Chapter Six
Ford
I folded the title page of every article so that I couldn't see the student names. It helped me judge the writing and check if my journalism students had mastered a neutral tone. Jackson taught me the trick he had learned from tackling hundreds of creative writing essays and stories.
Clarity's short story rose to the surface of my mind again, and I leaned back in my office chair to avoid it. The characters were clear in my mind, the overlapping paths they took a common knot that tied my thoughts to them.
I shook it off and groaned at the stack of grading. "I have to stop giving my students homework that gives me homework."
I snatched up the next article and knew by the first sentence it was Clarity's. Her open curiosity was contagious, and her leads were getting better. She needed to work on simplifying her language, but her enthusiasm kept me reading for three paragraphs before I realized I hadn't written a single comment.
What could I say to her?
It was impossible to erase all the thoughts that had popped into my head the night I met her. If only I didn't need my job so much.
My mind drifted back to the cocktail dress she was wearing when the door to my office crashed open. "Sleeping on the job?" Jackson asked.
"You know, for a bookish, lit professor, you’re loud enough to wake the dead." I settled back in my office chair and unclenched my fists.
"And you're a little too jumpy. What's on your mind?" Jackson strolled around my narrow office, hands in pockets, studying the bookshelves.
"What's on my mind? You came to my office, remember? Unless your entire plan was to give me a heart attack."
Jackson chuckled then turned back to point at the bookshelves. "A little Spartan, don't you think? I thought you were finally settling in and resolving to be a Landsman man."
I swallowed the instant distaste that thought brought up. "Maybe I just have something against crowded bookshelves. Maybe I'm Feng Shui."
"Feng full of shit," Jackson said. "I'd take it personally if I didn't know how much you miss journalism. But you really should get rid of the temporary vibe in here if you want your department head to stop sharpening her axe."
"She can't fire me before the holidays." I grinned.
"Speaking of the holidays, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" Jackson leaned on the corner of my desk.
"Apparently I'm grading articles." I gestured to the slipping stack on my desk, then caught it before it toppled. "Any more tricks of the trade that could speed this up?"
"So you don't have any plans for Thanksgiving? I know Liz is staying in the city."
I sighed and stacked the papers back into a neat pile. "Liz could probably use the break, but she won't give herself one. She thinks just because I'm helping her out a little here and there that she has to work like a dog."
Jackson crossed his arms. "I wouldn't call covering her rent and paying for her car a little, but stop trying to change the subject. We're not going to let you starve alone on Thanksgiving."
"Sorry, but I have plans." I swallowed hard and hoped he didn't ask for details.
Jackson studied my face for a moment with a curious smile. "So, Alice and I are going to Dean Dunkirk's for Thanksgiving. He's invited a small group and told me you were on the list."
"Oh, good, that'll be great. I wasn't sure I was going to go, but now it sounds good," I said.
"You weren’t going to go before I told you we were invited? What's with the secrecy?" Jackson stood up and tapped his chin as he studied me again.
I held up both hands in surrender. "I'm not a big fan of turkey, alright? You caught me."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the dean's daughter being your student, would it?"
"Speaking of students," I jumped out of my office chair, "I have to get ready. My students and I are attending the alumni/donor dinner tonight. I have to wear a tuxedo."
Jackson allowed me to shoo him back to the door so I could get the garment bag off the hook. "You're really going? But you hate those people."
"Smug, entitled, rich folks that only want to spend money so people notice them? Nah, I love 'em. Besides, my students need to report on it for the school newspaper." I unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the rented tuxedo.
"So that means you have to go, too?" Jackson asked.
"It was the only way the college president would allow students to mingle. I suppose he's afraid they're going to spike the punch or pull some other prank." I sighed, "God, I hate being a chaperone."
Jackson laughed and made himself comfortable in my office chair. "The student newspaper crew is a pretty responsible bunch. Isn't Clarity Dunkirk on staff? According to some of my kids, her name alone is chaperone enough. Poor girl. I bet she doesn't get to break out and have much fun being the dean's daughter."
"She's too focused for fun, way too mature," I muttered.
"What was that?" Jackson drummed his fingers on the edge of my desk and smiled up at me.
"You any good at shining shoes? My dress shoes haven't seen the light of day in years," I said.
Jackson shook his head. "Nope, sorry. What else you got?"
I sat down on my small couch and opened my shoe polish kit. "I have to pair up the staff. It's going to be a co-written assignment, make 'em learn how to work under a shared byline."
"Oh, that I can do," Jackson sat up and hunched over my desk. He wrote out the names of the students on the newspaper staff, then cut names out. Then, he tossed them in a hat and held it to me.
I decided no one was going to look at my shoes, so I reached for the folded names instead. Jackson typed them up, and we got down to the last three names before we realized there was a problem.
"You're going to have partner up, too, otherwise it's uneven," Jackson said.
"Fine, yeah."
"Thomas and Allison. That leaves you with Clarity." Jackson hooted with laughter. "Luck of the draw, eh? Or maybe you're just trying to get in good with the Dunkirks so you get extra pecan pie at Thanksgiving."
"Isn't it about time you go home to your wife?" I stood up and held my office door open for Jackson. "I've got to change."
"Never change, man, that's what they want. Fight the power!"
I shoved Jackson out of my office and locked the door. I wavered between the garment bag and my computer. Either I retyped the list and was late, or I just went with it.
I hit print. Anything else would admit I had trouble being near Clarity. And, knowing Jackson, he would ask our mutual students about the dinner and find out if I switched partners.
Luck of the draw, I thought. Now the only question was if my luck was good or bad.
#
"So we missed the dinner part?" Thomas asked as his stomach grumbled.
"You didn't miss it. You weren't invited," I said. "Dinner was over one hundred dollars a plate, which is why it was for alumni and donors only. The college president has been nice enough to invite us for the reception so you can mingle and find interesting stories."
"Can we drink?" another student asked.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose. "If you are twenty-one-years-old, then you are legally allowed to drink. I will assume each of you can make a responsible choice. Can we get on to the assignment now?"
"Shouldn't we wait for Clarity?" Thomas asked.
Allison piped up. "She's coming with her father."
I handed Allison the list. "Here are your partners. Remember that co-writing is about balancing opposite or complimentary viewpoints. I suggest you start by getting to know your partner. There was an uneven number of students, so I'm taking part in the assignment as well."
I congratulated myself on sounding casual, then turned and caught a glimpse of Clarity.
Instead of her normal low ponytail, Clarity's hair was swept up into a complicated knot that still could not contain all her dark-red curls. Gold earrings danced on either side of her easy smile, and a wave crashed inside me. Delicate straps were the only interruption along the creamy expanse of her bare shoulders. The neckline plunged until I held my breath. Despite the floor length fall of the black dress, her slender curves were revealed with each step.
Besides the subtly flashing gold earrings, the only jewelry Clarity wore was an emerald, beaded bracelet—the exact same shade as her eyes when she caught me staring.
"Professor Bauer, sorry I'm late. My father likes to make an entrance," Clarity said.
"All my fault," Dean Dunkirk chuckled, "she was never one to fuss in front of a mirror, but these darn bow ties always give me trouble."
Clarity's image burned in front of my eyes even as I turned to her father. "Dean Dunkirk, they didn't give you a free plate at the dinner?"
"Nothing's free when it comes to raising money for a new theater complex. Not even the drinks, so you all can stop worrying. If you're willing to pay what they're asking for them, I'm not going to stop you." The Dean of Students smiled at my gathered newspaper staff. "Your professor has given you one hell of a challenge: find something interesting here that won't step on any toes. Remember, a lot of people here guard their privacy for good reasons."
"Like pretending they're old money," Thomas whispered to Clarity.
She smiled but shook her head. "Well, I'm ready to mingle."
My newspaper staff split up into partners and went into the decorated dining hall. Clarity said goodbye to her father and then turned to me with one auburn eyebrow raised.
"It's a shared byline assignment," I said. "Everyone was assigned partners."
"Except there's an uneven amount of students," Clarity's exquisite shoulders slumped. "I always liked co-authored articles because the counterpoints are so interesting."
I was going to release her from the assignment and let her write her own article, but she looked so dejected. "Actually, I'm your partner." I held out the list to prove it. "Jackson, I mean, Professor Rumsfeld, helped me draw the names from a hat."
"What, no one draws straws anymore?" Clarity asked.
I gave in and offered her my arm. "It's probably unfair to the others, really. You have an inside track already."
She took my arm, and we walked into the dining hall. Elegant flower arrangements graced every table. An orchestra quietly took their places on the far stage, and a crystal chandelier sparkled over the polished dance floor. Most guests mingled near the bar or the silent auction.
"Professor Bauer, how nice to see you again." The older woman smiled as she stopped us.
"Mrs. McGuire, I'm so glad you enjoyed your tour of Thompson Hall," I said.
"Now, now, aren't you going to introduce me to your lovely fiancé? Hello, dear," Mrs. McGuire shook Clarity's hand and winked. "You know, my Derrick is fifteen years older than me, and if you ask me, it's the secret to our long marriage. Nearly forty years! It's a smart woman that chooses a mature man."
I could feel Clarity's blush, and the temperature rose between us. "No, Mrs. McGuire, Clarity is one of my students. I'm here chaperoning the student newspaper."
She patted my arm and shook her head. "Oh, pish. I know a good match when I see one. Oh, dear, my husband's waving me down. I hope to see you on the dance floor!"
Clarity and I stood arm-in-arm, unmoving, and I didn't know what to say. Then her father appeared. "Did Mrs. McGuire mention dancing? Because that's exactly what I came over here to talk to you about," Dean Dunkirk said.
Clarity slipped her hand from the crook of my elbow. "I'll dance with you," she told her father.
"Sorry, darling, I'm already spoken for." Dean Dunkirk nodded over his shoulder at a white-haired woman in a deep purple dress. "But we don't want an empty dance floor, so come on you two."
Clarity caught my arm again and tugged me after her father. The orchestra thrummed to life, and the music covered my swearing. I took Clarity in my arms, making sure my elbows were held out in a still circle.
"Not a big dancer, huh?" Clarity asked. She shifted my hand to her waist and stepped closer. "I know I'm your student and all, but this is college, not junior high."
I caught the fresh, floral scent of her hair and forgot about dancing. Her dress dipped low in the back, and my thumb brushed bare skin. "Any ideas for an article?" I asked, desperate for a coherent thought.
Clarity smiled and starting listing possible subjects, but I didn't hear a thing she said. Her dress flowed against my legs, and her easy grace smoothed over my clumsy steps. The only lifeline I had was that Clarity did not feel the same. She talked as if there wasn't a burst of sensations every time our bodies brushed.
As soon as the song ended, I could see Dean Dunkirk beaming. He was leading his dance partner across the floor to join us. Clarity turned to smile at her father, and I slipped away into the crowd. I headed for the bar like a man stumbling out of the desert.
"A scotch, neat. Very professor-ish."
I turned to see Jackson's wife smiling up at me. "Hello, Alice. So, Jackson suckered you into coming."
She nodded. "And it's been lovely. Though, I have to say, your appearance on the dance floor might be the highlight of my night. You never once stepped foot on the dance floor at our wedding."
"Didn't want to show up the groom," I said.
Alice laughed. "Well, I bet you were only tempted into dancing tonight because of your beautiful partner. You two looked wonderful together."
The scotch burned my throat, and I coughed. "We're not together. Clarity is one of my students; she's on the student newspaper staff."
Disappointment sped across Alice's face like a cloud then gave way to curiosity. "How old—"
"Ah, Ford Bauer, we keep running into each other. Who knew?"
My spine stiffened as Barton joined us. He and Alice smiled politely at each other and then looked at me. I cleared my throat. "Wesley Barton, meet Alice Rumsfeld. Her husband is an English professor."
"An English professor?" Barton asked as he kissed Alice's hand. "I hope he recites sonnets to you."
"Only as much as I recite the law to him," Alice laughed.
"A lawyer. Beauty, brains, and an empty drink. Here, allow me." Barton signaled the bartender, who left another couple waiting as he poured a second wine for Alice.
"Thank you, Mr. Barton."
"Please, call me Wesley," Barton said with a warm smile.
Jackson appeared before anyone noticed my clenched fist. I considered following through with the punch just for the hell of it, but remembered both my department head and the college president were present.
"Wesley Barton, this is my husband," Alice said. She threaded an arm through Jackson's and leaned into him.
Next to Alice's slim and compact figure, Jackson was too tall and gangly. Barton gave him a sardonic smile. "Nice to see you again, professor."
"Why are you here?" I asked.
Everyone blinked, but Barton recovered in two seconds. "My friend, Michael Tailor, has a son starting here next year, and I'm always willing to help a good cause."
"Does he have a nephew that plays football? Brian Tailor?" Jackson asked.
I scowled, wishing the conversation would end so I could get my friends far away from Barton. "The running back," I said.
Barton cocked an eyebrow at me. "You really do notice everything, eh, Bauer?" He smiled at Alice, though she had caught the grim expression of her husband. "The Tailors have a long history with Landsman College, and my friend makes many generous donations. Perhaps there is something the English Department needs? Do people actually read books anymore?"
Jackson lifted a foot to step forward, but Alice steered him away. "How about a turn around the dance floor? Still remember those lessons we took before the wedding?" she asked her husband.
"I need to wait for a waltz or I'm lost," Jackson lied, eyeing Barton again.
Alice, tucked under her tall husband's arm, pulled him off balance, so he had to move. "Too bad Ford's pretty partner is gone, otherwise they could show you how it's done."
"Dancing with a pretty partner?" Barton turned his narrow gaze on me. "And here I thought you were all work, work, work. Which lovely lady is it?"
"Back off, Barton," I snarled as soon as Jackson and Alice were out of earshot. "You've got a lot of nerve coming up to me here and acting as if everything is fine between us."
"But it is," Barton smiled. "It was just business. Ask anyone of the donors here. Making money is a team effort, and you just weren't willing to play."
"That bullshit doesn't make what you did right, and I don't care who your friends are," I snapped.
"Oh, but you do. People like us run things, and there is nothing you can do about it." Barton sipped his drink and smiled at the other guests. "The truth is that Michael's son, Junior, is dumber than a tree stump. He once almost drowned using a beer bong. But, because of who he is and who his father knows, he'll be accepted at Landsman College without a problem. Just wait and see. Maybe I'll suggest he look at a career in journalism."
"Just what you need: a reporter too dumb not to spew out the crap you pretend is the truth." I finished my drink and walked away.
I searched the dining hall for someone I wanted to talk to, but Jackson and Alice were still on the dance floor. Dean Dunkirk was surrounded by alumni eager to hear stories. It was also difficult to talk to him without feeling like I was just as low as Wesley Barton. He entrusted me with his daughter, and he treated me like a friend. In return all I could do was fight off my growing attraction.
I turned and saw Clarity from across the room. From the distance, her eyes were a deep forest green that hid her thoughts. My heart pumped against my ribs as it occurred to me she was the only person I wanted to see.
She waited until I didn't look away, and then she wove through the crowd to join me. Our eyes were still locked as she neared, a rosy hue warming her cheeks. Then she shook it away and put a polite smile in place.
"Do you have any ideas for an article?" she asked. "You look so serious. Like you overheard something big."
I considered telling her about the string-pulling donors but thought better of it. If I hadn't learned my lesson, I knew better than to drag Clarity into a similar situation. "Lady's choice," I said.
Clarity beamed. "Good because I have this great idea to write a story about the catering. Why would Landsman College spend so much money to pay servers when students could do it? It would be great networking for the students and a chance for the alumni to share wisdom with them."
"Wisdom?" I snorted.
"Fine," she swiped back an errant curl, "but I'm right about the networking part."
"I don't know. It just seems like another opportunity that would be rife with nepotism," I said.
Clarity's nostrils flared. "Landsman College does not have a problem with nepotism, and I don't like what you are implying."
I held up both hands. "I'm offering the opposite viewpoint to make your core claims stronger. How about the fact that alumni and donors may not be able to relax and enjoy the bar as easily with students watching?"
Clarity put a hand on her hip and pointed the other at my chest. "Are you speaking for the faculty or for yourself personally?"
"I could use a drink. And I pride myself on treating my students as adults, not children," I said.
"That's the spirit I think this event could capture. Maybe students should be allowed to raise enough money to attend themselves. Different groups of students could band together and build up interest in specific funding." Clarity’s eyes shone.
Her enthusiasm made me smile. "Are you telling me you'd trade looking gorgeous in that dress for black pants and a white button-down shirt?"
She stopped and blinked. "Gorgeous?"
I felt a flash of heat rise to my ears. "I find it hard to believe you've never heard that before."
Clarity couldn't meet my eyes. "Um, thank you. You look very handsome tonight, too."
My burst of laughter cooled the conversation. "I wasn't fishing for a compliment, Ms. Dunkirk. Are you going to get all stutter-y if I tell you I like your story idea? Why don't you run it by some of your father's friends and see if you can get some quotes."
Her brow furrowed, but the polite smile slipped back into place. "Sure thing, Professor Bauer."
I stopped a passing server. "I'll tip you directly if you bring me a scotch." The server nodded, and I shook my head. That was definitely not something I would say to a student.
Then again, I wouldn't normally compliment a female student on her looks. No matter how innocent it was intended to be, that just begged for problems.
I looked down at my scuffed shoes. My problem was the compliment had popped out of its own accord. Clarity had a way of eliciting responses from my brain and body that were not in any way appropriate.
That made me angry. In any other room, in any other place, she would just be an attractive young woman. Her maturity set her apart from other students, and the more times I talked to her, the more I connected with her on an intellectual level. But no one would ever see that; they would only see an old professor leering at a student.
Thirty-one was not old—I was practically a baby when it came to professors—but I felt old. I watched as Clarity joined her father in an animated and smiling conversation. That was the biggest difference between us—she was all hope and ideals while I was all cynicism and experience. The last thing I would wish on Clarity was a man like me.
"What are you scowling at?" Jackson appeared at my elbow. "Or whom? You know, she can't help who her father is."
I stiffened at his keen observation. "Clarity? She's lucky to have him as a father."
Jackson shrugged. "Yeah, I can see that. You know he raves about you, right?"
"What?"
"Dean Dunkirk. He's always going on about how you bring realism and experience to Landsman. The rest of us are sheltered scholars, but you've been out in the world and have really seen some things." Jackson watched me as the server arrived with my drink.
I took a long sip. "He keeps pushing his daughter to wander off her path and explore a little. I'm not sure he knows how hard it can be to get back on the straight and narrow."
Jackson followed my eyes back to Clarity. "Maybe that's why you're his favorite. If anyone can do that, it's you."