Chapter Nine
Clarity
Nine was an awkward number to fit around our long, oak dining room table. After shifting each plate setting three times, I settled on my father at the head of the table and four people on either side.
"Where are you going to sit?" he asked, peeking in the door from the kitchen.
"On your right hand side. Don't worry, we won't mistake you for any form of royalty," I joked.
"People are more likely to mistake me for the maid in this apron," my father responded. "Oh, hold on, that's my oven timer!"
He rushed back into the kitchen. I chuckled and walked around the long table again, polishing wine glasses with a white towel. The center of the table was scattered with dried, pressed leaves in deep autumn colors. Cream-colored taper candles waited in silver candleholders, and brass trivets waited for the bowls and platters of our Thanksgiving feast.
I had even broken down and put up the silly decals my father had purchased for our windows. I skipped the goofy, smiling turkeys and artfully arranged the stick-on acorns, gourds, and leaves. I looked around with satisfaction; everything looked great.
More than the decorations, the house was filled with the sounds and smells of cooking. My father had gotten up early in the morning to wrestle the giant turkey into the oven. I heard him whistling as I walked into the steamy kitchen.
"Dad! What are you trying to do, kill yourself?" I ran around the kitchen island and pulled a wooden spoon from his hand.
My father stood next to the oven and laughed. "I can mash potatoes with my left hand. It doesn't necessitate a lot of finesse."
"Then I can handle mashing the potatoes while you finish basting the turkey. You don't need to be trying to do both at the same time." I traded out the wooden spoon for our silver masher and put the heavy crockery bowl on the lower kitchen table.
"Make sure you add plenty of butter and milk and maybe a little garlic," my dad reminded me.
"I got it. I can handle it," I laughed.
Inside, though, my stomach quivered. I wasn't sure I could handle Thanksgiving at all. My father had invited an interesting mix of people, but that included Ford. Ever since the donors' dinner, we had kept things strictly student/professor, and I was worried how it would feel to have him in our home as a guest.
Without the regulated setting of the lecture hall or campus, I knew I would have trouble seeing Ford as a professor. Too often he had been appearing in my daydreams as the handsome man with midnight-blue eyes that had kissed me under a maple tree. How was I going to keep that memory and the subsequent fantasies at bay?
My father had purchased plenty of wine and told me I was free to enjoy it as payment for my holiday labor. I imagined pouring a glass for Ford, feeling his gaze sweep up my arm to the outfit I had agonized over. Would he smile at me the way he had before we kissed?
As hostess, I was supposed to give each guest a tour of the house, and there were too many nooks where Ford and I could be alone. The hidden space under the back stairs where we first met, the alcove just inside the library doors, or the narrow hall past the front stairs where the coat closet was tucked out of sight.
Stop being so silly, I reprimanded myself.
The twinges of excitement I felt in my belly were only anticipation of a cure. Ford would be polite, cool, and aloof, even in the casual atmosphere. I hoped he would pat my shoulder or talk about me to my father right in front of me as if I was an insignificant child. That would wipe away all my schoolgirl fantasies and cure me of my growing crush.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was more, but the kitchen timer rang again and saved me. "I got it," I told my father. I turned off our crockpot and opened the lid. "I hope these are good."
"Put those toasted mini-marshmallows on top, and it'll be perfect. Spiced yams, what an inspiration!"
I neglected to tell my father the idea was not mine at all. I had overheard Ford telling our class that candied yams covered with marshmallows was the only Thanksgiving food he ever craved.
"I think Ford should sit on my left hand side," my father said.
I jumped and turned around. "What? Why?"
He raised a red eyebrow at me. "The other six guests are couples. You and Ford are the only singles at the table."
"What about you?" I asked.
My father chuckled and changed the subject. "You know, I've been thinking about setting Ford up with someone. Maybe you can help me think of someone for him?"
I dropped a dozen marshmallows on the floor. "Since when are you into matchmaking?" I asked.
"I like Ford," my father said. "He's a good man. A little rough around the edges and a little angry at the world, but that's nothing the love of a good woman couldn't cure."
"Says the confirmed bachelor," I snapped.
My father laughed. "Now, Clarity, would you really rather talk about potential dates for me?"
"I'd rather make sure we don't get lumps in the gravy."
My father chuckled and turned back to the stove. "Don't think I don't know how much attention Ford gets from his students. He's young, he's very good-looking, and that can only cause problems for a professor."
"There's nothing illegal about it," I said.
"Illegal, no, but inappropriate, yes," my father said. He stirred the gravy with a thoughtful, repetitive motion. "If he had a serious relationship, the girls wouldn't be nearly so gaga over him."
"You know, most the women at Landsman are over eighteen years of age and perfectly capable of handling relationships no matter what age their partner is."
"Clarity," my father said with exasperation, "you're the one that helped with the wording of the honor code. Don't you remember?"
This time it was the doorbell that saved me.
I recognized the art professor's bright smile as soon as I opened the door. "Hello, Professor Paulson, so good to see you again."
There was a loud clatter from the kitchen, and my father joined us in the foyer. He tore off his apron, tossed it back in the kitchen, and rushed forward to take both of Professor Paulson's hands. "Polly, I'm so glad you could make it," he beamed.
The art professor was a small, elfish woman with an infectious smile, bright black eyes, and wild, wiry black hair. Seeing her with my father always gave me a warm feeling even though the two were perpetually acting casual.
"Patrick," she said, "you were so good to invite us. Thank you! May I introduce our newest artist-in-residence, Damien Baptiste? Damien, this is Dean Dunkirk."
"Please, call me Patrick," my father said. His smile slipped slightly when he shook the artist's hand.
Damien Baptiste was stocky and muscular with sun-kissed hair and twinkling, hazel eyes. "Ah, the dean, I've heard so many good things about you. I love that you have managed to pen an honor code that your students both despise and respect. That is quite an honorable accomplishment."
"Thank you, I think," my father chuckled. He led the way into the living room.
"Your home is beautiful, such order, such lovely straight lines," Damien said.
"That's me," my father admitted. "I admire the artist's life, the passion, and chaos of creativity, but I'm strictly by the books, myself."
"Damien's a sculptor," Professor Paulson said to me. "Damien, this is Patrick's daughter, Clarity."
"Enchanted," he said with a flourish.
"Well, hello," Lexi crooned from the doorway.
I swatted my friend, then dragged her into the living room. Behind her came her running back boyfriend. Carl was the opposite of the small, pert, and boisterous Lexi. He was beefy, tall, white blond, and said next to nothing.
"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Lexi and Carl," I said.
"Of course, welcome, Lexi, you know a holiday wouldn't be the same without you," my father hugged her. "And, Carl, congratulations on helping your team to victory this year. Carl's our star running back."
I introduced Professor Paulson and her date, Damien. Lexi frowned. "I really wish you had let us set you up with a date, Clarity. There are plenty of guys that wouldn't have been scared off by dinner with the dean."
"Adam still asks about you," Carl said.
"Sorry, but I'm too busy helping my father tonight to handle a date," I said. Before my father could protest, two more guests arrived.
"Professor Rumsfeld," Lexi grinned. She immediately held out her hand to his wife. "I'm Lexi, I took your husband's course freshman year. I would never have gotten my English credit if he didn't know how to make Shakespeare understandable to normal people."
"Nice to meet you, Lexi. I'm Alice," the professor's wife said.
"Please, can we just be normal people today? Call me Jackson."
"Excellent idea," Polly agreed. "After all, you're not children, and conversation will be a hell of a lot more interesting if you don't hold back because of arbitrary titles. Right, Patrick?"
My father couldn't refuse her. "Fine, though I hope, perhaps, my daughter will refrain from calling me Patty. She used to do that when she was three, and it was flustering."
"Really, Patrick? They haven't even made it in the front door, and you're already telling toddler stories about me?" I asked.
My father grinned. "Oh, my dear, you always fit in easier with an older crowd. One of those darling children that would rather talk to teachers than classmates. It's no wonder you're not interested in dating a college boy."
As if on cue, Ford stepped in the front door, and my heart flopped into a puddle on the floor. "Sorry I'm late. I was just finishing a phone call with my sister," he said.
He shook my father's hand and jumped right in to meeting everyone. When he finally turned to me, he held out his hand and then chuckled. "Hey, I know you from somewhere, don't I?"
I rolled my eyes, "Yes, Professor—"
"Wait," Polly caught me, "we've decided we're all equals today, so you should call him by his first name."
"Nice to see you again, Ford," I said and prayed that no one noticed the blush creeping up my cheeks.
Lexi stared at me for a moment then batted her eyelashes. "Your class is Clarity's favorite," she said.
Instead of hoping the floor would open up and swallow me, I focused on my hostess duties. "Who would like a glass of wine before dinner?"
Everyone except Carl said yes, and I dashed into the kitchen. The turkey cooled on a large cutting board, and I tried to assure myself that everything was going to be perfect. Except all my hopes for a cure were dashed—as soon as Ford's deep blue eyes swept over me, I felt as if I'd already drank half a bottle of wine. My thoughts and daydreams reeled, and there was no way my best friend was not going to notice.
Luckily, by the time I returned to the living room, the Thanksgiving holiday had put everyone at ease. Damien was choosing records to play, assisted by Lexi's assertive expressions. My father was enraptured by Polly's descriptions of her latest painting, and Jackson was getting a play-by-play from Carl of the last football game he missed.
"Need any help in the kitchen?" Ford asked.
"No, thanks, we've got it all under control. I'm just going to grab the cheese tray," I slipped away as fast as I could.
Ford seemed eager to tell me something, but I knew if we were alone, the volcanic attraction I felt could overflow at any moment.
Everything was fine until Ford noticed me. He stood in carved archway of my father's living room, partially in and partially out of the foyer. While he leaned on the wooden post and listened to Jackson's summer plans, his eyes followed me across into the dining room. I tried to tell myself it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy; I had daydreamed of feeling the caress of his grey eyes, and now any glance made that feeling possible.
The trouble began when he offered to help me.
Ford slipped through the narrow hallway and met me across the kitchen island. "Need any help brining dinner to the table?" he asked.
"No, I've got it. Easy," I said, but the turkey platter wobbled in my hands.
He smiled and stepped around me to gather up the big bowl of mashed potatoes and another of stuffing. He hooked the gravy boat with two fingers and carried it all like it was nothing.
"Heavenly," Ford said. Then he amended his comment. "The dinner. Everything smells heavenly."
He put the bowls and gravy boat down on the table and reached out to help me with the turkey. When our fingers brushed, I felt like a jolt of electricity scrambled my muscles. The turkey tray wobbled again, and between the two of us, we set it down with a heavy thunk at the head of the table.
"Everything alright in there?" my father called from the living room.
I looked up to see everyone watching us with curiosity and amusement. Lexi wore a dangerous, calculating smile, and I flashed her a warning look that she ignored. "Yes, fine, I think you might have underestimated the turkey this year, Patrick," I said.
Everyone laughed, and my father gestured for our guests to file into the dining room. "Go big or go home. I hope you've all brought your appetites," my father said.
"Wow, Clarity, you and your dad really outdid yourselves this year," Lexi said with a speculative twinkle in her eye.
My father beamed. "It's been a few years since we did the full Thanksgiving spread, so I'm glad you think it looks good. Clarity's been working hard. She even tracked down a candied yams recipe for Ford."
My cheeks flared. "You mentioned it to our lecture class one day before your presentation," I said.
Ford smiled at me. "I'm glad to know someone is listening," he said.
"Clarity's good like that," Lexi said. "When she is interested in someone, she notices everything."
Ford cleared his throat. "Well, she hasn't noticed that I've been trying to talk to her since I arrived, but now that I have her attention, I can finally say it."
My vision clouded and closed in around the edges. "Say what? Now?"
"I have a letter for you," Ford pulled a narrow, white envelope from his pocket and addressed the entire table. "It's from Wire Communications. My teaching assistant opened it, but I promise I did not read the contents."
I sat down hard in my chair as everyone clapped. "Why? What?"
Ford's lips quirked up at the corners. "I thought you would like to read it yourself. I imagine it has something to do with the internship you expressed interest in. Very competitive, very real world experience. Remember?"
"How did you get it?" I asked.
My father gestured for us all to sit, and Ford slipped into his chair and met my eyes. "It was sent to my office. I believe the owner wanted me to see it, so I could present it to you personally."
A hardened, gray glint flashed through Ford's eyes at the mention of the Wire Communications owner. I didn't understand why he would be so annoyed with having to pass along the letter. Unless he had never intended to come to our Thanksgiving dinner. Unless he was hoping to avoid me in social situations for the rest of my schooling at Landsman College.
"Well, aren't you going to open it?" my father asked. His hands paused next to the carving knife, and I knew I was holding up dinner.
I slipped the heavy stock, embossed stationary from the envelope and read out loud. "Ms. Dunkirk: It is our pleasure to announce that you have won the coveted position of Wire Communications Journalist Intern for the coming summer months... How is this even possible?" I asked Ford.
He watched me carefully, an inquisitive squint around his eyes. "They most likely noticed your excellent writing skills and your proven track record of hard work and perseverance," he said.
"Hear, hear!" Lexi broke my confusion with her raised glass.
"Thanks," I laughed, "but this is so surreal. I never sent in my application."
My father reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "I meant to tell you, darling. Remember how you wanted help proofreading your cover letter? Well, it was flawless, so I gave it to my friend at the donors’ dinner."
"Wesley Barton?" Ford asked.
Jackson almost knocked over his water glass. "Sorry," he said, but Alice shushed him with a glance.
"No," my father said, not noticing anything was wrong. "Michael Tailor told me he was happy to do me the favor. He said he had an in at Wire Communications. Not that I think you needed a leg up, but I wanted to make sure you had a good chance at getting what you want. I'm so proud of you, Clarity."
I was caught by the scowling exchange between Ford and Jackson. The mention of Wire Communications and especially Wesley Barton wiped away Ford's polite smile and made Jackson sit up rigid in his seat. I couldn't tell if their distaste was personal or professional, but either way, it made me uneasy.
Luckily, before my father could see their furrowed expressions, Lexi spoke up again. "Let's give thanks to the people that see what we want and help us get it." She smiled at me and slid her eyes to stare at Ford then back to me. "Here's to your future happiness."
I tucked the letter under my chair cushion and shook my head. "Here's to a happy Thanksgiving and the biggest turkey we've ever had!"
Everyone clapped while my father stood up to carve, but the conversation circled right back around to my internship.
"From what your father says, you've been planning this internship and this trajectory since you were a senior in high school," Polly said.
"That's not unusual," Damien said. "I knew since childhood that I wanted to be a sculptor."
"Yes, but this is different," Lexi said. "Clarity's always wanted to write, but she decided in high school that journalism was the only way to make a decent living at it."
Damien scratched his chin. "What happened to the writing?"
"She didn't take my class freshman year," Jackson spoke up.
His wife swatted his arm. "Not everyone decides their future the same. In high school, I loved ballet, but it would have made a terrible career choice for me. I'm too short," she told Lexi.
Lexi, who was of comparable height, laughed. "I wanted to be a tight rope walker, but my parents never got on board with the whole, join the circus idea."
"You know, it's not too late to change your mind," Ford spoke up. "If creative writing is what you truly love, you shouldn't make it second best. I've seen your short story, remember? You have an eye for details and an ear for language that really engages the reader's senses."
My father stopped loading mouthwatering slices of turkey onto a serving plate. "Fiction?"
I glared at Ford and would have kicked his shin if our table wasn't so wide. "It was just a short story. No big deal," I said. "And I didn't plan on showing it to anyone else."
Lexi narrowed her gaze. "You gave it to Ford instead of me?"
"Does anyone want more wine?" I asked.
My father laughed. "Clarity, I don't know why you are always dismissing your love for creative writing. A lot of people pursue it as both a passion and a career. It is possible to do that, you know."
Ford looked apologetic. "The skills I mentioned are key for both fiction writing and journalism. The choice is yours."
"I'm just glad you have found a creative outlet. Under all the pressures of college courses, it's nice to have a way to let off a little steam," my father said.
We handed around dishes, and everyone filled their plates. I hoped the conversation would turn to the delicious food. "Please take as much as you'd like. There's plenty more in the kitchen. Maybe I should grab the other basket of rolls right away."
"I can," Carl stood up and strode into the kitchen.
Lexi beamed. "Creative writing is a great outlet, but I'm pretty sure that dating is better. No offense to anyone here, but Clarity has plenty of years to spend quietly typing stories in the future. Now is the time she should be having a little fun."
I groaned and topped off my wine glass.
"I agree," Alice said. "It's no good to go from solitary studies to a solitary pastime. There is definitely something to be said for finding someone that dares you to try new things."
"I suggest you find yourself an older man," Damien said.
I choked on my wine. "What?"
"Why?" Ford asked.
"She is clearly searching for inspiration." Damien winked at me, and Ford shot his friend, Jackson, another dark look.
Jackson swallowed a large bite of turkey with gravy and said. "I'd love a chance to look at your short story now that the cat's out of the bag. I always need more people in my advanced creative writing class, and from what Ford has said, I'm sure you would fit right in."
I stabbed a green bean and glared at Ford again. "I think Ford might have spoken out of turn and exaggerated a bit."
"No," my father said. "Ford's as honest as they come. Is that the reason you had to leave journalism and dive into academia?"
"That's a whole other story," Ford said with a grim line to his mouth.
"You know," Polly spoke up, "I've been meaning to talk to some of the creative writing students about creating prompts for my artists. I love the intersection between description and illustration."
"Ah, a crossover of the disciplines. It would be interesting to merge the painters with the sculptors and challenge them with the written word." Damien smiled at me. "What do you think, Clarity? Would you be willing to create characters to challenge the art students?"
"She's busy," Ford said. He looked up and took a swig of wine. "Clarity's also on the school newspaper. It's not a big staff, and I'm not big on people poaching my students."
"Speaking of inspiring the art students, I've been trying to convince Carl to pose for your sculpting class," Lexi said.
Carl shook his head and continued to eat. "Not my thing. Just like dating's not Clarity's thing."
I could have kissed him. "Thank you, Carl. I'm happy to consider my journalist internship, and I think that's about all I can handle at the moment."
"You're too shy for your own good," Lexi said.
"Clarity's not shy, she's discerning," Ford said.
Everyone glanced his way again, but this time he kept his eyes steady on me.
My father chuckled, "Takes one to know one, eh?"
Alice nudged Ford. "He's definitely discerning too. In fact, I think that's why he's not dating either."
"Really? That's interesting," Lexi said.
I considered throwing a roll at her head but instead made one last, desperate attempt to change the subject. "I hope everyone saves a little room for dessert. My father's made an amazing pecan pie."
"My favorite," Ford said, and his smile returned as the conversation moved on.