He shook his head and wagged his finger at her, as close to a flirtatious gesture as he’d yet made. “Oh, no, you’re not going to trap me into that one. There are any number of books out there, Mrs. Porter, written by men and women both that I have not read. Classics included.” His smile held enormous charm and his eyes sparkled. “Albeit, not many.”
“Then why not this one? I highly recommend it. Or—” she paused, tilting her head in a tease “—is it that you don’t enjoy love stories?”
“Oh, but I do,” he replied, warming to the debate. “Tristan and Isolde is a favorite of mine. War and Peace is a great love story, too.” His brow rose in feigned mockery as he gathered his briefcase and headed back toward his office, ending the conversation.
“I’m curious,” Eve called out at his back.
He paused at the door and turned his head.
“What are you reading now?”
“Now?” He appeared surprised by the question and frowned in thought. “Well, there are so many different things....”
“No, not for work. For pleasure.”
A sly half smile formed and he nodded in understanding. “Dante’s Inferno.”
Eve cringed inwardly. She’d never tackled that one, and she was convinced he was grandstanding. “For pleasure?” she asked, her doubt ringing clear.
He paused, then before entering his office, smiled angelically. “Oh yes, absolutely. Reading The Divine Comedy is a pure, even sensual, pleasure.” His blue eyes smoldered with conceit. “Especially when read in the original Italian.”
* * *
Later that evening, after Bronte went to the movies with a friend, Eve ate a light dinner of vine-ripened tomatoes, cottage cheese and whole wheat toast. The evening had cooled and the soft breezes that wafted in from the open windows caressed the bare skin of her arms and the short tendrils along her neck where she’d pinned up her hair. On this balmy night her thoughts wandered to Dr. Paul Hammond. Was he reading Dante now, she wondered, imagining him pursing his full lips and rolling the musical syllables of Italian in his mouth? Did his Italian have that lovely, clipped British accent as well? She curled her tongue around the few Italian words she knew: ciao, arrivaderci, mozzarella. Yes, Italian was musical, perhaps even sensual.
Sighing, she settled in and began reading, thinking in a smug manner how she enjoyed the rhythm and style of nineteenth century English every bit as much as he enjoyed his Italian. This was her alone time, that quiet hour after dinner with no phone, no questions, no one to bother her. She finished her book just as a slow, soft red sun lowered in the evening sky. She yawned, then stretched, as thoroughly satisfied as a sated lover. “Dr. Hammond, read what you will in Italian, but in English, you’ve missed a good one.”
She rested her cheek against the book, thinking that the first line alone would generate a hot discussion in the Book Club. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. She laughed aloud, setting the book aside and collecting her dishes with her thoughts. Midge would have a field day with that one. She thought marriage was a Machiavellian scheme men devised to entrap women. Gabriella would take the moral view, no doubt, and bring up the words sacrament and vows at least twice. And Doris! If you changed the phrase to: A single woman in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a husband, they all knew it could apply to her and R.J. She licked her lips in anticipation of the hot debate on the virtues of being married.
Eve’s hand stilled in the sink. She looked at her left hand in the soapy water, then rubbed the blank space between her knuckles where a gold band once sat. She’d placed that ring beside the matching one from Tom’s finger in her jewelry box, to save for the children or grandchildren.
How odd, how very empty it was to think that she was no longer married.
* * *
The weekend passed as so many others. Laundry to catch up with, shopping for groceries, a little television. Eve looked forward to returning to work on Monday where she would talk to other people, one in particular. She arrived at the office early because Pat Crawford was returning from vacation and she wanted to be certain that all was in order. The heavy metal ring of keys clanged loudly in the deserted hallway as she tried one after another unsuccessfully in the lock. If she ever got inside, she swore she was going to put a red mark on the key. At last one clicked and she swung open the heavy oak door.
The office was dark and musty and each movement she made echoed like a cannon in her ears. This was the first time she’d ever been alone in the office, without people rambling in the hall. No one was likely to step inside at this hour; no student waving a schedule or form, no teacher with a request. She set her purse down on her desk, collected the mail, then walked to Dr. Hammond’s office to place his share on his desk.
There was always an otherworldly aura about his office, much like the man himself. Rays of morning light poured through the gothic windows. The large desk was clean and tidy, thanks to her own efforts, but everywhere else were tilting piles of books and papers. Dr. Hammond was happiest when surrounded with chaos. “I know exactly where everything is. Don’t touch a thing!” he’d ordered her.
Alone, she dared to reach out and skim her hands along the desk’s smooth wood, on the shiny enamel of his large, black pen and across the papers covered with his heavy, cramped illegible script. She was ashamed to admit it but she was curious. No personal photographs sat framed on his desk, no beautiful woman smiling at him, she was pleased to note. She’d not heard that he was attached to anyone at the moment, not that it was any of her business, of course. She’d also heard that his family had money. It was an old English family with one of those old houses with countless rooms that tourists loved to visit. The kind of family that could donate a Rembrandt sketch to a museum.
Her fingers lightly grazed the crinkled leather of his chair. This simple gesture brought her a strange pleasure, as if she were somehow closer to him. Silly, of course, rather like she imagined people felt when they grabbed hold of an autograph or an article of clothing as a souvenir from someone they admired. And admire was probably the safest word she could allow herself to describe her feelings for him.
She looked at her watch. Pat was due any moment, and though she was fond of her, she couldn’t help but wish Pat had taken another week’s vacation. The quiet time alone with Dr. Hammond was over now. She wondered if he’d leave his door open this week? Would she hear the music again?
She was working at her desk when Dr. Hammond entered the office five minutes later—early for him. She tugged at the hem of her skirt and unconsciously tucked a tendril behind her ear. There was nothing extraordinary about the way he nodded his head and said his habitual, “Good morning, Eve,” or in the manner he poured himself a cup of coffee, something he’d done for himself since Pat was on vacation. But this morning the air was thick between them. He seemed eager to speak to her as he stood stirring his coffee, but held curiously back.
Eve felt his presence even as she continued staring at the monitor, feeling his gaze on her, unaware of the words hammering across the screen. Suddenly she looked up, ending the impasse and catching his gaze on her.
He tugged at his ear and said rather sheepishly, “Oh, by the way, I read Pride and Prejudice over the weekend.”
Eve blinked rapidly, thrown off guard. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “Oh?” she managed to reply.
“You were right. It’s a wonderful book. I thank you for recommending it. Not, of course, that it hasn’t been recommended umpteen times before.” He smiled then, openly and without reserve. It blossomed across his face like a sunrise, altering his expression from dark to light.
“I...I’m glad,” she replied simply, feeling awkward. Then, because she couldn’t resist, she added, “I guess this rounds out your reading list a bit.”
He seem
ed pleased that she would tease him and took a step closer, almost eagerly. “I should be flogged for not having read it yet, me an English professor and all that. But there you have it. Amends are made, thanks to you.”
“Always happy to do my job,” she said, enjoying the banter.
He looked around the room, then facing her, he tugged his ear again and said, “I have some research to do over at the Newberry Library this morning. A mountainous project, completely unorganized. I could use some help.”
“Let me guess. Dante?”
His thick, dark brows gathered and his eyes sparkled with their first private joke. “No, not this time. I’m doing some research on the Romantic poets. Blake, Byron...”
“Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,” she continued for him. Her eyes flashed with excitement.
His brows rose. “So, you’re interested?”
“Oh I am, very.” Did he know this was her area of study in college?
“And you thought I didn’t appreciate a good love story.”
Her own brows rose now. “Well, War and Peace isn’t exactly my idea of a love story.... But I am disappointed we won’t be reading Dante. It seems a fair exchange.”
He chuckled. “Wrong period. Maybe next time.” His tone was playful.
“In Italian, I suppose?” she asked, her lips twisting into a wry grin.
“Of course!” After she laughed he added with a sincerity that took her breath away, “I’d like to share that experience with you someday.” Their gazes locked for a moment and she could feel the force of the connection to her toes. Then he looked away and gathered his papers. “I catch you reading in the commons at lunch and during breaks. Once I even saw you reading while waiting for the elevator. You didn’t notice I was there, you were so lost in it. And I’ve seen your résumé. Your background is very interesting, a degree in English literature and all those years volunteering at the Literacy Center. How wonderful that you would volunteer your time. For such a great cause. That impressed me. You must love literature very much. I do, too, you see, and that is why I wondered if perhaps, well...I hoped, rather, that you’d enjoy this project.”
His words fell on her like soft rain on an arid soil. Her history was not seen by him as trivial or misguided. He applauded her choices and rewarded them with this invitation to do research in what she’d always believed to be a highbrow institution. He couldn’t know what his regard meant to her now after a long, torrid season of disdain.
“The Newberry,” she said in reverential tones. “I’ve lived in Chicago most of my life and you don’t know how many times I’ve pressed my nose up against the window of that library and drooled, knowing what was stored behind that enormous security desk. I always thought of it as a bastion of crotchety old scholars, researchers and historians.”
“It is. Next I suppose you’ll be telling me I fit right in. No, you’re right,” he said, holding up his hand to ward off her objection. “It was rather elite at one time, still is to a degree. But that image is changing. You should come. There’s no place quite like the Newberry. It’s a grand, Romanesque building and it houses literally millions of dollars in rare collections, including one of the best collections of Renaissance literature in the world.”
Then looking up, he asked with touching sincerity, “Will you come?”
* * *
There were a dozen reasons she could have given as to why she couldn’t accompany him: Pat was returning and might resent being abandoned, there were those scholarship records to coordinate, people might talk.
There were an equal number of reasons she could give as to why she agreed to go. All sound, reasonable, respectable reasons she could look anyone in the eye and recite with a strong voice. But in the cool dark of the cab as they rode north through the city streets, she could think of only one. She wanted to be alone with him.
They didn’t talk much in the cab. He seemed as uncomfortable as she in such close proximity, and she was choked by her awareness of his body. He wasn’t tall as much as broad, like a great bull, and his energy seemed to suck the air out of the small space. Stealing a glance under hooded lids, she saw his hands resting on his dark suit trousers. Despite their size, they were elegant. His fingers tapped his legs with short, oval nails. The view of tanned skin at the wrist was interrupted by a flash of gold from a thin watch partially covered by the white of his starched shirt cuffs, which were snowy in contrast. She felt herself blush with the thought of those hands caressing her body, and with a short gasp, quickly looked out the window at the narrow, crowded streets of the Gold Coast.
Once they entered the elaborate triple-arched entry of the Newberry, he seemed more at ease. He had that enviable self-confidence of breeding and was obviously comfortable in the grandeur of the place. He nodded warmly in acknowledgment to the security guards, said a brief few words with a librarian ending with a pat on the back, then led her up the monumental staircase, pointing out architectural details as if it were his own home. While he seemed to grow in stature, she felt very small. It wasn’t just because the ceilings were sixteen to twenty feet high, or that the mosaic tiles and marble floors were priceless, though such things always made her shrink a bit inside. What made her feel unsure were the whisperings of centuries of scholarship.
She was surrounded by an expectant silence, electric, vibrating with the thrill of the chase and the triumph of discovery. Men and women sat stooped over tables, poring through volumes or scribbling notes furiously. An elderly woman dressed entirely in black smiled as she wrote.
Paul Hammond led Eve to a small reading room he’d reserved. He was exceedingly polite and attentive, opening doors and pulling out her chair. She was aware of his nearness as they sat, elbow to elbow. He began emptying his briefcase, spilling out a mass of wrinkled, disorganized papers on the table. She could see on his angst-ridden face that he thought the mess was hopeless and she enjoyed a surge of confidence. Any mother who tackled a teenager’s bedroom could tackle this mess.
“May I help?” she asked, extending her hand over the papers with a calm, quiet authority.
He looked at her a moment, then nodded and slowly smiled. He seemed to make up his mind to let her find her way, to test her abilities.
Eve cleared a space on the large wood table, mentally rolled up her sleeves, then immediately began scanning the papers, making educated decisions and organizing small, neat piles. Seeing that she was a self-starter on the scent, he nodded, clasped his hands, and muttering, “Good, good,” went off in search of resource materials.
Eve worked with boundless energy that morning. She was grateful to have a task that challenged her, and attacked the research project with relish. She felt like a young girl wading out into the deep water of a vast ocean. Her chief fear was that she wouldn’t be able to keep her head up in such depths; it had been so long since she’d been in school or done research at this level. She took small, careful steps. As time wore on, however, Eve felt buoyant and confident.
After a long stretch of concentration, she pushed back from the worktable and stretched. Looking up, she caught him studying her again. She felt the heat of a blush return to her cheeks and her hand shot up to her hair. “What?” she asked with a half smile.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled, never taking his eyes off her. “You were smiling while you worked.”
Eve thought of the old woman she saw downstairs and her smile spread. “I was enjoying myself.”
“I could tell.”
“It... It’s been a long time since I’ve worked with these materials—” She paused, then realized there was no way she could explain the many levels of connections she had made. So she simply said, “I’d forgotten how much I missed them. It’s like I’ve been revisiting old friends.” She laughed shortly. “After weeks of filing forms in triplicate, this was food for the soul.”
“You graduated fro
m Northwestern?”
She nodded. “My parents didn’t want me to go away for college.” She shrugged. “I was an only child,” she offered in explanation. “And you?”
“Cambridge. I am the third son and it wasn’t discussed.” His eyes took on a faraway look, as though he were thinking of home.
“Do you miss England?” she asked.
“Not at all!” he said, surprising her with his enthusiasm, yet she sensed anger lurking beneath the too bright smile. “I love America. Especially here in the Midwest, with the wide-open spaces and the lack of pretense. People are so real here. They speak what they mean without the need to be clever or proper. My family is very English. Very Anglican Church and society and propriety.” He smiled and the devil flashed in his eyes. “When I returned home once in tennis shoes and a Cubs baseball cap, they completely gave up hope.”
He stood up from the table, ending the personal conversation. “Come along, Mrs. Porter. Enough feeding the soul for one day,” he said, stretching out his hand. “How about we feed our stomachs?”
* * *
They had lunch in the small park outside the library. Neither of them could face going indoors again on such a beautiful summer afternoon. The heat wave had snapped at last and they were enjoying a more typical, warm but fresh early summer afternoon. A welcome breeze rustled the bright-green leaves in the trees and scores of brightly colored annuals straightened gratefully in the shower of water from the sprinklers. Eve sat on a park bench in the shade, breathing in the sweet air, and felt a fluttering of life spark inside her heart.
Dr. Hammond bought lunch from the European deli at the corner. He came back carrying a brown bag filled with more food than they could ever eat at one sitting. Spreading white paper napkins on the bench between them, he made sandwiches of crusty pane paisano, fresh mozzarella, sliced tomatoes and sprigs of fresh basil.
Eve was reminded of the many impromptu picnics she and Tom had shared long ago, when he was knee-deep in his surgical residency. The hours were brutal and threatening to a young marriage. So during the summer she used to surprise him with picnic dinners on the hospital green so that they could share a few precious moments together alone. The weather was warm and breezy that summer, like it was now.
The Book Club Page 18
