Free Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death by Sheila Connolly

adding character lines rather than wrinkles to his face. He scanned the crowd and noticed me watching him, and he turned up the power of his smile. Nope, I’d never known him, but I found myself blushing anyway. Cynthia was right: this was going to be interesting.
    People continued to drift in, in ones and twos, until all the chairs were filled and there were people sitting on throw pillows around the perimeter: it looked as though the majority of our group was here. Either everyone was fascinated by Renaissance poetry or they had heard the echoes of long-ago rumors and were curious. Or worse—been fodder for the rumors. At fifteen minutes past the scheduled time, Barbara tallied the room and turned to the professor, nodding at the crowd. He dipped his head in reply, a curiously courtly gesture, and stepped up to the podium. And turned on the smile.
    “We won’t be needing this, will we?” He pushed the podium out of the way. “Welcome, ladies. I’m flattered that so many of you have chosen to come listen to an aging scholar when so many other delightful options present themselves.”
    He paused and waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention.
    “In the event that you don’t remember, I taught at Wellesley College for many years. It was my first professional position, and I never left—that must seem unusual to you in these peripatetic times. But I felt that I had found my home, my niche, and I saw no reason to go elsewhere. I took retirement a few years ago—the New England winters were becoming increasingly onerous and I had purchased a small place not far from here quite some time ago, with an eye to spending my last days on Tuscan soil. Gerry and Barbara were kind enough to invite me to speak to you today, and I am honored to do so.”
    Again he looked over the crowd, a winsome half smile on his face. “I wish I could say I remembered who among you graced my classes all those years ago, but my memory blurs, save for the words of the poet, emblazoned upon my soul. I won’t bore you with my academic prose, but I would like to speak of some of the earlier Italian poets, particularly Dante, who spent time in this lovely region. I do keep up with what my younger colleagues are doing at the college, and I see that there is a course on desire in Italian literature—this is the course I would love to have taught had the times been different then. Of course, one may interpret desire in many ways …”
    At that point I tuned out on the details and watched the show he put on. He was still handsome—and he knew it. While I had no doubt the course he had referenced did exist at the college, he had made a point of introducing the element of sexuality in his talk, in a room full of aging women, some of whom may have lusted after him from afar—or even acted on it. He could have talked about flower symbolism or the role of the Medicis as patrons of the arts, but instead he talked of sensuality. He knew exactly what he was doing.
    I turned to Cynthia. “He’s good, isn’t he?” I whispered.
    “He always was,” she replied in a whisper. “He’s got our crowd all stirred up, eh?”
    I was both amused and horrified by her comment, in equal parts, but she was right. The old letch. Many of the audience were eating it up, but others weren’t. Surreptitiously I counted heads: there were several people missing. Taking a nap? Walking in the hills? Or avoiding Anthony Gilbert?
    He spoke without notes for over an hour without losing his audience. He was charming, witty, and erudite. The applause when he gracefully wrapped up his talk was sincere, and the follow-up questions lasted another half hour. Finally he said, “Ladies—and Gerry—I mustn’t keep you any longer. Your hosts have graciously invited me to share dinner with you and to spend the night, to spare me the drive back over these uncertain roads.” That last comment brought a laugh from several people. “Let us continue our discourse over drinks