* * *
“Where are you? When are you coming home?”
Maddie’s father was not a gruff man. Except when he was worried about his family. She had no idea if he’d been like that before her mother died, but Maddie did know that she and Rafe were all Stephen Clarke had. His students—who had filled his days with activity and his nights by grading their papers—had disappeared into his bottomless pit called retirement. From time to time he saw one of his former fellow professors, but most of them still worked, and many of those who had retired, had moved back to the towns they were originally from. Back to where they had brothers, sisters, cousins, and the rest, maybe even a parent or two. And while her father did have a couple of cousins in the Midwest, their only connection was an annual Christmas letter about the good things in their lives.
With a quiet sigh, she knew that, first, she needed to let him get his worry out of his system. Then it would be her turn.
“Dad,” she said, “I’m fine. I hurt my foot, that’s all. I’m going to stay a few more days, but I’ll be home next week.”
“Rafe said you broke it.”
“It’s not a bad break. I didn’t need surgery.”
He paused; he must have closed his eyes and was taking a moment to regain his usual calm demeanor. “At least there are good doctors in Boston.”
She bit her lip, glad he couldn’t see her. “Yes, there are.” It wasn’t a lie, even though she didn’t happen to be there.
“How did you do it?” He’d begun to sound normal again.
It was a good time to tell him the rest, to say that she was on the Vineyard, to tell him about Grandma Nancy. Maybe not to outright accuse him of lying, but to suggest that someone had lied to him years ago. But the words did not want to come out.
“I lost my balance walking down a hill. It was a silly misstep.”
He didn’t say she should be more careful. He didn’t ask if she’d been alone when it happened. If he thought she’d been with a man, he would not invade her privacy. He was a good dad. The thought of which made her feel guilty for what she was about to say.
Then she reassessed:Wait. I’m the one who’s feeling guilty? Seriously?
“There’s a letter here for you from Don Jarvis,” her father said, changing the subject, which he was adept at.
Don Jarvis was the head of the English department at the college. He was also the chair of the tenure committee.
“Oh,” she said.
Her father laughed. “Oh? That’s all you can say?”
“Well. I don’t know. It’s unexpected.” Had the committee already made a decision? Would they do that in the middle of summer? She still hadn’t written the article about the media coverage of the malpractice case. Which meant it wouldn’t count toward her list of publications, which might have affected their selection.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, her right leg propped on the chair opposite her. From there she could see out the front window—not all the way to the water, but as far as the dunes and the few houses below. She wondered how she’d feel if the college rejected her, especially if she no longer needed a guaranteed job. Which brought her back to the question of if she didn’t teach, what in God’s name would she do all day? Would she wind up watching game shows with her father, their lunches set on the old TV trays?
“Would you like me to open it for you?”
“Oh, Dad . . .”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. But if they’ve made a decision I thought you’d want to know. You could celebrate with your friends.”
It took a moment to remember she wasn’t with her friends. “It might be a rejection,” she said. “It might be to tell me they selected Elliott or Manchino.” They were her competition: Elliott was younger but she thought better qualified; Manchino was a wizard at getting published. And though Maddie knew her credentials were more than adequate, her lack of confidence often trounced that assumption.
“Okay,” her father said, “The letter will be here when you get home.”
“No,” she said, resigned. “Open it. Read it to me.” If they rejected her, she might as well know now. It might help her decide how to realign her future.
He laughed. She knew he liked it when she was spontaneous; he often said her mother had been. Hannah Clieg. Artist. Spontaneous woman. Wampanoag. Too bad he’d left out that last detail.
She put her elbows on the table and covered her eyes with her hands, as she listened to the sound of paper being torn. Leave it to the college to put their declaration on official letterhead and not send it in an email.
“‘Dear Madelyn,’” her father began. “‘I hope you are enjoying your summer. Classes will be back in session before we know it, so take advantage of every quiet day!’”
It was an odd opening for what should be a formal letter. She told her stomach not to lurch and her heart not to sink; after all, it wasn’t as if she would still need Green Hills College.
