to describe anyone.”
“Maybe not,” Jane allowed with a smile. “But Broadstreet would have gotten the message. Mrs. Harrison would have let her eyes do her talking for her.”
Envisioning a scene between his fiercely loyal wife and the sharp-featured Broadstreet, Gilbert chuckled. Mary had never liked Broadstreet. “That she would have.” And then, because he knew he had to keep on pushing forward, no matter how hard it felt, Gilbert turned toward his former student and asked, “So, did you come by to ask me something?”
“Just that I’m going to lunch and I wanted to know if I could bring you back anything.”
He smiled wistfully at her. “Yes, the last thirty years.” He was almost half serious as he added, “I’d like to live them all again.”
Jane patted his arm, hoping that she sounded at least a little convincing as she said, “The next thirty will even be better.”
“Not if Broadstreet has his way.”
Jane attempted to give him a confident look, the way she used to see Mrs. Harrison do. “Then we’ll just have to make sure that Broadstreet doesn’t win, won’t we?”
Genuine concern entered his eyes as he looked at her. “Jane, I don’t want you getting into any trouble on my account.”
“Believe me, Professor, I couldn’t think of a nobler cause to undertake than to make sure that you remain with the university for as long as you want to,” she said firmly. “And even longer than that,” Jane added with a smile. What would she have done without him? And she wasn’t the only one. She knew of a great many students who had come to feel the same over the years. “There are still lots of students who could benefit from your advice, your wisdom and your kindness.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at her serious tone and the look on her face. Bless the girl, she really had helped raise his spirits. “My God, Jane, I feel as if I’ve just been eavesdropping on my own eulogy.”
“Bite your tongue,” she told him. Death was something she didn’t like to even joke about. “Not for many, many years to come.” Pushing the thought away, she summoned as serene an expression as she could and asked, “Now then, can I bring you back a roast beef sandwich from the Sandwich Bar?”
The Sandwich Bar was little more than an afterthought beside the campus bookstore, quite apart from the main cafeteria and the two food court areas that were on opposite ends of the campus. But it served the best sandwiches around and she had been going there for the last year. Since the prices were more than reasonable, it was her one indulgence for herself: not to have to brown bag it, with leftovers every day.
“French dipped,” she prodded. “Just the way you like it.”
Since Mary had died, his appetite had been less than stellar. There were times that he went from one end of the day to the other without eating. There was no rumbling stomach to remind him, no hunger at all. Apparently, Jane had taken keeping his strength up upon herself, too.
He shook his head. “You’re trying to take care of me.”
She saw no reason to deny it. She wanted him to know how much he mattered, not just to her but to so many of them. With his wife’s death and now this campaign to be rid of him, she was afraid his once-indomitable spirit would be killed entirely.
“Doing my damnedest, Professor.” She shifted so that her feet were firmly planted on the worn carpet. “I’m not leaving until you place your order.”
“All right, Janie, you win.” So saying, Gilbert put his hand first into one pocket, then another, until he located his wallet. He pulled it out and looked through the bills.
“No,” Jane protested, pushing his wallet back, “it’s on me.”
He gave her a steely look that was meant to penetrate down to her soul. “Young lady, I know for a fact that you can barely afford your own lunch, much less pay for mine.” Taking out a twenty, he pressed it into her palm. “Here, this should cover us both.” He saw the protest rising to her lips and headed it off. “Please, Jane, allow me a few pleasures.”
Reluctantly she closed her hand over the bill, then brushed a quick kiss against his cheek. How could they possibly be thinking of getting rid of him? It was Broadstreet who should be getting his walking papers, not the professor. And as quickly as possible.
“You really are a dear, dear man,” she told him affectionately.
Sinking into the leather chair that welcomed him like an old friend, Gilbert waved her away, his attention already directed toward the open file on his desk. The university had long since removed him from the English department and he no longer coached a baseball team the way he had in the old days. But they had allowed him to continue in the capacity of adviser and counselor and he took his work and the students that went with it very, very seriously.
It meant he could still help the deserving. The way he’d been doing, one way or another, for the last thirty years.
For a second longer, Jane stood watching him.
Damn them all to hell, she thought angrily. How dare they threaten to put that wonderful man out to pasture? Without his wife, all Professor Harrison had was his work here at the university. She knew in her heart that if he was forced into retirement, the man who had been like a father to her would, in a very short period of time, certainly whither away and die.
She wasn’t about to let that happen—even if it wouldn’t impact her own financial situation the way it would. Not while there was a single breath left in her body.
Angry, wishing she could get her hands around Broadstreet’s throat and squeeze it until the man promised to leave the professor alone, Jane turned on her heel and swung open the outer office door. She did it with the same amount of force she would have delivered to Broadstreet’s solar plexus if she were given to street brawling.
She heard the creaking noise at the same time she shut the door behind her.
The ladder hadn’t been there when she’d walked into the professor’s office.
If it had, it would have blocked her access. As it was now, the door had come in jolting contact with the side of the wide, ten-foot ladder. Jolting as well the man who was perched two rungs from the top.
Momentarily stunned, Jane reacted automatically. Being the mother of one very hyper five-year-old had trained her to be prepared for anything and to react to situations even when she was half asleep or caught completely off guard, the way she was now. That was why the saleswoman at the department store last month hadn’t been smacked over the head by a mannequin that would have fallen right on her head if Jane hadn’t caught it in time. And why the maintenance man changing the light bulb didn’t go flying off the tottering ladder now.
Her legs braced, Jane grabbed both sides of the ladder that were facing her, pulling back with all her might and steadying it so that the ladder didn’t go over on its side.
The next minute its rather well-built, muscled occupant was all but sliding down the steps, eager to do so on his own power rather than because of gravity. Inches apart, his hand on the rungs to ground the ladder, his temper flashed as he glared at the cause of his sudden earthquake.
“Damn it, why don’t you watch where you’re
