A smile cracks her face. “Easy, huh?”
“Christ, Frances.” I shake my head and take a gulp of coffee. “With Hamilton like a fucking bloodhound… What if he keeps up with his own damned investigation?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Really, though, I don’t imagine he’d discover anything that could be used against you. At least, nothing Ben Stafford wouldn’t also know about. Unless there’s something you haven’t told us.”
“Nothing relevant to this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“For what it’s worth,” Frances says, “the board of trustees is very impressed with your work on such a prestigious dig, not to mention your IHR grant and the conference. Even if Stafford does recommend further investigation, I’m certain the board will be… lenient. None of the board members want to lose you, Dean.”
My jaw tightens. “But if this cluster-fuck gets turned over to them, everyone knows about it. And with Hamilton still dangling his donation to the law school in front of them… Forget it, Frances. I’m screwed.”
She doesn’t respond, but we both know it’s the truth. Even if by some miracle I escape this alive, any confidentiality would be shattered. Faculty, students, administration… all of them would know that a female student accused me of harassing her.
And as much as I hate Crystal Winter, she was right about one thing. The stigma will never go away.
“Will Stafford interview my other students?” I ask.
“Not unless he recommends that the board pursues the case.”
“Which we both know he will.” I stare out the window. “This is a fucking nightmare, Frances.”
“I know.” She hesitates. “Look, if it’s any consolation, your reviews are outstanding. I’ve no doubt every one of your students will vouch for your integrity.”
Sure. While they’re being asked questions like, Has Professor Dean West ever made suggestive comments to you or touched you inappropriately?
“There’s not much recourse against a false claim of sexual harassment, Frances,” I say. “Even my lawyer admitted that. The fallout is brutal.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Jessica Burke told me Maggie is spreading shit about me to the other students,” I continue. My chest is tight. I have the sick, pervasive sense again that there’s no way out of this. “It won’t be long before something gets out about me harassing her, even if Stafford doesn’t want the board involved.”
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Frances says.
Though I know she really is sorry, I also know there is nothing she can do.
I push away from the table. “Anything else?”
“No. Just hang in there.” She looks down at her coffee, her face etched with lines of frustration and disappointment.
Guilt stabs me. Frances was the one who hired me. And now she’s had to waste a ton of time and energy on this investigation. If it goes to the board, she’ll take some heat too, not to mention having to be the one to explain it all to the rest of the history faculty and all the students.
As I pass her chair, I pause to put my hand on her shoulder. Apologies crowd my throat. Finally I manage to say, “Thank you.”
She puts her hand on mine and nods. “Say hello to Liv for me, Dean.”
Liv.
I have a sudden urge to see my wife. I say goodbye to Frances and head outside. The rain has stopped, sunlight breaking through the gray clouds and warming the spring air. I walk down Avalon Street and turn toward the café.
As I approach the Historical Museum, a white-haired lady in a pink suit and little hat crosses the sidewalk to the front steps. She pauses and peers at me with one of those I know you looks that elderly ladies often have.
“Nice afternoon,” I offer.
“Yes, it is,” she agrees. “Aren’t you Olivia’s husband?”
“I am.” I extend my hand. “Dean West.”
“Of course.” She smiles as she closes her gloved hand around mine. “Florence Wickham. I’m on the Historical Society’s board of directors. We met at last year’s holiday party.”
“I remember. It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too. I thought you were out of town.”
“I was. I’m back now.”
“Lovely. We adore Olivia, Dean. Her new café sounds just delightful.”
“She and her partners are doing amazing work.”
“I told her that my granddaughter is the assistant superintendent of the Rainwood school district,” Florence informs me. “She has many contacts in the area with parent organizations, and she’s very excited about the Wonderland Café. And even with all that work, Olivia has been so helpful with our Butterfly House campaign.”
Heat slides through my veins at the memory of what Liv and I did at the Butterfly House. I return Florence’s smile. “She’s been enjoying the research.”
“You’re a historian, isn’t that correct?” Florence tilts her head toward the museum doors. “Would you mind giving me your opinion on something?”