“Never better.”
“Nice to see you again.” Liv touches my arm and indicates that she’s going upstairs.
I wait until I hear the bedroom door close before I turn back to my brother. “You visit Dad, tell Mom how to reach you, and don’t say or do anything to cause trouble.”
I shouldn’t care what Archer does or doesn’t do. But I’ve spent so many years trying to maintain peace that the order comes instinctively. I expect a snide response, a glare at the least. Archer shrugs and takes another swallow of soda.
I leave the kitchen and go into the library. I sink into the leather chair behind the desk. I’ve told myself the same thing for the past four years. I can’t fix my family’s mistakes. I can’t fix my mother’s betrayal, the fact of Archer’s paternity, my parents’ shitty marriage. I can’t blame myself anymore.
Especially now that I’m going to be a father.
I swivel in the chair toward the computer and distract myself by reading a few news websites and financial reports. Then I log in to my university email account. There’s another message from Frances Hunter.
The first word makes my stomach twist. Dean.
All the professors are, of course, on a first-name basis, but in correspondence we usually refer to each other as Professor So-and-So. Especially if the email is being CC’d to others.
First names are reserved for informal, private messages.
Frances Hunter has never sent me an informal, private message.
I scroll down to view the full message.
Dean,
You’ll be receiving a letter about this soon, but I want to let you know in advance because I know you’re out of town. Your student Maggie Hamilton is threatening a sexual harassment claim against you.
The director of the Office of Judicial Affairs (OJA) wants to meet with me on Monday afternoon. I don’t know if it’s possible for you to be here, but I’d strongly recommend it.
While this is absolutely not a formal investigation of any kind or an opportunity for you to respond to the claim, it’ll give you a chance to start compiling information.
I respect you as a professor and feel that you should not be blindsided by accusations, regardless of their truth or falsity.
Sincerely,
Frances Hunter
Bile rises into my throat. That phrase has spelled the death of more than one career. Sexual harassment.
Images pummel me—all the times I’ve spoken with Maggie Hamilton, her in my office implying sexual favors, our conflict about her thesis proposal. I see myself in a fucking deposition: “No, I didn’t touch her. No, I swear, I never looked at her or thought about her inappropriately.”
Anger floods my chest. The little bitch. I want to call Maggie Hamilton and demand to know what the fuck she thinks she’s doing.
I take a few breaths and try to think straight. I know I can’t make any contact with Maggie, but I have to take Frances’s advice. Whatever Maggie is accusing me of, I need to go on the offense with whatever information I can get.
I send Frances a quick reply.
Thank you, Frances. I’ll be at the meeting. Please send time and place.
—Dean
Then I go in search of Liv.
My heart races. She’s not upstairs, not in the living room or the kitchen. Neither is Archer, and his motorcycle is gone from the driveway. Good.
I go out to the terrace. Cross the flagstone pathway to the garden. Liv is sitting in the gazebo, a book open across her lap.
I stare at my wife. The glow of sunlight on her long, loose hair, a few strands falling over her cheek. The slight swell of her belly beneath her skirt.
Holy shit.
Sexual harassment?
Liv lifts her head at the sound of my footsteps. I swallow a rising panic. Steady my expression into one of nonchalance.
She smiles. “Hey, handsome.”
I wipe my palms on my jeans and climb the gazebo steps.
How can I tell her? I know I have to. I’m not stupid. I won’t repeat my mistake of keeping secrets from my wife. I have to tell her the truth.
“Liv, there’s a departmental meeting at King’s on Monday. I just heard about it. It’s important. Frances Hunter asked me to be there.”
“What kind of meeting?”
The question throws me. Maggie Hamilton hasn’t filed a formal charge. Maybe this meeting is to find a way to prevent one. It would be a helluva lot easier to tell Liv about this if I could conclude with, “But nothing happened, so it’s over.”
I ignore a stab of guilt.
“Just department stuff.” I brush a lock of hair away from Liv’s forehead. “I can fly out tomorrow and come back here on Tuesday.”
“You need to fly all the way back to Mirror Lake for one meeting? Can’t you join by teleconference or whatever?”
“No.” I have no idea how to explain why I can’t. “It involves the Medieval Studies program, so I need to be there. You can come with me, then just stay in Mirror Lake. I’ll have to come back here because of my father. I also promised Helen I’d guest lecture at Stanford next Friday.”