He’s pretty gorgeous. Just my type.
Sylvie laughed.You can’t run off with my dog. I’d be jealous.
Of me or the dog?
For someone who wasn’t that confident, Ade had a lot of text game. Sylvie hesitated. This was just the kind of text transcript she’d seen in tribunal cases where the junior staff had accused a middle-aged professor of inappropriate conduct.
How’s your week going?
Not too bad. Lots of lab time which is good for me. Not much reading.
Don’t take reading week too literally.
The three dots appeared. Sylvie held her breath and waited for Ade to finish her message. She wanted her reply. Was she missing Ade’s company?
It’s kind of quiet without the students around and no one to talk to.
Yeah. I know what you mean. It’s quiet here too. I’m being well fed and watered by my parents. Looking forward to getting back at the weekend.Did she mean that? Sylvie hadn’t ever missed herMontpellier life before. Was it the city vibe that was lacking out here in the country?
Her train of thought was cut short by her mom striding through the garden with her spade and fork. Her dad followed with his arms full of old cardboard.
“You know, Sylvie, your father and I are worried about you.” Her mom speared the ground with her spade.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve lost your spark. You left Paris for the south and all your plans for a promotion. Now you seem a little lost.”
Sometimes Sylvie wished her mother was a little less direct. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.” She drew her knees to her chest. “I’m on track with work. This year I’ll get my supervision badge, and the powers that be will find a senior professorship slot for me.” She wasn’t sure of it but couldn’t let her confidence waver.
“And the next book?” her dad asked, raising his head above his cardboard shield.
“Coming along.” She shot him a look. They shared the same impatience with the world. “Do you give the boys this much grief when they visit?”
“You all get the same grief, don’t you worry about that.” Her dad laughed, relieving the pressure from the conversation.
“Time to dig over the beds. I’m going to let these rest over winter.” Her mom gestured toward a grid of vegetable plots.
Sylvie nodded. As a city girl at heart, she had little idea of what her mom was talking about, but she’d appreciate the harvest all the same. One day, if she was lucky, she’d have her own plot of land to tinker with. She might even find the right person to do it with.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ade pacedthe perimeter of her apartment for the sixty-seventh time. She couldn’t settle. Her thoughts whirled, creating a tornado of confusion in her mind. She counted the days on her calendar until she got to a big circle with Steph’s name inside. The time had marched on very quickly, but as Steph’s return approached, Ade had to admit, she was looking forward to their brief reunion. She’d also missed the guiding hand of Sylvie. This week had been a kind of lonely Ade had never known.
She popped open her laptop. Fifty-four unread emails. That should keep her mind busy. She wriggled her fingers and opened the first one.Boring. She skipped to Sylvie’s last mail, which was advance notice of their next catch-up, at which she was expecting a program for the next semester. Ade smiled at Sylvie’s professional tone, knowing the unique blend of sharp wit and softness that lay beyond it.
Next, she opened a message from Greg, her faithful, if wet behind the ears, assistant. She squinted at the screen and re-read the words. It was sent to the whole Monterey cohort inviting them to a club night at Bleu in the city. Ade was sure she’d ventured up that way last time Steph was in town, and if she trusted her memory, it was a cool part of town, if a little loud.
The university’s messenger app pinged, and she instantly regretted showing her online status. The last thing she needed was an influx of demands over the weekend.
Hey there, Ade. Are you heading out with us tonight?
How did Greg pop up wherever she was?Do you have a tracking device on me?
What?
Nothing. You’re just always around.
The messages stopped. Maybe he’d gotten bored with the conversation.
