So she ignored the comments of her colleagues, at the weekly gathering of the PhDrinking Club (Apparently even in our thirties we still need a club as an excuse to drink, she thought, but she went anyway), little nudges when they complained about tenured professors, for example, followed by a dramatic hand clamp on the mouth and someone whispering, “This isn’t going to get back to Stoner, is it?” Her best friend at the school, Mandy, an associate professor in linguistics, had started adding the phrase “between you and me” as a preface to most of their conversations. Christina never knew how to respond, so she didn’t bother. Sometimes she told him what other people said, the gossip, the criticism, because she wanted someone to share it with, and as the man in her life, he was the best choice.
And they had become immediately close; so many things about him soothed her: his low, warming voice, his tan skin, lined in ways that made him seem more interesting, the way he rubbed one shoulder when he had his arm around her, reassuring her that this was exactly where he wanted to be. It was as if he had no intention of ever letting her go, and it was like that right from the beginning. I’m his prize, too, she thought. So even though they had been dating only a few months, how could she resist when he invited her to his home up north for the summer? It was rash, certainly, and yet she said yes before she had the time to say no, a fact she had considered daily since she had agreed to go. But then she would think about having the time and space to work on her thesis and to do yoga, plus there was land, so much land he promised, a vineyard, a swimming pool, a hot tub (this was said with raised eyebrows because sometimes he was a little dirty), fresh air, trees, clear skies, dry hot days and cool nights, so many stars you wouldn’t believe, and, of course, lots of wildlife, and there could be only one answer.
“I’VE PICKED OUT two rooms from which you can choose,” said Bill. They entered down a long, dim hallway, lit only by a skylight that showed a bright blue sky and one slender branch of a fir tree across the corner of it. There were four doors in the hallway, two on each side. “Now I know it’s going to be a tough choice.” He started laughing, the only noise in the silent house. He laughed so hard, he had to stop walking, and he leaned against the wall for a moment. Then he wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I find it so amusing. It’s not.” He pointed to the first door.
On the outside there was a small, painted wooden sign that said “May Sarton.” Across the hall, on the facing door, there was another sign, which read “Edith Wharton.”
“This house used to be owned by a couple, two women,” he said. “It was originally supposed to be a bed-and-breakfast for women only, but my understanding is it turned into some sort of feminist-empowerment camp. So each room is named for a different female writer.” He cleared his throat. “I just find it funny, being surrounded by all these women.”
“I suppose it is a little funny,” said Christina. (She might have laughed. She couldn’t remember a few weeks later when she told the story to Mandy. Mandy had said, appalled, gasping, “Oh, my god! What did you say?” Christina told her she had said nothing, simply raised her eyebrows, and, “You know, gave him a look.”)
“Anyway, these aren’t the rooms I had in mind for you. Those are my daughters’ rooms. For when they come to visit.” He said this enthusiastically, as if it might actually happen, though Christina knew that that wasn’t likely. Maggie and Holly, the mysterious daughters, hiding out on the East Coast, ignored their father most of the time. Even when he was in New York, they refused to meet him for lunch, or even coffee. He had confided this to her, moaned it into her shoulder late one night after a wine tasting that had gone awry. (He had bought two merlots and a burgundy, and then they had expertly drained them at his house, pulling out one bottle after another, as if their thirst were an illness.)
“They’re grown now, they have their own lives, I understand. But a coffee? A fucking coffee?” He rarely cursed. It had shocked Christina, and she had pulled his head closer to her, stroked his head and neck with her hands, rubbed him tenderly. It was exciting to her, to see his sadness. She hadn’t known it existed within him.
“It is my one failure,” he said.
“Nothing about you is a failure. You’re without reproach.” She believed it, too.
He walked down the hall, and pointed. “I think you should choose between these two.”
“Virginia Woolf” and “Louisa May Alcott.”
“I thought either should inspire you,” he said.
She opened the door to the “Virginia Woolf” room. Inside, there was a small, sturdy desk, with two small drawers, and a high-backed wooden chair that slid neatly underneath it. The walls were painted a deep red color, and they were blank except for a framed picture of Kong at play, his tongue happily hanging from his mouth, hanging squarely above the desk. There was a sliding screen door that opened out to a small trellis-covered patio, and a set of stairs that led up to a hot tub. Vines hanging from the trellis framed the screen door. A room of one’s own, indeed, she thought.
“What do you think?” he said.