One More Time (28 page)

“Score one for the good guys!” Naomi said, appearing so suddenly in Leslie’s office doorway that Leslie jumped. “Ha! I knew you wouldn’t be able to just step aside and let him have his way.”

Leslie spun in her chair, a little bit spooked by Naomi’s jubilant manner. “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

“Be serious. The whole department is talking about the lecture you gave your third year students yesterday.” Naomi punched her fist skyward. “Yes! Crabcake Coxwell says ‘no’ to higher grades for less work. Crabcake Coxwell says ‘no’ to full participation marks for just registering for her class.” Naomi perched on the credenza, nearly launching an avalanche of books and papers when she did so, her eyes sparkling. “Damn! I wish I could have been there. You were kicking some lion-ass!”

Leslie felt a little bit sick. Why hadn’t she remembered to check her contract for those possible reasons for termination? It wasn’t as if she’d had anything else on her plate this week. “Surely not everyone is talking about it.”

“
Everybody
. Even over in Classics, they’re all over it. You’re major hero material.” Naomi snapped her fingers. “Hey, you want a triumph, I can fix it right up. No problem.”

“I’m not sure I really need a triumphant procession into the department right now.”

“Department? No, I’m talking about an entry into the university, out in the streets, cheering fans, the whole bit.”

The idea made Leslie laugh. “Even you can’t fix that.”

“But I’d try. Seriously, Leslie, I admire you. Standing up to Dinkelmann when you have so much to lose. That’s something.”

It was, in fact, something that made Leslie feel as if her breakfast was going to make a curtain call.

“I mean, for me to buck him is nothing comparatively, but you’ve got so much to lose.” Naomi stuck out her hand. “Welcome to Team Good Fight. I knew I’d always looked up to you for a reason.”

Dinkelmann himself arrived right when Leslie and Naomi were shaking hands. Sadly, Naomi had left the door open, so he saw the whole thing. His gaze flicked between the two women with open disapproval and his lips thinned.

“Excuse me for interrupting, Dr. Coxwell, but there’s a matter I would like to discuss with you.”

His form of address told Leslie all that she needed to know about his judgment of her behavior the day before.

“Of course,” she said with a gracious smile that belied her inner turmoil.

“If you could come to my office in ten or fifteen minutes, I think we can deal with this before your next lecture.” There was a slight emphasis on the last word, which Leslie knew was an accusation. She agreed and he nodded, sparing only the barest glance to Naomi before he left.

“Trust him to change the field,” Naomi muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s always better to fight on familiar turf. And there’s the whole strategic advantage of having you come to him, on his terms. You watch, he’ll be sitting behind his desk, all his artillery mustered around him, and let you sit in one of the armless chairs opposite.” Naomi scoffed. “There’s a reason I always hated military history.”

For her part, Leslie was wishing she’d hated it a little less, or maybe studied it a little more. She might have moats and siege engines and Greek fire and, maybe, if she stretched to the end of her era, even the longbow.

But Dinkelmann had gunpowder. Cannons. Infantry and a paid standing army. Hell, he even had better maps, ones that didn’t say “here be dragons” all around the perimeter.

Leslie left her office, knowing she was sailing off the edge of the world, into
terra incognito
. It was only reasonable, given that she’d never defied expectation in this job, that she was feeling like dragon chow.

* * *

Matt’s past showed no inclination to remain placidly where it belonged. He told himself that it was only reasonable that he kept thinking of the woman with whom he had spent the last twenty years of his life, but it was unnerving to realize what a hold Leslie still had over his imagination.

He caught himself drifting into memory for the umpteenth time that afternoon and surrendered.

The Java Joint was a dump.

No real estate agent could have put spin on that place’s character and Matt had always been mildly amazed that no health inspector had ever shut it down. It had the layer of grunge typical of undergraduate housing, but mercifully uncommon in a retail establishment serving food. The kids working there were indistinguishable from the patrons and the music was so loud that you had to shout to place your order.

It was quieter at the tables, or the din was lower in the back corner where Matt and Leslie invariably met. He’d had to lean over the table to hear her, at least until he’d summoned the nerve to sit right beside her.

Come to think of it, that light of pleasant surprise at the sight of him had been a hallmark of her arrival from the very beginning. In those days, though, she’d smiled and blushed a little before she came to the table. They talked about everything and nothing, about politics and history and families and dreams—and gradually, he’d found pieces to the jigsaw puzzle of her life. She lived with a maiden auntie who had a house near the T if not near the university. She lived under rules more strict than he’d ever had to deal with, within a virtual cocoon designed to protect her innocence for marriage. She was supposed to be either at school, at her part time job at JC Penney or at her auntie’s. There were no other options. He’d understood early that there was no chance of their having a conventional date.

But they had the Java Joint. Weekly, then daily, then several times a day, they met and talked, and when he first kissed her, it had been at that table in the corner of the Java Joint.

Such sweetness. He could remember her surprise, her softness, her uncertainty. He had been sure then—and still was—that she had never been kissed before. He had felt protective of her because of that kiss, had been cautious about pushing her too far too fast as a result of it.

He brought her things. Silly things. A postcard from the pier. A seashell he’d found in Rosemount. The smallest gift gave her the greatest pleasure, and that told him more than he could have guessed about her background and her expectations. He’d brought her ridiculous, playful tokens, things calculated to make her smile: olives from Little Italy and stories of going to the theater. He remembered how she’d fingered those ticket stubs, souvenirs as they were of a world far beyond the boundaries of her own. And that had given Matt ideas, perhaps ideas that would have frightened Leslie’s father as much as the ideas that man had feared young men would have about his precious daughter.

Over time, Matt had encouraged Leslie to take some adventures during the day: a furtive trip to Gardner Museum had been the first. Then there was another to the Museum of Fine Arts, lobster at Johnny’s—at lunch—veal piccata in Old Town, a Red Sox game on a spring afternoon. He was an ambassador for the city of Boston, all the while falling more deeply in love with a woman so sheltered yet so willing to embrace the world.

To embrace him. He figured out how to make her laugh, how to persuade her to show him more of her own quirky humor. He earned her confidence in easy steps and found so much more than he had expected. Leslie had a thousand layers of armor, a remarkable self-control that protected the best of herself from casual view. She shared that jewel with those closest to her.

When had he lost access to the treasury?

Was that why he had been so convinced that he had to leave? Matt didn’t know, but the reappearance of Leslie’s humor in their conversations made him realize how much she had slipped away, and that without him noticing.

Could he be part of the reason for the distance between them?

They had been dating—if that’s what it was—for a year before she came to his apartment at lunch one day. It was autumn again, later, closer to Thanksgiving. Matt could remember how the dead leaves swirled around their feet as they walked in silence across the campus. It had been cold, the wind whipping at his cheeks, but he hadn’t been able to feel beyond the soft heat of Leslie’s hand in his.

And he was nervous. He felt as if he was walking a schoolgirl across the park. He was certain that Leslie couldn’t feel the same lust that he did. He was going to explode if they didn’t make some progress on the intimacy front, but he was halfway convinced that she would run away from him if he tried anything.

He was not entirely sure of his strategy.

He and a buddy rented an apartment close to campus, more of a dump than the apartment on Inman Square proved to be, but infinitely more private than the Java Joint. His buddy had been banished, the apartment was clean—or cleaner than it even had been or would be again during their tenancy—this was as good as it was going to get.

“Well, here it is.” He unlocked the door with a flourish, feeling brilliantly inarticulate. He needed a smoother move than any of the ones he had, that was his last thought as Leslie crossed the threshold. He followed her, wondering what to do, and was assaulted as soon as he closed the door.

“Really kiss me this time,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with anticipation.

Leslie still kissed with sweet ferocious heat, that would never change—it was the frequency of kisses that had changed over the years. Nor, in fact, would his surprise at her hidden passion ever change. He should have learned that truth that day when they were entwined on the couch. He unfastened her sweater to find her wearing the most sexy black satin bra he’d ever seen in his life.

He was struck speechless. The lingerie was so incongruous with her outward appearance, so mischievous, sexy and playful. He looked at her and shook his head. She blushed but laughed.

“I like lingerie,” she admitted. “A lot. That’s why I work at JC Penney, so I can buy what I want.”

“I thought you needed money for school.”

“No, I could earn that during the summer. This is for me.” She said this last with such defiance that Matt had a sudden insight into what it cost to live her father’s dreams, to always fulfill his expectations. He saw that she would fight for her lingerie, and maybe for more of her own choices in time.

He shook his head and smiled. “I’m surprised.”

“You’ll never catch me in a white cotton sport bra.”

“Will I catch you in this?”

Her smile turned wicked. She lifted his hand to her breast, then feigned surprise. “Caught!” she said and, triumphant, he kissed her laughter away.

It was a telling recollection. Leslie fooled the world with her demure exterior, sometimes even fooled him into forgetting how deeply she cared. Matt Coxwell stopped cold in a quiet street in Algiers and wondered whether he had been fooled again.

He certainly hadn’t been checking on his wife’s lingerie collection lately.

Was it possible that she wouldn’t have condemned his choice if he’d confided in her?

No, he reasoned, starting the trek back to Sharan’s house. No, he was giving credit where it wasn’t due, he was sure of it, though a voice in the back of his thoughts nagged him about the possibility. Leslie had said herself that she had wanted him to take a job with his father, which any idiot could see would be a bad choice for Matt, just so that she could pursue her own ambition, whatever it was. Leslie saw what Leslie wanted and nothing else. Matt should know that well enough by now.

Funny how he couldn’t stop thinking about that black satin bra, or even his own surprise at its discovery.

* * *

It was no consolation that Naomi was right.

Dinkelmann was behind his desk—a vast expanse of actual oak in contrast to the chipboard with wood-grain-paper-veneer special in Leslie’s office—hands braced on its surface, the wall behind him chock-a-block with books. No, they were
tomes
. The window in his office looked over the tranquil quadrangle and the snow there cast a bright white light into the room.

They exchanged greetings, then Leslie claimed one of the straight chairs positioned for guest. It was a cheap chair with a plastic seat and wobbled disconcertingly. She thought of Naomi and wondered whether the choice was deliberate. Meanwhile, Dr. Dinkelmann spun slowly in his five-legged, leather-upholstered, ergonomically-designed chair and regarded her solemnly.

He did that for a long time, but Leslie resisted the urge to fidget like a toddler caught with one hand in the cookie jar. She sat, perfectly straight, didn’t wobble the chair, and stared back.

He abruptly leaned forward and templed his fingers together, the image of paternal concern. Seeing as Leslie had at least a decade of experience on him, it irritated her. “Leslie, Leslie, Leslie. I’ve heard the most troubling stories about your lecture yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Really. I can only conclude that I was right to encourage you to take a leave of absence and that your enthusiasm for teaching has led you to overestimate your capabilities.”

Leslie was pretty sure that she wasn’t the one overestimating her capabilities. “Thank you for your concern, Dr. Dinkelmann, but I don’t happen to share your concerns.”

“Even after yesterday’s lecture?”

“Even after yesterday’s lecture. I’ve been thinking about the encouragement of excellence and am convinced that the way to do so is to demand more of students, not less.”

“That’s clearly contrary to our discussion earlier this week.”

“But consistent with my experience, all the same. Even my own daughter will take advantage of any opportunity to do less, though encouragement will invariably prompt her to do more.”

“You would base your management of a university class with your experience in raising your daughter?”

“And with teaching other university classes.” Leslie smiled. “I think it’s a better plan than basing my teaching patterns on marketing decisions.”

Dinkelmann’s eyes widened. “I must confess that I’m surprised to find you possessed of such a defiant attitude, Dr. Coxwell. You’ve always worked well with me in the past.”

Leslie took a deep breath, knowing that she was leaping into the abyss without a parachute. “There are principles worth fighting for, Dr. Dinkelmann. I do not believe that excellence is encouraged with lassitude and I do not believe that any academic purpose is served by lowering expectations and standards.”