Czytaj książkę: «Memories of You»

Twenty years later

JON CAMPBELL WATCHED in surprise as the beautiful woman at the back of the classroom stared at him across the row of desks. It was just a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity that their eyes locked, and the colour drained from her face.

Could she be startled because he was so much older than the rest of the class? Somehow her reaction seemed disproportionate.

He certainly wasn’t the only middle-aged man who’d ever gone back to college to finish a degree. Even Jon had been surprised by the number of people his age he’d encountered on this first day of classes.

In fact, Jon wasn’t the oddity he’d feared he might be. And the campus was big enough that he wouldn’t be an embarrassment to his children, especially his son Steven who was a freshman at the same college.

While he was puzzling over the professor’s reaction, the woman turned abruptly and made her way to the front of the room.

“Good morning,” she said, moving away from her desk to stand in the middle of the room. “My name is Dr. Camilla Pritchard, and this class is intended to develop your creative-writing skills as well as to examine the work of some well-known authors. There is an extensive reading list that I will distribute at the conclusion of today’s session. You will need to read every book promptly in order to be prepared for assignments and class discussions.”

Her voice was crisp, but her hands, gripping a notebook, trembled slightly. Again Jon wondered at her nervousness. Did she feel threatened by one of her students?

They all looked so young. This was a senior class, but the participants still seemed like babies, freshfaced and anxious. A couple of them were chewing gum, while the thin boy sitting across the aisle from Jon appeared to be asleep.

“The workload is quite heavy,” the professor went on. “And, as you may have heard, I’m not tolerant of slackers.”

Jon grinned privately, amused by the contrast between her face and manner.

Oh, I’ll bet you’re not nearly as tough as you pretend, he told her silently.

She glanced at him almost as if he’d spoken aloud, and her cheeks turned faintly pink. She looked away quickly.

“There will be a daily writing assignment in addition to research papers and regular class work. If you feel this may be too much for you, I encourage you to drop the course immediately while you’re still in time to transfer to a different class. Otherwise, you run a very real risk of being assigned a failing grade or an incomplete rating.”

No wonder some of the students complained about Dr. Camilla Pritchard, Jon thought. He’d overheard a group of young men earlier in the day, loudly discussing this English professor.

A “dragon,” one of them had called her. And then, practically in the same breath, a “real babe.”

Now that Jon had seen her, he could certainly understand the boy’s conflicting reaction. Camilla Pritchard was tall and graceful. Her face was finely carved, with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes, and she had an elegant straight nose.

But her beauty went beyond these physical attributes. There was something in the depths of that face, those remarkable eyes, that hinted at a person hidden in a complex private world.

Jon shifted awkwardly in the little desk as she began to discuss the process of creative writing, putting a few terms on the blackboard like “stream of consciousness” and “constructionism.” Jon tried to pay attention, but the sun from the adjacent window was warm on his back, and the room was so quiet, and he was not accustomed to this complete lack of physical activity.

Eventually his mind began to wander down sunlit paths of its own. He found himself wondering idly what the blond professor would look like in a bikini— or completely naked.

He shifted in his desk, aware suddenly of an uncomfortable stirring in his groin.

At that moment, the professor caught his eye. She’d moved nearer to ask a question of a student in the next row. Jon looked down hastily.

What a fool, he thought. Like a kid in seventh grade with a crush on the teacher, getting aroused by his daydreams. Next she’d ask him to go to the blackboard and he’d have to figure out some way to save himself from real embarrassment.

But the professor seemed reluctant to have anything to do with him. She directed rapid-fire questions at most of the others, but none at her oldest student.

Again Jon thought about that strange moment when their eyes had first met. She’d been so shaken.

Could they have met somewhere?

There was something about her that was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t get close to the memory. It was as elusive as the disappearing image of a half-forgotten dream. Maybe he was simply experiencing déjà vu.

After all, if he’d actually met somebody like her, he wouldn’t be likely to forget her. Because she, without a doubt, was one of the most beautiful, desirable women he’d ever seen.

She moved toward the back of the room and stopped by the desk of the sleeping young man, who gave a start and looked up in alarm.

“Your name?” she asked.

The boy swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He was pale and obviously scared. He looked even younger than his classmates.

Probably no more than nineteen, Jon thought. Awfully young to be in a senior-level English class.

“Enrique,” he whispered at last. “My name is Enrique Valeros.”

“Do you intend to sleep through every class, Mr. Valeros?”

The boy had a shock of black hair, expressive dark eyes and clothes that were shabby but well tended. His voice was softly accented with the musical cadences of Spanish, and his thin hands trembled on the wooden surface of the desk. Jon couldn’t tell if the tremor was because of fear, or fatigue.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

Something about the boy tugged at Jon’s heart. He wondered why Enrique Valeros was so tired, or what he was afraid of. A quick glance at the professor’s blue eyes convinced Jon she shared these feelings of sympathy, though she was trying to remain stern and expressionless.

“I really hope it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Valeros,” she said.

She moved to the front of the room and picked up one of the books on her desk, a thick volume on grammar, punctuation and usage.

“This will be our only formal textbook,” she told the class. “I expect you to obtain a copy and use it as your guide. Failure to comply will result in immediate deductions from your grade on all written assignments. Are there any questions?”

A sullen-looking young woman near the front of the class asked for more details about the daily written assignment and the reading list. Dr. Pritchard clarified her expectations. Without another word, the girl picked up her books and left the classroom.

The professor surveyed the group. “Anybody else?” she asked. “Let me repeat that it’s much better to leave now if you feel incapable of handling the work. In two or three weeks, dropping the course will no longer be an option.”

The students listened silently.

“Mr. Valeros,” she said, moving partway down the aisle, though she was still careful to keep a row of desks between herself and Jon, “have you had occasion to read Silas Marner?

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy whispered. “I have read it.”

“And what can you tell us about Eliot’s narrative style in that book?”

“It…The book is much more…” Enrique struggled for words while the teacher watched him in silence. “It is more gentle and poetic than Adam Bede, or Middlemarch, he said at last. “It shows George Eliot’s…it shows her quiet, mystical side.”

The professor’s eyebrows rose in surprise and approval. “Very good, Mr. Valeros. I’m pleased to see you’ve already done some of the required reading.”

Enrique relaxed visibly under her praise. “I got the list a couple of weeks ago, ma’am,” he said in a shy, almost inaudible voice.

“Well, that’s excellent. Now, if you can find a way to stay awake in class, we’ll get along just fine.”

But her voice belied the sharpness of her words, and she gave the young man a brief, teasing smile before she turned away.

When Jon saw that glow on her face, he was totally undone. The woman’s smile was like a ray of sunlight in a darkened room, illuminating all kinds of treasures. For a fleeting moment her face was light and sparkling, young and sweet.

Young…

Again that elusive image tugged at his memory. Something to do with warmth and youth, a distant place and time…

He shook his head in frustration and watched as she moved around the room, probing first one student and then another with her skillful questioning, trying to gauge their knowledge and understanding.

“Hey, Enrique,” Jon whispered, leaning across the aisle.

“Yes?” the boy asked.

“You did good, son. I think you really impressed the professor.”

His words were rewarded by another shy smile. The poor kid might be dead on his feet, but he was still courteous and friendly.

Jon glanced at the boy’s frayed shirt cuffs, the worn-out shoes and patched jeans, the thin body and shaking hands and general air of fatigue.

He wondered how he could learn a little more about Enrique Valeros.

The class continued with a discussion of plotting techniques. The professor never asked him a question or directed a comment at him. Jon found himself both relieved and annoyed by the omission.

When the class ended and the students began to disperse, Jon approached her desk.

Dr. Pritchard’s head was bent over her work. She had dark blond hair with a few streaks of sunny highlights, cut short and combed back in a simple, elegant style. Her hands were ringless, with the nails neatly trimmed and free of polish.

“I like that perfume,” he said as he drew near.

She looked up, and her eyes widened in alarm. He could sense that she had to force herself to meet his eyes, though her gaze was calm and steady.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What is it?”

“What?”

“The perfume.”

Her cheeks turned faintly pink. “I doubt that it’s any concern of yours, Mr….”

“Campbell. Jonathan Campbell. People usually call me Jon.”

“I see.” She gave him a wintry smile and returned to her work, clearly dismissing him.

Jon watched her for a moment, fighting the unsettling urge to reach out and stroke her shining hair or touch her bare arm.

“Is there something else. Mr. Campbell?” she asked without looking up.

“I was just wondering why you never called on me during the session. Do you think I’m not capable of answering questions?”

“The fact is, I didn’t really think about you at all.”

“I believe that’s not altogether true,” Jon said quietly. “When you first noticed me sitting over there, you acted like you recognized me.”

“You must be imagining things.” She got to her feet, gathered the pile of books on her desk and moved toward the door.

“Have we met somewhere?” he asked, following her. “Because I can’t believe I’d ever forget a woman like you.” She looked back at him, and this time he caught a trace of genuine panic in her eyes, a fear that was urgent and almost childlike. But her voice was cool when she answered.

“I really don’t think so, Mr. Campbell. Please excuse me.”

Then she was gone, vanishing down the crowded hallway until all he could glimpse of the woman was the distant gleam of overhead lights on her smooth blond head.

THE CALGARY UNIVERSITY sprawled over many acres of prairie in the northwest section of the city. A number of apartment buildings were located on campus but most faculty members chose to live elsewhere, preferring to leave their jobs behind when they went home at night.

Camilla Pritchard, however, lived on the university grounds. Her apartment was just a few steps from the building where she taught most of her classes.

She hurried down the leafy paths of the campus, heading home for lunch on the first day of school, anxious to reach her apartment. She could hardly wait to be safely inside the door, out of sight of everybody.

Camilla had suffered for years from intense shyness, and a personal reserve that gave her an air of detachment bordering on rudeness. Except when she was in her own home—a bright and comfortable place, filled with whimsical ornaments, bright woven afghans and wall hangings, nature prints, Aztec pottery and throw rugs. And masses of plants, crowded on every available windowsill.

She also had two cats, both illegal according to the rules of the buildings but tactfully overlooked by the apartment supervisor, who liked Camilla and found her a perfect tenant except for her pets.

In return for the super’s indulgence, Camilla kept the cats out of sight. They were sleek gray tabbies called Madonna and Elton. Madonna had a boisterous, exhibitionist nature, while Elton, the smaller of the two, was timid and affectionate, named for the heavy black markings around both eyes that resembled the frames of the glasses worn by the famous pop star.

Today Elton was waiting when she came through the door. He promptly lay upside down on the rug in a golden ray of sunshine, his paws waving lazily.

“Okay Elly, I’ll scratch your tummy for a second,” she said. “But I have too much to do to stay here all day and play with you.”

She sighed and dropped an armful of books onto the table, feeling a deep anxiety on this first day of classes. Normally she enjoyed the prospect of a new term, a horde of fresh faces, another fall and winter.

But not this year. Not after seeing one face in particular at the back of her classroom…She sighed again as she bent to rub Elton’s tummy.

Madonna appeared in the kitchen entryway and arched her tail, rubbing herself sensuously against the door frame.

“I know it’s him,” Camilla stood up and addressed Madonna. “He’s sitting right there in my English class, and I haven’t got the slightest idea what to do about it.”

Madonna licked one of her paws and rubbed it across her whiskers, then advanced with exaggerated stealth toward Elton, who still lay in the sunshine with his eyes closed. The cat pounced stiff-legged onto her unsuspecting partner. Elton yowled and scurried for cover beneath the couch, where his black-framed eyes could be seen peeping out fearfully from the darkness.

“Oh, sweetie.” Camilla knelt on the carpet and peered under the couch. “Come out, Elly. Madonna didn’t mean to scare you, she was just playing. Come, let’s sit in the armchair and cuddle.”

Elton whimpered and edged forward a couple of inches.

“Come on,” she coaxed, reaching under the couch to stroke his furry paw. “Come out and sit with me. Madonna won’t hurt you.”

He crept toward her. Finally Camilla was able to grip his body gently and drag him out. She sat in an armchair and cuddled the shivering cat, resting her chin on the top of his head.

As she stroked the cat with rhythmic, soothing strokes, her mind kept going back to that shocking moment in class when she’d first seen Jon Campbell.

Even though he’d been seated, she could tell he was tall and well built. His square face was tanned and pleasantly masculine, his eyes clear and direct. He had thick brown hair dusted with gray, and his hands were hard and callused.

After that first horrifying moment of recognition, Camilla had kept hoping maybe he wasn’t the man she remembered. But when he’d turned away to glance over at Enrique and she saw the hard line of his cheek, the aquiline profile, she knew it was true.

She clutched Elton tightly in her arms, trying to battle rising surges of memory. But the images were too insistent.

A boy, a motorcycle on a deserted road, a hot weekend in summertime…

Once more she tried to tell herself it couldn’t possibly be the same person.

That all happened twenty years ago, and far away from here. This was a different world.

But Camilla knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jon Campbell was the man she remembered. Somehow he’d managed to find her again. And his presence here on this campus spelled terrible danger. It could mean an end to the whole careful life she’d struggled for twenty years to build.