by Ann McMan
Every twelve hours at precisely nine o’clock, her neighbor’s dog barked. Without fail. In rain, sleet, or snow—on the brightest of days, or the darkest of nights—at the crack of nine, Grendel barked. Grace really had no idea what the dog’s actual name was. She had bestowed the moniker because something about the dog’s persistent aura of suspicion and menace reminded her of the infamous literary antagonist.
The Nine O’Clock Dog was one of the constants in her life—just like grading papers, watching reruns of Frasier, or meeting the wrong goddamn women.
She checked her watch. Yep. Nine o’clock. Straight up. She felt sorry for the dog—it seemed like she was left alone over there most of the time. The tenants hadn’t been around much for the past couple of weeks. Their cars seemed to be gone more than parked in their rutted driveway.
She raised the bottle in a toast. “More power to ya, Grendel. If I had the chops, I’d be barking, too.”
But Grendel wasn’t paying any attention to her. Grendel was frantically pacing back and forth along the fence that flanked her yard. This was a much more vigilant display than usual, and she was barking well beyond the requirements of her customary alert. Clearly, someone was coming to kill them all, and Grendel didn’t understand why no one else seemed to care.
Grace didn’t have the patience to try, either. She’d just about decided to get up and go inside when she caught sight of someone coming around the corner of the house.
Shit. Company was the last thing she needed. And who the hell would show up now, during a driving rainstorm?
A person wearing a long black cloak with a hood stood there a moment before advancing toward the porch. Grace felt a moment of panic. Maybe Grendel was right? Then the figure tossed back its hood.
The warm buzz she’d been feeling from the vodka evaporated in a nanosecond. It was Abbie. Again.
“Jesus Christ,” she blurted. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Abbie stopped in front of her. Her expression was ominous—like a reflection of the storm. “Now . . . or earlier today?”
Grace shrugged. “Take your pick.”
“May I sit down?”
“Can I stop you?”
Abbie sighed. “You can if you want to.”
Grace hesitated.
“I guess showing up here was a bad idea,” Abbie said.
“Now—or earlier today?” Grace quoted.
“Very funny.”
“I do try,” Grace replied.
“I remember.”
“How did you find me?” Grace asked.
Abbie shrugged.
Grace gave a bitter laugh. “I guess rank has its privileges.”
“I saw you from the stage.”
“You did?”
Abbie nodded. “I was stunned.”
“That makes two of us.”
Grendel was still barking.
“You might as well come inside,” Grace said. “She’ll never stop if we stay out here.”
“Would that be okay? My feet are soaked.”
Grace looked down at her shoes. “You walked here in those?”
“I didn’t exactly plan on hiking through a monsoon when I got dressed this morning.”
Grace nodded. “Shit happens.”
“That’s true.”
Abbie stared over her shoulder at the barking dog, which was standing up on its hind legs and leaning against the fence. She looked back at Grace. “Its tail is wagging.”
“She’s conflicted.” Grace shrugged. “It’s going around.”
Abbie actually smiled. She gestured at the bottle Grace was holding. “What are you drinking?”
“This?” Grace held it up. “It’s pear-flavored vodka.”
Abbie made a face. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Wise decision.”
“Got anything else?”
Grace stood up and opened the door so Abbie could enter the house. “Only one way to find out.”
They went inside. Grace kicked off her shoes, then removed her soggy jacket and hung it up on a peg near the door. She turned to Abbie. “May I take your shroud?”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “Sure.” She shrugged out of her long cloak and handed it to Grace.
They were standing in a small, screened porch that overlooked Grace’s backyard. It was simply furnished with several distressed-looking Adirondack chairs painted in bold colors and a faded outdoor rug. A tower of papers sat on a table beside one of the chairs.
“This is a great porch,” Abbie said. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”
Grace nodded. “I try to. It takes some of the sting out of all the hours I spend grading papers.”
“I can imagine.”
“That’s right. You’ve done your time in the classroom, too, haven’t you?”
Abbie shrugged.
“Don’t be so modest, Dr. Williams.”
Abbie looked at her. “You seem determined to make this harder than it already is.”
“Define ‘this.’” Grace made air quotes with her fingers.
“Our . . . predicament.”
Grace folded her arms. “We have a predicament?”
“I’d say so.”
Grace knew that she was acting like a bitch, and she needed to snap out of it. This mess wasn’t Abbie’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Take off your wet shoes and come on into the house where it’s drier.”
Abbie kicked off her shoes and followed Grace into the kitchen. It was small, but cozy and well appointed.
“Have a seat.” Grace indicated a small table and two chairs in the corner of the room. She walked to a tall cabinet and withdrew two glasses and a fat brown bottle. “Like cognac?”
Abbie nodded. “Got any coffee to go with it?”
“At nine o’clock at night?”
Abbie shrugged. “I don’t think I need to worry about it keeping me awake.”
“I see your point. I’ll make us a fresh pot.”
Abbie sat down and looked around the kitchen while Grace made the coffee. “This is an incredible house. How long have you been here?”
“Do you mean in this house, or at St. Albans?”
Abbie smiled at her. “Yes.”
Grace carried the bottle and the two glasses to the table and sat down across from her. “Six years. I’m up for tenure this year.”
“Think you’ll get it?”
“It was looking good before this afternoon.” She gave them each a generous pour of cognac. “Now there appears to be a monster-sized fly in the ointment.”
“On the other hand,” Abbie picked up her glass, “if you prevail, it would simplify . . . things.”
“Like?” Grace was intrigued.
“Well. If you’re a tenured professor—that means there’ll be less opportunity for conflict of interest concerns.”
“You mean because you’re my new boss?”
“Technically, I’m not your boss. I’m your boss’s boss.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Abbie shook her head. “Not really.”
Grace twirled her glass around. “This is a mess.”
“I know.”
She met Abbie’s incredible gray eyes. “I keep thinking about what Oscar Wilde said.”
“What’s that?”
Grace sighed. “That there are only two tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, and the other is getting it.”
“Which one is this?” Abbie asked.
“You tell me.”
“I’m not sure I know yet.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Grace could hear rain pelting the kitchen window.
“I thought about trying to find you,” Abbie said in a quiet voice. “More than once.”
Grace put her glass down. She didn’t really need anything else to drink. “Why didn’t you?”
Abbie looked down at the tabletop. “I was a mess. I was confused. I didn’t know what I wanted.”
“And now?”
“Now? I’m still a mess—and I’m still confused.” She raised her eyes. “But I think I know what I want.”
Grace could feel her heart starting to pound. “You do?”
Abbie nodded. “But it’s complicated.”
Grace laughed out loud. “You think?”
Abbie smiled. “Did you ever think about trying to find me?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Abbie shook her head.
“Of course I did.” She hesitated. “I nearly called Rizzo a dozen times. You know, I’ve never done anything like that before. It was . . . amazing.”
“Yes. It was.”
Grace waved a hand in frustration. “But you never said anything. You never asked me for my phone number—or even for my last name.” She gave up and took a drink of the cognac. It went down her throat like liquid fire. She knew she’d pay for it tomorrow.
“I didn’t think I could,” Abbie said. “I felt too . . . vulnerable. Too exposed and inexperienced.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“No.” Abbie laid a hand atop hers. Grace noticed she was not wearing the gold ring. “Don’t be. It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”
Grace felt excitement and trepidation in equal parts.
But this was impossible. There was no way for them to go forward from here.
She turned her hand over beneath Abbie’s. “Did you know I worked here?”
“No.” Abbie squeezed her fingers. “I had no idea. I was as shocked to see you as I’m certain you were to see me.”
“How did you find me?”
Abbie shrugged. “After dinner with the trustees, I had a few minutes alone so I could peruse the English department website. Once I found the profile for Grace Warner, I asked my assistant to get me your home address. I told her that we had friends in common, and that I had promised to look you up.”
“Plausible.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But,” Grace added, “knowing Lucretia Fletcher, I am sure your new ‘assistant’ is busy compiling a dossier about your real motivation in seeking me out.”
“Why would you think that?”
Grace shrugged. “Let’s just say her fame precedes her.”
They lapsed into silence again, but they continued to sit there, holding hands. The coffeemaker beeped to signify that it had finished brewing, but they both ignored it. Abbie’s fingers felt strong and solid. Grace was reminded of the time when she was ten, and had been horsing around on a neighbor’s farm with her brother. They had been playing on top of a nearly empty grain silo, and Grace had slipped and fallen into it. When Dean managed to climb down the bin ladder and reach out to haul her up, she remembered the flood of relief she felt when she grabbed onto his hand. Right now, Abbie’s hand felt like that—safe and sure. There was only one problem: now they were both stuck inside the same dark silo of professional quicksand.
She squeezed Abbie’s hand. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Abbie replied.
Grace shook her head.
“I took this job, this particular job at St. Albans, because this appeared to be an open community—one that allows and encourages people to be who they are.”
“That’s mostly true,” Grace said. St. Albans had a laudable history. It had been the site of the northern-most Confederate army attack during the Civil War. And before the abolition of slavery, the college had been a way station on the Underground Railroad. It had also been one of the first colleges in the country to admit students of color. Grace had been an out lesbian the whole time she’d taught here—and it had never been an issue—at least not overtly. She’d always regarded that as one of the perks of living in a blue state.
“So, you came here because you thought it would be a safe place to experiment with an alternative lifestyle?”
“No, Grace,” Abbie said. “I came here because I wanted—finally—to have the latitude to be who I really am.”
“And who is that?”
Abbie sighed. “You of all people should know the answer to that question.”
“Abbie. I spent the better part of a day, and most of one incredible night with you, but I’d hardly say that qualifies me to know who you are.”
Abbie slowly nodded her head. She started to withdraw her hand, but Grace held on to it.
“Not so fast,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in finding out.”
Abbie’s expression lost some of its sadness. “Really?”
Grace nodded.
They smiled somewhat shyly at each other.
“So,” Grace asked, “how do we do this?”
Abbie shook her dark head. “Beats the hell outta me. I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”
“Oh,” Grace looked her up and down, “I have a few ideas all right.”
Abbie smiled. “Not those kinds of ideas. Although,” she tugged Grace forward until their noses were nearly touching, “those certainly have some relevance to our . . . deliberations.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Abbie kissed her. It was just a quick, light kiss, but Grace could feel her toes curling up inside her socks.
“It’s still raining,” she said when she could find her voice.
“It is.”
“And we have this whole pot of coffee.”
“We do, indeed,” Abbie agreed.
They kissed again. This time, it wasn’t remotely light and it showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Grace was losing focus. She forced herself to pull away while she still could.
It took her a few seconds to catch her breath.
“We’re two . . . uncommonly . . . smart women. Aren’t we?” she asked.
Abbie appeared to be taking deep breaths, too. “I’d say so. Between the two of us, we probably have about eight million years of postgraduate education.”
“And in my case, twice that amount in unpaid student loans.”
Abbie drew back and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “I may need to rethink this idea.”
“Nuh uh.” Grace pulled her closer again. “Drop/Add day already came and went, sister. You’re stuck in this little seminar until the bitter end.”
“Oh really?” Abbie didn’t sound too distressed by this revelation. “How will I know when we’re finished?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Grace laughed. “Just listen for the Nine O’Clock Dog.”
“The nine o’clock dog?”
“Don’t worry. It’ll make sense soon enough.”
Abbie smiled at her. “As much as I want to—and believe me, I want to—you know I can’t stay the night.”
“I know.” Grace gave her a wry smile. “Lucretia would be leading a hue and cry to find you.” She considered her remark. “With wolves,” she added. “Salivating wolves.”
Abbie squeezed her hand. “I’ll be here a little bit longer.”
“When are you back for good?” The words sounded strange to Grace, even as she spoke them. Abbie soon would be living there. Permanently.
“Ten days.”
Ten days? Grace’s head was spinning—and not just because of Abbie’s proximity.
“We have a lot to figure out,” she said, morosely.
“I know,” Abbie agreed. “I don’t mean to oversimplify how complicated this is.”
“I don’t think you could.”
“No,” Abbie released her hand. “Probably not.”
“Well.” Grace pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “If we’re both gonna lie awake all night we might as well do it in style.” She walked to the counter. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black. Like my prospects.”
“Don’t you mean bleak?” Grace asked.
“That, too.” Abbie smiled. “I was going for a bad movie pun.”
“Oh, I get it. Airplane!” Grace shook her head. “Wrong week for me to give up a life of celibacy.”
<
br /> “Not from where I’m sitting . . .”
Grace filled two mugs and carried them back to the table. “If we’re gonna quote old movies, we should go with the real classics.”
“Such as?”
Grace sat down again. “Of all the gin joints in all the world . . .”
“I had to walk into yours,” Abbie finished for her.
“Something like that.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Leave?” Grace was confused. “Leave here?” She tapped the tabletop.
“No. Here,” Abbie clarified. “Uber here. As in, St. Albans.”
Grace blinked. “Are you kidding?”
Abbie shook her head.
“You’d do that?”
“If it meant having a chance at a relationship with you, I would.”
Grace was incredulous. “That’s nuts.”
“Is it?”
“Well. Yeah. I could never ask something like that of you.”
“Why not?” Abbie shrugged. “I would, if the tables were turned.”
“But the tables aren’t turned.”
“No.” Abbie sighed. “I can’t change that.”
“So.” Grace leaned back in her chair. “What are we going to do?”
Abbie shrugged. “Figure it out as we go along?”
“That’s hardly scientific.”
“No, it’s more . . . experimental,” Abbie said.
“Which means?” Grace asked.
“Which means we take it one day at a time.”
“Oh, I get it.” Grace rolled her eyes. “Like some lame-ass kind of lotus-eating, twelve-step mumbo jumbo?”
“Yes.” Abbie nodded. “Exactly like that.”
Grace shook her head. “Well,” She raised her coffee mug. “however the hell this turns out . . .”
Abbie finished for her. “We’ll always have Paris?”
They clinked mugs.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” Grace gave her a sad smile. “I sure as hell hope this drama doesn’t end up with one of us saying goodbye at the damn Burlington International Airport.”
“Me either,” Abbie agreed. “I look terrible in hats.”
Chapter Three
Grace was shocked when she woke up at the crack of 9:30 on Friday morning and realized she’d slept late. It was apparent that Grendel was falling down on the job. An even bigger surprise greeted her when she took her coffee out to her back porch and realized that her neighbors had decamped sometime during the night. Joe Simmons, who owned the house and half a dozen other rental properties in Franklin County, was striding around the soggy backyard like an angry crow, barking orders as a couple of beefy students wearing Nova Wrestling T-shirts hauled boxes—which seemed mostly to be filled with empty PBR cans—out of the house and deposited them onto the only patch of grass that passed for a lawn.
