Read Online Poison Ivy by Cynthia Riggs - Free Book Online Page A

it—and she didn’t, Mrs. T.” Jodi glanced at Victoria. “She maybe changed my words around, but she didn’t add any stuff—she said she was putting her name on my paper as senior author. In other words, she’s taking credit for all the work I did.”
    â€œHave you spoken to her about it?”
    Jodi shook her head. “I don’t want to rock the boat. I need that degree.”
    â€œWould you like me to talk to her?”
    Jodi glanced back at Victoria. “Omigod, no, Mrs. T! That would be the kiss of death for sure.”
    *   *   *
    Late that afternoon, Victoria was on her kneeler, weeding the squash and bean rows. Robert Springer, who helped her occasionally with yard work, was mowing her grass, the last cutting of the year.
    She felt a sudden chill. Clouds had moved across the sun, high broken clouds that looked like fish scales, a mackerel sky. Weather was on its way, and soon.
    She tossed the pulled weeds into the garden cart and hoisted herself to her feet with the handles of her kneeler. She’d done enough work for now.
    Robert pulled up to her on the lawn tractor. “Want me to dump those on the compost heap?”
    â€œYes. Thank you, Robert.”
    He got off the tractor with a sigh. He was a short man with a two-day growth of beard, not the stylish kind boys the age of her grandchildren affected, but more like a street person’s. One of his ubiquitous hand-rolled cigarettes was dangling off his lower lip, the smoke curling up past his nose into his red-rimmed eyes.
    â€œGoing to have some rain, looks like,” he said when he returned with the empty cart. “The garden can use it.”
    â€œI believe you’re right,” said Victoria.
    Early this morning, before her class, she’d hung laundry on the line to dry in the good southwest wind. Now the wind had backed around to the southeast. By tomorrow it would be northeast, bringing two or three days of rain. The surf pounded on the south shore, a steady rumble that she could feel through her feet. She needed to bring in the laundry before the storm broke.
    She unpinned the sweet-smelling sheets, folding them right off the line, carried the basket of clean laundry into the house, and set it on the washer in the downstairs bathroom. Elizabeth would put it away when she got home.
    She decided to write a sonnet inspired by Jodi’s initial delight and enthusiasm changing into such abject misery. She would title the poem “Weather Breeder.”

 
    C HAPTER 8
    Victoria was taking her typewriter out of its case when a silver Honda she didn’t recognize stopped in the drive. A tall, nicely built young man with bright red, almost orange, hair got out and headed toward the house. She met him at the entry door.
    â€œMrs. Trumbull? I’m Christopher Wrentham. I’d like to talk to you, if I may. Is this a bad time?”
    Victoria wasn’t sure whether this was a bad time or not. She was in the throes of composing her sonnet, but she was curious about this young man’s mission. Now that he was up close she could see his dark eyes and fine large nose.
    â€œWhat is it you need to speak to me about?”
    â€œA professor at Cape Cod University, Roberta Chadwick.”
    â€œAh,” said Victoria. “Come in.” She ushered him into the cookroom and he waited politely for her to sit, then took a chair at right angles to hers.
    â€œThis must seem presumptuous of me, but, well, I was told you’re a professor at Ivy Green College.”
    Victoria smoothed her hair. “Yes, adjunct professor.”
    He nodded. “I was also told you’re apprised of a certain situation.”
    Victoria folded her hands on the table. “Having to do with Professor Chadwick?”
    â€œYes.”
    When he looked at her she realized his dark eyes had golden flecks. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
    He rubbed his hands on his thighs.