Tart (27 page)

“I
'm sorry to ask you here so early,” Westby's saying. “I know many faculty members need a little downtime after finals.”

“Oh. No, that's okay.”

“It's just that what I need to speak to you about is really quite important, and time-sensitive as well.”

Okay, I think. Here comes the ax. I try to hold her gaze without flinching.

“Obviously, when we hired you, we envisioned your position as a temporary one.”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “That was clear from the beginning.” I will be grown-up, I will not cry. I can go tend bar in New Orleans. I can hunt grizzlies in Alaska. She's handing over my freedom. Rejoice.

“There are fairly strict regulations governing the application process, and we've been taking dossiers all year from a variety of highly qualified candidates.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah,
I think, staring out the window at the flowering magnolia tree just beyond the glass.
Get to the brutality, Westby.

“Although usually we conduct the interviews the year before we hire someone for a tenure-track position, this year the budget was shaky and—well, we got a bit behind. So the committee will be meeting with candidates this summer.”

Okay, Jesus, get to the point.

She chuckles. “You're thinking, ‘Westby, come on, what's this got to do with me?'”

I'm shocked. Fantastic, the woman's psychic. Just my luck.

“Don't look like that, Claudia. It's natural to want to know where you fit in. That's why I wanted to meet with you right away.”

Suddenly the door bursts open and I think I gasp, though I pray it's a sound that happens in my brain and never makes it to my lips. Who should rush in with her hair shining black and her face glowing, but Clay's little Rain-clone.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't know you were busy.” She looks at Westby with pleading eyes. She really is adorable; I can't blame Clay for choosing her over me. Is she a student here? No, students don't burst into Westby's office—no way. Oh God—they've gotten married. She's Westby's new-and-improved daughter-in-law.

“What is it, Selena?” Westby asks, her tone a touch impatient. Good. I hope they learn to despise each other.

“I got a flat,” she says, sticking one skinny hip out to the side.

“On your bike?”

“Yeah. I don't know what happened—I parked it outside the scene shop and when I got back it was totally flat.”

“See if you can find Frank.”

“I did. For the past twenty minutes. He's not around. I'm
so
late for work!”

Westby picks up the phone and punches some numbers. “Nell, have you seen Frank?”

Selena looks at me. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I hate to interrupt. It's kind of an emergency.”

I try to smile at her, but my heart is deflating at a danger
ously rapid rate. First Westby calls me in to give me the boot, now I'm forced to endure this bewitching little enchantress who's stolen the only guy I ever really wanted. There she is, pink-cheeked in her cute little tank top and shorts, the picture of summer, while I sit here like a death row inmate waiting for the juice, trying to summon the dignity not to whimper for mercy.

“Nell's paging him,” Westby says, and to my dismay her tone is indulgent rather than hateful. “He'll meet you by the scene shop.”

“Will you call my work and tell them?”

“Yes,” Westby sighs. “As soon as I'm through with Claudia.”

“Thanks.” She shoots one last apologetic look at me and disappears.

“My daughter,” Westby says, shaking her head. “She's twenty-one, but sometimes she's forty and sometimes she's still twelve. Full of surprises, I guess.”

“Your—daughter?” I say.

“Yes. My youngest.” She studies me. “Is everything okay?”

“Not your daughter-in-law?”

“Oh, no. I've only had one daughter-in-law, Monica, and now she's my ex-daughter-in-law. But you knew that, didn't you? Aren't you friends with Clay?”

I blush, and try wildly not to, but it only makes my face burn more. “Sort of.”

She takes pity on me and changes the subject. “Anyway, the reason I asked you here is to discuss your future with us. You've done truly excellent work this year. I've been very impressed.”

“You—you have?” I stammer, expecting the “however” to crop up any second.

“Yes. Of course. You're an excellent professor, Claudia, and a fine director as well. You have the instincts and the courage to do theater the way it should be done—with balls.” I try unsuccessfully not to look taken aback, and she
smirks. “If you'll pardon the expression.” She takes off her glasses and continues. “That's why I want you to get an application in as soon as you can—this week, if possible—so we can officially consider you for the tenure-track position. Have you made other plans already?”

Just tending bar in New Orleans, but that can wait.
“I—no, not really.”

“Excellent. I was so afraid someone else would snatch you up.” She reaches into her desk and pulls out a folder. “Here's the application. We'll be interviewing mid-July, if all goes well.” She stands, and so do I. She hands me the folder, which I nearly drop in my befuddled shock at all that's transpired in the last three minutes.

“I know it's been a curious year for you,” Westby says. “I fear not all of us were as welcoming as we should have been. But I'm sure we'll make it up to you, if indeed we're lucky enough to work with you further.”

I just can't believe what I'm hearing.

“You're much more talented than you realize,” she says, and for the first time since I've met her I think there's genuine warmth in her voice. She shakes my hand. “Good luck. But I don't think you'll need it.”

I wander, dazed, into the sunlight and stand there, blinking stupidly at the view. The fog has wrapped itself all the way up the coast and is making its way gradually up the hill toward us.

Did that really happen? Does Westby seriously want me on faculty? Is Clay really—oh, my God—I can't believe I called him a child molester. No wonder he thinks I'm a head case.

“Hey, lady.” I turn and see Mare in her dance clothes, leaning against the doorway.

“Hi. What are you doing here?”

“Working on some choreography.” She drinks from a bottle of water, her silver bracelets jingling as they slide down her arm. “I called you—did your cousin tell you?”

“Yeah. I'm sorry, I just got back last night.”

“Where'd you go?”

“New Mexico.”

She looks surprised. “Really? What were you doing there?”

“Oh, I was kind of doing research,” I say evasively.

She nods. “Cool. For a play?”

“No,” I say. “Not really. More selfish research, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. Is there a man involved?” she asks, smiling knowingly.

“Not directly.” I pull my sweatshirt tighter against the chill of the coming fog. “But there might be, soon.”

“C
ome on,” I say, as soon as he opens the door. “We're going swimming.”

“What are you doing here?” he's wearing his boxers and nothing else. His hair is a mess, and he looks adorable. He squints at me, scratches his chest and says in a grumpy, sleep-heavy voice, “I thought you hated me.”

“Hurry up. No time for bickering.”

“I'm not even awake,” he mumbles, letting me in reluctantly. There's an empty pizza box on the floor, a pile of laundry in the corner, but so far, no signs of Woman. Good.

“I can see that, you sloth. Now, get your swim trunks on, grab a towel and let's go.”

“Have you tried swimming here in June?” he protests. “It's still cold as shit.”

“Listen, if the evil spawn of tourists can get in that water, so can we.”

“Spawn of…?”

I put my hands on my hips and hover over him as he collapses onto his bed. “Last week I saw a brood of pasty, clearly
Midwestern kids plowing right in like it was bathwater. Now, come on—where's your local pride? Aren't you a surfer, for Christ's sake?”

He looks out the window with a pouty expression. “It's foggy.”

“And…?”

“And,” he says, changing his approach abruptly. “The last time you were here, you called me a child molester. Why do you want to go swimming all of a sudden?”

I hesitate but decide to plow ahead. “I will have no more excuses, Mr. Clay Parker. What you do with children is of no concern to me at the moment.”

“I don't do anything with—”

“My immediate goal is to drag your lazy, pizza-eating ass to the beach.”

He half grins. “‘Pizza-eating ass?' Does that imply my ass eats—”

I kick the empty pizza box at him. “You know what I mean. Now, come on. I'm giving you five minutes to get dressed. If you're not in my car by—” I look at my watch “—10:23, I will abduct you and toss you into the waves in your underwear.” I glance at his boxers. They're yellow, with little airplanes on them. “Which are hideous, by the way.”

He shrugs. “Minor laundry backup.”

“Lazy slob,” I say, heading for the door. “You now have four minutes and counting.”

 

“Seriously,” Clay says when we're bobbing in the surf, our lips blue with cold but neither of us willing to get out first. “What's this all about? Are you trying to make me crazy, or what?”

“There was a misunderstanding,” I say, using the agentless passive in the desperate and misguided hope that he'll overlook what an idiot I was. “Anyone could have made the same mistake.”

“What mistake, exactly?”

A line of pelicans swoop across the horizon single file. “Do pelicans migrate?” I ask, all innocence.

“Claudia,” he says sternly. “What mistake are we talking about here?”

“I thought your sister was your girlfriend.”

He looks incredulous. “My—Selena? Are you serious?”

I nod. “I saw you with her twice—once at the Valentine's thing and then downtown one night, at a bar. You just seemed so into her. I assumed…”

“Pretty big assumption,” he says.

“How was I supposed to know?”

“You must have a pretty low opinion of me.”

“Seriously, Clay.” I'm practically pleading with him, now. “Rose thought the same thing.”

“Couldn't somebody have asked me?”

“I mean come on, I see you twice with this gorgeous young thing and—well, she looked exactly like the girl my ex left me for, and…” I trail off. “I sound kind of loopy, don't I?”

“Yes.” He yanks me gently toward him in the water. Our bodies are suddenly pressed together, with only the thin, filmy fabric of our bathing suits between us. “It does sound loopy. And you might have asked.”

“I know,” I say, too excited by his proximity to manage more than two syllables.

“It was hell on me. I missed you so much. And I had no idea what I'd done….”

“I'm sorry,” I say, and then my teeth start chattering.

“You think in the future we could learn to communicate rather than just shout names at each other?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, my eyes on his lips.

“You sure about that? You don't sound too sure.” He's teasing me now. I can feel him getting rapidly aroused in spite of the cold. Goodbye, shrinkage.

“I'm sure,” I say.

“Because I don't want you showing up on my doorstep
tonight calling me a child molester. The old lady next door wouldn't speak to me for weeks.”

“I'm sorry!” I cry. “I said I'm sorry.”

“How sorry?”

“Very sorry,” I whisper, enjoying the feel of my hard, frozen nipples pressed against him. My teeth have mercifully stopped chattering. “Now, can you shut up about it?”

He does, and when he presses his salty mouth to mine the kiss goes on for a long, electric forever. The current is wrapping around our legs, tugging us first this way, then that. A seagull calls out in shrill joy and I could swear the sound comes from inside of me. Before I know what's happening, Clay is tugging at my bikini bottom and my legs are wrapped around him and he's inside me, filling me up and pulling me to him again and again. I'm trying not to moan out loud; there are kids bodysurfing so close, I can hear their individual squeals. Thank God for the layer of soupy fog, or the big Mormon family unwrapping sandwiches on the beach would get an eyeful.

Something hits me ruthlessly upside the head. All at once, my legs sweep out from under me and I'm being thrashed about in the blue-gray world of salt and foam. I figure it's sad, but at least I'll drown a highly aroused woman.

I land on the beach with my bikini half off and sand in every crevice.

Clay runs over, trying not to laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, bending down to help me to my feet.

“Jesus,” I say, and choke for two minutes straight. He pounds on my back gently, but luckily I'm spared the humiliation of puking up all the seawater and stray fish lodged in my lungs.

“Sleeper wave,” he says, when I've finally caught my breath. “Sneaky bastards.”

By now it's afternoon and we're both starving, so we laugh off our coitus interruptus episode and walk back to our towels, shivering. I produce the paper bag of groceries
I purchased frantically on my way to his house, and pull each item out one at a time.

“Ze French bread,” I announce, pulling the baguette out and trying on a ridiculously bad French accent. “Ze French wine.”

“Mmm.”

“Ze Brie.”

“Très bien!” Clay's accent is even worse than mine, if that's possible.

“Pasta sal-ad.” As I pull the plastic container out, it leaks oil down my arm, which Clay immediately licks off. This is getting good.

“And,” I say, my voice all husky now from watching his tongue on my wrist. “Le pièce de résistance—chocolate
et
cherries!”

Clay's eyes light up with delight, and I take a mental picture of his face like that, thinking if he ever dumps me, I'll torture myself with the memory of this moment.

We demolish the bread, Brie and pasta salad like wolves. Then we pour plastic cups of the merlot and have that with the chocolate. By two-fifteen we've eaten everything but the cherries. We feed them to each other one at a time, stretched out side by side in the warm sand.

“Mmm,” he says as I pull the stem from his teeth. He chews as if he's memorizing the flavor, a hedonist taking notes. “That one was so tart.”

I brush a few stray flecks of sand from his cheek. “That's right,” I say, looking him in the eye. “Learn to love it.”