Chapter Twenty-nine

I expected that after her dramatic presentation, Connie would have been perched outside Bill’s office the next morning, her file folder in hand. But she wasn’t. She spent the entire day holed up in her office and came downstairs only to go to lunch or fax something or pester Alice to make copies.

The next day it was the same routine. And the day after that. And the day after that.

It was really annoying. Let’s get on with it, already.

All week, I checked my mailbox for an official notification from the dean that I was both terminated and blackballed for lying about being engaged. Every afternoon I steeled myself for the eventuality of coming back from lunch to find my office locked and some thug from Thoreau’s security standing guard.

I imagined Alice shaking her head in disappointment. Bill cursing me in the three languages he speaks fluently. Throngs of campus personnel with torches chasing me off school property.

Yet every morning was the same. Coffee on the burner. Faxes in the fax machine. Sherry the new secretary (Alice’s replacement) and Brandon discussing the weekend to come or the weekend that had just passed. Brandon pretending to fix the copy machine as he held forth on the best campsites in Maine or where you could buy a good used RV and how to grill a lobster.

Meanwhile, I was left hanging and wondering what Connie was waiting for. She had her “indisputable proof.” She had the goods to get my job. Not only that, but Bill was headed to Martha’s Vineyard for his summer vacation. She had better act fast or she was going to blow this opportunity.

Connie wasn’t my only problem.There was also Nick.

Craftily, we managed to avoid each other all week. Nick left for work every morning before dawn, while I closed down the office every night so I could be assured Nick’s light would be off when I got home. I did my laundry Saturday morning; Nick did his on Saturday afternoon.We even took care to haul our trash to the curb at different hours, lest we accidentally brush shoulders over the recyclables and dissolve into a heap of steamy sex.

I couldn’t wait until Patty’s shower was over on Saturday night so I could tell Nick the truth. I kept holding on to his promise that he would wait. I envisioned confessing everything, Nick accepting me, forgiving me, and, finally, us beginning a wonderful life together.

But the universe has a funny way of twisting fate. Some might call it cruel.

“I met Hugh.”

It is the first complete sentence Nick has spoken to me since our tryst in the bathroom, and I don’t know what to make of it. We are on my porch and it is Saturday afternoon, hours away from Patty’s shower. Nick has his sleeves pushed up and is looking off to the thunderhead across the golf course, as if his heart is already elsewhere.

“What do you mean, you met Hugh?”

“He stopped by this afternoon, to check out the house. Took him long enough.”

While I was at the dry cleaner’s picking up my dress for the party, dammit. That was Murphy and his law for you.

Throwing the dress over the edge of the railing, I collapse into an Adirondack chair, my whole body now suddenly weak and achy, anticipating the worst.

Surely, Hugh told Nick the truth, that he and I were not getting married.Then again, there was that odd experience with the New York Times. These days, I have no idea what Hugh is capable of. He’s toying with me, I think, like a mouse.

“What did he say?”

“He said he loves the house.” Nick turns and folds his strong arms, laced with veins. “He loves the cabinets. The ceilings. The bookcases.The location . . . he can’t wait to move in.”

"But . . .” Move in? What is going on with this man? Hugh can’t move in. Shoot, the last I knew he thought I was marrying Bill. “He’s not . . .”

Nick cuts me off, an unfamiliar edge to his voice. “Don’t bother explaining, Genie. I think I made my feelings pretty clear the other day. I thought you had, too . . . in that kiss.”

In that kiss. He’s right. So clear.

“Then again, like the song goes, maybe a kiss is just a kiss.”

Now he’s quoting Casablanca. He’s torturing me. “It wasn’t just a kiss.” I can’t bear to make eye contact with him so I kick a strip of peeling paint on the porch instead. “It was more. Much more.”

“What you’re really saying is it could have been more, if you weren’t getting married. A last fling before settling down to wedded bliss.”

What does that mean, I think, watching him pass by me and down the stairs.

"Nick, hold on . . .” Rushing to the railing, I blurt, “I made it up. I was never engaged to Hugh. What happened was, he proposed to someone else on national television and left me with the job of explaining to everyone that actually he dumped me. So I lied and said he really did propose and then things kind of got out of hand and, oh, God, I can tell you don’t believe me and even if you do believe me, you probably think I’m nuts.”

I’m crying, sobbing, actually, but Nick doesn’t seem to care. He is standing on our front walk, hands in his pockets, with a puzzled expression. He’s regarding me like I’m crazy, which makes perfect sense as right now I feel crazy.

“I’ll rent out my apartment to Adrien. I’ll be out of here by Monday.”

And then he’s gone.