I’ve thought this over. I know—Cassidy—would want to help you if she could. And I’m going to London to ask her.”
He can barely say her name, Gilbert had thought. Eric was as afraid to face Cassidy Maxwell as Gilbert was, though for entirely different reasons. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Gilbert said, measuring his words. “She’s now Ambassador Alan Cole’s chief go-to girl.”
Good for her, he thought silently, in spite of his growing fear. “She has a busy schedule. Don’t bother her with this, with my problems.”
“You know her, Professor. If she finds out about this later, she’ll be angry no one told her.”
“True,” Gilbert had been forced to admit. “Why not just give her a call or e-mail her?”
“I think she’ll be more likely to come back if she’s summoned in person. Besides…” His voice had trailed off and Gilbert had waited a moment before Eric added, “Phone calls and e-mails are too easy to ignore. And she’s done an admirable job of ignoring me for the past ten years. For your sake, I need to talk to her in person.”
“For my sake, huh?”
Gilbert could tell by the silence that perhaps a decade wasn’t long enough to heal a broken heart. “Are you sure you are ready for this?”
“It’s time,” Eric had said shakily, then more forcefully, repeated, “It’s time.”
“What if she doesn’t…”
“I don’t plan on dragging her back by her hair. I’ll tell her what’s going on and leave it up to her.”
Gilbert had sighed then. Eric knew what dire straits his old professor was in. If Gilbert protested any more, Eric would grow suspicious, and he couldn’t afford that. He’d wished his former student luck and hung up.
Then he’d sat here in his office chair, without moving, for hours. His anxiety, already high from his job crisis, had expanded until he felt he’d be eaten from the inside out.
He lifted his head and looked out the tiny window next to his desk, but saw nothing but his own reflection. That was the last thing he wanted to see: Gilbert Harrison staring into himself. He snapped off the small desk lamp and sat in darkness. He could see the outline of leaves against the sky. When a breeze blew through, the leaves fluttered slackly, beginning to lose their hold on the branches. In harsh New England winter afternoons, Gilbert could see the Liberal Arts building across the street. In late spring, the lush greenery again obstructed his view. He had noticed this every year—for thirty years.
In the last few weeks, he’d seen his past come back to him: Saunders sweethearts David and Sandra Westport, crack attorney Nate Williams, the still-beautiful Kathryn Price, sharp-as-a-tack Jane Jackson, a transformed Dr. Jacob Weber. He’d been glad to see each of them. His heart had puffed with pride as he’d examined their older, different faces and heard their stories.
But Cassidy Maxwell might come back, as well.
Her former classmates had gotten wind of her possible return and were excited at the prospect of seeing her again. She had been the good girl on campus, a brilliant scholar, a willing tutor, everyone’s friend. The alumni were convinced she could play a major role in keeping Gilbert on the Saunders faculty.
“Won’t it be great to see her again?” they asked Gilbert, one by one. “It’s been so long! Isn’t it terrific she might come back?”
What no one would have ever guessed was that if Gilbert had his way, he’d keep good-girl Cassidy as far away from Saunders University as possible. The other side of an ocean wasn’t even far enough.
If Cassidy came back, she’d also bring back Gilbert’s deepest, darkest secret. A secret she’d discovered a long time ago, accidentally. A secret no one else knew.
That secret could not only destroy Gilbert’s career, but his entire life as he knew it—his and the lives of others.
Gilbert put his head in his hands again. I’m so sorry, Eric, he thought with shame. I’ve never before wanted one of my students to fail.
But I hope you do.
Chapter Two
“What do you mean, we can’t get the Château Clinet?” Cassidy asked.
She held the phone slightly away from her ear as the wine supplier offered a rambling explanation for not being able to meet Cassidy’s wine order for the ambassador’s reception tonight. Unfortunately, Cassidy didn’t have much time for explanations. She was more a solutions person.
“Right,” Cassidy interrupted. “Well, since it won’t do to be without wine tonight, we need a Plan B. Can you replace the Château Clinet with Château Clos Fourtet? If I can’t get the Pomerol, the Saint-Emilion should be just as good.” The wine supplier put her on hold to check and, lifting her chin to her open office door, Cassidy called, “Sophie?”
The eager junior staffer appeared almost immediately. Cassidy waved her in and handed her a stack of paper samples. “If you’d please call the paper shop, the number’s on top, tell them the stock they recommended for the official stationery is excellent, but the color was a little dark. Tell them the light cream is what we want.”
“Right away.” As Sophie scurried out, the wine supplier came back to the phone to report they could indeed deliver the needed quantity of Château Clos Fourtet to the ambassador’s residence that afternoon. Cassidy was relieved. Ambassador Alan Cole was hosting a Winfield House reception that night for his good friend, the artistic director for a prominent Chicago ballet company, who was in London to collaborate on a project with the Royal Ballet. The ambassador was pleased to have his friend in town, and Cassidy didn’t want any problems, no matter how minor.
Of course, as Ambassador Cole’s office management specialist, Cassidy’s job was to ensure all U.S. Embassy problems were kept to a very bare minimum.
Cassidy thanked the wine supplier and hung up, and the moment she lifted her finger from the End button, her cell phone jingled again. “Maxwell,” she answered. She looked at her index finger, where a permanent dent seemed to have formed. The front desk secretary informed her that the plumber had arrived.
“I’m on my way,” Cassidy said. She breezed through the front office, where many people were typing, faxing, taking calls. Charles, another junior staffer, stood and sprinted over to her. People in the embassy were always running to catch up to Cassidy.
“MP Violet Ashton wants to meet with the ambassador as soon as possible,” he said. Cassidy was appreciative that Charles knew to waste no time on pleasantries. “And Sir Neville Pritchard of the House of Lords wants to see the ambassador, also.”
“Can I assume MP Ashton wants to meet regarding the ambassador’s Northern Ireland peace initiative?”
“Correct.”
“Right, tell her tomorrow is fine. Anytime. I’ll fit the agenda around her. And Sir Pritchard, tell him Wednesday or Thursday of next week, midafternoon is best.”
“All right.”
Cassidy left the large room, rounded several corners, walked down several long hallways. The
