Chapter 12
Professor Emerson saw light spilling from underneath the door of his library carrel, but since Paul had pasted brown craft paper over the narrow window in the door, Gabriel couldn’t peer inside. He was surprised to find Paul working so late on a Thursday night. It was ten-thirty in the evening, and the library would be closing in thirty minutes.
Gabriel fished around in his pocket for his keys and opened the door without knocking. What he saw inside completely floored him. Curled up in a chair was Miss Mitchell, her head resting on folded arms that were poised elegantly on the desktop. Her eyes were closed, her mouth partially open but not quite smiling. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, her chest rising and falling slowly, soothingly, like the waves of the ocean against a quiet beach. He stood in the doorway entranced, thinking that the simple sound of her breathing would make an excellent relaxation cd. One he could imagine falling asleep to again and again.
Her laptop was open, and Gabriel saw her screen saver, which was a slide show of hand drawn illustrations of what looked like a children’s story — something with animals — including a funny-looking white bunny with long ears that fell to its feet. The strains of music filled the air, and Gabriel realized that the sound was coming from her computer. He saw a cd with a rabbit on it. Gabriel began to wonder why Miss Mitchell was so obsessed with bunnies.
Perhaps she has an Easter fetish? Gabriel was halfway through a very elaborate imagining of what an Easter fetish might include before he came to his senses. He quickly entered the carrel and closed the door behind him, taking care to lock it. It would not be good for the two of them to be caught together like this.
He regarded her peaceful form, not wishing to disturb her or to intrude upon what looked like a very pleasant dream. Now she was smiling. He
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located the book he was seeking, preparing to leave her in peace, when his eyes alighted on a small notebook that lay just out of reach of her fingers.
Gabriel, he read. My Gabriel.
The sight of his name written lovingly, albeit randomly, several times in her notebook beckoned to him like a soft Siren call and sent a thrill coursing up and down his back. He was momentarily frozen, his hand hovering in midair.
Of course, it was possible that she was writing about another Gabriel. It seemed too incredible for her to be writing about him and calling him her own.
Gazing at her, he knew that if he stayed everything would change. He knew that if he touched her, he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge — the undeniable and primal urge — to claim the beautiful and pure Miss Mitchell. She was there, waiting for him, calling to him, her vanilla scent heavy in the small, too warm space.
My Gabriel. He imagined her voice laving across his name the way a lover’s tongue moves across the skin…His mind traveled at light speed as he envisioned pulling her into his arms. Kissing her, embracing her. Lifting her onto the desk and pressing himself between her knees, her hands tugging at his hair, his sweater, his shirt, undoing his bow tie and flinging it to the floor.
His fingers would explore her wavy hair and trace gentle lines across her neck, causing every space, every pore, to explode into scarlet — his nose nuzzling her cheek, her ear, her perfect milk-white throat. He would feel her pulse at her neck and find himself strangely calmed by the gentle rhythm, and he would feel connected to the beating of her heart, especially as it would begin to quicken beneath his touch. He would wonder if they were close enough, would their hearts beat synchronously…or was that simply a poet’s fancy?
She would be shy at first. But he would be gently insistent, whispering words of sweet seduction into her hair. He would tell her whatever she wanted to hear, and she would believe it. His hands would drop from her shoulders and inch over her lovely and innocent curves, marveling at her receptivity as she blossomed under his touch.
For no man would have touched her like that before. Eventually, she would be eager and responsive to him. Oh, so responsive. They would kiss, and it would be electric — intense — explosive. Their tongues would tangle and tango together desperately, as if they had never kissed before.
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She would be wearing too many clothes. He’d want to tease her out of them and spread feather-light kisses against every inch of perfect porcelain skin. Especially her lovely throat and its metro of bluish veins. She would blush like Eve, but he would kiss away her nervousness. Soon she would be naked and open before him, thinking only of him and his rapt admiration, and not the feel of the carrel air against pale, pink flesh.
He would praise her with oaths and odes and soft murmurings of sweet pet names, and she would not feel shame. Honey, sweet girl, dear, my lovely…He would make her believe in his adoration, and her belief would not be entirely false.
Eventually the teasing and tingling would be too much, and he’d lean her back gently, cradling the back of her head in his hand. He’d keep his hand there throughout, for he would be worried he might hurt her. He would not have her head banging against the desk like an unloved toy.
He was not a cruel lover. He would not be rough or indifferent. He would be erotic, passionate but gentle. For he knew what she was. And he would wish her to be pleased as much as he, her first time. But he desired her spread out beneath him, breathless and inviting, her eyes wide and unblinking, blazing with desire.
His other hand would flex across her lower back, the sweet expanse of arched skin, and he’d gaze into her large and liquid eyes as she gasped and moaned. He would make her moan. Only him.
She’d bite her lip, her eyes half-closed as he slid toward her, willing her with whispered words to relax as she gave herself to him. It would go easier for her that way, the first time. He would still and not rush. He would pause and not tear. He would stop, perhaps?
His beautiful, perfect brown-eyed angel…her chest rising and falling quickly, the flush of her cheeks blooming across her entire body. She would be a rose in his eyes, and she would flower beneath him. For he would be kind, and she would open. He would watch entranced, almost as if it were occurring in slow motion…sight, scent, sound, taste, touch…as she transformed from maiden to matron through loss of maidenhead, all because of him. All because of him.
Maidenhead? There would be blood. For the price of sin was always blood. And a little death.
Gabriel’s heart stopped. It lay silent for half a beat then thudded double time as a new awareness crashed over him. Metaphysical poetry, long forgotten from his days at Magdalen College, sprang to his lips. For
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in that instant, he saw very clearly that he, Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, would-be seducer of the lovely and innocent Julianne, was a flea.
The words of John Donne echoed in his ears:
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas! is more than we would do.
He knew why his subconscious mind chose that moment to foist Donne’s poetry upon him; the poem was an argument for seduction. Donne spoke to his prospective lover, a virgin, and argued that her loss of virginity was less consequential than the swatting of a flea. She should give herself to him quickly, without a second thought. Without hesitation. Without regret.
As soon as the words presented themselves, Gabriel knew that they were perfect for him. Perfect for what he was contemplating doing to her. Perfect for his own self-justification.
Tasting. Taking. Sucking. Sinning. Draining. Abandoning.
She was pure. She was innocent. He wanted her.
Facilis descensus Averni.
But he would not be the one to make her bleed. He could not, would not, make another girl bleed for the rest of his life. All thoughts of seduction and mad, passionate fucking on desks and chairs, against walls and bookshelves and windows, immediately gave way. He would not take her. He would not mark her and claim what he had no right to claim.
Gabriel Emerson was a trite and only semi-repentant sinner. Preoccupied with the fairer sex and his own physical pleasure, he knew he was governed by lust. Never did that thirst give way to something more, something approximating love. Nevertheless, despite these and other moral failings, despite his constant inability to resist temptation, Gabriel still had one last moral principle that governed his behavior. One line he would not cross.
Professor Emerson did not seduce virgins. He did not take virginity, ever, even if it was freely offered. He did not slake his thirst with innocence;
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he fed only on those who had already tasted and who in tasting, wanted more. And he was not about to violate his last and only moral principle for an hour or two of salacious satisfaction with a delectable graduate student in his study carrel. Even a fallen angel had his principles.
Gabriel would leave her virtue intact. He would leave her as he found her, the blushing brown-eyed angel, surrounded by bunnies, curled up like a kitten in her little chair. She would sleep unruffled, unkissed, untouched, and unmolested. His hand tightened on the doorknob, and just as he was about to unlock the door, he heard the sounds of stirring behind him.
He sighed and hung his head. He wasn’t foregoing a night of pleasure with her out of hatred but out of love — for the goodness he craved and wished his life had been. And perhaps out of love for the memory of his former self, before all the sin and vice took root and grew, like a patch of thorns turning and twisting and choking out his virtues. Gabriel’s hand left the doorknob, and he drew in a very deep breath. He straightened his shoulders and closed his eyes, wondering what he would say to her.
He slowly turned around and saw Miss Mitchell groan slightly and stretch. Her eyelids fluttered, and she stifled a yawn with the fan of her hand.
But her eyes flew open when she saw Professor Emerson standing by the door. Startled, she let out a yelp and flew backward out of her chair and against the wall. She cowered in confusion, and it almost broke Gabriel’s heart. (Which would have at least proven that he had one.)
“Ssssshhhhh. Julianne, it’s just me.” He held his hands aloft in complete surrender. He tried to smile disarmingly.
Julia was stunned. She’d been dreaming of him moments before. And now he was here. She rubbed her eyes. He was still there, staring. She pinched the skin on her arm between her fingers. He was still there.
Holy shit. He caught me.
“It’s just me, Julianne. Are you all right?”
She blinked rapidly and began rubbing her eyes again. “I…don’t know.”
“How long have you been here?” He lowered his hands.
“Um…I…don’t know.” She was trying to wake up and remember all at the same time.
“Is Paul with you?”
“No.”
Somehow, Gabriel felt relieved. “How did you get in? This is my carrel.”
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Julia’s eyes flew to his, measuring his reaction. I am in so much trouble. And so is Paul. Emerson will evict him now.
She moved forward rapidly, knocking the chair over in the process and tipping over a stack of books that had been resting near her hands. A ream of loose notebook paper was thrown aloft by the general upheaval and began falling about her like massive, pinstriped snowflakes. Gabriel thought that she looked like an angel — an angel in a child’s snow globe, with whiteness fluttering all around her.
Beautiful, he thought.
She began to scramble, trying to put everything back in order. She was repeating an apology over and over again like a decade of the Rosary, mumbling something about borrowing Paul’s key. She was sorry. So very, very sorry.
In one stride, Gabriel was next to her, his hand gently but firmly on her shoulder. “It’s all right. You are welcome to be here. Be still.”
Julia closed her eyes and willed herself and her heartbeat to slow. It was very difficult to do; she was so afraid he would lose his temper and banish Paul from his precious carrel. Forever.
Gabriel inhaled sharply, and her eyes flew open, glazing over at his touch.
He brought his head close to her face and peered down at her. “Julianne? You’ve gone pale. Are you unwell?”
He didn’t know what to do. Why was she acting so strangely? Perhaps she was weak from hunger or not quite awake. The room was very warm. Too warm. She’d left the heater on. He caught her just as she swooned, wrapping her tightly and pulling her into his chest. She was not unconscious, at least, not yet.
“Julianne?” He pushed the hair out of her eyes and brushed the back of his hand across her cheek.
She murmured something, and he realized she hadn’t fainted, but was leaning against him as if she didn’t have the strength to stand. He held her to keep her from hitting the upturned chair or the floor.
“Are you okay?”
He began to move her so that she could sit down, but she clung to him, wrapping her arms about his neck without hesitation. He liked the feel of her pressed against him, so he hugged her tightly and leaned down to sniff her hair, somewhat surreptitiously. Vanilla. Her little body pressed against his perfectly, as if their shapes were ideal complements. It was astonishing.
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“What happened?” she mumbled against his sweater, which was a brilliant green calculated to contrast with the blue of his eyes.
“I’m not sure. I think you grew light-headed because you stood up too quickly. And it’s hot in here.”
She smiled weakly, a smile that melted his heart.
Julia desperately wanted to kiss him. He was close. So very, very close. Two inches and those lips would be hers…again. And his eyes were soft and warm…and he was being sweet with her…
He pulled back from her minutely, testing her to see if she was going to fall over. When she didn’t, he placed her gently on top of the desk before righting the chair. Then he withdrew to the door of the carrel and straightened his tie.
“I don’t mind if you use the carrel — not at all. I was just surprised to find you here. In fact, I’m glad Paul suggested you use it. There’s no problem.” He smiled to put her at ease, watching as she grasped the surface of the desk for support. “I was looking for a book Paul borrowed.” He held the volume aloft and turned to look at Julia again.
Moving slowly but carefully, she stood up and began to stack books on the desk and pick up the white sheets of paper that had drifted to the floor.
“Were you supposed to meet Paul tonight?”
“He’s gone to a graduate student conference at Princeton. He’s presenting a paper tomorrow.” She looked over at him cautiously, and when she saw that his head was cocked to one side and he was still smiling, she relaxed. Marginally.
“Princeton. Yes, of course. I forgot. That’s a very fine briefcase you have.” He smiled at her knowingly, gesturing to the bag that was propped up against the wall.
Julia blushed, trying very hard to keep her secret knowledge secret.
“But there appears to be something alive in there. I can see a pair of ears poking out of one of the zippers.”
She whirled around. Gabriel was right; two little brown ears could be seen sticking out of the briefcase, almost as if she had tried to smuggle a pet into the library. Julia blushed even more deeply.
“May I?” He gestured to the briefcase, but made no move as he waited for her permission.
Hesitantly, she pulled the stuffed toy out of the briefcase and handed it to him, biting her lip in embarrassment.
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Clearly Miss Mitchell has a bunny fetish.
Gabriel held the toy rabbit between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at it curiously as if he didn’t know what it was. Or as if, in a fit of temper, it might decide to emulate the behavior of the famous rabbit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail and go right for his throat. Gabriel placed a hand to his neck as a precaution and resisted the sudden and overwhelming urge to say Ni.
The toy was brown, of course, and soft, made of velvet or something. It had long ears and short limbs and very pleasant-looking whiskers. It stood straight up, looking rather stiff. It looked familiar to him, strangely enough. Something Grace would have owned and loved. Something from a childhood he never had.
Around its neck someone had tied a very sloppy bow out of pink ribbon. Gabriel measured the bow with his eyes and came to the conclusion that someone who was either slightly handicapped (no disrespect intended), or perhaps who had very large hands and lacked the fine motor skills of someone who was gifted with manual dexterity (such as himself), had tied the bow, such as it was. And there was a card.
Not wishing to embarrass her further, he smiled and let his eyes dart momentarily to the card, just so he could catch a glimpse of it:
R,
Someone to keep you company while I’m away.
See you when I get back.
Yours,
Paul.
The Angelfucker strikes again, Gabriel growled to himself.
He handed the bunny back to Julia. “It’s very — ah — nice.”
“Thank you.”
“But who is R?”
Julia turned away as she placed Paul’s latest gift back into her briefcase, taking great care not to catch the bunny’s ears in the teeth of the zipper. “It’s one of my nicknames.”
“But why that letter? Why not something that begins with B?”
Julia frowned at him. Like what? Bitch? Badass? Bovine? Bunny?
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“Beautiful,” said Gabriel. Then he blushed, for the word had slipped out by mistake. “So you’ve been asleep here for hours, with Rabbit Songs and a pet rabbit to keep you company? I didn’t realize you were a bunny lover.”
Julia seemed embarrassed. He couldn’t help himself; the characterization was obvious, if a little flirtatious.
“I like your choice in music.”
“Thank you.” She quickly turned off her ancient laptop and placed it carefully in her briefcase with the cd.
“The library is closing shortly. What would you have done if I hadn’t arrived?”
She looked around, slightly confused. “I don’t know.”
“If no one noticed that the carrel light was on when they checked this floor, you could have been locked in the library all night. Without any food.” His smile slid off his face at the mere idea. “What are you going to do to ensure that doesn’t happen in the future?”
She looked around quickly. “Set the alarm on Paul’s clock?”
He nodded as if that answer satisfied him. But it didn’t. “Are you hungry?”
“I should be going, Professor. I’m sorry I’ve intruded on your personal space.”
If only you knew how true your words were, Julianne.
“Miss Mitchell, stop.” He took a step closer as she picked up her new briefcase with one hand and cleared the desk of debris with the other. “Have you had your dinner?”
“No.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows knitted together like thunderous clouds.
“When did you have lunch?”
“At noon.”
He scowled. “That was almost eleven hours ago. What did you have?”
“A hot dog from the cart in front of the library.”
Gabriel cursed. “You can’t live on that kind of rubbish. And I wouldn’t eat street meat ever. You promised you’d tell me if you were going hungry — and now you’re fainting on me.”
He glanced at his white-gold Rolex Day-Date. “It’s too late to take you for steak — Harbour Sixty is closed. Why don’t you join me for dinner
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somewhere else? I was caught up working on my lecture, and I haven’t eaten either.”
Julia stared at him. “Are you sure?”
His expression hardened. “Miss Mitchell, I am not the kind of person who makes idle invitations. If I invite you to dinner, then I’m sure. Now are you coming or not?”
“I’m not dressed for dinner, thank you very much.” Her voice was satin over steel, and she arched an eyebrow at him. She had gotten over her initial shock at being surprised in his carrel and was now fully awake and fully annoyed at his tone.
His eyes passed over her slowly, pausing to regard her lovely figure and then resting for a long time on her sneakers. He despised sneakers on women, for they were a waste of a perfectly good podiatric opportunity. He cleared his throat. “You look fine. I think the color of your blouse brings out the blush in your skin and the butterscotch flecks in your eyes. You look nice, actually.” He smiled at her a little too warmly and looked away.
I have butterscotch in my eyes? Since when? And since when has he looked at them long enough to notice?
“There is a little place near my building that I frequent during the week, especially on late nights. I’ll buy you dinner, and we can talk about your thesis proposal, informally, of course. How’s that?”
“Thank you, Professor.”
Their eyes did not meet for long, but they met, and warm and somewhat hesitant smiles were exchanged on both sides.
He waited patiently for her to put everything in order before he stood aside and waved his hand toward the hallway. “After you.”
She thanked him, and as she was passing, he reached out his hand and grasped the handle of her messenger bag, brushing against one of her fingers. Julia pulled back instinctively, dropping the bag.
Thankfully, he caught it. “This is a very fine briefcase. I think I should like to carry it for a little while. If you don’t mind.” He smirked at her, and she blushed.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I really like it. It’s perfect.”
Gabriel made no attempt to engage her in conversation until they were at the restaurant, Caffé Volo on Yonge Street. The Caffé was a quiet but friendly establishment that boasted perhaps the longest and best beer list in Toronto. It also had a very fine Italian chef, and so their food was
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some of the finest simple Italian fare on offer in the neighborhood. The restaurant itself was small, only ten tables, which were supplemented in the summer by a patio. The décor was rustic and included antiques, such as reclaimed church pews and old harvest tables. It gave Julia the impression of something like a German weinkeller, like the restaurant Vinum that she had visited with friends when she was in Frankfurt.
Gabriel liked it because they sold a particular kind of Trappist Ale that he preferred, Chimay Première, and it pleased him to have pizza in the Neapolitan style to pair with that beer. (As ever, he was impatient with mediocrity.) Since Gabriel was a frequent patron of Caffé Volo and more than somewhat persnickety, he was offered the best seating, which was a quiet table for two tucked into a corner near the large picture window that looked out on the madness that was Yonge Street at night.
Transvestites, university students, frat boys, policemen, happy gay couples, happy straight couples, celebrities slumming, yuppies walking their pretentious pets, eco-friendly activists, street persons, buskers, possible gang members, Russian mafia, a wayward professor or Member of Provincial Parliament or two or four, etc. It was a myriad of fascinating human behavior, it was live, and it was free.
Julia settled cautiously into her seat, which was a converted church pew, and pulled the lambskin rug that the waiter had draped over the back of the pew tightly around her.
“Are you cold? I’ll ask Christopher to seat us near the fireplace.” Gabriel moved to signal to the waiter, but Julia stopped him.
“I like to people watch,” she said shyly.
“Me too,” he admitted. “But you look like a Yeti.”
Julia reddened.
“Forgive me,” he hastened to add. “But surely we can do better than a lambskin rug that has been God knows where. It probably used to grace the floor of Christopher’s apartment. And who knows what kind of shenanigans went down on it.”
Did he just use the word shenanigans in a sentence?
And with that, Professor Emerson gracefully pulled his British-racing-green cashmere sweater over his pretentious bow tie and head and handed it to her. Julia accepted it and moved the objectionable Yeti-like carpet to one side. She gently pulled on his generously-sized sweater.
“Better?” he smiled, trying to smooth his now mussed hair.
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“Better.” She smiled, feeling much warmer and very comfortable, blanketed in the warmth and scent that was Gabriel. She folded up the cuffs considerably because his arms were much longer than hers.
“Did you go to Lobby on Tuesday?” she asked.
“No. Now, why don’t you tell me about your proposal?” His tone immediately became businesslike and professorial.
Thankfully, Christopher interrupted them at that moment to take their order, which gave Julia precious minutes to gather her thoughts.
“Their Caesar salads are quite good, as are their Neapolitan pizzas. But they are both a bit large for one person. Are you the type to share?” Gabriel asked.
Julia’s mouth dropped open.
“I mean, would you share with me, please? Or you could order whatever you like. Perhaps you don’t want salad and pizza.” Gabriel frowned, trying very hard not to be an overbearing, domineering professor for at least five minutes.
Christopher tapped his foot quietly, for he did not want The Professor to notice his impatience. He’d seen The Professor when he was irritated and did not wish to witness a repeat performance. Although perhaps he would behave differently now that he had female companionship (which was Christopher’s professional prescription for any kind of personality disorder, small or large).
“I’d like to share pizza and a salad with you. Thank you.” Julia’s quiet voice ended the deliberations.
Gabriel placed the order, and shortly thereafter Christopher appeared with their Chimays, which Gabriel had insisted Julia try.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to hers.
“Prost,” she replied.
She sipped the beer slowly, unable to forget her first beer and who it was with. That beer had been a domestic lager. This beer was reddish brown and sweet and malty all at once. She liked it a great deal and hummed her approval.
“It’s over ten dollars a bottle,” she whispered, not wishing to embarrass Gabriel or herself with loud incredulity.
“But it’s the best. And wouldn’t you rather drink one bottle of this rather than two bottles of Budweiser, which really is like drinking appalling bath water?”
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I can only assume that all bath water would be appalling to drink, Professor Emerson, but I’ll take your word for it. Sicko.
“Well? Let’s hear it,” he prompted. “What are you thinking? I can see the wheels turning in that little mind of yours. So out with it.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and grinned, as if her little mind gave him no end of secret, condescending amusement.
Julia bristled. She didn’t like the fact that he’d used the diminutive little in referring to her mind, for it seemed to signify his contempt for her intellectual ability. So she decided to strike back.
“I’m glad I have a chance to speak to you privately,” she began, withdrawing two envelopes from her messenger bag. “I can’t accept these.” She slid the Starbucks gift card and the bursary award letter across the table.
Gabriel glanced at both items, recognized them immediately, and scowled. “What makes you think these are from me?” He pushed them back across the table.
“The powers of deduction. You’re the only one who calls me Julianne. You’re the only one with a bank account large enough to fund a bursary.” She returned the envelopes.
He paused for a moment. Was he really the only one who called Julianne by her proper name? What was everyone else calling her?
Julia.
“You must accept them.” He slid the papers over to her once again.
“No, I mustn’t. Gifts make me very uncomfortable, and the Starbucks card is too much. Not to mention the bursary. I will never be able to repay you, and I owe your family too much already. I can’t accept them.” She pushed them back.
“You can accept them, and you will. The gift card is inconsequential; I spend more than that on coffee in a month. I need to show you, in some tangible way, that I respect your intelligence. I said something in an unguarded moment that Miss Peterson took and twisted. So, it isn’t even a gift — it’s more like restitution. I maligned you; now I’m praising you. You must accept it, or this injustice will remain unresolved between us, and I won’t believe you’ve forgiven me for my verbal indiscretion in front of one of your peers.” He slid the envelopes across the table and glared at her for good measure.
Julia began to stare at his fancy hand-knotted bow tie in order to distract herself from the blazing blue of his eyes. She wondered how he’d managed to make the tie so straight and even. Perhaps he hired a professional
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bow tie-tier, just for that purpose. Someone with artificially blond hair and high heels. And very long finger nails.
She slid the Starbucks card back toward him defiantly. And to her great surprise, his face hardened and he pocketed it.
“I won’t play gift card ping-pong with you all evening,” he snapped. “But the bursary can’t be returned. The money isn’t from me. I simply alerted Mr. Randall, the Director of the philanthropic organization, of your accomplishments.”
“And poverty,” Julia muttered.
“If you have something to say to me, Miss Mitchell, please do me the courtesy of speaking at an audible level.” His eyes flashed to hers.
Her eyes flashed back. “I don’t think this is very professional, Professor Emerson. You’re passing me thousands of dollars through a bursary, however you managed to do it. It looks like you’re trying to buy me.”
Gabriel inhaled sharply and counted to ten just to avert a verbal explosion. “Buy you? Believe me, Miss Mitchell, nothing could have been further from my mind! I am deeply offended at being so maligned. If I wanted you at all, I certainly wouldn’t have to buy you.”
Julia’s eyebrows shot up, and she glared at him. Harshly. “Watch it.”
He squirmed under her glare, which was a rare experience for him. She reveled in it.
“That is not what I meant. I meant I would never want to treat you like a commodity. And you are not the type of girl who could be bought, are you?”
Julia eyed him frostily before looking away. She shook her head and began staring at the doorway, wondering if she should make her escape.
“Why do you do that?” he whispered, after a few minutes.
“Do what?”
“Provoke me.”
“I don’t…I…I’m not provoking you. I’m stating a fact.”
“Nevertheless, it is extremely provocative. Every time I try to have a conversation with you like a normal person, you provoke me.”
“You are my professor.”
“Yes, and your best friend’s older brother. Can’t we just be Gabriel and Julianne for an evening? Can’t we have a pleasant conversation and an even more pleasant dinner and all the rest? It might not seem obvious to you, but I’m trying to be human here.” He closed his eyes in frustration.
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“You are?” It was an innocent question asked in good faith. Julia clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized how it sounded aloud.
Gabriel’s dark blue eyes opened slowly, like the dragon in the Tolkien story, but he did not take the bait of her impertinence. And he did not breathe fire. Yet.
“You wish to be professional, so act like it. A normal graduate student would receive an award letter, be profoundly grateful for her good fortune, and accept the money. So act professionally, Miss Mitchell. I could have hidden my connection to the bursary from you, but I chose to treat you like an adult. I chose to respect your intelligence and not engage in deception. Nevertheless, I took great care to hide my connection to the bursary from our department. The philanthropic organization does not have my name attached to it publicly, so it can’t be traced back to me. And Emerson is an extremely common name. So no one will believe you if you reveal that I’m behind the bursary.”
He withdrew his iPhone from his pocket, opened up the notepad application, and began writing with his finger.
“I wasn’t going to complain…” Julia began.
“You might have said thank you.”
“Thank you, Professor Emerson. But think of it from my point of view — I don’t want to play Héloïse to your Abelard.” She looked down at her silverware and began adjusting the pieces until they were all lined up symmetrically.
Gabriel quickly remembered seeing her do that once before, when they were dining at Harbour Sixty. He placed his phone on the table and looked over at her with a pained expression, made doubly painful by the guilt he felt over what had almost happened in his study carrel. Yes, he’d come close to succumbing to Miss Mitchell’s considerable charms, and risking Abelard’s fate, for Rachel would no doubt castrate him if she discovered he’d seduced her friend. Miraculously, however, his self-control proved to be superior to that of Abelard. “I would never seduce a student.”
“Then thank you,” she murmured. “And thank you for the gesture of the bursary, even though I can’t promise to accept it. I know it’s only a small amount to you, but it would have meant airline tickets home for Thanksgiving and Christmas and spring break and Easter. And money for many more extras than I can afford now. Including steak, on occasion.”
“Why would you use it for airline tickets? I would have thought you’d use it to secure a better apartment.”
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“I don’t think I can get out of my lease. And anyway, going home to see my dad is important to me. He’s the only family I have. And I would have liked to see Richard before he sells the house and moves to Philadelphia.”
Actually, it would be worth it to accept the bursary so I could visit Richard and the orchard. I wonder if my favorite apple tree is still there…I wonder if anyone would notice if I carved my initials into the trunk…
Gabriel scowled obliquely, for a number of reasons. “You wouldn’t have gone home otherwise?”
She shook her head. “Dad wanted to fly me home for Christmas, rather than taking Greyhound. But the prices on Air Canada are outrageous. I would have been ashamed to accept a ticket from him.”
“Never be ashamed to accept a gift when there are no strings attached.”
“You sound like Grace. She used to talk like that.”
He shifted in his seat and involuntarily scratched at the back of his neck. “Where do you think I learned about generosity? Not from my biological mother.”
Julia looked at Gabriel, meeting his gaze without blushing or blinking. Then she sighed and put the award letter back in her bag, resolving to spend more time thinking about how best to deal with it once she was no longer in The Professor’s magnetic presence. For she saw that arguing with him would get her nowhere. And in that respect, as in several others, he was exactly like Peter Abelard, sexy, smart, and seductive.
He peered over at her. “But despite all I’ve tried to do, which isn’t much I’ll admit, you’re still going hungry?”
“Gabriel, I have a tenuous relationship with my stomach. I forget to eat when I’m busy or preoccupied or — or sad. It’s not about the money — it’s just the way things are. Please don’t trouble yourself.” She readjusted her cutlery once again for good measure.
“So…you’re sad?”
She sipped her beer slowly and ignored his question.
“Does Dante make you unhappy?”
“Sometimes,” she whispered.
“And other times?”
She looked up at him, and a sweet smile spread across her face. “I can’t help myself — he makes me deliriously happy. Sometimes when I’m studying The Divine Comedy, I feel as if I’m doing what I was always meant to do. Like I found my passion, my vocation. I’m not that shy little girl
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from Selinsgrove anymore. I can do this, I’m good at it, and it makes me feel…important.”
It was too much. Too much information. The quickly drunk beer, the rush of blood to the head, his scent clinging and heavy in her nose from his sweater. She should never have said all those words to him, of all people.
But he only watched her somewhat warmly, which surprised her. “You are shy, it’s true,” he murmured. “But that’s certainly not a vice.” He cleared his throat. “I’m envious of your enthusiasm for Dante. I used to feel that way. But for me, it was a long time ago. Too long.” He smiled at her again and looked away.
Julia leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Who is M. P. Emerson?”
Startled blue eyes flew to hers, burning with laser-like intensity. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was very, very cold, and Julia realized she’d touched upon a nerve so injured, so raw, it was still vibrating with pain. It took her a moment to collect herself, and before she had fully considered the prudence of her question, she spoke. “Are you trying to be my friend? Is that what you were trying to communicate to me with the bursary?”
Gabriel frowned. “Did Rachel put you up to this?”
“No. Why?”
“She thinks we should be friends. But I’ll tell you what I told her — it’s impossible.”
Julia felt a lump grow in her throat, and she swallowed noisily. “Why?”
“We exist under the red flag of professionalism. Professors can’t be friends with their students. And even if we were just Julianne and Gabriel sharing a pizza, you shouldn’t want to be friends with me. I am a magnet for sin, and you are not.” He smiled sadly. “So you see, it’s hopeless. Abandon hope all ye who enter.”
“I don’t like to think of anything as hopeless,” she whispered to her silverware.
“Aristotle said that friendship is only possible between two virtuous people. Therefore, friendship between us is impossible.”
“No one is truly virtuous.”
“You are.” Gabriel’s blue eyes burned into hers with something akin to passion and admiration.
“Rachel said you were on the vip list at Lobby.” Julia changed the subject again swiftly, still not considering her words.
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“That’s true.”
“She made a mystery of it. Why?”
Gabriel scowled. “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
He fixed her with his gaze and dropped his voice. “I go there regularly, hence the vip status. Although I haven’t been there much of late.”
“Why do you go? You don’t like to dance. Is it just to drink?” Julia looked around at the simple but comfortable interior of the Caffé. “Here is as good a place to drink as any. I think it’s much nicer here. It’s gemütlich — cozy.” And there doesn’t appear to be a single Emerson whore in sight.
“No, Miss Mitchell, in general I do not go to The Vestibule to drink.”
“Then why do you go?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He frowned. Then he shook his head. “Perhaps not to someone like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Someone like me?”
“It means that you don’t know what you’re asking me,” he spat, staring angrily. “Otherwise you wouldn’t make me say it! You want to know why I go there? I’ll tell you why I go there. I go there to find women to fuck, Miss Mitchell.” He was pissed now and glaring at her. “Happy now?” he growled.
Julia drew a deep breath and held it. When she could hold it no more she shook her head and exhaled. “No,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “Why would that make me happy? It makes me sick to my stomach, actually. Really, really sick. You have no idea.”
Gabriel sighed deeply and placed both hands at the back of his neck. He wasn’t cross with her; he was cross with himself. And he felt ashamed. Part of him wanted to repel her intentionally — to stand naked in front of her, hiding nothing — so that she would see him for what he really was, a dark, sinister creature exposed by her virtue. Then she would walk away.
Perhaps his subconscious was already trying to do that with these ridiculous, unprofessional outbursts. For he should never in a thousand years have said what he just said to a graduate student, especially a female graduate student, even if it was the truth. She was undoing him slowly, bit by bit, and he did not understand how.
Gabriel’s blue eyes found hers. And across his pale and handsome face, Julia read remorse.
“Forgive me. I know I’ve disgusted you.” He spoke very quietly. “But believe me when I tell you that that is a very good reaction for you to have. You should be repulsed by me. Every time I’m near you, I corrupt you.”
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“I don’t feel corrupted.”
He gazed at her sadly. “Only because you don’t know what it means. And by the time you realize it, it will be too late. Adam and Eve didn’t realize what they’d lost until they were thrown out of Paradise.”
“I know something about that,” Julia mumbled. “And I didn’t learn it by reading Milton.”
Just then Christopher brought their pizza, effectively ending their awkward exchange. Gabriel played the part of the host, serving Julia her salad and pizza first and taking great care to make sure that she received more shaved parmesan and croutons than he did. And it wasn’t because he didn’t like those items; he liked them both a great deal.
While they were eating and Julia was thinking back to their first silent meal together, a song began to play over the stereo system that was so sweet, she put her fork down in order to listen.
Gabriel heard the song too and softly began to sing to himself, almost under his breath, something about heaven and hell and virtue and vice.
Julia was struck by the eerie relevance of the words. But then Gabriel stopped, suddenly unsure of himself, and began focusing his attention on his pizza. She glanced over at him with a dropped jaw. She didn’t know that he could sing. And to hear his perfect mouth and voice sing those words…
“That’s a beautiful song. Who is it by?”
“It’s called You and Me by Matthew Barber, a local musician. Did you catch that line — the one about virtue and vice? I guess we know which term applies to each of us.”
“It’s beautiful but sad.”
“I’ve always had a terrible weakness for beautiful but sad things.” He looked at her carefully before turning away. “I suppose we should begin discussing your thesis proposal now, Miss Mitchell.”
Julia saw that his professional mask was firmly in place once again. She took a deep breath and began describing her project, invoking the names of Paolo and Francesca and Dante and Beatrice, when she was interrupted by Gabriel’s phone.
The ring tone sounded like the clanging of Big Ben. He lifted a finger to indicate Julia should pause while he glanced down at his iPhone’s screen. Something disturbing flew across his face.
“I have to take this. I’m sorry.” Gabriel stood up and answered his phone in one swift motion. “Paulina?”
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He walked into the next room, but Julia could still hear him. “What’s wrong? Where are you?” His voice grew muffled.
Julia busied herself with her beer and her dinner, wondering who Paulina was. She had never heard the name before. Gabriel had looked deeply troubled when he saw whatever it was that he saw on the phone’s screen.
Is M. P. Emerson — Paulina? Is she his ex-wife? Or is M. P. a code for something and he’s just messing with me?
Gabriel returned about fifteen minutes later. He did not sit down. He was agitated in the extreme, pale-faced and almost shaking.
“I have to go. I’m sorry. I paid for dinner, and I asked Christopher to find you a taxi when you finish.”
“I can walk.” Julia leaned over to pick up her messenger bag.
He held his hand out to stop her. “Absolutely not. Not late at night on Yonge Street by yourself. Here.” He pushed a folded bill across the table. “For the cab and in case you want more to eat and drink. Please stay and finish your dinner. And take the leftovers home, will you?”
“I can’t take your money.” She moved as if to hand him back the bill, and he gave her a tremulous look.
“Please, Julianne. Not now.” He was rubbing his eyes with one hand.
She felt sorry for him so she decided not to argue.
“I’m sorry I have to leave you. I…”
He was sorry, very sorry, about something. He was in anguish, groaning involuntarily. Without thinking about it, she slipped her hand into his, a movement of compassion and solidarity. She was surprised when he didn’t flinch or throw her hand back at her.
He squeezed her fingers immediately, as if he was grateful for the contact. He opened his eyes and looked down at her and slowly began to move his fingers across the back of her hand, caressing her lightly. It was all so comfortable and sweet. As if he’d done it a thousand times. As if she belonged to him. He pulled her hand upward, close to his mouth, and stared at their connection.
“Here’s the smell of blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,” he whispered. Gabriel kissed her hand reverently, but it was his own hand he was staring at. “Goodnight, Julianne. I’ll see you on Wednesday — if I’m still here.”
Julia nodded and watched him walk outside and break into a run as soon as his feet hit the sidewalk. It was only after he was gone that she
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realized she was still wearing his precious cashmere sweater and that tucked into the fifty dollar bill he had left her was the Starbucks gift card, with a note written on the back of the envelope:
J,
You didn’t think I would give up this easily, did you?
Never be ashamed to accept a gift when there are no strings attached.
There are no strings here.
Yours,
Gabriel
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