assignments. Are there any questions?”
A sullen-looking young woman near the front of the class asked for more details about the daily written assignment and the reading list. Dr. Pritchard clarified her expectations. Without another word, the girl picked up her books and left the classroom.
The professor surveyed the group. “Anybody else?” she asked. “Let me repeat that it’s much better to leave now if you feel incapable of handling the work. In two or three weeks, dropping the course will no longer be an option.”
The students listened silently.
“Mr. Valeros,” she said, moving partway down the aisle, though she was still careful to keep a row of desks between herself and Jon, “have you had occasion to read Silas Marner?
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy whispered. “I have read it.”
“And what can you tell us about Eliot’s narrative style in that book?”
“It…The book is much more…” Enrique struggled for words while the teacher watched him in silence. “It is more gentle and poetic than Adam Bede, or Middlemarch, he said at last. “It shows George Eliot’s…it shows her quiet, mystical side.”
The professor’s eyebrows rose in surprise and approval. “Very good, Mr. Valeros. I’m pleased to see you’ve already done some of the required reading.”
Enrique relaxed visibly under her praise. “I got the list a couple of weeks ago, ma’am,” he said in a shy, almost inaudible voice.
“Well, that’s excellent. Now, if you can find a way to stay awake in class, we’ll get along just fine.”
But her voice belied the sharpness of her words, and she gave the young man a brief, teasing smile before she turned away.
When Jon saw that glow on her face, he was totally undone. The woman’s smile was like a ray of sunlight in a darkened room, illuminating all kinds of treasures. For a fleeting moment her face was light and sparkling, young and sweet.
Young…
Again that elusive image tugged at his memory. Something to do with warmth and youth, a distant place and time…
He shook his head in frustration and watched as she moved around the room, probing first one student and then another with her skillful questioning, trying to gauge their knowledge and understanding.
“Hey, Enrique,” Jon whispered, leaning across the aisle.
“Yes?” the boy asked.
“You did good, son. I think you really impressed the professor.”
His words were rewarded by another shy smile. The poor kid might be dead on his feet, but he was still courteous and friendly.
Jon glanced at the boy’s frayed shirt cuffs, the worn-out shoes and patched jeans, the thin body and shaking hands and general air of fatigue.
He wondered how he could learn a little more about Enrique Valeros.
The class continued with a discussion of plotting techniques. The professor never asked him a question or directed a comment at him. Jon found himself both relieved and annoyed by the omission.
When the class ended and the students began to disperse, Jon approached her desk.
Dr. Pritchard’s head was bent over her work. She had dark blond hair with a few streaks of sunny highlights, cut short and combed back in a simple, elegant style. Her hands were ringless, with the nails neatly trimmed and free of polish.
“I like that perfume,” he said as he drew near.
She looked up, and her eyes widened in alarm. He could sense that she had to force herself to meet his eyes, though her gaze was calm and steady.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What is it?”
“What?”
“The perfume.”
Her cheeks turned faintly pink. “I doubt that it’s any concern of yours, Mr….”
“Campbell. Jonathan Campbell. People usually call me Jon.”
“I see.” She gave him a wintry smile and returned to her work, clearly dismissing him.
Jon watched her for a moment, fighting the unsettling urge to reach out and stroke her shining hair or touch her bare arm.
“Is there something else. Mr. Campbell?” she asked without looking up.
“I was just wondering why you never called on me during the session. Do you think I’m not capable of answering questions?”
“The fact is, I didn’t really think about you at all.”
“I believe that’s not altogether true,” Jon said quietly. “When you first noticed me sitting over there, you acted like you recognized me.”
“You must be imagining things.” She got to her feet, gathered the pile of books on her desk and moved toward the door.
“Have we met somewhere?” he asked, following her. “Because I can’t believe I’d ever forget a woman like you.” She looked back at him, and this time he caught a trace of genuine panic in her eyes, a fear that was urgent and almost childlike. But her voice was cool when she answered.
“I really don’t think so, Mr. Campbell. Please excuse me.”
Then she was gone, vanishing down the crowded hallway until all he could glimpse of the woman was the distant gleam of overhead lights on her smooth blond head.
THE CALGARY UNIVERSITY sprawled over many acres of prairie in the northwest section of the city. A number of apartment buildings were located on campus but most faculty members chose to live elsewhere, preferring to leave their jobs behind when they went home at night.
Camilla Pritchard, however, lived on the university grounds. Her apartment was just a few steps from the building where she taught most of her classes.
She hurried down the leafy paths of the campus, heading home for lunch on the first day of school, anxious to reach her apartment. She could hardly wait to be safely inside the door, out of sight of everybody.
Camilla had suffered for years from intense shyness, and a personal reserve that gave her an air of detachment bordering on rudeness. Except when she was in her own home—a bright and comfortable place, filled with whimsical ornaments, bright woven afghans and wall hangings, nature prints, Aztec pottery and throw rugs. And masses of plants, crowded on every available windowsill.
She also had two cats, both illegal according to the rules of the buildings but tactfully overlooked by the apartment supervisor, who liked Camilla and found her a perfect tenant except for her pets.
In return for the super’s indulgence, Camilla kept the cats out of sight. They were sleek gray tabbies called Madonna and Elton. Madonna had a boisterous,
