Without the regulated setting of the lecture hall or campus, I knew I would have trouble seeing Ford as a professor. Too often he had been appearing in my daydreams as the handsome man with midnight-blue eyes that had kissed me under a maple tree. How was I going to keep that memory and the subsequent fantasies at bay?
My father had purchased plenty of wine and told me I was free to enjoy it as payment for my holiday labor. I imagined pouring a glass for Ford, feeling his gaze sweep up my arm to the outfit I had agonized over. Would he smile at me the way he had before we kissed?
As hostess, I was supposed to give each guest a tour of the house, and there were too many nooks where Ford and I could be alone. The hidden space under the back stairs where we first met, the alcove just inside the library doors, or the narrow hall past the front stairs where the coat closet was tucked out of sight.
Stop being so silly, I reprimanded myself.
The twinges of excitement I felt in my belly were only anticipation of a cure. Ford would be polite, cool, and aloof, even in the casual atmosphere. I hoped he would pat my shoulder or talk about me to my father right in front of me as if I was an insignificant child. That would wipe away all my schoolgirl fantasies and cure me of my growing crush.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was more, but the kitchen timer rang again and saved me. "I got it," I told my father. I turned off our crockpot and opened the lid. "I hope these are good."
"Put those toasted mini-marshmall
ows on top and it'll be perfect. Spiced yams, what an inspiration!"
I neglected to tell my father the idea was not mine at all. I had overheard Ford telling our class that candied yams covered with marshmallows was the only Thanksgiving food he ever craved.
"I think Ford should sit on my left hand side," my father said.
I jumped and turned around. "What? Why?"
He raised a red eyebrow at me. "The other six guests are couples. You and Ford are the only singles at the table."
"What about you?" I asked.
My father chuckled and changed the subject. "You know, I've been thinking about setting Ford up with someone. Maybe you can help me think of someone for him?"
I dropped a dozen marshmallows on the floor. "Since when are you into matchmaking?" I asked.
"I like Ford," my father said. "He's a good man. A little rough around the edges and a little angry at the world, but that's nothing the love of a good woman couldn't cure."
"Says the confirmed bachelor," I snapped.
My father laughed. "Now, Clarity, would you really rather talk about potential dates for me?"
"I'd rather make sure we don't get lumps in the gravy."
My father chuckled and turned back to the stove. "Don't think I don't know how much attention Ford gets from his students. He's young, he's very good-looking, and that can only cause problems for a professor."
"There's nothing illegal about it," I said.
"Illegal, no, but inappropriate, yes," my father said. He stirred the gravy with a thoughtful, repetitive motion. "If he had a serious relationship, the girls wouldn't be nearly so gaga over him."
"You know, most the women at Landsman are over eighteen years of age and perfectly capable of handling relationships no matter what age their partner is."
"Clarity," my father said with exasperation, "you're the one that helped with the wording of the honor code. Don't you remember?"
This time it was the doorbell that saved me.
I recognized the art professor's bright smile as soon as I opened the door. "Hello, Professor Paulson, so good to see you again."
There was a loud clatter from the kitchen and my father joined us in the foyer. He tore off his apron, tossed it back in the kitchen, and rushed forward to take both of Professor Paulson's hands. "Polly, I'm so glad you could make it," he beamed.
The art professor was a small, elfish woman with an infectious smile, bright black eyes, and wild, wiry black hair. Seeing her with my father always gave me a warm feeling even though the two were perpetually acting casual.
"Patrick," she said, "you were so good to invite us. Thank you! May I introduce our newest artist-in-residence, Damien Baptiste? Damien, this is Dean Dunkirk."
"Please, call me Patrick," my father said. His smile slipped slightly when he shook the artist's hand.