Read Online The Last Will of Moira Leahy by Therese Walsh - Free Book Online
Authors: Therese Walsh
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you think I’m paranoid? Wait—if paranoia’s a symptom of something horrible, I don’t want to know.”
She gave me wry smile, then dipped a potato chunk into a puddle of ketchup. “I don’t know, Maeve, your feelings are usually spot on. Maybe you have an admirer. Don’t act like it’s impossible,” she said when I sneered at her. “You’re beautiful.”
“Stop,” I said.
“What?”
“You know I don’t put out the gimme-a-man vibe.” I’d learned years ago how to avoid too-long eye contact and other forms of flirtation. If not for an absolute lack of connection with religion, I might make an excellent nun. Somehow I found myself with a fry in hand.
“Yeah, but any interesting offers?”
I wiggled the fry at her. “A grad student asked me out in September.”
“And you went out, and after eating a meal of oysters and cheap beer, you had wild monkey sex in the backseat of his—”
“I don’t date students.”
“Or other professors.”
“I don’t want to mix business and …”
She stared at me. “The word that escapes you is pleasure . Where exactly are you going to find it? You don’t leave the apartment to go anywhere but school or the grocery store. I’ve never heard of a love match made while weighing olives in the deli section.”
“Why weigh olives? Besides, how would you know where I go? When’s the last time you stayed in our apartment for more than a three-hour stretch? When’s the last time you had a date or wild monkey sex? Kettle calling pot! Come in, pot!”
“For God’s sake, eat the fry.”
I stuffed it in my mouth. “Oh, I forgot someone,” I said, midchew. “A colleague asked me out before Thanksgiving. You’ll enjoy this. He asked if I was a lesbian when I turned him down.”
Kit coughed into her napkin.
“Heimlich?” I offered, but she shook her head.
“And you said …?”
“‘I wish!’”
She chortled. “I know a few, you know. Really nice women. I can introduce you if you’d—”
“I am not a lesbian!” I slouched low when a few faces turned our way.
Kit glanced at a group of hunky physicians, then back at me. “So now the whole cafeteria understands you’re a heterosexual and thinks I may not be—”
“Sorry.”
“—tell me, how’s Noel?”
I guess I deserved this. “He’s still in Europe. He’s not even coming home for Christmas. Garrick wonders if he’ll ever come back.”
“Stop torturing him and he’ll come back.”
“Stop torturing me! I have nothing to do with it,” I said. “God. He’s trying to find his mother. Can we talk about my stalker already, before you’re paged away or something?”
She leaned forward. “You haven’t seen anyone? This is all based on feelings?”
“Yeah, feelings.” My thumbnails picked together metronomically. “Your brother’s not in town, is he?”
“No, Ian’s off a coast somewhere.” She threw her crumpled napkin on her plate. “Won’t you tell me what happened with you two? Did it have something to do with Moira?”
“Kit, don’t.” She knew the rules. No discussing the past, period. “I have to admit, though …”
“What?”
“I’ve thought a lot about home lately. Memories.”
“Aw, Maeve. Regression isn’t such a bad thing, you know.” She covered my hands with her chapped ones. I hated when she acted like this—as if it was her personal calling to be my protector—about as much as I appreciated it.
“Don’t use psychobabble on me, Kit.”
“Regression means you revert back a little.”
Revert back? Like being attracted to things you had as a kid, buying the tool of a wannabe pirate? I’d admit nothing.
“I’m not reverting,” I said. “And I don’t want to go back.”
“Sometimes regression comes before you take a big leap forward,” she said, just as her pager went off.
IT WAS A roller-coaster ride to the end of term. I rushed right along with my students: grade the finals, tally the marks, post them. And just like
She gave me wry smile, then dipped a potato chunk into a puddle of ketchup. “I don’t know, Maeve, your feelings are usually spot on. Maybe you have an admirer. Don’t act like it’s impossible,” she said when I sneered at her. “You’re beautiful.”
“Stop,” I said.
“What?”
“You know I don’t put out the gimme-a-man vibe.” I’d learned years ago how to avoid too-long eye contact and other forms of flirtation. If not for an absolute lack of connection with religion, I might make an excellent nun. Somehow I found myself with a fry in hand.
“Yeah, but any interesting offers?”
I wiggled the fry at her. “A grad student asked me out in September.”
“And you went out, and after eating a meal of oysters and cheap beer, you had wild monkey sex in the backseat of his—”
“I don’t date students.”
“Or other professors.”
“I don’t want to mix business and …”
She stared at me. “The word that escapes you is pleasure . Where exactly are you going to find it? You don’t leave the apartment to go anywhere but school or the grocery store. I’ve never heard of a love match made while weighing olives in the deli section.”
“Why weigh olives? Besides, how would you know where I go? When’s the last time you stayed in our apartment for more than a three-hour stretch? When’s the last time you had a date or wild monkey sex? Kettle calling pot! Come in, pot!”
“For God’s sake, eat the fry.”
I stuffed it in my mouth. “Oh, I forgot someone,” I said, midchew. “A colleague asked me out before Thanksgiving. You’ll enjoy this. He asked if I was a lesbian when I turned him down.”
Kit coughed into her napkin.
“Heimlich?” I offered, but she shook her head.
“And you said …?”
“‘I wish!’”
She chortled. “I know a few, you know. Really nice women. I can introduce you if you’d—”
“I am not a lesbian!” I slouched low when a few faces turned our way.
Kit glanced at a group of hunky physicians, then back at me. “So now the whole cafeteria understands you’re a heterosexual and thinks I may not be—”
“Sorry.”
“—tell me, how’s Noel?”
I guess I deserved this. “He’s still in Europe. He’s not even coming home for Christmas. Garrick wonders if he’ll ever come back.”
“Stop torturing him and he’ll come back.”
“Stop torturing me! I have nothing to do with it,” I said. “God. He’s trying to find his mother. Can we talk about my stalker already, before you’re paged away or something?”
She leaned forward. “You haven’t seen anyone? This is all based on feelings?”
“Yeah, feelings.” My thumbnails picked together metronomically. “Your brother’s not in town, is he?”
“No, Ian’s off a coast somewhere.” She threw her crumpled napkin on her plate. “Won’t you tell me what happened with you two? Did it have something to do with Moira?”
“Kit, don’t.” She knew the rules. No discussing the past, period. “I have to admit, though …”
“What?”
“I’ve thought a lot about home lately. Memories.”
“Aw, Maeve. Regression isn’t such a bad thing, you know.” She covered my hands with her chapped ones. I hated when she acted like this—as if it was her personal calling to be my protector—about as much as I appreciated it.
“Don’t use psychobabble on me, Kit.”
“Regression means you revert back a little.”
Revert back? Like being attracted to things you had as a kid, buying the tool of a wannabe pirate? I’d admit nothing.
“I’m not reverting,” I said. “And I don’t want to go back.”
“Sometimes regression comes before you take a big leap forward,” she said, just as her pager went off.
IT WAS A roller-coaster ride to the end of term. I rushed right along with my students: grade the finals, tally the marks, post them. And just like
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