Dreams for Stones (5 page)

In the morning, as the clerk did the ticket
rewrite, Kathy handed over her credit card, letting herself neither
think about the additional cost nor question her decision to leave
Greg’s money, torn into hundreds of tiny pieces, on the table.
Shredding it had been a totally mad, but completely satisfying
thing to do.

Still numb, she boarded the flight, but
halfway back to Denver, the numbness wore off, and pain and anger
surged through her in a huge, swamping wave.

She bit her lip, hard, to stop a howl and
pressed her forehead against the window. Tears ran into her
fingers, as six miles below, the landscape crept past, mostly a
lifeless brown but here and there marked with the gaping red wounds
of canyons.

Words. She’d let him off with words. Not
enough. Never again would she not fight back when someone hurt
her.

By the time they landed in Denver, the tears
had stopped, and she was relieved to discover she no longer felt
like crying. Instead she was so exhausted, she could barely keep
her eyes open.

But maybe that was just because she’d
forgotten the earplugs.

Kathy stood in the doorway at Calico Cat Books, imagining the room
filled with women in graceful gowns and men in formal dress instead
of the chaos of tables, desks, and file cabinets all stacked with
lopsided piles of paper. Yesteryear’s ballroom, today’s publishing
company. What she’d traded Greg for.

She thought about her work. The excitement
of a new find. The daily conversations, jokes, and laughter. The
feeling of accomplishment when a book came out. And she thought
about the people. Calico’s co-owners—Polly Lewis and Columba
Whitlow. Polly with her quirky sense of humor and careless clothes
and Columba, with her dry wit and Jackie Kennedy elegance. And Jade
Mizoguchi, her fellow editor. Jade, whose serenity kept the rest of
them sane.

So, would she have made the same choice to
stay in Denver had she known from the beginning Greg would forget
her almost as soon as she disappeared from his rear view
mirror?

But it was a different question now. Because
now she knew Greg was the kind of man who would sleep with a woman
as if he were checking out a pair of shoes or test-driving a
car.

Remembering that part of it, she felt as
dumb as a pet rock. Did the whole miserable sequence of events
really have to play out before she could see through the dazzle
that Greg wasn’t the man she thought he was? And that
was
the important point. The point she needed to focus on whenever the
anger and grief choked her.

He wasn’t the man she thought he was.

“Kathy?”

With a start, she turned to find Jade, face
full of concern, staring at her.

“I didn’t think you were coming back until
next week.”

“Yeah, that
was
the plan.” Kathy held
up her bare left hand.

Jade took Kathy’s hand and folded it between
hers. “Oh, honey. What happened?”

“Someone named Julie.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. Are you okay?”

Kathy took a deep breath and looked around
Calico and then back at Jade. She wasn’t ready to smile yet, but at
least she no longer felt like crying. She had been saved, after
all, from becoming Greg’s wife, something she now knew would have
eventually made her more miserable than she currently was.

“You know, I think I am, actually.”

Or she would be eventually.

Hilary Hilstrom peered at Alan over her glasses. “I asked to see
you in order to let you know I’m bringing in an editor from a local
press to teach the writing seminar in the spring.”

This was even worse than their last meeting
with its fiction-is-our-future declaration.

“It’s a wonderful opportunity for our
students,” she added.

She was no doubt expecting him to be
ecstatic at having his teaching load reduced. And probably any
normal faculty member would be. But for him, the students were a
welcome distraction, and he particularly enjoyed teaching the
seminar.

“I also need a favor.” Hilstrom pulled off
her glasses and twirled them. “Ms. Jamison will need office space.
The adjunct area is simply unacceptable. I thought perhaps the
second desk in your office...”

Giving up his favorite course wasn’t bad
enough, now he had to share his office? It felt like Hilstrom had
picked up his life and shaken it the way a dog would a dead
rabbit.

“It shouldn’t inconvenience you. She’ll only
be there evenings, and it would help me enormously.” She leaned
toward him, her glasses dangling from one hand.

Knowing he had no good reason to object to
the request, he nodded in acquiescence.

Hilstrom sat back, looking satisfied. “I
very much appreciate your cooperation in the matter of Ms. Jamison,
Alan.”

Right. As if he had a choice with tenure on
the line.

Charles had his usual tongue-in-cheek
solution. “I know a good lawyer, you want to sue.”

“Yeah. And kiss tenure goodbye.” Alan
struggled to keep his tone light, but the subject of tenure was
anything but light. He’d recently turned in his dossier, knowing
that if he didn’t get tenure, he might have to leave Denver and, if
he left Denver, he might end up too far from his family’s ranch to
spend his weekends there.

“Tenure is an outmoded concept anyway,”
Charles said. “Guaranteeing someone a job for life based on six or
seven years of effort.” He snorted. “Can you imagine what would
happen if the Rockies operated like that?”

A swift image of a white-haired Andres
Galarraga rounding third and heading for home waving a cane, made
Alan smile. But while that image was amusing, nothing else about
this situation was. “I need tenure in order to keep the job.”

“There is that.” Charles sighed. “The
editor. Male or female?”

“What?” For a moment Alan had no idea what
Charles was talking about. Then he did. “Oh, female.”

“Maybe she’ll fit the bill.”

Yeah. Right. That was about as likely as one
of the women Charles wanted to set him up with knowing something
about literature.

Kathy wiped the last dish and put it away, then stood looking out
the window at the Costellos’ backyard. Mr. Costello was out there
fussing with his roses.

It was three weeks since she came back from
San Francisco, more than enough time for her to stop picking over
her shattered dreams. It was done, over with. She knew the drill.
She’d spent her entire life doing it. Saying goodbye, letting
go.

So. From now on. No more staring into space,
thinking of all the things she could have said, could have done. No
more trying to figure out how she’d overlooked the flaws in Greg’s
character. No more seeking clues to his treachery.

Instead, she needed to nurture the feeling
of relief that every once in a while replaced the tangle of anger
and regret. After all, she’d barely avoided making a huge
mistake.

And maybe eventually, she’d be able to write
a darn good story about it.

But not yet.

Still, writing about something. . . it was
how she’d gotten through rough times before. It was worth trying
again. She could start someplace simple. Perhaps a name.

She went upstairs and got her book of names,
sat at the kitchen table, and flipped through it, jotting down any
name that jumped out at her. After several minutes, she sat back to
look at what she had: Andrea, Andy. Nope, too tomboyish. Sofia? Too
pretentious. Lynette. Too feminine and kind of icky, actually, now
that she considered it. Ramona, too old-fashioned. Amanda, Mandy.
Not bad. She might enjoy getting acquainted with an Amanda.

Okay. Amanda it was.

Tomorrow she would make a fresh start. In a
fresh place. Hilary Hilstrom had recently called to invite her to
teach a writing seminar at DSU next spring. Kathy had met Hilary at
a writers’ conference, but had never expected the woman to follow
up on her offhand comment about Kathy teaching a course.

But even better than being invited to teach
was the fact Hilary had offered her the use of an office.

Kathy had hung up after talking to Hilary
feeling excited and relieved. Serendipity, missing from her life
the last six months, now seemed to be back in operation, bringing
her the perfect opportunity at the perfect moment. She would go to
DSU every evening and write for at least an hour about. . .
Amanda.

“Professor Francini?”

Alan looked up from the stack of papers he
was grading to find a young woman with copper-colored hair standing
in his doorway.

At his acknowledgement, she stepped into the
room, and he noticed other things: eyes that appeared tired, or
maybe sad, and cheekbones that were a touch too prominent, as if
she’d lost weight recently.

In spite of the brightness trapped in those
strands of smooth hair, she seemed dimmed.

One of the new graduate students? If so, she
would have been hard to overlook. Her face not so much beautiful,
but something better. Interesting. Arresting.

“I’m Kathy Jamison.” She cocked her head,
and her hair shifted and slid, catching the light. “Dr. Hilstrom
told me to see you about a desk.”

This
was the editor Hilstrom hired?
He’d expected someone considerably. . . well, older for one thing.
Besides. . . “You’re early, aren’t you?”

She looked puzzled, and a small crease
formed between her eyes. “It’s six o’clock.”

He shook his head. “It’s September. Your
seminar isn’t until spring semester.”

Quick comprehension dawned along with a
blush that turned her face rosy. She tucked the strand of hair
behind her ear, and he watched as it slid right back to brush
against her cheek.

“Hilary said it was okay for me to start
using the office now.”

Hilary
? What happened to Dr.
Hilstrom?

“I need a place to write.”

So, go to the library.
He didn’t say
it out loud. Not fair to take his anger at Hilstrom out on this
stranger. After all, he
had
told Hilstrom he would share his
office. He just thought it would be for one night a week and for
only the duration of the seminar.

“I should have called.”

A call wouldn’t have helped. He passed a
hand across his brow, trying to figure out how to handle it.
“There’s been a misunderstanding.”

She examined his office, taking in, no
doubt, its lack of amenities, its almost fanatical neatness, a
hold-over from his college days of rooming with Charles.
I say,
Francini. You do realize a neat office is the sign of a sick
mind
, was how one colleague put it.

Her mouth trembled, and she blinked rapidly.
She looked like she was on the verge of tears, except that didn’t
make any sense. Her glance came to rest on the extra desk sitting
in the corner. Like his, its oak top was scarred from years of
service. A wad of paper folded into a thick square shimmed one of
its legs.

Still staring at the desk, her chin came up,
and her mouth firmed. “I understand. You didn’t think you could
turn Hilary down. But, really, you don’t want to share.” She
concluded her assessment of the other desk and gave him a quick,
intent look out of eyes as dark and light as shade and sunlight on
a mountain stream.

He thought about how to answer her. But the
plain truth? She was right. He didn’t want to share.

“I’ll make other arrangements, then. I
certainly wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” Her hands were so
tightly clenched the knuckles were turning white. “Nice meeting
you.” Her tone, at odds with the words, was in perfect concert with
the clenched hands. Without giving him a chance to respond, she
whirled and walked out, pulling the door shut with a sharp
click.

He stared at the closed door without moving.
Too bad. All of it, because he’d liked the way she’d brightened the
office with that hair. Liked as well her voice, musical,
low-pitched. Would have liked a chance to. . . but no. Better this
way.

Chasing her off was what he wanted. But he’d
also made her angry. She’d probably run directly to Hilstrom to
complain. And that really would cook his tenure goose.

He ought to chase after her, apologize. Beg
her to come back.

Instead, he sat there, allowing the seconds
to tick away until it was too late.

Men
!

Kathy’s racket connected with a satisfying
thunk as she sent the tennis ball back at the practice wall. As if
dealing with her residual anger at Greg wasn’t enough. No. She had
to have the additional pleasure of an encounter with the most
arrogant,
whack
, insufferable,
whack
, obnoxious,
whack
, office-hogging professor she’d ever met. If she’d
been a large, rabid cockroach, he couldn’t have been more obviously
appalled at the idea of sharing his office with her. Even worse,
he’d almost made her cry.

“I think you’ve killed it.” The masculine
drawl distracted Kathy, and the ball went sailing past her racket.
She glared at the man, then jogged after her ball.

That was the problem with the practice walls
at City Park. Some guy always figured you for a pick-up. And if she
was ever not in the mood, it was now. Especially given the man so
strongly resembled Greg. One blond Greek god in her life was more
than sufficient, thank you very much. She suppressed a shudder.

“There’s a court free, if you’d like a
game,” the man said as she returned with her ball.

“No thanks.” She didn’t look at him, not
caring she was being rude, and she was hardly ever rude. In fact,
whenever she was, she always regretted it afterward. But not this
time.

She tossed the ball and, with a smooth
stroke, slammed it into the wall thinking how satisfying it would
be to be aiming at Greg. Or that selfish, arrogant professor.