Second Time Around (6 page)

“
What
?”

“You’re aware that you can be let go at any point in the review process.”

Cait was stunned. The fourth-year review was usually treated as a mere formality, a friendly check-in after the grueling third-year review process. Her dreams of tenure evaporated.

“Additionally, the dean has received several letters of complaint regarding your”—Charles cleared his throat—“poor collegiality.”

“Is that so?” She fixed him with a death glare. “Letters from whom?”

“That’s confidential.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “Finally, I didn’t want to bring this up until we had some concrete evidence, but there have been a few red flags lately. Financially.”

She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d slapped her. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Well, for example, your annual expense report was turned in a few days late.”

“Along with half the department’s! Where are you going with this?”

He picked up a gold pen and began fidgeting. “You’re in charge of disbursing the colloquium speaker fund, are you not?”

“Yeah, because you assigned it to me last winter.”

“As you’re well aware, each speaker is entitled to a one-thousand-dollar honorarium, plus travel expenses.” More throat clearing and pen tapping. “Questions have been raised as to whether those expenses have been properly documented and directed.”

“Are you accusing me of
embezzling
? My God, Charles, I know we’ve had our differences, but you can’t honestly believe I would—”

He held up his palms. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Then who is?”

“You know I can’t divulge my sources.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit. Are you or are you not interviewing Left Coast lightskirts for my replacement?”

He took a slow and deliberate sip from his coffee mug. “Nothing’s set in stone.”

Cait sat motionless for a minute, absorbing the impact and reviewing her options. This was completely wrong and unfair, and fighting it was going to require every iota of energy she had. She thought about the upcoming academic year, the endless battles she’d have to wage with Charles, and suddenly she remembered what Arden had said about time being a luxury.

She looked her ex-lover straight in the eye and asked, “What if I said I’d like to take some time off?”

Charles’s whole body relaxed. “I’d say that’s an excellent idea. Take as much as you need.”

“Fine, I will. And before I go, I’ll be sending the dean
documentation accounting for every single dollar I spent from that honorarium fund.”

He inclined his head. “I applaud you.”

“And don’t expect me to come crawling back, begging for tenure. I have other offers.”

He templed his long, smooth fingers beneath his chin. “Indeed. Like what, pray tell?”

She got to her feet and regarded him with all the icy hauteur she could muster. “I just found out I’m a recipient of the very prestigious Arden Henley Literary Fellowship. Keep your eye out for my name on the National Book Award short list.”

Then she turned on her heel, stormed back to her office, and started piling textbooks and file folders into cardboard boxes. When she yanked open her desk drawer and glimpsed
The Captain of All Pleasures
, she smiled for the first time all day and slipped the novel into her handbag.

Twelve hours later, Cait pulled her battered old Honda hatchback up to the curb in front of Henley House, which now featured a small white clapboard sign hanging from the eaves of the front porch:

“Come in, come in!” Brooke greeted her at the front door with a mug of hot cocoa. “Do you like the sign?”

“Yeah, but you’re not open for business yet, are you?” Cait glanced over Brooke’s shoulder into the house, the interior of which was obscured in shadows. She had driven through the night, fueled by adrenaline and a six-pack of diet cola, to arrive almost exactly halfway between dusk and dawn. But the
porch light provided enough illumination to see that the front room was empty and the walls bare.

“Not yet.” Brooke covered her yawn with her hand. “But I got caught up in a whirlwind of enthusiasm when I thought of the name, and commissioned the sign from a local artist. Isn’t it perfect?”

“It is.” Cait stepped into the foyer and all her worries washed away in a wave of nostalgia. “Wow. Do you smell that? It smells like …”
textbooks and stale beer and a potpourri of snack foods ground into industrial carpeting
“… college.”

“The painters are coming this weekend.” Brooke turned up the collar of her fluffy pink robe. “Then on Monday, I’ve got the zoning board hearing and a meeting with an attorney about applying for a business license.”

“Jeez. You’re not wasting any time.”

“There’s a lot to do. A lot to know. A lot to pay for. And I’m trying to get it all done so I can open before prime leaf-peeping season.” Brooke nibbled her lower lip. “I’ll be happy when I get to the part where I can relax and pick out Laura Ashley duvets and brew afternoon tea for the guests.”

“Well, don’t worry about any of that right now. Go back to bed. I’m sorry to wake you up like this in the middle of the night.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Brooke flashed her dazzling charm school smile. “Here, let me take your bag. Once this place is up and running, I’ll have to accommodate new arrivals at all hours. Oh, I’m so glad you came, Cait.”

“Me, too. I need a change of scenery. Badly.” Cait hadn’t gone into the details of her abrupt departure from teaching when she called earlier, but Brooke didn’t press her.

“Stay as long as you please. It’ll be just like old times.”
Brooke handed her the mug of cocoa. “Want me to rustle up a bite to eat?”

“No, I’m fine.” Cait sipped the hot chocolate and announced, “I’m finally going to do it. I’m starting my novel tomorrow. No more excuses.” This was the second time she’d voiced that goal in the last twenty-four hours. Saying it aloud made it real. Now she couldn’t take it back.

Brooke clapped her hands together. “Excellent. We’ll have a bona fide writer-in-residence at Paradise Found. How rarefied.” She turned off the porch light, locked the front door, and led the way up the stairs. “I’ve ordered furniture for the bedrooms, but it hasn’t been delivered yet, so we’re roughing it with air mattresses and sleeping bags right now.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.” Cait trailed her hand along the banister. “Hey, it’s Mr. Wonderful!”

The ornate bronze figure glinted in the moonlight streaming through the window above the landing.

Brooke smiled and patted Hermes’s little winged cap. “Did you know he’s the official god of travelers?” She tilted her head. “Well, actually, the book I consulted said he was the ‘Olympian god of
boundaries
and of the travelers who cross them.’”

“Official god of boundary issues?” Cait laughed. “How fitting for this house.”

Right on cue, Jamie’s sleep-tousled head appeared at the top of the staircase. “Who goes there?”

Cait raised her mug in greeting. “A refugee from the Ivory Tower.”

“
Cait?
But you …” Jamie rubbed her eyes and peered down at them. “What happened?”

“Long story.” Cait reclaimed her overnight bag from Brooke and made a beeline for her old room at the end of the hallway. “With an unfortunate and unoriginal ending. Heed my words, ladies: Never, ever, ever date a college administrator.”

N
ever, ever, ever date a college administrator
.

Cait’s warning reverberated through Jamie’s mind early the next morning as she shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. Because Brooke had yet to select window coverings, the bright morning sunlight had awakened Jamie at an hour when she would typically be going to bed if she still lived in Los Angeles.

But she didn’t live in L.A. anymore. She’d thrown away her job and her attempts to get her life together in California, just as she’d thrown away her jobs and relationships in Miami, Honolulu, and Atlanta.

Never, ever, ever date a college administrator
. Jamie would add to
that: Never, ever, ever date an investment banker, a chemical engineer, an auto mechanic, a sculptor, a zoologist, an actor, a computer programmer, or a social worker.

Hmm. Come to think of it, maybe the take-home message here was that no man in his right mind should ever, ever date
her
.

Though Jamie was always the first to make fun of her own romantic track record, she secretly harbored a growing sense of shame about her total inability to see anything through to its conclusion. When the tough got going, she quit, to the point that it was no longer an amusing postadolescent foible; it was a major character flaw. She hurt the people who cared about her. Not on purpose, not with malice, but the end result was the same, regardless of motive.

She thought about Arden and the thick cream-colored envelope that had arrived via certified mail last week, and her stomach churned.

Outside, she could hear birds chirping and a dog barking. The mornings were so quiet here. Careful not to slam the cabinet doors or clink the glasses, Jamie assembled a mismatched trio of coffee mugs. She leaned back against the chipped Formica countertop and gazed out the window at the clear cobalt sky and the copse of maple saplings in the backyard.

Thurwell, New York, billed itself as a pocket of tranquillity tucked in the foothills between the old-world gentility of Saratoga and the rustic charm of the Adirondacks. The streets were small and safe, the air clean and invigorating. The town’s neighborhoods branched outward from the main thoroughfare of Pine Street, which boasted one major grocery store, two stoplights, a pair of boutiques featuring expensive outdoor gear, a few family-owned restaurants, a cozy
little pub, and a single-show movie theater. Most local businesses catered to the college population and the tourists who came to enjoy foliage and apple picking in the fall, Nordic skiing in the winter, and antiquing in the summer. The Thurwell College admissions brochures featured photos of professors leading seminars outdoors on the grassy quad and groups of rosy-cheeked students frolicking through the fresh snowfall at the annual winter carnival. But, like most small towns, Thurwell constantly roiled with scandal just below the surface. You just had to know where to look.

“Morning.” Brooke padded in wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and sheepskin slippers at least two sizes too big for her tiny feet.

Cait trailed in behind her, clad in a white ribbed tank top and a threadbare pair of blue plaid boxer shorts that looked vaguely familiar.

“Are those the same shorts you had in college?” Jamie shook her head. “Damn, don’t you ever throw anything away?”

“After years of living on Ramen noodles and a grad student stipend? No. Besides, I look good in these. Right, Brooke?”

“They’re very, uh, Robinson Crusoe chic.” Brooke turned back to Jamie. “What’s for breakfast?”

Jamie nodded toward the coffeemaker. “I’m a bartender, dearest, not a cook. If you need a killer mimosa or hibiscus, I’m your girl. You want eggs Benedict? I’m out.”

“What’s a hibiscus?” Cait wanted to know. “Sounds exotic.”

“Champagne and cranberry juice.”

Cait perked up. “Ooh, that sounds good. I might have to try that.”

“No!” Brooke smoothed her disheveled blond hair and rummaged through the cabinet next to the refrigerator. “No drinking. Today is a workday. For all of us. I have to go into the office—”

“You didn’t quit your job yet?” Cait asked. “I thought that was the whole point of this.”

“Do you have any idea how much it cost to put a down payment on this place? Never mind legal fees, accounting fees, liability insurance, dishware, website design, mattresses, furniture …” Brooke’s blue eyes got bigger and wilder with every word. “It’s only been three weeks, and I’m practically in the hole already.”

Cait nodded. “Point taken.”

“I have to keep my day job at least until I open the doors to guests,” Brooke said. “So I’m going into the office today, and Jamie’s going to start researching how to start an event-planning business.”

“I’ll let in the inspector guy, too,” Jamie volunteered. “And call the mattress place again and harass them about delivery.”

“What about me?” Cait asked.

“Well, you’ll be getting your muse on upstairs,” Jamie said.

Cait looked at them blankly.

“Your novel,” Brooke prompted. “You’re starting today, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Cait poured herself a bowl of shredded wheat and shoveled in a huge mouthful.

Brooke put down her coffee cup for a moment and clasped her hands. Her face took on a radiant, peaceful glow. “I know start-up is a lot of work, but I shouldn’t complain. We are all
so
lucky to have this opportunity. How many people
ever get the chance to start from scratch and chase their dreams?”