The Cinderella Project (A Comedy of Love, #1) (20 page)

“Son,” he uttered solemnly, “I’m afraid I haven’t taught you quite as well as I would have hoped.” He closed up again, but I could sense he wasn’t finished. At last, he continued.

“Ya see, Nick, when I first saw your mother, she was as fresh and lovely as a summer morning on a mountain lake.” He gestured around. I got the picture. “Your mom moved me in a way I had never been moved by a woman before. I know you don’t see your Grandma Vinz much, but there are reasons for that. I literally saved your mom from that woman. Grandpa Vinz, well, he wasn’t so bad, but the old lady… it was almost enough to scare me away from asking Carol to marry me. That’s why we eloped, see.”

Dad inhaled another long breath and blew it out slowly. “I made a lot of very serious promises to your mom the day we got hitched. That night was a lot of fun.”

“Three letters, Dad: T. M. I.”

“Right, right. Anyway, I meant to keep every last promise I made. But there are days I wonder how well I’ve done.” He sighed.

“What do you mean?”

He chuckled. “How many good lookin’ girls are on that campus of yours?”

“Dad, they’re way too young for you.”

He waved the comment away brusquely. “Just humor me. How often have you been at school, saw some girl and thought ‘That gal’s a looker’?”

I shrugged. “I’ve never exactly counted and I haven’t done it since I got engaged, but… I guess plenty. Hundreds of times? Maybe thousands? Why?”

He half-smiled. “Why didn’t you just pick one that you wanted right at the get-go and stick with her?”

I began to see where this was going. “But Dad, I was single at the time.”

“Did they all get ugly the instant Ella said ‘yes’?”

Moiré’s face flashed through my head without permission.

Dad winked at me. “See what I mean?”

I did. It still didn’t answer my question completely. “So… you’re saying that it’s impossible for a guy to tame his eyes?”

Dad made a frustrated noise. “Nick, no. It’s all a choice. It’s that… that sometimes, a guy doesn’t see much harm in having a look, as long as he’s keeping his hands off the merchandise.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I’ve never stepped out on your mother. I can promise you that.”

“But you’ve been tempted to.”

Dad shrugged. “Show me a man who hasn’t been tempted, Nick. Heck, show me another man who hasn’t actually messed around.”

I shook my head. “Dad, I don’t think all guys cheat.”

He grunted. “No, not all of them. But there’s meat behind the stereotype.”

I held up my hands, pleading. “So why are you telling me all of this?”

Dad’s eyebrows jumped. “You asked, remember?”

Sigh. “Well, yes. I asked. But I’m trying to figure out if marriage is a nothing more than a life sentence. I mean, if a guy’s somehow destined to be unfaithful, is there any point in making vows in the first place?”

Dad spitted me with a glare. “There is every point in the world, son. All your life, what have I taught you about being a man?”

“That the true mark of a man is how well he can keep his commitments.”

“Straight up. And don’t you forget that. Marriage is one of the most important and serious commitments any man can make. It’s a commitment to be something more than himself. To prove your worth to society by proving that you’re interested in something other than your own worthless hide.”

My forehead ached slightly. I rubbed it to clear my mind and asked, “Dad, I agree about keeping commitments. But are those commitments that even
should
be made if all a guy ever does is find little ways to get around them? Why not just stay single, keep other commitments and just enjoy the ladies while you can?”

Dad’s face was hard to read, but I thought I saw utter disbelief. He stared at me for a while and then leaned closer. “Nick? Do you really believe a word of what you just said?”

I started, taken completely aback. Sure, I was only playing Devil’s Advocate, but Dad had taken the situation more seriously than I expected. I hung my head, realizing that I was just spouting excuses I’d heard from other guys. “No, Dad. I don’t.”

“Look at me, Nick.” I did. “Marriage is about more than just ‘fulfilling yourself’ or whatever liberal B.S. they show in the media these days. Did I know that I’d be tempted by other girls when I met your mom? A little, yes. But I didn’t marry Carol just because I wanted someone who looked like a beauty queen. I did it because I learned to really, truly care for her like I cared for no one else.” Dad hesitated, seeming torn. When he finished wrestling whatever inner demons he had, he looked me in the eyes again.

“I asked Carol to marry me because I couldn’t imagine living without her. The only logical thing to do was to commit my life to taking care of her, temptation or not.” Muttering, he chipped in, “You should know the feeling. You got engaged two months ago.”

Dad slumped back, looking tired and defeated. The feeling that I had somehow betrayed the man crept through my mind. Silently, I took up the oars, dipped and pulled. The boat dejectedly slid forward and Dad lowered his fishing cap over his eyes. So much for that fishing high. This is why it had taken me twenty-something years to ask; every other time I’d come close, I knew something like this was brewing. I couldn’t feel right about playing judge, jury and executioner for my own father. When we reached the boat launch by the cabin I tied up the boat and left Dad to whatever thoughts I’d so carelessly dredged up. Wordlessly, I unloaded the equipment and then heaved the packed ice chest onto the dock, its weight a physical manifestation of my guilt. I should have just asked for normal advice like a normal son.

Dad dragged himself onto the dock. As I stooped to heft the ice chest for the trip into the cabin, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Nick?” His voice was unusually small.

“Dad? I’m sorry. I never should have said any of that.”

He held up a hand to silence me. “Forget about it, son. I’m not mad at you. I probably needed to hear it from someone, so it might as well be from someone who’ll forgive his old man for not being as good as he ought to be. I know I struggle with… things… often. I probably always will. But you’ve got a chance to be the better man. You can still keep your promises in a way that won’t result in your son calling you out thirty years from now. Just remember that Ella ain’t always going to look as good as she does now and you’re not always gonna be totally in love with the gal. But if you ever feel that tug on your eyes when some sexy little thing walks by… well… remember that time you went fishing with your old man. My slate ain’t so clean, kiddo. But if I can convince you to keep yours clean, then I figure I’ve done at least one thing right as a father.”

Dad pulled me into a firm embrace. He didn’t cry or anything, as I expected. He just stood there, holding me. I hugged him tightly and resolved that no matter what I was keeping my promises to Ella.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Hey, Nick, how was your day?”

“Eh, I guess it was alright.”

“Jenny dumped you, didn’t she?”

“Among other things. How’d you know?”

“I’m your mother. Your face tells me everything I need to know.”

“Wow. So why’d you even ask?”

“Because I
am
your mother. Because I love you.”

“Thanks. I need that. I tried telling Dad, but he didn’t let me get past the part about almost failing my English midterm before yelling at me. I’m not even going to tell him my car dropped the tranny.”

“Oh, Nick. Come here. You need a big hug and a squeegee.”

“A… what?”

“We’re going to paint your father’s car with chocolate pudding and squeegees. I can promise you he’ll forget all about the English test after that.”

“Uh… Mom?”

“Don’t worry, Nick, I’ve got this.”

The rest of the family reunion went great. Doug and his wife showed up Saturday morning about an hour after Dad and I had gone fishing (just in time to get in on the morning’s trout) and Clarissa, Sonja and Grace appeared at various times throughout the day. For an entire weekend we actually looked like a normal, happy family. Mom gushed over the grandkids while my brothers-in-law stole my sisters away to enjoy the time without children. Dad, Doug and I hit the lake Saturday night and again on Sunday morning. The whole family played the days away. As evening started to fall on Sunday, I said reluctant goodbyes and made the three-hour drive back to school. I didn’t bother to unpack, or even check my phone or e-mails. My apartment bed was a plank of plywood compared to the one I’d used at the cabin, but I was tired enough I could have slept on a granite slab with no pillow.

An extra few hours of sleep would have been nice. The phone rang at the unearthly hour of 8:12 a.m. I nearly let the voicemail get it, but somehow my arm responded out of habit and pulled the receiver to my ear anyway. I decided not to chop the limb off in retribution.

“Hello,” I mumbled. I was awakened instantly by the nasally voice of an older gentleman on the line. “Yes. Yes. 8:30? I’ll be there. Thank you, Doctor Jordan. Goodbye.”

I rolled out of bed and made a token effort to get ready for the day. Dr. Jordan hadn’t shared any details, but he seemed surprisingly happy. I checked my calendar; this was about the time frame I had been told I’d get notice about whether my project had been selected for further funding. There were only four candidates (including myself) vying for three allotments and I knew that at least one of the others was a complete goofball who was probably still only in school because his parents were generous donors to our college. I made a quick check of my bank account—low triple digits and rent and utilities were due by Wednesday. I sighed in relief. This new money couldn’t be coming at a better time.

I knocked on the massive, oak door of Dr. Reginald Jordan, PhD just as the second hand of the clock was ticking over to 8:30. I was called in and Dr. Jordan gestured at a chair. “Sit down, please, Mister Cairn.”

I pulled up a chair. “What can I do for you, Doctor Jordan?”

He sucked on his lower lip. “I have some news that you… may find… unpleasant.”

His tone sent my heart into weird palpitations as a sinking feeling dropped into my gut. “May I ask what that news is?”

He hesitated. “Mister Cairn, your records show you to be a well-rounded student, very intelligent and capable.” Great. He was buttering me up first. This was no congratulatory speech. “Because of that, the Psychology Department initially approved your dissertation.”

I sensed a great, big “
but…
” coming.

“However, we’ve been monitoring your research and there are some who are not sure they’re satisfied with your results.”

I blinked. “Not satisfied? What do you mean?”

He glanced aside, a moment, then quietly said, “Some of the board members seriously question the objectivity of your research. They’re concerned that your data might be skewed because so much of it is fundamentally
sub
jective.”

I knew this man well enough to know he was throwing out pre-rehearsed responses. I was too tired to play games. “Doctor Jordan, with all due respect, can you cut to the chase, please? We’re both adults here and if there are problems with my work, I’d like to know what they are up front so I can just fix them, rather than trying to guess what the Board thinks is wrong.”

He sucked on his lip again. “How to put it,” he muttered to himself. “You see, some of the faculty reviewers are… unimpressed with a dissertation about ‘love.’ They’re concerned that a title involving the words ‘romantic settings’ is not very dignified and will reflect poorly on the Department. It’s… rather unprofessional.”

My chair shifted as I sat forward. “Wait, so you’re telling me that my dissertation is a threat to the Department’s image?”

I knew I’d scored when he winced at my blunt way of putting it. Rather than just admitting I was right, he dodged again. “Perhaps if you simply… shortened the title to ‘Neurophysical response to prescribed stimuli,’ and left out the other parts of your research, you might gain some credibility.”

I massaged my temples. “Doctor Jordan, I can’t do that. The entire object of this study is to see how a so-called ‘romantic’ setting affects those responses. If you remove the first half of the title and its corresponding research, then you strip the whole context from the study and leave it a pointless exercise in reading brain scans.”

“You set up a kissing booth.”

My jaw dropped. “Is
that
what you think that is?”

“I can’t think of what else to call it.” He shrugged. “Your entire experiment seems to be the kind of thing that gets high school girls to giggle and whisper and pass notes. The Board doesn’t feel that that kind of thing belongs at a university level.”

“So what’s the bottom line?”

He looked away for another moment, then, without fully meeting my gaze, said, “Effective Five September, at twelve a.m., your subsidies from this department will come to an end.”

No. No, no, no, no! “The Fifth? That’s this Friday. Doctor Jordan—”

“No arguments, Mister Cairn. Unless you’re willing to give your dissertation some semblance of professionalism, the Board will simply not continue to indulge an embarrassment to the Department. We’ve been more than generous wit
h our monies, all the time hoping you’d produce something worthy of publishing. It’s time that the flow of money ends, if you are unwilling to give something back to the Department.”

“More than generous?” I asked incredulously. “More than generous? I’ve exhausted my personal funds—all eight-thousand-nine-hundred and fifteen dollars of it. I’ve independently secured another four thousand dollars in grants, without Department staff even lifting a finger to help with that process. At the end of the day, the Department has given me approximately two-point-eight percent of all money spent during the course of this project, which wasn’t enough to pay for a single month of tuition. If you call that ‘more than generous’ then I’d say that you’ve got the wrong man pegged for not being objective.”

“Now wait just a minute. That is a gross understatement of—”

“I’ve got the paper trail. Prove me wrong.”

His thin mouth snapped shut.

“Put simply,” I said, “I’m flat broke. But I’m
this
close to finishing off over
two thousand hours
of research and course work. If the Department isn’t willing to fund the last few weeks of this project, then we’re looking at case closed.”

I swear he almost smiled. After a moment’s lingering silence he adjusted his glasses and said, “Then I suppose it will be case closed.”

I bit back a scowl. I’d have to see about getting another grant and fast. A lightning bolt of insight struck me. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“More to what, Mister Cairn?”

“More to this story. It’s not just about the money, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said the Department isn’t going to subsidize me after the fifth. But what happens if I get another grant? Even that won’t be enough, will it?”

“You worry about getting your own money, Mister Cairn.”

“Talk straight with me. It’s not just the money, is it? You don’t even
want
this project to complete, do you? You’re going to stop this under any circumstance if I don’t do it your way, aren’t you?”

He looked over at the far wall for a long while. At last, he waved a hand dismissively. “You may go, Mister Cairn.”

There was no reason to feed any ideas that I might be “unprofessional,” so I thanked him stiffly and left.

This was not the greatest way to start a Monday.

A serious pick-me-up was in order. More so, a serious patch-up was required; I wasn’t sure how Ella would react to essentially being abandoned for a weekend, but it was better to start damage control sooner than later. I had driven halfway to Ella’s townhome before I remembered she had moved, so it was nearly 9:30 by the time I knocked on her new front door. A small Filipino girl (who may have been ten or may have been twenty-five) appeared at the side window and disappeared just as quickly.

Nothing else happened.

After several minutes of silence, I dialed Ella’s number, but hung up when the familiar voicemail message started. I knocked again and I waited again. Just as I was turning away, the door creaked mournfully behind me and I spun to see Ella. She was dressed to make a statement: I’d never seen her hair frazzled like that; I’d never seen her in that grungy bathrobe; I’d never seen her without makeup, for that matter and I was astonished at the difference it made in her appearance. There were small smears of what looked like chocolate on the corners of her mouth and her complexion seemed similarly smeared. I could see every capillary in her eyes. Though I didn’t want to lean in to confirm it, she seemed very much to have Morning Breath with definite capital letters. For a long, long time we just stood there, neither one of us looking at each other.

Ella broke the silence. “So,” she said, in half a whisper, “are you happy?”

Such simple words; such a nailing accusation.

“Ella,” I started, but stopped when she looked up at me.

The nearness of her body called out to be held. A waking vision of holding her and dancing our troubles away burst upon my. We could erase the tension, the rising bitterness and distance that had crept into our engagement. I wanted to tell her how much I truly loved her and that I wanted to care for her until the end of time, the way Dad had talked about. But even if I couldn’t get back the girl I’d fallen in love with, I’d give my very heart and soul to defend the promises I had made when I had given her my ring. Getting those feelings from mind to mouth proved impossible for me that morning; I was still reeling from Dr. Jordan’s kick to the metaphorical groin. Like an idiot, I blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“My funding is being cut.”

Ella made to speak, but froze before launching into what must have been a practiced response. It was my day for those, apparently.

“Your… what?”

“My funding. The money from the Department. The cash that was supposed to get me through to graduation. I’m going to try to find some more money, but they’re pulling the plug next week. I may not get to graduate any time soon.”

“You mean… wait… I’m supposed to be mad at you. Not playing ‘shoulder to cry on.’”

“I know and I came over here to talk about things. We
need
to talk about it. I just… I’m not thinking this morning. Too little sleep and a rude awakening to a fiasco perpetrated by a self-important… never mind. Anyway, I guess my brains are a bit scrambled.”

“I’d say so,” she muttered. I let it slide.

“Don’t worry, though, I’ll find some money.”

Ella posted her hands on her hips and glared. “What do you mean ‘find some money,’ Nicholas? You’re supposed to be a doctor for Pete’s sake. Rich. My father might be paying for the wedding, but do you have
any
idea how much life after marriage costs? Have you seen the price of a decent home, lately? And what if I decide I don’t want a career, Nick? What then? I can’t ask my father to pay for me forever. Do you have the slightest clue how much a good mani costs? And what about that trip to Cabo you promised? How are you going to pull
that
off if you don’t even have a job? If you haven’t figured out how to make money already, how am I supposed to trust that you’ll figure it out later?”

What was this? Where’d this “Nick’s a deadbeat” vibe come from?

“Els, I’ll get through and graduate. Most people tend to make the big bucks
after
graduating.”

“But you’re not
going
to graduate, are you, Nicholas? Who’s going to hire you with just a bachelor’s degree? What are you going to do to support us, Nick? Be a high school guidance counselor? Pshaw. We might as well sign up for government welfare at that point.”