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I’VE GIVEN UP HOUSE hunting for now. A couple of thirty-something Silicon Valley retirees bought the Brewster House with cash, and my former real estate agent has fled the country.
Leilani Zelenko’s disappearance may have helped to get the murder charges against me dropped. Also helpful: Donnie’s contribution (the maximum allowable amount) to the re-election campaign of Prosecuting Attorney Jay Shiroma.
Davison seems to be fitting in well at his new school. At first, I didn’t even recognize the clean-cut kid in the picture Donnie showed me.
“Where did he get the scar on the side of his face?” I asked. “Did he get burned?”
“That’s where the cobra tattoo used to be. I sent him to Dr. Hashizaki to have it lasered off. You were away at your conference, so you didn’t have a chance to see him before he left.”
“Did she do the neck and hands too?”
“Face, neck, hands, everything. Why?”
“Face, neck, and hand tattoos are the ones our career center calls the Unemployables. Did you say everything? You made him get all his ink lasered off?”
“Davison needed a fresh start. Cost me a fortune, though. He had a few I didn’t even know about.”
“Ouch.”
“Did you know he had a—”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Faced with the evidence of Scott Nixon’s plagiarism, the administration decided not to renew his contract. Scott moved back to the mainland to look for another job, and this time, Nicole did not follow him. I hear she’s on the short list of candidates for that full-time position in the English department.
As a going-away present, Pat gave Scott Nixon a copy of his new book, Professor Plausible’s Career Advice for the New Depression. Pat and his publisher had finally agreed on a title. It’s a handsome volume, with a WPA-style illustration on the front cover showing a line of glum-looking workers filing into a factory.
Scott Nixon’s departure has created another opening in the English department, but I’ve decided not to apply. There’s nothing wrong with working in the College of Commerce and trying to be a good role model for our students. Being too image-conscious is a trap, I’ve decided.
Sherry Di Napoli is probably not my long-lost identical twin after all. Emma had had her graduate assistant run the test, and he admitted he might have accidentally used the same sample twice, as both reference and comparison. It was a huge relief; I already feel a little bit like Sherry’s clone as it is. Donnie’s accidentally called me “Sherry” twice now. Both times he apologized immediately, but still.
Donnie and I are still fine-tuning our living arrangements. Donnie’s house is more spacious than mine, and he has a magnificent master bedroom, but we end up spending most nights at my house. It’s just a few blocks away from Donnie’s Drive-Inn, which saves Donnie almost an hour of commuting each day.
One morning I woke up to find Donnie already in my kitchen, making coffee. He turned to me and then his face fell. He rushed over.
“Molly. You look terrible.” He pressed his wrist to my forehead, and then guided me over to the couch. “You’ve been working so hard preparing your fall classes.” He tenderly brushed my hair back from my face. “Lie down and rest. I’ll call the doctor.”
“Donnie, I’m fine. Don’t call the doctor.”
I got up, went into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me.
“Are you going to be okay?” Donnie called through the door.
“Never better.” I opened my makeup drawer. “Just give me a few minutes.”
It was the first time Donnie had seen me in full daylight with no makeup on. I decided it would also be the last.
I might still be just a little image-conscious.