Highland Fling (11 page)

Then she meets Seth.

An ex-cop who’s making a new life for himself and his daughter, Seth Webster has every reason to play it safe. Then he meets Liberty. Prickly about love, following some crazy anti-romance curriculum, she still makes Seth's heart pound. And a lifetime of cop instinct tells him he's about to teach Liberty that this romance will be anything but by the book.

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Libby Sullivan hated
The Scarlet Letter
section of the “Ideology of Literature” course she taught.

Carefully keeping her intellectual mask in place, she used the last bit of class time for free discussion and reactions to the book. It was her job to push her students to consider the text in new ways, despite the twinge she felt in the vicinity of her heart. It’s just a book, she told herself, even though she didn’t really believe it.

“I thought it was really sad,” a junior in the back reflected. “No one really got a happy ending, though I guess the author tried a bit at the end, since the little girl grew up okay. The two main characters loved each other, but that still didn’t seem to count for them. They just ended up buried close to each other; that’s all.”

Libby heard the same complaint every year.

“In the end, Hester Prynne is redeemed not by love but by expressing her penance through a life of charity work, modesty and strong independence. Her estranged husband dies, twisted by his hate; her lover, Reverend Dimmesdale, dies of guilt after giving too little too late to his illegitimate daughter, Pearl, who is irrevocably alienated from the community where she was born due to her parents’ actions. But Hester finds some peace through reclaiming her quiet dignity despite her badge of shame.” The themes of sin and redemption, and propriety over personal freedom, were always things Libby noticed students tended to under-value in the book. Their belief that love is worth any price, no matter who got hurt, usually got in the way. “Hester believed that her demonstration of restraint, of having learned her lessons, would redeem her, and I believe that’s as happy as the ending could be, considering the attitudes on wives committing adultery of the time.”

“It’s not like her old husband even loved her,” another pretty student complained. “I don’t see why she had to live like a nun to show she was sorry for falling in love. I mean, like, it’s only natural, what she did.”

Only natural, but leading to so much pain, Libby added silently. They’re young, she reminded herself. Unfortunately, most of them will learn differently soon enough.

“But isn’t the point of the book that Hester, Pearl, and Dimmesdale would’ve all been better off without the puritanical dedication the town had to conventions?” A deep male voice from the front said. “I figure Hawthorne’s saying it’s not that she and Dimmesdale were wrong for being in love, but that the community was wrong for standing in their way. That love, that family bond, has a sanctity that shouldn’t be touched by rumors or prudes.”

The student, Seth, was a tall, lanky mature student she usually welcomed answers from. Today, however, she would have appreciated his silence more. He was a little too handsome and romantic notions from someone who looked like him, though they might have thrilled her when she was a junior herself, now sounded as appealing to her as a snake offering an apple.

“But isn’t it possible that they all would’ve been better off if Dimmesdale and Hester had never given into passion, since he wasn’t prepared to follow through on it? Reproduction is a natural result, yes, but the sex itself was a choice they made, right? Hester had no other option but to give birth after the deed was done, which left her rather compromised, so perhaps she and Dimmesdale should have controlled themselves,” she said, carefully keeping her voice bland. “It was Dimmesdale’s guilt and weakness involved in that choice, as much as the town’s shaming, that lead to their being apart.”

“True, I guess,” Seth conceded. “He was no hero, and a terrible father. But, if he had controlled his instincts better, Hester wouldn’t have had Pearl at all, so I suppose she’d think it was worth it in the long run.”

“But is that supported by the text?” Libby pressed. “For Hawthorne, Pearl is the embodiment of her parents’ sin, isn’t she? Eventually, the child can’t even recognize her mother without that badge of shame, showing how the so-called ‘love affair’ cast a pall over their lives. Should we necessarily assume that Hester considered it all worth it because she had a daughter to raise in such conditions?”

“But, for a parent, doesn’t a child make everything worth it, in the end?” Seth was pressing back, with a flame in his eyes that announced his own personal passion for what he was saying.

“That’s a rather modern way of viewing it,” Libby said weakly, but couldn’t deny the softening she felt at his reasoning. Wispy images passed, fleetingly, through her mind; a toddler smearing cake on his face, a little boy clinging to her during a scary part in a movie, a big smile with gaps left by lost teeth… “But, yes,” she said, “it’s a possible reading.”

Grateful to find the time had run out, she reminded the class they’d be moving on to
Madame Bovary
after the upcoming midterm exam and wrapped up the session. She pushed her hair back off her forehead, realizing that, despite her exhaustion, it would be hours still before she could sleep.

But, at least they were finished with
The Scarlet Letter
unit.

~* * *~

Seth unfolded his too-long legs out of one of the horrid little wooden half-desks in the lecture hall. He dropped his notebook into his backpack and watched Dr. Sullivan erase the board. He enjoyed her class, and in it he was able to put away all his concerns. Libby Sullivan was a sharp professor – she used a strong mix of humor and challenging questions to keep one’s attention through the whole three-hour period. She was one of the best teachers he’d had. Of course, he had to admit, the fact that she was a stunner to look at did no harm. Physically, she was just his type, he thought, with her short, curly auburn hair, and sweet face, with a curvy build designed to invade his dreams. Oddly enough, she was also everything his bleach blonde ex wasn’t – smart and reserved, and oh-so-temptingly untouchable. His former wife, Jami, he had to admit, had been far too easy for him and was anything but untouchable. Libby, on the other hand, was one of those women who’d be hard won, but so much more worth it.

Running a chagrined finger over one dark eyebrow, Seth smiled slightly to himself and cleared his throat. Definitely no way to think about a prof, he chastised himself. Even if she was delectable. Clearly, he needed to get out more, or at least get himself a few pinups that were more appropriate objects of his disused hormones than his university professor.

Still, watching her lean over the podium to grab her books, her full breasts compressing against the wood... Some man out there got to have her, he thought, and what a lucky bastard that guy was.

There was no way she’d want a busted up ex-cop who’d barely made it through high school, so he was better off putting all that straight out of his mind. But, while his mind was willing to ignore, other parts of him were not so co-operative. It was tenth grade Spanish all over again, and he was the sixteen-year-old Seth Webster mooning over Ms. Greer in her sexy swishy skirt. He had to admit, teacher fantasies were something a man may never grow out of, and they were even more appealing when the prof wasn’t fifteen years older than you.

Smiling silently, he finally remembered he would be expected home for dinner, and reluctantly made for the door. Whatever else was wrong in Seth’s life, at least school was something that was going right for him this time around, and he planned on keeping it that way. And hitting on the prof wasn’t the key to the success he envisioned.

~* * *~

The night before her students wrote tests or exams, Libby tried to stay close to her computer, as late as she could. Students had a bad habit of reading new material at the last minute for the first time and panicking when they didn’t understand what anything meant. Many of her colleagues would say that was the student’s fault, and the prof owed them nothing, but Libby, while never directly handing her students the answer, felt the least she could do was to offer them some kind words to help calm them down enough to sleep. Perhaps she remembered being an undergrad better than some of her fellow professors.

Her undergraduate years weren’t exactly pleasant ones. She was very happy to be on her own, but, instead of the free partying many young college kids got to enjoy, her freedom involved two jobs and a lot of hard work to maintain her funding. She remembered those late nights, often still in her greasy cafeteria uniform, trying to frantically finish an assignment for early the next morning. She was sure some of that stress likely shortened her lifespan a bit. If she could save some students the panic by remembering many of them worked much more than twenty hours a week in order to afford to be there, she was willing to meet them halfway.

After picking Charlie up from school and listening to him chatter about his science fair project while she made dinner, she got him to slow down his enthusiasm enough to eat and shower, and then tucked him in. It took two chapters of
Charlotte’s Web
to get him to sleep, but eventually he drifted off. Smoothing back his unruly hair and kissing his sweet little nose, she tiptoed out of the room, smiling. It was wonderful to hear him so happy with school, and to be able to spend so much of her evenings with him.

Her own mother had always gotten home fairly late every day, and had been too tired to do anything but flip on the television after a long grueling day of providing homecare for the sick and elderly. Libby didn’t blame her mother for that; her work had fed and housed them in between “stepfathers.” But she recalled those evenings in which she’d longed to blab about her projects, but had kept it all to herself, for she understood from a young age that exuberance was seldom appreciated by her worn out mother. Nor could she voice complaints when yet another boyfriend had necessitated another unexpected move. Low pay had contributed a great deal towards the instability of her youth, but it was nothing compared to her mother’s crippling certainty that she couldn’t exist without a man in her life. The memories made Libby grateful for her job, the gifts of time and security it afforded her, and, most of all, for her independence. Her mother’s example had taught her never to follow in her footsteps.

Libby had certainly made good on her youthful ambitions. Five years ago, she’d earned her PhD, a feat no one in her program had thought possible of an unwed mother. Before that, she’d been a rising star, but once she started to show, she knew most had expected her failure. Yet, she’d proven them wrong. From there, she’d published her dissertation, took a handful of prestigious opportunities for research funding, and completed the framework of what was to be her second book on “women’s fiction,” due out this winter. Now, after just three years as assistant professor here at the small liberal arts university of her dreams, found in idyllic Apollonia, Ohio, she’d applied for tenure two years ahead of schedule and was under serious consideration.

At least her colleague and friend Debbie, who sat on the tenure committee, had assured her the committee was sorely tempted by her juicy resume filled with publications and weighty conferences, and by her pedigreed education - Columbia, NYU, a postdoctoral year at Princeton. She sure had come a long way from the University of Maine where she slaved through her undergraduate years. Libby Sullivan knew she was becoming a scholar of some clout in her field so she hoped the department would award her a lifetime contract, despite the fact that she would be the youngest fully tenured female prof at the university, at just under thirty-five. Being a young female might be a liability or an asset, she thought, not being able to decide – but being a young, female single-parent had certainly not been. While the committee officially would make their decisions on professional grounds, she had little doubt that more personal factors could sway the minds of the voting members in private.

Tenure would mean the first permanent place she’d ever known, by way of job security until retirement, as well as the freedom to work and teach with a minimum of university administration interference. She liked Apollonia, and so did her son Charlie, who was just five months shy of his eighth birthday, as he never tired of reminding her. Science-obsessed and relatively quiet (for a seven year old), Charlie was happy with the three acres just outside the township upon which they lived, where he could watch ants and net minnows to his heart’s delight. Libby’s mother nagged that Charlie spent too much of his time in solitude away from children his own age, but Libby wasn’t concerned; she herself had been a solitary child, and she respected his desire for individual pursuits. For Libby, it had been tucking herself away in her room with her stories, and for Charlie it was standing knee deep in a mud hole observing skimmer bugs – she recognized both hobbies as valid expressions of individuality, where her mother could only see abnormality. Libby smiled wanly; her mother had never understood her own daughter, even from her earliest youth, so why trust her doom and gloom about Charlie? Though he was her grandson, he was also a boy she only heard over the phone, aside from a handful of short visits back to Sutherland, Maine. Libby never had a strong urge to return to the nest whence she fled at eighteen, and had since returned only just frequently enough to prevent her mother from enacting a fully dramatic emotional scene, which resulted in visits approximately once every two years. 

Getting tenure would be the best thing for both herself and Charlie, Libby was sure. Having moved around several times with a mother who followed the latest love of her life with more gusto than she expended on raising her daughter, Libby was yearning to put down some roots and set about feathering their safe, stable nest. Providing for her son, including giving him the knowledge he would end the school year in the same class he started in, was her only priority – above, and to the exclusion of, the quest for a man in her life.