It turned out that Eleanora was not very handy with an iron. She had scorched one of his shirts on the ironing board in their room at the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge before Tom took over the job. However, Tom had never ironed a shirt either and soon understood how she'd scorched the first. The third shirt was at least wearable since the tan iron imprint was on the back, covered by his suit jacket.
"Don't want to rush you, son, but my daughter-do you remember Charity?-is coming to meet me for lunch. She just broke off her engagement with another Kinsey alum, Geoffrey Atwell, though her mother and I are hoping she'll patch it up." He sighed, realizing he'd digressed. "What can I do for you, Tom?"
Tom hid a small, quasi-unkind grin. He did remember both Charity and Geoffrey. Geoffrey had been his year. And Charity had been, ahem, popular.
"Yes, well, I'll get to the point. I heard the sad news about Professor Wiggins."
"Ah, yes. Poor Wigs. Did you know he was my teacher too? And your father's," added Dean Gordon, his voice cooling a little at the mention of Tom's father. "Everyone thought Franklin Wiggins would outlast Kinsey. But cancer's a friend to no man."
"No, sir," said Tom.
Dean Gordon sighed. "He lived a good life. Taught for sixty years, Tom. How do you like that?"
"Impressive, sir."
"I'll say. Hard to replace. Having a devil of a time."
Tom's eyes widened. "Well, sir, that's actually why I'm here.
"Come again?" asked Dean Gordon, looking up, distracted from his thoughts of his fallen colleague.
"The vacancy in the English department. I'd like to fill it."
Dean Gordon narrowed his eyes, evaluating Tom. "You would, would you? Have a lot of teaching experience, Tom?"
Tom thought about lying. Truly, he did. But he wasn't a very good liar. He didn't like having to remember his lies, and besides, Dean Gordon had always been kind to Tom. He deserved honesty.
"Not a bit, sir."
Dean Gordon chortled as though Tom was making a joke, then sobered as Tom stared back at him plain faced. "Oh, I see."
"I worked for English & Son until a week ago."
"English & Son. With your father. And grandfather."
Was it Tom's imagination, or did Dean Gordon's voice cool again?
"Yes, sir."
"But no longer."
Tom sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. "No, sir. I recently got married, and my grandfather doesn't . . ." He lifted his chin in defiance. "That is, he doesn't approve of my wife, sir. I've been cut off."
Neville Gordon's eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers. "Is that so?"
"Yes, sir. That's the truth."
"Blackballed too, I presume?"
Tom nodded, swallowing the bile in his throat. "Yes, sir."
Dean Gordon nodded slowly, staring at Tom with compassion. "I knew your grandfather a little."
"Sir?"
"I was your father's original roommate, but I was first-generation Kinsey, here on scholarship, and your father, Bertram, was the fifth English to attend. At your grandfather's request, we were switched around."
Tom ground his teeth. How fucking embarrassing.
"I'm sorry, Dean Gordon. He's . . ."
". . . set in his ways," said Dean Gordon quickly, before Tom could say something worse. "I never blamed your father, Tom. Bertram was a good sort of fellow. Affable. Friend to everyone."
"Weak," snarled Tom softly.
"He wasn't unkind to me." Dean Gordon paused. "Though he never met a battle more important than keeping the peace, I'll give you that."
Tom rubbed his hand on the slick leather of the couch arm, sitting forward. "I'm sorry I came here. I'm not qualified to teach, and my family-"
"Tom, you went to Princeton. You studied . . .?"
"English, sir."
"English." Dean Gordon smiled. "We are looking for an English teacher. Let's say I hired you . . . at least until the end of the year. That's six months. What would you teach in six months to an unruly group of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, eh, Tom?"
For the next twenty minutes, Tom talked about his favorite novels, short stories, and poems. He told the dean that, although he'd respected Professor Wiggins, the old teacher had preferred classical literature and hadn't discussed the contemporary writers-Vonnegut, Bradbury, King-whom Tom would have liked to share with the boys.
"Stephen King?"
"His novellas are excellent, sir."
Finally, Dean Gordon sighed, gently slapping his desk twice and nodding at Tom. "Truly think you're up to it? Six weeks of novels, six weeks of short stories, and six weeks of poetry? Not much time to get up to speed. Can you come up with a curriculum by next week, when the boys come back from Christmas break?"
Tom's heart beat faster as he realized that Dean Gordon was actually-unbelievably-giving him a chance.
"I'll give it my best, sir. I can promise enthusiasm!"
"Salary's not much, Tom," he said, his eyes sorry. "Seventeen thousand annual, and I can't offer you health care until next year."
Seventeen thousand dollars and no benefits?
Tom kept himself from wincing. He had only five thousand dollars in his bank account to begin with. Well, they'd just have to make it last.
"Could I pick up some extra work, if needed?"
"I don't suppose you want to stay in the dorms as a resident adviser when you have a pretty young wife at home?"
Then Tom did wince.
Dean Gordon chuckled. "There's always tutoring, son."
"I'll make it work, sir."
Dean Gordon stood up, extending his hand. "Me too. I'll need your semester syllabus for approval on January second. Boys come back the Monday after. Deal?"
"Yes! Yes, sir."
"Well, welcome back to Kinsey, Tom."
Tom leaped up and shook the dean's hand, beaming at his new boss. "Thank you. I just . . . I can't wait to tell . . . Thank you!"
"What's her name? Your bride?"
"Eleanora, sir."
"Eleanora English, eh? The girl who made Tom defy old Theodore. I'm fond of her already."
"Me too, sir," said Tom, chuckling softly.
"Neville, son. We're colleagues now."
The door to the office opened suddenly, and Tom dropped Dean Gordon's hand, turning to find a pretty young blonde woman standing in the doorway of her father's office: Charity Gordon. He would have known her anywhere.
"Ah, Charity!" said her father, circling the desk to greet his daughter with a quick kiss on the cheek.
But Charity barely acknowledged her father. She only had eyes for Tom. Big, wide, dark eyes for Tom, and lips that she suddenly felt the need to wet slowly and with great to-do before letting them tip into a sexy grin.
"Tom? Tom English?"
"Charity," he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "You look well."
She ignored his hand, enveloping him in a Chanel-scented hug that pressed her large breasts against the shirt his wife had tried to help him iron an hour ago. He patted Charity's back awkwardly, wishing she'd let go of him. Finally, she did, though she barely moved far enough away for them to keep from touching.
"Tom English, as I live and breathe. You look . . ." She swept her eyes down his body and then back up slowly. ". . . fine."
Dean Gordon had been putting on his overcoat as Tom and Charity exchanged pleasantries, but now he turned and smiled at them both.
"I've just hired Tom!"
Charity gasped, pressing her hand to her chest. "No!"
"Yes, dearest, it's true. Tom is our new English teacher."
She laughed softly. "But didn't I hear that you were a banker, Tom? Something delicious like that?"
"I've decided to give teaching a try," he said.
"Slumming in the country for a few months?" she asked, a teasing twinkle in her bright blue eyes. "Like community service?"
"Come now, dearest," said her father. "That isn't seemly."
She gave her father a bored look and turned back to Tom with a brilliant smile. "Be serious now: are you really teaching here?"
"I've said so. Yes."
"Well." She shrugged. "That'll make the long winter less lonely. How about we have some fun while we're both stranded in the middle of nowhere, eh?"
"That's a jolly good idea," agreed Dean Gordon, grinning at Tom. "Why don't you and your new wife join us for dinner next week, eh?"
"Wife?" asked Charity, her expression frosting over. "You're . . . married?"
Tom nodded, holding up his ring finger, which wore the simple gold band Eleanora had slid on his finger in Vegas. "Newly."