The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(11)
The Dean didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then he slowly rose from his seat and walked to the door. Before he closed it, he leaned his head back in.
“Times are changing, Tom. We need you to change with them.” He paused, then added, “See you on Friday.”
9
Tom arrived home at 7.30. After storming out of the law school and grabbing some lunch, he’d returned to coach the trial team through its first practice of the semester. He was still pissed about his talk with the Dean, but there was nothing he could do about it. Like it or not, Dick Lambert was his boss. He would go to the Board meeting, and see what happened. Though the makeup of the Board had changed a lot in the last two years, there were still members whom Tom had known for over twenty years. Tom doubted Dick was really talking about a majority of the Board’s concerns. But it’s obvious he wants me out, Tom thought, remembering his four fallen colleagues.
He grabbed a Michelob Light from the fridge and walked into the den to find Musso sprawled out on the couch. A sixty-five-pound solid white English Bulldog, Johnny Musso McMurtrie was a little big to be left alone in the den and, for that matter, a little hairy and messy – can you say slobber? – to be left on the couch. But Julie was gone and Tom really didn’t give a damn about a little hair and slobber.
“How’s my big boy?” At the sound of Tom’s voice, Musso was off the couch in the blink of an eye and nearly knocked Tom down in his excitement. Standing and shaking in front of his master, Musso licked his dry mouth and made a loud throat-clearing noise that shook the house. Tom grabbed him behind his ears and petted him, then stroked his back a couple of times, making Musso’s hind leg jerk repetitively until Tom stopped.
“You need to go out, big boy?” Behind the couch were two French doors that opened to a porch that looked out over a fenced-in backyard. Tom walked past the couch and Musso followed right on his heels. As he opened the door, Musso tore out of it barking loudly to announce his presence to any would-be critters or animals that had dare to set foot in the backyard of Musso McMurtrie. Tom sat down in one of the two rocking chairs on the porch and watched his dog scamper around. He took a long sip of beer and his eyes drifted to the third finger of his left hand, where he still wore the wedding ring that Julie had slipped on his finger forty-five years ago next month. He ran his thumb over the ring, and closed his eyes.
It had been almost three years since Julie died. On a Saturday morning three Januarys ago, they had taken a shower together after a long walk, and Julie asked him to feel her right breast. Tom made a smartass sexual comment before realizing that Julie was being serious. When he felt the breast, the lump was unmistakable. One office visit and a laundry list of tests later, and Julie was diagnosed with breast cancer. She went through two months of treatment – medication, radiation, the works. But on April 17, 2007, at 3.42pm on a beautiful sunny afternoon, Julie McMurtrie died.
Tom would not – could not – forget that moment. He had been holding her hand. He did not cry or break down, at least not then. He leaned over and whispered, “I love you” into Julie’s ear, gently closed her eyes, and walked out of the room to tell their son. Tommy had tried to be stoic like his father, but it was no use. He cried and they hugged for what must have been ten minutes, Tom stroking the back of his son’s head as the tears fell. A thirty-five year-old doctor who lived in Nashville with his wife, Nancy, and two children, Jackson and Jenny, Tommy had been a momma’s boy from the day he was born. And his mother’s death hit him and his family hard. They had all stayed for a week after her death, helped Tom with the funeral arrangements, and, in general, tried to be a comfort. But Tom couldn’t let it go. Not in front of his boy. He knew that if Tommy saw him cry it would make his son cry some more. Nancy would cry, the kids would cry, everyone would cry, and Tom didn’t want any more of that. Julie would not have wanted that.
After they had all left, Tom got on McFarland Boulevard and stopped at the first convenience store he came to. He bought a twelve-pack of Michelob Light, came back home and spent the rest of the day on the porch. Crying. Crying like he had never cried in his life. He cried for Julie and he cried for himself and he cried for his son and he cried for his grandchildren who would never get to know the greatest woman that ever walked the face of God’s earth. He had woken up that night around midnight, five or six empty beer bottles scattered all over the porch. He had picked up the trash and gone to bed. But, since that day, he tried to spend as much time on this porch as he could. Julie had loved rocking on the porch, and Tom could feel her presence when he was out here, her beautiful blue eyes, watching down from what must be the highest point in heaven. And it felt good.
Tom’s right hand felt moist and, looking down, he saw Musso licking it and nuzzling his wet nose against it. He picked Musso’s paws up off the floor and placed them on his knees, looking at his dog in the eyes.
“What are we gonna do, big boy? You miss Momma, don’t you?” He took a deep breath and Musso leaned over and licked him on the face. Wiping almost dry tears from his eyes, Tom rose from the chair, whispering under his breath, “I miss Momma too.”
He walked back into the house, opened the freezer and scanned its contents. The beer, now empty, had made him hungrier than when he had walked in the door. What he really wanted was a cheeseburger and fries and maybe a couple more beers, but he instead chose a Healthy Choice frozen dinner.