Miss Fortune (5 page)

So your dad called while you were out, Myron said, bent over deep into the pantry, looking for a cream soda.

That startled Rachel out of her thoughts fast enough. Did you talk to him?

Hell no, just let the answering machine take it. He asked about your dissertation. Sounded like he had an attitude. Is he still giving you grief about it?

Among other things.

Rachel, dont let him get to you. Heres the thing, Myron said, emerging at last with the cream soda, your dad has only a high school education. He doesnt understand the concept of higher learning and how difficult or important a dissertation can be. He walked to the cabinet and fished out a glass, then reached for the fridge door for ice. I mean, its like my situation.

Frankly, everything was like Myrons situation if she let him talk long enough.

If I dont get published in the right journals on the right topic in the right time frame, Im never going to get tenure. And if I dont get tenure, my ass is out on the street, you know what Im saying? But its just not that easythese academic things dont make sense to people like your dad, but theyre really very important.

My dissertation and your tenure arent really the same thing, do you think? Rachel suggested as he helped himself to a glass and a few cubes of ice (leaving one cube sliding helplessly around the tiled countertop until Rachel caught it and tossed it in the sink).

You know what Dean Holcroft told me? Myron continued, ignoring her question. He said theyll be looking for something next fall. What hes saying is, if I dont have an article written and published by next fallthats a little less than a year then theyre going to deny me tenure. Can you fucking believe that? he demanded indignantly before pouring the cream soda.

Sort of, she admitted, but again, Myron didnt seem to hear herhe was shaking his head at the injustice of it all. And while he waxed indignantly about an unfair system, there was a little thought in Rachels head that Myron had been a professor of history for years now, and that he had been struggling through the very same scholarly article about pre-colonial America for as long as she had known him. Once she even suggested he find a new topic, and he had all but taken her head off.

When Myron finished his impassioned speech about the communist basis for tenure, he returned to his sandwich, moved aside the groceries that were in his way, and settled in to finish it off.

As Rachel put some apples in the fruit bowl, she noticed her new T-Mobile phone beside it. She picked it up to check for messages.

Hey, cool . Can I see that? Myron asked when he saw her phone. She handed him the cell phone, continued putting groceries away. This is really cool. Where did you get it?

New York. Mom got it for me. She wants instant access.

Now see, your mom understands you better than your dad, I think. Shes back in New York, right? Taking care of Aaron? He actually sounded pretty good on the answering machine.

The comment gave her pause, and she looked out over the kitchen sink to her unkempt lawn below. Hes really sick, she said honestly. The chemo and radiation have made him weak. So sick that all he could do, apparently, was lie around and think of ways to badger her after Mom had cajoled her into coming to New York while she went back to L.A. to take care of a few things.

It had been okay at firststill stressful, because Dad was always stressful, but not unbearable. In fact, Rachel was beginning to believe that she could handle the old man. It didnt get bad between them, really, until he asked her how much her graduate teaching position was paying. Its not, Rachel had answered truthfully. The professor took a post at UCLA and I lost my internship.

She could recall Dad on the couch, looking bone thin and exhausted and dumbfounded. So what are you doing for money?

Gawd, she hated money. Which was sort of ironic, seeing as how she came from a family with loads of it. Im teaching a weaving class

A what class?

A weaving class. You know, like tapestries and rugs and

I know what the hell a weaving class is, Rachel. I just cant believe that is your solution to replacing my money. You think weaving is going to pay your bills?

Well no, she never thought it was going to pay her bills, particularly since she had waived the fee for half the classhey, times were hard and people needed a break. And even though a few could pay, their fees did not add up to enough to pay her utility bill, which, in September, had swooped into her mailbox, demanding one hundred and fifty dollars that she did not have.

At any rate, the conversation had deteriorated from there, and Dad had reminded her for the umpteenth time that he was pulling all support for her school, (a) because she had just turned thirty-one years old and was still in school and would never finish, (b) because she would never finish, she would never amount to anything, and (c) because she would never amount to anything, she would have to rely on the likes of Byron Tidwell to provide for her, but hey, if she wanted to live under a bridge somewhere, that was okay.

Well, (a) she would finish school, even if Dad didnt believe her. She was searching through what seemed like a haystack of hypotheses for a needle of a dissertation, and that was all she had left. And (c) she wouldnt rely on Myron , not Byron, for anything but friendship, because like it or not, he understood her and accepted who she was while Dad just wanted her to be someone else entirelylike her sisters, Rebecca and Robin. She was never going to be a Rebecca or a Robin. Which left (b), the part about her never amounting to anything.

That was the part that had sent her, fists clenched around a Big Grab bag of potato chips, on a train back to Providence.

Hey listen, I got something for you, Myron said, pushing aside his empty plate. He got up, walked into the adjoining dining room where hed dumped his stuff, and came back with a box.

What is it?

Check it out, he said, and beamed like a little kid as Rachel opened the box and pulled out a figurine of a dancing woman. She was wearing a blue dress with a pink sash and was holding up one side of her gown as she twirled about.

Its beautiful, she said, holding it up, wondering where in Gods name shed put something like that. I saw something very similar to? this in a museum in England. Which was where things like this belonged, really. In museums, not in bungalows.

Myron nodded eagerly. This is a copy of a French piece Lord Billingham brought from England to New York in the eighteenth century. His was bone china and hand-gilded. As an assistant curator, Myron got an employee discount in the many gift shops of the Rhode Island Historical Preservation Society, and recently had become fond of buying reproductions.

Its lovely, Myron, she said, putting it down again. But you really shouldnt buy me gifts.

Why not? he asked with a quick, friendly buss to her temple. I like to give you things.

Right. But what she would really like to get from him was the money he owed her. She could just never think of a polite way to ask for it, and tried to think of one as she watched Myron pick up his ancient canvas backpack.

But as no polite way came to her, another thought did. Hey, Ive got an idea, she said, putting the figurine down. Do you think you could get me a job with the preservation society?

Myron choked on a cough. A job ? he asked incredulously as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. Why do you want a. job ? He said it Like she was asking for a shot at leprosy.

Because my dad is seriously cutting me off and I lost my internship, and I have a utility bill and a tree problem and about twenty bucks in the bank. Its serious, MyronIm out of salami So do you think you could get me one?

Myron adjusted the backpack, looked at the kitchen door. Well no . No! he exclaimed, obviously flustered. You cant work at the preservation society, Rachel. I mean, you have to know what you are doing

You can teach me! she said brightly.

With a bark of laughter, he reached for the doorknob. Please! I dont think so! Its not like its on-the-job training, Rachel. You have to know about the history and the artwork. Besides, you dont want to work therethe pays no good. So okay! he said quickly before she could argue that some pay was better than none. Ill check you later, okay? And with a jaunty wave, he stepped through the back door and shut it soundly behind him.

Dipshit.

She looked again at the little figurine he had brought her, put it back in the box, and left it on the breakfast bar while she decided where to store it. In the meantime, she picked up Myrons dirty plate, noticed her new, multifunction T-Mobile phone was gone, and looked around for it. It was nowhere. Myron must have inadvertently put it in his backpack. Gawd .

She put the dirty dishes away, then tried to raise Myron on the T-Mobile.

He didnt answer, of courseprobably didnt know he had it. Rachel finally gave up and flipped on her computer to check her e-mail before she had to go teach her weaving class.

Subject; Re: Re: Hey

From: lt; [email protected] gt;

To: Rach lt; [email protected] gt;

F. Y. IIIIIIII you moron, the zing in our sex life is helped along by experimentation across a broad spectrum, and if you EVER tell Jake I said that, I will kill you. Anyway, I just figured you and My-Ron are doing the tantric thing, so why cant we? Just send me the stinking book already, will you? Rob

Subject Re: Re: Re: Hey

From: lt; [email protected] gt;

To: lt; [email protected] gt;

-

First of all, Einstein, Tantra is not a sex manual. Its a way of thinking and believing and is all about the harmony of spirits. Do you even have a spirit, by the way? If you want EZ-read pictures, go get a copy of the Kama Sutra. That should give you some broad spectrum to talk about. [And F.Y.IIIIIIIII, Myron and 1 do not practice tantric ANYTHING). Our relationship is strictly platonic. I thought I told you that! I know I did!! If youd get your

mind out of the gutter you might remember some of the very

important stuff I tell you! Stop bugging me.

Rachel

She hit the Send button and happened to notice the timeshe was going to be late. She grabbed up her purse and headed for the corner grocer near class, cursing My-Ron the whole way for eating all her brownies.

At the grocery, she grabbed a few things lest the night clerk think that she had actually jumped in her car and driven down for something as singularly sinful and indulgent as a brownie. She picked up enough trash bags to last through the millennium, some laundry soap in the event she took up laundry as opposed to sending it out, and an extra-large box of super-duty tampons, as they were on sale. With her finances in the shape they were in, that was definitely not a product she wanted to take a chance on running low.

With those items in her basket, she nonchalantly strolled to the deli counter.

The counter was closed, but the deli guy had left a basket on the counter with the days unsold products, nicely wrapped and dated. Rachel rifled through the cookies and brownies until she found an enormous double-chocolate brownie that looked to be about as big as her head. She , shoved it down into her little basket, then walked briskly to the front.

When she paid for her items, she walked outside, paused next to the trash can to pull out the brownie, and unwrapped it. She took one very large biteafter all, she was running a little late and wouldnt have time to scarf it all before class, but why not have a little taste?and was about to wrap it up again when she suddenly felt the presence of someone close by. She stopped mid-munch and slowly turned her head.

There was a man in a suit standing before her, his hands shoved deep in his trench coat, his grin nice and wide. He startled her so badly that when Rachel tried to step out of his way, she dropped her bag, and the tampons went shooting out across the walk, which, naturally, she couldnt catch because she had a giant brownie in her hand.

What a happy coincidence, the Brit said cheerfully. And as he dipped down to retrieve her tampons, he smiled so warmly at her that he damn near melted her brownie.

RACHEL sprang into action, swooping down on the tampon box like a buzzard on roadkill, snatching it at the exact same time he wrapped his big hand around it. They looked at each other, the tampons between them. Ive got it, she said, and jerked it out of his hand. Only it took her two hands to grab it, the box was so enormous. He was surely thinking she had some sort of horrific problem and she quickly stood up, which caused her to make a little sound of pain when her legs barked at her.

Are you quite all right? bonny Prince Charlie asked, standing smoothly and effortlessly, holding her trash bags in one hand, the bag with the laundry soap in the other.

Yes. Yes! she said again, trying desperately to juggle tampons and the brownie.

This is a little strange, isnt it? he laughed.

Well, of course it was, and she could feel her face growing hot with complete and total humiliation for the second time that day. Not really. They were having a sale, she said as she finally managed to balance the tampons between her arm and her chest, the brownie on top.

He glanced at the tampons. Actually, I meant running into one another again, he said, smiling, and before she had the opportunity to just die right there, he smoothly changed the subject. You must live in the area, eh?

Rachel looked at him fully then, noticed for the first time that he had the sexy shadow of a bead, and his hair was a little mussed, and wondered if hed looked like that today at the coffeehouse. How could she have known, her face up against the wall as it was?

Do you?

Im sorry? she asked, startled.

Live in the area.

Oh! Rachel put her free hand to her nape. Umm well, as a matter of fact, I do. Do you ? she asked suspiciously.

He chuckled. Ive only recently arrived, and at present, Im staying with friends nearby. I quite like the area, however. Its rather quaint, really, and the people are remarkably friendly.

So what was that supposed to mean? Was that some sort of dry-humored British joke? Was he making a dig at her? Okay, she hadnt been exactly friendly , but honestly, shed been smelly and sweaty and