“Where are you?”
“Coffee shop. Trying to get work done.”
“Sounds more like the Kappa Alpha frat house on a Saturday night. Anyhow, listen. I spoke to Cheral Rooney.”
“Did you?” I sat up. “Why?”
“Follow-up story. People are intrigued. We got such a big response to last Thursday’s piece. I told you that running it was a good idea.”
“Oh, no. Please. I don’t want to be in the paper again.”
“Just a little story this time. Inside pages, most likely.”
“But what’s the follow-up? There’s no news.”
“You know—‘Community Comes Together,’ that type thing. We’ll mention all the folks who knew the Smiths, how delighted everybody is to learn you’re alive and well. I got a nice quote from Cheral about how you’re the spitting image of your mama. How she couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw you walking up her driveway. ‘Like watching a ghost,’ she said.”
“Did she say anything about the investigation? Into who killed my parents?”
“Noooo.” He stretched the word out. “Why? Is there anything to say?”
“Not that I know of. Just wondered.” So Cheral had not shared her infidelity theories with Leland Brett. That was one thing to be grateful for, that a lurid account of Sadie Rawson Smith’s love life would not be plastered across the front page.
“People are asking about the bullet, though. Whether you’re going to leave it be or get operated on.”
I hesitated, could think of no reason not to be honest. “I’m scheduled for surgery next week. Here in Washington. Cross your fingers for me.”
“I’ll send the biggest bouquet of get-well flowers you ever saw. Which day, you reckon?”
“A week from Wednesday. The thirtieth.”
“And you sure I can’t tempt you down to Atlanta for a drink in the meantime?”
“Good-bye, Leland.”
“I’ll let you know when the link to this story goes up. Bye for now, pretty girl.”
I hung up and looked around. Rihanna had given way to Radiohead on the speakers above me. A stink of scorched bagel hung in the air. The soccer players stood huddled in the corner, scarfing down bananas and supersize cinnamon buns.
I gathered my papers and relinquished the table. In fifteen minutes, I was due to meet Madame Aubuchon.
? ? ?
TO SAY THAT I was dreading this would be an understatement.
Hélène Aubuchon intimidated me at the best of times. Which, needless to say, this was not. She sat waiting for me in her office, immaculately dressed as always. Tastefully rouged lips, a silk scarf knotted around her shoulders. At her ears and throat were pearls. The head of Georgetown’s French Department was not a classic beauty. She was bone thin, with a severity to the set of her jaw. But she was elegant, in that manner particular to Frenchwomen of a certain age. It required money. I suspected it also required weekly visits to the hairdresser, devotion to all manner of mysterious skin creams and potions, and—above all—fanatical vigilance to never put on a pound. I wondered when a cheeseburger had last crossed those crimson lips.
“Alors, Caroline, ma pauvre. You have had quite a week, I believe.” She arched perfectly groomed eyebrows. “And you discovered more than you bargained for in Atlanta?”
That was certainly true.
“It is shocking. Tout à fait affreux, about the bullet in your neck. I am so sorry.”
Madame Aubuchon and I had never discussed our personal lives. Aside from the occasional polite inquiry into my summer vacation plans, she had never asked about my life outside work. We were colleagues, not friends. So I was surprised to hear real concern in her voice. I seized the moment. “I went to see a surgeon at Sibley. About removing the bullet. He wants to operate next week. On Wednesday. And after that he’s told me to allow at least ten days to rest and recover at home, before returning to work.”
“Ten days?”
“I’m afraid so. I realize the timing is awful, midsemester. I would put it off until Christmas break, but the doctor says the sooner, the better.”
“Oui, oui, bien s?r.” She waved her hand dismissively. “That will be fine.”
“It will?” Had I heard her correctly?
“Pas de problème. In fact, I’ve spoken already with Robert.” Robert was one of my more capable graduate students; he had already subbed for me twice last week. “He can handle your classes for the rest of the term, under my supervision. That way you can rest.”
“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary. I’ll be back by—”
“It is easier this way. Vraiment. Less disruptive for everyone.”
“No, really. I’ll be back by mid-November. And I want to teach. Those students are my responsibility.”
“And the smooth functioning of this department is mine.” She smiled in a way that made clear the matter was not open to further discussion. “Surely you can see it is not in your students’ best interests to have a new professor every other week.”
“Of course not. But we’re not talking about a new professor every other week. We’re only talking about ten days—”
“That’s if your surgery proceeds without complication, and you don’t require additional time to convalesce. Franchement, ten days sounds optimistic.” She crossed trim ankles sheathed in sensible, beige support stockings, a rare concession to her age. “Robert did well teaching last week. He’s happy to help. He will follow your syllabus.”
I sat seething. How could she have turned my course load over to Robert? Before even consulting me? Could she really just banish me from doing my job?
“Your salary will continue as usual. I checked the records. It appears you’ve never taken a single sick day. You’ve accumulated weeks of paid medical leave, so there’s no issue there.”
“It’s not my paycheck that concerns—”
“It’s settled then,” she cut me off firmly. “Consider it sabbatical. You will rest and recuperate. And then return to us, healthy, after winter break.”