Chapter 32
@ADHemmings *noir-filtered selfie of August Dansworth in a suit with new eyeglasses*:
Almost finished with Blood Offspring. Cleaned up for a rare night out. Thoughts on the new specs? #lonelywriterlife
@BluestockingBadass: @ADHemmings Watch out, ladies, the Sex God emerges from his #writersmancave
The next evening, I’m over at Henry’s house stirring up coleslaw in the kitchen.
Through the window over the sink, I watch Henry putting chicken thighs on the grill while Lila Mae Dubose talks to him, glass
of Chardonnay in hand. Frank throws a ball back and forth with Heathcliff. The game, though, has become more of a race between
Heathcliff and Bonnie over who can get to the ball first. Heathcliff’s having a blast.
I should probably consider getting him a dog.
He’d love it.
Patrick calls.
“Hey!” I balance the cell phone between my cheek and shoulder as I take a bite of the coleslaw, determining it needs more
sauce.
Patrick and I make small talk about my trip. I don’t tell him I went to Haworth. I don’t tell him I snogged A.D. Hemmings.
Maybe I will at some point. It just feels too personal now.
“So . . . you know the first faculty meeting is coming up next week . . .”
“Yep.”
“Well, I hate to bother you about this, but Bill Rhodes is on my case. He says he still needs the Fiscal Advisory Report data for the last academic year. He says his twenty-five reminder letters are still lying unopened in front of your office.
I told him your husband just died, and he can kiss my ass.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’m resuming email again next week at 9:00 a.m. on the morning I return to campus. Everyone will
have the report by 9:30 a.m.”
Patrick chuckles. “He wanted it by five o’clock tonight, but he can wait.”
“He’ll have to.”
“Are you better?”
“In a million ways. You don’t have to worry about anymore class meltdowns.”
“I’m glad you’re better. You know Elaine and I have been thinking about you a lot. We still can’t believe Philip’s gone.”
“Me neither.” I stop myself, take a breath.
Henry comes in, setting the platter of barbecue chicken on the kitchen counter.
It’s Patrick . . . I mouth, rinsing slaw sauce off my fingers.
Henry pours me a large glass of wine, smiles meaningfully and takes the bowl of chilled fruit back outside to the patio table by the crackers and vegan cheese plate.
Apparently, Frank, too, is lactose intolerant.
“I’ll let you go,” Patrick says. “But before you step back into the arena, you need to know that Bill and Evie’s ongoing war
is at a take-no-prisoners level. More xeroxed letters keep ending up in our mailboxes. We still have no idea who’s doing it,
but I’ll bet anything it’s the new junior faculty hire in Mathematics, Betsy Byers. Dr. Caldwell gave her such an awful time
at her pre-tenure review! Anyway, details of the Caldwell-Rhodes affair continue to leak, and all I can say is ewww.”
“Well, it explains why they hate each other.”
“It’s not really something we need to worry too much about. But between the humiliation and humanities budget cuts, tensions
could be high next week. And there’s good old-fashioned jealousy. I emailed everyone the news that you’ve signed another movie
deal. Whatever happens, just remember, I’ll have your back.”
“I know you will, Patrick.”
After we hang up, I put the large serving spoon in the coleslaw bowl. Henry helps Heathcliff wash his hands before dinner.
I look out the kitchen sink window at the back deck patio table, citronella candles glowing in the center. Bonnie sniffs around
Henry’s rows of box gardens. Frank and Lila Mae sit at the patio table, her hand in his. I take a moment and then let out
a long breath of gratitude.
After loss, there can still be an evening like this.
After Lila Mae and Frank say goodbye, heading back to Charleston, we put on a movie for Heathcliff and return to the screened porch.
I settle back on one of the painted white wicker cushioned sofas; Henry sits beside me.
Bonnie lies in a deep sleep at our feet, wiped after chasing Heathcliff all evening.
The sky sprawls pink beyond the backyard’s pine trees.
Autumn coolness is already starting in the Midwest, but summer’s warmth continues, stubborn and thick, here in the South.
I’ve lived here for almost twenty years, and I always welcome this late-summer heat like a warm blanket.
“Are you ready to go back to all the work drama?” Henry asks.
“I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You probably think I’m crazy for staying at Willoughby.”
“Maybe a little. Why not just write?”
I think of Kayla, all the bright students in and out of my office every day. I think of Patrick and how we’ve become such
good friends over the years. I think of how happy I am when I teach literature. It all outweighs the Brad McGregors and Bill
Rhodes and budget cuts.
“I just really love teaching.”
Evening cicadas hum beyond the screens. Bonnie stretches with a giant yawn.
I lean into him, his shoulder warm against my cheek.
“Henry, why do you think people act the way they do? My colleagues? Mirabel keeping a secret all those years?”
He sighs, stretches his arm out behind me, and strokes my hair.
“I don’t need to tell you, Lizzie, that people just aren’t rational. My clients dig themselves into the biggest shitholes
out of greed, fear, and shame. And it’s the most put-together ones who live in upscale properties with pretentious names like
The Azalea Dream who are the darn nuttiest. But that’s just my two cents.”
“You may be onto something. I think I’ve learned a thing or two about that in my field as well. As you’ve pointed out, no
one acts sane in the books I teach.”
He grins. “Speaking of books, are you going to watch Blood Oath when it comes out?”
I groan. “Please don’t tell me you’re into the series.”
“I’ve already preordered Blood Offspring—you know, where supposedly he falls for a widow and finds out he has the kid from his brief time with Penny.”
“Ha. Wait. No, really. Have you?”
“I sure have. This Hemmings guy came to your house drunk, ready to beg for you back. The guy’ll base a character off you.”
“Funny. He did say he’ll have a widow character in his next book and Inspector Hall would be snogging her by the third chapter.”
“Well, there you go.”
I laugh. “I’m a bit worried about what that would look like—peculiar youngish widow who carries her husband’s ashes in a bird
urn. He’ll probably make me a serial killer.”