call you 'doctor.'" She followed up with a trying-too-hard smile that was intended as nagging compensation. Reese feebly smiled back (okay, smirked).

  Then she thought about her nonexistent doctoral thesis, and felt the familiar coiling of stress in her abdomen. God, she had less than zero interest in working on it. Even worse, she had no discipline, which meant it was never going to happen. Plus, she was more determined than ever to start her novel.

  And even if all she ever had to show for it was determination, that was still more than she had to show for her dissertation.

  But of course she couldn't explain any of this to her mother. Joanna would never understand. She'd only wonder why Reese was wasting her time with a fantasy when she was already spread way too thin with classes, Kimble, and shifts at Roland & Fisk.

  "Do you want some tea?" Joanna asked, motioning with her World's Greatest Mere mug. "I have leaves from Cannes that are supposed to cleanse the system of toxins." Reese cocked her head, and her mother qualified, "I'm making some for myself, too. I thought you'd like to join me, that's all."

  Reese grinned. "Okay, actually that sounds good. I'll go say hi to Dad and meet you back here in five minutes." Joanna pushed off her quilt, and both of them headed up the three steps to the kitchen, which was separated only by a stone half wall and a hanging plant.

  Joanna went to fill her kettle, while Reese continued around the bend and down the front hall. "Honey!" she heard her mother's voice call out.

  "Yeah?" When she turned back, she saw her mother standing in the open archway of the kitchen, with her soft, round body and haphazard golden hair that looked vaguely familiar.

  "I'm just so glad you're home," she said, smiling.

  * * *

  Reese found her dad at his large oak desk, paying bills, smoking a pipe that smelled of pinewood and dried cherries. "Hi!" he greeted enthusiastically when he saw her crossing the thick navy carpet.

  "Hey, Dad, how are you?" She met him halfway for a hug.

  "Oh, I'm fine. Just paying the bills." She'd been hearing that refrain for twenty-seven years, so she'd already guessed that. In fact, she was well aware that virtually all Michael Brock did was pay bills, and virtually all Joanna Brock did was "sacrifice and slave." It was all very much common knowledge in the household.

  She did a double take when she spotted Poor Richard's Almanac on the corner of her father's desk. "Oh, no, Dad." She grimaced. "Not again."

  "What?"

  "You're not back on that Ben Franklin kick, are you?" She motioned to the book with her hand, and sank into an adjacent high-backed chair.

  "Oh, that," he said calmly. "It's not a kick. I was just looking through some of my books, and I rediscovered this one. I think it has some timeless insights, that's all."

  "Mmm-hmm." It was hard not to be skeptical; the last time her father had reread Poor Richard's Almanac, he'd gone around quoting truisms like there was no tomorrow. She could only hope he'd learned to internalize his love for the book this time around.

  "So how is your doctoral work coming?" Michael asked with interest in his voice, and what Reese recognized immediately as pride. Her gut churned. Damn it, why did that Ph.D. have to mean so much to her parents? And why did it suddenly have to mean so little to her? "Is your thesis coming along?" he asked.

  "Yep," she said cheerfully, lying through her gritted teeth.

  He nodded. "I'm glad. You know, your mother and I are so proud of you."

  She swallowed and forced a smile. "I know, Dad."

  "I've always regretted not finishing my master's degree," he went on, stroking the bowl of his pipe and looking up at the ceiling. "But your mother was pregnant with Angela, and other things took precedence. I wouldn't have had it any other way, of course. But still, it means so much to her and I that you've accomplished what we never could, and more."

  Reese shrank guiltily in her seat. Could her parents just rip her heart out and stick it in the waffle iron?

  "But enough of my musing," Michael said. "Now tell me, how's that professor you work for?"

  Hmm... "Stalinesque" might be too academic, but "fat and ugly" seemed like a low blow. "He's okay, I guess," Reese said on a sigh. Really, she wasn't looking to complain, but sometimes just thinking about Professor Kimble could give her anxiety. The man was such a textbook washed-up hack with a diva complex, it bordered on ridiculous. Apparently he'd peaked with his first (and only) book the year he'd gotten tenure, and now, twelve years later, he was still desperately trying to achieve another academic publication before he officially became the laughingstock of the elitist, backstabbing history department.

  This was Reese's third semester working for him, and she'd probably have a couple more to go, so she was trying to make the best of it. Next year she'd be ABD—or All but Dissertation—which meant she'd have completed her own course work and could focus solely on her doctoral thesis. Or that was what it meant to the average student. Since she was on fellowship, however, it meant that she'd have even more free time to do Kimble's bidding.

  At least she had this break. Over winter vacation she planned to avoid even thinking about school. No Kimble. No bidding. She wondered if she deserved that kind of pleasure, but even if she didn't, she was still goi
ng to snatch it up with abandon.

  "What's he got you working on now?" her dad asked.

  "Well, I'm sort of ghostwriting most of his next book," she said, trying to keep the dread out of her voice.

  "Ghostwriting?" he echoed, a little annoyed. "What kind of job is that? Are you even going to get any credit?"

  "Nope. None." Okay, so much for not complaining. Hey, she'd tried... sort of.

  Michael shook his head and brought his lighter to his pipe. Through serene-smelling puffs he said, "I've got to tell you, sweetheart, I don't like this guy."

  "Nobody does. We had a department party last week, and everyone was invited with a guest. The entire faculty brought their significant others, but you know who Professor Kimble brought? No one. He went alone, misquoting something from Emerson about the essence of the individual."

  Reese's father tilted his head, as if considering it, and said, "Well, there's nothing wrong with that, I suppose."

  "Please, Dad, who's buying it?" He chuckled. "In fact, the rumor was, Kimble just couldn't find anyone to take—not one single person who could bear to spend a whole evening in his company." Not a rumor, really. Reese had come up with that theory herself. But she'd told Angela, who'd told Ally, and they'd all talked about it, so as far as she was concerned, that qualified as a grapevine.

  Anyway, there was no way she believed Kimble's explanation. Not that she'd heard it firsthand, of course. Kenneth had told her about the party, because Reese hadn't been able to go. Kimble had put her on some draconian deadline for the sixth chapter of his book, and she had had to work day and night to make it.

  Funny how Kenneth didn't seem to have half as much work to do for their professor as Reese did, but it wasn't his fault that Kimble was a sexist. Sure, Kimble couldn't act on it within the hyper politically correct walls of academe, where exhibiting blatant social bias was a sign of lower intelligence. But Reese could tell, at the core, Kimble was a good ol' boy who resented women for infiltrating the university and then far surpassing his own achievements.

  But really, how hard was that to do? The man had "written" one book about the history of the BB gun twelve years ago, and now was forcing a twenty-seven-year-old student to compose another uninspiring treatise in his name. Surprisingly, it gave Reese little pleasure to know that despite her efforts, Kimble's book was just so dull and pointless it would ultimately be publishable only by a masochist. And even that was a gamble.