Chapter 4 #2
Her hot solicitor wants her to help settle estate questions instantly, like right fucking now. Lady Catherine de Bourgh shows up on her porch every goddamn week to micromanage her life. She’s got this gaggle of silly
scullery maids quibbling endlessly over the STUPIDEST things, and MEANWHILE Lizzie’s just trying to take care of her children
and put herself back together after she’s been broken into a million GODDAMN pieces!”
I’m crying, sniffing, and shaking as one giant ball of rage and grief seizes up in my chest.
The tears won’t stop flowing and all my students stare at me.
Kayla kindly brings me a little box of Kleenex.
As I blow my nose, Brad speaks up. “Miss Wells, did you get my note about the extra credit?”
“Oh, Brad. Indeed, I do have a response for you,” I say icily.
The sucker stick stops mid-chew.
I pull out the envelope from my satchel, dramatically tear it open and read it loudly.
“Dear B—
In my fifteen years of teaching, you are the most entitled, sexist dodo to darken my classroom door. You smell like skunkweed,
beer, and unwashed sheets. You strut about like you are God’s gift to women. You park your red BMW in reserved faculty spaces
without consequence. You call Jane Austen a ‘chick,’ but you are the classic insufferable fool who shows up in her pages again
and again and again—boastful, ridiculous, and, above all, STUPID. You are fodder for novels and will end up as comic relief
in a good many women’s more relevant life stories.
I will never—in a MILLION years—give you extra credit.
If you want a good grade in my class, you put in the elbow grease and FUCKING EARN IT.
Sincerely,
DR. Wells”
“Whoa! Dr. Wells just roasted Brad!” Pauline yells from the back as all the women in the class cheer. Kayla high-fives Susanna next to her as Maddy yells, “Burn!”
Brad stands, red-faced, waves the middle finger at everyone, and storms out, classroom door slamming behind him.
“That was awesome, Dr. Wells,” Kayla says.
Everyone’s smiling, including Ryan.
I’m somewhat satisfied that I’ve finally given a voice to the universal female dislike for Brad McGregor. Although I’m still a hot mess, reading the letter was cathartic. Steam releasing from a screaming kettle. But obviously I can’t teach now, so I dismiss class and head to my office.
I’ve stopped trembling, but I’m drained and sad, unable to do anything, even the smallest task, like unbending a paper clip.
I pick up the five-by-seven-inch silver-framed photo from my wedding day with Philip.
I wore a simple sleeveless ivory wedding dress, my light brown hair twisted back in a French knot. In the photo, Philip and
I are kissing in front of our wedding cake, our cheeks youthfully round and flushed with champagne and joy. Philip had wanted
us to take professional dancing lessons together before the wedding, but I never scheduled them. Still, we’d swayed to our
favorite Beatles song, “If I Fell.” Before dinner, painfully shy Dad broke out of his comfort zone to toast me with an eighth-century
Japanese poem celebrating daughters. My unsentimental mom lifted her champagne flute to me, toasting to “the most beautiful
daughter in the world, to the girl who has her grandma’s strength and heart.” I shed happy tears, and Philip squeezed my hand
under the table.
Last summer, I’d remembered Mom’s wedding toast as she withered away from breast cancer. Philip had taken the best care of
Heathcliff while I went on leave and stayed in Indiana, brushing Mom’s peppered hair as it fell out in clumps and feeding
her broth. I loved Philip more than ever when he came to her funeral, stood beside me, and wept like she’d been his own mother.
Between losing Mom and then the film premiere, last year had been a lot.
I’d felt devastated and thrilled and broken and grateful in so many short months.
There hadn’t been time to process any of it.
For Christmas, Philip had bought us dance lessons, a gentle reminder that life is short and precious, and we should cash in now on the experience because there would be no better time or guaranteed tomorrows.
But I’d never acted on it, and the gift card lay untouched on my jewelry box.
In spite of his nudging, I hadn’t really danced since high school show choir.
Now he’s gone, and we’ll never take the lessons.
Someone knocks at my door. Quickly, I wipe a tear from my face and set the photo down as Patrick comes in.
He runs his hand through his beard. “I just got a call from Dean McGregor . . .”
“I’m fired.”
“No,” Patrick sighs. “You’re too valuable. Unlike the rest of us, you write books people actually read.”
“Well, Brad had it coming.”
Patrick smirks. “Oh, your Dear John letter sounds fucking awesome.”
“But . . .”
“You’re to go on paid leave from now through the rest of the summer.”
“Are you kidding? That’s my punishment?”
He shrugs. “I’ll take care of everything—I’ll finish the class, give the final next week, get all the grading done, and keep
Rhodes at bay. You just leave and forget about this place for a while.”
I sit frozen at my desk.
“Go on, Lizzie. You deserve so much.”
I get in my car and make the call before I’m even off campus.
“Hey, Sarah—I’ll take you up on the London town house offer.”
From Blood Oath by A.D. Hemmings:
Chadwick Hall speeds along Wye Valley Road on the route to Tintern, autumn leaves rippling from the trees around him.
He needs this journey—not only to interview the latest victim’s sister, but to reassess his love life.
He can’t stop thinking about last night with Emilia Wren. Her scent, her stockings. She was bloody amazing. And she’d been
so deft at that rooftop chase. Wren reminded him of the other partner Catherine (or was it Caitlin?) he’d shagged after one
too many Irish whiskeys while they’d been on the heels of that sapphire jewel thief in Bangor.
Is yet another affair a good idea?
More importantly—will he ever be able to commit?
He runs his hand through his hair as his sleek olive Bentley picks up speed.
From The Heathcliff Saga:
“Where are we going?” Cathy asks Linwood as he leads her through the steep downhill path, heather brushing against her skirts.
“On a journey.”
He smiles crookedly. Her heart seizes up. She loves Heathcliff. But she’s not immune to Linwood’s charm, his chiseled chin,
the way his blond hair falls over his tall forehead.
But she stops at the narrow cave entrance, an almost invisible slit between towering gritstone rock. Goose bumps prickle her
neck.
“Nelly said never to come here. It’s the fairy bed . . .”
“Nelly doesn’t want us to know about the magic. We can summon it for ourselves, Cathy.”
He steps inside, reaches his hand out, beckoning her in.
She hesitates, peaty wind from the cave mouth blowing softly against her cheeks. “I don’t know, Linwood. Heathcliff inherited his powers—but the moor’s magic. It’s not to be messed with.”
“You’re afraid.”
She tightens her lips. “Never.”
That crooked smile again. He takes her hand, tugs. “Then come along.”