Authors: Ann Warner
“A professor, hmm? Your family must be pleased.”
“They’re mostly relieved I’m no longer brewing stinks in the basement.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Their own fault. They should have known better than to give a twelve-year-old boy a chemistry set.” He touched her elbow and they began walking again. Before long they reached a small square with a vacant bench. “All right if we sit?”
She nodded, relieved for the respite, as she was still recovering from the rigors of the season. If necessary, she could still manage six hours of rehearsal, but only with a ballet master pushing her.
Rob sat next to her and pulled out another cookie, broke it, and offered her half. “My sister says that Mom’s only revenge is if I have a child exactly like me.”
Accepting the cookie, Clare pictured him as a small boy with a sooty face, wearing glasses no doubt held together with tape. The thought made her smile.
“What?”
She shook her head. “How’s that revenge coming?”
“Not so good, since I rather need a wife first.”
“You’ve never been married?”
He leaned over and flicked a crumb off his pants leg toward a sparrow. “Not so far.”
“How come?”
He shrugged and sat back. “Oh, I don’t know. Bad timing maybe, never met the right woman. How about you?”
“Never married. Bad timing. Wrong man.”
Really wrong man
. “See? Doesn’t tell you a thing.”
“You’re right. Maybe that’s a subject for when we know each other better.”
“Are we going to know each other better?”
“If we get past today.”
“And in order for us to get past today...?” She flapped the hand holding the last bite of cookie.
He met her gaze and held up his hand. “Let’s see what we’ve got so far. A fellow lilac lover. Check.” He bent his thumb. “Someone who’s willing to walk substantial distances without whining. Check. Able to look interested as I expound on the historical facts about Boston I’ve gleaned from
Reader
’
s Digest
. Check. Able to continue to look interested when confronted with scientific jargon and stories of a benighted childhood. Check.” He wiggled his small finger. “The only thing left is table manners.”
Amused, she cocked her head. “So, as long as I don’t slurp or chew with my mouth open, I’m set?”
“More or less, although I do intend to keep an eye on things like napkin handling and proper utensil choice.”
Good Lord, the man was a stitch. “Are you trying to make me nervous?”
“I’m the one who’s nervous.” He continued to look solemn. “Working to impress someone who can dance on the tips of her toes in front of hundreds of people without turning a hair. It’s a tough go.”
“Good job of hiding it. You read
Reader
’
s Digest
?”
“My grandmother was a fan.”
“So how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight. How old are you?”
“You’re never supposed to ask a woman her age. It’s impolite.”
“Also impolitic, I imagine. So what year were you born?”
“You’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you. Nineteen fifty-two.”
“An auspicious year indeed.” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Let’s see, that makes you—”
“Thirty-three.”
“A mere babe.”
“That’s also impolitic of you. Calling me a babe.”
“Well, you called me a bugger.”
“I guess we’re even then.”
“Even. You ready for lunch?”
How could he think about lunch after eating two and a half, no make that three and a half, macaroons? But then, she was hungry herself, in spite of sharing the cookies with him—a rare indulgence.
They walked back to a tiny restaurant two doors from the macaroon shop, where they sat on an even tinier back terrace and ate a heavenly chicken scallopini. The spaghetti side was smothered in the best red sauce Clare had ever eaten.
On the drive back to Marblehead, Rob invited her to dinner the next Friday. She accepted, deciding it was worth investing more time to see if this man might turn out to be as nice as he seemed. Unlikely, of course, but how lovely if he was.
Grand pas de deux - Entrée
Grand dance for two in five parts - The beginning
After he went out with Clare the second time, Rob knew he could no longer put off talking to Joyce Willette, the woman he’d been casually dating for the past six months, a relationship
Joyce had initiated, but he’d had no objections.
Their meeting was delayed when Joyce caught a cold and was missing from work all week. He even had to give a lecture for her. On Thursday, he finally called to ask if he could stop by.
“I may still be contagious.” Her voice sounded waterlogged.
“That’s okay. I’ll chance it. I’ll bring food.”
She answered the door wearing a caftan and sandals, although he suspected she’d rather be wearing the flannel robe and lamb’s wool slippers stashed in her closet. Her nose was red but, otherwise, she looked good. Her hair, which she wore in a bun at work, was a loose cloud of gold.
Seeing the effort she’d made for his visit, Rob felt the first stirrings of discomfort. Joyce was bright and attractive, and he’d recently begun to think she might make him a good wife. Only a silly romantic notion held him back from sharing that thought—the idea that falling in love ought to involve more than a ticking off a list of positive attributes.
He moved around Joyce’s kitchen setting out dishes and silverware and opening the cartons of food he’d brought along to help ease him into what he needed to say. Finally, he uncorked a bottle of wine and took two glasses out of the cupboard. “There you go. Thai. Had them make it extra hot. To help clear your sinuses.”
Joyce kissed his cheek as she picked up her wineglass. “Only a scientist could be so incredibly romantic.”
He smiled at her, distracted by a deepening disquiet. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to do this, although that was difficult for him to assess since he’d had no experience with this kind of thing. Still, he and Joyce had agreed on a casual relationship. Except, now he was feeling as though he had violated an ethical standard by taking Clare out. Not that he regretted it, but
sharing this meal with Joyce, he found he had to force himself to eat and to make conversation about how things were going at the university.
When they finished eating, Joyce suggested they move to the living room with cups of hot tea. She patted the spot beside her on the sofa and he sat.
“Is it starve a cold and feed a fever or the other way around?” she asked.
“Does it matter? You feel better, don’t you?”
“I do.” She stretched, then leaned against him. “This is really nice of you, Robbie. To spend the evening with a sick woman like this.”
He shifted but didn’t pull completely away. This was turning out to be trickier than he expected, especially given Joyce’s status as a senior colleague.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“It must be important for you to go all out and bring in a fancy dinner.”
“Yes. Well—”
“You okay, Robbie? You don’t usually let me get away with a jibe like that.” She pulled away to look at him.
“I, ah, met someone.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“A woman.”
Joyce straightened and stared at him. Seeing her expression, his mouth dried out and his hands went clammy.
“You and I. We did agree we’d keep it casual.” Although it now appeared his definition of casual might be different from hers.
“Someone I know?”
“No.”
“But, I thought we... Is she a scientist?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“She’s a principal dancer for Danse Classique.”
There was a beat of silence, then Joyce started laughing. “Good God, Robbie. A dancer?” She blew her nose. “How quaint. You have got to be kidding.”
“No. I assure you, I’m not.”
Several expressions flitted across her face. She started to speak, stopped, took another anticipatory breath, then turned away as a sneeze overtook her. And he would give up his grant funding if he could leave before she finished blowing her nose.
“But you told me you liked that we had so much in common,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Sorry he’d misled her. Sorry he’d compromised himself, he now saw, because it had been a convenient companionship and he’d been flattered by her interest.
Joyce stared at him for a moment then spoke in a toneless voice. “You men are all alike, aren’t you. Young and sexy trumps mature and intelligent every time.” She wiped her nose and her lips thinned. “I want you to go. And forget about us being friends. Lucky for you, you already have tenure, or I’d make damn sure you didn’t get it.”
Rob stood in the doorway of the department secretary’s office. Donna, middle-aged and resolutely plain, greeted him, as she always did, with a warm smile. “Dr. Chapin, what can I do for you?”
“Just checking to see if my grant paperwork is ready yet.”
“It’s on its way to the dean. Dr. Willette said she would drop it off.”
Dammit, no way
. He pulled in a breath and struggled to sound normal. “How long ago?”
“Maybe an hour?”
When, as expected, the dean’s assistant had no record of receiving the paperwork, Rob’s next stop was Joyce’s office. “Donna said you took my grant application to give to the dean.”
“That’s right. I was going that way.”