After my class, I headed for the English Department on the second floor. I wanted to tell Giles about the call from Dewberry Press and receive proper congratulations. It was almost five o’clock, but knowing Giles and his Midwestern work ethic, he would be at the office well into the dinner hour. The stairs made happy creaky sounds as I bounded them two at a time. With the heavy literature books in my backpack, it normally wasn’t an easy thing to do. Today, though, I felt lighter than air.
“Emmeline,” said a voice, stopping me in my pursuit of a hearty handshake. It was Barb, our department secretary. Her face was as pale as the moon, nothing unusual. She always looked slightly spooky.
“Yes, Barb?”
“You still haven’t sent me the syllabus for your 100-level class,” said Barb. “You know I need them for my records.”
Yes, I knew she needed them for her records, but it was the same syllabus I used every semester. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t re-file the one from the fall. Records looked like the last thing on her mind. Her office was in complete disarray. Boxes, copy paper, coffee cans. “I’ll send it today,” I promised and continued walking down the hallway.
Giles and I had a connecting office located at the end of the hall. His was a nice corner room with two walls of windows. Mine was a small space with a decent bookshelf and small alcove. I couldn’t complain. Being this close to Giles meant I could hear everything, but I never repeated it. Despite my colleagues’ outwardly composed appearances, their lives were full of drama. Grades, schedules, students, promotions, domestic partners. It was enough to make my head spin, but Giles handled all the crises with aplomb. He was the calm in a sea of troubles.
His door was open, so I knocked. Two men were seated inside. I frowned. My good news would have to wait. “I’ll come back,” I said.
“No, come in, Emmeline,” said Giles. “I want you to meet our visitors.” In his well-worn jacket, he reminded me of so many of the professors who had taught me in college: intelligent, genteel, and slightly shabby. His type shrugged off materialism as something ugly and slightly embarrassing. I glanced at my cheetah-print sandals. At least I’d bought them on sale.
“This is Felix Lewis—I’m sure you recognize his name from the program—and Andy Wells, his mentee at Denver. Gentlemen, this is Emmeline Prather.”
I didn’t recognize the name but assumed Giles was referring to the schedule for the upcoming Shakespeare conference. I, too, was presenting on murder in Shakespeare’s plays.
“Good afternoon,” said Felix, standing to shake my hand.
As soon as I heard his accent, I remembered who he was. Felix Lewis was the Englishman headlining the symposium. He was giving the opening lecture on Henry VIII. His hand was gentle, like his manners, but his brown eyes were sharp. On fence posts outside of Copper Bluff, I’d seen hawks with the same eyes. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m excited for your lecture.”
“Reed Williams and I are mates,” said Felix. “I was happy to accept his invitation.” Though his hair was silver, he couldn’t have been older than fifty-five. He’d grayed prematurely, as some people do, in a way that made him distinguished and handsome.
“And you’re presenting also?” I said, turning to Andy. He didn’t bother to stand or shake my hand. He gave me a dismissive once over.
“A chapter from my book Shakespeare Today,” said Andy. “Macmillan is publishing it this fall.”
I waited for the rest of his CV. He was the type who would recite his résumé in one fell swoop if you let him. Young and smartly dressed, he made our own hip Thomas Cook look old-fashioned. When he didn’t continue, I decided to share my own good news after congratulating him. “I just got word from Dewberry Press. That’s what I came to tell you, Giles. They’ve accepted my book for publication.”
“Congratulations,” said Giles. “That’s wonderful news.”
“Dewberry Press …. Is that a niche publisher?” asked Andy.
I couldn't exactly say, since I wasn’t sure what a niche publisher was. From the way he pronounced niche, though, it didn’t sound good. “A small press,” I said.
“Where are they located?” Andy kept on.
Why did that matter? It was a publisher. That was the good news. “Los Angeles.”
He relaxed in his chair. I was no longer a threat, not that I ever had been. He was receiving his PhD from a big-name school and had a book coming out from a big-five publisher. Copper Bluff offered different advantages Andy Wells wouldn’t have understood. Giles was beaming, and I felt proud. I was one of the younger faculty members, and to have anything at all published was an accomplishment.
“I don’t have any details yet, but they’re sending me a contract to look over,” I said.
“Keep me posted,” said Giles.
I nodded. “By the way, you’ll be happy to know Claudia had good results with the write-in. I was over there this afternoon, and the room was packed.”
Giles explained the sonnet-writing contest to Felix and Andy.
“How quaint,” said Andy.
This guy was starting to get on my nerves.
“It sounds like jolly good fun,” said Felix. “I’d like to try my hand at a sonnet again. What do you say, Andy?”
“There’s still time,” said Giles. “The deadline for submissions isn’t until ten.”
Andy laughed. “Oh sure. Why not? We’re here, aren’t we?”
I scowled at the little brass buttons on his navy jacket. But Andy’s arrogance went unacknowledged by Giles, who had invested a good deal in the month of activities. From the write-in, to the conference, to the garden, Giles had procured the money despite our college’s budget constraints. The First Folio’s security alone was a consideration. They had been lucky to find the ideal spot in the Harmony Music Museum. To make it all come together, he and Reed Williams had done a lot of legwork.
“It was nice to meet you, Felix,” I said, intentionally slighting Andy. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
“You, also,” said Felix.
“Goodbye,” said Giles.
I glanced at my office, deciding against stopping. It was after five, Lenny was waiting, and I had good news to report. I skipped down the stairs. Wouldn’t he be excited! He knew how much the book meant to me and how hard I’d worked on it. From medieval letter writers to authors of modern-day romances, each individual I discussed expressed herself in unique ways. In my mind, I had given a voice to the voiceless—women who weren’t considered serious writers but should be.
I didn’t slow my pace until I reached Oxford Street, where apple blossoms perfumed the air with sweetness only spring could bring. I inhaled deeply. After months of harsh winds and snowstorms, the smell was intoxicating—which gave me a thought. Maybe I should pick up a bottle of champagne at Variety Liquors? A proper celebration called for champagne, and Lenny and I were fond of late-night cocktails.
I was choosing between white or pink when a noise startled me. I turned to the white two-story on my right. Now for rent, the stately house had seen better days. The porch had been remodeled with cheap siding that made it curve like a bell, and the green-plaid couch sitting kitty-corner didn’t help its appearance. It was as flat and dirty as a floor rug.
The noise came from Tanner Sparks, who had slammed the front door. A graduate student in the English Department, he had a lot going for him. While I didn’t have him in any of my classes, my colleagues raved about his scholarship and acting skills. He was starring in Hamlet, which opened tomorrow. Though I wouldn’t attend the play until this weekend, I knew he’d do well. Having seen him play Willy Lowman in Death of a Salesman, I knew he was a phenomenal actor. Until I saw it for myself, I could never have imagined the good-looking student as an aging salesman.
“That girl is psycho,” he muttered, coming down the stairs.
I kept my head down. I didn’t want him to know I’d overheard the personal comment.
“Oh hey, Dr. Prather,” Tanner said.
I looked up. “Sorry, Tanner. I didn’t see you. All set for tomorrow?”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m on my way to the theater now.”
He was being modest. I knew how confident he was, and rightly so. He was giving me one of his suave smiles right now that made me forget I was years older than he was. “I’m sure you’ll be great.”
“Are you going?” he asked.
“This weekend,” I said. “I need to get tickets.”
He started for campus. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Shakespeare conference?”
“For sure,” I said. “I’m looking forward to your panel.”
“Thanks,” he said over his shoulder, quickening his pace.
I was still standing in front of the house, a mournful shell of its glorious past. The upstairs windows reminded me of two eyes, the fringed shades beating back and forth in the half-open window as if blinking at me. With a little TLC, it might be restored to its original splendor, or someone could at least wash the brown dust off the white siding. But it was a rental, and student renters had different priorities: studying, partying, fighting. Somewhere inside, I heard a door slam. As I started walking, I told myself it was probably the wind. It wreaked havoc on the Great Plains. I looked back—just in time to see someone shut the shade.