Learning Curves (6 page)

He shook his head at her erroneous conclusion. “We’re not dating.”

Stephanie didn’t even try to hide her disbelief, taking in the clear evidence of the passionate embrace that still lingered like disreputable clues. She didn’t press the subject.

“It’s all right, Stephanie.” Leanne’s innate honesty compelled her to interject before the dancer grilled Brandon on their plans any further. “I don’t think I’d be able to come in any case.”

“I have two free tickets, you know.”

Leanne turned in shock, certain she must have misheard him. Surely, after everything they’d said moments before, there was be no way Brandon would want her near him. Not with a ten-foot pole.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have two free tickets. Everyone in the production gets them. I haven’t given mine away yet, so if you wanted them, you’d be more than welcome.” He smiled wryly. “Think of them as a peace offering, if you will.”

She was surprised by how much she appreciated his offer. It warmed her to know that despite their volatile interactions, he was still considerate enough to offer the tickets. He wasn’t a jerk. She’d known that from the first night. While her irrational behavior might drive her crazy, it wasn’t fair to blame him for her weakness.

She smiled but shook her head. “I can’t. But thanks. Really.” She didn’t elaborate and she hoped Brandon would be able to make out the message between her words too. From the ironic but not unfriendly twist of his lips, she knew he had.

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will.”

They both knew she wouldn’t.

She paused, unsure of what else she should say, but Stephanie saved her from further excuses.

“I was supposed to meet everyone at the bar, like, fifteen minutes ago.” Stuffing her cell phone back in her jacket, she flung an affectionate peck against Brandon’s cheek before lifting a hand in Leanne’s direction. “Later!” Her hair bounced and swayed as she scurried away under the protection of the portico. Brandon and Leanne watched her go wordlessly.

She turned back to him and was struck anew by his masculine beauty. She felt a momentary pang of regret, knowing such an appealing creature would never settle for someone like her: someone average and boring and routine. She quashed the thought, grateful for the détente they seemed to have achieved, and determined to put her brief bout of madness behind her for good.

“Good night, Brandon.” She pushed up her umbrella and swung it above her head. As she stepped into the night, Brandon replied, his words muffled by the heavy fall of rain.

“Good night, Leanne. Take care.”

The phone was ringing when she unlocked the door to her apartment. All she wanted to do was strip off her wet, clammy clothes and slip into a hot, steaming shower but the insistent trill continued and Leanne felt compelled to answer it. Dropping her sodden book bag by the radiator, she moved quickly through the living room and grabbed the phone from its cradle.

“Hello?”

“Leanne, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you at home for well over an hour.”

Closing her eyes, she sent a brief prayer for patience skyward and forced herself to answer in a pleasant tone of voice.

“Sorry, Mom. I stayed on campus a little later tonight and turned off my cell while I was in seminar. Then Cassandra and I went to the faculty social.”

“Cassandra?” Her mother sniffed. “I suppose you spent the entire evening in some corner, talking university mumbo-jumbo. Were there
any
nice men there?”

“It’s not that kind of a social. It’s about networking and finding out about new research and stuff.”

Her mother sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Leanne. I mean, you’re my daughter and I love you, but it’s bad enough you’ve decided to spend the last three years of your life writing about some man named George who was in an old novel—”

Her mother could recall the name, date and location of every pageant she’d ever entered from the age of two, yet despite the fact that Leanne had told her the title of her dissertation no less than a half dozen times, she never seemed to remember the details of the writing project that had consumed her daughter’s life for nearly two years now.

“Georgian, Mom,” Leanne said tightly. “And it’s not a person, it’s a time period. I told you that already.”

The silence that met her correction told her she might as well have saved her breath. Like an implacable steamroller, her mother carried on.

“So let me tell you why I called,” she said, clearly working to change the subject. “I want you to come with me on Wednesday night.”

“Come with you where?”

“Marjorie’s. You must remember Marjorie Giles. You were in baton twirling with her daughter, Jennifer, when you were six.”

Where Leanne dropped the baton so many times, the instructor finally suggested—begged really—that she try another activity.
Any
other activity, if memory served.

Unaware of her daughter’s cynical mental commentary, she continued undeterred, “She’s started selling cosmetics since she retired from the Board of Education. Home parties. And she makes the best crab and cheddar dip. Don’t forget to remind me that I need to remember to get the recipe from her Wednesday night.”

Used to her mother’s circuitous conversations, Leanne let her continue, shimmying from her wet jeans as she listened.

“I thought we could go and you could get some new makeup,” her mother wheedled. “It might give you a little kick-start. Spark up your personal presentation so you can meet a man and start dating again.”

“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with my personal present—”

“Because it’s really past time, Leanne. I mean, your father and I have tried to be patient and support your desire for learning, but there comes a point, sweetie, where you have to realize that you’re not getting any younger. Take Steven. You couldn’t keep him long-term and he wasn’t even much of a man, anyway,” she said in what passed for love and supportiveness in her slightly skewed books. “Take it from me, sweetie—if you don’t start putting some serious effort into meeting a man now, all the good ones will be gone.”

“I don’t want to—”

“So, I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty and we can—”

“Mom,” Leanne shouted into the phone. Despite the miles between them, she could hear her mother’s startled exclamation at the disruption. “I’m not coming with you to Marjorie’s party.”

Silence met her pronouncement. It didn’t matter how many times Leanne told her mother that she was satisfied with her life; nothing she said ever seemed to sink in. Life, according to Sandra Galloway, was meant to be lived in pairs. Life outside of a couple, therefore, was not to be considered.

Yet a treacherous part of Leanne’s psyche couldn’t help but wonder if settling for contentment was enough. She wasn’t interested in living life according to her mother’s restrictive rules but surely even she deserved more than just that. Didn’t she deserve happiness too? And what about love?

But before she could ponder that startling notion any further, her mother interjected once again.

“Really? And why is that, pray tell?”

“I—I have plans.”

“A date?”

“No, not exactly but—”

“Not exactly? What does that mean? You either do or you don’t.”

“What I mean to say is…I’ve got tickets that night. For a performance,” Leanne said. “Modern dance.”

“Modern dance? Since when do you like modern dance? And more importantly, are you going with anyone?”

“Well, actually,” Leanne lied without a qualm, padding through the apartment with the phone tucked under her ear, “I just got the tickets this afternoon. In fact, I was going to call you and see if you wanted to come. I know how much you appreciate the arts.” Perched on the side of her bed, she peeled off her wet socks and tossed them in the hamper.

“Yes, I’ve always had a keen eye for that sort of thing,” her mother preened. “But there’s just no way I can. I’ve already promised Marjorie I’d bring my macadamia nut bars to her party. She’s counting on me.”

One handed, Leanne fished a dry pair of jeans and another pair of socks from her dresser and made a commiserating noise. “Oh, well, it sounds like it just isn’t going to work then but maybe another time—”

“What about your father?”

“Dad?” Leanne was so surprised her mother had even suggested it, she nearly dropped her change of clothes. Goodness knows Sandra Galloway had dragged her long-suffering husband to many a cultural event over the years, all in her quest to “improve herself” and meet the right sort of people. Her dad on the other hand was as happy to stay home and retreat to the comfort of his state-of-the-art, the-Starship-Enterprise-ain’t-got-nothing-on-it media room and watch the Golf Network on TV as he was going out on the town to a show.

“Yes, your father. Besides, I don’t want him sitting home, all by himself while I’m out Wednesday night. He’ll get lonely.”

Leanne smiled at the image her mother painted. If she knew her father, he’d relish a few hours of peace and quiet without the constant flow of conversation that emanated from her mother from the moment she awoke until the minute she laid her well-coifed head down on her color-coordinated, 400-count Egyptian cotton sleep set.

The sound of the receiver being set down was followed by her mother’s muffled shout. “Larry! Pick up the phone. It’s Leanne and she wants to talk to you about going to see the ballet.”

A pause and then another click as her father picked up the extension. From the background noise, Leanne’s guess about her father relaxing in the media room with the sports network on wasn’t far off. She smiled. Some things never changed.

“Hello, darling,” her father said in his low, soft voice. “What’s this I hear about me watching men in tights?”

“Not tights.” Leanne laughed. “I was invited to see a student production of modern dance at the university. Someone I know is choreographing it,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt at her attempts to stretch the truth. But it was a simple white lie. The alternative was explaining to her
father
that the choreographer was actually a one-night stand she’d picked up on a lark at the local strip club. There were some things her dad was simply better off not knowing. Clearing her throat, she continued, “So I have two tickets. Would you like to come?”

“Why not ask your mother?”

“She can’t. Marjorie’s home party is the same night.”

“Oh, I see. But are you sure you can’t find someone else you’d rather go with?”

Suddenly, Leanne found herself overwhelmed by a desire to spend some time with her father. More than anyone else in the world, he understood her insatiable curiosity and drive for learning. A mechanical engineer by training, he’d always encouraged her to develop her mind. When she was a child, he’d spent hours with her, touring museums and art galleries, driving her to and from the library, always bringing back a new book whenever he’d had to travel for work.

“No, Dad. I’d like to spend time with you. We don’t see each other as much now that I’m in my own place.” They lived only half an hour apart and saw each other regularly but with her mother’s inhibiting, albeit loving, presence, they rarely got to connect. “If you wanted, we could go out to dinner afterward. There’s a new Thai place on Cumberland. Julia says the food’s great.”

Pleasure lifted her father’s voice. “In that case, how can I say no?”

Making arrangements to meet outside the theater just before the curtain, they spoke briefly for a few more minutes before Leanne said goodbye, a smile on her face and a spring in her dry-footed step. It might have been a miserable day, but things were looking up. She wouldn’t bother Brandon for his complimentary tickets. They’d both rest easier if they simply went back to pretending that Saturday night never happened. She’d order two tickets online; then she could tackle another few essays before she finished reading the last sixty pages of the new academic journal she’d started on the weekend.

Sold out
.

The 8:00 p.m. performance for Wednesday, November 12th, at the Simon Baker Center for the Performing Arts was sold out.

Damn. Double damn.

She knew her father wouldn’t mind missing out on the performance. He’d be happy if they just went out for dinner and talked. But heaven help her if her mother got wind of the change. She’d instantly jump to the conclusion that the plans Leanne claimed prevented her from attending the makeup party had been entirely fictitious. And all hell would break loose.

Notwithstanding the fact that she’d be entirely correct, Leanne would rather suffer through a root canal without anesthetic than be subjected to the dubious combined charms of her mother and Marjorie Giles, cheddar and crab dip or no.

Think. Think. Think.

After fifteen minutes of gnawing her thumbnail, only one viable solution presented itself. And it made her heart sink in a swift, rapid descent that ended only when the organ was somewhere level with her ankles.

Four drafts of a three-line email later, Leanne finally felt satisfied her message struck the right tone between casual disinterest and pressing need. She scanned it one last time.

Brandon—Hi. If it’s not too late, I’m hoping you’ve still got those tickets for Wednesday’s performance. If the offer stands, you can leave them in my box in the English department. Tatum Hall, J102.

Leanne

PS—and if not, I understand completely. Really.

Was the postscript too much? Would he read into it more than she intended? She debated another moment. No, it was good enough. Clicking the send icon before she could change her mind, she sent the brief message winging through cyberspace before returning her attention to her marking. But her focus was undermined by the fact that between her shower, heating some soup for a late supper and marking essays, she checked her email with far more frequency than she normally did.

Her email program finally chimed just as she was climbing into bed. Telling herself she was just being conscientious, not eager, she clicked it open. One unread message. From Brandon. She opened the message gingerly, unsure of what to expect.