conducting occupational testing tapping your hidden potential? Is this what you wanted to do when you grew up?” He was being facetious, of course, but to Laurel’s dismay she found herself suddenly on the verge of tears.
Brendan Cody seemed oblivious. “How did you end up in God’s country, anyway? You look like you’re practically dying of culture shock. Nice dress, by the way. No one in this room can look at anyone else,” he said, and his voice was casual, but he bent closer to her when he said it, and her heart tightened in her chest.
Exactly like Matt exactly like Matt exactly like Matt
And suddenly she was back in the dream, in the dark hall … with the curtains blowing, the smell of jasmine, the mirror … the mirror …
No. No. Not again.
She backed up from Brendan Cody who was looking at her with concern, and she saw he was speaking but she couldn’t hear a word, a word …
And once again, she fled—fled the room, fled the party, fled brash young Professor Brendan Cody, fled her colleagues and her department chair, without so much as a good-bye.
CHAPTER FOUR
Outside the University Club, Laurel walked blindly on the oak-lined paths into the deepening sunset, with the dark spiked silhouettes of Gothic buildings around her, and no idea where she was going.
Great … that’s just great. You can’t even make it through a cocktail party. How do you think you’re going to survive the year? she berated herself.
What am I doing here? What have I done? I’ve torpedoed my entire life, I’ve landed in the middle of nowhere, and I’m going to be fired if I don’t come up with some knockout proposal by … I don’t even know by when.
She laughed, but it was a strangled sound; she was again dangerously close to tears. Brendan Cody’s questions taunted her, like hives prickling under her skin: “And what about your hidden gifts, Professor MacDonald? Is this what you wanted to do when you grew up?”
A dry wind whispered through the towering trees above, swirled leaves at her feet. She forced herself to breathe, to look around. There was a medieval-looking archway in front of her and she realized she was coming up on the Page Auditorium, with its turrets and heraldic crests. Instead of heading back to her car, she’d started like a homing pigeon for the main yard of West Campus, in the direction of the Psych building.
Laurel turned on the path and looked up at Perkins Library, a looming shadow against the reddening sky. Suddenly she longed for the comfort of books around her. No matter how bad she felt, a library could always make her feel better.
She walked up the granite steps, and pushed through the fortresslike doors.
The entry of Perkins was a soaring three stories of graystone, with a domed ceiling and arched windows that in the sunset streamed pink light into the column of space—a medieval chapel of a building. Even chattering students hushed when they walked through the heavy wooden doors. Laurel could feel all the molecules in her body rearranging into something peaceful and serene as she stepped through the gates and entered the sanctum.
She breathed in … and moved into an inner hall which led to a set of double doors of dark walnut with a brass plaque: special collections library.
The library was a long, dark-paneled study with a fireplace at one end and heavy needlepoint drapes at the windows, with groupings of antique sofas and divans, and recessed shelves—a cocoon of intimacy and concentration. Four other smaller rooms branched out from the first, each entirely lined with glass-paned bookshelves housing gorgeous volumes with gilt lettering on hand-tooled leather.
The first day Laurel found Special Collections she couldn’t believe that it wasn’t packed with students, assistants, and professors clamoring for any available space. She now suspected the emptiness had more than a little to do with the Special Collections librarian, Dr. Ward, a stout, quietly terrifying force of a woman who presided from a rolltop desk near the front door. Ward wore thick round glasses that made her look vaguely like an enraged owl and her black hair was cut in a severe pageboy. Her gaze could cut a student down at twenty paces.
On her first day, Laurel had approached the desk with no small amount of trepidation. “I’m Laurel MacDonald. I’m a new professor in the Psych department.”
Dr. Ward looked at her unblinkingly through Coke-bottle lenses, without speaking.