Chapter Two

 

 

 

Back at St. Albans, things soon settled into a normal routine.

Memories of her “overnight rental” didn’t exactly fade, but they gradually became easier to think about without an accompanying attack of angst. Or regret. She resolved to chalk the entire experience up to a growth spurt—an exponential leap forward in her recovery from the Disaster-That-Was-Denise.

Classes were spiraling toward the long, Labor Day weekend. All four sections of her English Lit survey had papers due. She’d be up to her ass in reams of bad prose by Wednesday afternoon. She knew better than to waste her time holding classes on Thursday. The students would all have decamped for exotic end-of-summer destinations long before then.

Fall break would roll around next, followed shortly by mid-terms. Then finals. It was hard to believe how fast the semester was advancing. At least the long Christmas break would give her a chance to work on her book. That was how she filled up the empty spaces in her life right now—by continuing her halting attempts at writing the next Great American Novel.

She called it her GAN.

In fact, her GAN wasn’t really living up to the G part of its acronym. At least, not yet. But hammering away on The Disappearance of Ochre kept her busy through the succession of dull and interminable nights that kicked in after Denise moved out.

Grace had been an undergraduate at Haverford when she first heard about how the famous “Woman-Ochre” painting by Willem de Kooning had been slashed from its frame and stolen from the University of Arizona Museum of Art in 1985. Two unassuming, albeit oddly dressed, patrons had walked in at 9 a.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving, tarried in the gallery for about ten minutes, then departed in a hurry with the de Kooning rolled up and hidden beneath an overcoat. They were never identified or caught and more than three decades later, the painting’s whereabouts remained a mystery.

It wasn’t until graduate school at Vanderbilt—and a fiction writing seminar with novelist Ann Patchett—that Grace cobbled together her fledgling idea for a fictionalized story about the subject of the painting, an artist’s model she called “Ochre.” She was writing the novel as a series of short stories, each detailing Ochre’s first-person accounts of her sojourns with quirky and wildly divergent sets of captors. Part of the appeal of this narrative approach was that it allowed her to work in shorter, more episodic bursts.

She liked to think of this enterprise as a homage to her literary idol, Italo Calvino.

At least, that was the idea.

When she wasn’t working on her GAN, she filled her lonely days by making protracted progress on an endless series of renovations to her small, Craftsman-style bungalow.

Grace had purchased the place six years ago when she first started teaching at St. Albans. It was a small, unremarkable house in a line of other small, unremarkable houses that occupied a block several streets back from the main quad. That appealed to her. The campus, with its ivy-covered Georgian halls and manicured grounds, had a storybook kind of beauty—but she liked not having to stare at the bleakest aspects of its classroom buildings when she looked out her windows at home.

Of course, these days, that wasn’t much of an issue. Most of the front windows on her house were obscured by heavy plastic sheathing while the asbestos shingles were being removed. She and Denise had shared grand prospects for restoring the vintage house to its original glory. It was only after their renovations commenced that they uncovered a sequence of numbers stamped at regular intervals on exposed joists and rafters that identified their bungalow as a bona fide, circa 1936 Sears “Vallonia”—one of the 370 varieties of kit homes that people of modest means could order up right out of the same fat catalog that brought overcoats, rubber galoshes, longline corsets, Bakelite toasters and Hercules boilers right to their doorsteps.

The lion’s share of the renovation work was being carried out on weekends by Grace’s brother, Dean, who ran his own business restoring historic homes—and operating a hugely successful regional chain of home improvement stores.

He was the rock star of the Warner family.

Unfortunately, Denise had decided to decamp long before the restorations were completed, and Grace now lived with the consequences. Every room of the house was in some state of disrepair. It didn’t escape her notice that the level of disruption in her home paralleled the mess of her interior life. It was like an object lesson writ large. When she stopped to think about it—which seemed to be more often lately—she understood the irony that restoring order to the disarray of her fractured soul probably proceeded along the same timetable as setting the house to rights.

She sat down in front of her office computer to check her email one last time before packing up and heading for home.

There were several messages from students offering creative excuses for why their papers would be late. She archived those for later. There were also two messages marked “high priority” from the Presidential Search Committee. One suggested that an announcement from the Trustees would be forthcoming soon.

Grace rolled her eyes.

Yeah, that one promised to be a real nail-biter—not. They were all persuaded that the board would make a “traditional” choice—which meant another musty, dried-up non-academic with an indifferent resume, deep ties to the Catholic church, and even deeper pockets.

It was a small college no-brainer.

Especially for a place like St. Albans.

Pre-Law, Pre-Med and Pre-Menstrual. That’s how Grace characterized most of her students.

St. Allie’s, as they called it, was sixty-three percent female. And it showed. Even though the admission staff worked hard to level the playing field and recruit more males, the balance stayed the same. Or rather, the imbalance stayed the same. The lopsided enrollment both helped and hurt the small, northern Vermont college. Grace found that classes more heavily weighted toward females tended to have more—gravitas. She supposed that was because a classroom full of girls was more inclined to focus on the content of the course, and less inclined to primp and preen for any males plopped in their midst.

Well. With certain exceptions . . .

St. Allie’s was gaining a reputation for that characteristic, too. Numerous dour and tight-lipped trustees would scowl and cluck their tongues when the annual U.S. News & World Report Guide to America’s Best Colleges awarded St. Allie’s a consistent top-ten ranking for “Most Lesbian Friendly” small college.

Yeah. Great for academics and field hockey—not so great for growing the endowment. Or so they said. For her part, Grace thought the tiny place should embrace and capitalize on its burgeoning mark of distinction rather than work so hard to paper it over and will it to fade into obscurity.

She recalled her own tenure as a plaid-skirted coed at Bishop Hoban High School in Wilkes-Barre. In “health class”—a benign euphemism for the dark and murky netherland that encompassed anything related to female sexuality—Sister Mary Lawrence (they all called her Sister Merry Larry) instructed the pockmarked, ragtag group of alternately amused or embarrassed teens about what to do if a boy became “overexcited” on a date.

In Nun-Speak™, “overexcited” meant “erect.”

Sister Merry Larry lowered her alto voice to a near whisper. “You slap it hard to make it go down.”

Slap it? Hard?

Grace found that to be a curiously . . . intimate . . . response to an uninvited consequence. More than once, she wondered about Sister Merry Larry’s familiarity with the predicament. Unlike the other nuns at Bishop Hoban, Sister Merry Larry was more . . . clued-in. For one thing, she was younger by decades than most of the other Sisters. And she had come to Wilkes-Barre from a more progressive order in Philadelphia where the nuns lived in off-campus apartments, versus the crumbling convents that typically sagged off the back walls of parochial school gymnasiums. She also wore a short habit and black Reeboks. That distinction alone gave her street cred.

Still, Sister Merry Larry’s visceral advice about how to respond to presumed unwanted outcomes was, in Grace’s view, a decidedly Catholic innovation.

Create the world. Invite the people in. And don’t hesitate to slap them down—hard—if they get overexcited.

Grace felt fortunate that she never had to test that last part of the dating equation. None of her half-hearted fumbles in the back seat of Jamie Zook’s ’69 Maverick ever escalated to the “slap down” stage. That was probably because Jamie was a lot more interested in Grace’s brother, Dean, who smoked hard-pack Camels and rode a Kawasaki KZ1000. That was okay with Grace because she was more interested in Jamie’s sister, Amy. Amy didn’t smoke or ride anything—not unless you believed those stories about Sister Merry Larry catching the head cheerleader behind the bleachers, occupying a compromising position atop the Argents’ quarterback, Nick Szeptak.

Those rumors didn’t hurt Amy’s reputation a bit.

And they didn’t diminish Grace’s appreciation for the popular blonde’s . . . charms.

But that was all ancient history. Grace scrolled past a newer slew of mea culpa emails from her missing-in-action students to read a message from the board chair—inviting the entire community to an all-campus meeting at two o’clock that afternoon.

She looked at her watch.

There was a follow-up email from her department chair that required all members of the English faculty who were still on campus to attend the announcement.

Not that she would want to miss it. An event like this one was a big deal in the life of a small college. The last two presidents of St. Allie’s had been pulled from business backgrounds. This time, the faculty dared to hope they’d at least get a real academic at the helm—someone who would take a greater interest in curricular development and scholarship, rather than shaking the money tree.

She sighed. Fat chance. It was all about raising money these days. Still . . . it would be interesting to see which one of their dried-up old clones the big boys flushed out this go-round.

She shut down her computer and picked up her messenger bag. She’d have just enough time to run home and grab a sandwich before the meeting. She got outside and saw, with a sinking feeling, that it had started to rain. Great. She had plans to spend the weekend out on Butler Island and had been hoping the calls for rain would all be wrong—the way they usually were.

One thing you could always count on in Vermont was how the weather forecasts were moving targets. If what was predicted wasn’t to your liking, you didn’t have to worry much or wait very long for it to change.

But this wasn’t looking like the kind of rain that was just passing through on its way to greener pastures in New Hampshire. This was the slow, lazy, I’m-gonna-hang-out-on-your-porch-and-drink-up-all-your-beer-before-moving-on kind of rain.

She looked up at the sky. It was the color of dull pewter. Crap.

A boat ride in the rain was sure to be a real blast.

 

#  #  #

 

The auditorium was packed.

And things were definitely looking up. Grace exchanged surprised glances with Grady Shepard as Mitchell Ware, the board chair, finished talking about the methodology used by the search committee and finally shared details from the Chosen One’s curriculum vitae.

It slowly became clear that, this time, the committee had apparently listened to the faculty. The new president was an academic with a solid background in research and scholarly publication—a teacher and a thinker with stellar credentials, including a master’s degree from the University of Chicago and a Ph.D. in Classics from Princeton. The winning candidate had authored a list of books and articles a half-mile long, and had spent eight years teaching literature and philology at Princeton, before taking the helm as director of the prestigious Duke Endowment—one of the largest philanthropic foundations in the country.

It was a slam dunk, and the board chair knew it. The normally unimpressed members of the St. Allie’s faculty were literally sitting on the edges of their seats, waiting for the big reveal. You could’ve heard a pin drop in that joint.

He made them wait.

“When she joins our community, we will begin a new chapter in the life of this exceptional institution of higher learning,” he said.

Grady and Grace looked at each other in shock. She?

A titter of conversation spread throughout the hall.

The board chair smiled. “No, that wasn’t a mistake. I said ‘she.’”

The hall erupted in applause. People got to their feet.

The chair shouted over the din, “It gives me great pleasure to introduce the fifteenth President of St. Albans College, Élisabeth Abbot Williams.”

The applause in the hall was deafening. People were whooping and cheering. Grace got to her feet and strained to see around the bobbing rows of heads in front of her.

The cheers and the applause went on and on. This was a seminal event in the life of the college—the first female president in its one-hundred-and-sixty-five-year history.

Grace finally took a step out into the aisle so she could get a glimpse of their new leader, who had taken the stage and now stood towering over the board chair, smiling and waving at the audience. Grace stared, stunned, and dropped back into her seat.

Jesus H. Christ.

Her hands were shaking. She felt light-headed and feared she might pass out. She knew that Grady was looking at her strangely.

This was not happening.

It was Abbie.

 

#  #  #

 

Grace’s mother had been pissed when Grace called her to say she’d decided to spend the long holiday weekend on Butler Island instead of making the trek to Wilkes-Barre.

“I’ll try coming down over fall break,” she said. But she knew she probably wouldn’t. Not now. Not after seeing Abbie.

Correction. Not after seeing the new president of St. Albans . . . her boss.

God.

This mess was like the plot of a twisted Eugene O’Neill play. A ludicrous joke—and she was the punchline. These things didn’t happen in real life. These things only happened in literature to characters like Oedipus—or in movies that starred Deborah Kerr.

What the hell was she supposed to do now? Pack up and move to Idaho?

She scoffed and took another big swig from the Grey Goose bottle. It had been part of a thank-you goodie basket sent to her from members of the curriculum committee she’d chaired last semester.

Pear-flavored vodka. How . . . inventive. It was only a pint bottle, but right now, it was getting the job done just fine.

She was sitting on the back steps of her small house. The rain was still coming down. Big, fat drops that exploded on every surface—including her. She knew that her jacket and her hair were soaked, but she didn’t really care. Maybe if she sat here long enough, she’d melt right into the landscape, and never have to worry about how Abbie would react when she finally realized Grace was one of her newest . . . employees.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Grady Shepard had asked earlier, when he caught up with her outside the auditorium after the announcement. “And why are you walking so goddamn fast?”

Grace just shook him off. “I don’t feel so well. I think it must’ve been those hot dogs I ate at the Commons.”

He looked skeptical. “You ate hot dogs at the St. Allie’s cafeteria? Is this some new self-flagellation technique?”

“Could be.” She didn’t want to prolong the conversation. “Look, Grady, I really feel sick.” It wasn’t far from the truth.

“Oh, man.” He ran a hand through his short Afro. “I really wanted to talk about this. Call me later?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I hope we’re still on for the island this weekend.”

Grace had been headed for the solitude of her office—until she saw her love-struck student stalker, Brittney McDaniel, making a beeline toward Ames Hall. It never failed. Brittney seemed to have a homing beacon where Grace was concerned.

She nodded at Grady and abruptly veered off on a brick sidewalk that led away from the building that housed the English department offices. “Talk to you later, okay?”

He continued to stand there as she walked away. “Hey, Grace?”

She stopped and turned around.

“She’s pretty hot, isn’t she?” He grinned at her. “Just your type, too.”

Grace hadn’t eaten any hot dogs that day, but right then, she really did feel like throwing up.

“Yeah,” she said, turning away. Rain was pelting her in the face. “She’s just my type.”

God. She took another drink. Once the vodka was gone she knew she’d start feeling how fucking soaked she was.

The Nine O’Clock Dog was barking.

Every twelve hours at precisely nine o’clock, her neighbor’s dog barked. Without fail. In rain, sleet, or snow—on the brightest of days, or the darkest of nights—at the crack of nine, Grendel barked. Grace really had no idea what the dog’s actual name was. She had bestowed the moniker because something about the dog’s persistent aura of suspicion and menace reminded her of the infamous literary antagonist.

The Nine O’Clock Dog was one of the constants in her life—just like grading papers, watching reruns of Frasier, or meeting the wrong goddamn women.

She checked her watch. Yep. Nine o’clock. Straight up. She felt sorry for the dog—it seemed like she was left alone over there most of the time. The tenants hadn’t been around much for the past couple of weeks. Their cars seemed to be gone more than parked in their rutted driveway.

She raised the bottle in a toast. “More power to ya, Grendel. If I had the chops, I’d be barking, too.”

But Grendel wasn’t paying any attention to her. Grendel was frantically pacing back and forth along the fence that flanked her yard. This was a much more vigilant display than usual, and she was barking well beyond the requirements of her customary alert. Clearly, someone was coming to kill them all, and Grendel didn’t understand why no one else seemed to care.

Grace didn’t have the patience to try, either. She’d just about decided to get up and go inside when she caught sight of someone coming around the corner of the house.

Shit. Company was the last thing she needed. And who the hell would show up now, during a driving rainstorm?

A person wearing a long black cloak with a hood stood there a moment before advancing toward the porch. Grace felt a moment of panic. Maybe Grendel was right? Then the figure tossed back its hood.

The warm buzz she’d been feeling from the vodka evaporated in a nanosecond. It was Abbie. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” she blurted. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Abbie stopped in front of her. Her expression was ominous—like a reflection of the storm. “Now . . . or earlier today?”

Grace shrugged. “Take your pick.”

“May I sit down?”

“Can I stop you?”

Abbie sighed. “You can if you want to.”

Grace hesitated.

“I guess showing up here was a bad idea,” Abbie said.

“Now—or earlier today?” Grace quoted.

“Very funny.”

“I do try,” Grace replied.

“I remember.”

“How did you find me?” Grace asked.

Abbie shrugged.

Grace gave a bitter laugh. “I guess rank has its privileges.”

“I saw you from the stage.”

“You did?”

Abbie nodded. “I was stunned.”

“That makes two of us.”

Grendel was still barking.

“You might as well come inside,” Grace said. “She’ll never stop if we stay out here.”

“Would that be okay? My feet are soaked.”

Grace looked down at her shoes. “You walked here in those?”

“I didn’t exactly plan on hiking through a monsoon when I got dressed this morning.”

Grace nodded. “Shit happens.”

“That’s true.”

Abbie stared over her shoulder at the barking dog, which was standing up on its hind legs and leaning against the fence. She looked back at Grace. “Its tail is wagging.”

“She’s conflicted.” Grace shrugged. “It’s going around.”

Abbie actually smiled. She gestured at the bottle Grace was holding. “What are you drinking?”

“This?” Grace held it up. “It’s pear-flavored vodka.”

Abbie made a face. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Wise decision.”

“Got anything else?”

Grace stood up and opened the door so Abbie could enter the house. “Only one way to find out.”

They went inside. Grace kicked off her shoes, then removed her soggy jacket and hung it up on a peg near the door. She turned to Abbie. “May I take your shroud?”

Abbie rolled her eyes. “Sure.” She shrugged out of her long cloak and handed it to Grace.

They were standing in a small, screened porch that overlooked Grace’s backyard. It was simply furnished with several distressed-looking Adirondack chairs painted in bold colors and a faded outdoor rug. A tower of papers sat on a table beside one of the chairs.

“This is a great porch,” Abbie said. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”

Grace nodded. “I try to. It takes some of the sting out of all the hours I spend grading papers.”

“I can imagine.”

“That’s right. You’ve done your time in the classroom, too, haven’t you?”

Abbie shrugged.

“Don’t be so modest, Dr. Williams.”

Abbie looked at her. “You seem determined to make this harder than it already is.”

“Define ‘this.’” Grace made air quotes with her fingers.

“Our . . . predicament.”

Grace folded her arms. “We have a predicament?”

“I’d say so.”

Grace knew that she was acting like a bitch, and she needed to snap out of it. This mess wasn’t Abbie’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Take off your wet shoes and come on into the house where it’s drier.”

Abbie kicked off her shoes and followed Grace into the kitchen. It was small, but cozy and well appointed.

“Have a seat.” Grace indicated a small table and two chairs in the corner of the room. She walked to a tall cabinet and withdrew two glasses and a fat brown bottle. “Like cognac?”

Abbie nodded. “Got any coffee to go with it?”

“At nine o’clock at night?”

Abbie shrugged. “I don’t think I need to worry about it keeping me awake.”

“I see your point. I’ll make us a fresh pot.”

Abbie sat down and looked around the kitchen while Grace made the coffee. “This is an incredible house. How long have you been here?”

“Do you mean in this house, or at St. Albans?”

Abbie smiled at her. “Yes.”

Grace carried the bottle and the two glasses to the table and sat down across from her. “Six years. I’m up for tenure this year.”

“Think you’ll get it?”

“It was looking good before this afternoon.” She gave them each a generous pour of cognac. “Now there appears to be a monster-sized fly in the ointment.”

“On the other hand,” Abbie picked up her glass, “if you prevail, it would simplify . . . things.”

“Like?” Grace was intrigued.

“Well. If you’re a tenured professor—that means there’ll be less opportunity for conflict of interest concerns.”

“You mean because you’re my new boss?”

“Technically, I’m not your boss. I’m your boss’s boss.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Abbie shook her head. “Not really.”

Grace twirled her glass around. “This is a mess.”

“I know.”

She met Abbie’s incredible gray eyes. “I keep thinking about what Oscar Wilde said.”

“What’s that?”

Grace sighed. “That there are only two tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, and the other is getting it.”

“Which one is this?” Abbie asked.

“You tell me.”

“I’m not sure I know yet.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Grace could hear rain pelting the kitchen window.

“I thought about trying to find you,” Abbie said in a quiet voice. “More than once.”

Grace put her glass down. She didn’t really need anything else to drink. “Why didn’t you?”

Abbie looked down at the tabletop. “I was a mess. I was confused. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“And now?”

“Now? I’m still a mess—and I’m still confused.” She raised her eyes. “But I think I know what I want.”

Grace could feel her heart starting to pound. “You do?”

Abbie nodded. “But it’s complicated.”

Grace laughed out loud. “You think?”

Abbie smiled. “Did you ever think about trying to find me?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Abbie shook her head.

“Of course I did.” She hesitated. “I nearly called Rizzo a dozen times. You know, I’ve never done anything like that before. It was . . . amazing.”

“Yes. It was.”

Grace waved a hand in frustration. “But you never said anything. You never asked me for my phone number—or even for my last name.” She gave up and took a drink of the cognac. It went down her throat like liquid fire. She knew she’d pay for it tomorrow.

“I didn’t think I could,” Abbie said. “I felt too . . . vulnerable. Too exposed and inexperienced.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“No.” Abbie laid a hand atop hers. Grace noticed she was not wearing the gold ring. “Don’t be. It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”

Grace felt excitement and trepidation in equal parts.

But this was impossible. There was no way for them to go forward from here.

She turned her hand over beneath Abbie’s. “Did you know I worked here?”

“No.” Abbie squeezed her fingers. “I had no idea. I was as shocked to see you as I’m certain you were to see me.”

“How did you find me?”

Abbie shrugged. “After dinner with the trustees, I had a few minutes alone so I could peruse the English department website. Once I found the profile for Grace Warner, I asked my assistant to get me your home address. I told her that we had friends in common, and that I had promised to look you up.”

“Plausible.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But,” Grace added, “knowing Lucretia Fletcher, I am sure your new ‘assistant’ is busy compiling a dossier about your real motivation in seeking me out.”

“Why would you think that?”

Grace shrugged. “Let’s just say her fame precedes her.”

They lapsed into silence again, but they continued to sit there, holding hands. The coffeemaker beeped to signify that it had finished brewing, but they both ignored it. Abbie’s fingers felt strong and solid. Grace was reminded of the time when she was ten, and had been horsing around on a neighbor’s farm with her brother. They had been playing on top of a nearly empty grain silo, and Grace had slipped and fallen into it. When Dean managed to climb down the bin ladder and reach out to haul her up, she remembered the flood of relief she felt when she grabbed onto his hand. Right now, Abbie’s hand felt like that—safe and sure. There was only one problem: now they were both stuck inside the same dark silo of professional quicksand.

She squeezed Abbie’s hand. “What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Abbie replied.

Grace shook her head.

“I took this job, this particular job at St. Albans, because this appeared to be an open community—one that allows and encourages people to be who they are.”

“That’s mostly true,” Grace said. St. Albans had a laudable history. It had been the site of the northern-most Confederate army attack during the Civil War. And before the abolition of slavery, the college had been a way station on the Underground Railroad. It had also been one of the first colleges in the country to admit students of color. Grace had been an out lesbian the whole time she’d taught here—and it had never been an issue—at least not overtly. She’d always regarded that as one of the perks of living in a blue state.

“So, you came here because you thought it would be a safe place to experiment with an alternative lifestyle?”

“No, Grace,” Abbie said. “I came here because I wanted—finally—to have the latitude to be who I really am.”

“And who is that?”

Abbie sighed. “You of all people should know the answer to that question.”

“Abbie. I spent the better part of a day, and most of one incredible night with you, but I’d hardly say that qualifies me to know who you are.”

Abbie slowly nodded her head. She started to withdraw her hand, but Grace held on to it.

“Not so fast,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in finding out.”

Abbie’s expression lost some of its sadness. “Really?”

Grace nodded.

They smiled somewhat shyly at each other.

“So,” Grace asked, “how do we do this?”

Abbie shook her dark head. “Beats the hell outta me. I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”

“Oh,” Grace looked her up and down, “I have a few ideas all right.”

Abbie smiled. “Not those kinds of ideas. Although,” she tugged Grace forward until their noses were nearly touching, “those certainly have some relevance to our . . . deliberations.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Abbie kissed her. It was just a quick, light kiss, but Grace could feel her toes curling up inside her socks.

“It’s still raining,” she said when she could find her voice.

“It is.”

“And we have this whole pot of coffee.”

“We do, indeed,” Abbie agreed.

They kissed again. This time, it wasn’t remotely light and it showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Grace was losing focus. She forced herself to pull away while she still could.

It took her a few seconds to catch her breath.

“We’re two . . . uncommonly . . . smart women. Aren’t we?” she asked.

Abbie appeared to be taking deep breaths, too. “I’d say so. Between the two of us, we probably have about eight million years of postgraduate education.”

“And in my case, twice that amount in unpaid student loans.”

Abbie drew back and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “I may need to rethink this idea.”

“Nuh uh.” Grace pulled her closer again. “Drop/Add day already came and went, sister. You’re stuck in this little seminar until the bitter end.”

“Oh really?” Abbie didn’t sound too distressed by this revelation. “How will I know when we’re finished?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Grace laughed. “Just listen for the Nine O’Clock Dog.”

“The nine o’clock dog?”

“Don’t worry. It’ll make sense soon enough.”

Abbie smiled at her. “As much as I want to—and believe me, I want to—you know I can’t stay the night.”

“I know.” Grace gave her a wry smile. “Lucretia would be leading a hue and cry to find you.” She considered her remark. “With wolves,” she added. “Salivating wolves.”

Abbie squeezed her hand. “I’ll be here a little bit longer.”

“When are you back for good?” The words sounded strange to Grace, even as she spoke them. Abbie soon would be living there. Permanently.

“Ten days.”

Ten days? Grace’s head was spinning—and not just because of Abbie’s proximity.

“We have a lot to figure out,” she said, morosely.

“I know,” Abbie agreed. “I don’t mean to oversimplify how complicated this is.”

“I don’t think you could.”

“No,” Abbie released her hand. “Probably not.”

“Well.” Grace pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “If we’re both gonna lie awake all night we might as well do it in style.” She walked to the counter. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black. Like my prospects.”

“Don’t you mean bleak?” Grace asked.

“That, too.” Abbie smiled. “I was going for a bad movie pun.”

“Oh, I get it. Airplane!” Grace shook her head. “Wrong week for me to give up a life of celibacy.”

“Not from where I’m sitting . . .”

Grace filled two mugs and carried them back to the table. “If we’re gonna quote old movies, we should go with the real classics.”

“Such as?”

Grace sat down again. “Of all the gin joints in all the world . . .”

“I had to walk into yours,” Abbie finished for her.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Leave?” Grace was confused. “Leave here?” She tapped the tabletop.

“No. Here,” Abbie clarified. “Uber here. As in, St. Albans.”

Grace blinked. “Are you kidding?”

Abbie shook her head.

“You’d do that?”

“If it meant having a chance at a relationship with you, I would.”

Grace was incredulous. “That’s nuts.”

“Is it?”

“Well. Yeah. I could never ask something like that of you.”

“Why not?” Abbie shrugged. “I would, if the tables were turned.”

“But the tables aren’t turned.”

“No.” Abbie sighed. “I can’t change that.”

“So.” Grace leaned back in her chair. “What are we going to do?”

Abbie shrugged. “Figure it out as we go along?”

“That’s hardly scientific.”

“No, it’s more . . . experimental,” Abbie said.

“Which means?” Grace asked.

“Which means we take it one day at a time.”

“Oh, I get it.” Grace rolled her eyes. “Like some lame-ass kind of lotus-eating, twelve-step mumbo jumbo?”

“Yes.” Abbie nodded. “Exactly like that.”

Grace shook her head. “Well,” She raised her coffee mug. “however the hell this turns out . . .”

Abbie finished for her. “We’ll always have Paris?”

They clinked mugs.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.” Grace gave her a sad smile. “I sure as hell hope this drama doesn’t end up with one of us saying goodbye at the damn Burlington International Airport.”

“Me either,” Abbie agreed. “I look terrible in hats.”