to Harvard Street and then took a left onto the business school campus, still wrapped in insecurity and fretting about Peter’s strangely distant tone.
The grounds of the business school looked more Harvard than the college campus on the other side of the river. Here there was even more red brick, and more ivy, with patches of green grass broken by stone paths. A large endowment from corporate donors and successful alumni ensured that everything was maintained beautifully, and every time I came here a new building had risen, doubtless graced with the name of one of those donors. A couple of students walked by me, dressed in suits and overcoats. Judging by their clothes and serious expressions, they were on their way to interviews at the Charles.
I mounted the stone stairs to Morgan Hall, which housed most of the faculty offices, checking the directory in the foyer for Professor Beasley’s office and quickly finding the listing—Beasley, J.—on the third floor. I heard the swoosh of the elevator doors opening behind me and dashed to catch it.
And collided, head-on, with the love of my life.
Seven
“Oof,” I said.
The impact sent me sprawling, and I lost my grip on my shoulder bag. Its contents spilled out to surround me on the cold stone floor. My Blackberry ricocheted off a wall, and a lipstick rolled into a distant corner, but my first thought was of my nose, which felt like it had suffered some serious damage from its run-in with the man’s chest. He must have been made of steel—either that or he was wearing a bulletproof vest.
“Are you all right?” The voice was rich and deep and it sent a shock of recognition down my spine. Along with a delicious tingle that made me promptly forget about any need for an emergency rhinoplasty. The man knelt down beside me, and with a strange sense of destiny I looked up and into Jonathan Beasley’s blue, blue eyes.
Suddenly I was eighteen all over again, sitting across from Jonathan in English 10 (A Survey of English Literature from Chaucer to Beckett) and wondering how such perfection was possible in one human being.
I had worshipped him for the better part of a year. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He was brilliant. He was beautiful. He played varsity ice hockey. He was the Ryan O’Neal to my Ali MacGraw. Except that he never actually spoke to me, and if he had, I would have been tongue-tied, completely unable to conjure up a comment that managed to be both clever and alluring at once. Then he graduated, and I never saw him again. I went on to form other unhealthy and unacted-upon crushes from afar, but Jonathan had been my first, and on some level I’d never forgotten him.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again as I stared at him, openmouthed.
“Y-yes,” I stuttered. “I’m fine, thank you. And I apologize. I was in such a rush that I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Think of something witty to say, I implored myself. Please, please think of something witty to say.
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled—how I remembered that smile! “Here, let me help you.” He began gathering my spilled belongings and putting them back in my bag. He handed me my Blackberry and gave me a quizzical look. “I think I know you from somewhere. From college, maybe? Across the river. An English course, right?”
I nodded, speechless, as he extended a hand to help me to my feet. What would Ali MacGraw do in a situation like this?
“I thought I’d seen you before. It’s been a long time. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Beasley.”
“I’m Rachel Benjamin.” I covertly looked him over, taking in the blue shirt that set off his eyes and dark blond hair and the slightly battered tweed jacket that stretched over his shoulders. He’d been beautiful a decade ago, and the years since had treated him well. My knees were shaky, and while I could blame their condition on my fall, the warmth I felt in my cheeks could only be blamed on simple, old-fashioned lust. He seemed to be having even more of an impact on me now than he had when I was eighteen.
He leaned against the wall. The elevator had long since come and gone. “So, what are you doing here? Are you a student at the business school?”
“No, at least not now. I graduated years ago. I work in New York. At Winslow, Brown. And you’re a professor?” Now I knew why Professor Beasley’s name had sounded familiar, but somehow the title of professor had managed to blot out the less-than-professorial associations I had with the name Beasley. This Professor Beasley was a far cry from the bow-tied, lockjawed curmudgeon I’d imagined.
“Believe it or not. Organizational behavior. Incentive systems, things like that. I put in some time on Wall Street and then went to Columbia for a Ph.D. I’ve been teaching here for three years now.”
I remembered, with great difficulty, why I was there. “You know, it’s funny, running into you like this. I was actually on my way to see you. Only I didn’t realize it would be you, specifically. I didn’t realize that you were Professor Beasley.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s about Sara Grenthaler.”
His expression changed from friendly to somber, but it was equally enthralling. “How do you know Sara?”
“Well, she’s sort of my client. I mean, Grenthaler Media is. And she worked with me last summer at Winslow, Brown.”
“So you’ve heard what happened to her.” His voice was laced with concern.
I nodded. “In fact, I just came from UHS. I was talking to her roommate, Edie Michaels, and she explained about the letters Sara was getting. I told her I’d come talk to you. She’s anxious that the police know about them, just in case there’s a connection of any sort with the attack.”
“Let’s go up to my office,” Jonathan suggested. “I can fill you in there.” I willingly let him escort me up to the third floor and lead me down a corridor, nodding to various colleagues and staff along the way. He ushered me into his office and took my coat, hanging it next to his own on a peg on the back of the office door. I looked around while he cleared a stack of papers from one of his guest chairs. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I scanned his collection. It was extensive and varied, ranging from the usual business texts to history and biography. I even saw the familiar double volume of Norton’s Anthology of English Literature, its bindings worn and tattered.
“English 10,” he said, following my gaze.
“I know. I’ve got the same set.” I sat down in the now-empty chair, relieved to no longer have to trust my shaky knees, and he settled himself across from me at his desk.
“I was an Economics major, but I took that course senior year. I loved it. It made me wish I’d taken more English courses, but it was too late.”
“It would be great to go back and take all of the courses that I missed. Well, except for the exams and papers.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he replied with a rueful smile. “So, now that I think about it, it’s all coming back to me. You know, my roommate had such a crush on you.”
“He did?” I didn’t remember his roommate. I’d had eyes only for Jonathan.
“It was almost pathetic. Clark Gibson. Do you remember him? He would spend every class staring at you and then make me rehash everything you said for the rest of the day. He was obsessed.”
“Oh.”
