She had yearned for such a summer with an almost physical ache, and Riley Quinn had nearly cheated her of it for another few years by passing her over for Jake Saxer. As she remembered the blind fury she'd felt last week when she'd heard that Saxer had been recommended for promotion, Andrea Ross caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and was chilled by its granite grimness.
Think soft, she warned herself and tried to remember how innocence smiled.
In the two-family brick house he owned within walking distance of the university, Professor Albert Simpson's tea and toast grew cold as he contemplated promotion to deputy chairman. Although he did not possess Riley Quinn's outside reputation, he was the most senior art historian, and no one questioned his command of his subject.
No one respected it, either, he told himself wryly. No one except young Wade. On the other hand, he had no enemies; no one disliked him strongly enough to vote against him, so the balloting should be a mere formality. The younger historians would probably look upon his tenure in the chair as a caretaker regime, soon to be ended by his retirement. It would give them time to square off at each other for a real battle when he stepped down.
The last time that chair had been vacant, they'd offered it to him first; but he'd turned it down, not wanting the encumbrances of administrative duties that would take him away from the classroom and eat into his precious research time. His refusal had opened up a scramble among the other younger historians, and Riley Quinn had emerged victorious-Quinn, who'd begun by using the title to further his extracurricular career; who had never neglected an opportunity to sneer at the man whose stepping aside had made it possible for him to hold that title; and who had over the years finally grown so arrogant that he'd actually commandeered a class-room teacher, Jake Saxer, to be his personal researcher for the latest of those books he churned out. Catchpenny, simplified popularizations of the passing art scene. As if what passed for art today needed further simplification!
Professor Simpson added another spoonful of sugar to his tea and sipped meditatively. It was stone-cold now, but that was so usual he barely noticed.
At most he was only four years from retirement, and in all the previous years he'd truly never desired a title position or rank over his peers; but Quinn had shown an advantage to the title that hadn't occurred to him before; and now that it was to be offered to him again, he would take it this time. Not that he would abuse it as Riley Quinn had. David Wade had too much character to be used as Quinn had used that fawning toad Saxer. But as a colleague-a collaborator-as the son he'd never had. Somehow he would use his newly acquired power to keep Wade here. At last his book would be finished.
He reached for the telephone and dialed Wade's number from memory. When there was no answer, he consulted the directory for a different number, then smiled indulgently at the appetites of youth as Sandy Keppler's lilting voice said, "It's for you, darling."
Sandy closed the bathroom door with an indulgent smile of her own. She'd never seen David so embarrassed before.
And it's rather sweet when you think about it, she told herself, that he cares enough for your reputation to stammer out some corny explanation about coming over here for breakfast. ('She makes terrific French toast, sir,') she'd heard him say as she was leaving the room.)
As if Professor Simpson, who knew all about the dissipations of classical Rome, would be shocked by a simple bedding down before marriage. David was such an innocent about some things.
She brushed her long yellow hair vigorously, touched her lips with pink lipstick and added a hint of blue shadow to her eyelids.
The murmur of David's voice still sounded, so she rinsed the sink, straightened towels, capped the tooth-paste and uncapped his after-shave lotion for a quick whiff of spicy fragrance. So bound up in memories of their most intimate moments was that aroma that she'd once gone weak-kneed when she smelled it on a stranger on a crowded bus.
Tenderly she tucked the little bottle back into the medicine cabinet and went out to rejoin her now pensive lover.
"What did he want?" she asked as she passed him maple syrup and stirred cream into his coffee.
"I'm not really sure," said David. His eyes were puzzled behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He lifted a forkful of French toast, then returned it to his plate. "You know how he always goes off on tangents?"
Sandy nodded.
"He said the apartment on the top floor of his house has an extra bedroom that could be used as a study. He also said his present tenant doesn't have a lease."
"He's offering you an apartment?" she asked, perplexed.
"Us. You and me. Cheap."
"Just how cheap?" Sandy asked, knowing to a penny how far her salary would stretch. Her mouth dropped when he told her, "That's practically free, David! And it's only two blocks from school. No bus or subway fare!" She jumped up and hugged him exuberantly.
"It's charity," David said ominously, pulling away.
"No, it isn't! Don't you see? It's worth it to him to have your help organizing that mountain of notes for his book. It would be an equal exchange. Free rent instead of salary. Isn't that what quid pro quo means? And best of all, we wouldn't have to go to Idaho while you're finishing your dissertation."
Her voice had hit a strident tone he'd never heard.
"You really don't want to leave New York, do you?" he asked, frowning as he finally realized that her foot-dragging was more than a comic reluctance to trade city for country.
"Not me, darling; it's you I don't want to leave the city. Oh, David, I couldn't bear it if you got stuck in some backwater college! You're too brilliant for that. New York 's the art center of this country, not Idaho! I'd do anything" she said "to help you stay here!"
Strange, thought David, that he'd never before noticed how strongly determined the line of her chin could be, how resolute her eyes. He'd always thought of her as a silky blue kitten, and it made him vaguely uneasy to realize she might have a fiercer nature than he'd suspected.
Tendrils of a pungent aroma wreathed themselves around Piers Leyden's nostrils and brought him back to consciousness. Groaning, he sat up on the furry chaise longue. His neck was unbearably stiff, and a dull red pain, beginning at the back of his head, pulsated up through his temples with each small movement he made.
The aroma defined itself: cinnamon. Hot cinnamon buns lavishly smeared with thick sugar frosting, drenched in butter and studded with disgusting raisins and-merde- was that the smell of bacon mingling with the spice?
His stomach recoiled at the idea of bacon, too. Thick slabs of Canadian bacon browning in the kitchen below. Sizzling in grease. Greasy strips of meat that would be laid on a greasy plate next to a couple of greasy eggs fried sunny-side up and oozing yellow, viscous-
Leyden pushed off from the chaise longue and lurched for Doris Quinn's red-and-gold bathroom.
When he emerged, whitish green, shaken and weak, he found Doris waiting for him with sympathy, tomato juice and the news that Riley's sister was on her way down from upstate.
"So you'll just have to pull yourself together and leave soon, poor sweetie," she crooned, stroking his neck with cool fingers while he forced himself to drink the juice. Her eyes were clear and unbloodshot, her milky-white skin translucent. In fact, Leyden thought resentfully, her whole body radiated as much dewy freshness as a field of goddamned daisies.
He built himself a backrest of ruffled pillows on her bed and gingerly eased himself down.
"It isn't fair," he grumbled. "You drank twice as much of that scotch as I did. Why aren't you hung over, too?"
Her vitality always amazed him. It was one of life's ironies that she landed in a Manhattan brownstone instead of an Iowa cornfield.