The Loving Husband Series

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 5

Sarah avoided thinking about the beautiful strange man by the beautiful old house for the rest of the weekend. Monday night she was busy in the high-tech room in the library preparing for a seminar about how to access resources from off campus. Jennifer found her while she was setting up the Elmo machine.

“Need help?” Jennifer asked.

“No thanks,” Sarah said. “I’ve got it.”

Jennifer stood silently, watching Sarah fiddle with the wires connecting the Elmo to the projector. With a point, she directed Sarah’s attention through the window that looked into the hallway. Sarah saw Denise, another librarian, straightening her short red dress and smoothing her hair as she walked past. Denise smiled when she saw she was being watched.

“She’s leaving for her date with Wendell,” Jennifer said.

“That can’t be right. Wendell is a student aide.”

“Exactly.”

Sarah put her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter. “That isn’t funny.”

“I’m surprised none of the students have asked you out, Ms. Alexander.”

“Please.” Sarah used her hand as a stop sign like a police officer directing traffic. “No one is allowed to ask me out right now. Not for at least a year. I can’t think about another relationship right now.”

“Even if you find someone great?”

Sarah flipped the switch on the Elmo and saw the logo of Salem State College, a blue sketch of the Friendship, on the white screen on the wall. “Not anyone. Not now.”

The smile slipped from Jennifer’s face. “That’s too bad,” she said. She adjusted the lens on the projector so the logo was clearer. “So I heard you met James the other night. He teaches English here, did you know that? And he’s cute too.”

“Cute and scary. Maybe not scary. Intense might be a better word.”

“Did he really frighten you?”

Sarah paused, watching the logo on the screen as she considered. “I wasn’t sure if I was more frightened for myself or concerned for him. He seemed more upset than intimidating. He certainly is handsome.” She paused because she wasn’t sure if she wanted to share her next thought. But Jennifer was already her best friend in Salem, so Sarah decided to trust her.

“I think he looks like the man in my dreams. I’ve never seen the man’s face—it’s always in the shadows—but when James first came out of his house I couldn’t see his face either. I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Something about being in Witch City, I guess.”

Jennifer watched Sarah with the same detective-like concentration her mother had. Then she turned her attention to the desks scattered haphazardly around the room, straightening them into five neat rows.

Sarah stared at the floor, consumed by thoughts of the other night. Her encounter with James stirred too many emotions at once: fear, concern, sympathy, attraction, but mainly disappointment in herself for finding him alluring.

“He was just confused,” Sarah said.

How else could she explain his sudden attachment to her? And as for her just as sudden attachment to him? It wasn’t hard to see where her attraction came from. He was a beautiful-looking man, James Wentworth, and though he looked physically strong, there was some vulnerability there too. How else could he have shown his soul to a stranger? Even after he realized she was not who he thought she was, his soul was still there, visible, and she felt it reach out and touch her with the aura of its warmth. She could feel it touching her even then.

When Jennifer finished pushing the desks around, she sat on a chair and gave Sarah her full attention. Sarah felt like she was supposed to say something, as if Jennifer wanted something from her. “He mistook me for someone else. Elizabeth, he called her. When he realized he made a mistake he apologized.”

“Did he tell you who Elizabeth was?”

Before Sarah could answer, he was there, James, standing outside the door, watching her through the window. His dark eyes were curious, wondering, though less intimidating under his wire-rimmed eyeglasses. She could feel his gaze piercing her as if he were trying to see through her, understand everything about her from the day she was born, through all her years, until that moment in the library. It was that same sense of being drawn toward him she felt in front of his house. If they hadn’t been standing under the bright fluorescent lights in the library she might have been wary of him again.

He opened the door and walked into the room. “Hello, Sarah,” he said. “Forgive me, I know we haven’t been formally introduced. After the other night, I suppose it’s hardly necessary.”

Jennifer curtseyed to James, one foot behind the other, a caricature of courtesy. “Sarah Alexander, this is James Wentworth, Professor of English at our illustrious institution. Doctor Wentworth, this is Sarah Alexander, the new liaison for Humanities I studies.” She winked at him. “That includes you.”

“Yes, Jennifer, I know. That’s why I came by. I need help locating some sources about John Keats, and I was hoping you could help me, Sarah.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. “Tell me what you need.”

“That’s right,” said Jennifer. “Tell Sarah what you need. Or I can help you if Sarah doesn’t want to. You weren’t very nice to her the other night.”

“I don’t mind,” Sarah said. And she didn’t. Standing next to him, realizing how tall he was, noticing again how strong he seemed, she thought he was easier to be around in the light of the library than in front of his house in the dark and the rain. Jennifer nodded, smiling to herself as if she were in on her own secret.

“I think Sarah has forgiven you for your transgression the other night. Isn’t that right, Sarah?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

“It was,” James said, “but I frightened you and I’m sorry.”

“Sarah is leaving for the night, Professor. Why don’t you walk her home?”

Sarah liked the thought of being escorted by a handsome professor, a scholar of literature no less, but the memory of the other night flashed behind her eyes. She wondered which James would walk her home, the courteous, thoughtful one standing before her or the confused one who made her nervous. She looked at Jennifer, unsure what to say.

“It’s okay,” Jennifer said. “He doesn’t bite.”

James pushed his glasses back on his nose. “No, I don’t bite.”

Sarah knew, in her rational mind, that she shouldn’t go anywhere with him after his erratic behavior, but, year or no year since her divorce, she felt drawn to him. She was curious about him more than anything, and this walk could allow her to begin to piece together the puzzle that was James Wentworth.

“All right,” Sarah said.

James smiled. There was something about his smile Sarah loved instantly, as if it were her own smile, and she felt her own joy at seeing it. As they left campus they saw a black and white Salem Police car drive down Lafayette Street. On the doors it said Salem Police, The Witch City, Massachusetts, 1626, and in the center was a silhouette of a witch on a broomstick.

“I can’t believe the witch is still the symbol for Salem,” Sarah said. “Even The Salem News has a witch as its logo.”

James let out a frustrated sigh. “Witches have become great commercial fodder here. Salem has become something of a gathering place for mystics, and some believe it’s touched by the metaphysical and inhabited by supernatural beings.” He smiled, a flash of amusement across his lips.

“My landlady insists Salem is haunted by ghosts,” Sarah said. “She almost scared me out of living here, and I don’t even believe in ghosts.”

“Salem may change your mind.”

“That’s what she said.”

From Lafayette Street they turned down Derby, then right on Washington Street until they stood in the grassy street corner of Lappin Park. James pointed to a bronze statue sitting center in a paved opening. “Have you seen that?”

They walked closer until Sarah saw a statue of Elizabeth Montgomery, who played the good witch Samantha on the television show Bewitched. The scene showed the show’s logo, Samantha on a crescent moon. Sarah touched the smooth bronze.

“If I had known I was going sightseeing tonight I would have brought my better camera.”

“We can come back another night when you have your camera,” James said. “What else would you like to see?”

Sarah felt herself blush hot along her jaw. He was already thinking about taking her walking another night, and she was embarrassed at how happy she was to hear it. She chided herself, repeating every reason she had about why she needed to be alone right now. It was too soon after her divorce. She didn’t choose the right men—her marriage was proof enough of that. And this man, James, was beautiful, intelligent, a professor of her favorite subject (studying John Keats, her favorite poet, no less), and yet, as they walked in the cool Salem night, comforted by the sea breeze, he stood a distance away, as if he liked her company but didn’t care much for anything else about her.

She saw him watching her, that curious expression again, so she pulled herself from her reverie and considered what else she wanted to see around town. They were close to her house at Lappin Park—she lived a few blocks down Washington Street, near Essex Street and the Salem Inn—but she wasn’t ready to go home.

“I’ve been wanting to see the Salem Witch Museum,” she said.

James stared at the quarter moon in the sky. “The Salem Witch Museum,” he said, as if he had never heard the name before. He stepped closer to her, inspecting her again the way he had in front of his house. She began to think she made a mistake walking home with him. She looked around, but there were plenty of people out that autumn night, dining at the restaurants and bars that populated the town. He must have realized he was making her nervous, she thought, because he took a step back, giving her space.

“They close at five,” he said, “but I’d be happy to show you where it is.”

They continued down Church Street, passing the Lyceum Bar and Grill with its brick walls and whitewashed Romanesque arches hanging over the windows, the white-potted topiaries in front. He stopped so she could get a better look.

“There are many people like your landlady who believe ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem,” he said. “Some believe that Bridget Bishop, one of the first people executed in 1692, haunts this very building.”

Sarah stepped close to the brick wall and touched her hands to the rough exterior. A couple leaving the Lyceum smiled at her as they walked by, and she felt silly. When she felt a spark of static—the same energy she felt when she touched her landlady—she pulled her hands away. She turned to James and he seemed somber, as he had in front of his house. She tried to lighten the mood.

“Do you believe ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem?” she asked.

She meant to be light, friendly, even a little flirty with the handsome, blond, strong-looking professor. Her resolution to wait had slipped into the static electricity in her hands. Even though she had said to Jennifer, less than an hour before, that she didn’t want any man asking her out right now. Even though she had reasons not to flirt with any man. But suddenly here was James and all she could think about was how he was looking at her, as if he wanted to know her, or as if he already knew her, she couldn’t tell which. She had to admit, though she didn’t want to, that she enjoyed his attention. She enjoyed sightseeing around Salem with him. Something, somewhere deep inside that was not logical, felt as if there were an invisible line reeling from him to her and back again, catching her and holding her to him. It wasn’t a frightening sensation. This was a light, fluttery line, like silk thread.