Once in a Blue Moon (50 page)

But not at this moment.
He considered his mother-in-law’s BMW across the street. He could
have Emily ask her mom if they could take her car. It was even
nicer than his. But he didn’t want to go back inside.

He sighed. “Have you
got your keys?” At her nod, he grimaced. “All right, let’s just
go.” He’d deal with Matt Wakely later.

Sam yanked the frozen
passenger door open and Emily climbed inside the car. After he’d
cleared snow off the piece of junk, he eased his tightly clothed
body behind the steering wheel and glanced at Emily. She sat
stiffly, eyes forward, arms crossed. He needed to talk her into a
better mood, sweeten her up before they arrived.

He cranked the ignition
and the engine turned over a few times before the car finally
started. He flipped on the defrost and the windshield wipers. What
did she want to hear?

“Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or anything, okay?”
He watched her closely. No reaction. Forcing a smile, he leaned
over as much as his clothing allowed and tried to hug her stiff
body. “I’m
sorry
.”

She drew away. “Look,
fine, whatever. If we’re going, let’s just go.”

Pulling back, he
studied her in the dark interior. Fine. As long as she acted like a
loving wife once they got there, she could act however she wanted
now. After turning on the headlights, he backed the car out of the
driveway and onto the freshly plowed road. Tonight needed to be
perfect for him, and she’d better not mess it up. He let out a pent
up breath. What he wouldn’t do for a cigarette.

* * *

Arms crossed, Sam
watched from his position against the wall as Carl Thurman veered
to grab a glass of champagne before pushing through the crowd and
making his way over. At thirty-eight they were the same age, and at
six feet the same height, but the similarities ended there.

Sam
noticed Carl’s scalp through his thin blond fuzz and ran a hand
through his own dark hair, thanking good genes for its thickness.
No baldness in
his
family. On the other hand, Carl had a reed-thin body that
owed nothing to counting calories or exercise.

Carl reached him, took
a huge gulp of champagne, then turned to survey the room. “What’s
wrong with Emily tonight?”

Sam searched the crowd,
finally catching a glimpse of his wife before she turned the corner
in the L-shaped recreation room. She’d ditched him the minute
they’d arrived, and he’d hardly seen her all evening. Not that he
was surprised. Lately, she’d been acting as if he carried a
contagious disease. As soon as the tenure thing worked out, he’d
have to spend a little time making up with her.

He sighed. With Jared,
too. When he had tenure, then they could all be happy. He picked up
his soda from the side table, and shrugged. “Who knows? All I ever
get from her anymore is blank stares or attitude.”

“You’re married. What
do you expect?” Carl’s avid gaze continued to search the room.
“Ouch, look at that.”

A long-haired,
twenty-something blonde in a red miniskirt flirted with the man
beside her. Then the crowd shifted, hiding her from sight.

Carl sighed. “I want
one of those.”

“You’d better watch it.
Never say things like that with your wife in the same room.”

Carl grinned. “Are you
kidding? That just makes it more fun. So, have you had a chance to
chat with Jeff?”

“Not yet. But I will.”
Sam glanced around the crowded room. “What did they do, invite
everyone they know?” The party was being held in the basement, but
people were also touring the huge house, so a constant flow of
people continued up and down the stairs.

Sam appraised the
tastefully decorated room, with its leather furniture, plush
carpet, artwork and toys. A crowd stood watching two men shoot
baskets on an electronic machine. Others were playing ping-pong or
shooting pool, while others stood in groups or gathered at the
buffet table at the far end of the room. “Being head of the History
Department must pay more than I thought.”

Carl shrugged. “Jeff’s
wife has a lot of success selling art in her gallery.”

“Hmm.” Sam took a sip
of soda. He looked at all the arty, flaky types with their long
hair, wild jewelry and heavy make-up. Even some of the men wore
make-up. “What was Jeff thinking to get these two groups of people
together?”

Carl grinned. “Be
careful who you chat with. I had one of them hit me up to buy a
painting.”

Sam snorted. “Don’t
worry. I don’t know them and I don’t want to know them.”

Carl glanced at Sam’s
drink. “Are you drinking soda? Come on, this is New Year’s Eve.
Live a little. Let me get you a glass of champagne. It’ll give you
courage.”

Sam glared at him. “I
have plenty of courage.”

“Maybe it’ll loosen you
up a bit.”

“No, thanks.”

Carl smirked. “So, do
you think Jeff liked your book?”

At his expression Sam
sighed. Why did he hang around with Carl? Did he like to be abused?
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

“Are you still sending
it to that publisher in New York?”

Sam
shifted his feet. He’d told everyone he had a publisher interested.
The truth was, he hadn’t actually talked to an editor. A secretary
told him to send it. She
had
said they’d take a look. He met Carl’s gaze and
smiled. “When Jeff hears about it, he’ll probably beg me to accept
tenure.”

Carl grinned. “Right.”
He tilted his head. “It’s guys like Randall that get offered
tenure. Not guys like us.”

Sam skimmed the crowd
until he found Randall Barton. With his short hair slicked forward
and his trendy square glasses glinting in the light, he actually
looked like he fit in better with the artists than the professors.
“Brown-nosers, you mean.”

Carl snickered. “You’ve
got to admit, he shows a certain talent for butt kissing.”

Sam shrugged. “The two
books and five articles he’s published in the last three years
haven’t hurt.”

“Well, you’ve planned
conferences.”

“So has Randall. Do you
realize he’s only thirty-four? That’s four years younger than
me.”

“Is that why you wrote
your text book? To compete with Randall?”

Sam made a sound of
disgust. “Of course not.” As he continued to stare, he watched as
the elusive Jeff walked up and clapped Randall on the back. Randall
spoke, and Jeff’s sandy, graying head tilted back as he laughed.
Sam’s stomach clenched and he straightened. “Do you see that? They
look cozy don’t they?” His lips tightened. “Don’t you hate office
politics? If you’re not best friends with the boss, you can forget
about getting anywhere.”

Carl shrugged. “You’re
headed in the right direction. You’ve written a new history text.
Jeff has to respect that.” He drained his glass then set it on the
side table. “By this time next year maybe you’ll even have
tenure.”

Sam continued to watch
Jeff and Randall, his insides twisting. “Respect. That’s what it
comes down to, isn’t it?” He glanced at Carl. “When I got here
tonight Jeff patted my stomach and said ‘hey Sam, only bears need
to store up for hibernation.’” Sam glared at Randall. “Randall runs
the St. George marathon every year. I’ll bet Jeff respects
that.”

Carl laughed. “I have
to admit I’ve been wondering why you wore a tux that’s too small.”
He reached out and tugged the lapels together. “Why didn’t you rent
one that fit?”

Sam jerked away. “Just
shut up, okay?” He grimaced at Randall and Jeff. “What burns my
butt is that this is the third university I’ve worked for. I like
Utah and I want to stay here. Emily wants to stay here.” He turned
his glower onto Carl. “But if you don’t perfect the fine art of
butt kissing you’re never offered tenure. And if you don’t have
tenure, you don’t have job security.” He gestured in a circle with
his drink, almost spilling it. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Pucker up?” Carl
laughed and when Sam scowled at him, held up his hands in
self-defense. “Come on, you’re getting too serious.” He pointed
over at a group of professors. “Let’s go mingle.”

“No.”

“Come on. You’re not
going to get any chances standing over here by yourself.”

Carl was right.
Sighing, Sam set down his drink. “Okay.” He looked around for
Emily, didn’t see her, then vaulted away from the wall. “Let’s
go.”

As they approached,
laughter exploded within the circle of men, and even Randall’s
simultaneous arrival didn’t stop the smile tugging at Sam’s lips.
He could ignore Golden Boy. Hopefully socializing would take his
mind off his problems for a while. “What’s so funny?”

Dr. Mark Friedman, a
large man in his late forties with a shock of faded red hair and a
booming voice stepped back, widening the circle so they could join
in. He lifted one enormous paw to Sam’s shoulder. When Sam smelled
alcohol on his breath, he tried not to recoil.

“Sam, Carl, Randall,
come here, you’ll like this.” Glancing down at Sam’s tuxedo, Mark
raised a brow but didn’t comment. He gestured with his drink to a
man Sam didn’t recognize. “This is Pete Saunders. He’s collecting
New Year’s resolutions and we’ve all been sharing ours.”

Pete was about the same
height, age and coloring as Sam, but the similarities ended there.
His slightly hooked nose, sharp, almost black eyes, and shoulder
length hair gave him a harsh appearance. A gold earring glinted on
his left ear, and his lean, tuxedo-clad frame looked almost
dangerous. He appeared successful, sophisticated, and intense. He
definitely seemed out of place among professors.

Suddenly, Sam realized
Pete was assessing him just as throughly and something
uncomfortable prickled at the back of his neck. His eyelids
flickered and he swallowed, then shook the hand Pete held out. Sam
cleared his throat. “Are you from around here? I don’t believe
we’ve met.”

Pete held onto his
hand, squeezing. Startled, Sam met his gaze squarely, and only then
did Pete let go. He smiled. “Actually, no. I’m just passing through
Salt Lake City. I was lucky to be invited to the party.” His voice
was deep and rasping, his smile amused.

Sam’s
spine straightened. Was Pete
laughing
at him? His mouth
tightened. He wasn’t going to let some weirdo intimidate him. His
lip twisted as realization dawned. Pete was one of the artist
weirdos. “So, you’re an artist?”

“No.”

Sam lifted his chin.
“Then what do you do?”

Mark interrupted,
slurring his words slightly, “He collects New Year’s Resolutions.”
He leaned forward. “Gary, tell Sam yours.”

Shaking his chubby, bearded head, Gary smiled. “Jeeze Mark, I
don’t know why you thought it was so funny.” Glancing at the
newcomers, he shrugged. “I have two. I want to get an article
published in
University
Press
, and exercise for as much time as I
spend eating.” He patted his huge middle, laughing along with the
group.

Forcing a smile, Sam
sucked in his stomach. He knew what was coming, and didn’t have
long to wait before Carl spoke. “Sam you ought to make the same
resolution.” He reached over, patted Sam’s stomach and set everyone
off again.

Bunch of drunks. “Ha,
ha.” Sam glared at Carl briefly before turning to the others.
Everyone was smiling except Pete. “For your information, I don’t
need any help making New Year’s resolutions. I already have a few
of my own.” He glanced at Randall, then away, before staring
straight into Pete’s eyes. His intense, animated gaze startled Sam.
What was with the guy?

Phillip Moseley leaned
forward, his bald head gleaming in the light. “Well, what are
they?”

Sam eyed his
co-workers. “Tell me yours first.”

Phillip smiled. “You
already know Gary’s. I’m thinking about reading a book this year.
Mark wants to take his wife to Hawaii. Roger wants to try river
rafting, and Pete wants to accomplish goals without any outside
influence.” He grinned at Pete. “Whatever that means.”

Sam studied Pete. Was
the guy on drugs? An alcoholic? Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he
appeared. And why was he so interested in everyone’s resolutions?
Pete’s head swivelled, his piercing gaze moving to Sam again. Sam
turned away. Definitely drugs.

Phillip grinned at
Randall. “What are yours?”

Randall’s full, girly
lips tilted into a cheesy smile. Mr. Smooth with his slicked
forward hair, and his tuxedo that fit to perfection. Dork.

“I want to run the St.
George Marathon again, finish the text book I’m writing and begin
rereading Shakespeare.”

Sam rolled his
eyes.

Pete looked interested.
“You’ve run the St. George Marathon before?”

Randall’s overlarge
head nodded in a supposedly modest way. Smug jerk.

“Have you ever written
a book?”

“Yes, several.”

Pete nodded, then moved
his attention to Carl. Everyone followed his gaze. “What about
you?”

Carl shifted his feet,
shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Hmm, I’ve already
mastered female anatomy so I guess that’s out.” His grin widened
when everyone laughed. “I don’t know, I could probably eat better.
My wife keeps nagging me about my high cholesterol, so maybe I’ll
watch my eating habits this year. It’ll make her happy,
anyway.”

Pete folded his arms,
his eyes drilling into Carl’s. “What would make you happy?”

Carl shrugged and Sam
had the impression Pete was frustrated. Obviously the guy took this
seriously. Or maybe he just needed a fix.

“I don’t know.” Carl
smiled self-consciously. “Maybe that’s my problem.”

When Pete turned his
gaze to Sam, his chest tightened. This whole conversation felt way
too deep. “What about you? If you could have anything you wanted
during the next year, what would it be?”