Kitabı oku: «The Measure Of A Man», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

Some twenty minutes after she’d put in a call to Thom Dolan in the maintenance department, requesting that he send Smith Parker up to her office, there was a quick, sharp rap on her door.

Before she could say, “Come in,” he did.

Looking, Jane thought, not unlike a thundercloud casting ominous shadows over the western plains. There were even some drops of rain clinging to his hair, as the rain had just let up.

It was obvious that Smith didn’t care for being summoned, but that couldn’t be helped. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting until their paths crossed again, especially since they did so seldomly.

Smith moved closer to her desk, his very presence making the room feel even smaller than it was. The man had muscles, she thought absently.

“What’s the emergency?” he all but growled.

Without intending to, she pushed her chair back a little. “No emergency,” Jane answered. “I just needed to talk to you.”

Wheat-colored eyebrows pulled together over the bridge of his finely shaped nose. Smith looked at her very skeptically, as if waiting for a punch line. “You called me in here to talk?”

Now that Smith was actually here, she wasn’t sure just how to proceed, how to phrase her request. Except for today outside the professor’s office, whenever they did run into one another, the most she’d say was hello because she didn’t know whether or not he wanted her to acknowledge the fact that they knew one another.

When she’d first seen him wearing the navy-blue jumpsuit with the university’s logo across the back and the title of Maintenance Engineer finely stitched across his breast pocket, she had been completely dumbstruck. She remembered thinking that there had to be some mistake, or maybe even some kind of a joke. Either that, or the maintenance man was a dead ringer for the student who had sat two rows away from her. They couldn’t possibly be one and the same.

The Smith Parker she was acquainted with had been very bright. When he’d abruptly left Saunders shortly after those accusations had been brought against him, she’d just assumed that Smith had gone on to attend another college. And a man with a college degree didn’t concern himself with clogged pipes unless they were in his own house.

But then she’d heard him say something to one of the teachers and she knew it had to be Smith. His voice, low in timbre, sensual even if he were merely reciting the alphabet, was unmistakable. With every syllable he uttered, his voice seemed to undulate right under her skin.

Just the way it seemed to do now.

Feeling suddenly nervous, Jane cleared her throat. “Actually, I wanted to see you because I need a favor from you.”

Smith put down the toolbox he’d brought with him and looked at her as if she was speaking in riddles.

“A favor,” he echoed slowly, taking the word apart letter by letter, as if that would reveal something beneath it. When she nodded and he was no closer to an answer than before, Smith prodded, “What kind of favor?”

As he asked, he glanced around the office. The size of a broom closet on steroids, it still managed to be cheery because of the few personal touches she had added to it. On the wall directly behind her was a poster of a kitten, its front paws wrapped around a tree branch as its back legs dangled in midair. The animal looked precariously close to falling. For some reason that eluded him, the kitten made him think of her.

Beneath it, in white script, was the slogan “Hang in There.” He wondered how many times a day Jane said that to herself. Subconsciously he’d been saying something along those lines to himself for some time now. Of late, he’d had this feeling that something better was going to be coming his way if he was just patient enough to wait it out.

He guessed that maybe his spirit wasn’t entirely dead the way he’d once believed it to be.

Aside from the poster, Jane had left the walls un-adorned. Looking at them now, he could see that they could stand a fresh coat of paint.

He made a judgment call as to the nature of her as yet unspoken request. “Would that favor have anything to do with giving this room a makeover?”

About to cautiously put her case before him, Smith’s words threw her. She looked at him quizzically. Where would he have gotten that idea from? She’d never complained to anyone about her office. After being part of a large collective over in the administration building, she valued this little bit of turf that was her own—for as long as she had her job.

“Excuse me?”

Confusion made her look adorable.

The observation had slipped in out of nowhere, surprising him. Smith sent it packing back to the same place.

Waving his hand around the space around him, he elaborated, “The room, it could stand a paint job. Is that the reason you sent for me?” he asked, enunciating each word slowly because she looked as if he’d lapsed into a foreign tongue.

Jane could almost feel every single word moving along her body before it faded away.

Nerves, just nerves, she told herself. She wasn’t accustomed to asking for favors, even if it wasn’t for herself. It made her uncomfortable.

But this wasn’t about her, Jane reminded herself. It was about the professor. Who had been there for her when she’d needed someone.

She shook her head dismissively. “Maybe someday, but no, that wasn’t what I meant.”

Smith didn’t appear to hear her. His attention had obviously wandered and so had he. Over to the weeping fig tree she’d bought a month ago. It had been on sale, standing in front of a local florist shop. Passing it, the tree had caught her eye and she could envision it brightening up the dark corner of her office. Ficus benjamina was its botanical name. She called it “Benny” for short.

Right now, tall, thin and pale, Benny looked as if he needed to be placed on a respirator. His grasp on life appeared a little tenuous.

Smith touched one of the wispy branches. Two leaves immediately fell off. It felt as if he’d just raised the limb of a terminal patient. Why did people buy plants only to neglect them? he wondered.

He looked at her over his shoulder. “You’re killing this, you know.”

God, he was a strange man. “No, I’m not,” she retorted defensively. “Benny’s just adjusting to his surroundings.”

“Benny?” He raised his head and looked at her just as she’d rounded her desk and walked over to him. She was wearing a skirt whose hem was even with the tips of her fingers when her hands were at her sides. He tried not to stare at her legs.

“That’s what I call him. And I’m not killing him,” she repeated.

He loved plants, had an affinity for them, but he’d never named one. That she did seemed more than a little odd to him.

“Yes,” he replied firmly, “you are.” Stooping, he took the side of the wicker pot she’d placed the fig tree in and slowly turned it around. The slight movement caused more leaves to come raining down. There were less than two dozen left on the sapling. “It’s not supposed to look like Greta Garbo in Camille.”

She bent beside him, completely lost. “Who?”

Feeling suddenly hemmed in by her presence, Smith rose to his feet. “Greta Garbo.” Her face remained blank and he shrugged. “Never mind.” It didn’t matter if Jane didn’t understand his comparison. What did matter, though, was that the plant was dying. And it didn’t have to be. “The point is, this plant is going to die unless you do something.”

She’d followed the instructions on the little card that had been attached to one of its branches. There hadn’t been many, but the shop owner had assured her that the tree was hardy and once it adjusted to its new surroundings, it would thrive.

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Like what?”

Because of its location, the room saw very little sun, getting its illumination, instead, from the overhead lighting. He pointed toward the lone window in the office, even though it was still overcast outside.

“Give it sun, fresh air, a chance to breathe, introduce vitamins into its water, get some fertilizer for it.” It might not be too late, he judged, studying the plant’s pale color. Here and there were a few new green shoots trying to push through. “Otherwise, its chances of surviving are next to none.”

She had no idea having a plant was so complicated. To her, plants were to be watered and, for the most part, ignored. “You sound like a doctor talking about a patient in the E.R.”

“Plants are living things and should be accorded respect.” Putting his finger into the soil, he found it was bone-dry. Smith saw the large empty soda container she’d thrown out. Taking it from the wastebasket, he walked out without saying another word, leaving her flabbergasted. But he was back in a few minutes, the cup now filled with water. He poured the contents into the pot. “This should be outdoors.”

He made it sound like an accusation. And that she had broken some cardinal rule. Jane bristled before she could rein herself in. “It’s an indoor tree.”

The look he gave her all but asked if she believed in the tooth fairy, as well. “There’s no such thing as an indoor tree, unless it’s a treehouse and you happen to be Tarzan. That’s just a ploy to help sell this to people with no gardens.”

She decided to do an about-face and put the ball in his court. “Okay, since you know so much, can you ‘save’ Benny for me, Smith?”

He looked at her sharply. Not because of what she’d asked him to do, but because she’d used his name. It was the first time he’d heard her say it. Since she hadn’t said anything up to this point, he’d just assumed she hadn’t recognized him.

“You know my name?”

Jane stared at him incredulously for a second. “Of course I know your name. How do you think I asked for you?”

For a second he’d forgotten that she’d put in a request for him. They’d come almost full circle. Smith glanced down at his uniform. His name was supposed to be embroidered over his pocket, just beneath the politically correct jog title. Wanting to be as anonymous as possible, he’d opted to leave the space blank.

“I’ll bite. How?”

Something inside her began to falter again. Life with Drew had sapped her of her self-esteem and made her doubt her every move. It took effort to conquer her uncertainty, but she had a feeling that Smith didn’t suffer cowards well.

It gave them something in common. Neither did she. Especially when that coward was her.

“You were in my English class.” And then, even as she said it, another more personal memory came back to her. “You were also the guy who collided with me on the steps of the library that time, knocking all my books out of my arms.”

He remembered that. Vividly. Remembered how soft she’d felt against him, despite the momentary collision. Remembered catching her in his arms before she fell. The books had gone flying, but she hadn’t. It had taken him a second longer to release her than it should have.

“Yeah, it was raining.” His eyes met hers. “And the pages got all wet.”

“Not all of them,” she allowed, a soft smile taking possession of her mouth.

The incident, during midterm week, had occurred shortly before he’d abruptly dropped out of sight.

Something very personal, almost tangible, hung between them for a moment, making time stand still.

But there was something larger than her own insignificant feelings at stake here. There was the professor to think of. She blew out a breath, searching for the right way to begin again.

Smith was still looking at her, making her skin feel as if it was alive. “I didn’t think you recognized me.”

She drew conclusions from his tone. “But you recognized me?”

What could have passed as a small smile faintly graced his lips. “Hard not to. You haven’t changed much.”

That wasn’t strictly true, he decided silently. She had. The pretty girl she’d been had blossomed and matured into a woman who was more than lovely. A woman with a subtle beauty that easily turned a man’s head when she passed by.

But saying so might give her the wrong idea. Might make her think he thought things he didn’t. He just noticed things, that was all. He always had.

She laughed softly at the notion that she hadn’t changed. “A lot you know.”

It was a leading line and it succeeded in momentarily pulling him in. “Excuse me?”

But she shook her head. She wasn’t about to go into anything remotely personal. It made her feel too exposed. Not to mention that she wasn’t very proud of the years that had just gone by. She should have never allowed them to happen, never allowed Drew to be as abusive as he had been. Someone with a spine would have walked out a long time ago. He’d even deprived her of that, of the dignity of leaving, because just when she’d made up her mind to leave him, he’d left her.

It seemed that every way she turned, Drew kept robbing her of her dignity.

“Nothing.” Jane looked at the weeping fig. Smith was right. The poor thing did look as if it needed some kind of divine intervention. Or, barring that, help from someone who knew what they were doing. That obviously left her out. “I guess I thought it was supposed to look like that.”

Smith brushed his fingers along the top layer of dropped leaves inside the pot and grabbed a fistful. The drier ones crackled as he closed his hand over them. He looked at Jane pointedly as he held them up for her benefit.

“Did you think it was supposed to lose this many leaves, too?”

She gave a half shrug. “I’m not very good with plants.”

He tossed the leaves into the wastebasket. “Obviously.”

She would have taken offense if it wasn’t so true. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t know what had possessed her to buy Benny in the first place. It was just that it had looked so sad, just standing there outside the store, like a puppy no one wanted to take home.

“Actually,” she admitted, “I guess I’ve got pretty much of a brown thumb. Any living thing I touch, I kill. I’m lucky Danny’s still alive.” Smith looked at her sharply, as if she’d just confessed to something awful. “It was a joke, Smith.”

“Very funny.” His retort was dry, flat. She didn’t know if he was deadpanning or just being dismissive.

Jane shook her head. “You really need to loosen up a little.”

He wasn’t in the market for advice and resented the fact that someone who had such a blatant disregard for the care and nurturing of living things felt as if she could offer it.

“Why?”

He was challenging her, she realized, and she said the first thing that came into her head without benefit of censoring it. “Because greeting life with clenched teeth can make your jaw ache after a while.”

“Yeah, right.” He turned his attention back to things he understood. Like saving the plant. “So, you want me to see what I can do for this thing, or do you just want to watch it die?”

She couldn’t make up her mind if he was trying to insult her or if he wasn’t aware of the way he came across. This certainly wasn’t the guy she’d had a crush on all those years ago. But then, she’d learned that when put to the test, men weren’t exactly sterling examples of humanity.

“You certainly do have a way with words.” Jane gestured toward the plant. “Be my guest.” But as he stooped to wrap his arm around the base of the wicker-framed pot, she stopped him. She didn’t want him leaving just yet. Somehow she’d allowed him to sidetrack her. “But that isn’t why I asked you to come here.”

Rising to his feet, he looked down at her. It took effort not to feel dwarfed or intimidated by him.

“We’re not through talking?” Smith wanted to know.

Gracious was not a word in his vocabulary. “Don’t make it sound as if I’m forcing cod liver oil down your throat.” It was his turn to look at her quizzically. Admittedly, she allowed, the reference had come out of left field. As had the memory. “My mother was a health food nut. Her mother used to give her a spoonful of cod liver oil as a kid to ‘keep her healthy,’ so she continued the tradition.” And, God, had she hated it. Even now she could remember the taste. It had been thick and oily tasting and so hard to swallow.

“It comes in capsules now.”

Her mouth curved. The man was a font of strange information. “Good to know.” She ran the tip of her tongue along her lips. There was no way to tackle this but head-on, she thought, before another diversion came up and she lost her nerve completely. “Saving my dying tree isn’t the favor I was going to ask.”

That he could now readily believe. She didn’t even seem to realize that her tree was in need of help until he’d pointed it out. He braced himself. “Okay, then what was?”

“Do you have the keys to the basement in the administration building?”

She watched in fascination as suspicion instantly rose in his eyes. This was a man who didn’t trust easily. For the first time she found herself really wondering about Smith, about the paths that he had taken to bring him to this point in time. At the very least, she could have pictured him running a maintenance company, not just working for one. Just what had happened to him?

“Why?” Smith asked her.

“Because I need to get in there, specifically into the room where all the old student and administrative files are archived.”

Forgetting about the plant that so sorely needed his help, he crossed his arms in front of him and looked at Jane. Her request was unusual to say the least. Her responsibilities now had nothing do with old files, of that much he was certain.

“Why don’t you just ask someone in Administration for the key?”

She shook her head. “This isn’t something I can ask someone there.”

The suspicion in his eyes intensified as he regarded her for a long moment. “But you’re asking me.”

The why was silent, but there nonetheless. “Because I think I can trust you.”

This time he said it out loud. “Why?”

Jane blew out a breath. In a way, it was like trying to reason with Danny. He was always challenging every word out of her mouth, too. But in his case, her very precocious son just wanted to learn. She had no idea why Smith felt compelled to toss the word at her at every turn.

“You know,” she said, “you really should have that word painted on a T-shirt for you. It would save time. You could just point to it every time you wanted to say why.”

“I’ll look into it later. Why?” Smith repeated, his eyes pinning her.

For a second Jane almost felt like squirming. It occurred to her that Smith Parker would have made one hell of a good police interrogator, or for that matter, a lawyer grilling a witness on the stand. Why wasn’t he one? She knew for a fact that he had the intelligence for either vocation. Before his abrupt downward spiral, Smith had been getting As in the class they’d taken together. She’d heard most of his academic career had mirrored that.

Jane squared her shoulders. “I need to look into them for the professor. Professor Harrison,” she clarified in case he wasn’t following her.

God, but he had the most intense brown eyes. They seemed to be staring right through her. Right into her, she amended. It took effort not to shift beneath his gaze.

Something wasn’t clicking, Smith thought. “He’s asking you to do this?”

“No,” she said quickly, afraid that Smith just might walk out of here and straight into the professor’s office to tell him what she’d just said.

She didn’t want the professor to know about this, not yet, anyway. Being honorable, the professor might tell her that she couldn’t go into the files without the proper authorization.

Sometimes, she thought, when the cause was right, rules needed to be bent.

“No, he’s not. I—we,” she amended, “are hoping to find something in the old student files that might help the professor keep his job.” She didn’t add that she was also going to keep her eye out for anything that might be thought of as damning, as well. To help the professor, they needed to be prepared for all contingencies.

“‘We,’” he said slowly, looking at her so intently she thought she was going to break out in a warm sweat, “as in, you and me?”

“As in me and someone else,” she corrected, hoping her voice didn’t sound as breathless to him as it did to her. “It doesn’t matter who,” she added when he looked as if he was going to ask.

It mattered to him. He never entered into anything where he didn’t know all parties involved. It was like that adage that said never enter a room or a building where you don’t already know how to find the exits. It was the unknown that could trip you up every time. And life had enough potholes as it was.

She was losing him, Jane thought—if she’d ever remotely even had him on her side. An edgy feeling began to scramble up her insides. She pressed on, talking more quickly. “Broadstreet is trying to get rid of the professor.”

At the mention of the other man, Smith frowned. Alexander Broadstreet was one of those people who treated everyone as if they were beneath him. There was no love lost between him and the older man. For one thing, Broadstreet reminded him of an older version of Jacob Weber, the student directly to blame for his present lifestyle.

“Yeah, I heard.”

Her eyes widened as she stared at him. “And it doesn’t gall you?”

“Lots of things ‘gall’ me, Jane. But that doesn’t mean that I’m about to do anything illegal about it.”

Was it her imagination or had Smith just placed emphasis on the word “illegal”? Had she offended him somehow? Drudged up bad memories? God, the man was harder to read than the professor’s handwriting. “So then your answer is no?”

Smith stooped beside the pot again, picked it up with one arm wrapped around its base. As he stood, he spared her a fleeting look before confirming her assumption. “My answer is no.”

Stopping only long enough to pick up his toolbox, Smith walked out the door.