“Yeah, yeah. I remember now. The ghost-story girl. What happened?”
“You told me to contact her secretary. I’m still waiting to hear back.”
She ought to say he’d been incredibly rude to her. The man had practically barked the moment she started speaking. But it would do her no good to point it out. At least the booze mellowed him.
“You’re with the English lit department, right?”
“Yes. Nell Quinn is my adviser.”
“I’m economics. Presently,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Ghost stories. What you like…you like ghost stories, right?”
“Witches’ stories,” she corrected him. “I said I was studying Tremblay’s work and wanted to explore its connection to New England’s witchcraft folklore.”
“It’s the witching hour. Midnight, no?”
“Five to it,” she said, consulting her wristwatch.
“Miner—Minerva, ah…international student, no? From…fuck, don’t tell me…”
“Mexico,” she said.
“I was in Cancún for spring break three years ago,” he said. “I’m Noah.”
She hitched her purse up her shoulder. “I know.”
“Oh, yeah, you do,” he muttered. “They tell ghost stories in England for Christmas, bet you didn’t knowthat,” he said excitedly. “Every year—”
“My friend studies Henry James, so yeah, I know.”
“You’re not much for making conversation, are you?” he replied, irritated. Then he paused. “Fuck, I’m going to vomit.”
He leaned against the trunk of a tree and bent down. He puked, and then coughed so much she thought he’d dislodged a lung. “Are you okay?” she asked. It seemed it was the one question she could ask him.
He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and nodded. “Yeah.”
Minerva didn’t like hanging around people who were drunk. She never could figure out how to act with them. Anytime someone yelledI’m so wasted!,it sounded like nails on a chalkboard rather than careless glee. She didn’t understand the desire to end up kneeling in front of a toilet and puking up one’s dinner.Besides, she couldn’t afford to squander her evenings drifting into an alcoholic daze when she needed perfect grades.
Nevertheless, she tried to smile sympathetically at Noah. It couldn’t hurt to be nice to Carolyn Yates’s grandson, even if he looked like a buffoon right that minute. Hell, he probably looked like a buffoon all the time. She’d had to deal with many privileged, spoiled boys and girls at Stoneridge. Students who didn’t show up to the language lab for their scheduled sessions and then expected the tutors to say that they had perfect attendance; residents who tried to roast marshmallows in their room and triggered the fire alarm at threea.m.; a whole league of bored, indifferent, rude youths who did not realize how lucky they were. Noah didn’t speak, simply sipping again from his flask, and her smile withered. The music seemed to be getting louder inside. He sighed, grabbed his phone, and dialed.
“Hey, you can pick me up now.”
He snapped the phone shut and gave her a sideways glance, but he still didn’t talk to her. She wondered if she should walk back inside, if maybe she’d offended him. Then again, he didn’t own the street, and if he was offended because she knew a few basic facts about English literature, that was his problem. She undid the knot of the flannel shirt tied around her waist and put it on again, pulling at the cuffs. He spared her nothing, not a look, not a word.
After a few minutes a gleaming white car rolled in front of the house. It was a smooth-looking vehicle out of the thirties, all chrome and elegance. It must have been parked nearby or circling the area to have made its way there so quickly.
“My grandmother’s car and driver,” he said, pointing at it. “You want a ride back to campus?”
“Sure,” she said, surprised that he remembered she was standing there.
Once inside, she told the driver which dorm she lived in, and the car began rolling along. Noah sat with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. After a few blocks he spoke.
“Carolyn should be around tomorrow for brunch, if you’d like to come to the Willows. You can ask her about Tremblay.”
The Willows was the Yates estate, an imposing mansion located a short drive from the campus. Minerva could walk it. In fact, she had walked by the house. Twice. She’d peered at its ivy-encrusted walls and wondered if she’d ever see the inside.
“You know where the Willows is? Because we have a good brunch. Better than any diner around here. It’s not twenty-four hours, though.”
He rattled off his address. Then he crossed his arms and remained like that until they reached her dorm. Minerva stepped out of the car.
