She had taken the victory before the battle, accomplished everything she had set out to achieve—in less than three days.
Then why, she wondered miserably, was that victory so bitter-tasting, her triumph so hollow?
Had he really been in love with her for years? Was that why he had never married? Or was it talk, the bantering type of talk that lovers often used?
She really didn’t know which would make her feel worse, but now, for certain, she couldn’t let Wesley go.
But nor could she rid herself of a nagging feeling of...of...
Was it fear?
CHAPTER FOUR
SLOAN SLID A TOWEL around her neck and closed the door to Fine Arts 202 behind her. She shook her head slightly. Melanie Anderson and Harold Persoff were in that studio practicing to Steely Dan, while the strains of Bach were also filtering through to her from Fine Arts 204 where Gail Henning—a student determined to be the next American prima ballerina—was also at work rehearsing.
Sloan’s lips curved into a slight smile. She didn’t mind teaching; in fact she loved it. Gail Henning was going to make a fine ballerina, and Sloan was playing a part in making the girl’s dream a reality. It was a nice feeling.
Her smile slipped and she sighed. The problem with teaching was the college. The Fine Arts department was on a low budget—in the present economy state-funded schools couldn’t afford much for the arts. Theater, dance, and music—and even visual arts—were just not practical courses of study in the world the kids would face when they left. Sloan agreed with the theory that her students—even the best—should have a sound education to fall back on. She, more than anyone, knew that they would have a struggle surviving in their chosen field. But although Jim Baskins was a great department head, he was under the chairman of Fine Arts, who was under the dean, who was under the vice-president of the school, and so forth. The politics in her job drove her crazy.
She mused over the budget wars recently fought in the last faculty meetings as she entered the ring of offices shared by theater and dance, thanking the student secretary for her messages and following the labyrinth of cubbyholes until she found her own—an eight-by-eight square with a small desk and two chairs. The rest of the proposals for dance finals awaited her approval, and she slipped into a sweat shirt, chilled now by the air conditioning in her damp leotard and tights, before seating herself to concentrate on the projects. A chosen few would be previewed on Saturday when she and Jim made their own contributions to the welfare of the Fine Arts department at the annual performance. And time, Sloan thought with a grimace, was slipping away. Wrinkling her nose with distaste at the loss of time she so often endured with the red tape of the paperwork, Sloan focused her attention on what actually constituted teaching.
Sloan picked up the first folder and pursed her lips in a tolerant grimace as she saw that Susie Harris wanted to tap her final to the Doobie Brothers’ “A Fool Believes.” The music wasn’t conducive to tap, but Sloan believed in letting the kids—kids! they were eighteen to twenty, young adults—try their wings and learn from their own mistakes. Besides, she had seen some very good work come out of the highly improbable.
Sloan scribbled a few lines of advice on Susie’s folder and set it aside. Dan Taylor wanted to do a modern ballet to Schubert...
Sloan set the folder down. Her effort to concentrate was fading. Chewing the nub of her pencil, she thought back to the previous night and Wesley. He hadn’t mentioned marriage again; he hadn’t touched her again. He had returned their relationship to a casual one, idly discussing the upcoming school performance. At her home he had played with the kids, picked up Florence, and left, saying nothing about seeing her again...
The tip of the eraser broke off in her mouth, and Sloan wrinkled her face in distaste before ruefully plucking the rubber from her tongue. She was going to have to stop being such a nervous wreck—and definitely improve her hunting technique. Wesley was supposed to think of nothing but her all day long, not vice versa. And she had been thinking of nothing but Wesley all day, to the extent that her students must be thinking Mrs. Tallett was mellowing. She was considered the roughest taskmaster in the department, knowing that only grueling work could take even