Package Deal(4)

He had the home now, but no one to enjoy it with him. Felicity with the bright-red hair, whose temper was as volatile as her ringlets were long. She had accepted his love as if she was entitled, but never really gave back to him—except in bed, where they’d got on great. Is Eugenie another Felicity? No more assuming a woman had the same goals as he. Fun in bed was one thing, but he wanted more: mutually desired friendship, a permanent relationship, a future together.

He remembered Amanda’s questions, asked quietly as her wide brown eyes gazed back at him. Those slightly parted lips. He had wanted to kiss those lips and pull her curves close, surprising himself at the intensity of his reaction to her. Maybe it was the perfume she wore, a subtle scent that evoked cinnamon and vanilla, as if she had emerged from a cozy kitchen.

An owl hooted in the woods behind the house.

“Who, indeed?” Marcus murmured, as he looked through the information the dean had provided. No mention of a husband there. He wondered if she’d enjoy dinner and a movie. It had been a while since he’d had much of a social life.

He thought back to the woman he’d met while on his sabbatical at the Library of Congress. She’d been willing, but there was no spark. It had taken only two casual lunch conversations and a walk along the Potomac for him to realize that neither their interests nor their personalities meshed.Would it be different with Amanda?

He glanced at the information sheet again—Amanda, from Iowa City. Amanda, with soulful brown eyes that reminded him of milk chocolate.Amanda, who had dressed simply, but with elegance, for that meeting with the other newcomers. Amanda, who looked like she was going to be a much-needed addition to the English department. The only other female there had to be nearing sixty. He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. He was overdue for a haircut. Had Amanda noticed?

The owl hooted again.

“What do you think, Mr. Owl? Did she notice me at all?” He punched in her number, and waited while the phone rang.

“Hello?”

He sat up straighter, as if she could see him. “Is this Amanda Gardner?”

“It is. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Marc Dunbar. I was wondering if we might meet tomorrow for our interview—for the article on new faculty.”

“Oh. Yes, but I have a meeting with my chairman in the afternoon. After that, I’m free.”

Her voice had just the right combination of interest and politeness.

“Great. Why don’t I meet you at your office? We can walk over to the coffee shop and talk there.”

“I look forward to it.”

So did he, imagining her smile.



When Amanda returned from her meeting, Marcus was waiting for her outside her office. They strolled across campus to the local Starbucks.

“Tell me about the college, something other than what was in the brochure I was sent.” Those eyes of his—so intense—so blue—just like Cece’s.

“Let’s see. You know it was founded by Jeremiah Buckley. He thought its position on the highest hill in the town would attract students. There was some talk that he ran a speakeasy during the twenties, though there’s nothing in writing about that.” He chuckled. “Maybe the lumber business was just boring enough for him to want a more interesting hobby.”

“Perhaps.” She stumbled as she skirted a cluster of students crossing in front of them, one arm brushing against Marcus. His hand slid under her elbow and then across the small of her back to steady her until she pulled away just out of reach.

“I guess you’ve seen what a great view the campus has of the bay and the islands—”

“And the mountains to the west, too.” She grinned. “The view was one of the first things I noticed when I interviewed.”

“Most people say that,” he replied. “Rumor—and some of the early letters on display at the historical society report—that the first instructors lived with townspeople who had extra rooms. Now most of the faculty are like the dean. They live down the hill from campus and along some of the streets with views of the bay or the mountains. Where do you live?”

“I’m renting a house about five blocks away—close enough to walk.”

When they arrived at the coffee shop, he held a chair for her then pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket.“Tell me about your thesis. You said it was a biography?”

“No, it was about writing biographies—the research that goes into them, and how to make facts interesting.”

“And this is your first faculty appointment.” He jotted quick notes.

“Yes. After more than six years of grad school poverty, I’m thrilled to be making a decent salary—what my daughter calls a real job.” She laughed. “I’ve got loans to pay off.”