Man Trouble (20 page)

“I don't need your money,” Molly said. “Use it to hire someone else. The new semester starts in two weeks, and I have a full teaching load scheduled.”

“You told me that you were planning to write a book about Mary Morgan,” Jake said. “I thought that you academics were always looking for new research projects. What about ‘publish or perish'? This would be better for your career than spending a semester teaching.”

Molly was silent for a long moment, and Jake hoped that he had stumbled onto something. Finally, she spoke.

“Would you be willing to sign a legal document stating that if I find proof in the next three months, you'll turn the Morgan plantation into a museum?”

Jake did a quick mental calculation of odds and costs. Rezoning the golf course would cost more than he wanted to spend, as would polishing up the old site to make it safe for tourists. He didn't like the idea of being legally required to do either. But there was always the chance that the plantation hadn't belonged to Mary Morgan, or that Molly would be unable to prove that it had. His top priority was to keep his company out of Atlas's hands. If he couldn't manage that, whatever happened at Gold Bay in three months would be a non-issue. For him, at least.

“Yes,” he said. “I'll sign a document stating exactly what you just said. Three months. If you have proof by then, I'll make it a museum.”

“And you'll start the Mary Morgan Foundation to maintain and preserve the site.”

“The
what?”

“I'll be honored to accept the position of executive director,” Molly said. “Thank you so much for thinking of me.”

“I don't believe this,” Jake said, annoyed. “All right. Fine. I'll do it. Now will you—”

“And you'll give Carter the first interview about the engagement. He gets to break the news.”

“No. My PR people will break the news. That's not negotiable.”

“What about Carter?”

Jake hesitated. He didn't like Molly's friend, and he had no desire to see the man again, much less to spend time talking to him. But it would be pointless to stall the deal over that. There wasn't a reporter on earth who he did want to talk to, but he no longer had a choice. “One interview,” he said. “Sometime after the news has been released. He can peddle it wherever he likes, but that's the most I'll agree to. All right?”

“That sounds reasonable,” Molly said.

Jake felt a surge of relief. “Great,” he said. “It's settled, then. You'll do it.”

“No,” Molly said sweetly. “Sorry. I told you, I'm not interested.”

“What? Then why the hell were you—”

“I was just wondering if you were getting desperate.”

“God damn it,” Jake snapped. “I'm not desperate. You aren't the only woman I know. There are plenty of others—”

“So I've heard,” Molly said.

“—who would be happy with a cash payment and some media attention. They wouldn't ask me to build them
museums,
and set up
foundations
…”

“Wonderful,” Molly said. “I hope that you and they have a very nice engagement. Good-bye, Jake.”

She hung up on him, leaving him sitting there, staring in stunned disbelief at the silent receiver in his hand.

CHAPTER 19

O
n the morning of January fourth, Molly was awakened by the sound of the phone. She groaned and rolled over to squint at the clock. It was a little before eight
A.M.
, not early by her usual schedule, but classes didn't resume until the middle of the month, and she had been celebrating her vacation by lounging in bed until nine.

Who would be calling at this hour? Even Carter knew better than to bother her before eight. He had been phoning for the past two days, after Jake had made the brilliant move of asking him for her number.

On the fourth ring, her answering machine picked up. Molly lay dozing under her comforter, feeling too warm and snug to move. The machine beeped, and then she heard her mother's voice, fluttering with anxiety.

“Molly? Are you there? Your father and I…we're just so shocked. We can't believe the news, and we don't understand why you didn't tell us. Your father heard about it from the neighbors when he was out for his morning walk…”

What?
Molly frowned and lifted her head to listen.

“It's all over the newspapers! I heard that it was on the front page of
USA Today.
Oh, honey, everyone is talking about it, and they're calling us to ask about you. We don't know what to think…”

Molly sat bolt upright in bed, feeling as if her heart had jumped into her throat and cut off her air supply.

This can't be happening.

Jake couldn't have gone ahead with his plan without her consent. He couldn't have been crazy enough to announce the engagement to the press, thinking that such a move would maneuver her into a position where she would have no choice but to play along. Could he?

She lunged for the phone. “Mom?”

“Molly!” Her mother sounded almost tearful. “I'm so glad you're there. Ginny Goldman told me that she saw it on
Good Morning, Milwaukee!
I can't believe that we found out like this.”

“It's not true, Mom,” Molly exclaimed. “I swear, it's all a mistake.”

“Your father is so upset that he can't speak. He wouldn't eat his breakfast, and now he's locked himself in his study.”

“Mom, listen to me. Tell Dad that it's a lie. I am not engaged to marry Jake Berenger, no matter what he's been saying to the press. He's crazy, and he's trying to force me to cooperate with a plan to—”

“What?” Mrs. Shaw said, confused. “Engaged? To who? A crazy person? Oh, honey, I don't understand any of this. But I'm so glad to hear that it's not true. I knew it. I knew that there had to be some kind of mistake. Of course you would never have written that awful novel
Pirate Gold!”

Model? Princess? You'd Never Guess by Looking at Her!

An anonymous source has revealed the true identity of Sandra St. Claire, the author of the international best seller and cult phenomenon novel
Pirate Gold.
Rumors and misinformation—apparently started by the marketing department at Leighton House, Ms. St. Claire's publisher—have depicted the mysterious author as everything from a top model to a member of a European royal family, but the
Enquirer
has confirmed that Sandra St. Claire is actually the pen name of Dr. Mary Margaret Shaw, a professor at Belden College in Wisconsin. Dr. Shaw was not available for comment…

Molly's mother had been wrong when she said that the story was on the front page of
USA Today.
It was not. It was on the front page of the Life section, inside. It was also in the
Chicago Tribune,
the
New York Post,
and the
National Enquirer.
After that, Molly had stopped looking.

In each case the article was brief, said something similar in tone, and was accompanied by Molly's faculty photo from the Belden Web site, showing her sitting stiffly at her desk, rows of books lining the walls behind her. Her hair was flat and muddy, and the light of the flash reflected off of her glasses and her colorless face, giving her a deer-in-the-headlights look.

After her mother's phone call, Molly had thrown on her clothes, wrapped herself in her new black wool coat, and rushed to the Belden bookstore, which was connected to the coffee shop where she went every morning to pick up her daily double latte. Her newspaper-and-caffeine stop was a normal part of her routine, and for one moment, as she stepped into the warm and crowded building, it seemed as if nothing had changed.

Then, someone saw her.

Conversation ceased abruptly, silence moving in a wave through the store like a fast-spreading virus, and Molly found herself standing just inside the front door, staring into a sea of stunned faces.

“Professor Shaw!” cried Jessica Wong, one of Molly's Intro to British Colonial History students from the past semester. She was working behind the register, and a tabloid newspaper was open on the counter in front of her.

Molly looked around, trying to control the surge of panic rising from her stomach. Her heart thudded, and she felt dizzy. It was just like one of her dreams, but it was really happening. There was Kay Grotsky, from the Economics department, standing by the magazine rack, staring at her. There was Christopher Polk, from her senior seminar, holding an espresso and staring at her. There was Professor Sommers, her father's friend, with Mrs. Sommers, and Mike Kennedy from English, and—
Oh, God,
Molly thought—Rachel Feinstein, clutching the
New York Post,
staring at her. Everyone in the bookstore, everyone in the coffee shop—everyone in Belden, Wisconsin, as far as Molly could tell—had frozen in midsentence and stopped to gawk.

Molly took a deep, shaky breath.
Dead Professor Walking,
she thought. And she had been nervous about causing a stir with her new dress and haircut. Her nightmare had just come true, and there was nothing to do now but march forward.

Up, up, dear,
said Elaine's voice in her mind.
And smile. You're being watched.

Molly lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and smiled at the crowd as if she didn't have a care in the world.

“Good morning,” she said into the silence. “I hear that I'm in the news.”

David Fowler, the Dean of Faculty at Belden College, had a corner office in the main administration building, a sandstone mansion that had once been the home of Alfred Pottsworth Belden, the railroad tycoon whose foresight and funds had created Belden College in 1872. The decor in Dean Fowler's office had changed little from the original Victorian scheme, and over the fireplace hung a copy of the famous oil portrait of the venerable A. P. Belden himself. He glowered down at Molly as she approached one of the leather armchairs facing the dean's desk. Behind the desk was Dean Fowler, wearing the same expression.

“Professor Shaw,” he boomed. “Sit down.”

Molly sat. It was eleven
A.M.
, and she was still numb from the shocks of the morning. She had stayed at the bookstore long enough to ascertain the extent of the leak, then fled back to her apartment. Five messages were waiting on her answering machine, and one of them was from Dean Fowler, requesting that she come to his office immediately.

“You've seen this, I assume?” The dean pushed the
USA Today
article across his desk toward Molly. “And this. And this.”

More papers followed, including the
Daily Star,
which had helpfully supplied a voluptuous sketch of the imaginary Sandra St. Claire to contrast with the real-life Molly Shaw. Molly glanced at it and winced.

“Our Public Relations Office is being besieged with calls from reporters asking about you, Dr. Shaw. If anyone tried to contact us for another reason—to discuss our press release about Janet Heinrich's recent National Science Foundation grant, for example—I doubt that they would be able to get through.”

“Oh, dear,” Molly said. “I'm really very sorry about all of this. I'm sure it'll die down soon…”

“Let's hope so,” said the dean grimly. “In the meantime, President Dickerson has decided that we will not comment on this matter. Our public relations staff is not accustomed to working with the
Globe,
the
Star,
and the
Enquirer.
This is not the sort of publicity that we want for Belden College.”

Molly nodded.

“Professor Shaw,” the dean continued, “I've known your father for thirty years, and I consider him a personal friend, which is why I supported your application for a position here at Belden. The Shaw name is a famous name, and an honorable one. It is a name that your father has linked to scholarship of the highest quality. I consider his name and his reputation, like that of Belden College itself, to be sacrosanct. I had hoped—no, I had
expected
—that you would carry on that tradition of excellence.”

Molly's hands were knotted together in her lap. She stared down at them, feeling miserable, saying nothing. What could she say? Dean Fowler was right. She had embarrassed herself, her father, and her school. The papers had all made a point of mentioning that she was a professor at Belden College, and the daughter of the famous historian Stanford Shaw. Some had reported it simply as fact, others had used the opportunity to mock Belden's arrogant, elitist reputation.

The dean sighed, shaking his head. “Professor Shaw, I've known you since you were a child. Your father has always been very proud of you. Why you would do something like this to him, to us—”

“Excuse me,” Molly said suddenly. “But I didn't do it
to
anyone. I did it for myself. It had nothing to do with anyone else. That was why I used a pseudonym. I never meant for it to become public.”

“That may be so, but the scandal is only part of the problem. Your novel was more than six hundred pages long. Having written several books myself, I know that such a large project takes a great deal of time. It would have been wiser to spend that time doing work to benefit the academic community—work that does not require a pseudonym. Your choice does not reflect the Belden College Principles.”

“I know the College Principles,” Molly said stubbornly, “and I live up to them. I've been producing academic work, and I'm a good teacher. I get some of the highest marks on campus on the student evaluations. Even my father doesn't score as well as I do.”

“Students enjoy showmanship,” said the dean. “But this is not a popularity contest, Dr. Shaw. This is not
American Idol.
We at Belden want our faculty to show absolute commitment to their academic research. Someone whose strength is primarily in teaching would be better suited to a state university, where she would need to hold the attention of a lecture hall filled with football players.”

Molly recoiled. “Am I being fired?” she asked.

“No,” said Dean Fowler. “I would never do that to your father. It would kill him. But I have an obligation to the school, as well. You're free to finish out the academic year with us, Dr. Shaw. But your tenure review is coming up in May, and I feel that I should tell you now that you are unlikely to be offered a long-term position at Belden College.”