CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Dean
June 12
“DID YOU GET ANY PRISON TATTOOS?” Kelsey strides up the driveway of the Butterfly House, her expression a combination of amusement and concern.
I pull up the sleeve of my shirt to show her a scratch on my forearm from the fight with Hamilton.
“It’s a dagger,” I tell her.
“Pretty hot, tough guy.” Kelsey drops her bag and sits beside me on the front porch. “Where’s Liv?”
“On her way.” I twist a loop of string between my palms to make a row of triangles.
“So… a baby, huh?” Kelsey asks.
My heart thumps. “How did you know?”
“I’m smart, remember? I figured it out.”
I twist the string again. “She had a miscarriage in January.”
“She told me. I’m sorry.” Kelsey hesitates. “I guess it’s scary then, huh?”
Yeah, it’s scary. Lots of things are scary.
“You okay?” she asks. “I mean, without the job and all…”
“I can live without my job, Kelsey.” I untangle the string and shove it into my pocket. “I figured I’d get another one someday. But the reason I resigned in the first place was to end it all, to prevent it from getting out and hurting Liv.”
“She’s not hurt, Dean. The doctor said she’s fine.”
“It’s not just that.”
“I know.”
It’s the public embarrassment, the fact that everyone now knows what happened, Edward Hamilton’s threat to press charges, the complete ruin of the café’s grand opening…
I couldn’t have fucked it all up any more if I’d tried.
Though Allie, Brent, Marianne, and everyone else at the café have said the whole disaster wasn’t my fault and have rallied to get things going again, I feel completely responsible for how it all went down.
I’ve insisted on covering the lost profits and operating expenses until the café gets back on its feet, but that hasn’t been enough to turn public perception around yet.
And once again, I don’t know how to fix it.
Kelsey and I look up at the sound of a car coming to a stop. Liv gets out of the driver’s seat, and my entire being floods with pleasure at the sight of her in a polka-dot skirt and white blouse, her ponytail swinging.
I approach the car and open the passenger side door to help Florence Wickham out.
“Oh, thank you, Dean.” Florence peers up at the Butterfly House and sighs. “I wish we had more community support for this place. I can’t thank you enough for your help, even with all you’ve been through.”
I try not to wince. The news about the Wonderland Café’s disastrous grand opening has spread through town, and I can only hope the bad publicity doesn’t hurt Liv or Allie too much.
“I heard all about it,” Florence tells me, shaking her head. “That horrific fight you were in.”
“I… uh, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, feeling the sudden urge to reassure this sweet, elderly lady that I’m still respectable.
Florence blinks at me in surprise. “Oh, Dean, of course you didn’t do anything wrong! A man like you only does everything right. Isn’t that so, Olivia?”
Liv nods solemnly. A current of amusement that I don’t understand passes between her and Florence.
“Of course you’re a model citizen, Dean.” Florence reaches out to pat my arm.
She pauses, lifts an eyebrow, then slides her hand up to give my biceps a little squeeze.
“Oh my.” She clears her throat, tightening her grip on me as we walk toward the house. “Well, as I was telling Olivia on the drive up, my granddaughter is the superintendent of the Rainwood school district, and she is just thrilled about the café. She’s eager to help turn things back in your favor.”
“We’d welcome any help, believe me,” Liv says.
She introduces Kelsey to Florence, and we go into the house so Florence can see the progress I’ve made on the interior. After touring the rooms, I step onto the front porch when my phone rings.
“Professor West? This is Ben Stafford of the Office of Judicial Affairs.”
My heart drops. “Yes?”
“I wanted to let you know that you’ll be receiving an official summons from the King’s University board of trustees tomorrow,” Stafford says. “In light of recent events, the board is required to investigate and determine if any university rules have been breached.”
“I see.”
“Also you are still a faculty member pending your resignation,” Stafford continues. “Therefore you must be held accountable for your actions and subject to disciplinary proceedings.”
“What are the possible consequences?”
“Sanctions include a formal letter of reprimand, suspension, or dismissal.”
I don’t care about being dismissed because my resignation is effective next month. I don’t care about being suspended either. I don’t like the idea of a letter of reprimand that will go in my permanent file, but I can live with it if I have to.
I exhale a breath. “Okay. It’s a formality, right?”
“Er, well… no,” Stafford says.
“Then what?”
“This is a public disciplinary hearing, Professor West. The investigative report will go on public record. And anyone can attend.”
His slight emphasis on the word anyone is enough. Anyone can include Maggie and Edward Hamilton. Hearing means Liv might be asked to testify. Investigate means all the bullshit about my alleged harassment of a student will go public anyway.
“And my reputation is shot to hell,” I say.
Shit. So much for all those inquiries from museums and other universities about the next stage of my career.
“Should I bring my lawyer?” I ask.
“I’d advise against it,” Stafford replies. “The board tends to look upon a legal team as evidence of guilt, or at least an attempt to stonewall an investigation.”
“So I just have to sit there and take it?”
“You’ll have the opportunity to defend your actions, Professor West,” Stafford assures me, though not even he can make it sound like that will do any good.
June 16
The King’s University board of trustees convenes in the main hall of the oldest building on campus, a brick-and-tile building modeled after Italian basilica architecture.
Liv and I go into the main meeting hall. A long, polished wood table sits at the head of the room, lined on one side with nine leather chairs. Another table with a microphone on a stand faces it, in front of the spectator seats.
We sit on a bench behind the table with the microphone. Because we’re so early, there’s no one else here yet. Liv takes my hand.
Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have wanted her here. I’d have wanted to keep her away from the ugliness of it, handle things on my own, fix it for her.
Now I can’t imagine her not being here.
I look at her. She’s watching me, her expression serious, but her eyes warm. She’s wearing a gray suit, her hair pulled back, little pearl earrings. The cameo engagement ring I’d gotten at that antique shop encircles her finger beside her wedding band. I have a sudden rush of regret that I never gave my wife the proposal she deserved.
The click of the door opening breaks through my thoughts. People begin to enter the room. Liv tightens her hand around mine.
It’s okay. She’s okay. Our baby is okay. I can handle anything if I know that.
Voices and noise fill the air as people sit down. I’d thought Frances Hunter would be here by now. The more the seats fill with spectators, the more tension grips my shoulders.
My one last hope was that not many people would show up to watch my downfall. So much for that hope. A half hour before the proceedings start, the room is full. My stomach turns at the thought of all these people hearing that I was accused of sexually harassing a student.
The hum of voices, rustling papers and backpacks, rise behind me. There’s no sign of Edward Hamilton, but Maggie comes through the side door, her face pinched and her mouth set in a determined line.
When everyone is seated, the nine members of the board of trustees file into the room, all looking stern and duty-bound. I turn, trying to find Frances, the sheer number of people making me nervous. I see Kelsey in the front row, and she gives me a nod of encouragement.
After the trustees sit down and confer, Chancellor Radcliffe calls the hearing to order and begins with an account of my arrest.
“As a member of this faculty, Professor West,” he says, “you are upheld to a code of conduct that you have publicly violated. You also stand accused of ethically questionable conduct which we will further investigate. You may deliver a preliminary statement in your defense, if you wish.”
I detach my hand from Liv’s and move to the microphone. Take a folded piece of paper from my pocket and open it.
“My name is Dean West, professor of Medieval Studies, PhD summa cum laude, Harvard University. I have…” My throat tightens. I pause and swallow hard.
“I have spent my adult life in the pursuit of knowledge and education. I believe strongly in academic freedom and hold both myself and my students to the highest standards of scholarship. I have never once violated the educational process or the trust and authority placed in me as a faculty member at any institution. It has been my honor to represent King’s University and to work with the outstanding students and faculty here. I would—”
“Excuse me, Professor West.”
We all turn. Frances Hunter strides down the center of the room from the main entrance. In a tailored, dark green suit, her hair steely gray, she looks like a general marching into battle. She stops beside me, shouldering me out of the way to reach the microphone.
“Chancellor Radcliffe, I apologize for interrupting,” she says, “but I must inform you that one of the scheduled witnesses will not be appearing at today’s proceedings.”
Radcliffe peers at her over the tops of his glasses. “Who, Professor Hunter?”
“Miss Hamilton’s father, Edward Hamilton.”
“What?” Maggie rises from her seat, paling. “How do you know? What happened?”
Frances shoots her a scathing look and returns her attention to the chancellor.
“We received word that Mr. Hamilton has left town and returned to Chicago,” Frances continues, “in light of our discovery that Miss Hamilton’s academic progress at King’s was severely compromised under the advisement of Professor Jeffrey Butler.”
Maggie gasps. The crowd stirs. Radcliffe frowns.
“To what are you referring, Professor Hunter?” he asks.
“Miss Hamilton allegedly had an affair with Professor Butler.” Frances sounds almost triumphant. “Given that he was her advisor, it was a breach of university regulations on both their parts. Miss Hamilton has very poor academic credentials, and appears to have attempted to find another way to graduate from King’s.”
“That’s not true!” Maggie cries, turning to point an accusing finger at me. “He’s the one who has stopped me from finishing my thesis because he wanted—”
“I wanted you to do your work,” I interrupt.
“Excuse me, Chancellor.”
We all turn again as there is another rustle from the crowd, one of the spectators standing. Ben Stafford pushes past a row of people to reach the microphone, nudging Frances aside.
“Ben Stafford, Office of Judicial Affairs,” he says. “I must unequivocally state that any case or claim from Miss Hamilton involving Professor West was determined by me personally to be entirely unfounded.”
“We know, Mr. Stafford,” Radcliffe replies. “Our purpose here is—”
“I understand that this hearing is intended for further investigation,” Stafford interrupts, “but given Miss Hamilton’s poor academic record and her relationship with Jeffrey Butler, it’s clear that she was motivated by revenge toward Professor West. Therefore, may I please request that the board dismiss and permanently close their investigation of such a case?”
Behind me, I hear Liv’s intake of breath. Under my locked defenses, a faint flicker of hope comes to life.
“I would further suggest,” Frances adds, slanting another narrow glance at Maggie, “that we no longer devalue King’s University by allowing Miss Hamilton to remain a student here. She is responsible for this entire fiasco. If she does not withdraw from the university herself, I strongly recommend that the board consider expelling her.”
Maggie takes a step back, her eyes darting from Frances to me to the board, as if she’s a trapped animal seeking escape. Radcliffe and the other board members exchange glances.
“And,” Frances adds, “I’m quite certain the faculty and students of the Department of History would provide statements about Miss Hamilton’s conduct and lack of academic ability. Perhaps Jeffrey Butler would too.”
Maggie goes sheet-white. “He was my advisor! He would never say anything against me. And my father has donated buckets of money to this university, so if you think—”
“What I think,” Frances replies tartly, “is that you are a spoiled little girl and a liar who never deserved to be admitted to King’s University.”
A stunned silence falls over the room. The board members shift in their seats and reach out to cover their microphones as they lean toward each other with low whispers.
Maggie’s face goes red with anger and shame.
“I’ll sue you,” she snaps, whirling to glare at me. “All of you. None of you protected me from a professor who tried to blackmail me into sleeping with him!”
“Is that what Jeffrey Butler did?” Frances asks, smoothly deflecting the attention away from me. “Interesting that there is video evidence suggesting otherwise.”
Now the crowd stirs with a few gasps of horrified amusement.
Maggie backs up, gripping her bag. “That’s a lie.”
“If you want to sue, then we’ll ask the Office of Judicial Affairs to investigate further,” Frances snaps. “Is that what you want? You can’t hide behind your father anymore. As a matter of fact, you don’t have anywhere to hide.”
Maggie backs up another step, her bag clutched to her chest like a shield. And then, with a strange flash of fear, her gaze darts over the crowd and lands on the person sitting behind me.
I move forward instinctively to put myself between Maggie and Liv, to protect Liv from whatever venom Maggie might spit at her. Then I stop and turn to look at my wife.
Liv is watching Maggie, her expression calm but her eyes dark with a combination of anger and pity. Exactly the way she had looked at her mother.
The air seems to crack between Liv and Maggie. Then Maggie whirls on her heel and hurries from the room, slamming the door behind her. Hushed whispers rise.
All the breath escapes my lungs. Liv looks at me and nods toward the board members and Frances. I turn back to them and try to refocus.
“All right,” Radcliffe says, his voice loud and somewhat irritated. “We will address the matter of Miss Hamilton at a later date, as clearly some questions need to be answered. Now the issue at hand is Professor West’s misconduct and possible crime. You were recently arrested, Professor West, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For disorderly conduct and fighting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excuse me, Chancellor.” Kelsey stands and pushes her way toward the microphone. “Kelsey March, associate professor, Department of Atmospheric Sciences.”
Radcliffe sighs. “Yes, Professor March?”
“I was present at the time of the incident, Chancellor,” Kelsey says. “It was the opening of Mrs. Olivia West’s café, and if I might say, it was a lovely event before Edward Hamilton’s assault on Professor West ruined it for everyone.”
“Professor West was assaulted?” one of the other board members asks.
“Violently.” Kelsey nods. “We all witnessed it. Verbal abuse, then a physical attack. It’s a wonder Professor West didn’t sustain more serious trauma.”
“Is that true, Professor West?” Radcliffe asks me.
“Uh… there was yelling and fighting, yes, sir.”
“And Edward Hamilton incited the fight by attacking Professor West first,” Kelsey adds. “Everyone saw it.”
I look at her in surprise. Even though my mind had been black with rage that day, I’m pretty sure I attacked Hamilton first in a full-body tackle.
Then I remember that he poked me in the chest before the real fight began. Though I don’t know if anyone can really define that as an attack, I am suddenly and intensely grateful to Kelsey.
“The facts,” Radcliffe continues, glaring at us all from beneath his heavy eyebrows, “are that Professor West has had difficulty with Maggie Hamilton for the duration of his employment at King’s University, which culminated in a very public and violent—”
A sudden noise arises from the back of the room, the main door clicking open. A rustle of people enters. We all turn to see what the commotion is about.
I can only stare as at least twenty of my students file into the room, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and march down the central aisle to stand in front of the board. There are so many of them that I’m edged out of the way and wind up near the side exit door.
“Excuse me, Chancellor Radcliffe.” Jessica Burke pushes her way to the front of the crowd to reach the microphone.
The chancellor rolls his eyes. “Yes, miss?”
“My name is Jessica Burke. I’m one of Professor Dean West’s PhD students. We’re all students of Professor West’s, both graduate and undergraduates.”
She indicates her compatriots, several of whom wave at the board members.
“May I speak, Chancellor?” Jessica asks.
“It appears you already have, Miss Burke,” Radcliffe replies dryly.
“Thank you.” Jessica clears her throat and unfolds a piece of paper. “We are here to stand in full support of Professor Dean West. As students who were admitted to King’s University based on our academic excellence, we can unequivocally state that Professor West is an outstanding scholar, mentor, advisor, and teacher. He has challenged us in our scholarship, guided us in our research, and believes in our ability to be both strong, innovative students and citizens of the world.”
I feel a few of the students glance at me. My throat is so tight it hurts.
“Is Professor West guilty of a crime?” Jessica asks, her gaze sweeping over the board members. “The answer is yes.”
The crowd stirs with murmurs of surprise.
“Professor West is guilty of blackmail when he insists his students turn in their best work before he’ll give them a good grade.
“Professor West is guilty of insider trading when he puts students in touch with his colleagues in the United States and Europe so they can expand their research skills and be considered for career positions.
“Professor West is guilty of plagiarism when he copies his personal articles and quotes critical papers to help his students with their research.
“Professor West is guilty of fraud when he expects his students to know all the facets of history, yet only tests us on some of the material.
“And all of Professor West’s students agree that he is most assuredly guilty of boring us to death when he gets started talking about the economic history of Cistercian monasteries,” Jessica adds.
Appreciative laughter rises from the crowd. I look at Liv, who is swiping her eyes with a tissue.
“But as far as we are concerned, all professors should be guilty of such crimes,” Jessica concludes. “Professor West is a true scholar, a supportive and innovative mentor whom we all admire and respect beyond measure. And if anyone… anyone… believes that Professor West is not an immense asset to this university and the community… that would be the real crime.”
Jessica steps back from the microphone. The group of students begins to applaud, a resounding noise that grows to a thunderous pitch when the rest of the crowd gets to their feet and joins in.
I close my fingers around the back of a chair. The room is a blur.
“Order!” Radcliffe shouts, banging his fist on the table. “Order, please!”
The crowd quiets down, people resuming their seats under Radcliffe’s glare.
“Thank you, Miss Burke,” Radcliffe says curtly. “Now I will confer with my colleagues in private before coming to a resolution.”
After he announces a short break, I approach my students to extend thanks that will never be enough and gratitude that is boundless. I shake Stafford’s hand and hug Kelsey. It’s a half hour later when the board members return, and Radcliffe orders everyone to be seated.
I sit down next to Liv, who has composed herself after a crying jag that left her red-eyed, blotchy-faced, and smiling from ear to ear.
“This hearing was convened in order to investigate Professor Dean West’s misconduct,” Radcliffe says, shooting me a glare. “In order to protect both our faculty and students, it is critical that we take accusations of wrongdoing very seriously and carry out thorough investigations.”
The room grows quiet.
“However,” Radcliffe continues, “Mr. Stafford of the Office of Judicial Affairs, a dedicated man who is approaching his fifteenth year of employment at King’s, has spent a great deal of time investigating the matter. And given the development with Miss Hamilton, the board of trustees is fully prepared to accept Mr. Stafford’s recommendation and permanently close any such case against Professor West.”
The tightness in my shoulders loosens. Applause begins to echo against the walls of the room. Radcliffe slams his hand on the table.
“Quiet, please,” he orders. “I am not finished. Professor West must account for his arrest by issuing a public apology and stating that the incident had nothing to do with King’s University.”
He shoots me a glare. I nod in agreement.
“Also,” Radcliffe continues, “in light of the students’ testimony… such as it was… and the fact that the members of the board were sorry to receive Professor West’s letter of resignation in the first place, we would ask that he reconsider leaving King’s University and remain in his position as professor of Medieval Studies in the Department of History.”
Disbelief fills me. Cheers erupt from the crowd. Radcliffe holds up his hand for silence again.
“With the understanding, Professor West,” he adds, still glaring at me, “that you will report to the board of trustees once a month for the next year so that we can supervise your conduct.”
Kelsey pushes the microphone at me. I stand and approach the table.
“Understood, Chancellor,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“You have two days to rescind your resignation, Professor West,” Radcliffe says. “This hearing is officially concluded. Thank you all for your time and… so-called attention.”
Noise fills the hall as the spectators push to their feet, voices rising in animated chatter. A wall of people closes between me and Liv. I spend the next hour thanking people and accepting their congratulations.
“We just heard about Jeffrey Butler and Maggie, with some unpleasant video evidence,” Frances murmurs to me when the crowd disperses. “Her father has declined to press assault charges against you because he’s scared shitless of the publicity. Pardon my French.”
“So it’s over?”
“It’s over.” She squeezes my arm. “Welcome back, Dean.”
“Thank you, Frances. For everything.”
After the hall is almost empty, I finally turn to my wife. She’s waiting on the bench, and her smile is like the sunrise.
“I knew it,” she says, coming to hug me. “I knew it couldn’t end any other way, not for you.”
Only when my arms close around her am I able to take a deep breath.
“Are you all right?” I ask, resting my hand on her stomach.
“I’m exhilarated. Thrilled. Proud of you and proud that I was right.”
I look at her brown eyes, the thick frame of her eyelashes, the curve of her cheekbones and shape of her mouth. All those details that I treasure like air. Our history together flashes through my mind, and the truth falls into place.
“All these years, I’ve been wrong,” I tell her.
“About what?” Liv asks.
“I’m not afraid when I’m with you. I never have been. In fact, being with you gives me a courage I didn’t know I had. You show me what I can be.”
“No. I just know what you are.”
I lower my head to kiss her, feeling that shift inside me again, the great settling of the earth’s plates, the stars and planets rotating in harmony with a thousand feelings. Gratitude, hope, happiness, surrender. Peace.
And there is a distinct sense of freedom, like whatever bonds lashed me to the ground have suddenly broken. I feel lighter.
I tighten my arms around Liv, knowing that in years to come I’ll have to let go in ways I’ve never imagined. And somehow, that will be okay because my wife will always anchor my heart.