Fall Semester (35 page)

The night was young. Still, after the trials he survived, she survived, they should have been tired, but they held each other in the lamplight and talked and touched for more than an hour. About everything. Her middle name was Elise. His birthday was in March.

“Halfway to 70,” she’d teased, and he swatted her bottom. Then kissed it.

And after the light was out, they talked and touched for hours more. Maren discovered that she could make his breath hitch by dragging her fingernails, very lightly, over his nipples. Malcolm learned that she hated being cold. She’d come back to bed after a dash to the bathroom and shamelessly pressed her frozen feet against his calves.

“Warm me,” she’d said, through chattering teeth.

“Always,” he promised, running his hands devotedly over her body.

Maren found that his voice grew deeper as the night lengthened. Malcolm relished the knowledge that he could hear her smile in the dark as she sang David Bowie’s “China Girl” when he’d confessed to knowing all of the lyrics to every song on the
Let’s Dance
album. (Charlotte had played it constantly during his first 10 years of life.)

Some hours before dawn, they allowed themselves to fall asleep. The night would end, but they were just beginning.

Epilogue

May

M
aren would be home any minute. Her master’s comp exams finished at 4:30, and his
Paella de Marisco
sat assembled on the counter. It would need just 20 minutes in the oven once she came back, had the chance to vent about the trials of the exam, and sampled the bottle of 2011
Columna Albarina Rias Baixas
he had chilled.

Malcolm had promised her the meal to celebrate the academic milestone, her last hurdle before she earned her master’s degree. She had not wanted to take time from studying to mark the occasion of her successful thesis defense the week before. In fact, Maren had not even allowed him to attend, a right that he surrendered as a member of the faculty. Naturally, he had indulged her, though it galled him to hear MacIntosh and St. Martin gush later over how well she had done. Still, he was incredibly proud. As proud as any lover—secret or not—could possibly be.

To his endless surprise, they had managed to keep their relationship sub-rosa. Of course, they had been very careful. Maren never visited his office now, and while he could not resist a stolen touch as they passed each other now and then on the second floor of Griffin Hall, they simply did not allow themselves to be seen together on campus.

Malcolm had been sure that a scandal was imminent when Helene confessed to Maren that Jess was in on the secret, too, but the punk had surprised him thus far. Jess had kept his mouth shut, but the boy took great pleasure in giving him a conspiratorial grin every time he saw Malcolm and Maren in the same place. And once, during a Creative Writing meeting, Jess had seen a look pass between Malcolm and his beloved, and the impertinent graduate student had blown him a kiss. Helene was the only one aside from himself who noticed, but her stifled giggles had caught the attention of those around her. It was Maren’s pallor that had made Malcolm nearly choke with rage. Jess and Helene’s invitation to dinner a week later had been flatly refused.

What continued to amaze him was Maren’s toleration of the secret, of their social isolation. Of course, they were at the Gardner home at least once mid-week and every Sunday dinner. With that alone, Malcolm had more society than he’d ever dreamed. At Thanksgiving, just over a week after Mark’s funeral, the Gardners discovered Malcolm’s culinary talents, and from then on, he joined Erin in the kitchen to assemble family meals. The pride he saw in Maren’s eyes every time her brother or sister fell over themselves for his dishes made him blush. And Maren said blushing was sexy.

In the beginning, he’d been afraid of how much he wanted to belong, not just to Maren, but to her family. Carlos had asked him, casually, if he wanted to give fear his power. Malcolm had cursed the therapist in Spanish for that one. The Argentinian native had laughed, as he always did, and told Malcolm to concentrate instead on being curious about the Gardners. Carlos explained that Malcolm was a novice when it came to family, and if it helped, he should distract the fear by watching Lane and Laurel. It had worked. Lane’s playfulness and Laurel’s compassion—even when they argued—took him out of himself, and he soon became part of the dynamic. The family’s enthusiastic welcome didn’t hurt.

His own home felt deliciously full. Malcolm looked down at the rotund Perry who snoozed strategically in front of the oven. Perry had grown quite devoted to him—despite Malcolm’s maleness—once the canine learned that his mistress’s mate was forever in the kitchen. If possible, the little terrier had only grown more round in recent months. This fact was puzzling since Perry and Ricardo had not quite settled the question of dominance.

Upon Perry’s first visit, the dog had assumed that he would reign supreme, tearing after Ricardo with menacing growls. One swipe from Ricardo had taught Perry a great deal of respect. The two still lay in wait for each other on a regular basis. When one unsuspecting pet strolled by the other’s hiding place, a chase ensued that occasionally involved hissing and growling, but no other wounds had been inflicted. Still, since this little dance of dominance occurred several times a day, one would assume that Perry would have trimmed down some. Not so.

Of course, Perry was not at the house every day. Maren still technically had a rent house, and she would return to it once or twice a week. And if she wanted to stay the night, Malcolm stayed with her.

In the last six months, the only nights they had spent apart were the ten days over the semester break when Malcolm had travelled to Antigua to finalize his agreement with Sister Alejandro and her bishop, spending a whole week as a guest at the orphanage to inform his translation.

The Stone Fountain,
by Sister Alejandro Perez, translation by Malcolm C. Vashal, would be published by the university press in late July. What was even better was that Sister Alejandro was at work on another volume, and she had requested Malcolm’s services for that one as well. A contract had already been signed. Proceeds from both books, though surely modest, would go directly to the orphanage.

In his kitchen, Malcolm smiled. He looked forward to attending Dorothy’s fall party next semester with that feather in his cap, but his heart sped with the hope that he would also have something infinitely better.

For the fiftieth time that afternoon, he fingered the small, velvet box in his pocket.

She’ll say yes,
he told himself.

Carlos was a damnably insistent man. In one of their earlier sessions, Malcolm had confessed the dark voice that so often berated him.

“Name it,” he’d instructed, nodding without a doubt. Malcolm had regarded the compact therapist with the wavy, thinning hair and twinkling eyes. It was always so difficult to dismiss his advice. There was something of the mystical about him, as if he could transfigure objects or make a vase of flowers levitate when one wasn’t looking. It didn’t help this notion that he was always right in his suggestions.

So “
Duende
the Shadow Voice” was born. And when
Duende
berated or mocked him, Malcolm was to tell him to shut the hell up. And it helped. Somehow, the wicked voice seemed less authoritative, more nuisance.

Even more remarkable was Maren’s interaction with the little beast. With Carlos’s encouragement, virtually everything of note that came up during a session Malcolm shared with Maren—eventually. It had been terrifying at first, but when he saw that it seemed to make her love him even more, he simply let go.

He’d even shared the secret that shamed him most, the awful—and once-alluring—AMT 6mm. Maren had helped him retrieve it from his office, and the two of them had taken it to Lafayette Shooters. (They had left with a new pair of binoculars—for hummingbird spotting—and a line of store credit that Malcolm contemplated cashing in for a two-man kayak.)

So when
Duende
showed himself in Malcolm’s grumbles, tantrums, or self-assaults, Maren would call out the little demon, always while touching Malcolm warmly. The effect was...dizzying. It was certainly true the Malcolm loved Maren with his whole being, shadow side and all. That she even loved the monster inside him, treated the monster with tenderness, took the fight right out of him.

But as he waited for Maren to come home, waited with the velvet box in his pocket, it was this part of himself that was most agitated.

Malcolm reached for the box, plucked it out, and opened it. Looking at the ring itself calmed him. Cushion. French-set. Halo. Six weeks ago, he had not known what any of the terms meant, but he’d had the good sense to seek Laurel’s help. He’d bought her silence, of course. Since Mark’s death, the two sisters had grown even closer, and he could not have tolerated Maren even having the slightest hint that he would ask for her hand.

What if she’d pulled away at the thought?

No. Laurel had hardly needed the bribe—the promise that once they were engaged, Malcolm would see the Jetta returned to her, and he and Maren would buy something new together. Maren’s little sister had been overjoyed to help him choose the white gold ring. Laurel had sworn on her life that Maren would love the ring that was both delicate and timeless.

He held the glittering band and could actually picture it on Maren’s hand. It suited her. She
would
love it.

The Jetta’s distinctive thrum and Perry’s excited dash to the door started his heart racing, and he nearly dropped the engagement ring in his effort to wedge it back into the box. Malcolm shoved the box back into his pocket, and promptly pulled the albarino out of the fridge. He tried with all of his might to appear calm.

Maren entered the kitchen with a smile of triumph.

God, I want to marry her.

“Success?” he managed, holding out the chilled bottle and trying to match her smile even while his liver lilied.

“Hells, yes!” she yelled and crashed into his arms, wine bottle and all. “I
killed
that test. Fucking killed it!”

Malcolm squeezed her, buried his nose in her hair, and thought for the millionth time how lucky he was to have her. Of course, she’d killed her master’s comps. She could do anything. Go anywhere.

She’s choosing to stay here,
he reminded himself before Duende could speak up. Maren had already applied and been accepted into the doctoral program. Malcolm had wondered for weeks if she knew that once they were married, there would be no need to hide, no university policy to condemn them.

He lost the thought in her kiss—until she pulled away.

“You’re sweating. Are you okay? God, it smells great in here. Poor baby, you’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day. Here, let me open that.”

She took the bottle from him, adrenalized from the test, talking without pausing for breath while Malcolm tried to catch his.

He
was
sweating. His plan of proposing at just the right moment during dinner suddenly seemed impossibly foolish. He’d be a mess of nerves by then. He was a mess of nerves now.

“Thank you, by the way,” she went on, riffling through a drawer for the bottle opener. “You were right about
Moby Dick
showing up. I’m so glad I dusted off my Melville.”

He could do it now. Just take knee and ask her.

What if she says no? She might not be ready.

She pulled the cork and turned to him, a wistful look in her eye.

“I’m really lucky to have you.” She reached for him and ran her fingertips down his cheek. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Now.

Malcolm grabbed her hand and dropped to his knees. His fingers were shaking as he fished the box out of his pocket.

“Maren,
mi todo,
my love
...”
He could hear the tremor in his voice as he watched Maren’s eyes go wide. He hung onto her hand for dear life. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

But he couldn’t stop himself there. He ran on in a rush.

“I know I’ll get the better end of the bargain, but I’ll do everything in my power to keep you happy, to give you everything you want. To make a home with you. To have children with you. I’ll—”

“Malcolm!” she gasped, her beautiful, maple eyes shining. She was suddenly on her knees with him, holding out her left hand which was shaking, too.

“Yes!”

Malcolm and Maren’s Playlist

“Year of the Cat” Al Stewart

“Believe Me Natalie” The Killers

“If You Don’t Want Me” Warren Storm

“Can’t Help Falling in Love” Elvis Presley

“Interstate Love Song” Stone Temple Pilots

“Radioactive” Kings of Leon

“Have Love Will Travel” The Black Keys

“Rope” Foo Fighters

“Warning” Incubus

“She Looks to Me” Red Hot Chili Peppers

“Unconditional” The Bravery

“Tongue Tied” Grouplove

“Help I’m Alive” Metric

“Mountain Sound” Of Monsters and Men

“Heartbeats” Royal Teeth

“Cocoon” Jack Johnson

“In My Life” The Beatles

“The General” Dispatch

“Home” Phillip Phillips

Acknowledgements

M
alcolm and Maren took a long time to find their way onto the page, but they would have taken even longer without the help of my husband John and our daughter Hannah. Their encouragement, assistance, and support meant so much to me. Beyond that, John’s skill as an editor and as a talented writer in his own right helped to keep my words in line, and Hannah’s artistic vision and magic gave me the original ebook cover that I absolutely loved. For these and countless other reasons, I am forever grateful to you both.

I want to thank my friend and running partner Fawn Hernandez for the miles of marathon training when she listened to me talk about my story or when she ran with me in silence while my mind spun the tale. Her faith in me carried me past the finish line in more ways than one.

Malcolm Vashal owes his Spanish to my friends Beth and Luis Acevedo. Thank you so much for giving him authentic diction and for answering my Spanish grammar questions.

Stella Arabie, Gerald Sierveld, and Tom Lyles, my friends and colleagues, cheered me on in this nine-month project, and they helped me to overcome a little of my shyness when talking about this work that is so close to my heart.

Thanks to my friend and spiritual mentor Deanna Fouin for teaching me about the communion of Saints, both in Christian and Eastern belief systems. Her influence on my own soul cannot be measured. And if Deanna and Mark Gardner are correct, as I believe they must be, I hope that Grandma Ruby knows how the last 27 chapters turned out. Reading the first three to you in your last days is something I will never forget.

The Gardners could never have come to life without the influence of my own vibrant, loving, crazy family. My parents, sisters, brother, and sibs-in-law are all in my pages as the instant family that Malcolm both fears and craves. Fournets, Leblancs, Whites, and Thomases, I am so lucky to have you.

All the schools I have attended as a student or served as a faculty member have left their marks as well. While no one scene or character is based on any single event or individual, mentors, colleagues, and students have given me sparks of inspiration for the people in Malcolm and Maren’s world, and so I am thankful for my years at St. Thomas More, the University of Louisiana-Lafayette, Episcopal School of Acadiana, and Ascension Episcopal School for the many ways they have enriched my mind and my life.

I’d like to thank Lynne Bauersfeld for her years of care and compassion. This accomplishment of mine has your fingerprints all over it. I can only hope that Carlos Navarro is as helpful to Malcolm as you were to me.

To my Kickstarter backers, thank you so much for helping me to print publish
Fall Semester.
This is a dream come true. I’d especially like to thank Heather Lamarche, Annette Broussard, Ann Kergan, Chad Case, Catherine Smith, Marilynn Adams, Richard Fournet, Chris Jones, Justin Hernandez, Geoff Gjertson, Allison Bean, Elizabeth Hollier, Dana Topham, Philip Tucker, Kay Dearborn, and Kevin Hargrave.

Finally, dear reader, I loved every moment that I wrote and revised
Fall Semester,
so I thank you for your time and attention. I believe that there is a harmony in the universe that draws together the need to give something with the need to receive something. Whatever you received from this book, take it with my warmest blessings.