Gabriel's Rapture
Page 42

Gabriel Owen Emerson.
Perhaps she wanted Paul to figure it out. But it had never crossed his mind that Owen was, in fact, Professor Emerson. He’d cursed the man and told her secrets about him, for God’s sake. Secrets about Professor Singer. And while she was accepting his sympathy, she was sleeping with him. No wonder she’d sworn up and down that Owen hadn’t bitten her neck, that it was some other asshole.
Paul thought of Professor Emerson doing depraved things to Julia, and her small, small hands. Julia, who was sweet and kind, with blushing pink cheeks. Julia, who never passed a homeless man on the street without giving him something. Perhaps the true pain of betrayal was the realization that sweet Miss Mitchell had shared a bed with a monster who got off on pain, who had been a plaything of Professor Singer. Perhaps Julia wanted that lifestyle. Perhaps she and Gabriel invited Ann into their bed, as well. After all, Julia had picked Soraya Harandi to be her attorney. Didn’t that mean she was familiar with Professor Pain?
Clearly, Julia was not who he thought she was. But his suspicions morphed into something else when, on the Monday after the hearing, he ran into Christa Peterson as she exited Professor Martin’s Office.
“Paul.” She nodded at him smugly, adjusting the expensive watch on her wrist.
He jerked his chin in the direction of Professor Martin’s door. “Having some trouble?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, smiling altogether too widely. “In fact, I think the only person who’s having trouble is Emerson. You’d better start looking for a new dissertation director.”
Paul narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“If Emerson drops me, he’ll drop you too. If he hasn’t already.”
“I’m dropping him.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “I’m transferring to Columbia in the fall.”
“Isn’t that where Martin came from?”
“Give my best to Julia, would you?” Laughing, Christa brushed past him.
Paul jogged after her, catching her elbow with his hand. “What are you talking about? What did you do to Julia?”
She wrenched her arm free, her eyes narrowing. “Tell her she fucked with the wrong woman.”
Christa walked away as a stunned Paul stood, wondering what she had done.
* * *
Julia didn’t respond to Paul’s worried messages or emails. So on the Wednesday after the hearing, he stood on the front porch of her building, buzzing her apartment.
She didn’t answer.
Undeterred, Paul waited, and when a neighbor exited the building, he went inside and knocked on her door. He rapped several times until a hesitant voice called to him. “Who is it?”
“It’s Paul.”
He heard what sounded like the thud of Julia’s forehead against the door.
“I wanted to check on you since you aren’t answering your phone.” He paused. “I have your mail.”
“Paul—I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Let me see that you’re all right and I’ll go.”
He heard the shuffling of feet. “Julia,” he called to her softly. “It’s just me.”
A scraping sound echoed in the hallway, and the door slowly creaked open.
“Hi,” he said, looking down into the face of a woman he did not recognize.
She looked like a girl really, white skin against dark hair that was messily pulled up into a ponytail. Purple circles rimmed her eyes, which were bloodshot and glassy. She looked as if she hadn’t slept since the hearing.
“Can I come in?”
She opened the door more widely, and Paul walked into her apartment. He’d never seen it so disordered. Dishes were abandoned on every surface, her bed was unmade, and the card table was straining under the weight of papers and books. Her laptop was open as if she’d been interrupted while working on it.
“If you came to tell me how stupid I am, I don’t think I can handle that right now.” She tried to sound defiant.
“I was upset when I found out you’d been lying to me.” Paul shuffled her mail from one arm to the other and scratched at his sideburns. “But I’m not here to make you feel badly.” His expression softened. “I don’t like to see you hurting.”
She looked down at her purple woolly socks and wiggled her toes. “I’m sorry for lying.”
He cleared his throat. “Um, I brought your mail. You had some stuff in the mailbox outside, and I also brought your mail from the department.”
Julia looked at him with a worried expression.
He held up a hand as if to reassure her. “It’s only a couple of flyers and a textbook.”
“Why would someone send me a textbook? I’m not teaching.”
“The textbook reps put exam copies in the professors’ mailboxes. Sometimes they give books to the grad students too. I got one on Renaissance politics. Where should I put everything?”
“On the table. Thanks.”
Paul did as he was bidden while Julia busied herself by retrieving the cups and bowls from around the apartment and stacking them neatly on top of the microwave.
“What kind of textbook?” she asked, over her shoulder. “It isn’t about Dante, is it?”
“No. It’s Marriage in the Middle Ages: Love, Sex, and the Sacred.” Paul read the title aloud.
She shrugged, for the title didn’t interest her.
“You look tired.” He gazed at her sympathetically.
“Professor Picton asked me to make a lot of changes to my thesis. I’ve been working around the clock.”
“You need some fresh air. Why don’t you let me take you to lunch? My treat.”
“I have so much work to do.”
He brushed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You need to get out of here. This place is depressing. It’s like Miss Havisham’s house.”
“Does that make you Pip?”
Paul shook his head. “No, it makes me a nosy jerk who interferes in someone else’s life.”
“That sounds like Pip.”
“Is your thesis due tomorrow?”
“No. Professor Picton gave me a week’s extension. She knew I wouldn’t be ready to turn it in April first because of—everything.” She winced.
“It’s just lunch. We’ll take the subway and head to Queen Street and be back before you know it.”
Julia looked up at Paul, into concerned dark eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because I’m from Vermont. We’re friendly.” He grinned. “And because you need a friend right now.”
Julia smiled in gratitude.
“I never stopped caring for you,” he admitted, his eyes unexpectedly gentle.
She pretended she didn’t hear his declaration.
“I need a minute to get dressed.”
They both looked at her flannel pajamas.
Paul smirked. “Nice rubber duckies.”
Embarrassed, she disappeared into her closet to find some clean clothes. Not having done laundry in a week, her choices were limited, but at least she had something halfway presentable for a casual meal.
While she was in the bathroom, Paul took it upon himself to clean up her apartment, or at least, to tidy it. He knew better than to touch her thesis materials, choosing rather to straighten her bed and pick up things from the floor. When he was finished, he shelved the textbook and sat down in a folding chair to look over her mail. He quickly disposed of the flyers and junk and stacked what looked like bills into a neat pile. He noticed there weren’t any letters of a personal nature.
“Thank God,” he muttered.
After she dressed, she covered the circles under her eyes with concealer, and pinked up her pale cheeks with blush. When she was satisfied that she no longer looked like a youngish version of Miss Havisham, Julia joined Paul at the card table.
He greeted her with a smile. “Ready to go?”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I’m sure you have things you want to say. You might as well get it over with.”
Paul frowned and gestured to the door. “We can talk over lunch.”
“He left me,” she blurted, looking pained.
“Don’t you think that’s a good thing?”
“No.”
“Jeez, Julia, the guy seduced you for kicks, then dumped you. How much abuse do you want?”
Her head snapped up. “That’s not how it was!”
Paul looked at her, at her sudden show of anger, and was impressed. He’d rather have her angry than sad.
“You should probably wear a hat. It’s cold out.”
A few minutes later they were outside, walking toward the Spadina subway station.
“Have you seen him?” she asked.
“Who?”
“You know who. Don’t make me say his name.”
Paul huffed. “Wouldn’t you rather forget about him?”
“Please.”
He glanced over to see a pinched look on Julia’s pretty face. He stopped her gently. “I ran into him a few hours after the hearing. He was coming out of Professor Martin’s office. Since then, I’ve been trying to finish my dissertation. If Emerson dumps me, I’m screwed.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“In Hell, I hope.” Paul’s voice was cheerful. “Martin sent an email to the department saying that Emerson was on a leave of absence for the rest of the semester. You probably saw that email.”
Julia shook her head.
Paul looked at her closely. “I guess he didn’t say good-bye.”
“I left a few messages for him. He finally emailed me yesterday.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to stop contacting him and that it was over. He didn’t even call me by name—just sent me a two line email from his university account, and signed it ‘Regards, Prof. Gabriel O. Emerson.’”
“Asshole.”
Julia winced, but didn’t disagree. “After the hearing, he told me I wasn’t sensible of my own distress.”
“Pretentious fucker.”
“What?”
“He stomps on your heart and then he has the balls to quote Hamlet? Unbelievable. And he misquoted it, the jackass.”
She blinked in surprise. “I didn’t recognize the line. I thought it was just—him.”
“Shakespeare was a pretentious fucker too. That’s probably why you couldn’t tell the difference. The line is from Gertrude’s speech about the death of Ophelia. Listen:
“When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.” Julia’s face grew pale. “Why would he say that to me?”