“Never be ashamed to accept a gift when there are no strings attached.”
“You sound like Grace. She used to talk like that.”
He shifted in his seat and involuntarily scratched at the back of his neck. “Where do you think I learned about generosity? Not from my biological mother.”
Julia looked at Gabriel, meeting his gaze without blushing or blinking. Then she sighed and put the award letter back in her bag, resolving to spend more time thinking about how best to deal with it once she was no longer in The Professor’s magnetic presence. For she saw that arguing with him would get her nowhere. And in that respect, as in several others, he was exactly like Peter Abelard, sexy, smart, and seductive.
He peered over at her. “But despite all I’ve tried to do, which isn’t much I’ll admit, you’re still going hungry?”
“Gabriel, I have a tenuous relationship with my stomach. I forget to eat when I’m busy or preoccupied or — or sad. It’s not about the money — it’s just the way things are. Please don’t trouble yourself.” She readjusted her cutlery once again for good measure.
“So…you’re sad?”
She sipped her beer slowly and ignored his question.
“Does Dante make you unhappy?”
“Sometimes,” she whispered.
“And other times?”
She looked up at him, and a sweet smile spread across her face. “I can’t help myself — he makes me deliriously happy. Sometimes when I’m studying The Divine Comedy, I feel as if I’m doing what I was always meant to do. Like I found my passion, my vocation. I’m not that shy little girl from Selinsgrove anymore. I can do this, I’m good at it, and it makes me feel…important.”
It was too much. Too much information. The quickly drunk beer, the rush of blood to the head, his scent clinging and heavy in her nose from his sweater. She should never have said all those words to him, of all people.
But he only watched her somewhat warmly, which surprised her. “You are shy, it’s true,” he murmured. “But that’s certainly not a vice.” He cleared his throat. “I’m envious of your enthusiasm for Dante. I used to feel that way. But for me, it was a long time ago. Too long.” He smiled at her again and looked away.
Julia leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Who is M. P.
Emerson?”
Startled blue eyes flew to hers, burning with laser-like intensity. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was very, very cold, and Julia realized she’d touched upon a nerve so injured, so raw, it was still vibrating with pain. It took her a moment to collect herself, and before she had fully considered the prudence of her question, she spoke. “Are you trying to be my friend?
Is that what you were trying to communicate to me with the bursary?”
Gabriel frowned. “Did Rachel put you up to this?”
“No. Why?”
“She thinks we should be friends. But I’ll tell you what I told her — it’s impossible.”
Julia felt a lump grow in her throat, and she swallowed noisily. “Why?”
“We exist under the red flag of professionalism. Professors can’t be friends with their students. And even if we were just Julianne and Gabriel sharing a pizza, you shouldn’t want to be friends with me. I am a magnet for sin, and you are not.” He smiled sadly. “So you see, it’s hopeless. Abandon hope all ye who enter.”
“I don’t like to think of anything as hopeless,” she whispered to her silverware.
“Aristotle said that friendship is only possible between two virtuous people. Therefore, friendship between us is impossible.”
“No one is truly virtuous.”
“You are.” Gabriel’s blue eyes burned into hers with something akin to passion and admiration.
“Rachel said you were on the vip list at Lobby.” Julia changed the subject again swiftly, still not considering her words.
“That’s true.”
“She made a mystery of it. Why?”
Gabriel scowled. “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
He fixed her with his gaze and dropped his voice. “I go there regularly, hence the vip status. Although I haven’t been there much of late.”
“Why do you go? You don’t like to dance. Is it just to drink?” Julia looked around at the simple but comfortable interior of the Caffé. “Here is as good a place to drink as any. I think it’s much nicer here. It’s gemüt-lich — cozy.” And there doesn’t appear to be a single Emerson whore in sight.
“No, Miss Mitchell, in general I do not go to The Vestibule to drink.”
“Then why do you go?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He frowned. Then he shook his head. “Perhaps not to someone like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Someone like me?”
“It means that you don’t know what you’re asking me,” he spat, staring angrily. “Otherwise you wouldn’t make me say it! You want to know why I go there? I’ll tell you why I go there. I go there to find women to fuck, Miss Mitchell.” He was pissed now and glaring at her. “Happy now?” he growled.
Julia drew a deep breath and held it. When she could hold it no more she shook her head and exhaled. “No,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “Why would that make me happy? It makes me sick to my stomach, actually. Really, really sick. You have no idea.”
Gabriel sighed deeply and placed both hands at the back of his neck.
He wasn’t cross with her; he was cross with himself. And he felt ashamed.
Part of him wanted to repel her intentionally — to stand naked in front of her, hiding nothing — so that she would see him for what he really was, a dark, sinister creature exposed by her virtue. Then she would walk away.
Perhaps his subconscious was already trying to do that with these ridiculous, unprofessional outbursts. For he should never in a thousand years have said what he just said to a graduate student, especially a female graduate student, even if it was the truth. She was undoing him slowly, bit by bit, and he did not understand how.
Gabriel’s blue eyes found hers. And across his pale and handsome face, Julia read remorse.
“Forgive me. I know I’ve disgusted you.” He spoke very quietly. “But believe me when I tell you that that is a very good reaction for you to have.
You should be repulsed by me. Every time I’m near you, I corrupt you.”
“I don’t feel corrupted.”
He gazed at her sadly. “Only because you don’t know what it means.
And by the time you realize it, it will be too late. Adam and Eve didn’t realize what they’d lost until they were thrown out of Paradise.”
“I know something about that,” Julia mumbled. “And I didn’t learn it by reading Milton.”
Just then Christopher brought their pizza, effectively ending their awkward exchange. Gabriel played the part of the host, serving Julia her salad and pizza first and taking great care to make sure that she received more shaved parmesan and croutons than he did. And it wasn’t because he didn’t like those items; he liked them both a great deal.
While they were eating and Julia was thinking back to their first silent meal together, a song began to play over the stereo system that was so sweet, she put her fork down in order to listen.
Gabriel heard the song too and softly began to sing to himself, almost under his breath, something about heaven and hell and virtue and vice.
Julia was struck by the eerie relevance of the words. But then Gabriel stopped, suddenly unsure of himself, and began focusing his attention on his pizza. She glanced over at him with a dropped jaw. She didn’t know that he could sing. And to hear his perfect mouth and voice sing those words…
“That’s a beautiful song. Who is it by?”
“It’s called You and Me by Matthew Barber, a local musician. Did you catch that line — the one about virtue and vice? I guess we know which term applies to each of us.”
“It’s beautiful but sad.”
“I’ve always had a terrible weakness for beautiful but sad things.” He looked at her carefully before turning away. “I suppose we should begin discussing your thesis proposal now, Miss Mitchell.”
Julia saw that his professional mask was firmly in place once again. She took a deep breath and began describing her project, invoking the names of Paolo and Francesca and Dante and Beatrice, when she was interrupted by Gabriel’s phone.
The ring tone sounded like the clanging of Big Ben. He lifted a finger to indicate Julia should pause while he glanced down at his iPhone’s screen.
Something disturbing flew across his face.
“I have to take this. I’m sorry.” Gabriel stood up and answered his phone in one swift motion. “Paulina?”
He walked into the next room, but Julia could still hear him. “What’s wrong? Where are you?” His voice grew muffled.
Julia busied herself with her beer and her dinner, wondering who Paulina was. She had never heard the name before. Gabriel had looked deeply troubled when he saw whatever it was that he saw on the phone’s screen.
Is M. P. Emerson — Paulina? Is she his ex-wife? Or is M. P. a code for something and he’s just messing with me?
Gabriel returned about fifteen minutes later. He did not sit down. He was agitated in the extreme, pale-faced and almost shaking.
“I have to go. I’m sorry. I paid for dinner, and I asked Christopher to find you a taxi when you finish.”
“I can walk.” Julia leaned over to pick up her messenger bag.
He held his hand out to stop her. “Absolutely not. Not late at night on Yonge Street by yourself. Here.” He pushed a folded bill across the table.
“For the cab and in case you want more to eat and drink. Please stay and finish your dinner. And take the leftovers home, will you?”
“I can’t take your money.” She moved as if to hand him back the bill, and he gave her a tremulous look.
“Please, Julianne. Not now.” He was rubbing his eyes with one hand.
She felt sorry for him so she decided not to argue.
“I’m sorry I have to leave you. I…”
He was sorry, very sorry, about something. He was in anguish, groaning involuntarily. Without thinking about it, she slipped her hand into his, a movement of compassion and solidarity. She was surprised when he didn’t flinch or throw her hand back at her.
He squeezed her fingers immediately, as if he was grateful for the contact. He opened his eyes and looked down at her and slowly began to move his fingers across the back of her hand, caressing her lightly. It was all so comfortable and sweet. As if he’d done it a thousand times. As if she belonged to him. He pulled her hand upward, close to his mouth, and stared at their connection.
“Here’s the smell of blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,” he whispered. Gabriel kissed her hand reverently, but it was his own hand he was staring at. “Goodnight, Julianne. I’ll see you on Wednesday — if I’m still here.”