Getting Schooled (Craving #9) Read online

  “The whole campus is a tobacco-free zone, as you probably know. Don’t tell anyone I puff a little on my pipe when I’m here alone, okay?”

  I move farther into the room, hoping he’d see the sincerity in my eyes. “My grandfather smokes the same pipe tobacco, and I’ve been keeping his secret from my mimi for a decade at least,” I say.

  He relaxes back down in his chair then.

  “Well, then, I guess I’m safe with you. Sara, is it?”

  “Yes, I’m Sara Quinn,” I say, “from New Hampshire.”

  “Well, Sara Quinn from New Hampshire, it’s nice to meet you,” he says as he lifts himself effortlessly from his chair and shakes my hand.

  I’d never been greeted by a teacher like that before, with a handshake. It almost makes us feel like equals.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, too,” I admit and feel the color rise in my cheeks. “I read all about your work before I decided to come here to study.”

  He comes from around the other side of his desk and approaches me.

  “Did you now? And what did you discover?”

  “That your textile art has been sold to some of the most prestigious collections in the world, and you’ve got pieces on display in some of the most famous museums and art galleries. I even saw your 9/11 textile landscape at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “And what did you think of it?”

  “It was breathtaking. I sat admiring it for half an hour until my sisters insisted we move on to another exhibit. They’re young and don’t appreciate the intricacies of art,” I say, for some reason trying to impress him with my knowledge.

  He grins and exposes deep dimples on either side of his lips. He is more handsome in this room than the classroom. Maybe it’s the lighting in here. I look above me, but there are no ceiling lights, just a desk lamp and a floor lamp lit in the far corner of the room. When he sees I am looking around, he says, “Care for a tour?”

  “Sure,” I answer, wishing I’d said something clever.

  He closes the door and starts at the section of the room closest. There are built-in bookcases, so high that he has an old-fashioned rolling ladder like some libraries have to reach the top shelves. But they aren’t just piled with books. There are three antique sewing machines that he explains had belonged to his great grandmothers and a great aunt, and there is a treadle sewing machine on the floor, where the operator has to pedal with her feet to run the machine.

  He has antique weaving looms, wicker baskets of sheep’s wool, a painter’s easel, and a tri-level table full of oil paint in tubes; there is a closet full of old dresses sealed in plastic and marked with the year the design became famous. He even has an original Coco Chanel dress right here in the closet.

  I feel as if I’ve just dropped into a museum with the objects of my dreams all strategically placed about the room to be admired, touched, and even in some cases used. Professor Bray sits next to me while I make my first awkward attempts at using the treadle Singer sewing machine. Then he reaches across me to gather a few swatches of fabric and some batting, and I feel a shiver go up my spine. Has he just touched me on purpose? Certainly not. He was reaching for the materials. He asks me to manipulate those pieces into something quilted. Have I just stepped into an exam on the first day of class? I’m not sure, but I do my best with the materials I have. I create a five-pointed star in cranberry and grape colors, stitch a button in the center, clipped a small piece of lamb’s wool to the top as a hanger, and present him with a Christmas tree ornament.

  He receives it from me with the delight of a young boy unwrapping his first fire truck. “This is so clever. I put you on the spot, and you came up with this in no time at all. You have a trained eye for color and design. You will do very well with us, indeed,” he promises.

  I certainly hope so; there is something about Professor Bray that makes me want to please him. I so want to live up to his expectations of me. I leave his office floating on a cloud of compliments and never wanting them to stop.

  Chapter Three

  Hunter

  Wow! That Sara. She’s perfect. Smart. Eager to please. Drop dead gorgeous. I bet she’s a virgin.

  I pack my briefcase with the few papers I have collected on this first day of class. They are “Inspiration Essays” I assign to the students on the first day of the one class I really care about and would never pawn off to a teaching assistant, Textile Design 611; it is the final class for my Masters of Fine Arts in Textiles candidates. I always ask for an essay telling me where they get their inspirations from. It helps me get to know them, weed out the bullshitters who are just trying to impress me, and find those with the most unique potential. It is my final opportunity to work with the most dedicated and talented students in my program. It will always be my program. I created it; I came here just to provide this opportunity to the next generation of textile artists and perhaps “borrow” some of their ideas. In addition, I get my personal pick of the litter with every batch of freshmen who cross my path when I sign up to teach an introductory freshmen course each year and then turn it over to faithful David.

  This Sara is a sweet new apple for me to pick off the tree.

  I hurry across campus to the faculty lot, not wanting to miss dinner with the boys. Troy and Trevor are the lights of my life. Stephanie hasn’t provided much in the way of married comforts in years, but she did give me the two best sons anyone could ask for. Troy is ten, into soccer and lacrosse, and plays the cello like he’d practiced in the womb. Trevor, eight, has never been interested in sports and has a creative streak that won’t quit. He’s already planning to go into “the family business” as he calls it, meaning he, too, wants to create art from textiles. He’d be surprised to know that I think he’s going to be an engineer. He can fix anything. The toaster breaks; Trevor’s got it fixed in minutes. The door knob is wobbly; he’s got it tightened before we can ask. But having him think he’ll be working with me makes him happy. What makes him happy makes me happy.

  I wonder what’s for dinner tonight. Stephanie may not like sex, dancing, or talking politics anymore, but she still knows how to cook. She even took a few cooking classes over the years, and every night is like a gourmet five-course meal. I have to watch my portions. No co-ed is going to fall for a fat old man even if he is the most prestigious professor on campus. I have to maintain my standards.

  Stephanie kisses me on the cheek as I walk through the door, and both boys come running, burying me in their hugs.

  We move seamlessly to the family room, and they sit with me on the sofa as we talk about their day at school.

  “Trevor, highlight of your day?” I ask.

  “We got to stay indoors because it was raining, so I got to play Legos during recess.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say.

  “Troy, what was the highlight of your day?”

  “It was raining, so the teacher brought us to the gym, and we played dodge ball. It was awesome. I was the last kid standing.”

  His face lights up. Anything to do with sports makes his day.

  “Okay, Troy, what was the low point of the day?”

  “We had to practice for the spelling bee. I suck at spelling. I was out on the second round.”

  “Watch your language. Your mom hears you say ‘suck,’ I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Trevor?” I ask.

  “The low point of my day was getting stuck with ugly face Brenda at my table. Teacher moved our tables around again, so for the next four weeks, I’m stuck with ugly Brenda.”

  I laugh. “Someday, that Brenda might be the prettiest girl you know. Things change. You’ll see,” I promise.

  “But, Dad, she’s not just ugly on the outside. She tattles on every kid in the room. Don’t be surprised if she gets me in trouble this month.”

  “You better not make the trouble,” I warn.

  “I won’t make it. She’ll make it up.”

  Just then Stephanie calls us. “Wash up, guys. Dinner’s
ready.”

  We dutifully get the washing finished as quickly as possible. Stephanie, the neat freak, would not allow dinner with dirty hands, ever. Why did I not notice all this shit when we were dating? Just horny. She sure had a hot body. Still does. Yoga, gym membership, swimming laps three days a week, a chiropractor, hair and nail stylist, and a personal trainer with nothing to do all day but pamper herself and spend my money, she should look good.

  Our boys do not eat fast food or chicken nuggets for dinner. Tonight’s menu includes a veggie Caesar salad, beef wellington with asparagus in a béarnaise sauce, and one each homemade eclairs. The rest she makes in the batch will have been given to our neighbors, the Johnsons, next door. Fifty pounds overweight each because Stephanie is talented and generous with her food for them.

  It’s a typical night at home with cello practice sweetening the evening, reading bedtime stories, and watching one hour of local news. When my cold wife turns away from me in our bed as she always does, I close my eyes and obsess on my newest forbidden temptation—Sara.

  Hourglass figure, silky black hair down to her waist, perky tits, a smile so perfect and white someone must have paid a lot for it, an eagerness to please, which is the most important attraction of all, and a desire to share in the life of an artist—me. I slip out of our bed and run a cold shower before I can sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Sara

  “Well, what did he want?” Shaylee demands as we sit down in the cafeteria for dinner. Food here is delicious. I need to be careful not to pack on the “freshmen fifteen.”

  It takes the entire meal to dole out every detail of our meeting: the tour, the fabric project, the look of the room, his demeanor.

  “OMG, you are so in trouble,” Shaylee warns.

  “Trouble? I didn’t do anything,” I respond, dropping my napkin into my plate so I won’t be tempted by the last few bites of macaroni and cheese.

  “How many students do you think he takes the time with to do the tour, the project, the chat? He hasn’t got time for that. He teaches, he’s chairman, he does gallery appearances, works on his own art. He’s busy,” Shaylee says.

  “I don’t know. I just got here. Maybe he’ll invite you next,” I say, not sure if I should be insulted or complimented by her reaction.

  He did pick me, at least, as the first student to meet him personally this year. I feel my face flush with excitement and embarrassment. College may be a lot more complicated than I imagined.

  Shaylee and I share some classes, some clothes, and a few nights with our heads in the toilet from too much illegal drinking. We’re typical freshmen wanting to experiment with everything. Shaylee tries pot and likes it. On that sharing, I draw the line. My parents would kill me and likely pull me out of college.

  When a few weeks passed since of my first visit with Professor Bray and when I’ve had enough time to almost forget about our meeting in his office, David hands me a note as I exit my art history class.

  Miss Quinn,

  I’d love to see you in my office again. How about right after art class today? I have a proposition for you.

  Professor Bray

  I read this in the hallway and don’t dare share it with Shaylee, who’s already headed to the library for some research for our latest assignment.

  “I’ll catch up later,” I promise. “I’ve got some things to do.”

  I sprint up the stairs to Professor Bray’s office and, again, knock lightly three times.

  “Come in,” I hear and swallow hard at how intense it is to hear his voice again.

  I open the door, wave the note, and Professor Hunter Bray stands and closes the gap between us. He shakes my hand and says, “Welcome back. I’ve been dying to see you. Sit. Sit.” He motions to the chair across from his desk.

  “Sara, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since we met. I have a request.”

  “A request?” Maybe Shaylee’s right. This sounds weird.

  “Yes. A request, and the option is totally yours. If you say yes, that’s great; if you say no, that’s fine. No pressure here for your grade or anything. Just two friends. Not teacher/student.”

  My grade? I’ve got an A so far in his art history class. Is something going to screw that up? I’ll lose my scholarship. This can’t be good. I keep silent, waiting for him to carry the message.

  “Every few years, someone drops into my life who inspires me. A muse. You are that muse. I’d like to paint you and then transfer what I paint into fabric art, if you’ll agree.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. Paint me. A true artist painting simple Sara Quinn. This can’t be real.

  “I’d be honored,” is all I can say.

  “Good. I’ve checked your schedule. You have two hours free each Tuesday and Thursday after art history class. Could we meet here then?”

  “Sure,” I say, my voice trembling with just that one word. I can’t say anything.

  “It’s a date then. Today being Tuesday, we’ll start on Thursday after class.”

  “What should I wear?” I ask.

  “Your happiest smile,” he answers.

  “Okay,” I say while shrugging my shoulders. That’s confusing.

  “And Sara, when I’m working on a new piece, I don’t share that information with anyone. Critics, galleries, newspapers are all over me if word gets out. So let’s keep this our little secret. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I answer and feel so stupid to be so dumbfounded and at a loss for words in front of the great Professor Hunter Bray.

  He stands and comes around the desk. He reaches to shake my hand but pulls me into a quick hug instead.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to this project. We’ll have fun. I promise. And who knows, someday you’ll be hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art next to my 9/11 tapestry,” he says.

  Was that a wink? Am I on the inside of a joke? Who knows? Professor Hunter Bray just gave me a hug. All right, it was the hug of a distant uncle to his niece, but it was physical contact. I won’t sleep tonight.

  I float out of his office with our secret tattooed to my heart.

  Chapter Five

  Hunter

  That was easier than I imagined. My easiest yet. These coeds are so naïve, especially those from small towns like my Sara.

  First I get her here; then I seduce her. Actually, she’s already seduced, promising to keep my secret, willing to report twice a week, and worrying about what to wear. Before I’m done, I know exactly what she’ll be wearing. Nothing.

  Sara does her signature three light taps on my door immediately after class. She’s beaming. Her enthusiasm lightens my heart and sets my groin on fire. It warns me to move cautiously so not to scare her off.

  Our first session and those that follow allow us an opportunity to get to know each other. She knows I’m married, but I’ve told her I’ve asked Stephanie for a divorce. Like that will ever happen. I’m not screwing up Trevor and Troy like my parents screwed up me when they split up when I was ten. Shuffling weekends to Dad’s house and meeting my mom’s latest “guy friends” and my dad’s “friends” was disgusting. Why they couldn’t just get back together and go on as we were was my daily question to each of them.

  Before I repeat that mess, I will spend every dime to keep Stephanie happy and keep us intact. Last year, she suspected I was having an affair. I denied it, of course, but Stephanie’s known me for twenty years. There’s no hiding from her. She basically shrugged her shoulders, held out her hand for my platinum card, and purchased a red Lexus that very day. Whatever makes her happy, whatever keeps us together for the kids, is okay with me. She can have her Lexus, and I can have my teacher’s pets.

  Somehow Sara is different than the rest. Am I having a midlife crisis of conscience? By October, I have her posing naked with a white satin sheet draped around her perfect body. I’m fascinated by the various perfumes she wears and the creativity she possesses. When a conference scheduled for California opens up and coinc
ides with winter break, I invite Sara to join me, and she agrees as long as we have “separate rooms.”

  In San Francisco, we check into the Farmont Heritage Place, which is my favorite spot on the west coast. It’s located at Ghirardelli Square on the bay in a beautiful location. Since I’m the keynote speaker, my expenses are paid, and my hotel is five stars.

  When we check in, the attendant explains that they’ve only booked one room and no others are available because of the Artists and Artisans Academy in town.

  “Oh no, now what?” Sara asks.

  “There are two double beds,” the clerk explains.

  I turn to Sara, tilt my head as a pleading puppy would, and ask, “Will that be okay?”

  She blushes, and I love her for it.

  “I guess so,” she whispers.

  After a whirlwind at the conference ending with my keynote at the dinner banquet, we return to the hotel. Sara sits in one of the comfortable settees in the room, and I sit beside her. I hold her hand and whisper, “Sara, I’m in love with you.”

  “You are? Really? I never would think…you’re so famous. You’re Hunter Douglas Bray…”

  I put my finger to her lips to shush her. She stops rambling on cue.

  “Here, I am Hunter and you are Sara, and I don’t think I can live without you.” I say my much rehearsed and often used line, and for once I think I mean it.

  “You are? I am?”

  “Yes,” I say and lean in for a kiss. I start off with a simple feather of a kiss, then linger, then press into her, and finally use my tongue to search her soul. She responds so naturally and eagerly that I feel myself swell with desire. I pull away from her and look into her perfect brown eyes. She startles, confused, eager.

  “Sara, my love, may I take you to my bed?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s what I’ve wanted all these months.”