“Great.” Alex grabbed a cookie and left in search of the professor.
Mrs. Muir studied the empty doorway for a moment. “That was abrupt.” She turned to me and smiled. “Don’t let him rattle you, Sam. We’re so delighted you came.”
“I’m intruding on his time with you. You said he’s like your son, and now a stranger is mucking up his last night here.”
“Not at all. When Robert was teaching we had lots of ‘sons’ and ‘daughters’ coming for dinners. It was great fun. But since his retirement, Alex has been the only one around. Perhaps he’s grown a bit spoiled.” She grinned and handed me a cookie. “Let’s sit.”
Alex and the professor came back to the kitchen and we sat around the table, chatting and eating cookies for another hour. Then the conversation dwindled, and I knew Alex needed time alone with them.
“Thank you so much. I need to get home and finish some work.”
“Remember what I said about talking to Johnson.” The professor smiled at me.
“What are you working on?” Alex looked across the table at me—directly for the first time.
“I have an article due, and I’m readingThe Merchant of Venice. It’s showing downtown and I thought I’d see it and write a review for one of my classes.”
“Good for you. That’s very thorough of you, Sam, to read the play first. I’m impressed.” The professor cut into the conversation.
“Ah, Portia and her secret identity . . . I love that one.” Alex nodded and chomped a cookie.
“I do too.” I paused and looked at him for a moment. It was a surreal experience. It’s not like I have a crush on him; I don’t. Alex wasn’t that nice tonight, and I’m seeing Josh—we went out again last Friday. But sitting across a table from Alex Powell, eating cookies, was unique.
“Let me drive you back to campus.” Alex slid his chair back.
“No, I’ll be fine.” I didn’t want to take the Metra at night, but I was not about to take Alex from the Muirs.
“You’re not taking the Metra. I’ll drive you if Alex won’t.” Professor Muir stood as well.
“Take a seat, Pops. I’ll drive Sam and be right back. While I’m gone, you can read my plot points for the next book.”
“Excellent.” The professor rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Alex stalked to the front hall without another word and grabbed his coat. I felt like the Ugly Duckling—obtrusive and unwanted.
As he opened the door, the professor rushed into the hall. “You’re staying here for Thanksgiving, Sam? On campus?”
“Yes, how did you . . . know that?” I stammered.
“Students usually babble about home this time of year. You never mentioned it.”
“Ahh . . .” I let it hang. There was nothing to say.
“You’ll come here.”
“No, I . . .” I fumbled for an excuse. Any excuse.
“Franny will call you. I make stuffing. It’s the only thing I make all year, and I have a talent. You’ll love it.” He winked at me and leaned down for a bear hug, and I couldn’t pull away—he’s too big—so I surrendered. I’m unused to hugs, so at the time I couldn’t enjoy it. Several hours later, I loved that hug.
Alex and I got into his rental and headed south. He didn’t speak. I thought a fifteen-minute silent ride with Alex Powell might kill me, so I started asking questions.
“You’ve got an outline for your next book?”
He turned his head and looked straight at me for a moment, studying me. I guess I passed some test, because he visibly relaxed.
“I do. This one’s been hard. All the publicity I’m doing forSalvation Boundhasn’t helped, but they’ve got me on a yearly release now, so I keep chugging.”
“That’s a lot of writing.”
