Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,27
never was very good at following directions. If this is all too much for you—”
“It’s not. I’m fine.” I don’t know how many other ways I can say it. “Really. We’ll get through this. It’s just for the summer, right?”
“You’re a good girl, Ivy. Got a good head on your shoulders. But this is asking a lot of you. Maybe too much. I don’t know.” Granddad stares at the portrait of Dorothea like she might offer some advice. “You never did like to ask me for help. Even when you were little, you were always determined to do everything on your own. I’d hate to see Erica’s visit throw you off track. Maybe we should set up some plans for you. Keep you busy. Focused.”
I open my mouth to protest, then snap it shut. I want to prove I’m nothing like Erica, don’t I? That I can handle responsibility without running away from it?
“What did you have in mind?”
Granddad steeples his fingers together. “How would you feel about a part-time job? You’d get paid, and you could work your hours around your time at the library and the pool.”
My mind goes straight to the English department. To Amelia. Maybe she needs help with something Austen or Bronte related, a research assistant to read through dusty old documents on interlibrary loan. I am intrigued. “Tell me more.”
“Well, next spring is the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Second Kiss.” Second Kiss was Dorothea’s sixth collection of poems, the one that won her the Pulitzer Prize. “I’m putting together a festival up at the college, but it’s coming together more slowly than I’d like. Not much money in the budget, unfortunately. One of the big projects is transcribing all her journals to add them to the online archives.”
He gestures to the bookshelves that hold Dorothea’s seven collections of poetry, their foreign translations, and—on the bottom two rows—almost four dozen leather-bound journals filled with her spidery handwriting. She started keeping a diary when she was sixteen, right after the accident that killed her mother and sisters, and the last entry is dated the day she was murdered.
“I’d hoped to transcribe them myself, but with this arthritis—” Granddad flexes his swollen fingers with a pained grimace. “And you know I hate that dictation software. What do you think?”
“I think I’d love to help, actually. I can already read her handwriting.” Three summers ago, I spent most of July reading through the journals. Granddad wouldn’t let me take them out of the library, much less outside the house, so I lay on the cool hardwood floor, with the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, and read them one right after the other, taking breaks only for iced tea and cherry Popsicles.
“That will certainly be an asset.” Granddad grins. “I’ll have Connor come over Monday morning to discuss how the two of you will divide the work.”
“Connor?” I echo stupidly. I don’t see the net until it’s fallen neatly around me.
“It’s one of his projects for the summer, but I think he’d appreciate the help.” Granddad looks downright delighted. If I didn’t know better, between this and last week’s lunch, I’d suspect he was playing matchmaker.
He probably just wants Connor to inspire me to greatness.
This means Connor will be here. In my house. A couple times a week.
I blush, irrationally worried that Granddad can see the lustful thoughts written across my face. “I… Uh, I…”
Granddad puts his hand on my shoulder. “That’s not a problem, is it? I know you two didn’t exactly hit it off last week, but—”
“No! Nope. Not a problem.” I look up at the portrait of Dorothea. Even in death, she manages to stir up trouble. Bet she’d get a kick out of that.
“Good.” Granddad practically claps. “I’ll give him a call and ask him to come here Monday morning instead of going to the office. Ten o’clock okay? That should give you time to get to the pool first.”
Trust him to notice, even in the midst of all this family drama, that I have been slacking on my training. He’s right though. I don’t want Charlotte Wu sneaking past me in the one-hundred-meter freestyle. “Yeah, that’s perfect. I’m usually back by nine.” That’ll give me time to wash the chlorine out of my hair and maybe put on some makeup and—
It’s not a date, Ivy. Keep it together!
“All right. You better get on to bed then.”
“Okay. ’Night, Granddad. Love you.”
As I head upstairs, padding barefoot past the closed doors where my sisters