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She nodded, understanding that it would likely be late before they were finished. Hugo fastened his pants, then sat on the edge of the couch, his knee touching her bare shoulder. Unlike them, she was in no hurry to move, to break the spell.
Hugo looked regretful. “We’re still in Charleston for another couple of days. May we call you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that. Give me one second.” Her shirt was a lost cause, so she stood then walked back to her bedroom. Reaching behind the bathroom door, she grabbed her robe and shrugged it on, meeting them at the front door to say goodbye.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said, as they stepped out on the porch. Hugo gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek.
Then Lancelot reached for her, giving her a longer, much hotter kiss, and she tried to drag him back inside. Sadly, he released her.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Use tonight to find some appropriate words for what just happened in there. Avoid ‘nice’ and ‘good.’”
She shrugged as if she would make no promises, then gave them a quick wink as she closed the door.
As soon as she was inside, her phone rang. She considered letting it go to voice mail since it was an unknown number. However, the city—Palm Coast—caught her attention. She answered, hoping it was who she thought.
“Hello.”
“Sylvia?”
“Hello, Mrs. Rutherford. I was hoping this was you.”
“My favorite student,” Alicia said in greeting. “And, of course, my favorite poet.”
“I wouldn’t be who I was today without you,” Sylvia said truthfully. “Oh, it’s so good to hear from you. I’ve been worried about you since you left Exeter.”
“I cannot say it’s been an easy few months, and dear, I’ve asked you countless times. Please call me Alicia.”
“Alicia,” Sylvia repeated dutifully. Hugo had made the same request. It was funny how it was easier to call him by his first name than Alicia by hers. She suspected she would always struggle to think of Mrs. Rutherford as Alicia. “So how are you?”
“That is a longer conversation. Instead, tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Sylvia almost blurted out, “I had a ménage.” Mrs. Rutherford—Alicia—was probably the only person in the world she could say that to and have the response be “good for you” rather than “oh my God!”
“I’ve been putting together poems and more intentional drawings for a gallery show,” she said instead.
Alicia asked her several additional questions, and they chatted for a few minutes. Sylvia wasn’t an impatient person, but she found herself shifting restlessly, too aware that these pleasantries were taking the place of real, meaningful conversation between them.
“Well, I’m sure your show will be excellent. I hope things are…resolved and I’ll be able to attend.”
Sylvia was surprised by Alicia’s phone call after so many months of silence. Her grandmother always swore the two of them possessed some witchy powers whenever odd coincidences occurred. “Were your ears ringing?”
“Oh, should they be? Who is it you were talking to that my name came up?”
Sylvia was sorry she’d started that line of conversation. What she really wanted was to ask exactly what needed to be resolved for Alicia. Holding down her uncharacteristic impatience, she instead answered her mentor’s question.
“One of my professors from Northwestern is in town, doing research for a fascinating book he’s going to write. I went out to dinner with him and an associate.”
“Oh?” Alicia said. “And my name came up? How?”
“I was talking about my favorite teachers, about the things I learned from you—in and out of the classroom.” Sylvia loved her family. They were the rock her world was built upon, but Alicia, her teacher, mentor, and friend…she was the one who’d taught her how to build secret passages and cast deep shadows.
“Dear, those things were private,” Alicia scolded gently.
“I’m sorry.” Guilt bit at her. If she was being completely honest with herself, she had told them about Alicia, stories she’d never told anyone, in order to move Lancelot and Hugo closer to where she’d wanted them—in her bed.
“But I promise you, he doesn’t know anyone you do. He’s actually French—he was a guest lecturer one semester.”
“And an associate, you said?” Suddenly Alicia was her teacher Mrs. Rutherford again, questioning her, pushing her to be honest with herself. “A second man? Perhaps…perhaps it had something to do with that lovely sketch you put up on Instagram last night.”
