скачать книгу бесплатно
“I am so far.” Up until about five minutes ago, anyway.
“Any problems with any of the students?”
What was he fishing for? What had he heard? Calm down, she ordered herself. If Linda didn’t know why she was in here, no one knew. And as for Linda’s theory about what Kyle was after… Emily shuffled that thought out of the way.
“Problems with the students?” Emily asked. “None. No problems at all.” She pulled one foot out from under her chair and crossed one knee over the other to get more comfortable.
“So, no problems,” said Kyle. “Glad to hear it. We’re proud of our students here at Caldwell.”
“They’re terrific.”
“And the staff? I hope they’ve been helpful.”
“Oh, yes. Extremely.”
“Good, good.” He smoothed his tie again. “We want you to feel like part of the team here.”
“Thank you.”
He cocked one hip against the edge of his desk, shifting his weight to one foot and letting the other dangle near her knee. When Joe made that same move, it was fluid and casual. Kyle’s version was posed and calculated. She tried to ignore his loafer’s subtle invasion of her space and her urge to shift out of reach.
“You’re probably aware, Emily, that there are several staff members who are single, like you.”
She nodded, hoping Linda’s theory wasn’t about to become fact.
“And many single people these days meet and get to know each other at the workplace,” he continued.
She nodded again, feeling like a bobble-head doll.
“I was wondering if there might be any circumstances in which you would consider a friendly, social interaction with a member of this staff. A social relationship, outside of school.”
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “I’d certainly be willing to attend any parties for the faculty members.”
Kyle tilted his head back and laughed a forced little laugh. “I’ll make sure you get an invitation.”
Emily laughed, too. Hers sounded a bit strangled.
“Actually, Emily…” Kyle hesitated, and the smile disappeared. His hand passed once more over the silk of his tie, a long, teasing stroke. “I was wondering how you might feel about the possibility of developing a…a personal relationship with someone on staff.”
Think diplomacy, she told herself. Think tact and subtlety. And if that doesn’t work, think Sherman tank blasting a hole in the walnut and leaving caterpillar treads on the splintered furniture and the splattered principal on the way out.
She smiled a neutral smile. “I hope to develop personal relationships with several of the members of this staff before I leave. I think I’ve already begun to form some friendships. And I’d like to develop some mentoring relationships, too.” She settled back a bit and spread her hands. “There’s a lot I can learn from many of the people here.”
“Yes, of course. That’s something we can discuss at some other time.”
He rubbed at his chin. “The reason I asked to see you today is to find out whether or not you might consider dating one of the staff members.”
“Dating? No.” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Kyle’s plastic smile was back. And something else, too. Something in the way he leaned forward and glanced down at her neatly crossed kneecaps.
Something fishy.
The vision of her suspended foot swinging up into Kyle’s carefully positioned crotch was strong and clear and too tempting by half. She uncrossed her legs and tucked her feet beneath her chair. “I have a personal rule against dating coworkers,” she said. “It seems the best policy.”
“Yes. Simple and tidy.” Kyle nodded. “I can certainly see how it might seem that way.”
Emily had no intention of hanging around so Kyle could ask her to indulge in some friendly social interaction just to test the limits of her simple, tidy rule. “Well,” she said, setting her hands on the arms of her chair and edging toward escape. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“No. I just wanted to touch base,” he said, and paused to let the words hang between them. “To see if you’re happy here.”
“Thank you for taking the time to check with me,” she said, ignoring the remark about touching base as she stood to go. He didn’t move, and she was forced to dance a quick sidestep to avoid brushing against him.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, Emily,” he said, following her to the door, “anything at all, you let me know, okay?”
“I will. Thanks again.” She felt his eyes on her back as she fled toward sunlight and fresh air.
JOE MUTTERED A CURSE as he stepped into Caldwell’s quad at lunch break. Drifts of smoke carried the stench of burning byproducts, piles of refuse dotted the lawn and something that was supposed to be music throbbed from the speakers behind an oversize grill. Another football season hot dog barbecue in all its glory.
He carried his curried-chicken-and-brown-rice salad across the quad to a twisted fir tree, found his favorite napping space between two root bumps and stretched out on his back on the grass, his head cushioned on his hands. He gazed up through the tree limbs and contemplated saying something to someone about the song lyrics, but decided it was such a petty thing compared to the unrecycled waste and charcoaled carcinogens surrounding him. He simply closed his eyes to shut it all out.
“Pardon me.”
Emily. He turned his head toward the sound of her voice and opened his eyes. She was standing above him, sunlight rimming her curls in a blinding corona. He squeezed his eyes shut, but her afterimage danced in a negative exposure. “Yes?”
“Is this exposed root taken?”
“No.”
He cracked one eye open to watch her sink to the ground, cross-legged and skirt-draped.
She held out a can of soda. “You looked thirsty.”
He crossed his ankles and shifted his hands more comfortably under his head. “I was hoping I looked asleep.”
“Nope.” She set the can down near his elbow. “I could see your eyes twitching.”
He watched her sip her soda, her mouth puckering around the rim of the can and her long neck arching back in a grateful curve. She swallowed, lowered the can and ran her tongue along her moist upper lip.
Joe looked away. He wasn’t feeling drowsy anymore. He was feeling far too awake. And far too aware of Emily’s throat and tongue and lips. “What do you want, Ms. Sullivan?”
“To buy you a soda. To say thank you for agreeing to this internship.”
She lifted the can of cola and offered it again. It wouldn’t have been polite to refuse.
“To have a simple, friendly conversation,” she added.
He wondered if this was a student teaching assignment. Have a friendly chat with your master teacher sometime during the first month of classes. Report due on Monday.
Then he glanced up at her and saw the nerves behind her smile.
God, he was getting cynical in his pre-middle age. He really ought to apologize for any number of things: for not initiating a friendly chat himself, or for his bad habit of suspecting ulterior motives. For not seeming more grateful for the offer of free carbonated chemicals. For spending half his time plotting to get rid of her and the other half visualizing her naked in his bed.
This was why etiquette had been invented—to safely channel all manner of primal urges and sociopathic aberrations into G-rated clichés the whole family could enjoy. “Thank you,” he said as he took the can.
“You’re welcome.”
“So.” Joe set his soda on the grass beside him, shifted to his side, braced his head in his hand and prepared to engage in something simple and friendly. “What are your plans for this weekend?”
“Short-term or long-term?”
A two-tiered plan for a two-day weekend? Why did he think any conversation with Emily could be simple? “Forget I asked.”
“Okay.” She shoved a hand into her skirt pocket, withdrew a folded wad of paper and waved it under her chin. “New topic. I have here a list of names beginning with P,” she said.
He groaned. “Believe me, I’ve heard them all.”
“Not, apparently, all of them.” She shifted and wriggled her curvy rear end over the root to torture him. “I figured I could arrange the search in either alphabetical order or categories.”
“Categories?”
“Categories makes the most sense to me, too.” She smoothed her paper over her lap. “I thought I’d start with Polish names. Just in case someone overlooked something that goes with Wisniewski. Names like Pawel? Piotr? Prosimir?”
He shook his head. “No, no and nope.”
“Prokop. Parys. Pankracy. Pius. Pielgrzym. And this one,” she said, handing him the paper. “I don’t know how to pronounce it.”
Przybywoj. “Neither do I.”
“Oh, well.” She took her list back with a sigh. “I didn’t expect to get it on the first try.”
He watched her refold the paper and carefully shove it back into her skirt pocket. They sat for a moment in silence, watching students materialize and vanish through the grill smoke.
Emily picked up her soda and sipped, and then gestured with the can to encompass the scene on the quad. “So, is this where you picture yourself in ten years?”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “Why should I?”
“Because this is where you want to be, what you want to be doing.” She cocked her head to one side with a bright smile. “Because you find teaching challenging and satisfying. Because it makes you happy.”
He stared at her seemingly innocent expression, searching for a trick. Strange that she’d ask him the one question he’d been ducking lately. “Happy?”
“Happiness is a worthwhile goal.” She set down her can. “I’m hoping teaching will bring me happiness. For any number of reasons.”
Her idealism itched along his conscience like a rash. He frowned at her and grabbed his soda. “Do you have another list in your pocket?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “And we don’t have to talk shop if you don’t want to.”
Thank God. “What will we talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Life, for instance. Specific or generic. Past, present or future. For a start.”
“For a start,” he said. “Would that fall under the short-term or long-term goals for this conversation?”
She smiled one of her widest smiles, the one that twisted and tickled something deep inside him. “Any topic, Joe. Any or all of the above. You could start with the easiest one first.”
“Don’t you have something else to do right now?” He rolled onto his back and set the can of soda on his chest before closing his eyes. “Someone else to interview about the meaning of life?”
“No. I don’t have university classes on Fridays, so I thought I’d hang out here for the rest of the day. Maybe find another opportunity for a friendly chat.”
Joe groaned. “Lucky me.”
He listened to her laugh and couldn’t suppress a miserly smile. He enjoyed hearing her laugh, and he liked knowing that something he’d said was the reason. He enjoyed her company, and her chatter, and her scrunching nose and pinwheeling hands. And he liked this simple, friendly feeling. It was…nice.
He really hated that particular four-letter word, but there it was: nice. He couldn’t come up with a better term for this warm and fuzzy friendship he felt settling over them just the way he imagined grandma’s favorite afghan might feel—soft and familiar and scented with something other than barbecued pork extract. Warm, and fuzzy, and safe. Nice.
He hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t been looking for it, hadn’t been working at it, but there it was. And what was extra nice was that he was fairly sure Emily felt the same, too. The sound of her laughter was a good sign. That and the fact that she hadn’t given up on him and moved away.
So he made the effort to straighten up, chance a sip of the soda she’d given him and take the simple, friendly conversation to another level. “You know, Ms. Sullivan, not everyone chooses happiness as a life goal. Some people put other people’s happiness ahead of their own.”
She tilted her head. He knew that tilt. It meant his philosophical underpinnings were about to be run through the wringer.
“And doesn’t the creation of that happiness give a deep sense of accomplishment and satisfaction to the happiness causer?” she asked.
He shifted forward. “What about pure altruism? Doing good for others at the risk of complete self-sacrifice?”
“Does it have to make you unhappy to be pure? Can’t an act still be altruistic even if there’s a little niggling shred of satisfaction mixed in with the sacrifice?”
“So, in your world, self-satisfied self-sacrifice is, in essence, a selfish act?”
Emily leaned closer. “What is self-sacrifice without some degree of self-satisfaction?”
“Altruism.”
“Or martyrdom.” She tilted her head again. “So, Joe, which kind of teacher are you? A slightly impure altruist? Or a chest-thumping martyr?”
“Neither. And I have the paychecks to prove it.”
Damn. She’d snuck in under his guard and landed another sucker punch. She’d gotten his brain in gear, his juices flowing and forced him to examine his motivations for teaching. He was feeling bruised, and confused, and annoyed, and something else he didn’t care to label at the moment, because it felt like one of those feelings that would get him fired if he followed through on it.
He settled back against the ground and closed his eyes to shut her out and end the conversation. “It’s just a job, Emily.”
When she didn’t respond, he cracked one eye open to see her smiling down at him. One of her admiring smiles. The kind that made him squirm.
CHAPTER FIVE
EMILY PERCHED on her bar stool a week later and surveyed the Friday-night scene at a university area pub: a room packed with hopefuls looking for hookups. The stale beer, the stale peanuts and the stale lines were standard issue atmosphere.
Next to her, Social Studies Methodology classmate Marilee Ostrom ran a red-lacquered nail along the edge of her margarita glass and licked the salt from her finger. Then she leaned forward and set her elbows on the glossy pub bar, crossing her arms to neatly frame her ample breasts for the male art critics on the other side of the counter.
