Page 126 of Any Port in a Storm

“Okay,” I concede. “Well, I’ve actually had an interview, and I have another one lined up.”

A jolt of electricity rushes through me when his face lights up. “Wow, Laurel! That’s amazing! Tell me about them.”

So I tell him about Briarford, and how it’s exactly what I’ve been working toward, and about the museum, and the cover letter I wrote that they seemed to love so much. About how I’m not sure what I’ll do if I get both offers, because each job seems right, in so many ways.

He takes my breath away when he says, “Either of those places would be lucky to have you.”

I consider his earnest expression. “I’m not sure what I did to deserve you.”

Sunlight filters across his cheeks, highlighting the freckles that are coming back to life as spring marches on. “That’s funny, because I’ve been thinking the same thing about you.”

THIRTY-SIX

last may

Iwear my blue wrap dress to the Massachusetts Literary Symposium. I’m pretty sure it’s the same outfit I chose the last time Spillinger invited me, but I’m nothing if not addicted to structure.

“Laurel,” she metes out when I swing by her office.

“Hi,” I say, my pleasant affect fading when she doesn’t make eye contact.

“We have to hurry if we want to get there for the keynote,” she mumbles.

“Yeah, of course.” I follow her to the faculty parking lot, then slide into the passenger seat of her car.

The trip to the museum is largely silent. I try several times to make conversation, first about my dissertation, then about the weather, and, finally, about the spring musical that the theater department just put on. It was Singin’ in the Rain, which is one of my favorites.

“I didn’t see it,” Spillinger admits.

I turn toward her, my seatbelt straining against my shoulder. “Oh, you really missed out! The guy they had playing Cosmo is the best I’ve ever seen. Other than Donald O’Connor, of course.”

Talking about Donald O’Connor, naturally, reminds me of Nick, and I start grinning like an idiot.

Something sharp passes over Spillinger’s face. “Sounds like a good time.”

When we get to the symposium, Spillinger quickly excuses herself to use the restroom. I step awkwardly to the hors d’oeuvres table and set about fixing a plate with cucumber slices and cheese cubes.

“Laurel?”

I whip around, shocked that anyone at this event could possibly know me by name.

It’s Margo Rodecker, a close friend of Spillinger’s. I think they actually went to college together. My advisor introduced us the last time I joined her for the symposium, and I’d felt like we hit it off.

“Hi there, Margo!” It hits me in that moment how strange it is that I still call Spillinger by either her last name or an honorific.

“It’s great to see you. Did you manage to catch the keynote?”

“We didn’t get here in time,” I admit. “Caught a lot of traffic outside the city.”

Margo frowns, balancing a cup of lemonade and a plate filled solely with carrot sticks. “That’s a shame. It was an excellent presentation—all about curatorial strategies for public-facing literary exhibits.”

“Wow,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment at missing out. “That sounds incredible.”

“It was,” she agrees. “Hey, I remember you mentioning last year that you’re really into the Pre-Raphaelites.”

I chuckle. “That’s putting it lightly.”

Her blue eyes twinkle. “Can I introduce you to a friend of mine? She works here with me, at the museum, but she’s actually in the process of acquiring some pretty significant artifacts through a partnership with the Harvard Art Museums. You probably know they have a number of Pre-Raphaelite paintings and drawings.”