Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,20
will.”
They both knew she wouldn’t.
She paused, unsure of what else she should say, but Stephanie saved her from further excuses.
“I was supposed to meet everyone at the bar, like, fifteen minutes ago.” Stuffing her cell phone back in her jacket, she flung an affectionate peck against Brandon’s cheek before lifting a hand in Leanne’s direction. “Later!” Her hair bounced and swayed as she scurried away under the protection of the portico. Brandon and Leanne watched her go wordlessly.
She turned back to him and was struck anew by his masculine beauty. She felt a momentary pang of regret, knowing such an appealing creature would never settle for someone like her: someone average and boring and routine. She quashed the thought, grateful for the détente they seemed to have achieved, and determined to put her brief bout of madness behind her for good.
“Good night, Brandon.” She pushed up her umbrella and swung it above her head. As she stepped into the night, Brandon replied, his words muffled by the heavy fall of rain.
“Good night, Leanne. Take care.”
The phone was ringing when she unlocked the door to her apartment. All she wanted to do was strip off her wet, clammy clothes and slip into a hot, steaming shower but the insistent trill continued and Leanne felt compelled to answer it. Dropping her sodden book bag by the radiator, she moved quickly through the living room and grabbed the phone from its cradle.
“Hello?”
“Leanne, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you at home for well over an hour.”
Closing her eyes, she sent a brief prayer for patience skyward and forced herself to answer in a pleasant tone of voice.
“Sorry, Mom. I stayed on campus a little later tonight and turned off my cell while I was in seminar. Then Cassandra and I went to the faculty social.”
“Cassandra?” Her mother sniffed. “I suppose you spent the entire evening in some corner, talking university mumbo-jumbo. Were there any nice men there?”
“It’s not that kind of a social. It’s about networking and finding out about new research and stuff.”
Her mother sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Leanne. I mean, you’re my daughter and I love you, but it’s bad enough you’ve decided to spend the last three years of your life writing about some man named George who was in an old novel—”
Her mother could recall the name, date and location of every pageant she’d ever entered from the age of two, yet despite the fact that Leanne had told her the title of her dissertation no less than a half dozen times, she never seemed to remember the details of the writing project that had consumed her daughter’s life for nearly two years now.
“Georgian, Mom,” Leanne said tightly. “And it’s not a person, it’s a time period. I told you that already.”
The silence that met her correction told her she might as well have saved her breath. Like an implacable steamroller, her mother carried on.
“So let me tell you why I called,” she said, clearly working to change the subject. “I want you to come with me on Wednesday night.”
“Come with you where?”
“Marjorie’s. You must remember Marjorie Giles. You were in baton twirling with her daughter, Jennifer, when you were six.”
Where Leanne dropped the baton so many times, the instructor finally suggested—begged really—that she try another activity. Any other activity, if memory served.
Unaware of her daughter’s cynical mental commentary, she continued undeterred, “She’s started selling cosmetics since she retired from the Board of Education. Home parties. And she makes the best crab and cheddar dip. Don’t forget to remind me that I need to remember to get the recipe from her Wednesday night.”
Used to her mother’s circuitous conversations, Leanne let her continue, shimmying from her wet jeans as she listened.
“I thought we could go and you could get some new makeup,” her mother wheedled. “It might give you a little kick-start. Spark up your personal presentation so you can meet a man and start dating again.”
“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with my personal present—”
“Because it’s really past time, Leanne. I mean, your father and I have tried to be patient and support your desire for learning, but there comes a point, sweetie, where you have to realize that you’re not getting any younger. Take Steven. You couldn’t keep him long-term and he wasn’t even much of a man, anyway,” she said in what passed for love and supportiveness in her slightly skewed books. “Take it from me, sweetie—if you don’t start putting some serious