Learning Curves (8 page)

He smiled at her joke. “Then my offerings should fit right in. I’m not renowned for my cooking either.”

They exhausted their share of pleasantries and another awkward silence fell. The chatter and music carried in from the living room, where the rest of the group congregated, but in the kitchen, neither he nor Cassandra spoke. He readied his meager offering in the colorful ceramic dish she’d unearthed for him. “You always coordinate your kitchen with your dishes?” he asked as he emptied the plastic tub into the bowl, and Cassandra shrugged.

“My girlfriend’s got a thing against beige. She says it saps creativity and encourages pedestrian thinking.”

“You talking about me again, darling?” A slight woman with wispy honey blond hair in a loose ponytail danced into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of Brandon and Cassandra working side by side at the counter.

“You must be Brandon,” she said, smiling widely. “I’m Julia. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Clearly, Julia’s character matched her decorating style, because what she lacked in size she made up for with a bubbly and exuberant personality. Brandon smiled back and found himself engulfed in a fierce hug. Startled, he drew back. He wasn’t used to such affection.

“Likewise,” he said, feeling a little foolish at his discomfort.

Squeezing farther into the kitchen, Julia skipped to the fridge and pulled out a huge bowl of Greek salad. Peeling back the plastic wrap, she balled it up and tossed it in the nearby garbage can. Ignoring Brandon, Cassandra leaned across the small space and filched a large black olive. She popped it in her mouth, smiling. Brandon was amazed at the change it brought to her stern, patrician face. He certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of that charm in their brief acquaintance.

“Hey! Those are for dinner, you thief,” Julia chided.

Cassandra dropped a soft kiss on her girlfriend’s lips. “You still love me.”

Julia groaned. “Sure I love you. Just not your olive breath.” Cassandra laughed, the throaty sound filling the room, and kissed her again. The love and attraction between the two was so palpable he felt a spurt of unease at eavesdropping on their conversation. Neither woman appeared uncomfortable sharing such gestures in front of him. It seemed so easy and routine that he felt a deep twinge of envy. He’d never experienced a relationship like that. Not with his family. Not with any of the women in his past. Not even with his grandmother. He’d never doubted her love for him but she’d been raised in a different time, and physical expressions of love had never been something she’d indulged in much.

But before his feelings of discomfort could deepen, Julia recalled his presence. “If you’re done, bring your bowl out into the dining room, Brandon, and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

He followed her and found himself the object of eight pair of eyes. Only Leanne, arranging cutlery at the far end of the table, didn’t look up.

“Everyone, Brandon. Brandon, everyone!” Julia said, placing her salad on the crowded table. A chorus of greetings met the introduction. He searched for a small corner to set his own contribution—every square inch of the table was covered. Another tossed salad, baked chicken, some sort of gooey pasta casserole, mashed potatoes, homemade cookies and three bottles of wine.

“This looks delicious,” he said honestly, savoring the hearty aromas, and a tall man laughed.

“Wait ’til you try the eggplant parmigiana,” he promised, putting out his hand to shake Brandon’s. “Joe’s nonna makes it. I’m Russell, by the way. PhD candidate in earth sciences.”

Brandon smiled and took the offered hand. “Brandon. Fine arts. Nonna-made, huh? Sounds promising.”

“It promises and delivers.” Russell moved aside as Cassandra came into the dining room. Twelve people made for a tight fit but the good-natured jostling revealed the quarters were familiar to everyone gathered around the table.

“Let’s eat,” Cassandra said. Plates were quickly passed out and steady inroads made into the casual banquet. They trooped into the living room with their overladen plates. It was as cheerfully appointed as the kitchen. This time the walls were a deep, rich burgundy, with busy Middle Eastern hangings scattered across them. One held a battered TV and a large stereo system on an unpainted shelving unit. CDs and LPs were stacked in meticulous columns. Brandon recognized some of the cover art. Someone in the apartment was clearly a serious music fan, if the obscure titles were any indication.

The dining room chairs had been relocated and were already spoken for. Russell sat near the window next to a pretty brunette and a young man Brandon thought was Joe. Julia and Cassandra shared the loveseat. Leanne had claimed a spot on the sofa and as he turned around, he saw that the only space still available was the one next to her. He wondered if she’d saved the seat on purpose, but her expression was so neutral that he thought he ought not let his imagination run away with itself.

He walked over, balancing his plate and cutlery carefully.

“May I sit down?”

Leanne looked up and nodded. “If you like.”

The chesterfield was deceptively deep and he lurched backward as the cushions enveloped him, trying to maintain his equilibrium. A meatball rolled off his plate, leaving a red stain on his clean shirt.

“Damn,” he swore, retrieving it before it could get lost in the upholstery. He stretched out his shirt. Too late to do anything about the mess on his clothes.

Leanne giggled and set her plate on the coffee table. “Here, Fred Astaire,” she said, offering a napkin. “If you dab at it with this, maybe it won’t set in.”

“Fred?” he groused good-naturedly. “If I was channeling him, I’d be a little lighter on my feet. He could dance with a coatrack and make it look good.”

This time she chuckled outright and Brandon felt a spurt of victory at the sound. He didn’t like making a fool of himself but if the payoff was one of those delicious throaty laughs, he could hardly complain.

Balling up the soiled napkins, he settled into the sofa. He tried hard to ignore the beguiling scent of the woman beside him, grateful the plate of food on his lap hid the most egregious of his thoughts. Around them the conversation ebbed and flowed. Russell’s girlfriend, a girl named Emily, who was in political science, came round with the wine bottle, filling up everyone’s glass. The wine was dark and fruity and for once, Brandon found himself content to simply relax and let the evening unfold.

Over dinner, Russell and Mohammed, an engineering student, teased each other about their mutual geekiness, trying to best each other with esoteric words.

“Incunabulum.”

“Definition?”

“A book printed at an early date,” Russell said through a mouthful of lasagna. “Language of origin, Latin.”

“Geez, can’t you come up with something a little more challenging?” Mohammed scoffed. “Incunabulum. I-n-c-u-n-a-b-u-l-u-m. Incunabulum.” He grinned and caught Brandon’s incredulous eye. “Fourth in the Scripps spelling bee two years running. Sadly, Russ never made it higher than what, twelfth?”

“Ninth, as well you know, punk.” Russell laughed. “What about you, man? Ginny went to the Biology Olympiad in Seoul when she was a junior. Seth and Cassandra were both Rhodes scholars.”

Trying not to be intimidated, Brandon shook his head. “Nothing so illustrious, I’m afraid. Not a lot of extracurriculars around my house growing up.” A sudden recollection occurred to him and he smiled. “I did receive a perfect attendance certificate in grade four, if that counts. My grandmother framed it.” He’d forgotten all about the childhood award but now, a memory of standing proudly beside his grandma as she’d balanced on the stepladder and hung the frame on the wall rose up in his mind. She’d taken him out for ice cream at the local Dairy Queen as a reward. The certificate had been lost when her house was dispersed after her death. He hadn’t seen it in over fifteen years, but he remembered its shiny blue seal and his name printed in an elaborate font.

Julia nodded. “I’m the first person in my family to go on to anything after high-school. Nobody quite knows what to make of me.”

Several of the others nodded in acknowledgement then Seth spoke. “And then of course, there’s our girl, Leanne.”

“Me?” Beside him, Leanne stiffened at the comment. “I’m like everyone else. Just working to get my thesis written sometime this century. Find a job. With the job market the way it is, that’ll probably mean teaching a first year survey course at some junior college. A week of Chaucer, a week of Pope. Maybe two on Shakespeare and Austen. If I’m lucky.”

“Lucky?” Seth argued. “You’re a finalist for the Walters ‘I’ve-got-more-money-than-Croesus’ Prize. I guarantee you won’t be teaching at any third-rate institution. You’ll get a primo tenure-track job and a big research grant and settle in as the youngest departmental chair in Wellington History.”

“Even if I win the Walters Prize, I can’t expect to have everything handed to me.”

From beside the stereo, Cassandra laughed. “I love you, Leanne, but sometimes you’re oblivious. Kessler loves you. Rose loves you. You’re the best thing to happen to our department since God knows when, and everyone who’s anyone knows that. You’re on your way up and I don’t think anything could derail you now.”

Leanne smiled at Cassandra’s assessment but Brandon sensed her unease at all the praise her friends heaped on her. They were proud of her success, but how did she feel about shouldering their expectations?

“You’re in the running for the Walters?” he asked quietly when the conversation moved on to a film Ginny and Seth saw over the weekend. He tried to ignore how her hair curled over her shoulders and her warm thigh pressed against his. She shifted, as if uncomfortable at the attention on her accomplishments, and her fine wool trousers rubbed against his worn jeans. The friction distracted him and he focused on her words rather than risk embarrassing himself completely.

“Yeah. I applied last spring and made it onto the short list in October.” She turned and her eyes were imploring. “But there’s no guarantee I’ll win. I’ve tried my best, of course, and I think my research is important but…”

“There’s no guarantee,” he finished.

“Exactly,” she said.

“When do they interview you?”

“Next week,” she said. “My advisor’s been pulling his hair out for weeks, trying to get me ready. Faculty members keep stopping me in the hall, to give advice, suggest trial question or wish me luck. I understand why they’re doing it, of course, but a part of me wishes they’d just let me get on with it, you know?”

“It’s a big deal. You’re a big deal to your department and the university,” Brandon said. “You should have heard Cora today, when I stopped by.”

“She talked about me?” Leanne took a sip of wine. She squirmed, wriggling awkwardly in the deep cushions.

“It’s a big deal,” Brandon repeated, trying to reassure her. But it only seemed to make her more uneasy. Deciding to drop the subject for now, until he better understood her concerns, he tuned in to the other conversations around them

Cassandra was still talking about the Walters Prize, enumerating the hoops Leanne had jumped through over the past seven months.

“You keep mapping out my career, Cass.” She stood. He’d grown to like the feel of her next to him. He comforted himself with the observation that t when she was standing in front of him like this, he had a great view of her very fine ass. “I’m going to help myself to another plate. Anybody want more wine?”

“I’ll have a glass of red,” Brandon said.

“Me too.” Ginny picked up her empty glass from beside her chair leg.

“Me three,” Julia chimed in.

“Why don’t I just bring the bottle?”

By the time the food had been devoured and the wine bottles drained, Leanne’s nerves were at their breaking point. Brandon fit in among her friends better than she could have hoped. Or feared. She watched as he traded jokes back and forth with Joe and then offered his opinion on the latest obscure musician in Cassandra’s gargantuan collection.

He melded in effortlessly. That was a serious problem if she was going to keep this whole thing filed under the casual heading where it needed to be contained.

Steven had never been interested in attending these informal gatherings. He preferred meeting with established faculty at events with more cachet. But Brandon seemed genuinely pleased to be included and had gone out of his way to get to know the other invitees too.

Leanne envisioned other gatherings, other events. Seth and Joe’s infamous poker nights. Gilly’s family cottage during the reading week. They could hike and cross-country ski during the day and laze in front of the fireplace at night, watching a movie side by side.

It was all too perfect, really. Because as much as she might long for a relationship with a man like Brandon, she knew it could never come to fruition. Her career came first. The sacrifices she’d made to reach this point were too many and too involved to be shoved aside at the first pretty face.

Yet just before midnight, when Brandon stood and stretched, a narrow wedge of hard abs flashed into view and Leanne swallowed, her mouth dry. He wasn’t just pretty, he was utterly gorgeous.

He patted his flat stomach and grinned at the hostesses. “Julia. Cassandra. I need to get going but thanks for a great evening. I couldn’t eat another bite and I’m apt to fall asleep on your very comfortable sofa and embarrass myself by drooling. Or snoring.”

He flashed a quick glance at Leanne and when their eyes met, she bit her lips to keep from defending his sleeping habits. After all, they hadn’t actually
slept
together, not overnight. She’d squeezed her eyes shut on Saturday night when the pleasure he’d inflicted on her willing body had become too overwhelming to bear. But that wasn’t sleep and…

The room had gone silent. Leanne came out of her daydreams with a jolt. Twelve pair of eyes were fixed on her and she realized she and Brandon had somehow become the focus of her friends’ attention. The guys looked perplexed by the expectant silence but the girls’ expressions were far too knowing for her comfort.

“You’re welcome anytime, Brandon,” Julia offered enthusiastically. When Cassandra didn’t utter the same assurances, she nudged her.