Tenure seemed impossible now; she’d be lucky if they didn’t fire her immediately. No college wanted a woman accused of stalking to be in the classroom. “Tenure is probably off the table,” she admitted. “Colleges always give professors who don’t get tenure a year to search for another position, so I should probably start looking for another job.”
If anyone would even look at her application without laughing. Unless a miracle occurred, her future in academia looked increasingly bleak.
“I want you to demand a meeting with the head of the History Department,” Grayson said. “Insist on a hearing, open a lawsuit against the people in England who violated the nondisclosure agreement, and fight for your career.”
Anxiety began roping around her chest, forcing her to take shallow breaths. The only thing that could make this day worse was marching back onto campus to demand an audience withthe head of her department. “That’s not going to happen,” she said. “I’m not cut out for it.”
“We’ve been very patient with you, young lady,” her father warned. “Your professorship pays peanuts, but at least it’s prestigious. If you can’t keep that job, you need to find another one, pronto. You think lying around and reading books is a job? The rest of the world gets up and puts in blood, sweat, and tears to earn their daily bread. I expect at least as much from you. Stand up for yourself, Buttercup.”
The call came to a quick end after that, and Alice collapsed onto her sofa, gazing around the soft, muted tones of her living room and trying not to cry. She loved this place, with her collection of books and potted herbs on the windowsill. In a perfect world, she would teach history classes, read books, defend Jane Austen, and tend her gardens. Maybe do a little embroidery and entertaining.
She didn’t want to fight for tenure or force herself to belong in a History Department where her colleagues merely tolerated her. They would never respect any historian who specialized in Jane Austen, and once they saw the gossip coming out of England, their condescension toward her would turn into gleeful disdain.
There were really only two options. The longer, harder option would be to follow her father’s advice, march onto campus, and demand a public hearing. She’d have to hire a lawyer, break her nondisclosure agreement, and open a can of ugly worms, all merely to fight for the opportunity to continue pursuing tenure. Her only chance to earn tenure hinged on uncovering the truth about Saint Helga’s existence. She would have to solve the mystery soon in order to get an academic paper written and accepted for publication before her tenure review. Even with the new date of the Roost that Brandon discovered, finding theorigin of Saint Helga felt more like chasing a ghost than solid history.
Her other option was to give up. Turn her back on all the heartache and stress and simply walk away to start her life over somewhere else.
Neither path seemed appealing, but deep in her heart . . . she was tempted to give up.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack spent the day overseeing the emergency repair of the irrigation lines, but Alice was never far from his thoughts. She was bound to be wilting under the blast of derision coming at her via social media, and he instinctively wanted to help. He was an expert at surviving scorn, bullying, and just about anything else meant to humiliate a person. No kid who moved to three different junior high schools while wobbling on forearm crutches could avoid bullies, but he survived it and Alice could too. The trick was having something else to focus on, and he could offer her another clue in her search for Saint Helga.
After a quick shower in the clubhouse locker room, he headed to her townhouse. There was no answer despite ringing herdoorbell three times. She was here . . . her car was parked out front, but he couldn’t blame her if she wanted to hide out while licking her wounds. Still, she’d want to know about the Helga clue he found last night.
He’d bet his new set of pricey golf clubs she was out in the backyard, putzing around with her fancy herbs or heirloom tomatoes.
He was right. He braced an arm along the top rail of the fence rimming her garden to watch her pruning the herb garden. Being Alice, she knelt on a pretty gingham blanket with her skirt pooled around her, looking like a fancy picture that belonged in a museum.
“Hey there, pretty lady.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Not today, Jack.”
Her voice was sapped of energy. She hadn’t even glanced up at him, just kept tugging weeds and looking miserable.
“You sure?” he asked. “I found some cool stuff out at the Roost that might interest you.”
This time she didn’t say anything at all, just shook her head while tugging at a bull thistle weed. “Ouch!” she said, because the pricklers on those things could be fierce. It must have bled, because she wrapped her finger in the blanket and squeezed.
Then she started crying.
Not loud or sloppy . . . but her lip wobbled and her face scrunched up and a piddly little gulp escaped from her throat.
It got to him. He planted a hand on the fence post and vaulted over. “Hey, now,” he soothed. There was nothing worse than a pretty woman crying, even though she had good cause. She sniffled and regained her composure quickly.
“Not today, Jack,” she said, a little more firmly this time. “I’ve had a really lousy day, all right?”
“I know. I saw.”
She winced, and he kicked himself. He could have pretended he didn’t know and just presented her with the stuff about Helga and retreated, but he’d never been good at deception.
“Look, I’m sure it’s embarrassing, but it’s not that bad,” he said. “You’ll survive it.”
“How am I going to survive it? This is going to ruin my reputation. It’s not even true, but I can’t fight back. My life is over.”
He grabbed one of her wicker chairs, plopped it a few yards away from her, and sat. “Alice, you’ve got a healthy body, a sound mind, and can bake the world’s best chicken pot pie. You have more class in your pinky finger than most people have in their entire body. Don’t tell me that your life is over.”
Her mouth twisted. “You just don’t get it.”
