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“No!” And Tory had no intention of doing so.
“I’d hate to find out that I’m not as smart as I think I am.”
“What if you found out you were smarter?”
Tory was silent for a moment, wondering if her numbed mind was going to take in everything it had to in the next twenty-four hours. “I think I’d hate that, too,” she admitted softly. “Because then I’d know just how much I’ve wasted, how much I’ve lost.”
“Hey,” Phyllis said, unfolding her legs as she reached across to squeeze Tory’s hand. “It’s not too late. You’ve got a whole new life ahead of you. Amazing things to accomplish.”
Tory smiled, but inside, the familiar dread was spreading. Yeah, she had a whole new life.
It just wasn’t her life.
BEN WAS IN THE KITCHEN of his two-bedroom apartment, paper towel in hand, when his alarm went off Monday morning.
“Okay, little buddy, you and I need to get some things straight,” he said, leaving the puddle in the kitchen as he scooped up the puppy and strode back to the master bedroom to turn off the alarm.
“I’m the boss in this house and what I say goes, got that?” He kept the puppy firmly under his arm, out of harm’s way, off the carpet, and with those big imploring brown eyes out of his line of vision. Ben had been implored so much in the past two days—and had given in so often—he was making himself sick.
“When I say it’s time for bed, bedtime it is.” He continued the lecture as he headed back to the mess awaiting him in the kitchen. “That means I lie down, you lie down, and we both sleep. There will be no barking.” He stepped over the gate he’d put up across the kitchen doorway. “No whining. And if—that’s a big if—I deign to take you into the bedroom with me, there will be no more biting on the ears.”
Dropping the wad of paper towels on the puddle beneath the kitchen table, Ben soaked up the deposit, threw the towels in the special trash bag that would leave the house with him that morning, poured a generous amount of disinfectant on the soiled spot and with another wad of paper towels mopped that up, too.
Only then did he put the puppy down. One set of urine-wet paw prints traipsing across the floor was enough for him. He was learning quickly.
Buddy, which was what Ben had called the dog so far, darted around puppy-style, falling as much as he ran, coming to rest suddenly by a leg of the kitchen table.
“No!” Ben hollered, grabbing him up before more damage was done. He took the puppy out the sliding glass door off the kitchen and out into the yard, where the little guy did his business. Ben was pleased. Between the two of them, they’d gotten it right that time.
Yes, Ben praised himself, all in all, the training was coming along nicely.
Shut in the bathroom with Ben, Buddy whined the entire time Ben was in the shower. Whether because he missed his master or because the sound of water scared him, Ben wasn’t sure.
And because it couldn’t be proved either way, he chose to believe that Buddy missed him.
“I’ve got school this morning, Bud,” he said as he dried off, pulled on some briefs and stood before the mirror to shave.
Buddy chewed on his toes.
And then on the new bath rug Ben had purchased the day before to replace the one Buddy had chewed Saturday night when Ben had shut the puppy in the bathroom so he could get some sleep.
“We’ve already been over this,” Ben explained as he pulled the rug off the floor and flung it over the side of the tub. “No chewing on my things. Not on me, my rugs, my clothes or shoes, not anything that I don’t hand directly to you. Got that?”
The eight-week-old wad of fur stared up at him, his big brown eyes expectant as he waited for the games to begin anew.
“Don’t forget, my man, Zack said I could bring you back if I found you were too much to handle,” Ben threatened.
Zack Foster was the local vet—half of the Shelter Valley veterinarian clinic’s team. Zack’s partner, Cassie, had been out of the office—out of town—when Ben went there Saturday, looking to start his new family. He and Zack had hit it off immediately, spending half an hour talking about the town, what there was to do in the area, baseball scores and the chances of the Phoenix Suns making it to the playoffs that year. By the time he’d gotten around to his reason for being there, Ben had gladly taken the runt-of-the-litter Zack couldn’t find a home for. He’d given away the other three, but he’d had no takers for this one—and now Ben thought he knew why. But he’d assured Zack that no six-pound squat-bellied thing whose front and back legs couldn’t agree was going to get the better of him.
There was no way, after that grandiose speech, that Ben could return the little bugger. But Buddy didn’t have to know that. It wasn’t beneath Ben to use whatever tactics he must to establish his authority in the house, once and for all.
Ready for class, in spite of his high-maintenance housemate, Ben was just about to head out when he made a mistake. He looked at those big brown eyes.
Dropping his backpack on the floor, Ben ran to his bedroom, grabbed the only spare blanket from the linen closet, ran back to the kitchen and made a bed for the little guy against a cupboard—on top of which stood the radio, turned down low and set to a classical station. Moving the water dish, and the potty pad, too, he gave the puppy one last scratch behind the ears.
“Wish me luck.”
Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he locked up and climbed into his truck.
He’d been waiting more than half his life for this day.
It had finally begun.
CHAPTER THREE
THE CAMPUS WAS beautiful. Though grass was at a premium in this desert town, Montford’s lawns were green and lush, so velvety thick Tory had an urge to lie down in it and pass the day there.
She might have, too, if her kill-’em-with-love drill sergeant wasn’t marching along beside her. Students milled all around them, moving with purpose, every single one of them looking as though they belonged.
“You’re going to do fine,” Phyllis was saying. Not that Tory had expressed her fears this morning. Phyllis just knew she was feeling them.
“You’re sure you tested me on every aspect of the Emerson years?” Tory asked for the third time that morning.
“You know it, Tory,” Phyllis assured her. “You had a lot of it down before we even started yesterday.”
Tory shrugged, feeling stiff in her sister’s suit and low heels. Tory was used to less-formal clothes. And higher heels. Christine’s feet had been half a size larger than Tory’s, but Phyllis had fixed that with some inserts. They’d go shopping for Tory’s school clothes later in the week.
“I had no idea I’d retained so much from when I helped Christine study.”
“I’d guess it was a good diversion from whatever else might have been going on in your house.”
Tory stumbled, still not used to Phyllis’s open way of talking about her and Christine’s painful up-bringing. She wondered how Christine had dealt with her friend’s honesty. Wished, suddenly engulfed by an unexpected surge of grief, that Christine were there so she could ask her.
“You’ve had your meeting with Dr. Parsons,” Phyllis said, motioning toward the sidewalk on the left when they came to a fork. “He didn’t suspect anything, and he was your toughest sell. The others who interviewed Christine only saw her for a few minutes back in April and then never spoke with her again. Christine got her hair cut. Had a makeover and lost a little weight over the summer, most recently due to her car accident.”
“Dr. Parsons sure was nice,” Tory said, relaxing just a little as she replayed her early-morning meeting with the president of Montford University. He’d asked about the car accident and been very sympathetic about her sister’s death, agreeing not to say anything to anyone else about it, as no one knew her sister or knew that her sister had been coming to town. He understood her need to grieve in private.
“He seemed to have a real affection for Christine, though he seemed surprised that she cut her hair.”
“You cut your hair,” Phyllis corrected, slowing as they came to the side door of an old brick building. “You can’t keep thinking of Christine as someone else if you’re going to pull this off.”
Tory looked up at the imposing building, afraid that it was their destination, that Christine’s new office, her new colleagues, were in there.
“You make it sound as though we’re criminals,” Tory told Phyllis, staving off the panic that could send her right back into Bruce’s clutches.
“I’m not up on criminal law,” Phyllis said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we’re breaking a couple of laws.”
Tory had been so caught up with the emotional trauma inherent in the entire situation, she hadn’t even given a thought to the legal issues.
“You know, I’ve spent years ignoring the laws that were supposed to help me, because in my case they never worked. So I’ve never even thought about the ones I might be breaking.”
She looked at her new friend, an angel sent to her from heaven—if there was a heaven. And turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“We can’t do this, Phyllis. Risking my life, my freedom, because the alternative is no better, is one thing. But I won’t risk yours.”
Grabbing Tory’s arm, Phyllis pulled her toward the door. “If I am breaking a law, that’s my choice,” she said firmly. “You may think I’m the only friend Christine had, but I know she was the only real friend I’ve ever had, and I’m not letting her down. Or you, either. Let’s go.”
Perhaps it was a sign of her cowardice. Or weakness. But Tory went.
And two hours later, when she stepped into the first college classroom she’d ever been in—the first of five she’d be stepping into that week—when she saw the rows of desks, the students sitting there, and walked right past them to the front of the room, she refused to let the weakness show.
She was Christine Evans. The best damn teacher any one of those intimidating intelligent students had ever had.
IN A CHAIR right in the middle of the room—not so far back that he wasn’t a part of things and not so close to the front that he missed what was going on behind him—Ben watched as his fellow classmates filed in and took their seats. So far, he was the oldest of the bunch. Not too many seniors took American Literature 101.
Still, he wasn’t daunted. Or even the slightest bit disappointed. This was his classroom. His school. His day.
Pulling out the black spiral-bound notebook he’d bought for this class and a new pen, he sat back and waited for his teacher to arrive. C. Evans.
Was “C.” a man or a woman?
Listening as a rather immature boy, clearly fresh out of high school, tried to pick up the blond cheerleader-type in the back of the room, Ben smiled. He felt the way Buddy had looked in the bathroom that morning.
Let the games begin.
A young woman walked in just then, clearly fresh out of her high school, if the confident tilt of her head was anything to judge by. Ben’s euphoria faded just a little as he watched her. Overdressed compared to the rest of the shorts-clad students, she stood out in her proper blue suit and white blouse. And she was far too striking to be wearing the no-nonsense pumps she had on.
What bothered him, though, wasn’t her clothes. Or even her confidence. It was the way his nerves tensed when she passed his desk. He’d been looking at female students all morning, and he could have been looking at a herd of cattle for all the reaction they aroused in him.
Staring down at the desktop in front of him, at his notebook lying there ready and open, Ben avoided noticing where the young woman sat. He wasn’t in the market for an attraction, a flirtation or a romance. Or anything at all that had to do with a woman. Maybe once he’d graduated, enough time would have elapsed and he’d be willing to venture down that road again. Maybe. But for sure, it would be no sooner than that. He wasn’t going back to working till he dropped, working at dead-end jobs just to pay the rent.
“Okay, everybody, let’s get started, shall we?”
His gaze shooting toward the front of the room, Ben came to attention. He’d been so set on ignoring one of his fellow students, he hadn’t even realized the teacher had come in.
Yes, he had. He just hadn’t known she was his teacher.
C. Evans. A woman. The suit.
Damn.
She looked straight at him, almost as though she’d read his thoughts, and Ben received his second jolt of the day. Her eyes, so compelling, so full, held his, and he sensed, somehow, that she was speaking to him. And what she had to say was far more intense than anything to do with American literature. For a few brief seconds, it was as though only the two of them were in that room.
“I’m Christine Evans,” she said, breaking eye contact with him. After glancing around at the rest of her students, she focused on him again.
Her look wasn’t sexual. Wasn’t the least bit suggestive. It seemed more as if she was searching for a friend. And that she’d chosen him.
Ben couldn’t accept the honor.
Glancing away from her, he observed the rest of the students in the room. Had any of them noticed the odd communication? Had any of them experienced it, as well, when Ms. Evans had looked at them? All the students in his line of vision seemed young, inexperienced, oblivious. So much so they didn’t recognize the undercurrents? Or were there simply none being sent their way?
“This syllabus covers the entire semester, and we’ll be following it exactly,” Ms. Evans was saying, passing around handouts.
She hesitated beside his desk, then dropped the stapled sheets on his notebook and moved on.
“Since I’m brand-new to town, I don’t know a single one of you, but I’m usually pretty good with names, and I expect to have them all learned within a couple of days. Until then, please bear with me.”
Like him, she was a newcomer.
“We’ll take a few minutes to go over the syllabus,” she went on, “plus my requirements of you and the expectations for this class, including the weekly essays you’ll have to write. Then we’ll be moving on to this week’s topic, the Emerson years…”
She might be new to town, but she clearly wasn’t new to teaching.
Ben settled in, making himself concentrate on what the teacher was saying with the same sheer strength of will that had seen him through eight years of toiling at jobs he hated so he could feed his baby girl. Nothing was going to keep him from getting his college degree.
Nothing.
“BEN? COULD I SEE YOU a minute?”
Ben stopped on the way out of his American literature class on Monday, the second week of class. His teacher wanted to see him.
“Sure.” Backpack hanging off one shoulder, he approached her desk. Stupid to feel underdressed in his shorts, T-shirt and sandals, but he did. Didn’t seem to matter to Christine Evans that it was over a hundred degrees outside. She’d worn a suit to class all four times they’d met.
Not that Ben had permitted himself to dwell on what the woman wore. At least not when he could help it.
She waited for the other students to finish packing up and leave the room, gathering her own stuff together at the same time. Ben started to sweat. He’d spent far too much of the weekend thinking about his English professor.
What secrets were hiding behind those big blue eyes? What made her expression so shadowed sometimes?
How old was she, anyway? And had she ever been married? Would she think him a fool for the mess he’d made of his own life?
Despite his resolve to allow no feelings to complicate his life, he could feel the woman’s sorrow. Maybe because it mirrored his own?
“I just wanted to speak with you about your piece on Thoreau,” Christine said when the last student had left the room. “Your portrayal of him as an intensely deep and lonely man, rather than the quack many considered him, was quite moving.”
“Thank you.”
She asked him a couple of questions about his research and he answered her. When she held the paper out to him, her hand was shaking.
“There’s a quarterly newsletter, The Edifice, for students of English to publish their work. I’d like to see you submit this to the editor for publication.”
Ben met her eyes. And looked away. “You think it’s good enough?”
“I do.” She nodded. “I’ve got the submission requirements and the address in my office, if you’d like to come with me now.”
No. He had another class to get to, all the way across campus. A finance class. Part of his business major. Although it didn’t start for another hour…The main thing was, he couldn’t afford to see any more of Christine Evans than the three hours a week he was required to sit in her class.
