Gabriel's Rapture (Gabriel's Inferno #2)(25)
Julia’s countenance fell.
Gabriel stroked her cheek with his finger. “I thought you wanted to go to Harvard.”
“It’s so far away.”
“Only a short flight.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “We can see each other on weekends and holidays. I applied for a sabbatical. It’s possible that I could come with you for the first year.”
“I’ll be there for six years. Or more.” She was close to tears now. Gabriel saw them swimming and shimmering in her eyes and his heart ached.
“We’ll make it work,” his voice grew rough. “Right now, we need to enjoy the time we have together. Let me worry about the future. I’ll make sure we aren’t separated.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her.
“The advantage to dating an older, more established man is that he can give you room to focus on your own career. I’ll find a way to make my job fit around yours.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“It would be grossly unfair to expect you to give up your dream of being a professor or to have you enroll in a program that is subpar. I won’t let you sacrifice your dreams for me.” He grinned. “Now kiss me, and let me know that you trust me.”
“I trust you.”
Gabriel held her in his arms, sighing as she rested her head on his chest.
Chapter 7
Christa Peterson sat in her parents’ house in north Toronto, checking her email a few days before Christmas. She’d been ignoring her inbox for a week. A relationship she had cultivated in addition to her pursuit of Professor Emerson had run its course, which meant that she wouldn’t be skiing in Whistler, British Columbia, with her erstwhile lover over the Christmas holidays.
The banker in question had broken up with her via text message. This was in poor taste, to be sure, but what would be in even poorer taste would be the follow-up email that was sure to be waiting for her, like a ticking bomb lurking in her inbox.
Having steeled herself with a glass or two of vintage Bollinger champagne, which she had purchased as a gift for the schmuck who was supposed to take her skiing, she checked her account. And there, sitting in her email, was a bomb. However, it was not the bomb she’d expected.
To say that she was surprised by the content of Professor Pacciani’s email would have been an understatement. In fact, she felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her.
The only Canadian woman she had ever seen Professor Emerson show even restrained affection to was Professor Ann Singer. Yes, Christa had seen Emerson with various women at Lobby, but never the same woman twice. He was friendly with other female professors and staff, but only professionally so, greeting them always and only with a firm handshake. Professor Singer, in contrast, was rewarded with a double kiss when he greeted her after his last public lecture.
Christa did not want to rekindle her relationship with Professor Pacciani. He was sorely lacking in a particular physical respect, and she had no wish to return to the previous intimate encounters that had always left her frustrated and wanting. She had standards, after all, and any man who did not measure up to at least the size of her personal service accessory was not worth screwing.
(And she would have said you could quote her.)
Since she wanted more information about Professor Emerson’s fiancée, she feigned interest in a spring rendezvous with Professor Pacciani and subtly asked for the fiancée’s name. Then she went downstairs and finished off the rest of the champagne.
* * *
The day before Christmas found Julia sitting at the counter of Kinfolks restaurant in Selinsgrove, having lunch with her father. Gabriel was doing some last minute shopping with Richard while Rachel and Aaron drove to the grocery store to pick up the turkey. Scott was still in Philadelphia with his girlfriend.
Tom had faithfully delivered Julia’s gift from Paul. She’d placed it on the floor at her feet, and now it was staring up at her, begging for attention like a puppy.
She opened it, deciding it was better to display its contents to her father than to her boyfriend. She gave the bottle of maple syrup to Tom with a smile, she giggled at the toy Holstein and kissed it, but when she unwrapped the Dante and Beatrice figurines her face grew pale. It was almost as if Paul knew. And yet, he couldn’t have known that Gabriel and Julia were Dante and Beatrice, at least to each other.
While Tom ate his blue plate special—turkey with stuffing and mashed potatoes—Julia opened Paul’s card. It displayed children engaged in a snowball fight and the typical Merry Christmas emblazoned on the front. But it was the words that Paul wrote in his own hand that brought a lump to her throat.
Merry Christmas, Rabbit.
I know it was a rough first semester and I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of helping you when you needed it. I’m proud of you for not quitting. With a big Vermont hug
from your friend, Paul.
P.S. I don’t know if you’ve heard Sarah McLachlan’s “Wintersong,” but part of it made me think of you.
Julia didn’t know the song that he was referring to, so the lyrics he omitted did not run through her mind as she examined the card’s artwork more closely. In the center of the image of a snowball fight stood a little girl with long, dark hair in a bright red coat, laughing.
The quotation, the picture, the card, the gift—Paul had tried to keep his feelings secret, she thought, but he’d betrayed himself. It was all in the picture of the laughing girl and the song that she would listen to later.