“I ...” I clear my throat, trying to cover the silliness of my mistake. The entire day is rattling me.Jimi Ireland is a dead woman,I remind myself.I cannot explain myself.I swallow. “Jimi Ireland, like the others, should be able to write as they please, write their truth. Is that not the role of the artist ... the writer? To be free?”
My question lingers between us, between everyone in the auditorium. He nibbles his bottom lip, and I crave his answer. I’m about to press him again when Dean Sutton appears onstage, signaling the end of our public spat. The heat of curious glances from fellow audience members sends a deep blush through me.
“Well, we’ve run out of time for more Q and A. But wasn’t that a wonderful lecture? Let’s give a round of applause for Dr. Sebastian Moore,” Dean Sutton says. The crowd climbs to its feet, filling the room with thunderous applause.
The rest of the auditorium lights come up, and the audience breaks apart, gathering their things and making their way to the buffet piled high with crackers, fruit, hot appetizers, and desserts. A secondary line forms for the professor as he greets each person.
I stay in my seat, unsettled.
First, the article inThe New Yorker, and second, the coffee shop, then finally, my words on the screen ... I don’t know what to make of it. It’s as if the universe is aligning, planning for us to meet; honestly, I don’t trust it. The universe’s plans rarely break my way. I think of Death, unable to shake the feeling that he might have something to do with this. A new iteration of our game.
The heat of my debate with Sebastian leaves behind a warmth: a surprising kindling, of sorts. I haven’t had anyone to discuss my writing with since Winston ... and since Death didn’t show up. As I stand to slip out of the room, Dr. Moore glances over from his adoring crowd, spotting me. He holds up a hand, signaling to me to wait as he wraps up his conversation. I could still leave, blending in with the last of the lingering admirers, but curiosity keeps me in place. I’m already here. I might as well figure out why he keeps popping up and continue to tell him he’s wrong about the writings of Jimi Ireland.
He strides over, his scent enveloping me like a fall day—spiced cinnamon, crunchy maple leaves, and rich, oaky leather—bringing to mind Sunday afternoons wrapped in a cozy blanket with a good book and a tall glass of wine. His eyes are distinct, velvety, teddy bear brown with smile lines that crinkle in the corners.
The surprise of him unexpected.
He smiles, his teeth white and even. “Glad to see you made it where you needed to be, Cinderella,” he says.
“Cinderella?”
He nods. “That’s who I thought of when you rushed off, saying you were late. That, and the fact that you left something behind.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a black-and-gold fountain pen.Mypen.
“Thank yousomuch, Dr. Moore!” This particular pen was a gift from Gabby. As I take the pen, our fingers brush, a tendril of electricity sparking between us again. I hurriedly tuck it in my bag.
He coughs and tugs at his collar. “Call me Sebastian, please ... I saw it was a Montblanc and know those can cost a pretty penny. I thought, as a writer, you’d like it back.”
“How did you know?”
“Only another writer would argue with me like you just did in front of everyone.” He winks.
“I could be a scholar like you,” I quip back.
“So, are you?” He reaches out a hand for me to shake.
“Vivian,” I say, reminding him of my name in this time. “I write a small column forThe Savannah Times.”
“Look at you. Great paper.”
“Not quiteThe New Yorker, though.”
He smiles in confirmation. “You hated my article?”
“I did, in fact.”
He laughs. “Care to join me in the hors d’oeuvres line so we can continue our discussion?”
I should go, but something about him holds me in place—that, and my reporter’s instinct. There’s more to the story of Dr. Moore and how my past as Jimi has shown up in his studies. I can’t leave until I’ve gotten to the bottom of it and set the record straight so he’ll write about her—me—correctly.
I get in line on one side, him on the other. We’re quiet as we head toward the tables.
“I do have one confession,” he says, selecting a canapé. “When I saw you in the café, it’s just that ... I could swear I’ve seen you before.”
I nod. “I just have one of those faces.” My standard response whenever anyone looks too closely. I stick to the edges of history, recording it while fading into the background. The secret to a long life like mine—that, good hair-graying powder, and being handy with makeup too. People tend to get suspicious when one stays perpetually twenty-four.
He shakes his head. “I never forget a face and would never lose track of one as unique as yours.”
I bite my bottom lip, fighting to keep my expression neutral, enjoying the tiny thrill of his words. A challenge crackles just beneaththem. I haven’t been flirted with in ages, and I can’t fight the pull. “Does that line work for you often?”
