Dreams for Stones (3 page)

Probably.

We’ll stay close. By writing and talking,
she told the phantom Greg. Two years is nothing.

Good. His own argument used against him.
Before you know it, you’ll be finished and moving back to Denver.
The time will fly.

“I need to think about all this, Kitten. I
didn’t expect it.”

She hated being called Kitten, but it wasn’t
easy to point that out to someone who wasn’t there.

Alan stood and stretched. Time for his first one-on-one,
get-acquainted meeting with his new department head. Not something
he was looking forward to after Hilstrom’s unexpected visit to his
class.

He slipped his tie over his head, pulled the
knot snug, then plucked his jacket from the back of the door and
shrugged it on.

Hilstrom’s assistant glanced up when he
walked in. “Professor Francini. My, you’re prompt. I’ll tell her
you’re here.”

As she made the call, Alan shifted until the
toe-dancer in the picture hanging over the assistant’s head seemed
to be rising out of her tangle of gray curls. It was an amusing and
curiously satisfying image; one that would have appealed to
Meg.

Meg. . .

“. . . right in,” the assistant said. “She’s
ready for you.”

It happened that way sometimes. A sudden
vision of Meg, bending over a wildflower maybe, or taking off her
hat to let the breeze blow her hair, and the real world would fade.
It was a relief when the dream released him before anybody noticed
his distraction.

He stepped through the doorway into the
inner office and felt momentarily disoriented. The old chairman’s
filing system had consisted of proliferating stacks of paper
covering every available surface, and his only concession to the
gods of decoration and order had been floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Now all that was gone. A desk and computer work-station were tucked
into a corner like an afterthought, while most of the space was
given over to a chair, sofa, and coffee table ensemble.

Hilstrom greeted him, gesturing toward the
sofa. He sat and glanced around, his gaze coming to rest on two
framed prints on the opposite wall—a Picasso, its dark, slashing
lines contrasting with a Monet, indefinite as fog. The
juxtaposition hinted Hilstrom either had hidden depths—something
he’d begun to doubt—or she was clueless.

He looked away from the pictures, trying to
regain his focus as she picked up a folder from the desk and came
to sit in the chair across from him. “I thought we might start with
you telling me what you consider to be your major accomplishment in
your five years here.” She sat back, ceding the floor to him.

He’d expected the question or something
similar, but took a moment to gather his thoughts anyway before
speaking briefly about the techniques he’d developed to teach
grammar, after reading about the positive effects of music on
learning.

When he stopped speaking, she waited a beat,
perhaps to give him a chance to add more. When he didn’t, she spoke
briskly, saying the approach sounded
interesting
, her
favorite word it seemed.

“I see you’ll be coming up for tenure this
fall. That means we need to discuss your publication record.” She
glanced at the file. “It appears you’ve been writing primarily for
education journals.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses.
“What I want to know is whether you have any plans to write
fiction.”

“Is that an issue?” He’d heard the rumors
about Hilstrom’s plan to turn Denver State into a fiction-writing
Mecca to rival Iowa; he just hadn’t completely believed it. Had
chosen to label it an
interesting
but unlikely approach.

She pulled off her glasses and looked him in
the eye. “Fiction is our future, Alan, and I don’t intend to
support anyone for appointment, reappointment, tenure, or promotion
who isn’t writing it.”

The shock froze him, until a welcome spurt
of annoyance thawed the sudden cold. Good lord, the woman ought to
be writing ad copy somewhere, not directing a large, complex
department at a major university. What had the search committee and
the dean been thinking? He sat back, adding distance between
them.

“There’s entirely too much deadwood writing
non-fiction in our tenured ranks already,” she added.

So, what was deadwood using to write its
non-fiction with these days? Pen? Typewriter? Computer? He pictured
a row of bare tree branches holding pens and leaning over sheets of
paper and almost smiled.

She paused, apparently to allow him an
opportunity to respond, but he had nothing to say.

“You’re not much of a talker.” She cocked
her head and twirled her glasses examining him.

“Better to be thought a fool. . . ” He kept
his tone calm and neutral, something he’d discovered was useful
whether he was dealing with an agitated student, a frightened
animal, or an academic administrator.

“Than to open your mouth and remove all
doubt,” Hilstrom finished when he didn’t. “Yes, I do realize I’m
changing the rules on you late in the game, but you have six months
to make adjustments before you turn in your dossier.” She tapped
the glasses on her teeth. “I know you’ll need time to think about
all this. Then if you have questions or concerns, simply ask to see
me.” She set his file and her peripatetic glasses on the table.
“After all, that’s what I’m here for.”

Then, with a professional smile and a brief,
hard handclasp, she dismissed him.

Juggling beers and hot dogs, Alan and Charles Larimore settled into
their seats at Coors Field. Charles, who hated to miss even a
single hamstring stretch or warm-up pitch, focused immediately on
the players who were scattered around the field.

Alan took a gulp of beer. “How goes the
fight against the forces of evil?”

Charles, who was a deputy district attorney,
spoke without turning his head. “Another week, another fifteen drug
dealers, two robbers, and a rapist back on the street.”

“You could always give up the frustration
and go for the big corporate bucks.”

Charles grimaced at Alan over the rim of his
beer. “Somebody’s got to be stemming the tide. Besides, most
corporate law’s as dull as a machete used to chop rocks.”

“Ever think maybe there’s a good reason
‘stemming’ rhymes with ‘lemming’?”

“You’re no better. Stemming the tide of
illiterate lemmings at DSU.”

They stood to let a group into the row, then
sat back down.

“I met with the new chair last week.” Alan’s
gut tightened as he recalled the meeting. Hilstrom was a
menace.

“How’s she settling in?”

“Fine. She’s sure not someone I’d choose to
be marooned with, though.”

“And let me guess who that might be. I’d
have to say your horse. What’s his name again?”

“I’ll give you a personal introduction
anytime you say.”

“Nope.” Charles shook his head emphatically.
“Urban cowboy through and through, that’s me. Four on the floor
means a gearshift, not hooves. You do realize horses are large,
dangerous animals.”

It was a well-established position. Although
Charles was a regular visitor to the ranch, he politely and
pointedly declined any opportunity to get near a horse.

The sharp plop and crack of balls hitting
gloves and bats began to punctuate their conversation.

“You need to jolly the lady along a bit,”
Charles said, returning to the original subject. “Tell her she’s
looking fine. Soften her up.”

A picture popped into Alan’s head of
Hilstrom sliding off her chair and melting into a small colorful
puddle with her glasses floating on top. Rather like the Wicked
Witch of the West who, come to think of it, Hilstrom resembled.

It was one of the things Alan liked best
about Charles, that the other man always said something that
brought an amusing image to mind.

The amusement was short-lived, however, as
Alan told Charles the rest. “She’s trying to change the tenure
rules. Her entire focus is on writing fiction.”

Charles gave him the gimlet look he no doubt
used to good effect on reluctant witnesses. “But that’s what you’re
writing, right? It’s got to be a thousand pages by now.”

“She only counts what’s published.” His book
wasn’t finished. And was never going to be. A fact he had no
intention of sharing with Charles. Or anyone else.

The familiar, hollow feeling kicked in, and
he tried to smother it with more beer and the last bite of hot
dog.

“She can’t change the rules after the fact,”
Charles said. “You can put their asses in a sling with a suit.”

“A suit would be as hard on me as them.” No
way was he suing, and Charles knew it.

“You can always try dangling the possibility
of a suit. Ask the lady to document where being published in
fiction was a requirement for tenure. If it wasn’t mentioned
before, she doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on.”

Charles stopped to take a gulp of beer, but
Alan saw the wheels were still turning.

“Partly she may be running up a flag to see
who salutes.”

“It’s politics.”

“Yeah. Not your strong suit. You don’t need
to fawn. Just suck up a little.”

Alan shook his head, grimacing. “You put
things so elegantly.”

“Hey, I was an English major too.”

“Then threw your lot in with
obfuscators.”

“Excuse me. Legal language is renowned for
its unambiguous, articulate, and erudite phraseology.”

Alan snorted, and Charles grinned before he
turned serious again. “I know you fight only when it’s important to
you, but you can’t let them screw you on this.”

Charles had that right.

They stood for the national anthem, and when
it ended, Charles lifted his cup to signal the beer vendor. Once
the fresh beers arrived, Charles took a drink, then spoke,
obviously trying to sound casual. “A friend of Tiffany’s is coming
for a visit. I’ve seen a picture. She’s hot. How about I set
something up for the four of us next weekend?”

“I’m going to the ranch.”

“Lame, Francini.”

Alan clamped down on his irritation. This
was the part of spending time with Charles he could do without. He
tolerated it only because, with the exception of that one flaw,
Charles was a good friend.

“You’re right. But it’s what I’m doing.”
Over the years, Alan had found partial agreement more effective
than giving Charles an opening to start a debate.

“I miss her too.” Charles treated the catch
in his voice with a gulp of beer. “She’d want you to go out, you
know.”

The remark was all the more startling,
because Charles rarely mentioned Meg anymore.

“I am out.” And he’d been enjoying himself,
with the sun warming his bare arms and the beer cooling his
throat.

Until Charles reminded him Meg was gone.

And everything went flat.

Kathy’s heart was pounding with excitement by the time she reached
the end of the Jetway at the San Francisco airport where Greg
waited for her. Finally. They’d be able to talk about. . .
everything. All the uncertainty, the discomfort, would go away. She
knew it would. They just needed to be together. She and Greg. The
man she loved. The man she was going to marry one year and ten
months from today.

“Kitten, it’s great to see you.”

She dropped her carry-on and threw herself
into his arms. He kissed her, then stepped back. Too soon for
Kathy. It had, after all, been two long months since she’d last
been kissed, or held.

Still, they were in a public place. She took
a steadying breath and squeezed his hands, enjoying the solidity of
that touch after the weeks of disembodied phone and e-mail
conversations.

“Let me look at you,” he said. “You are so
beautiful.”

She’d missed that as well—Greg telling her
she was beautiful. An exaggeration, but he always said it as if he
believed it.

He twined a lock of her hair around a large
finger. “Your hair is the most amazing color. All copper, red, and
gold.” His voice thickened and he pulled her close, then bent his
head and kissed her again.

She settled into the kiss. “You’re not bad,
yourself,” she murmured against his lips. In his case, an
understatement. He was take-your-breath-away gorgeous, and right
now, smiling into his eyes, it was hard to recall why staying in
Denver had ever seemed like a good idea.

When they reached Greg’s apartment, he set
her bag down inside the door and pulled her into his arms—the
moment she’d been impatient for all the way from the airport.

They kissed, undressing with clumsy haste,
running their hands all over each other. Reconnecting after the
long weeks apart.

Afterward, Kathy sighed with happiness as
she curled against Greg. He stroked her hip with a fingertip, the
motion slowing as his breathing deepened and he drifted off to
sleep. Kathy dozed as well, her excitement easing into satiety and
peacefulness.

When she awoke, Greg was still asleep.
Knowing he slept whenever and wherever he could, she slipped out of
bed and went to the bathroom to get dressed. Then, while she waited
for Greg to wake up, she toured the apartment.

She knew that Greg had taken over the lease
along with the haphazard furnishings from the previous toxicology
fellow. Those furnishings, a mix of obvious cast-offs, were,
nonetheless, oddly charming.

And she could easily make it more charming:
some pillows, an afghan throw for the sofa, curtains.

She wandered into the kitchen. Galley-size
but adequate, with a small gas stove and an avocado-colored fridge.
Greg’s additions were a microwave and coffee pot.

Maybe the apartment’s owner would let her
paint the cabinets. Currently they were a dirty beige, but painted
white, with bright colored doors—red or green or. . .

So. She was considering it, was she? Moving
to San Francisco.