Chapter 39
COLE
When I walked into the coffee shop, it was nearly full. No sign of Jules. I grabbed a two top and headed to the counter to order. Bringing our drinks back to the table, I pulled out my laptop and signed in.
I’d gone down a rabbit hole about a Renaissance scholar from Umbria in Italy on my sabbatical that I was planning to publish. Unfortunately, although the topic had held my interest previously, I found myself staring through the window of the café, waiting for her.
Not a good sign. Neither was waiting for her to text her schedule all day, knowing she probably wouldn’t. She liked me, that much was obvious. And I liked her too. But that was the problem.
When I saw her approach, Jules readjusting her laptop bag on your shoulder, it was like my insides had just come alive. If nothing else, I could at least admit I’ve never felt quite this way about a woman before.
The bell above the door tingled as Jules walked in. She scanned the room and found me. Our eyes locked. I smiled. She smiled, and then headed my way.
“Got you a coffee already,” I said as she put her bag down and opened up her laptop on the table.
She opened the lid. “This is the perfect color.”
“I know how you drink your coffee. But what I don’t know is how you’re going to get Marshall to figure out who the killer is.”
Jules lit up every time she talked about her book. I got the sense that there weren’t a lot of people around wanting to hear every detail, and I got it. I rarely talked about hidden Renaissance scholars with anyone but colleagues, and most often not them either.
“Marshall thinks he’s chasing motive,” she said. “Money, jealousy, revenge. The usual suspects.” She glanced up at him, eyes bright now. “But the killer isn’t driven by any of that. He’s trying to protect a story he’s been telling himself for years. That he’s the good guy.”
She leaned back, considering it.
“The trick is letting Marshall figure out that the crime isn’t the lie—the justification is. Once he sees that, the whole thing unravels.”
She tapped her laptop once, decisive.
“Okay,” she said. “Your turn. What are you working on today?”
I paused longer than I meant to.
“I’m revising an article,” I said finally. “About a Renaissance humanist who kept moving from city to city—Florence, Padua, Venice. Brilliant, respected. Always welcomed.” My mouth curved slightly. “Never stayed.”
I looked down at my notes, then back at her.
“I’m arguing that it wasn’t ambition that drove him. It was discomfort. He did his best work on the brink of leaving.”
“Wait, is that the same one you were telling me about on the train?”
“It is.” I pulled out my notepad and a pen.
“An actual notebook? You really are old school.”
“In some ways, I am. I like to take notes here”—I tapped the notebook with my pen—“and then synthesize on the laptop.”
She took a sip of coffee, gave me a bright smile, and started punching keys on her laptop.
“I really like hearing about your research. History was my favorite subject, did you know that?”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t. “So why not do something in that discipline?”
She scratched her cute nose, her mouth up to one side, thinking.
“That’s a good question. I went into college undecided, took a few history classes and writing ones too, because that’s another thing I loved.
And maybe it was the way they presented it…
I’m not sure. I just ended up on the writing route instead.
Traveling with my parents, I knew when I had the money I would like to do at least one trip per quarter for inspiration.
Even if it’s a drivable long weekend. I couldn’t think of a profession that gave me that flexibility. ”
“I think you picked a good one. I can’t wait to read the book.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I was trying really hard not to be a complete asshole and promising things for the future that I couldn’t deliver.
“And I’d like to read your article.”
I looked at her with a fair amount of skepticism.
“I’m serious! I really would. All right, let’s do thirty minutes—no talking, just working.”
She called me old school? Jules pulled a set of headphones out of her bag that looked ten years old. She put them on; for some reason, it was strangely sexy.
She mentioned no talking, but that didn’t mean we ignored each other for a half hour. I looked up at times, and mostly she was tapping away on the keyboard. But a few times, I caught her looking at me. We would lock eyes, someone would smile, and then go back to work.
It wasn’t enough.
At one point I moved my foot closer to her and tapped her sneaker ever so gently. She did it back, giggling.
We never moved our feet apart again.
“Okay, time’s up,” she said. “That’s called a sprint. It’s a writer thing.”
I looked up, dubious. “I don’t get it. Don’t you just work and then stop when you’re done?”
She pushed away her finished coffee. Her fingers were soft, I knew, and I imagined them gripping my shoulders. Checking my head, I looked back up.
“Sprints are good when you’re writing because it’s hard sometimes to stay in the story, at least for me, for too long. So I know it’s a finite amount of time, and during that time I can’t look at social media or do anything other than write.”
I leaned back in my seat. “Interesting. I suppose this fits.”
“Fits with what?”
“Your sticky organizational system.”
Juliette laughed. “I still can’t believe you were in my bedroom.”
I reserved comment.
“How do the triceps feel?”
A good-looking guy had sidled up to our table. He was looking at Juliette with open admiration. Worse, she seemed to know him.
“Not sure yet, but I’m expecting they will be sore tomorrow.”
As I sat through their exchange, the very uneasy feeling of being jealous—an emotion I had little room for in my life, and one which typically didn’t affect me—threatened to have me saying something stupid.
“I would introduce you,” she said to me, “but I don’t even know his name.”
The two of them laughed as if in on some private joke.
“So this is the boyfriend you mentioned? Haven’t seen you. Do you usually work out?”
I looked from him to Juliette, who had a bit of a panicked look on her face.
So he’s the boyfriend you mentioned… I could easily put two and two together.
“I’m usually there at pretty weird hours,” I said as I reached up to shake his hand. “Cole Ford.”
“Dex Shepherd.”
Ah, geez.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I said.
Both he and Juliette looked at me strangely.
“You lived at the end of Lincoln. I babysat you way back in the day.”
Now he was confused. “Oh man, I feel bad I didn’t recognize you or the name.”
“Since you were probably four or five years old, no offense taken. And we moved out of town when I was in middle school.”
Dex thankfully stopped eyeing up Juliette. “So when did you get back to Cedar Falls?”
“I’m just here for a visit. I actually live in Manhattan now.”
“A few of the guys I’m good friends with are still here, so I joined the gym for when I’m in town.”
“Ah, got it. You must come to town quite a bit then?”
I peeked at Jules. She seemed grateful, and also a bit curious. I opened and closed my hands, a sensation similar to being in a crowded elevator coming over me.
Wanting to end the conversation, I said, “Here and there. It was great seeing you again. Tell your parents I said hello.”
“Will do,” he said, then addressed Jules. “If you ever need any help at the gym, just let me know.”
That little rascal.
“Pretty sure he was hitting on me this morning, so… it just made it easier… Obviously we’re not… I mean… you know what I mean.”
I knew what she meant, loud and clear.
“Ready for another sprint?” I was ready for a safer subject. My Renaissance scholar was about as safe as it got.
“Sure. But then I’m going to have to hit the bathroom.” She made a face that would make the devil laugh. Outrageous as usual.
“Deal. Thirty minutes. Let’s go.”
But then what? Dinner? Inviting myself to stay over?
I told myself this morning not to think of the future, but to live in the present, and that’s what I was going to do. Whatever happened, happened.
Though I did pull my foot away.