He’d gone to the Delta Delta Gamma sorority house on Forty-fifth Street and been told that Elizabeth Rhodes always spent Sunday evenings in the Arboretum. He’d had no choice but to go looking for her there. Desperation had spurred him; there was nothing more desperate than a college football star with a failing grade.
He’d found her in the marshy trails along the edge of Lake Washington. She’d been painting. At first, all he’d seen was her hair, gilded by the setting sun. She’d had on a blue shetland wool sweater and baggy denim overalls that completely camouflaged her body, a trio of paintbrushes stuck out of her back pocket.
Odd that he remembered that single detail, but there it was. She’d had three brushes.
He still remembered their conversation, almost word for word.…
He cleared his throat and said, “Elizabeth Rhodes?”
She spun around so fast, she dropped a paintbrush. “Who are you?”
Her beauty stunned him.
She tented a hand across her face, squinting into the setting sun. He noticed the strand of pearls at her throat, peeking out from beneath a tattered denim collar. “Who are you?”
“Jackson Shore … I got your name from Dr. Lindbloom in the English Department. He said you might have room in your tutoring schedule for a new student.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’m flunking out of Lit one-oh-one.”
A frown pleated her brow. “What year are you?”
“Junior.”
“A junior flunking out of a basic English lit class who calls for help—on a Sunday—in the final week of the quarter.” Her ocean-green eyes narrowed. “Let me guess: athlete.”
“Football.”
The smile she gave him was thin. “Of course. Look—what was your name, Jock?—I’d love to help, but—”
“That’s great. Dr. Lindbloom said I could count on you. When can we get together? My final paper is supposed to be a verse in iambic pentameter. Whatever the hell that is. I really need your help.”
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. The movement left streaks of yellow paint across her forehead. “Damn.” After a long moment, she said, “I suppose I could meet with you tonight.”
“Tonight? Whoa … homework on a Sunday night? I don’t think so.”
He could see that she was trying to remember his name again, and insanely, that turned him on. He was used to women pursuing him, sleeping with him because he was the quarterback, and yet here he was, drawn to this woman who couldn’t remember his name. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else.” She inclined her head in dismissal and went back to painting.
He took a step toward her. His tennis shoes sank into the wet, marshy grass. “What if I want you?”
She turned around. Staring up at him intently, she tucked a flyaway lock of blond hair behind her ear. That was when he noticed her huge diamond engagement ring. “Look, Jake—”
“Jack.” He took another step closer.
She stepped back. “I only take students who really care about their classes.”
He closed the last small distance between them. “I need you.”
She laughed. “Come on. They don’t care if you jocks actually learn anything.”
He heard something in her voice that surprised him, a shadow of an accent. Southern, he thought. He liked the rolling, mint-julep sweetness of it. “I care.”
She gazed up at him. As the look went on, she started to blush. “Fine. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at Suzzallo. Ten-forty.”
“Aw, not Suzzallo. It’s a goddamn morgue in there.”
“It’s a library.”
“How about meeting in the Quad? I could bring coffee?”
“It’s not a date.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ll be in the room by the water fountain on the second floor of the undergrad library at ten-forty. If you want help, be on time.”
That had been the beginning.
Jack had fallen in love with Elizabeth fast, and it hadn’t taken him long to charm her. In those days, he’d promised her the moon and the stars, vowed to love her forever. He’d meant it, too. Believed in it.
They hadn’t done anything wrong, either one of them.
They simply hadn’t understood how long forever was.
NINE
Elizabeth stood in the middle of her walk-in closet, trying to decide what to wear. It seemed that everything she owned was wrong. A row of ornate belts hung from pegs on one wall.
But now, in what she depressingly referred to as the metabolism-free years, they were useless. Her old belts might wrap around one thigh. As her weight had blossomed, she’d gone from belts to scarves. She had dozens of hand-painted silk scarves, designed to camouflage a bulkier silhouette, but a flowing scarf didn’t seem quite right for the passionless set.
An ankle-length forest-green knit dress caught her eye. Without wasting any more time, she grabbed it and got dressed. At her bureau drawer, she chose a hand-hammered pewter and abalone necklace, a relic from her jewelry period.
“There. Done.” She didn’t look in the mirror again. Instead, she walked downstairs, got her handbag off the kitchen table, and left the house.