Faking It (McCullough Mountain)

by Michaels, Lydia

  “Hello, love!” Her mother yelled into the phone. “How’s school?”

  “Good.”

  “Are you joining any clubs yet? Meetin’ any handsome college lads?”

  Her longing for home and the close presence of her mum had her closing her eyes. “No, Mum. I’m too old for that stuff.”

  “Oh, pish, you’re still a baby.”

  Being the youngest of seven, the stigma of being the baby would likely stick with her until she was a senior citizen. “I think I’m dropping a class,” she confessed as she bit into an apple.

  “Why, dear?”

  “The professor’s an asshole.”

  “Ah, a terrible affliction, that. What did this asshole do? Do I need to send yer brothers over there to straighten him out?”

  She laughed. Her mother was one of a kind and she loved her, even if she was a bit nuts. “No. He’s making us read this stupid book. I’ve read it a dozen times and every time I do a paper he tears it apart.”

  “He’s ripping up your work?”

  “No, Mum, he’s giving me D’s.”

  “Well, not every class is going to be easy, love. You’re in Princeton now. I’m sure you’ll pull your grades up sooner or later.”

  “I’m going to take the course again next semester. There’s another professor who I think will be a little more reasonable.”

  “If you think that’s for the best, I trust your judgment.”

  Sheilagh changed the subject, asking about her brothers. Braydon had been home from Pittsburg that past week and the idea of all her siblings hanging out without her hurt.

  The humiliation of being driven out of her hometown still stung. Kelly and Luke had embarrassed her, in front of Tristan of all people. She knew she should forgive them. Part of her already had, but her pride still hurt. Sooner or later she’d miss them enough to get over what had happened, but she wasn’t there yet.

  Before enrolling in college, she’d never left Center County for any extended period of time. Sometimes she wondered if she was making a mistake. Although hearing her mother’s voice and listening to anecdotes of her family’s shenanigans brought her comfort, it did nothing to ease her mind. Reluctantly, she said goodbye to her mum and left for her meeting with the advisor.

  Later that day as she waited outside her advisor’s office she contemplated the possibility that she was making a mistake. Nope. She didn’t want her GPA to suffer because of one bad experience. Her faith in herself was shaken and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to earn anything higher than a D from Dr. Devereux. She couldn’t risk it. She was better off withdrawing from the course and starting fresh in the fall.

  Her advisor understood and with only a few clicks on her computer, Sheilagh’s name was removed from the roster. It should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. She felt like a wuss. She’d taken the coward’s way out and that was something she wasn’t comfortable with. She never backed down. Except in the face of Tristan, Luke and Kelly’s reaction that night.

  She stopped at the Student Union for a coffee on her way back to her apartment and the one person she didn’t want to see was there. As she waited in line she felt Professor Devereux’s gaze on her, but refused to look in his direction.

  Paying for her coffee she turned and went to the sugar station. Her fingers tore open several packets of the condiment and she jumped when he spoke from right behind her.

  “You missed class today.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she corrected, focusing her attention on peeling back the lid of a creamer that refused to open. “I dropped the course.”

  For a quiet moment she tasted victory, knowing she’d surprised him, but it felt bitter on her tongue.

  When the creamer burst open and spilled over her fingers, his hand plucked the tiny carton from hers. Nudging her aside, he expertly peeled open two creamers and poured them into her cup. His long fingers dropped a straw into the dark liquid and swirled it to the perfect shade of caramel. Did he have to be such a know it all?

  “Your coffee, Ms. McCullough,” he said, sliding it along the counter. “I believe this is yours as well.” She stared as he held out her copy of The Republic.

  “Did you dig that out of the trash?”

  “It’s a crime to throw away a book.”

  She picked up her coffee. “Keep it. I’m done with Plato.”

  He placed the book on the counter. “I’ve added some footnotes you may find intriguing.” With that he turned and walked away.

  She glared at him as he gathered his briefcase and jacket from the table he’d been occupying. Her gaze snapped back to the offending book he’d left. She should have left it there, but her curiosity was piqued. Sighing, she snatched the book and tossed it in her bag then headed out the door.

  It wasn’t until late that night that she gave into her curiosity and opened The Republic. Whatever she was expecting to find written in the margins wasn’t what she read.

  The same irritatingly perfect penmanship that withered her essays into useless recycling was scribbled on the copyright page of the book.

  When you’re ready to open your eyes, call me and we’ll talk.

  ~Alec

  His phone number was neatly written below his name. What did that mean? She didn’t want to talk to him. She’d heard enough from him. She never wanted to talk to him again.

  Once more he insinuated his shortcomings as a professor were hers. He had to be a crappy teacher. Every other class she’d ever taken testified she was a great student. It galled her that, even though she never had to deal with the guy again, he thought less of her.

  She tossed the book against the wall, earning a knock from Wesley through the plaster. She growled and fell onto her pillows. Maybe she’d go home that weekend and come back with a fresh perspective. At the moment, her outlook on higher education sucked. She wanted to toss the entire experience and go back to what she knew.

  Chapter Three

  Alec waited for Sheilagh to call. He was shocked she’d actually withdrawn from his course rather than accept the challenge he presented and learn something. It was arrogance, pure and simple, to come to a university like Princeton and expect to graduate only by regurgitating all the knowledge one arrived with. Students were there to learn and there was no doubt in his mind that Sheilagh McCullough was brilliant. So why hadn’t she called?

  The week passed with the same faces he’d come to expect in his classes. Some of his students were scholars and thriving under his direction. Others were simply hoping to get by. They’d all likely pass. He didn’t believe in failing pupils unless they absolutely refused to turn in their work.

  He was by no means an easy professor, but he also wasn’t a tyrant. His classes flowed with open debates and he enjoyed stimulating discussions with younger minds. Never before had he lost a student and losing such a promising one didn’t sit well with him.

  It had become his practice to read up on his students before each semester. He liked to know whom he would be passing his days with. When he’d read Sheilagh’s file he was beyond impressed.

  She had an impeccable record and he knew she’d leave his course with another A to add to her transcript. He was only mildly surprised when she’d turned in her paper that second class. Her tenacity was admirable.

  As he read her original essay her aptitude was evident. She had an incredible grasp of vocabulary that allowed her to concisely encapsulate the theories of Plato in a matter of a few words. She’d summarized the entire book better than most experts could manage.

  What she hadn’t done was give him any real information beyond what he’d already known. He wanted his students to stretch themselves. He wanted them to bleed emotion into their words, think like true philosophers, and give him something worth stamping an A on.

  Sheilagh had given him something great and she likely deserved a B. However, when it came time to rate her work, his instinct told him she was capable of so much more and his hand had formed a D.

  The
following week when she’d come to his office with yet another rapid attempt to diminish his lectures by turning out a paper in record time, he’d been insulted. Her actions reeked of arrogance and told him more than she realized. Sheilagh McCullough was not a woman who easily accepted being told no.

  He’d noticed in her file that she was older than most of his students. She was twenty-four and he wondered why she’d hesitated to start her higher education. Her transcripts claimed she sacrificed multiple scholarships as a result and he was curious what would make a girl like her ignore a calling that was so clearly meant to be. She belonged with scholars. She had the potential to achieve great things if she’d simply apply herself.

  He speculated that perhaps the obstacle Sheilagh McCullough faced was health related, but she appeared fit and healthy as ever. Perhaps she suffered from something internal, something like fear. Yet, her personality was so strong the idea she might be afraid didn’t quite jive. She could easily graduate top of her class, even from a prestigious school like Princeton, but something held her back. If an objective wasn’t immediate and easy she didn’t seem interested and that made no sense. Might she be afraid?

  She had to realize even the slightest effort on her part would be met with great praise. There were students who paid a fortune for tutors and barely avoided academic suspension when they gave it their all. Why didn’t she try harder?

  When he read her third essay he was appalled. Yes, she gave an even deeper synopsis of the material, but again it lacked any insight or application on her part. It was a slap in the face, a generic regurgitation of what could have been an esteemed accompanying text for his course. He knew she hadn’t plagiarized her summary. That wasn’t her style. They were her thoughts and her interpretations, but, again, they lacked every bit of personal reflection he’d been searching for.

  The only way he could communicate to her that she’d missed the mark again and needed to scrap her approach and apply herself to a radically new one was to drop the grade lower than her original D. Never in his life had he expected her to quit. It smacked of her running from something.

  He’d spoken to her advisor and explained his approach, something he wasn’t used to doing. She was understanding and seemed to shrug off his concern, cataloguing Sheilagh as just another student who may or may not make the cut in four years. He knew she’d graduate. She was too smart not to.

  However, that was a week ago. Now his opinion was changing. He didn’t know how to interpret the girl. And he was getting a headache trying to figure out a woman he might never understand.

  Wednesday night he’d had dinner with his son. It was a nice evening and they ended with a discussion over the mystery of Western religion. Alec enjoyed finally having his son close by. For years he’d lived in Wales with his mother. She’d moved back with their son after the divorce. Alec had always kept in contact with his only child, but currently he was getting to know the man who had once been his little boy.

  When they had dinner and got into scholarly debates he took great pride in the way his son not only took after his mother, but also showed signs of Alec in his thinking. They’d grown closer over the last few months and Alec appreciated the honest way they dealt with each other.

  When he returned home that evening his phone showed a missed call, but no message. His breath hitched at the possibility that a certain red headed prodigy might have found his note and used his number. He jotted down the number on the caller ID and dialed it back.

  “Hello?”

  “Sheilagh.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “I do believe we’re in the new millennium. You called me.” She was silent for a moment so he asked. “Are you ready to talk?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that? Talk about what?”

  “The Allegory of the Cave.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  He tsked. “Don’t be a coward, Ms. McCullough. It doesn’t suit your fiery spirit.” He frowned. Where the hell had that come from?

  “I’m not a coward. I have better things to do.”

  “Such as?”

  Silence.

  “I’ll tell you what. I know a nice quiet place not too far from campus. I’ll give you the address and if you’d like to join me for a drink that’s where I’ll be. Shall we say in a half hour?”

  He rambled off the address, not sure why he’d decided this couldn’t wait until tomorrow. When he hung up the phone he was almost certain she wouldn’t show. He laughed at himself and went to find a bottle of wine. Never before had a student intrigued him so much.

  This was a mistake. Sheilagh berated herself the entire time she drove through the town of Princeton looking for some place on some street that even her GPS couldn’t seem to find. Why she wanted to torture herself and hear more arrogant musings from Alec Devereux was beyond her, but there she was, all the same, searching for the address he’d given her.

  It was nine o’clock at night and she didn’t have class the following day. She was bored and homesick and looking for a distraction. That was the only reason she decided to venture out.

  “Ooh, there it is!” She yanked the wheel, turning onto the street she was looking for and frowned.

  This was a residential street. Maybe the place she was looking for was on the other end. She squinted into the dark attempting to read the house numbers. She was looking for twenty-nine. The house she’d just passed proclaimed it was twenty-one. This had to be wrong.

  When she located the corresponding number she pulled over. It was a house, a beautiful red Victorian, small, but lovely. “What the hell?”

  She reached into her purse and dialed Alec’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you sending me?”

  “Are you coming?”

  She raised her brow at the surprised tone of his voice.

  “You told me to meet you.”

  “I invited you, but left the decision up to you. Thirty minutes has long passed.”

  What was this a freaking timed quiz? “Well, I’m at the address you gave me, but it’s a house.”

  The line was silent for a moment. “I see you. Turn off the car.”

  “What?” She turned and there he was standing on the porch of the red Victorian. Her mouth opened and she ended the call. What was this, his home?

  Frowning, she dropped her cell into her purse and turned off the car. This was weird and she didn’t think she should be there. Something inside of her directed her actions. Ignoring her better judgment, she climbed out of her SUV.

  When she reached the newly renovated sidewalk she asked, “Do you live here?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “Is anyone else home?”

  “No. It’s just me here.”

  Right. Okay then. She didn’t move.

  “Would you like a glass of wine? I have a bottle of Chardonnay open. It’s a good year.”

  Yes. Alcohol might help. “Sure.” She slowly opened the iron gate that squeaked with time and took the path to the porch.

  A small voice inside of her told her this was wrong. She shouldn’t be there. She was a woman—a student—and he was a man she barely knew. However, there was that louder side of her, the one that seemed to always force her to do stupid things. That voice said, go inside. If something bad happened she’d deal with it.

  Alec wasn’t dressed in his usual slacks and button down he wore around campus. He was wearing a T-shirt and dark jeans and he looked much younger than he did behind his podium.

  She climbed the steps and he smiled. “I’m glad you finally called.”

  Yeah, why had she done that? Alec opened the door and she stepped in. The first thing she noticed was the primitive furniture. The sight of his personal space gave her an unexpected sense of awareness as though she were trespassing in the faculty longue or something worse. Although she was invited in, she didn’t quite have the courage to fully look. Keeping her head down, she noted everything was made
of dark wood and there was a rich scent to the house she couldn’t place.

  A dark burgundy oriental carpet covered teak floors and books dominated an entire wall. Maybe this was what she would have imagined, had she ever cared to imagine where Alec Devereux lived. She’d never really considered the thought. He was the scholarly sort though, so perhaps this sort of antiquated, timeless style suited him.

  “Would you like a glass of Chardonnay?”

  She flinched. Why was she so jumpy? Probably because it was totally weirding her out that she was in a professor’s house. This had to be against some sort of rule. “I’m more of a whiskey girl. Do you have anything harder than wine?”

  His mouth twitched, but he made no comment. He turned and went to a cool little set up in the corner and filled a rocks glass with ice. The bar was built in, looking like a reproduction of something off the pages of The Great Gatsby where nothing prevented the flow of champagne and toasts. “How do you take your whiskey?”

  “Neat. Two fingers.”

  He raised a brow and dumped the ice into the small sink. Fancy. Using a decanter he poured two fingers into the stout glass sans the rocks. She carefully took the glass, taking great care not to let their fingers touch.

  Alec settled onto a high back sofa and sipped his wine. She took a quick sip of her whiskey—which was rather fine—and let the burn warm her throat.

  “Would you care to sit?”

  She turned and eyed her options. There was a wingback chair facing the fireplace, a wooden chair tucked into a nice leather topped desk, and the sofa. Right. She slowly lowered herself to the edge of the sofa, staying far on the opposite end from where he sat.

  “Soooo,” she said, taking another sip of her whiskey. “Wanna tell me what your note meant?”

  He leaned back and casually draped an arm over the back of the sofa. She fidgeted under his scrutiny. “I’m disappointed you dropped the class.”

  “I didn’t care for the professor.”

  He arched a brow. “Yet you’re here.”

  “I’m curious.”