Hoops (4 page)

To the left of a pine table and chairs that made a dining area of one end of the living room was a compact kitchen with white cabinets and butcher-block countertops. She switched on a burner under the teapot and took a spoon from the drawer.

Just one, she told herself, scooping a heaping spoonful of Heavenly Hash ice cream directly from the carton in the freezer to her waiting mouth. She murmured with pleasure. If there was one thing she’d missed most in Europe, this was it . . . Five months was a long time without true Wisconsin ice cream, she justified as she took a second spoonful. And a third.

Resolutely she rinsed the spoon and started toward the bedroom. The ringing phone hurried her back to the kitchen. She caught it on the second ring, barely beating her answering machine. Her breathless hello drew a laughing response.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d just run all the way from Europe. But I hear you’ve already punched in for work—before you’ve even taken the time to tell me about all the fashions from Paris. How are you, Carolyn? Tell me all about the trip. Have you decided what you’re going to wear to the dance Saturday? Did you like that hotel I recommended in Paris? I hope it hasn’t changed too much over the years. One time I went back to a hotel after ten years and discovered it had converted to the hourly trade, if you know what I mean—no luggage necessary. So, how are you? Tell me everything. Oh, how silly, I didn’t tell you who this is. It’s Helene.”

Who else could it be? Carolyn smiled, switching off the burner. “How are you, Helene?”

Five months or five years away, no one could mistake Helene Ainsley’s scattergun conversational style. It was as different from Elizabeth Barron’s as the two cousins’ lives had been. A former model and fashion consultant, Helene’s bone structure still gave her a claim to beauty at age fifty.

When Elizabeth had become ill three years ago, Helene had left New York without a question to nurse her. She’d stayed at Ashton after Elizabeth’s death fourteen months ago, saying that she might as well retire there as New York, especially since the air was a whole lot better in Wisconsin.

“I’m fine. I always am. I wish I could get Stewart to take it easier, though. That man works too hard, just like you. What you both need is a good course in having fun.”

“Taught by Helene Ainsley, I presume.”

“Could be, could be. Who better?”

“No one, I’m sure.” The laugh faded from Carolyn’s voice. “How has Stewart been, Helene? Before I left, he seemed so—”

“I know. When Liz died, I wondered . . .  But these past few months I think he’s better. Do you know he even took a vacation up to the lake house? A whole week of just sitting around and fishing. Best thing for him. Now, when are you going to do what’s good for you?”

“Helene—” Carolyn tried to ward off the imminent lecture with little hope of success.

“What you need is someone to show you a good time, someone to light you up, make you glow. You’re too . . .  I don’t know, steady, I guess. You think too much. Everything neatly ordered, including your love life. I don’t suppose you did any high living over in England, did you?” Helene sighed deeply into the brief silence—silences were always brief with Helene. “No, I knew you wouldn’t. Probably not even in Paris, heaven help you. What am I going to do with you?”

“Well, you could start by going shopping with me,” Carolyn offered as a diversion from the you-need-a-man-in-your-life theme she knew would follow. “I need something for the dinner-dance Saturday.”

Perhaps a new belt or scarf to complement her black sheath. But she’d wait to tell Helene that. It would only start a lecture about her boring clothes.

C.J. Draper’s drawl floated into her head.
You ought to wear colors. Red. Green. Blue. Let ’em see you, instead of blending in.

She shook her head, and the voice was once more Helene’s.

“Done. Though why you didn’t buy some marvelous dresses while you were in Paris, I can’t understand. But I did see a few things at that new boutique at the mall that just might do. Pick you up in half an hour.”

* * * *

From the foot of her bed Carolyn contemplated the shopping bags cluttering its surface. What had possessed her?

Helene, of course. She’d been caught up in a shopping tornado that had accumulated the most unlikely objects in its funnel cloud of fashion and deposited them here on her bed. And if she wanted to go to sleep, she’d have to clear away the debris.

The first bag held a silky undergarment unlike any Carolyn had ever owned. She needed it because of the nearly backless teal dress Helene had convinced her to buy.

Carolyn gave a little sigh of pleasure at the crackle of the taffeta skirt as she pulled the dress out of its wrapping and carefully placed it on a padded hanger. The maneuver required care, because with no back, the tight-fitting bodice tended to fall off the hanger. At least she’d had the sense to withstand Helene’s first choice: a red silk dress cut so low that it was nearly front-less.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have given in to the teal dress, either. She could always return it. She’d think about it tomorrow, decide rationally and reasonably whether the dress was too, well, too something, for a professor at Ashton. And then she could always wear her black sheath.

She frowned as she folded a soft new royal blue sweater into the drawer. But perhaps some changes in style were in order, she thought as she hung up a red blazer. She didn’t want to become stagnant.

Maybe that explained her twinge of dissatisfaction when she’d surveyed her living room while waiting for Helene. The beige of her upholstery, drapes and carpet usually soothed her, but today it seemed bland.

She pulled three vibrantly colored pillows—red, yellow and blue—out of their bags and headed for the living room.

These ought to fix that.

She tried multiple combinations before settling on the red pillow on one armchair and the yellow and blue pillows layered in the far corner of the couch. She ran her hand over the texture of the blue pillow.

Monet blue
. The blue of the sky sharing the canvas with a sun-bright field of Monet tulips. The blue of a lake caressing serene water lilies... like C.J. Draper’s eyes.

Carolyn snatched her hand away and stood up. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought about him since he’d walked out of her office that afternoon.

At least she’d tried not to. But Helene extolling his virtues practically the whole evening had made it rather difficult. She’d heard how C.J. Draper had charmed the alumni; how he’d formed a team under difficult circumstances; how he’d won allies on the faculty; how he’d convinced Stewart to spend a week fishing.

Carolyn knew very well the purpose of that exercise. Helene meant to remind her, none too subtly, that C.J. Draper possessed charms her usual escorts lacked.

Helene had unstintingly described the visiting sociology lecturer Carolyn had dated before leaving for Europe as boring with a capital
B
. “And that anthropology professor before him wouldn’t cause a tremor on any Richter scale of excitement, either,” she’d told Carolyn after an unsuccessful dinner. “Come to think of it, the last one worth mentioning was the redhead who hung around Liz and Stewart’s house that summer I spent here. Whatever happened to him?”

“Tony Reilly?” Laughter and exasperation had warred in Carolyn. “I was fourteen that summer and Tony Reilly was fifteen.”

“So? Now you’re twenty-eight and he’s twenty-nine.”

“Yes, he’s also married with a child or two and selling insurance, I believe.”

“He could be selling cemetery plots and he’d be more exciting than these poker faces you’ve been seeing,” Helene had insisted.

To herself, Carolyn had admitted Helene might have had a point. Especially when it came to lovemaking. Either she couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about, or her few ventures were far below standard.

But the men she dated were long on academic credentials. She had concluded that if their company left her rather dissatisfied, then she must have failed, not them. Being reminded of that failing counted as one more item to chalk up against Ashton’s new basketball coach.

What he represented was bad enough. But to call her too young! He’d tried to rile her on purpose, too. And worse, he’d succeeded. But then there had been that easy friendliness when he’d told her about the photographs and, nearly as surprising, the moment she’d sensed another person half revealed in that flash of anger in her office.

She snapped the light off in the living room with unnecessary force. It was probably all an effort to keep her at a disadvantage. Sure, that was it. He knew she disapproved of the basketball program, and he wanted to keep her from watching him too closely.

Well, she wouldn’t fall for it.

And the reason she was haunted by vibrant blue eyes, a set of broad shoulders and that crazy, lopsided grin? Jet lag. That was all. Simple jet lag.

* * * *

Carolyn looked across the Meadow toward Lake Ashton from the window of the small classroom in Ripon Hall. Waiting to meet the basketball team elicited an odd mixture of assurance and uncertainty that she always felt before the first session of a class. But she was ready.

She’d gone over their files and noted points to cover. She’d carefully chosen her suit of russet brown gabardine and effectively disposed of the box of toffee that she’d found on her desk this morning, along with a note from C.J. Draper saying he hoped he’d found the right color.

She’d thrown the note out and contributed the toffee to the English department secretary’s sweet tooth. She would just as efficiently ignore any lingering thoughts about the donor.

The pen she held between her index and middle fingers tapped rapidly against the window ledge. She knew her ability; she knew she was a good teacher. That represented the known in this equation. The unknown consisted of ten young men who would walk through that door in the next few minutes. She’d already done her homework, she thought with an inner smile. Now it was their turn.

Their files had been a pleasant surprise. Six of the players were upperclassmen, juniors or seniors who had chosen Ashton well before the return of big-time basketball there. They had solid academic credentials. That left the four players recruited by C.J. Draper.

One had a strong academic background. A smile tugged at her lips. Thomas Abbott III might play basketball, but his admission essay made it quite clear he’d set his sights on law school and politics. He wouldn’t jeopardize that with poor grades.

Ellis Manfred was another situation. He’d graduated from a strict parochial school in a poor section of St. Louis. Though unspectacular, his grades and test scores showed steady ability. Steadiness from a student in that kind of neighborhood said a lot.

She wished Ellis Manfred could share some of that stability with Brad Spencer. Roller-coaster grades linked with test scores that widened her eyes meant getting Brad Spencer to produce could rank as a full-time project by itself.

That left Frank Gordon. She knew only two things about him: he was a junior transfer from a two-year school in Pennsylvania, and it was his file that C.J. Draper had somehow overlooked. That in itself roused suspicion. She could just imagine Frank Gordon—he’d probably be closer to twenty-five than eighteen, he’d be overgrown—body and ego—and his knowledge would be limited to street smarts and basketball courts. Probably a troublemaker. Just the sort of player she’d expect C.J. Draper to bring in. Setting Frank Gordon straight would be her first priority.

The door swung open and two players came in. With a surge of adrenaline and nerves, she moved to her customary position in front of the teacher’s desk to start matching faces with names and backgrounds.

She also made a mental note to find somewhere else to meet. From the players’ expressions, classroom desks took the leap from discomfort to torture when you were over six feet.

C.J. Draper’s four recruits were last. Ellis Manfred was the composed, polite black with intelligent eyes that didn’t miss a thing. Thomas Abbott III wore faded designer jeans, a faded blue work shirt and a white cashmere sweater, which Carolyn guessed cost as much as her suit. Brad Spencer, his blond hair casually styled, walked with a hint of a bounce on the toes of bright red high-tops that jammed up the bottoms of his black jeans. He needed the bounce to keep an arm hooked around the white-shirted shoulders of the player he came in with.

This last one must be Frank Gordon; no one else was left. He was certainly tall enough to play major college basketball; he had to be nearly seven feet. Other than that, he wasn’t at all what she’d anticipated. This was no rough troublemaker. With close-cropped brown hair and wide brown eyes, he seemed a sweet-faced boy. And he obviously felt ill at ease at being caught even at the periphery of the attention that Brad Spencer was now basking in like a cat in sunshine. While Brad exchanged good-natured gibes with the others, Frank slipped into a desk at the back of the group as unobtrusively as someone his size could.

She’d expected Bill Sikes and in walked an overgrown Oliver Twist. Chalk up another surprise from C.J. Draper.

Carolyn leaned back against the desk with a hand at either side of her and drew in a breath. “Good morning. I’m Carolyn Trent. I’m a professor of English literature....” Her introduction trailed off as ten faces shifted from her to the doorway.

“Morning, Professor,” C.J. greeted her. He sauntered in with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, pulling them even tighter around his lean hips. “Thought I’d sit in on this first session.”

Think again, Mr. C.J. Draper, she silently advised him with one raised eyebrow. She had no intention of sharing this forum with him. From the start she wanted it clear that to her these ten young men were students. His presence could only remind them of basketball.

The grooves in his cheek deepened as he met her look, but his lips didn’t betray the smile she was certain he’d suppressed. He started past the front desk, then stopped to look at her more closely.

She didn’t flinch. Not even when he shook his head and said that now that he’d seen her again, he had to admit toffee wasn’t quite right. Not even when the players chuckled a little, amused without knowing what he meant.