Second Time Around (9 page)

“No. I’m what you might call a dessert dilettante.”

The older woman in the purple dress wagged her index finger. “Don’t sell yourself short, young lady. I know a thing or two about baking. It’s an art and a science.”

“I suppose,” Anna said.

Jamie slung her arm around Anna. “I always knew she was destined for greatness. We were housemates back in our college days. Both English majors.”

“But you’re baking cakes now?” one of the student waiters asked as he passed by with a tray of empty water glasses.

“Yep,” Jamie said.

“And she’s an event planner,” Anna said. “We English majors are very versatile.”

“Cool.” The waiter nodded. “That gives me hope.”

“Why? You’re an English major, too?” Jamie motioned for him to pause so she could adjust his crooked black bow tie.

“Yeah, my parents keep harping on me to study something quote-unquote ‘practical.’” He heaved a weary, put-upon sigh. “They want me to sell out to The Man and be a corporate bean counter or whatever. But I told ’em I’d rather be poor and authentic than rich and spiritually bankrupt.”

“If I may offer a word of advice …” Jamie said.

Anna’s cell phone rang and Jonas’s name flashed on caller ID, so she turned away as Jamie launched into an arm-waving, frothy-mouthed rant on the many benefits of selling out to The Man.

“Look into law school!” Jamie exclaimed. “You’ll thank me later.”

Anna ducked under the trellis, flipped open the phone, and said hello with deliberate casualness.

“Hi.” Jonas sounded even more guarded than she did. “How’s it going up there?”

“Great, actually. The cakes turned out better than I expected and I decided to do a bunch of old-school pastries to commemorate the sesquicentennial anniversary theme.” She went on in this vein for several minutes before she realized he wasn’t responding. She broke off and asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He coughed. “It’s just—my boss wants to send me to Europe to review the production records at the new factory in Brussels.”

“Really?” She brightened. “That’s wonderful!”

“I didn’t think you’d be in favor.”

“Are you kidding me? Free trip to Europe? Of course I’m in favor. When do we leave?”

He paused. “That’s the thing.
We
wouldn’t be going. Only me.”

“Is that the company’s decision, or yours?”

“A little of both.” Another pause. “I think you and I could use some time apart.”

“Oh.” Anna swallowed back her fear and frustration and asked, “How long will you be gone?”

“Not long. A few weeks, maybe two months.”

“Two months!”

“I know,” he said. “Two more ovulations you’ll never get back.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He sounded rushed and rehearsed, as if he’d been dreading this conversation all day. “Look, my boss has been hinting that I might be up for a promotion if this trip goes well, and I was thinking we could use the extra money to—”

“Try in vitro again?” She perked up.

“No. We’re done with IVF. I told you, it’s time to move on.”

“I see.” And with that, she put her emotions on autopilot and focused on getting to the end of this conversation without any more dashed hopes or hurt feelings. “Well, if you’re worried about wasting
your
money, you shouldn’t. I’ve already
offered to use my inheritance from Arden to pay for all our future fertility treatments.”

“That’s not what that money is for. Her lawyer specifically said you’re supposed to put it toward paying off debt and starting a new career, and I agree. With your freelance work drying up and everything that’s going on between us right now, I think it’s good you have a hobby.”

She let that comment hang between them for a moment.

Too late, he realized his misstep. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Allow me to enlighten you about a few things,” she said primly. “First of all, baking isn’t a hobby, it’s a science and an art form.” He started to say something, but she cut him off. “Second, you were right about us needing a break. Go do whatever it is you need to do over in Brussels, and I’ll hole up here for a while with the girls.”

“And when I get back? Will we be okay?”

“Let’s be honest, Jonas. We haven’t been okay for a long time. A couple of months and a few time zones aren’t going to make a hell of a lot of difference at this point.”

“You’re mad.”

“Honestly, I’m not.” And to her surprise, she realized this was the truth. Her anger had dulled into a steady, almost soothing numbness.

“Okay. I’ll call you?”

She stared up at the thick green tangles of ivy. “If the spirit so moves you.”

A few moments after Anna hung up, Jamie rushed over. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her freckles. “See that woman over there in the navy pantsuit and the pearls?” Jamie pointed out a genteel-looking lady with fabulous shoes and
an elegant silver pageboy. “She wants me to coordinate her daughter’s wedding next month. Just like that! We’re meeting tomorrow morning to go over the details. I’m going to have a real client. I’m officially an event planner! This is so much easier than I thought it would be!”

Anna forced a smile. “That’s great, Jame.”

“And she wants you to do the cake. She says she’ll pay whatever you charge.”

“Sure. Of course. No problem.”

“And I was thinking we could—” Jamie broke off mid-sentence when she noticed Anna’s expression. “Oh boy. What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You lie.”

“I lie,” Anna admitted. “Do you think Brooke would mind if I moved up into one of her spare bedrooms for few months? I think my break with Jonas may be turning into a breakup.”

C
ait leaned back in her chair and assessed the total lack of progress she’d made that morning.

The blank computer screen and blinking cursor seemed to demand she fill the space with something worthy of her potential. Something insightful and moving. All these years, while she studied and lectured and ducked-and-covered through the front lines of departmental politics, she’d sensed deep down that her real talent lay in writing rather than researching.
If only
, had been her wistful refrain.
If only
she could eke out the time and resources to apply herself to her true calling.

Well, here she was, hunkered down in Henley House of
all places, with her laptop and the whole day stretching out in front of her, and nothing to do but write. Days and weeks and months ahead.

And nothing to do but write.

She chewed her lower lip and clicked open her Web browser to check email again. A flock of Canadian geese flew over the house, honking madly, and Cait realized that, though the breeze this afternoon was still warm, soon enough she would awaken to find frost on her windowsill. The nights would get longer, the tree branches would go bare, and another season of her life would be gone.

The cursor kept winking, ticking off the passing seconds with unrelenting precision.

Screw this
. She switched off the computer and got to her feet, determined to salvage something of the day. Maybe a brisk walk through town would jump-start her creative juices.

She changed into dark jeans and a fitted green T-shirt, shoved her feet into flip-flops and then, without stopping to analyze her motives, ducked into the bathroom to scrunch a bit of shine wax into her long reddish-brown hair and swipe on a bit of lipstick and mascara.

Her mood improved dramatically as soon as she stepped outside. She turned her face up to the sun and wandered past houses and parks and the public library with no particular goal in mind, until she found herself turning right at the intersection of Birch Street and Highland Avenue, which just happened to be where Professor Gavin Clayburn had lived when she was an undergraduate.

Not that she’d
stalked
him or anything. God, no. She’d never been that unhinged, even in her hormonal heyday. But
Thurwell was a very small town, and since she hadn’t had a car in college, she’d mostly gotten around on foot. She’d just happened to enjoy the scenery in Professor Clayburn’s neighborhood.

Her pace slowed as she approached the white clapboard two-story house with green shutters and screened front porch. In the fading daylight, she could make out the name “Clayburn” on the mailbox. She paused for a moment, staring at the tidy lawn and the dark windows. Just as she turned around to head back toward the college campus, a classic wood-paneled Jeep rounded the corner and pulled in to the driveway of the white and green house.

Cait darted across the street and crouched behind a parked minivan. She held her breath as the teacher who’d played such a prominent role in her postadolescent fantasies emerged from the Jeep.

Wow
. He looked even better than she remembered: broad shoulders, long limbs, and thick, dark hair falling over his forehead. Nary a trace of an Arthurian mullet. And somehow, his blue chambray shirt and subdued blazer only served to enhance his air of rugged masculinity. He looked commanding, capable.

He also looked irritated.

“Hey, you!” Professor Clayburn tossed his briefcase back into the car and pointed at her.

Cait gasped and instinctively glanced behind her.

“Yeah, you!” He charged into the street. “I see you. I know what you’re doing!”

Panicking, Cait staggered backward. The side of her face slammed into the crossbar of a For Sale sign hanging in the yard behind her, and her line of vision exploded into a
hundred popping flashbulbs. She dropped to her knees, cupping her cheek.

She heard footsteps pounding and then his voice as he crouched down beside her. “Are you okay?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head. “I … ouch.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She felt his fingers trail along her temple and pry her hand away from her face. Then he announced, “You’re gonna have a black eye.”

“I was just out for a walk,” she stammered. “I wasn’t, you know,
doing
anything.”

“Of course not.” Now he sounded as chagrined as she did. “This is all my fault. Again, I apologize. I thought you were one of my overzealous female students. Every now and then, one of them gets carried away and sort of, well,
stalking
sounds over the top, but—”

Cait’s cheek ached when she smiled. “Actually, I find that easy to believe.”

He froze, staring at her. “I know you.”

“You used to.”

“Hang on. Don’t tell me.” He snapped his fingers. “Irish Literature, right? Second row?”

“Ding, ding, ding. I took your Romantic Poetry seminar, too.” She extended her right hand. “Caitlin Johnson. Graduated ten years ago. I’m surprised you remember me. I barely said a word in class.”

“I remember your papers. Very insightful.” He took her hand in his and guided her toward his house. “Okay, Miss Johnson, let’s get some ice on that eye before it swells shut.”

“Call me Cait,” she said. “‘Miss Johnson’ makes me feel about eighteen.”

“Then you have to call me Gavin. ‘Professor Clayburn’ makes me feel about seventy-five, and I’m probably only seven or eight years older than you.”

“Thirty-two,” she confessed.

“Forty next month.”

He ushered her up the front walk, through the sparsely decorated screened porch, and into a small white kitchen where every available surface—the table, the counters, even the stovetop—was littered with books.

She nodded toward the literature-laden burners. “I take it you’re not much of a chef?”

“I gave up after I burned a can of soup. Guys like me are why sandwiches and pizza delivery were invented. My housekeeper has given up trying to organize the clutter. She just cleans around the piles now.” He rummaged through the top shelf of his refrigerator and handed her a cold can of Foster’s lager, which she promptly popped open and sipped.

He looked taken aback for a moment, then grinned. “I meant that for your eye, actually, but by all means, drink up.”

“Oh.” Heat flooded into her cheeks. “
Oh
. Right.”

“I don’t have any ice packs and I’m out of frozen vegetables, so a cold beer’s the best I can do.” He handed her another can for first-aid purposes, then rummaged through the cabinet next to the sink. “Now, before you chug the rest of that, take a quick water break and swallow these.”

He tapped two white tablets out of a bottle.

She glanced at the label. “Excedrin Migraine? But I don’t have a headache.”

“The caffeine will help your blood vessels constrict to prevent swelling,” he explained. “Tonight, you’re going to want to keep your head elevated. Sleep with a few extra pillows and
try not to put pressure on this side of your face. Keep putting cold compresses on it for the next day and a half, then switch to a heating pad or a hot-water bottle.”

“You sure know a lot about black eyes. Are you an EMT in addition to being an English prof?”

“Nah, I played hockey in high school.” He leaned back against the counter and gave her a long, assessing look.