Me: Could you come over after work?
Adele: Sure. It’s not my night to close, so I’ll be there in 30.
Finally pushing myself away from the table, I moved through the kitchen in search of something resembling a meal. While I munched around some cold lo mein noodles, I researched Adele’s scholarship.
The Margaret Phillips Memorial Scholarship was awarded to a handful of girls based partly on academics. They’d have to maintain a 3.7 GPA, be working toward a major in journalism, literature or creative writing, and be unmarried. All of those checked boxes afforded Adele half of her tuition, all of her books, no room and board, which explained the small, humble apartment.
I smiled a little reading through Margaret Phillips’ bio.
Margaret arrived in Boston at the age of 18, with no family to support her. As an unmarried woman in the 1940’s, she had to work twice as hard to get through college, finally graduating with her degree in literature. She went on to become a high school teacher, and spearheaded many community efforts to support women who were pursuing their education. For years, she was vice president of the Boston chapter of the National Organization of Women. She established this scholarship in 1998.
Yes, Margaret Phillips would probably like Adele, scraping her way through school with a giant chip on her shoulder. There wasn’t much I could find that spoke to personal misconduct, and how that might affect her maintaining the financial support being given to her.
There was a soft knock on my front door. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I looked through the peep hole and couldn’t help but grin. Adele had pulled the black hood of her sweatshirt up over her head, and with the blond strands coming out the sides, she looked exactly as young as she was. Maybe younger.
“Come on in,” I said when I opened the door. Her smile was tentative, but she attempted one anyway, looking behind her before I closed the door, the darkness of the sky cloaking her arrival. “How was work?”
She smiled, taking the hood down and running a hand through her hair. “Boring as hell. Is that why you asked me over here?”
“No,” I conceded with a wry smile and gestured to the couch.
After she’d chosen the seat closest to her, I sat far enough away that I’d have to stretch to touch her. Adele lifted a thin eyebrow briefly at that, then settled back into the cushions, turning to face me with one leg tucked underneath her.
“I didn’t realize you were here on scholarship.”
“Ahh, and the picture is becoming clearer.”
“Adele.”
“Sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes down into her lap for a few long moments. “I knew I wouldn’t get any help from home with my tuition, not if I planned on majoring in writing. And I just don’t want to be one of those people saddled with student loans until I’m thirty-five.”
Which was only one year older than me. I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat. I felt ancient, and the knowledge of our thirteen year age gap made my bones creak under my skin, like they’d suddenly adjusted to my line of thinking.
“We have to be careful, Adele.”
“Careful doing what, exactly? Last time I walked out of this door, it sounded an awful lot like a sayonara, thanks for the orgasms kind of goodbye.”
I actively chose to ignore that, probably because I couldn’t disagree with her. It had. “If we get caught, even from anything we’ve done up until this point, I don’t want you losing that scholarship.”
“Would you lose your job? If we did?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “The Easton name is pretty well-entrenched here. My father and I might not get along, but he’d never let ‘the family legacy’ get tarnished by a scandal. Trust me.”
He’d done a damn fine job of it so far.
Adele shifted, moving forward a couple inches. When she hesitated before saying anything, I just waited. If she pushed about Diana, it would clear up a lot of my questions. I wasn’t going there. Not now, maybe not ever. But she stayed quiet, and oddly enough, I found myself unable to be silent.
“I wouldn’t lose my job. But you could definitely lose your scholarship. My father wouldn’t be able to, or frankly might not want to, intercede on your behalf if we were discovered. We have to be smart here, okay?”
Adele moved one hand forward so slowly that I couldn’t look away. No doubt about it, she was giving me an opportunity to back away. To get off the couch. To tell her to stop.
I didn’t want to tell her to stop. I wanted another hit of whatever it was she was injecting into my bloodstream. When she wrapped her strong, supple fingers around my hand, I dropped my head back onto the couch.