Oh God, she’d caught me staring. My face heated. “Oh. No. I... I was just wondering what you were reading.”
She turned the cover so I could see.Selected Poemsby Derek Mahon.
“IloveDerek Mahon,” I said. “I read his poem ‘Everything Is Going To Be All Right,’ like, a thousand times.”
She regarded me with amber-colored eyes. “You’re new.”
“I... Yeah?”
“American.”
After three days wandering around Dublin, I’d realized that commenting on where you were from was a friendly conversation starter, like talking about the weather. I nodded.
“And you read poetry.” She didn’t sound very Irish. More like a Bollywood actress dropping in on the set ofDownton Abbey.
I smiled. “Sometimes. We’re not all uneducated. I’m Dee.” No last name.
“Reeti.”
“Nice to meet you, Reeti.” I copied her pronunciation carefully.Reet-tea.
She returned the smile, exposing very white, slightly uneven teeth. “When did you start?”
“I haven’t yet. I’m meeting with one of the faculty today. Dr.Ward?”
Assistant Professor Maeve Ward. I’d looked her up online, of course. Her debut novel had been longlisted for a Booker Prize nine years ago, and since then she’d had an impressive list of research papers published in peer-reviewed journals. I hadn’t read any of them yet. But still. She was an award-winning author! She was willing to work with me!
The girl pulled a face. “Poor you.”
The glow I’d felt since opening Glenda Norton’s email this morning faded. “Why?”
“She’s a witch.”
A lump of unease rose in my throat. “Is she your advisor?”
“I took her senior sophister class last year. She’s brilliant. Terrifying, actually.” Reeti shuddered dramatically. “Scared me to death.”
“Are you... are you in the writing program?”
“No, I used to be an English major.”
“I hope you didn’t switch because of Dr.Ward,” I said, joking. Mostly joking.
“Ha. No. I love English. Might have gone on, honestly. But I graduated in June, and my parents want me to get a diploma in accounting, so...” She shrugged.
“My aunt would say that’s very practical of you.”
“Right.” Reeti rolled her eyes. “Plus, I need a nice professional job so I can get a good professional husband.”
A vision flashed of the guy in the bar, with his solid shoulders and charcoal suit and metal-rimmed glasses. Definitely professional husband material.
“I have a...”Friend?Not a friend. He didn’t like me. He’d accused me of wanting to put him into a book. “I met someone in the business school,” I said. “Tim Woodman?”
“Oh, Tim,” she said. “He’s in the executive program. Not really in my league.”
I couldn’t tell if she meant academically or as a potential marriage partner. “But you know each other.”
“He lives downstairs from me.” She tilted her head. “You should come hang out sometime. I’m a fair cook.”
