The Art of Romance (6 page)

Before filling her plate, Caylor visualized herself in the dark turquoise dress she wanted to wear to the faculty Christmas party. Cut to skim the figure, the dress had been a spring purchase to take with her to awards banquets at two different conferences at which her books were up for awards. She’d bought it in a size 14, telling herself she’d lose weight before the events late in the summer. The weight hadn’t come off, so she’d had to resort to the black pants and sequined top she’d worn last year. But she’d pulled the dress out Wednesday night and tried it on, and it fit perfectly.

She couldn’t afford to gain even two pounds in the next seven days, though, or it would be too tight. She took enough of each dish to have a taste but stuck to a larger portion of the turkey and green salad so she wouldn’t feel quite so bad about eating desserts later.

Dennis Forrester held the basket of rolls for Caylor so she could take one out before passing it down the table. “I’m sure Zarah told you this, but I just want to tell you personally how much I enjoyed the production of
The Music Man
a couple of months ago. Did you ever consider taking up acting professionally?”

Pleasure heated Caylor’s face. “I hadn’t done any acting since my undergrad years until Dr. Wetzler”—she indicated Bridget, down the table from them—”came to Robertson to teach drama. She happened to overhear me reading James Joyce to my class in an Irish accent and then followed me all over campus for a semester, pestering me about helping out with the drama department—since I minored in it and teach so many of the classics in my classes. I finally gave in and agreed to nothing more than leading a few intensive seminars for the drama majors on Irish, Scottish, and British accents.”

“After hearing you as an Irishwoman, I almost didn’t believe Zarah when she told me you grew up in Nashville. She said you spent time studying over there.”

Caylor nodded. “I spent a year in Oxford, working on my master’s degree, and then went back for a semester at the University of Glasgow and two terms at the University of Dublin during my doctoral work.”

“I would have given anything to study overseas.”

Caylor wasn’t sure if Dylan’s comment had actually been meant for her to hear, he’d spoken with such a soft tone, almost as if to himself. Not wanting to exclude him if he had been trying to join into the conversation, Caylor turned her attention to him. “If you could take a sabbatical for a year anywhere you wanted, study anywhere you wanted, paint anywhere you wanted, where would you go?”

Dylan gave a shrug and a sardonic smile. “It sounds kind of cliché, but I’d have to pick Paris and the Sorbonne.”

“I’m no artist, but I would imagine that Paris is one place where every artist should spend time, if for nothing else than the museums and galleries.” Caylor mentally recorded Dylan’s expressions of self–consciousness and wistful hope.

Not being able to figure out why he seemed so familiar to her irritated Caylor—she would do whatever it took to figure it out. But until then, she would find ways to keep studying him, keep observing him—as the template for the hero in her next romance novel, be it contemporary or historical. Maybe if she got to know him well enough, he might even agree to let the publishing house use his image for the front cover of the book.

D
ylan checked his watch and downed the last gulp of coffee. He’d been ready to go for almost twenty minutes, but until he heard—

Under his feet, the automatic garage door opener whirred. He popped a piece of sugar-free peppermint gum in his mouth, shrugged into his sport coat, and loped down the stairs to the garage.

When he’d informed Perty yesterday he’d decided to go to church with them—this week, anyway—she’d suggested he ride with them and visit the singles class while he was at it. If he hadn’t heard Zarah, Bobby, and Flannery talking about the class Friday evening, he might have balked. But at least with them there, it might not be so awkward.

Gramps nodded over the roof of his Lexus—Dylan wasn’t sure if it was meant to convey a greeting or approval. Could have been both.

Whatever. If he looked up
duress
on Wikipedia, there would be a video of this situation.

“Here.” Perty handed Dylan a large, gray, leather-bound Bible. “I wasn’t sure if you had—if you’d unpacked yours yet or not.”

Of course. Having grown up in church, he should have remembered that only heathens and backsliders went to church without a Bible big enough to choke Godzilla. He climbed into the backseat and put the book down beside him as he buckled up.

Perty surprised him by going around to Gramps’s side of the car and climbing into the backseat as well.

“We’re picking up Sassy Evans on the way,” she explained at his questioning look.

After several long minutes of nothing but soft classical music filling the car, Perty turned to look at him. “When did Dr. Holtz think he might be able to let you know about teaching next semester?”

Dylan shrugged. “He wasn’t sure. Said he needed to do some shuffling. But he probably has two classes for me.”

Apparently able to see that was all she was going to get out of him, Perty turned forward again. “I hope it works out for you.”

Another pause.

“Your father called this morning to let us know they’re back from Chicago early and will join us for lunch after church. Pax is meeting us at the restaurant, too.”

Great. Dylan
knew
he should have driven himself this morning. He’d hoped to put off the inevitable confrontation with his parents longer—a lot longer—like after he had a full-time job somewhere else and was repacking to move far, far away.

“Did Spencer come back with them?”

“No—his finals are this week, but I don’t think he’s planning to come home as soon as they end. He mentioned a possible ski trip to Utah with some friends in his last e-mail to me. It will be the last chance he gets to relax. I’ve read the final two quarters of his program are merciless in their intensity.”

Dylan turned his head away from this grandmother and rolled his eyes. Paxton was getting a PhD in physics from Vanderbilt University, Spencer, an MBA from Northwestern. And the whiz kid of the family, twenty-one-year-old Tyler, had just started his PhD work in math at MIT.

One of the few things Dylan would miss about living in Philadelphia was getting together with Tyler for weekends in New Haven, Connecticut, about halfway between their homes. Tyler seemed to be the only one in the family who didn’t look down on Dylan for not pursuing a “real” major in his education.

Oh, and he’d miss the cheesesteak sandwiches from Pat’s King of Steaks in South Philly.

“You didn’t tell us anything about Zarah Mitchell’s dinner Friday night.” Perty must have gotten tired of the silence again. “How was it?”

He had to give her an A+ for her effort at car banter, so how could he not reciprocate? “It was fine. I met one of the drama professors from JRU, who wants my help designing sets for their spring play. And I met an editor from Lindsley House Publishing who might want me to do some freelance design work for them.”

“That would be lovely—the freelance work—if it would come through. You’ll want to be sure to follow up on that this week.”

Pat me on the head and give me a lollipop while you’re at it, Perty
. Sure, maybe he hadn’t shown the highest level of maturity when he’d chosen to move in with Rhonda six months ago—knowing that having any kind of romantic relationship with her, as the chair of his department, was against institute policy, even though everyone knew about it and turned a blind eye at the time—but he was twenty-eight years old for crying out loud. Why couldn’t anyone in his family treat him like an adult?

Gramps turned onto a tree-lined street and then drove about half a block and pulled into a long driveway leading to a quaint white house. A white Ford Escape hybrid sat in the carport beside a much smaller vehicle covered with a gray car cover.

Sassy Evans. Caylor Evans’s grandmother.

No sooner did her name cross his mind than Caylor herself walked out onto the covered porch that connected the house to the carport.

Dylan averted his eyes, but not before the image of the statuesque redhead dressed in a vibrant purple sweater, gray skirt, and high-heeled, tall black boots was seared onto his retinas. He might have to break down and draw her just to stop having such a strong visceral reaction to her every time he saw her.

A slender, white-haired lady—who looked petite compared to Caylor’s over-six-foot stature, especially with the extra height from the heels—came out behind her and locked the door.

Dylan climbed out and opened the front passenger door for her—and realized Gramps was halfway around the car to do the same thing. Gramps smiled at him and then met Sassy just under the overhang of the carport roof.

Though he tried not to, Dylan met Caylor’s turquoise gaze. He inclined his head. With one arm wrapped around what looked like a notebook and a Bible—not nearly as large as the one Perty had given him—she raised her free hand and wiggled her fingers in greeting, making her keys jangle. Instead of heading toward Gramps’s car, Caylor went around to her SUV and climbed in. So, she wasn’t riding with them, too?

“Sassy Evans, you remember our oldest grandson, Dylan.” Gramps, who’d held Sassy by the elbow the few steps from the carport to the car, handed her over to Dylan to offer her assistance getting in.

Sassy’s blue eyes twinkled, and she smiled a huge, Polident-commercial-worthy smile at him. “Of course I do. It’s very nice to see you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Evans. It’s nice to see you again, too.” He waited until she was settled in the seat, fastening her seat belt, before closing the door and getting back into the warmth the car offered.

After Dylan fastened himself back in, Perty reached over and patted his knee. When he looked over at her, she winked at him—and in that expression, all of the memories of Perty encouraging him to draw and paint, the kits of pastels and oils she’d given him, the professors she found to teach him technique, came rushing back in. He needed to give her the benefit of the doubt. Allow for the fact that this situation was probably as awkward for them as it was for him.

Mrs. Evans turned halfway around so she could look over the seat at Perty. They started discussing their senior adult group’s upcoming Christmas party.

Dylan propped his elbow on the door and watched the expensive houses along Granny White Pike roll by. He wanted to know why Caylor hadn’t driven her grandmother to church this morning, but he didn’t want to show undue interest in her. No, it was bad enough his own brain wouldn’t leave him alone about her. He didn’t need to give their grandmothers any reason to suspect he’d even noticed her turquoise eyes with the slight uptilt at the outside corners, her patrician nose, her full lips, her seductively asymmetrical smile.

Gramps pulled the luxury sedan into the small parking lot behind the contemporary, redbrick church. Dylan unfolded himself from the backseat and stretched.

“Do you want me to help you find the Sunday school room?” Perty cradled her Bible in the crook of her elbow.

Dylan ducked his head back into the car to retrieve the one she’d given him. “I think I can manage, thanks.” He slid the thick Bible under his arm. “I did grow up in this church, remember?”

“I know, I just—” But whatever Perty “just” remained unsaid. “Have a good time. We’ll see you afterward.”

Dylan raised his hand in farewell and headed for the main entrance.

“Do you think he’ll…”

The woman in front of Dylan sneezed, drowning out the rest of Gramps’s question. According to the rest of the family, the only thing Dylan had ever done right was to get a full-time professorship at a college with a prestigious reputation—even though it was just an art school. Would there ever be a time when he didn’t have to worry about what everyone else in the family was saying about him behind his back?

Trying to put that lifelong insecurity out of his mind, he walked up to the hotel-check-in-style welcome center, part of the expansion building project that had nearly split the church apart his senior year of high school—which had started him on the road to disillusionment with organized religion.

“Welcome to Acklen Avenue Fellowship,” a perky, middle-aged woman greeted. “Looking for a Sunday school class?”

He couldn’t remember if they’d called it by a specific name Friday night. “Yes—the class for single adults.”

She picked up a thin white binder. “Hmm…singles? Let’s see…Oh—here we are. How old are you?”

Yeah, he definitely didn’t want to get stuck with the thirty-and forty something Left Behinds. “Twenty-eight.”

“Okay, you’re looking for the Young Professionals class. Take the stairs here up to the second floor and go to the second room on the right—number 226.”

“Thanks.” Well, they hadn’t called it by that name, but it had to be the right one. He jogged up the stairs and found the room easily—surprised by the large size of the space. In the middle were chairs set up in rows, lecture style, and on either end of the room were six circles of eight or ten chairs.