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Sunday, December 22nd
One thing Charlotte remembered about academic life at Corton University was the difference between those who enjoyed being administrators and those who avoided administrative roles at all costs. There were occasions when there would only be one faculty member in an entire department who was willing to take on the Chairmanship, to be the department’s Rock of Ages, keeping track of class offerings, enrollment, recruiting, assigning advisors, settling disputes and conflicts, and granting exemptions, extensions, and extra credits. Such was the case with the Corton Art Department, whose aging and donut-loving Chairman, Archie Wallace, finally had the heart attack everyone was predicting he’d have for the past twenty years and was now convalescing at home. He was also retiring and not coming back if his long-suffering wife had anything to say about it, and from all indications she was winning.
A Department Chair at Corton meant as many hours of meetings and schmoozing as it did actual administrating, particularly if from a “frivolous” liberal arts department competing for money against the powerhouses of Business Administration, Engineering, and Law.
The only thing the Corton Art Department had going for it, apart from Archie Wallace, was the occasional outstanding graduate, such as Hannah Verhagen. When the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences recently convened a faculty meeting for the purpose of selecting a new Acting Chair for the department, everyone sat around the room silently, offering nothing. Then the highly-strung Fiber Arts professor couldn’t stand it anymore, and began babbling about how “Archie was sure he could get the money for a tapestry loom, and it would be terrible to lose the opportunity,” and the bony prof with big nicotine-stained teeth was concerned about funding for a replacement kiln, and so on and so forth, until the Dean rapped his coffee cup on the table to get their attention. He then laid out what he saw was the reality of the situation: scarce funds went to impressive players. The most impressive player among them at the moment was their visiting professor of photography: Simon Norwich.
That got ‘em stirred up: But he wasn’t regular faculty, just visiting! He wasn’t even American! But he was impressive, couldn’t deny that! That British accent, that would help, wouldn’t it? Does he own a tie? Anyone know if he cleans up nice? The chatter went on and on until the Dean added his own thoughts: his daughter was an Art major, and impressed by Simon as a teacher as well as a photographer. The man was certainly well-spoken. The more politically astute faculty could read between the lines: The Dean wanted his little girl to experience a halfway decent Art Department while she was there.
Simon, in the meantime, was hiding in his office two doors down with Charlotte, and they could hear the entire meeting, which embarrassed him and amused her.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at that meeting?” she asked.
“Hush!” he whispered. “Strictly speaking, visiting faculty don’t have a vote. They can express an opinion or make a suggestion, but I had more important things to do than to fuss about something I can’t even vote on.”
“It sounds like they’re going to draft you. Will you do it?”
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I’d give it go. The money is better, and it’s probably just for the rest of the semester, or the academic year at most. Could be interesting.”
That was how it came about that Simon was now the Acting Chair of Fine Arts. Parts of it were indeed interesting, but it was a lot more work than he anticipated, since he not only had his own full studio teaching load, he had to pick up one of Professor Wallace’s art history classes, as well. The result was so little free time that Charlotte hardly saw him more than once per week, since now he worked in the Department Office. This perk came complete with Serena, the emo secretary/receptionist who had a major crush on Simon and made certain to interrupt him every two minutes when Charlotte did stop by. Her intensity and devotion gave Simon the creeps, but she knew her way around the office and the job, and he needed her.
Occasionally Simon had work-related social obligations to which he would invite Charlotte, such as the Dean’s reception for a visiting violinist (Helene was there, as well), but for the most part he went on his own to “make nice and pretend not to be bored,” then right back to work as soon as he could politely get away. To his credit, he did succeed in getting funds for the new loom and the new kiln, plus funds for three more life drawing models.
When Charlotte said goodbye to him on Thursday night, it was officially the end of classes, and the university holiday break was about to start. Instead of just turning in his grades and turning off the lights, however, Simon was still herding faculty to get their grades turned in and signing off on expense sheets and class assignments, staving off panicked students, flipping coins to grant extensions and Incompletes, and trying not to be rude when cornered for friendly chit-chat by other Department Chairs whose majors and faculty didn’t seem to be as scatterbrained as his own. She wondered if the following semester would be even worse, since Simon was also prepping another book for his publisher.
The Fine Arts Building was one of the few that hadn’t changed much in the past twenty-seven years since Charlotte’s days there as a student. Most of the frosted-glass windows of the faculty office doors were dark. It looked much the same, except for the names on the doors. The Department office, however, was lit—and the door to the secretary’s antechamber was open. Serena was not at her desk, but the door to Simon’s inner office was ajar.
Charlotte went in, hoping for some indication of where he was. The desk was neat and the computer turned off, as if he had wrapped everything up for the semester and wasn’t coming back until the New Year. Even his coffee mug was clean and on a shelf. She turned to leave, but a lone piece of crumpled up paper in the mesh trashcan caught her eye; she reached for it without thinking twice, smoothed it out, and read: BA 5613 noon. No indication of when it was written.
It looked like a flight number, she thought, and then her curiosity grew as she realized that BA could be British Airways. Did Simon go home to England for the holidays, since he thought she wouldn’t be around? But surely he would have told her he was going?
Serena’s computer was on, but the monitor was dark. It was Sunday. Why was she here? Charlotte moved the mouse to wake up the monitor, and saw the university’s form for entering names and grades. A stack of student papers sat beside the keyboard. Serena was entering Simon’s student grades for him—he hadn’t really finished up before he left. It was so unlike him to not finish his own work and have an employee work overtime to do it for him, that whatever called him away had to be incredibly important.
Footsteps clopped in the hallway, and she quickly shoved the paper with the flight number in her coat pocket. She wasn’t going to lose face in front of the wicked Serena, and managed to breeze past the glowering secretary, saying with a smile, “Simon wanted me to collect something. Happy Holidays.” She waved and clopped her own heels down the hall and outside to her Jeep.
Back at her apartment, Charlotte tried Simon’s number again; still no answer, nor were there any calls or messages from him. She pulled the paper out of her coat pocket, found the online site for O’Hare Airport and entered the flight number in the search box. British Airways didn’t serve Chicago’s other big airport, Midway, which narrowed it down.
The flight number was, indeed British Airways, not departing for England, but arriving from Toronto—this past Friday night. So it wasn’t a flight out, but an arrival. He went to meet someone. But why didn’t he answer his phone? Did he lose it? Was it stolen? Was he in an accident?
If Simon was in an accident, how would she find out? His secretary would probably find out before she would, especially if Simon were unconscious—or dead. It reminded Charlotte of having to learn about her old boyfriend Brian’s death from a mutual friend, as she hadn’t yet gotten to know his family.
She shook off the memory. Chances were, he was with whoever it was he went to meet, probably a fellow Brit, exhausted from the intense wrap-up of his first semester as department chairman, and oblivious to the fact his phone was turned off.
Snap out of it! No news is sometimes good news. With time to herself, she could look for another flight to Aspen. She opened the Jetflights site, and entered her date and destination options. The results displayed one after another—and sticker shock kicked in, full force. A check at other travel sites revealed the same exponentially higher prices, and on travel forums she learned the reason why: great powder on the slopes, best skiing weather in years, and everybody had the same idea at the same time. The economy must be recovering somewhere, for some people.
Charlotte closed the laptop, leaned her elbows on the table, and rested her forehead in her hands. She was crazy to even think about purchasing another ticket.
Her phone rang. Ellis again.
“Grandmother Anthony is impossible!”
“What has she done now?” Charlotte tried hard not to have flashbacks of all the times she found Miranda impossible herself. One must listen with an open mind. Oh, who are you kidding—you want Ellis to dish the dirt!
“She’s rented a mirrored grand piano and expects me to play for them and their guests! She thinks a piano is a piano, has no idea about touchweight, brightness of sound, and my ability to adapt after practicing on European pianos. Or my dignity. It’s incredibly stressful. If I had any idea that was what I was in for, I would have stayed in Paris! Oh, Mom, can you possibly make it out here?”
Charlotte sighed. “Ellis, you’re going to have to find a way to firmly, yet politely, say no, at least for half the requests.”
“I tried that at the cocktail party they had last night, some big shot movie director was there, not Robert Redford, but somebody just as old, and she got me aside and said I embarrassed her by being so rude!”
“Were you actually rude?”
Ellis paused. “Well, I said I wasn’t Billy Joel.”
“Ah. Then what happened?”
“She said I was certainly my mother’s daughter, if I couldn’t be counted on to do the right thing.”
“What?” Charlotte was stunned. That was a new low for Miranda. “Where the hell does she get off saying that?”
“I knoooooow!” Ellis wailed.
“Oh, good grief. What does your dad say?”
“He just laughs and says smile and play something quick and easy, consider the audience, and just be glad I had a chance to spend Christmas with my family. I told him a lot of my family was you, and you weren’t here, and he said that was no one’s fault but yours.”
Charlotte’s blood began to boil, but she said nothing, having learned a long time ago that trash-talking about Jack and his family was of no help to Ellis.
“Please, Mom, please come in time for Christmas Eve.”
“Ellis, I need you to understand that my money is tied up in the Lake Parkerton house until I can get it sold. I’ve already lost the cost of the first ticket to Aspen. At the moment, another ticket this fast will run almost as much as a round-trip ticket to Paris would have in the fall.”
“Can’t you borrow it? You’d be good for it when the house sells. Ask Helene!”
“Absolutely not, Ellis! It’s a good way to lose a friend.”
“Well, so far you’re doing a great job of losing a daughter!” She clicked off.
Charlotte wanted nothing more than to throw something and make a big hole in a window, a wall, anyplace would do. Damn that Miranda! What in the world was she thinking? And Jack? Well, admittedly, Jack wasn’t going to be of any use against his mother, no surprise there.
Shamus was sleeping under the Christmas tree Charlotte had set up on the library table during her burst of excitement when she thought Ellis was coming home. He woke up and stretched out so much he rolled onto his back, then started batting at an ornament hanging from a low branch. Charlotte walked over and scooped him up, wanting the reassurance of hugging something warm and friendly.
The little tree was an artificial one that her landlord Larry was going to toss, along with three strands of tiny white lights, because a feng shui consultant recommended that he change the shop’s holiday trimmings to a lucky all-red theme. The free, recycled tree fit in with the funky but chic presents she bought at Ramona’s Resale, the batches of her secret recipe pecan toffee bars she was planning to make, and the gathering she had planned for her friends and Ellis and anyone else Ellis wanted to invite. That was her new approach to what used to be over-the-top holidays.
New Charlotte evidently wasn’t fully formed. She had caved in to Old Charlotte, who whipped out the debit card without a moment’s hesitation, ready to plunge into Aspen with her game face on and pricey gifts in hand.
The tote bag with the presents she bought for the Anthony clan was standing next to the tree; she thought about everything she had gone through that led to being here, spending money she really couldn’t spare. It was time, she realized, to come to terms with an uncomfortable decision, that she should return the gifts to the stores, and send her regrets to the Anthonys. To, in short, get off the fence.
She also wanted the comfort of being with Simon after the distress of finding Alonzo’s body, worrying about Alexa, the kick to her self-esteem from the Aspen trip and falling off her self-imposed no-spending wagon.
So it was no comfort, not in the least, when she dialed Simon’s number once again, and this time a beautifully modulated woman’s voice with a BBC accent answered, “Simon’s phone.”
Charlotte didn’t know what to say, and thus didn’t say a word.
“Hullo? Let’s see,” the voice faded slightly, “Charlotte Anthony,” the voice read, then back at full volume, “is this Charlotte?”
“Uh, yes, it is. To whom am I speaking?” Charlotte could barely keep a tremor out of her own voice.
“Yes, hullo. This is Philippa Dawson-Jones, a friend of Simon’s. May I take a message, as he is in the shower at the moment?”
“Oh, no, that is fine, I’m sure we will be in touch later. Thank you. Good bye.” Charlotte clicked off before the awkward conversation could continue.
What the—!
Charlotte could practically feel how red her face was. Would the humiliations of this day never cease? Who was Philippa Dawson-Jones, and why was she in the room answering Simon’s phone as entitled as you please while he was in the shower? And why hadn’t he called her back after all the messages she’d left?
Was this what he’d planned to do while she was in Aspen?
She opened the laptop again and did a search for Philippa Dawson-Jones. It turned up hundreds of results, and no wonder: she was, indeed, a former BBC News reporter and was now the producer of a string of BBC Two programs about the arts around the world, some of which Charlotte herself had enjoyed on television.
And she was a knockout. No way this woman was 45, but that’s what her bio said, despite her peaches and cream complexion and lanky figure. There were links to various celebrity sites and articles, and then she came across a tidbit from two years ago, a picture of Philippa with Simon at a London club; the caption read, “BBC Two producer Philippa Dawson-Jones with long-time beau Simon Norwich.” They looked perfect together.
As much as a couple glasses of wine helped to shake off the sense of rejection at first, it only ended up making Charlotte feel worse as the afternoon went into evening. She lay on the sofa, staring in the general direction of the big painting or up at the ceiling, the room growing darker as night approached. No music, no TV, no lights—just herself, the sounds of traffic going by, and a purring cat on her midriff.
She winced as Shamus rose and turned, his paws distributing twenty pounds of feline into four poking points between her ribs and her hipbones. But it was okay; he had started out with his back to her and now faced her, paws tucked in, as if it was time to talk.
“I want to thank you, cat,” began Charlotte, “for being here tonight. You’re a great listener, a warm cuddler, and if you’re passing judgment on me, you have the good sense to keep it to yourself.”
Shamus blinked his sleepy eyes, smiled, and purred some more.
“You like Simon, don’t you?”
One eye opened wider.
“How much do you like him?”
Both eyes nearly shut.
“Do you think he’s back with his old girlfriend?”
Both eyes stayed nearly shut.
“Maybe it’s just a favor, there’s a crisis, like me with Alexa.”
One eye opened wider again, and the smile disappeared.
“I mean, she evidently wasn’t in the shower with him.”
A fang-framed yawn.
“Or maybe they’re shagging their brains out right this minute.”
No response.
Charlotte thought of other times in her life when things seemed down, such as when her marriage broke up and she had to still keep it together for Ellis’ sake. Taking her little girl to the park or watching a movie always seemed to help both their spirits, not just Ellis’. Sometimes just going through the motions enabled time to pass more quickly and kept one from falling to pieces altogether.
She got up and plugged in the Christmas lights, and looked out at the brilliant lights all up and down Harvey Street. She would take Ellis on two or three night drives every holiday just to look at the lights and displays. But there was no little girl to drive around this year. Then she thought of Donovan, stuck in the house and unable to drive yet. On impulse, she gave him a call.
“Want to drive around and look at all the Christmas lights?”
He burst out laughing. “Actually, that sounds like fun.”
“Pick you up in five.”
He was, to her surprise, waiting near the curb, and leaning on a sturdy, old-fashioned cane.
“How did you get out here?” she asked, as he opened the passenger door and got himself in without her help.
“Carefully!” He laughed at himself. “I, um, had incentive to not be such a lump. Found this old cane in Mom’s umbrella stand. My one leg isn’t too bad anymore, so a cane should do the job. Tryin’ to keep it simple, you know?”
“I’m sorry not to think of doing this before. I had the blues, was thinking about how Ellis and I used to do this all the time, and then decided to go on my own, and that’s when I thought of you stuck in the house, and—.”
“I’m really glad you thought of me,” he said. “I was sitting there, too, thinking what a long winter it was going to be.”
They drove up and down the hilly streets of the Historic District, where the homeowners never failed to put on elaborate displays. It was warm and cozy in the Jeep, and Donovan proposed going to a drive-through for hot chocolate, his treat.
“If you’re not in hurry to get back—,” she began.
He was quite emphatic. “I’m not.”
“We can go to the kinetic display at the county park, and then just sit there with the hot chocolate.”
“Let’s do it.”
They were lucky and found a good parking space at the kinetic display, which featured moving lights that gave the illusion of animated action—running reindeer, figure skaters, melting snowmen, and such like.
Charlotte slouched back in her seat and sipped the hot chocolate. “Hokey enough for ya?”
“Pretty close,” he laughed. “I’ve never been here, can you believe that?”
“Yes, I can. You don’t have kids.”
“Nope. No wives, no kids. No girlfriends or boyfriends, either, in case you wondered.”
“I didn’t think you did, but didn’t want to be presumptuous.”
“How’s your boyfriend situation?”
She let out a groan of disgust.
“Sorry to bring it up. You were probably trying to forget.”
“No, no, don’t be sorry—unless I start going on and on about it and bore you to tears.”
“Hey, you won’t, believe me. You’re my friend. What happened?”
She told him about the British Airways flight that Simon had likely gone to meet, Philippa answering Simon’s phone, and then finding out about their past relationship online.
“So he’s in Chicago with his old girlfriend?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
Donovan sounded like he was trying to be reassuring. “Doesn’t necessarily mean they’re back together.”
“No, but—.”
Her phone rang then. She and Donovan just looked at one another. Was it Simon? She fumbled it out of her coat pocket and checked the caller ID: Alexa.
The caller wasn’t Alexa, however, but Janice, with just about the last piece of news Charlotte would ever expect to hear from her.
“I’ll be right there,” said Charlotte; she clicked off the phone and turned to Donovan. “Wanna go see a cross burning?”
He looked at her like she just had to be joking.