Page 7 of The Naughty Professor
The service finally ended.I’d barely registered anything after my awkward shuffle to the podium, but at least nothing catastrophic had happened.My words had been short, clumsy, but sincere.No bouquets toppled, no podium fires.That counted as a win in my book.
The dean cleared his throat and announced, “There are refreshments in the room across the hall.”
Nobody ever talked to me at faculty functions, so I was about to head home.But a jeweled hand clamped onto my arm.“Felix, darling, you’re coming with me.”
I turned to see Lorna Hernandez, the university’s drama queen in every sense of the term.
She was in her sixties, plump and radiant in a peacock-blue shawl.Her hair blazed red, not the muted auburn of nature but the screaming crimson of a stoplight.Her eyelids shimmered in purple shadow, her lips were cherry red, and her ears drooped under the weight of rhinestone chandeliers.Rings glittered on every finger like she’d mugged Liberace.
“I don’t want to go alone,” she said, tugging me toward the door before I could protest.“Come on, I need someone to gossip with.”
Resistance was futile.
The “refreshments room” was a small lounge across the hall, with bland beige walls and a sad folding table in the middle.On the table sat two open boxes of wine, a sad cheese platter, and plastic cups.
The only people there were the dean—still fiddling with his note cards—and the young student who’d spoken earlier, twisting her tissues into damp ropes.
“Oh, how festive,” Lorna announced as though she’d just entered a royal ball.She snatched up two cups, filled them to the brim with wine, and handed me one.“Drink up, honey.It’s not very good, but it’s free.”
The dean patted the student’s shoulder, then turned to me.“Dr.Sterling, thank you again for your kind words.”His gaze flitted to Lorna, then back to the door.“I’m afraid I must run—urgent business.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I blinked at the empty doorway.“Urgent business” apparently trumped mourning a man who’d given his life to this place.
Lorna, unfazed, turned to the student with her broadest smile.“Darling, what a touching tribute you gave.Absolutely luminous.”
The girl hiccupped a sob.“I—I have to go,” she stammered, bolting from the room in a trail of tears.
That left just me, Lorna, and two boxes of wine.
I hovered near the table, wondering if I could invent an excuse—papers to grade, lab to check, cat to feed—though I didn’t have a cat.
Lorna raised her plastic cup.“Well.Just us hens now.”She drained half of it in one gulp, smacked her lips, and refilled it.
I sipped mine carefully, the sweetness burning faintly down my throat.
Then Lorna leaned in, lowering her voice like we were conspirators.“Alastair was such a rascal.An absolute rascal.”
I blinked.“Rascal?”
She nodded gravely, jewels clinking on her wrists.“Oh yes.The old queen was never wanting for company.”
I choked on my wine.“Professor Greene was… gay?”
“Of course he was, darling.Didn’t you know?”
“No!I mean—he was in his eighties!”
She laughed, a husky, theatrical sound.“Please.Age never stopped Alastair.Years ago we used to go to gay bars together.Back then he was about the same age I am now.”Lorna coughed and muttered, “thirty-nine.”She glared, as if challenging me to say otherwise.“He’d swan in, tweed jacket and all, and leave with the prettiest boy in the room.Always.”
My brain reeled.I’d known Alastair as a kindly old man who quoted Herodotus over soup.I couldn’t picture him prowling a dance floor.Damn it, why did I always miss the important stuff?
Lorna topped off her glass again.“Ah, those were the days.”
I hesitated, then gulped the rest of mine and poured another.The wine buzzed pleasantly through my veins.“Did you… I mean, do you know much about Thorne?”
She gave me a sly look.“Oh, so that’s where your mind’s at.”
