LITMIR.BIZ

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      To

      Susan Litman, who kept her cool while coordinating six authors

      MARIE FERRARELLA

      This RITA^® Award-winning author has written over one hundred and fifty books for Silhouette, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide.

      Dear Jane,

      I bet you can’t count the number of times I caught you looking my way in our English class! Just kidding—I’m flattered. Who wouldn’t be—you’re the prettiest girl in the room. If I’m in town over the summer, I’ll look you up—maybe we can get together sometime and talk about Shakespeare.

      Your friend,

      Smith

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      “I miss you, Mary.” Professor Gilbert Harrison sighed, feeling the ache go deep into his chest like a long, sharp serrated knife. “I miss your beautiful smile.”

      Standing in his cluttered second-floor office at Saunders University, his hands clasped helplessly behind his back, the professor gazed at the framed photograph of his late wife, which sat on his bookshelf.

      Wedged in between stacks of books he’d long since forgotten about, it was the photograph he had taken of Mary about a year after they’d gotten married. In it she was young, vibrant, with the joy of life sparkling in her eyes. It reflected the woman he had locked in his heart. Mary, the way he always pictured her each time his mind summoned her image. And Gilbert summoned that image as often as there were hours in the day.

      Even now, eight months after she’d died so suddenly of a heart ailment neither one of them had known she’d had, leaving him to face the world on his own, hardly an hour went by when something didn’t bring his thoughts back to her.

      He’d never really been aware of just how much he depended on her, just how much his sweet, quiet, steadfast Mary had been his rock, his haven, when times were bad. Just having her to come home to had been a comfort.

      There was no such comfort available to him now.

      And soon, he thought sadly, there might not even be a home, for he lived just off the campus in a cozy two-story house provided by the university.

      What the university giveth, it taketh away, he thought without humor. And because of Alexander Broadstreet, the board of directors seemed bent on taking away his job as swiftly as it could.

      “They’re trying to get rid of me, Mary,” he told the photograph sadly. “Trying to squeeze me out.” He’d sensed it for a while now, tried not to think about it. But the efforts had gone into high gear since he’d failed to take any of the “hints” thrown his way. They used excuses, saying things like “early retirement” and perhaps he should look into taking an extended sabbatical abroad. But he knew what they were really saying. “Get ye gone.” Gilbert sighed, shaking his head. “Extended sabbatical abroad. What would I ever do abroad by myself? All I ever wanted to do was to stay here, to teach and do some good. And be with you.”

      Staring at the photograph again, he ran his hand over his full mane of dark graying hair. “I’m tired, Mary. For two cents, I’d go—if you were still here to go along with me. But you’re not, and this is all I’ve ever known how to do.” He raised his chin proudly, struggling to remain the fighter he knew his wife would have wanted him to be. “Besides, I’m not some doddering octogenarian, I’m only fifty-eight. Fifty-eight,” he repeated more heatedly. “And I’ve still got a lot left to give to the university. To the students.”

      And then he frowned, a glint hardening his eyes. Besides he was not about to give Alex Broadstreet the satisfaction of giving him the bum’s rush. Gilbert Harrison had been at Saunders long before Broadstreet, and he planned on being there long after the board of directors asked Broadstreet to leave. The satisfaction in that image made him smile at the photo. “Try to get rid of me, will he? We’ll show him, right? Right?”

      His words echoed back to him, absorbed by the dust and clutter in the room that had basically been the same since he’d taken it thirty-one years ago.

      Gilbert suddenly felt old, despite his words. He felt not unlike the fictional Don Quixote, tilting at windmills and sensing the futility of it deep in his bones.

      “Oh, Lord, I wish you were here, Mary. You always knew what to do, what to say, to make me feel better. Even when things were darkest.” An ironic smile curved his lips.

      Reaching out, he traced his fingertips along the glass that separated him from the face he loved, wishing he could touch her just one more time. Have her look at him like that just once more.

      “You were always the person I could turn to.” And then, as it always did, that nagging little voice from deep inside of him whispered recriminatingly in his head. His one indiscretion weighed heavily on him as always. Mary had never known, but that didn’t lessen the guilt. It was not something he was proud of.

      He sighed. Thank God she’d never found out. He would have rather died than to ever hurt Mary. And then an ironic smile slipped over his lips. “Of course, you know now, don’t you? You’re in the position to know everything now.” He blinked, his shame for the affair a burden he’d never lost despite the years he spent trying to make it up to his wife.

      He resumed pacing, careful to avoid knocking over any of the files on the floor. In some places they were stacked calf-high. Maybe his current troubles were pay-back, then. Except, somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to think of Mary as being vengeful in the afterlife.

      At the window now, he looked out onto the rolling green of the campus. Soon it would be filled with students again, another year beginning. A year he meant to be a part of.

      Even as he sought to cleave to the thought of surviving this game the board was playing with him, his thoughts turned to Broadstreet, the man who was spear-heading the none-too-secret campaign to oust him. What had Broadstreet called him in one of his arguments? Old-fashioned, that was it.

      Gilbert looked over his shoulder to his wife’s

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