It was so ordinary, sitting at the table, sharing dinner as Jackson talked on and on about Chaucer and how he hadn’t finished his book and how his leave of absence had to be extended beyond the time he’d allotted, all the way into next year.

His voice became a familiar buzz working in and around my thoughts. From time to time, I put my hand down to rest on Sorrow’s attentive head. Touching my dog gave me a kind of grounding that brought me back to where I was and what lay ahead. When Jackson stopped for a breath, one time, I slipped in the events of my day.

“I found a dead woman out in Deward,” I said between two snide observations on the Canterbury pilgrims. Jackson didn’t like Chaucer’s people all that much, or maybe he didn’t like Chaucer, with his raucous sense of humor. But then why the choice to spend a year, and more, writing about him? Ah, the ways of men—ever beyond me.

Jackson’s eyebrows shot up. “And where is Deward?”

“Over toward Gaylord.”

He nodded, as if picturing the place in his head.

“Another of these quaint small towns?”

“Actually, there’s no town anymore.”

“Then, what on earth were you doing over there?”

“A story, for Bill. October stuff—ghost towns.”

“Ah,” he nodded again, then again, as if getting the whole picture. “One of your little …”

“Haven’t you missed the point?”

Jackson laid his fork neatly on his plate then crossed it with his knife as if he were in a fine restaurant signaling the server to take his mess away. Sorrow sat up, recognizing a moment when he might get a leftover. “Point?”

“The dead woman.”

“My goodness. Actually dead?” He ignored Sorrow, who lay back down under the table across my feet, keeping them warm.

I nodded.

“Unfortunate. Poor soul.” He patted at his lips with the paper napkin I’d given him. “So … I’ve got a few pages I thought I might read to you tonight …”

“And, I almost forgot, an agent asked to see the mystery.”

His eyes shifted. He thought a moment, came up with a way to deal with my news, and said, “You don’t say. How exciting for you—at last a little interest.”

He reached across the table and patted my hand, which I moved to my lap.

I had to grit my teeth. “If she takes it and sells it, I probably will make good money.”

His smile was paternal. “Do you realize how unlikely a scenario that is? You must know the odds against publication by a novice
… well … an unknown.” He clucked a sympathetic cluck that turned my blood into molten lava. Of all the nerve—him and his dry, academic meanderings.

“Better chance than most,” I said through tight lips. “People actually look forward to reading what I write …”

He raised his eyebrows. “But mine is scholarship, Emily. You can’t mean to equate what you do with what I accomplish …”

I got up to clear the table and cut the leftover linguini into bits for a grateful Sorrow.

Later, I paid for what Jackson had taken as an insult to his work by sitting, curled in a chair, for two hours as he read. His thesis had to do with the pilgrims’ lack of piety and their true motives for making the trip. After the first hour I yawned and attempted to get up, only to be waved back to my chair and given an “only a little more” promise. A half an hour later, I fell asleep.