One More Time (9 page)

Only now did she realize how very much she had wanted Matt to want that partnership with his father. How terrific that he could choose to pursue his principles, while she was going to have to give undeserved A’s, sacrificing
her
principles to keep her job.

It wasn’t Leslie’s habit to feel sorry for herself, but she figured that she was past due and allowed herself five minutes of self-indulgence. Her face was on her desk, wet with tears, when the phone rang again.

It was the department secretary, she was sure, calling to request a course syllabus for a student to copy.

The phone kept ringing, long after the secretary would have been distracted by another call.

It was the library, then, about the reserved text list for her summer course load. Some volume was unavailable. It happened all the time.

The phone kept ringing, long after any reference librarian would have given up.

By the twelfth ring, Leslie knew damn well who was calling, but she still didn’t answer the phone. She called herself a chicken, but she really didn’t have the gumption to hear Matt tell her flat out that their marriage was over.

Maybe hope wasn’t really dead, after all.

She fingered the lacy edge of her power bra, closed her eyes and wished for things to miraculously get better. Maybe she could rewind her day and wake up all over again. No, she’d have to rewind the day before as well, go right back to the end of the trial then seduce Matt in the Subaru.

Even that might not set this straight.

The phone rang twenty-five times before he gave it up—she counted—and Leslie stared at it for most of those rings. She was shocked when it finally went dead.

Maybe Matt was gone forever. The possibility made Leslie want to crawl under a rock—preferably one made of bittersweet chocolate—and cry forever. Maybe gnaw on the rock periodically to console herself. She had been prepared to make a thousand sacrifices to stay married to Matt Coxwell, but if he was really gone, none of it seemed to have much point.

On impulse, she rustled up the change in her desk drawer and hit the vending machine in the foyer again. There were only Crispy Crunches left, but she wasn’t proud.

She bought all three of them and told herself she didn’t care who was looking.

One thing was for sure: if this wasn’t the worst day of her life, if days were going to get worse from here, Leslie was in serious trouble. She just didn’t have the artillery in her lingerie drawer to hold up for long under such duress.

And if she kept having chocolate for lunch, she’d need bigger panties. There was a depressing thought, but it didn’t stop her from finishing the third chocolate bar.

Lunch. That was lunch. Not a particularly balanced meal, but there you go. If this wasn’t a day to make exceptions, she didn’t know what was.

* * *

The gods had it in for Matt, because his day only got worse.

Which was saying something after that disastrous call to Leslie. Worse, he’d known she was there when he called back and she hadn’t picked up. He’d only given it up because they’d called his flight, but this wasn’t done yet.

Not by a long shot.

She hated her job.

And she’d never given him so much as a clue.

What the hell kind of trust was that?

His outgoing flight from Chicago was delayed two-and-a-half hours for a mechanical, which wouldn’t have been so bad except that they had boarded and the aircraft had been pushed back by the time the malfunction had been discovered. Someone had made a bad choice and concluded that the repair would be done quickly—and undoubtedly the gate was needed for another flight—so they sat on the tarmac, feeling the aircraft interior get more stuffy with every passing moment

Ultimately, they did depart, but the meal that had been scheduled for their enjoyment had to be trashed because it had been un-refrigerated too long. Matt doubted that he would have enjoyed it anyway. There was no replacement meal apparently available, or it would have delayed them further to have loaded it, but Matt didn’t care. He could do without another pizza thing in his life of ingestion, could do without more mystery meat having even a passing acquaintance with his gut.

Besides, they offered free drinks as compensation for the inconvenience.

Which meant that by the time Matt’s cab was cruising down Canal Street in the rosy late afternoon, he’d had at least twenty shots of Scotch and two tiny bags of pretzels since lunch the previous day.

On the upside, he really couldn’t tell anymore whether this was the worst day of his life or not.

Leslie had hated her job and he hadn’t had a clue. Now he could see that she’d stopped making jokes and stopped talking to him, and that he should have asked why. But instead, he’d been so absorbed in pursuing his newfound dream that he hadn’t noticed.

And he’d always thought he was a pretty sensitive guy.

So much for that self-delusion.

He strode into the hotel lobby, which boasted acres of wall-to-wall broadloom in glorious red, the hue of which prompted an unwelcome association. He smelled the faint whisper of mildew that is so pervasive in New Orleans, recalled the smell of blood, dropped his bags abruptly with the bellman and headed for the bar.

He was already too far gone to call Leslie back and have a decent conversation. He’d call her tomorrow.

Tonight, it was simpler to be drunk.

D
inkelmann heard about Leslie’s humiliation in record time.

He rapped on her office door within 30 minutes of her leaving the lecture hall, all solicitous concern, which only confirmed her suspicion that he had antennae tuned to staff failure. She stuffed the last piece of Crispy Crunch into her desk drawer, swallowed the bite in her mouth and tried to sound composed.

He was in her office before she realized that her eyes were probably swollen. He took a good look at her face and Leslie cussed under her breath.

It was easier to like Dinkelmann when he was an officious jerk. At least it felt honest. When he turned on the charm, this new department head with his love of sound bites and affection for appearances, Leslie just wanted to excuse herself and wash her hands.

Twice.

As it was, she was trapped in her woefully small office with the primary reason that she no longer loved her job. Or at least, Dinkelmann was the most recent reason, the coup de grace culminating a long battle with disillusionment.

He apologized prettily for not realizing that the dead Coxwell in the newspaper was a Coxwell related to her, made several insulting assumptions about the ability of women to deal with stress—which was remarkable for a man of his age—then suggested that Leslie take a week off.

She might have done it, if he hadn’t implied that she couldn’t be expected to do otherwise, what with her being female and all. She might have done it if she hadn’t had swollen eyes and chocolate crumbs on her skirt.

Leslie declined.

Then she insisted.

Finally, she argued with Dinkelmann, which did precious little to improve her mood, but at least got him out of her office. He paused in the hall and looked back, pert as a sparrow and as untrustworthy as a weasel on the hunt.

Perky in pink.

“I don’t suppose you’ve made much progress on your research lately?” he said, clearly knowing that Leslie had not. “I was looking back and it’s been several
years
since you had an article published. I recognize that it would be premature for you to have completed a book on such a complex subject, Leslie, but a few more recent credentials would be timely additions to your c.v.”

Leslie smiled, which was a better choice for job security than throttling the department head with her bare hands. “Thank you for the reminder, Dr. Dinkelmann.”

“You did have a splendid run of articles a few years ago. I was impressed by the caliber of the faculty I was inheriting in this department.” He smiled, showing all his perfect teeth, with all their perfect caps, in all their bleached perfection.

Leslie didn’t miss the threat. “Yes, it’s been a hectic few years, what with the new course load we’re all juggling, and I have more graduate students than I did before.”

“We all have our obligations, Leslie.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Dinkelmann waggled a scolding finger. “No, Leslie, no prevarication. You
will
do it. The dean is watching the achievements of the faculty with a close eye these days.” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly and then he was smart enough to leave.

Leslie slammed her office door and leaned her back against it, fuming silently. On the upside, she hadn’t bitten Dinkelmann—that had to be worth something. The man had left her office with nary a chomp mark upon his flesh—or at least, no more bites than he had had when he arrived.

Did anyone think Dinkelmann was bitable? Was there a Mrs. Dr. Dinkelmann, who couldn’t wait to get her hands on him, to get his pink shirt of choice off his back?

That was a scary prospect. Leslie definitely needed more sleep.

She also needed to be cloned to keep everybody happy—or maybe just to keep Dinkelmann happy. Of course, if she was just going to give every student an A in every course, that would cut down on the time she spent marking papers. Leslie was beginning to feel that academia was a lot more about showmanship than she’d ever imagined.

Or hoped.

But there was no escape. She had appointments with four of her graduate students this afternoon, who did need her help and direction and had contributed nothing to her current (bad) state of mind. She needed to summon up some serenity for them, and could only hope she wouldn’t bomb in her other lecture today.

Where
had
she stuffed the last piece of that Nestlé Crunch?

* * *

No messages.

There were no messages for Leslie when she got back to her office, and even though she lingered, her phone didn’t ring. She’d survived the lecture by relying on her notes, which had made for a painfully dry delivery, but those kids would live.

She wished on the drive home that she had a cell phone, something she’d never desired before.

But then, wouldn’t it be worse if she had a cell and it didn’t ring? Maybe ignorance was bliss, in this case. She charged through the front door of the house, hurrying as she never did, and headed straight for the answering machine.

It was better than noticing that the kitchen was gapingly, vacuously, alarmingly, empty. It was better than giving any attention to the fact that Matt wasn’t home, and wouldn’t be home anytime soon. She realized a little bit late how much she savored coming home to him each day—then wondered if he had any idea.

The light was flashing madly on the answering machine, which gave hope a surge, but not one that lasted. Leslie listened to message of condolence after message of condolence, all well-intended, all heartfelt. Each one made her expect that the next voice would be the one she most wanted to hear. She’d need to deal with the replies later, so she saved the messages, every last one.

Until there were no more. That was when Leslie’s heart plummeted to her toes with awful certainty. She really had done it. She really had driven Matt away for good.

One glance into the pristine kitchen told her all she needed to know about the merit of honesty. It had been easier to think about the truth before she got here and had to witness it.

She supposed she should be consoled that she didn’t have to be afraid of Matt leaving her anymore.

Leslie crossed the kitchen and hauled open the freezer door, looking for more tangible consolation. She intended to snag the carton of Chocolate Fudge Swirl ice cream that she knew was there.

It was gone.

And it didn’t take ten years of post-secondary education to figure out where.

Or more accurately, with whom.

The sliding glass door to the patio was left slightly open, testament to a passing teenager. Leslie noticed because of the cold draft swirling around her ankles. She braced her hands on the counter beside the sink and peered out the window, muttering “aha!” under her breath.

Annette was sitting in one of the plastic lawn chairs in her winter coat, snow around and undoubtedly under her, the carton of ice cream clutched in her arms. She was eating it with a tablespoon, eating right out of the carton in an outright violation of household cleanliness standards. She stared across the limited expanse of the backyard, almost certainly in open defiance of something.

Leslie admitted to herself—silently, because that was the only way she could face this particular truth—that the last thing her daughter needed was a carton of ice cream. Slow metabolism was the legacy Leslie had given to her daughter, maybe the only one she had to share, but while Leslie still fought the good fight, Annette had surrendered the battle early.

She watched her daughter for a moment, noting for the umpteenth time how long Annette’s legs had suddenly grown. The girl was sprouting, almost before her eyes: she must have grown a foot taller in the past year.

But it wasn’t enough. Annette would have to become nine feet tall to outpace her so-called baby fat, and Leslie couldn’t see that happening.

Everyone was comparatively short in her family, after all.

Leslie snagged herself a tablespoon, retrieved her coat, and shoved open the sliding glass door. Her daughter gave her the look of loathing she was starting to get used to.

She was never going to like it. That was another reason to not talk about Annette’s weight—the last thing they needed was another barrier between them. They had lots as it was.

“Hi,” Leslie said cheerfully and fetched herself a plastic lawn chair from the stack by the wall. She plunked it down beside Annette and dropped into it with a sigh.

Then, precisely because Annette expected something more from her, Leslie ignored her daughter.

Let
her
ask for a change.

It wasn’t bad outside, a bit chilly. Even though the houses were kind of close together in this particular neck of the woods, patio use was low on this particular night. Funny how that happened in January in Massachusetts. And here Leslie had thought New Englanders were supposed to be tough. She and Annette had the collective expanse of snow-covered lawn to themselves and it was blessedly quiet. Oh, there was the muted tinkle of people in their kitchens, maybe with a window open a crack, the muffled sound of distant laughter and car engines. The sky was that pretty shade of turquoisey-indigo it turns just before sunset.