Free Time of Departure by Douglas Schofield Page A

conclusion.”
    â€œMaybe it’s fate.”
    â€œI doubt that.” I sharpened my tone. “I’ve been strongly advised to stay away from you.”
    â€œBy your boss.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œBut you’re calling me.”
    â€œYes. I want you to explain to me why I should ignore his advice.”
    â€œIt would be easier to show you.”
    *   *   *
    The address was a loft apartment not far from the U of F campus. It was dark when I arrived. I parked on the street and locked my car. I walked to the building. There was a keypad console next to the main entrance. Before my finger could locate the correct button, the lock buzzed. I entered the lobby, took the elevator, and followed the numbers to his apartment door.
    I was about to knock when the door swung open.
    Hastings was standing there, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, pleated slacks, and a complacent expression.
    Okay, maybe not complacent, but a bit too satisfied. I remained where I was and said, “This feels like a big mistake.”
    He smiled. “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”
    â€œSounds like something you read on a bumper sticker.”
    â€œIt is.” He moved aside. I hesitated, and then I stepped into the apartment.
    It was more spacious than I’d expected. Straight ahead was a modern kitchen, and to the right a stylish living room. A short corridor leading off the far end of the living room hinted at bedrooms beyond.
    I followed Hastings into the living room. One entire wall was covered by bookshelves and an entertainment center. A curved nautical-style staircase led to the floor above.
    â€œThey said you moved away years ago.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œAnd this?”
    â€œI moved back.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œTwo months ago. Would you like a drink?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œI have an ’83 Margaux.”
    I blinked. “You have a what?”
    â€œA bottle of Château Margaux, vintage 1983. I thought you might join me in savoring that noble year.”
    I felt my knees go weak. Memories washed over me. Second year at Harvard. The handsome constitutional law instructor I had fallen for during the fall term. The sparkling intellect and the lean body that seduced me. The passion for French wines that charmed me. The thrill I felt when I drained my meager savings to buy him a Premier grand cru birthday present … and the devastating pain and humiliation I felt when the snake accepted the wine, kissed my cheek, and dumped me for Rosalie Webb, one of my classmates—a slattern with cheerleader looks and sensational breasts who’d been pretending to be my friend.
    I glared at Hastings. “Okay, what’s your game?”
    â€œThere’s no game, Claire.”
    I raised my voice. “Damned right there’s a game! Who the hell are you?”
    â€œI’m the best friend you’ll ever have.” He must have sensed that I was about to turn on my heel and leave, because he cleverly settled into a soft chair and said, in the kindest tone, “Do sit for a minute.”
    Fuming, I dropped onto the near end of the sofa.
    â€œI’m very happy you came,” he said, “and it is important that you stay.”
    â€œHow could you know about the Margaux?” I demanded. My voice was shaking.
    â€œLet’s just say I spoke with someone from your Harvard class.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI’d rather not say, but I was also told that you almost failed the year because of that particular swine.” As he spoke, his eyes went hard, as if it were him and not me who had been betrayed.
    I looked at him in wonder. What he said was true. Assistant Professor Robert Vance, the teacher I’d been so naively infatuated with, had ended our relationship two weeks before final exams. Instead of pushing the bastard out of my mind and bearing down on my work, I’d allowed my