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He stopped. “Sorry. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said again, hoping for a smile.
Instead Harrison glanced at his watch. “Tick tock,” he said.
—
Harrison’s students arrived promptly at six o’clock, all twelve of them within minutes of each other, as if they’d all come on the same bus. I don’t know why this always surprised me, but it did. Every year for the past four, Harrison hosted a barbecue dinner for his new students on the Saturday following the first week of classes, and every year, a dozen eager faces appeared at our front door in unison, some bearing flowers, some chocolates, some nothing but eyes wide with awe and admiration for their handsome instructor.
Generally speaking, the women outnumbered the men, but this year saw a more even split, seven women to five men, ranging in age from eighteen to seventy, the majority falling somewhere in between.
“This is my wife, Jodi,” Harrison said, introducing me to each one in turn.
“So nice to meet you,” said a middle-aged woman named Sarah.
“Lovely to meet you,” said Thomas, a bearded thirtysomething with a heavy British accent.
“You have a lovely home.” Candace.
“Thanks so much for having us.” Zack.
“Something smells good.” Lester.
And so on. And so on.
I surveyed the group assembled in my narrow backyard, glasses of wine or beer in hand, everyone chatting happily, all casually dressed, no one a standout, sartorially speaking, and felt a tad conspicuous in my Rolling Stones T-shirt, as if I were trying too hard to be “with it,” and everyone knew it. Who, exactly, I wondered absently, was Harrison trying to impress?
And then, almost as soon as I asked myself the question, the answer appeared before me.
“Love your T-shirt,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“My mother has one just like it.”
So much for being hip,I thought, forcing a smile.
“I’m Wren.”
“Wren?”
“Like the songbird.”
“Lovely name,” I said. “It suits you.”
Wren was indeed lovely. Late twenties. Tall. Slender but with large breasts. Long chestnut-colored hair pulled into a high ponytail, deep green eyes. Effortlessly chic in the way only young women can be, wearing jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, a series of small, alternating loops and studs climbing up the side of each perfect earlobe. Her skin was radiant, glowing without a hint of makeup save for a touch of mascara and the faintest layer of gloss on her lips.
“Your husband’s so terrific,” she said.
“Well, I know he really enjoys teaching the course,” I offered in return.
“He has a real gift. Not only for writing. I mean,Comes the Dreamerwas the best. Everybody knows that. But you can be a great writer and not be a great teacher. But Harrison, he’s just so good.”
I tried not to blanch at her easy use of my husband’s first name. Had I really expected her to call him “Mr. Bishop”?
“Are you a writer?” she asked.
“Me? No. I’m a real estate agent.”
