stood there with his hand on the knob. I thought, apropos of nothing, that perhaps Jake Fenton always kept his hand on the doorknob. That must make it a hell of a lot easier to get away.
“Is it always like that?” The crooked just-between-us grin illuminated his bronzed face; the gray eyes crinkled.
I didn’t feel like being charmed. My big night with this literary legend, and its aftermath of gossip, had left a bitter taste in my mouth. “Is
what
always like
what?”
“That strange meeting we just endured. The turf battles. The impenetrable sesquipedalian language. Those obscure resentments underlying each debate like massive, ancient icebergs.”
I shrugged. I had no memory of anything other than my own sullen funk. And what was so strange about all that, anyhow? That’s just the way things are in an English Department. Jake had taught elsewhere; he should know that.
Jake relinquished the doorknob, walked across the office, and sank into my green armchair. “I’m really here about what happened the other night, Karen.” His lips tightened. “As you can see, I have a bit of a problem with alcohol. How much of an ass did I make of myself?”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘ass.’ You got drunk; you got involved in a fistfight with strangers; you passed out in the car.” I shrugged again. “I’ve seen worse.”
He cringed. “Did I …? You know …? I mean,face it, Karen, you’re a very attractive woman. And I … Well, I hope I didn’t …”
“You tried.”
Jake grimaced. “I hope I didn’t … make myself obnoxious to you. I’d really like to spend more time with you, Karen—lots more. That is, if you …”
I gave him an enigmatic smile.
In your dreams, big boy
.
The narcissist in him chose to interpret the smile positively. “I’ll give you a call someday soon, Karen. We’ll set a date.” He rose from the chair and headed for the door. Then, his hand on the knob again, Jake turned back. “I didn’t
say
anything, did I?”
“Say
anything? You
said
a lot.”
An anxious expression crossed his rugged features. “About … anyone in particular?”
“You talked about a number of people. There was some native guide—”
“No.” He shook his head impatiently. “Not
that
kind of talk. Did I say anything about … well … anyone …?” Then he seemed to register what I’d told him, and his face relaxed again. “Never mind, Karen. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes.” He pointed his index finger at me as if it were a gun, then cocked his thumb. “Hey, listen, Karen, I’ll call you.” He flashed me his hot-guy grin, turned the knob, and strode down the hall.
“Don’t bother,” I replied, but he didn’t hear me.
J ake Fenton?” George Gilman queried, when he ran into me outside the library. My little colleague’s arms were loaded with books. I was on my way to Earlene’s office to pick her up for a late lunch.
“Don’t
you
start,” I warned. “It’s nothing but unfounded gossip.”
“I hope so, Karen, because I know things.…”
“I don’t care.” I wanted to snap at him, but his wrinkled gnome’s face was so full of concern that I modulated my tone. “It’s all a misunderstanding, George. There’s nothing going on.”
“You’re sure?” We were standing on the bottom library step, and he set his stack of books on one of the stone pillars.
“Yes.” I did snap at him this time. “And, besides, even if we were screwing our brains out, it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but our own.”
“I know. I know.” He raised his hands defensively. “It’s just that …” He paused. It was a long pause, as pauses go, and I was about to break into his frowning abstraction when he continued abruptly. “It’s just that with the work I’m doing on this new book, I hear a bit about what goes on with contemporary writers.”
Something wasn’t being said, but I nodded anyhow. George’s new book would provide the first major
“Is it always like that?” The crooked just-between-us grin illuminated his bronzed face; the gray eyes crinkled.
I didn’t feel like being charmed. My big night with this literary legend, and its aftermath of gossip, had left a bitter taste in my mouth. “Is
what
always like
what?”
“That strange meeting we just endured. The turf battles. The impenetrable sesquipedalian language. Those obscure resentments underlying each debate like massive, ancient icebergs.”
I shrugged. I had no memory of anything other than my own sullen funk. And what was so strange about all that, anyhow? That’s just the way things are in an English Department. Jake had taught elsewhere; he should know that.
Jake relinquished the doorknob, walked across the office, and sank into my green armchair. “I’m really here about what happened the other night, Karen.” His lips tightened. “As you can see, I have a bit of a problem with alcohol. How much of an ass did I make of myself?”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘ass.’ You got drunk; you got involved in a fistfight with strangers; you passed out in the car.” I shrugged again. “I’ve seen worse.”
He cringed. “Did I …? You know …? I mean,face it, Karen, you’re a very attractive woman. And I … Well, I hope I didn’t …”
“You tried.”
Jake grimaced. “I hope I didn’t … make myself obnoxious to you. I’d really like to spend more time with you, Karen—lots more. That is, if you …”
I gave him an enigmatic smile.
In your dreams, big boy
.
The narcissist in him chose to interpret the smile positively. “I’ll give you a call someday soon, Karen. We’ll set a date.” He rose from the chair and headed for the door. Then, his hand on the knob again, Jake turned back. “I didn’t
say
anything, did I?”
“Say
anything? You
said
a lot.”
An anxious expression crossed his rugged features. “About … anyone in particular?”
“You talked about a number of people. There was some native guide—”
“No.” He shook his head impatiently. “Not
that
kind of talk. Did I say anything about … well … anyone …?” Then he seemed to register what I’d told him, and his face relaxed again. “Never mind, Karen. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes.” He pointed his index finger at me as if it were a gun, then cocked his thumb. “Hey, listen, Karen, I’ll call you.” He flashed me his hot-guy grin, turned the knob, and strode down the hall.
“Don’t bother,” I replied, but he didn’t hear me.
J ake Fenton?” George Gilman queried, when he ran into me outside the library. My little colleague’s arms were loaded with books. I was on my way to Earlene’s office to pick her up for a late lunch.
“Don’t
you
start,” I warned. “It’s nothing but unfounded gossip.”
“I hope so, Karen, because I know things.…”
“I don’t care.” I wanted to snap at him, but his wrinkled gnome’s face was so full of concern that I modulated my tone. “It’s all a misunderstanding, George. There’s nothing going on.”
“You’re sure?” We were standing on the bottom library step, and he set his stack of books on one of the stone pillars.
“Yes.” I did snap at him this time. “And, besides, even if we were screwing our brains out, it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but our own.”
“I know. I know.” He raised his hands defensively. “It’s just that …” He paused. It was a long pause, as pauses go, and I was about to break into his frowning abstraction when he continued abruptly. “It’s just that with the work I’m doing on this new book, I hear a bit about what goes on with contemporary writers.”
Something wasn’t being said, but I nodded anyhow. George’s new book would provide the first major
Similar Books
