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The Favorite Teacher
by
Vulgar Argot
Nuria Delgado's feet ached.
Her back ached. For that matter, her neck didn't feel so good either. She'd
done and redone the practical bun on the back of her head several times
today, but it was starting to wisp out more than she could fix without at
least a decent brush. This interview was going to have to be her last for
today.
She wondered if any of the
dozen or so bookstores she'd canvassed over the last two days would call her
back. One manager had even said, "I'm afraid if we hire you, you'll be
gone in a month when something better comes up." She'd tried to explain
to him that nothing better had come up in a year and that she just wanted a
job. She doubted she'd gotten through to him and, even if she had, she
suspected that everyone she'd spoken to today believed
the same thing.
She rubbed the back of her
neck and stared at the job application, nearly identical to the thousands it
felt like she'd filled out this week. It seemed like there would be a market
for a generic job application in the service market, that
you could fill out, photocopy, and hand to all of your prospective employers.
Then, she thought to
herself while suppressing a slightly hysterical giggle,
I could get rejected at the speed of light. If Nuria had learned anything
this week, it was that three years as a teacher and four as an editor didn't
qualify you to stack books on a shelf anymore.
"Miss Delgado?" a
voice asked. She looked up and wondered who the earnest young man looming
over her was. At first, she thought it must be the store manager, but he was
dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt for a band she'd never heard of. On top
of that, she hadn't told anyone in this store her name yet.
"Is that you, Miss
Delgado?" he asked, "It's me, Quentin Edwards."
The name was immediately
familiar, but it took her a few seconds to remember from where. Then, she had
to roll back the clock a decade to make a match. The Quentin Edwards she'd
known hadn't been as tall or lithe or had as much hair as this young man, but
of course, he had only been in the eighth grade at the time.
"Quentin
Edwards?" she asked in wonder, "I haven't seen you in almost, it
must be, seven or eight years now."
He sat down across from
her, the little cafe table shaking a little as he slid into place, "Nine
years, more or less," he answered, "Ever since you gave up teaching
to get married. So," he added, casting his eyes down, "I guess I
should call you Mrs. Lopez."
"No," Nuria said,
sighing, "That lasted less than two years. I'm just Miss Delgado again.
But I think that you're probably old enough to call me Nuria now."
"Nuria," Quentin
chuckled, "It seems really strange. I've thought of you as Miss Delgado
for so long. What are you doing here?"
Nuria glanced down at the
application in front of her. Quentin followed her glance. He asked, "You're
working here?" He couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. Nuria had
noticed that her students always seemed surprised to find out that she was a
human being.
"Why not?" she
asked him, "It seems like a nice enough place." In fact, it seemed
like every other bookstore in
"So, you didn't go
back into teaching, then?" Quentin asked, "After your divorce, I
mean?"
Nuria sighed heavily,
"I would have, but all I kept getting offered were positions at the
worst schools in the inner cities. They didn't need teachers. They
needed...well, something else. Nobody seemed to notice that I'm five foot
nothing, only that I'm a Latina English teacher and bilingual." She
paused and looked up into his concerned brown eyes, so dark they were almost
black, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rant. How have you been doing?"
Quentin flashed her a diffident half-smile, "It's all right. I'm glad
to see you. I..."
"Mr. Edwards,"
said an efficient looking young woman about the same age as him, "there
you are. Everything is set up if you want to start the signing a little
early. There's quite a line building up downstairs."
"Actually,
Mayumi-chan," said Quentin, stretching a little, "I thought I would
get something to eat and I ran into an old friend. Nuria Delgado," he
indicated the woman in the navy blue tailored suit, "This is Mayumi Sakura,
my terrifying efficient editor."
Mayumi reached out and
shook Nuria's hand, "Assistant editor, actually. I mostly coordinate Mr.
Edwards's public appearances. Nice to meet you."
"Mayumi-chan,"
Quentin said, "this is Miss Nuria Delgado, my eighth grade English
teacher to whom many of us owe our current good fortune."
Mayumi and Nuria both
raised an eyebrow. Mayumi spoke first, "Oh," she said, "you're
Miss Delgado." She put the emphasis on the first word, as if she'd been
waiting to meet Nuria for a long time. Then, she turned back to Quentin,
"Can I get you something to eat?"
"Sure," said
Quentin, "See if they have any of those little sandwiches with smoked
salmon and a cup of coffee, please. Nuria?"
Nuria started to demur, but
her stomach grumbled loudly in protest, "I...the chef salads did look
rather tasty."
Mayumi already had her Palm
Pilot out, making notes, "Dressing? Anything to drink with it?"
"I, uh..." Nuria
was trying to process a lot of information at once. Quentin was a writer. He
had his assistant editor fetching coffee for him. He had said that he owed
his old teacher some debt of gratitude for his current career, "
"Will you join us,
Mayumi?" Quentin asked.
"Can't," said
Mayumi, already backing away from the table, "I've still got a million
details to take care of before things get started."
Quentin sighed
apologetically. Then, as if reading Nuria's mind, he said apologetically,
"I tried to get her to call me Quentin. She won't. And, if I try to do
anything for myself at these appearances, she gets very offended. She likes
to think I'm some sort of rock star who doesn't know how to take care of
himself."
"Quentin," said
Nuria, "I'm very confused. I always thought you'd make a great writer,
but I don't remember seeing anything of yours published and this seems like
something of an event. Are you publishing under another name?"
Quentin chuckled. Mayumi
brought over their food, placed it in front of them, and sped off. He began
to unwrap his sandwich. Nuria watched him, getting
the sense he was enjoying some joke she wasn't in on. Finally, freeing his
sandwich and lifting half of it to bite, he said, "I've written a couple
of books under the name J. X. Wolffe."
It took Nuria only a second
to recognize the name, "Wait. The J. X. Wolffe who wrote the _Barrens
Princess_ books? I thought she was a woman."
Now Quentin guffawed,
"You're certainly not the first person to tell me that. I think a lot of
my fans are also disappointed, when they first meet me, to realize that I am
not John Brubaker."
"I took my niece to
see one of your movies," Nuria said, "She's absolutely in love with
John Brubaker."
Quentin raised his hands in
mock horror, "I take no credit for the movies. I barely want credit for
the books."
"What?" asked
Nuria, confused, "Why?"
"Have you read
them?" Quentin asked.
"Yes," lied Nuria. Quentin raised an eyebrow at her, "Well,
no." she admitted. "But, I did see the movies."
Quentin leaned in so as not
to be overheard, "Formulaic tripe," he said, "And this third
one is the worst so far. Naturally, it's pre-sold over a million copies. I'm
betting that your niece is between fourteen and seventeen years old."
"Fifteen," said
Nuria.
"She's my target
demographic," said Quentin, "When I wrote the first book, it was
sort of a joke, an exercise in genre fiction. I never even expected it to see
publication. I'm a huge fraud. I'm about to go downstairs and have hundreds
of teenaged girls tell me how much I understand them. I didn't know a
goddamned thing about teenaged girls when I was their age. I know even less
now."
Nuria, who had felt a
strong sense of empathy for the Princess Elena character when she'd seen the
movie asked, "Well, how do you write for them?"
"I don't know,"
said Quentin, shrugging, "I just write them as if they were adult women.
In the first draft, Princess Elena was 35. Then, when I realized what that
would mean in the setting, I made her 22. My editor suggested nineteen to
make room for sequels and appeal more to their target audience, so I said,
'Hell, why not make her fifteen?' and he thought it was a great idea. I think
I changed less than ten percent of the book between 35 and fifteen. She's not realistic at all."
"I seem to
remember," said Nuria, "that at fifteen, what I wanted most in the
world was to be thought of as an adult."
Quentin looked
thunderstruck. He didn't speak for a long time. Nuria, wondering if she'd
just said something horribly foolish, concentrated on attacking her salad.
"So," Quentin
asked when she was down to lettuce and dressing, "If you haven't been
teaching for the last seven years, what have you been doing?"
"I was editing for a
publisher of Spanish-language trade books," said Nuria, "I can tell
you a morbid amount of detail about the Mexican and southwestern
Quentin asked, "You're
an experienced editor and you haven't been able to find work? Where have you
applied?"
"Everywhere,"
said Nuria a little defensively, "Here and in
Quentin looked at his watch,
"I'm sure something will turn up soon," he said absentmindedly,
"I really do need to get down to the signing. Listen, I'm having dinner
with Sean Riley tonight. He'd love to see you again, I'm sure. Will you join
us?"
"Um, sure," said
Nuria, "What is Sean up to these days? You two used to be
inseparable."
Quentin smiled as he stood,
"I'll let him tell you that." Reaching into his wallet, he pulled
out a business card and offered it to her, "This is the restaurant. We
have a reservation for
"No," said Nuria,
"That won't be necessary. I'll see you at
-=-
Nuria's apartment was huge
by
Nuria realized that she had
also become quite fond of her roommates, although she hadn't known what to make
of them at first. Even though she was not quite ten years their senior, they
made her feel like she was as old as time.
Nuria's feet and back still
hurt. She moved a newspaper out of the way onto the floor and flopped down
onto the couch. The shower was running, which meant that one or both of her
roommates were in there. When Nuria had first moved in, she'd thought they
were a lesbian couple, since they seemed so at ease with each other and their
own bodies. They had assured her they weren't. They were two red-blooded
American girls who didn't like to be labeled.
Still, Nuria doubted she'd
ever become fully at ease with the two of them and their strange ways. She
proved this by practically jumping out of her seat when
"Hey, hon,"
Nuria kicked her shoes off
while undoing the bun and letting her long, black hair cascade down over her
shoulders. Leaning her shoulders on the arm of the couch, she arched her back
to try to crack some of the tension out of it, "Long," she
answered, "Today was long. I feel like I walked a thousand miles."
Before Nuria could protest,
She didn't fight it this
time. Running into Quentin had put her on such a high that a little nostalgia
couldn't hurt her.
"Take off your
hose," said
"My feet stink,"
protested Nuria.
"Then I will anoint
them with sweet-smelling unguents," said
Nuria tried again,
"I'm not wearing anything underneath them."
"Afraid I'll
peek?" asked
"No," answered
Nuria, "It's just..."
"Ha," said
Nuria knew that her roommates
delighted in shocking her. They often teased her by referring to her as the
House Matron. They really weren't half as wild as they pretended to be when
she was around. She was determined not to let them get her as flustered as
they used to.
"Okay," Nuria
agreed, standing so that she could maintain a little bit of decorum,
"but you'd better get those unguents."
Whatever unguent
"Relax," said
Pearl, whose hands had moved up to Nuria's calves and were rubbing them
slowly, "You've had a long day and could use the rest."
Nuria chuckled, "The
day's not over yet. I ran into a former student of mine. I'm meeting him for
dinner."
"Ooh," squealed
"It's not a
date," protested Nuria, "I told you. It's one of my eighth grade
students. Actually, it's two of my eighth grade students."
"Ooh," repeated
"I am settling into
spinsterhood," Nuria assured her, "These are just some students of
mine who want to catch up with a teacher whose class they enjoyed."
"Mmm hmm," said
"Twenty-three or
twenty-four, I guess," said Nuria doing the math.
"Cool," said
"They were when they
were in my class," answered Nuria, "But probably not the sort of
cute you have in mind. I haven't seen one of them since then. The other, I only
ran into today for the first time in seven years. It turns out he's J. X.
Wolffe."
"I would never,"
Nuria assured her.
"Carla,"
Carla appeared from her bedroom,
wearing a thick terrycloth robe, "What's wrong?"
"Miss Delgado's got a
date with J. X. Wolffe tonight," said
"You're shitting
me," opined Carla.
"We're not," said
"Oh, my God,"
said Carla, "I love his stuff. I can really relate to Princess Elena.
Can you get him to sign my copy of _Chicago Rising_?"
"Do not be giving her
your book," said
"I will not be
macking," said Nuria, "He's much too young for me. Besides, he used
to be one of my students. I'd feel like a child molester."
"Oh, my God,"
said Carla again, "Bring him home, then. I love his movies and he's got
to be loaded, besides."
Nuria had never seen her
roommates act like this. They were usually so cool and collected. Now, they
seemed like a couple of fourteen year-old girls drooling over Tiger Beat.
"Yeah," said
"Who said I was
sharing, bitch?" Carla said, joking.
"You'd better
share," said
"Girls," said
Nuria, knowing they were joking, but getting nervous nonetheless, "He's
probably married or at least seeing somebody. It's really nothing like
that."
"Nope," said
Carla, "He was seeing that actress--Anne Turing, the old chick who
played Queen Rayeth in Defender of the
Imperium, but they just broke up."
"So, he's into old
chicks," said Carla, "You got a chance, Miss D. What time is this
date?"
"I'm meeting him at
"Get in the
shower," said Carla, "You got to get ready."
Nuria knew that Carla was
playing with her at least a little. She only spoke, as she referred to it,
like a "gangsta bitch," when she was out with people who would look
at her strangely for speaking correctly or when she was messing with Nuria's
head. Still, what the two of them had said had put her in such a tizzy that
she couldn't think straight. She did as she had been told, going to her room
to strip out of her interview clothes and get into her flannel robe, then
cross the apartment to the bathroom. The greatest shortfall the apartment had
was a single bathroom and only two real bedrooms. Nuria's room had originally
been an office, which suited her fine since it meant that it had a ton of
shelf space for all...or at least most of her books.
Nuria was just sliding out
of her robe again when Carla called, "Oh, I almost forgot. You got a
call from one of the Barnes and Noble's today. He said you should call back
as soon as you can. It's on the message pad in my room."
Muttering to herself, Nuria
pulled her robe back on and went into Carla's bedroom. Carla's decoration of
choice seemed to be transparent handkerchiefs in varying colors. The air was
heavy with sandalwood incense, mostly covering the strong smell that Nuria
could now easily identify as marijuana smoke. Both girls smoked some, but
little enough that even Nuria's mother-hen instincts had been mostly
assuaged.
Nuria dialed the number on
the pad. She got one of the managers she'd interviewed with earlier in the
week. She knew the one. In an oddly melancholy and needy mood, Nuria had
flirted with him far more heavily than she had meant to. He offered her the
job she'd applied for and arranged for her to start Monday.
Nuria couldn't contain
herself. Once off the phone, she gave a whoop of delight and danced into the
living room where she grabbed hold of a puzzled-looking
"What's going
on?" asked Carla, "You win the lottery?"
"No," said Nuria,
"I got a job."
"Good for you,"
said Carla, "Now, get in the shower. You get yourself a man, the day
will be complete."
The phone rang. Nuria
looked at it with dread. They'd made a mistake. They'd meant to hire someone
else. They were calling back to cancel.
"No," said Nuria,
"it's okay. I'll get it."
She picked up the phone,
"Hello."
"Hello," said a
brisk voice on the other end of the line, "Am I speaking to Nuria
Delgado?"
"Yes," said
Nuria, "How can I help you?"
"Miss Delgado?"
the voice said, "This is Kate Bakersfield with Aqueduct Books. Do you
have a moment?"
"Yes," said
Nuria.
"I was just reviewing
our pool of applicants and, if you are interested, I would like to extend you
an offer of employment."
"I'm sorry," said
Nuria, "I just accepted another job not five minutes ago."
"Have you signed
anything yet?" the other woman asked her anxiously, "I'm sure we
could enter a competitive offer."
Nuria furrowed her brow.
What in the hell was this woman talking about? Some bookstore managers took
themselves much too seriously. Still, it couldn't hurt to listen, "All
right," she said, "What do you have to offer?"
"A junior
editorship," said Kate Bakersfield, "If I offered you more than
seventy thousand, the senior editors would have my head. But you wouldn't
stay junior for long and, on top of that, I can
offer you a half point on everything you get out the door."
"A half point?"
Nuria asked, almost too astounded to speak.
"That's gross, of
course," said Kate Bakersfield. When she got no answer, she went on,
"All right--a full point if you can get galley proofs on my desk in time
for Christmas. That gives you almost six months. Even at a million units hardcover, that's over a hundred thousand dollars."
Nuria suddenly realized
where she'd heard the name Aqueduct Books. It wasn't a bookstore. It was a
publisher--one she'd applied to more than six months ago. Why had they called
her now? Realizing that Kate Bakersfield was waiting for an answer, she stalled,
"You were going over resumes?"
"Yes," said Kate
Bakersfield, "Well, I was doing so at the behest of a very high-profile
client who mentioned an interest in working with you. He was under the
impression that you worked here. He wants to work with you. We want to work
with him. So, the question is, can I call him back and tell him that you work
here?"
"Who?" Nuria
asked dumbly.
"J. X. Wolffe,"
said Kate Bakersfield, "He said he wanted to work with you. So, can
he?"
"Um, yes," Nuria
managed to mutter.
"Great," said
Kate Bakersfield, "Can you come in tomorrow to fill out some
paperwork?"
"Yes, of course,"
said Nuria, searching for a pen, "Where are your offices?"
"We'll send a
car," said Kate Bakersfield, "Where are you?"
Nuria told her. They covered
a few more details and exchanged pleasantries. When Nuria hung up, she fell
on the couch, more or less in a sitting position. She realized then that her
roommates had been standing more or less in tableau since she had picked up
the phone.
"I'm going to be an
editor," Nuria said in a daze, "At Aqueduct Books. Quentin wants me
to work on his next book."
"Who?" asked
"J. X. Wolffe,"
said Carla, slapping her friend playfully on the shoulder, "His real
name is Quentin Edwards."
"Wow," said
Carla shrugged, "I
musta heard it somewhere." All of a sudden, her eyes widened, "Wait
a second." She bolted into her room. When she came out, she was carrying
a dog-eared copy of _Chicago Rising_, opening it to the front, "Oh, no
way. Miss D, have you ever read this?"
"No, I'm afraid I
haven't." she admitted.
Carla thrust the book in
front of Nuria's face. There, alone on a page, were the words, "To Miss
Delgado, without whose encouragement I would never have started writing."
-=-
Nuria was still stunned
when she came out of the shower. Everything was moving so quickly, she felt
like she didn't have a chance to catch her breath.
"So," asked
"I, uh," said
Nuria, "I don't have much for semi-formal dining. I've got my
around-the-house clothes and my interview clothes and not much else.
Wait," she said, getting a brainstorm, "Thre
is my church dress. I haven't worn it in a while, but..."
"The sun dress?"
Carla asked, leading Nuria into her own bedroom.
"No," said Nuria,
"It's much too cold for the sundress. I have a winter one. It's navy
with white trim."
"Oh," said Carla,
"I know the one. You know what would go good with that?" Nuria
looked up, grateful for the advice. Carla grinned wickedly, "A burqa. Try again."
"I don't..." said
Nuria.
"I know," said
Carla, "You could wear that red number I bought. It's a little tight on
me, so it should be perfect on you."
"Carla, I don't want
to hurt your feelings," said Nuria, "But, I don't know how you wear
that dress and don't get raped."
Carla's grin widened,
"It makes me look like Little Red Riding Hood. I wear it when I want to
bring out the Big Bad Wolves. Trust me. This'll turn him into a ravening..."
"I don't want a Big
Bad Wolf," Nuria protested, "I told you. This isn't a date. I'm
just meeting a couple of old students."
"But, you want to look
good, right?" Carla asked.
"Of course,"
admitted Nuria.
"Okay," said Carla,
tapping her teeth in thought, "What do I wear when I want to look good,
but not like I'm on the prowl?"
Carla leapt up, "My
funeral dress. It'll be perfect." Before anyone else could speak, she
was up and out of the room.
Nuria shrugged, "I
suspect it will be perfect."
"Are you
nervous?"
"Yes," admitted
Nuria, "but I really couldn't say why."
"Do you want a
smoke?"
"No," said Nuria,
waving the suggestion away, "I haven't smoked in years."
"Okay," said
Nuria raised an eyebrow,
suspecting she was being put on, "I don't think that is going to relax
me tonight."
"All right," said
Nuria throwing her hands up in surrender. She threw up her hands, then undid her robe, lying on her belly before
"Hey," said
Carla, who had come back in the room, "She doesn't have time for that. She
hs a date."
Carla smiled sleepily,
"Plenty of time," she muttered.
Nuria nodded, then rolled over. She reached for her robe, but it seemed
to have slipped to the floor. She walked over to her chest of drawers and
retrieved her undergarments. Both of her roommates tracked her with their
eyes.
As Nuria slid into her
underwear, Carla turned to
"Yeah," said
Carla, "I guess that would do it. She has amazing hands, doesn't she,
Miss D?"
Nuria smiled, "Yeah.
You really know how to work a back,
Nuria went to put her bra
on. Carla made a negative sound. Nuria looked up, puzzled.
"The straps are going
to show on that. Do you have anything you can wear with this?" She held
up a silk, black demi-cup bra complete with underwire and a four-inch band of
corseting.
"Like what?"
asked Nuria, "a lion-tamer's whip?"
"I meant
underwear," said Carla, "Do you have any white underwear that would
look out of place on a ten year-old girl? Something sexy?"
"No one is going to
see my underwear," said Nuria, although she was already beginning to
doubt her own assertion that this was not a date.
"Why take that
chance?"
Nuria looked from
"All right," said
Nuria, "I don't think I have anything that's going to be sexy enough to
go with that."
"Fine," said
Carla, "then no underwear."
"What?" said
Nuria, "No. I can't do that. It's too cold. And
I've got to travel a good forty blocks to get there. I'm not going forty
blocks on the subway with no underwear."
"No, you're not,"
agreed
Carla shot Pearl a look
over Nuria's head.
"It's still going to
be cold," complained Nuria.
"Wear a long
coat," suggest Carla.
-=-
Nuria did wear a long coat,
one that went to her ankles. The funeral dress turned out to be a slight
variant on the little black dress, exposing most of the back. Nuria certainly
wouldn't wear it to a funeral, but it wouldn't look terribly out of place at
one. The bra, on the other hand, definitely would never do for such an event.
It lifted and separated like it had been built by the Army Corps of Engineers
for that purpose.
Carla and
Despite her protestations,
Nuria realized that she really was getting ready for a date. Men generally
didn't go a tenth as far as Quentin had today to help a woman out unless they
expected something in return. Nuria knew that, strictly speaking, she didn't
owe him anything prurient. But, she realized that wasn't averse to showing
her gratitude that way if it came to it. Somehow, two years had passed since
she'd had a man to bed and that had been a one-night stand at Mardi Gras. She
hadn't had a regular lover since her husband. She was starting to think that
her roommates were putting their lives in her hands by teasing her the way
they did. If she didn't get a man soon, she might just drag one of them into
bed.
The two of them thought
that she was a prude. But, that couldn't be farther from the truth. Once
something felt good, Nuria found that she had frighteningly little self-control.
None of her one-night stands had started out with her intending to have them.
In college, she'd earned a bit of a reputation as a wild, party girl. She
really wasn't, though. She never sought out wild situations,
they just always seemed to find her. She remembered one particularly
memorably night in the laundry room that she bet even
She shook her head to clear
the image. She may be willing to show her appreciation for what Quentin had
done, but she didn't have to be eager about it. As she stepped out of the
car, she straightened her coat and dress. At least in public, she should keep
up some appearances.
Inside, the help was
solicitous. A coat check girl took her coat and complimented her on her
dress. The maitre d' led her over to the table where Quentin and Sean were
waiting for her. Nuria noticed, as she walked through the restaurant, that it
seemed to be some sort of gathering place for high-powered businessmen. As
such, she seemed to be the only woman of her age there. Most of the women
were either
When she got to the table,
Sean and Quentin both rose to greet her. Once, they had been two of her
favorite students, but as different as night and day. Quentin had been dark
and serious, already worrying about great art and comparing his work,
precocious and talented as it was, to the likes of Hemmingway and
Faulkner. Sean had been blond and
fair, wildly creative and unstructured, with flashes of brilliance.
Their coloration hadn't
changed, although both had lost any baby fat and were lean, angular men.
Quentin seemed kind of wiry while Sean had bulked up. They seated her between
them in the booth.
"I lose," said
Sean as they settled in.
"You lose what?"
asked Nuria.
Sean chuckled, "I had
a bet with Quentin that he was seeing you through rose-colored glasses. I
always figured that I must have remembered you as prettier than you really
were because all the boys in your class had a crush on you. But, now I see
you with eyes better able to judge female beauty and see that I had forgotten
much of what made you enchanting."
Nuria laughed high and
clear like a bell, "You haven't changed a bit, have you? You always were
an incorrigible flatterer."
Quentin laughed even louder,
"I knew she'd never fall for your silver tongue, Sean."
Sean shrugged, "The
night is young yet."
A waitress came up then and
began pouring three glasses of champagne.
"Oh," said Nuria,
"I don't usually drink." She didn't add that it made her lose control.
She had a feeling these boys were up to some devilry tonight and didn't want
to give them any more ammunition.
"Tonight," said
Quentin, "We're celebrating."
"Celebrating
what?" Nuria asked.
"Why, finding
you," said Quentin, "You've been my muse for so long, it's nice to
actually see you again."
"You're a bit of a
flatterer too, aren't you?" Nuria asked.
"No," said Sean,
"Quentin is horribly literally minded. He means every word."
"And Sean doesn't mean
a word of what he says," added Quentin, "Between the two of us, we
balance out to honest."
"Come now," said
Nuria, "You can't have really meant what you wrote in your dedication to
Chicago Rising. I'm sure you would
have written without my influence. You were meant to write."
"Maybe," answered
Quentin, "but I would not have done it so well. It wasn't until Sean and
I got into a competition to see whose writing you would praise more."
Nuria realized that both of
the young men had started drinking before she got there. Their words were
flattering, but a little overwhelming. But, she hadn't lied about almost
never drinking. Two glasses of champagne into the meal, she found it much
easier to take their praise in stride.
"I haven't thanked you
about the job yet," said Nuria.
"What job?" asked
Quentin.
"At Aqueduct
Press," answered Nuria, "I must say, it's
a bit much. But, I'm incredibly glad to have it. Thank you."
"I didn't do it,"
admitted Quentin, "without ulterior motives." Nuria looked
surprised. She hadn't expected him to be so forward. Still, he pressed on,
"I really did want to work with you. You always understood my writing
and this next novel is not at all in the genre of the _Barrens Princess_
series. I'm going to need an editor who isn't afraid to collaborate with me,
but at the same time, doesn't fancy herself a co-author."
Nuria nodded, "I think
I can do that."
"The other
reason," said Quentin, "is that I want you
to help Sean get his book publishable. It's absolutely brilliant in places,
but there are some structural issues with it. He has it in him to be a much
better writer than I am, but he's forgotten some craft. I want you to use his
manuscript to teach him how to write again."
Sean nodded earnestly. The
audacity of the request almost took Nuria's breath away. She said,
"Boys, I appreciate all of the faith you've put in me, but I'm not a
published writer. I'm not even a writing teacher anymore. I can't tell you
how to write. I'm not qualified to collaborate with you."
Quentin smiled gently,
"I think you are, you can, and you will be," he answered, "If
I'm wrong, we look elsewhere. No harm. No foul. I'm sure that you're at least
competent enough to hold the position at Aqueduct for as long as you want
it."
By dessert, Nuria started
thinking that this really might not be a date. Maybe she'd been foolish in
thinking that these boys would want a woman so much older than them. Quentin
could probably have any woman he wanted based on wealth and prestige. And
Sean could slither his way into any girl's panties just by talking. Why would
they want some dried-up old teacher? She drank to hide her disappointment and
it made her melancholy.
"Nuria," Quentin
asked as they headed outside, "are you all right?"
Nuria held onto his arm for
balance and some protection from the wind. She nodded against it, "I'm
just tired. It's been a very long day."
"Of course," said
Quentin, "How rude of me. I'll take you home."
Sean looked up and down the
street, "I'm going to head back to the apartment, then. I'm feeling a
bit under the weather myself."
"All right," said
Quentin, "take care, old chap. I'll see you later tonight."
Sean hailed one cab,
Quentin another, which he bundled her into.
Nuria turned to face
Quentin, "You and Sean live together?"
"In a manner of speaking,"
said Quentin, "He's staying with me. He was losing his place and I
wanted him to have time to finish his novel."
"Are you two a
couple?" Nuria asked, surprised at her own boldness.
"No," said
Quentin, laughing, "although I can see how you might make that mistake.
I just believe in helping out my friends as much as I can. Did you see the
t-shirt I was wearing today?"
"Yeah," said
Nuria, "It was for some band I never heard of."
"It was for a band
that very few people have heard of," said Quentin, "But a few
hundred fangirls who think they want to be me saw
the t-shirt today. They'll check out the tracks on mp3.com. Word will get
out. That's why I wore it."
"So," asked
Nuria, trying to push his buttons, "You're not gay. You're just very
helpful."
Finally, Quentin took the
bait. His hand was behind her head, pulling her to him. Her lips parted as
his tongue entered them. Once spurred to action, he became very intense, the
kiss going on and on, his other hand in the small of her back, pulling her into
his lap. The cabby stared quite openly at them in the rear-view mirror.
Quentin's response had been unexpectedly intense. Nuria now realized that
he'd just been waiting for the right time to make his move. As the kiss went
on, one hand stayed behind her head while the other roamed up and down her
back.
When they finally broke,
Nuria was straddling one of Quentin's legs, the funeral dress riding
perilously high. Quentin had one hand in the small of her back and the other
on the bare flesh between her shoulder blades. His eyes held hers, but his
expression was unreadable. Her hands were on his ribs and chest. Somehow, she
had unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt.
From just the one kiss and
maybe the champagne, Nuria was already feeling terribly wanton. She wanted
Quentin to take her right now. But, a glance out the cab window told her it
wouldn't be possible.
"We're almost
there," she whispered throatily and lay her head on his shoulder,
undulating gently against him.
Quentin looked around and
Nuria knew that he'd totally lost track of where they were, "Uh,
yes," he said finally, "right."
They rode the last few
blocks intertwined like that, not moving, letting their breath and heartbeats
return to normal. When the cab stopped and Nuria slid off of his lap, Quentin
stared vacantly into space and needed to be prompted twice by the cabbie
before he paid.
Once out of the cab, Nuria
sprinted for her building, holding her coat around her in her hand. The
combination of a late February night and the vicious crosswinds that her
building seemed to accumulate chilled her to the bone. She stood in the
atrium, watching.
Quentin, however, stood at
the curb, his coat flapping around him in the wind, the top three buttons of
his shirt undone. He looked around himself, seemingly dazed and forlorn.
Finally, Nuria opened the door of the atrium and called to him,
"Quentin, get in here before you freeze to death."
Nuria realized that she had
inadvertently fallen back into using her "teacher voice" and
Quentin responded immediately. He trotted into the atrium. When he got there,
he enfolded Nuria in his arms and coat. Nuria noticed he was trembling. She
wrapped her arms around his waist.
"Silly boy," she
chided, "What were you doing standing out there in the cold with your
coat and shirt open?"
He clutched at her and
placed a long kiss on top of her head. Finally, he said, "Miss Delgado,
I'm so sorry."
Nuria looked up at him,
alarmed, "For what? I had a wonderful time."
"I...I practically
attacked you in the cab," Quentin blurted out.
Nuria didn't know how to
respond to that. She had a feeling that she was treading dangerously close to
destroying the image he'd held of her in his mind for a decade. But, she
couldn't leave it entirely intact either.
"Quentin," she said,
choosing her words carefully, "You didn't do anything I didn't
like." She took his unresisting hand by the wrist and lay
it against her cheek, where she nuzzled it and placed a single kiss in the
palm, "You're a man and I'm a woman." She kissed the wrist,
"Whatever we want to do, it's all right."
Then, she lay her head on his solar plexus.
He stood and pet her hair for a long time, turned so that his back took
the brunt of the cold that radiated through the glass doors that faced the
street. Nuria felt warm and safe in his arms. The cold had done nothing to
cool her ardor. The realization that she was holding on to this young man by
the slenderest of threads was like a dull ache in her ribcage. She wanted to
drag him into the elevator and....
But, of course, she didn't
dare. If Quentin got even a hint of how badly she wanted him, he'd never look
at her the same way again. He might even lose interest all together.
"Miss Delgado,"
said Quentin, "can I ask you something."
She looked up and tapped
the end of his nose with the end of her fingertip, "Only if you stop
calling me Miss Delgado."
"Sorry," said
Quentin, "Nuria, do you think you would like to get together again on
Friday? Someplace nice, just the two of us?"
Nuria risked placing a kiss
on the bare flesh just above the topmost button still buttoned on his shirt
and was rewarded with a little shudder, "I would like that very much,
Quentin."
"I could get tickets
to..." Quentin began.
She reached up and put her
finger on his lips, "Wherever you want to take me, Quentin, I'm sure
I'll love being there with you."
She snaked her hand around
his head, burying it in the curly black hair there, drawing him down into a
kiss. He kissed her, firmly and proficiently. But, she could tell that the
passion had waned. Reluctantly, she let him go.
He held her tight, but
said, "I should go."
Nuria's heart sank. She'd
still hoped that the evening could get back on track. She wanted to tell him
not to go, to come upstairs and make love to her, but she knew she couldn't.
Instead, she said, "If that's what you want."
"I think it's best," he answered, infuriatingly rational and
mostly calm. She closed her eyes and kissed his bare flesh one last time, but
then his arms were gone from around her and the bitter wind hit her full in
the face. She watched his form recede into the cold clear night, his coat
whipping out behind him, ignoring a long line of empty taxis as he went.
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