LITMIR.BIZ

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a private club.

      Gen handed the typed sheet back to Margaret without any markings on it, but the girl refused it and made no move to leave. Instead, Margaret settled in her chair like she was readying for an extended gab session with a friend. “Oh, you can toss that,” she said. “I can’t believe I came up with such a silly topic when there’s so much else to talk about. Could you tell me more about Matthew Brady, Dr. Rider?”

      Gen stood to end the meeting, running a hand down the side of her slim skirt to smooth it. “Now, I can’t do your work for you, Margaret. That’s for you to research. I do hope you enjoy the book.”

      Margaret stared at her in surprise for a moment, then gathered up her books and left with an apology for taking too much of her time.

      ✥ ✥ ✥

      A brown paper lunch bag tied with satiny pink ribbon nestled in her department mailbox late that afternoon. No tag, no note. Inside was a small stash of Hershey’s kisses, already starting to soften in the heat.

      The secretary told Gen she didn’t know how the bag got there. “So many people in and out,” the young woman said over the clack of her typewriter keys. “Could have been anyone.”

      It wasn’t the first time a Baines girl had given Gen candy or another token of affection, but crushes had been more frequent when she was a young instructor closer to her students in age. Now forty-two with strands of gray in her hair and tortoise-shell reading glasses, Gen assumed her students all viewed her as a dour old lady.

      And the suggestion behind a gift of “kisses” unnerved her slightly. She was still staring at the bag with a mix of confusion and concern when her colleague Henry Thoms passed directly behind her to fetch his own mail from the box below hers. He was so close she caught a whiff of his Old Spice.

      “Secret admirer?” he asked.

      Gen noted the hint of sarcasm in his patrician voice, the way “secret” sounded almost dirty. Thoms was not a fan of hers and may very well have voted against her tenure. She would never know for sure as those votes were confidential, but she had once overheard him tut-tutting to the chairman. “All that Negro nonsense. As if there weren’t more worthy subjects for research. Really, it tarnishes the department.” Although she hadn’t heard her name on Thoms’s tongue, no one else in the department qualified as a scholar of “Negro nonsense.”

      Gen extended the bag toward Thoms. She reckoned teasing was the best way to deal with her nemesis, the highest-ranking history faculty member after the chairman. “Perhaps these kisses were meant for you, Henry. I’ve gotten your mail by mistake before. Help yourself.”

      Thoms smiled and reached into the bag. “Perhaps just one.” He unwrapped the foil and plopped the sweet into his mouth.

      She was about to leave but Thoms engaged her again. “Heard you’re assigning that Woodward book this term, Virginia. The Jim Crow one.” He never used her nickname, insisting that her given name was so much more fitting and elegant.

      Gen winced at his perfunctory reference to a distinguished text. “I am indeed,” she replied, though she wondered how he knew. She hadn’t discussed her syllabus with anyone in the department, so news about her required reading must have reached Thoms from a student—another unsettling thought. “It’s definitive on the decades after Reconstruction.”

      Thoms shrugged. “The jury’s still out on that,” he said, wiping traces of the soft chocolate from his mouth with his handkerchief. “I’ve a mind to write a review of his new one. Southern history as a burden, indeed.”

      She pursed her lips, holding her thoughts in. Did he also know that she planned to write a review? Thoms enjoyed provoking her, but she refused to take the bait. “Another kiss for the road, Henry?”

      He waved off the offer. “Wouldn’t want Mrs. Thoms to smell it on my breath.”

      “Well, you give her my very best.”

      Gen escaped with her mail and the bag of kisses before Thoms could get in another combative word. She intended to save the candy for Halloween, but instead she ate the chocolate drops one by one throughout the weekend.

      Chapter Three

      Fenton

      In summer and early fall, Fenton’s flat reminded him of a treehouse. The rooms huddled on the top floor of a stately old home, and leafy willow oak branches brushed the windows, shielding him from the rest of the world. He’d become accustomed to thinking of his space as a haven from prying eyes.

      Until Mark Patton was arrested and the Springboro mayor announced a crackdown on “vice.” The police had raided Mark’s apartment and office and carted off whatever they fancied they needed to prove their case against him. Mark’s landlord had changed the locks, leaving him sleeping on a friend’s couch after he made bail. He called to ask Fenton if he could stay a night or two with him. “Till I can get something more permanent.” What worried Fenton was that the “permanent” place might be state prison.

      “It’s awfully cramped up here, old chap, as you know.” His compact apartment was a combination living room-bedroom with a double hot plate for meals and a bathroom the size of a closet. During their four-month affair, he and Mark had spent most of their evenings at Mark’s roomier one-bedroom. “And my couch is so hideously uncomfortable; well, you can barely call it a couch at all.”

      A sigh traveled from Mark’s end of the line. “You don’t need to make up excuses, Fen. I’ve heard them all, and I get it. The thing is, I’m not allowed to leave town and nobody wants to associate with me. I implicated the friends who posted bail for me just by getting in touch with them. I’d be better off back in the town jail.”

      “Don’t say that. No one’s better off in that hole.” Guilt hit Fenton like a punch in the gut, and he considered relenting. If he snuck Mark up the back stairs late at night, maybe. Or would Gen take him in for a night? She had a spare room with a comfy sofa bed, but Mark and Gen knew each other only casually, and it was a lot to ask.

      After an awkward pause in which Fenton didn’t offer anything, Mark’s tone switched to resigned. “I do need to tell you something. And not on the phone.”

      Mark suggested they meet in the town library, and Fenton hesitated. Two years earlier, toying with the possibility of changing what he called his “habits,” he’d had a handful of chaste dates with the children’s librarian, a World War II widow about Gen’s age. He abruptly stopped calling her when he realized the folly of it and had avoided the library ever since. But the children’s room sat at the back of the library, and he reasoned he could hurry to another floor without the woman spotting him.

      Fenton proposed a spot in the stacks on the third floor, past the dustiest genealogical materials that no one but the town historian ever consulted. In another time, he and Mark would have hugged each other upon meeting up. Now Fenton kept his arms at his sides, as did Mark, like strangers who just happened to arrive in the deserted stacks at the same moment.

      Mark’s face looked gray, and circles ringed his eyes. He swiped his hand across his face. “I know I look like shit.”

      “You’ve been through a lot.”

      Mark came to the point in a whisper. “Listen, Fen, the police took a lot of stuff from my apartment. Some things that might affect guys like you. I thought you should know.”

      Fenton’s mind raced through the possibilities. Mark had amassed a stunning collection of beefcake photo magazines with names like Physique Pictorial and Tomorrow’s Man. He had spent a small fortune on the literature, buying it on trips to New York and Greece, and he shared it liberally with friends.

      Did Mark ever take photos of him? Not that he recalled. They never wrote each other notes or letters. No need, as they worked in the same building and could steal moments between classes to arrange assignations.

      “I don’t see how

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