Gwynne Forster - Destination Love

“Not with words, but your entire demeanor says, ‘Beat it, buster.’”

She had to laugh at that. No woman in her right mind would say such a thing to a man who looked like Brian King. “Are you on vacation?” she asked, making conversation.

“You could say that, but I’m gathering material for a story I’ll write when I return to Atlanta. Is your name really Sheri Stephens?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just checking.”

In spite of her attempt to put a wall between them, his laughter melted her a bit, and when she watched him settle in his chair as if her views about his presence didn’t matter, she realized that he’d leveled the playing field. Still, arrogance had never played well with her, not even when she was the one exhibiting it.

She stood. “Nice to meet you, Mr. King. Rest well.”

He made as if to stand. “Not very likely. My stateroom is in the middle of the boat, and the damned thing rocks all night. Glad to know who you are.”

Now what was she supposed to make of that? She headed for her room. Her father had said that one who walked alone stayed alone and that crowds attracted larger crowds. There was something to be said for that. She entered her stateroom and, for the first time in her memory, she examined herself in the mirror almost scientifically, without vanity or self-effacement. Her conclusion: she was not bad looking. If she applied some makeup and went to a hairdresser, she’d probably be nice looking. But that seemed too frivolous to her. If she did that, the next thing she knew, she’d be out there on deck in a string bikini. No way!

She got into bed and opened Bertrand Russell’s An Essay on the Foundations of Geometry, one of the books she’d brought along to read on the cruise, but to her surprise, her mind wouldn’t focus. So she put it aside, closed her eyes and listened to the waves play their tune on the side of the boat. Suddenly, a strange thought came to her.

Wright seemed so self-confident. Not that she wasn’t, but he gave the impression that he knew which button made the world turn. She wondered if his parents sang lullabies to him when he was little. If anyone had ever sung to her, she didn’t remember it. Yet, her little playmates had sung to her the songs that their mothers sang to them, and she recalled the feeling that she was missing something vital.

She reached over and turned out the light. Where the devil had all that come from? Tomorrow was a new day. She intended to enjoy the cruise, company or no company, but how nice it would be to enjoy it with Wright.

At eight twenty-four the next morning, Sheri walked into the restaurant thinking that if Wright hadn’t suggested that they eat breakfast together, she would have called the restaurant and had the food brought to her room. She saw June approaching with a presentable man in tow and smiled a greeting.

“Girl, you were doing all right last night,” June said. “I never would have thought of pretending to trip up so I’d fall into a guy’s arms as an excuse to meet him. You’re clever. See you around.” Sheri managed to close her mouth. Apparently June didn’t need an answer, for she had walked on.

Wright arrived and greeted Sheri with a kiss on the cheek. He looked at his watch. “How are you this morning? You were early, but that beats being late. I hope you rested well.”

“I did. The sound of those waves lashing the side of the boat is like a lullaby. Say, did your mother sing lullabies to you when you were little?” She could have kicked herself for that slip.

At first he frowned, and then his eyebrows shot up. “Gosh. Yes. Of course, she did. Uh, yeah. All the time. But where does that question come from?”

She lifted her right shoulder in a shrug to suggest that it wasn’t very important. “Something to do with the rhythm of the waves when they lap at the side of the boat.”

“That’s a sensual thought if I ever heard one. Come on, let’s get in line.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Far from it. I think I’ll have waffles and sausage.”

“I was thinking of a Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream, but that’s too campy, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t concern myself with what is and is not in fashion. I want waffles, maple syrup and sage sausage. If everybody else is eating hog maw, I say, ‘Right on.’”

“I can’t say I don’t care what others think. I usually don’t know what others are thinking and doing. I have my job—I’m a professor—and that’s what I focus on.”

He didn’t speak until they found a table and sat down. “Sheri, this world offers zillions of intriguing places and things. That classroom of yours is a tiny hovel on the side of a mountain compared to what the world can give you.”

“What do you do, Wright?”

“Right now, I’m a writer. I have a contract to write a novel, and I plan to enjoy every minute of it.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking how it is that you’re so self-assured.”

He seemed hesitant, as if searching for an answer. “Am I? If I knew the answer, I’d be glad to tell you. And while we’re asking questions, tell me why you asked me if you could share my table when the boat stopped in Portland.”

“I was hoping you were as bored and as eager for a traveling companion as I was. I saw the ship’s logo on your shopping bag and decided that you were a fellow passenger.”

His hand went to his chest. “You wound me. I thought my charm enticed you, and that you couldn’t resist.” He cast a wicked glance at her and grinned.

“In your dreams, pal.”

“You mean, it didn’t?”

“Well, if truth were known, I followed a trail of gold coins straight to you,” she said.

“Did that same trail of gold put you in that line next to me last night?”

She placed her knife and fork on the sides of her plate. “Are you teasing or being mean? I want to know how to react.”

He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I tease rather roughly sometimes. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“It’s all right. If I appear worldly, it is very misleading.”

Dalton hadn’t expected such a frank admission of naiveté from Sheri Stephens. He had suspected that she lived in a closed world, but until now he wouldn’t have believed that a woman of her accomplishments and intelligence hadn’t cultivated any aspect of her life other than her intellect. So this genius with statistics knew nothing of life! Well, he’d teach her, and he’d be just as kind to her as she was to him. When he had her begging for relief, he would look down in her face, tell her who he really was and laugh.

He didn’t recall having done a deliberately mean thing in his adult life; indeed, he considered kindness and generosity critical elements of his personality. But no one had weakened his spirit and dented his estimation of his self-worth as Sheri Stephens had with her petty demands that he revise the conclusions in his dissertation. Of course, she wasn’t the first professor to sacrifice a good student in order to make herself seem clever. If any of the other examiners had agreed with her, he wouldn’t have held it against her, but not one of them did. The humiliation he’d suffered was an experience he’d never forget. It came back to him then.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lansing. To be associated with the distinguished scholars at the Brookings Institute is more than I had dared dream of, but I won’t be eligible because I won’t graduate until July or August.”

Lansing’s gasp reached him over the wire. “This can’t be true. Your chairman said you were the best student he’d ever had, and that your graduation was a certainty.”