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Sensing tension, Frankie scooted her stool backward, whispered, “More cheese sticks,” and disappeared in the direction of the bar.
Rowan proceeded with caution. “That’s a horticultural dream project, but I’m not the right person for the job.”
“I agree. You’re not the right person. You’re theperfectperson.” Temperance tipped another ice cube into her mouth.
Rowan made an impatient sound in the back of her throat. “No, T.J., I’m really not. I’m a botanist, for one.”
“Botanist, horticulturalist, it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure. Cesarean section, craniotomy, it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
Temperance laughed. “Fine, fine. Point taken.”
Rowan shredded the beer bottle’s label. “There are universal plant ecology basics, but the differences become pretty big when you consider an ecosystem as complex as a vineyard.”
“I attended your dissertation defense, honey. You’re incredible at distilling complex ideas into understandable stuff. That’s what they need right now.” Temperance paused. “Dr.McKinnon.”
Goose bumps rose along Rowan’s arms. It was the first time anyone outside of her Ph.D. committee had referred to her with the new honorific.
“Three things,” Rowan said, raising her fingers. “One, that’s fucking manipulative. Two, how dare you. And three, say it again.”
Temperance leaned forward and laid a hand over Rowan’s. Gently, she said, “I need you off my couch.”
“Oh, you mean I can’t live there forever? You’re shattering my dreams, T.J.”
“Every day this past week, I’ve seen you staring at your computer screen, but never typing,” Temperance said. “There’s a laundry basket full of academic papers on my coffee table, and you haven’t touched them once.”
Rowan had a formidable amount of work to get done on her manuscript, but no motivation to do it.Publish or perishsaid the old research university proverb. Academia was tainted by an underbelly of prestige-mongering, and first-author publications carried status and weight. She wasn’t going any further in her career—at least, not anywhere worthwhile—without one.
Her undergrad research assistant—a pinch-faced weasel named Martin Clutterbuck—had gotten busted by the university’s Ethics and Misconduct Committee for fabricating the majority of the data he’d contributed to her project. Rowan had been able to prove her own innocence, but the damage was done: after four years of work, she had a half-assed manuscript she’d previously thought was nearly ready for publication.
Martin Clutterbuck was the human equivalent of stepping in something wet with socks on.
Frankie came back with a fresh haul of mozzarella cheese sticks—two orders—and drink refills for everyone. “If I had a scientific journal, I’d publish your paper, Rosebud.” She slid the tray of goodies onto the table and wiggled up on her stool.
“That’s super appreciated, Frank. But publishing in your imaginary journal isn’t going to land me a postdoc.” Rowan stuffed an entire cheese stick sideways in her mouth and rage-chewed.
Temperance primly squeezed lime into her new gin and tonic,then pushed glasses up her nose with her pinkie. “I love you, and you know I’ll let you stay as long as you need, no matter how much I joke about it. I just think you should go see what the Bradys are looking for. Part-time. Something else to occupy your mind for a little bit, so you can get your momentum back.”
“Added bonus: flirting with Harrison Brady,” Frankie said around a mouthful of fried cheese.
“Hm, about that.” Temperance narrowed her eyes. “Rowan likes casual and uncomplicated. I promise, Harry is neither of those things. I didn’t send her résumé over there so she could hook up with him.”
“Calm down,Mom,” Rowan said. “You know the only strings I like attached are the ones on my IUD.”
Frankie snorted.
Temperance let out a long breath. Nudged her glasses up again. “There’s nothing for you to lose by doing this.”
“I’ll think about it. If they call me.” Rowan arranged and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table.“If.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rowan
Two days later, they called.
Rowan parked her ancient Honda in a round gravel parking area beside the huge Georgian-style house at the center of the Brady property. As always, she was early. Anxiety made her vigilantly punctual—being earlywasbeing on time. It was a way she could assert control over her environment. It provided a buffer, a pause between arrival and inevitable human interaction, a chance to wrangle her pulse and stop sweating a bit before having to exchange pleasantries.
