Dreams for
Stones
“Professor Francini?”
Alan looked up from the stack of papers he was grading to
find a young woman with copper-colored hair standing in his doorway.At his acknowledgement, she stepped into the room, and he
noticed other things: eyes that appeared tired or maybe sad, and cheekbones that
were a touch too prominent, as if she’d lost weight recently. In spite of the
brightness trapped in those strands of smooth hair, she seemed dimmed. One
of the graduate students? If so, she would have been hard to overlook. Her face
not so much beautiful, but something better. Interesting. Arresting.
“I’m Kathy Jamison.” She cocked her head, and her hair
shifted and slid, catching the light. “Hilary Hilstrom told me to see you about
a desk.”
What the... This was the editor Hilstrom hired? He’d
expected someone considerably…well, older for one thing. Besides… “You’re early,
aren’t you?”
She looked puzzled, and a small crease formed between her
eyes. “It’s five-thirty.”
He shook his head. “It’s September. Your seminar isn’t
until spring semester.”
Quick comprehension dawned along with a blush that turned
her face rosy. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he watched as it
slid back to brush against her cheek. “Hilary said it was okay for me to
start using the office now. I need a place to write.”
So, go to the library. He didn’t say it out loud, of
course. Not fair to take his anger out on this stranger. After all, he had
told Hilstrom he would share his office. He just thought it would be for one
night a week and for only the duration of the seminar.
“I should have called.”
A call wouldn’t have helped. He passed a hand across his
brow, trying to figure out how to handle it. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
She examined his office, taking in, no doubt, its lack of
amenities, its almost fanatical neatness, a hold-over from his college days of
rooming with Charles . I say, Francini. You do realize a neat office is the
sign of a sick mind, was how one colleague put it.
Her mouth trembled, and she blinked rapidly, looking like
she was on the verge of tears, except that didn’t make any sense. Her glance
came to rest on the extra desk sitting in the corner. Like his, its oak top was
scarred from years of service. A wad of paper folded into a thick square shimmed
one of its legs. Still staring at the desk, her chin came up, and her
mouth firmed. “I understand. You didn’t think you could turn Hilary down. But,
really, you don’t want to share.” She concluded her assessment of the other desk
and gave him a quick, intent look out of eyes as dark and light as shade and
sunlight on a Colorado mountain stream.
He thought about how to answer her. But the plain truth?
She was right. He didn’t want to share.
“I’ll make other arrangements, then. I certainly wouldn’t
want to inconvenience you.” Her hands were so tightly clenched the knuckles were
turning white. “Nice meeting you.” Her tone, at odds with the words, was in
perfect concert with the clenched hands. Without giving him a chance to respond,
she whirled and walked out, pulling the door shut with a sharp click.
He stared at the closed door without moving. Too bad. All
of it, because he’d liked the way she’d brightened the office with that hair.
Liked as well her voice, musical, low-pitched. Would have liked a chance to…but
no. Better this way. Chasing her off was what he wanted. Too bad he’d also
made her angry. She’d probably run directly to Hilstrom to complain. And that
really would cook his tenure goose.
He ought to chase after her, apologize. Beg her to come
back. Instead, he sat there, allowing the seconds to tick away until it was too
late.
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