Chapter 30

As the weather warmed, I came to the conclusion that spring is a great time to be a guy on a college campus. T-shirts and halter tops replaced long-sleeve shirts. Short skirts and even shorter shorts replaced jeans and slacks. Arms and legs and cleavage appeared, creamy and white from the winter, ready to freckle and tan.

My sunburn faded, but Wren still teased me about it (“And what were you doing in South Carolina, that you got sunburned down there?”). She’d come back from Spring Break with an all-over tan, so she knew exactly what I’d been doing in South Carolina. Christy’s surfing tan had deepened, highlighting her blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Even Kendall tanned better than I did, despite her winter-fair complexion.

Kendall, Abby, Trip, and I spent a couple of afternoons at the UT pool, but so did hundreds of other students. We quickly decided that we’d rather spend time at Abby’s house instead, since it had a perfectly nice pool. So I got to work on my tan—with sunblock—and I spent the time reading for English class, working calculus problems, or doing any of a dozen other things my professors demanded.

The time by the pool was enjoyable, but since I was usually doing schoolwork, it wasn’t nearly as relaxing as modeling. When I posed for Siobhan’s classes, my mind roamed free. Unfortunately, Kendall had grown bored with modeling, and felt she could spend the time better, reading or doing schoolwork.

Wren and I had settled into a comfortable routine, and we talked as much as we flirted. We still had an undercurrent of mutual attraction, but neither of us openly pursued it. Christy and I spent our time together on our bench, which was another source of relaxation. She was easy to be around, and when she wasn’t chattering happily, she was a good listener.

We spent most of our time drawing, though, which suited me fine. I even asked her to give me tips on drawing people, although I remembered the basics from high school art class. I knew I’d never have her deft touch, but I could see definite improvement when I leafed through my sketches.

For her part, Christy asked me to show her how to draw buildings. She had the basic skills, but her hand was freer than mine, less precise. Her eye saw things differently, too; where I saw straight lines and geometric shapes, she saw colors and textures and shades of light and dark. With a few gentle strokes of her pencil, she could change the emotion of a drawing, but she couldn’t easily capture the beauty of a Greek temple’s symmetry and classical proportions.

I chuckled about that more than once, but then I thought about my drawings of people. I could breathe life into a complex Beaux-Arts façade, but I couldn’t capture simple facial expressions. The people in my drawings were stiff and still, nothing like the ones who imbued Christy’s sketchpad with life. I think she admired my talent as much as I admired hers, as different as they were. She had a gift I could only recognize, never imitate. But I realized I had an inimitable gift as well. I couldn’t explain it, but I saw the “rightness” or “wrongness” of a building at a glance.

“I do the same thing with drawings of people,” Christy said. “I can’t explain it either, but I can just look at a sketch and it’s either ‘right’ or ‘wrong.’ But the problem is, I can’t explain what’s ‘wrong’ with it, or tell someone how to do it ‘right.’ Siobhan can, and that’s what makes her such a great teacher. I’ve learned more from her than I ever did in high school.”

I nodded.

“Nobu could do the same thing,” Christy mused, “but not about drawings of people or buildings or anything like that. He just had a way of looking at ... the world, I guess.” She shrugged. “He could see the beauty in anything. I think that’s why I like Buddhism so much. It’s more a way of looking at things than an actual religion.”

“Is that why you don’t see a problem being a Buddhist Catholic?” I asked, more teasing than serious.

“Absolutely,” she said, taking me seriously, “although Simon thinks I’m crazy. He’s an atheist, which I think is crazy. That’s another reason my father doesn’t like him.” Suddenly, she cocked her head to the side and studied me. “What’re you?”

“What am I what?”

“Are you Protestant? Atheist? What?”

I shrugged. “I never really thought about it. I mean, I didn’t go to church growing up. I believe in God and all, but I guess I’m not really religious.”

“Why not? Don’t you want something to believe in?”

Once again, I shrugged. “I guess I believe in me. Yeah, God probably had a bit to do with the way I am, but He gave me free will, didn’t He?”

“He did,” she said, almost solemnly.

“So unless God’s controlling my actions—”

“He isn’t.”

“—I guess I’m responsible for what I do. As much as I don’t like to admit it sometimes,” I added, sotto voce. I searched my feelings about God, but then shrugged. “I guess I don’t think about it much.”

“You should come to Mass with me sometime,” she said. “I think you’d like it. I don’t go very often, but I really enjoy the Consecration. It’s ... peaceful ... and I feel so close to God. I mean, I’m the next best thing to a lapsed Catholic, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it when I go.”

“Why don’t you go very often?”

“One of the things I’ve never really liked about the Catholic Church is the idea that I need a priest to talk to God. If God loves each and every one of us—and I know He does—then I should be able to talk to Him whenever I want.” She leaned over in an aside: “Don’t tell my father that, though. Or my brother Harry, for that matter.” She rolled her eyes. Then she grinned, her eyes dancing with mirth. “I’ve never been partial to the ‘no sex before marriage’ thing either.” She laughed at my expression. “Definitely don’t tell my father about that.”

“Oh, I won’t,” I said, fighting not to laugh.

As we went back to drawing, my imagination wandered. Not surprisingly, I thought about Wren and Christy together, caressing each other with soft lips and insistent fingers. Fortunately, my sketchpad hid my erection, but it was a long time before I could concentrate well enough to finish my drawing.

A long time indeed.

At the end of April, Trip and I flew to Franklin for the house closings. Coincidentally, we entered the landing pattern one plane behind my parents, who were in our family Cessna. Trip’s father arrived a few minutes after we finished fueling the planes, and after greetings all around, we drove to the bank.

It was a local bank, but they agreed to loan money on our house in Atlanta, simply due to the strength of their relationship with Trip and his father. My parents and I completed the paperwork for the second mortgage on our family’s home, and with well-hidden nervousness, I signed and initialed my way into twenty thousand dollars of debt.

Our first house closing (the Colonial Revival) was scheduled for eleven o’clock, so we drove to the title company. Trip, Frank, and my father seemed completely blasé about the entire process, and I tried to affect the same self-assurance. My nerves were thrumming, though, and I had to fight not to fidget. My mother, perceptive as always, smiled at me confidently.

After lunch we returned to the title company to close on the Craftsman bungalows, which took nearly an hour and a half. With the stroke of a pen—many, many strokes, actually—I was in debt up to my proverbial eyeballs. Not counting the second mortgage, I was a joint signer on eighty thousand dollars of real estate. It was a stupendous amount of money, and my head swam with visions of all the things that could go wrong. Trip seemed to thrive on the challenge, though, and his mood had turned boisterous.

With the closings safely behind us, and three sets of keys in hand, we headed to the houses to take measurements so I could create accurate floor plans. We spent more than an hour in the Colonial Revival, and I filled a dozen pages of my sketchpad with drawings and dimensions (thank you, Professor Ledbetter!).

At the first Craftsman bungalow, we got lucky—incredibly lucky. When Trip stuck his head in the attic to see what was there, he discovered a large, crackling roll of paper. We spread the pages on the kitchen counter and shared a goofy, ear-to-ear grin.

“You know what these are, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically.

“Of course I do,” I said, gazing down at the deep blue paper. As I hastily scanned the drawings, I began to realize the magnitude of our discovery.

“What is it?” my mom asked as she entered the kitchen, drawn by the sound of our excitement.

“Construction blueprints,” I said. “Original construction blueprints, from the Twenties.”

With the plans in hand, I spent a half-hour making sure they reflected the actual layout of the house. After a cursory tour of the second house—which was identical—Frank drove us to meet the rest of his family for dinner.

Trip ordered a bottle of champagne, but Dad and I didn’t drink any, since we had to fly. Unfortunately, we spent too much time at the restaurant, and twilight greeted us when we left. Worse, clouds had moved in and the visibility looked marginal for VFR.

After a pull-no-punches conversation with my father, Trip and I decided to spend the night with the Whitmans. My parents could’ve flown home, but Trip’s stepmother insisted that they spend the night in the guest bedroom, and they graciously accepted. Later that evening Frank opened a bottle of champagne.

“To my son and his new partner,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “May they always find success.”

“Hear, hear,” my father said.

Trip grinned and I blushed as the others drank.

“To making a profit,” Trip toasted, and we drank again.

I felt I should say something, so, awkwardly, I stood. “I guess I just want to thank Trip,” I said. Despite my uncertainty, I plowed on. “I mean, he didn’t think twice before offering to make me his partner. I never even thought about what I wanted to do this summer, but Trip’s been confident in me since I met him, and I guess maybe some of that is starting to rub off.”

At that point, I grew uncomfortably aware that I was making the longest toast of the evening, and I hoped my cheeks weren’t as rosy as they felt. “So I guess I just want to say thanks, Trip, for having confidence in me. I won’t let you down.”

He smiled and flashed me a thumbs-up.

“Oh!” I said suddenly. “I also want to thank my parents for having confidence in me, too. Thousands of dollars of confidence.”

My father smiled reassuringly.

“And thanks to Frank and Darlene for letting us spend the night,” I added, embarrassed that I’d forgotten them in my rambling. With that, I decided that I shouldn’t make impromptu toasts, so I hurriedly thought up a suitable conclusion. “I guess I just want to say thanks to all of you, for having confidence in us, and for doing everything to make sure we succeed.”

“Hear, hear!” Frank cried. “Here’s to Whitman Hughes Homes, to confidence, and to success!”

I drained my glass in one swallow. I’m sure my face turned redder still, but after one look at my parents’ proud expressions, I didn’t care.

Trip and I actually had a bit of trouble on our return flight. President Reagan was in Knoxville to open the World’s Fair, and the Secret Service wanted to close the airspace around downtown. Fortunately, Earl Walker told them that we were students returning from a scheduled flight, so they allowed us to land.

Meeting the agents in their dark suits and sunglasses was a thrill I was willing to forgo, however. Still, we had a good story to tell at dinner that night with our friends. Christy surprised me by laughing when I got to the part about coming face to face with the dour agents.

“I always thought Secret Service men were handsome,” she said.

“Well, they’re not so handsome when they look like they want to shoot you,” I said.

Trip nodded emphatically.

Christy laughed again. “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t all that bad.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d met them,” I said.

“But I have met the Secret Service,” she said, almost sweetly.

Wren smirked.

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“Paul,” Christy said patiently, “my father commands a Carrier Battle Group. There aren’t so many of those that they just pick any old sailor. Of course I’ve met the President... and his Secret Service agents.”

“You have?”

“Yes.” She giggled at the memory. “President Reagan’s very funny ... and charming. And the agents were extremely polite. Mrs. Reagan even chatted with my mother and me while the President talked to my father. She’s a very smart woman.”

I looked at her in amazement.

Around us, conversation resumed as Trip fielded questions about our encounter with the agents.

Christy held my eyes, hers sparkling with laughter. I fought not to smile, but in the end, I couldn’t help myself.

A group of us went to the Fair the next day. Trip and I were thoroughly familiar with the major buildings (from Design projects), and had fun pointing out hidden details. The crowd was heavy, though, so we headed back to campus after a few hours.

The next evening, I got to work on the renovation plans. Even though it wasn’t schoolwork, I decided to work in one of the A&A design labs. I had just finished for the night when I felt a presence behind me.

“And what project is this, Mr. Hughes?” Professor Joska’s voice asked.

It was well after dinnertime, and I fought not to stiffen in surprise.

“You’re surprised to find me here?” he asked.

“Um ... yes, sir.”

“One of my fifth-year design classes has a project due in a few days,” he said, nodding toward a group of students at the other end of the lab.

The students were working on foamcore models, and I paused to study them for a moment. The groups were small, and they worked with practiced coordination, putting the final touches on their models or making last-minute changes. In a few years, I knew I’d be just like those students: one of a handful of survivors from the hundreds who’d entered the architecture program.

“So,” Joska asked, intruding upon my fantasy, “what latest distraction is occupying your time?” He leafed through my drawings, giving them a keen-eyed appraisal.

“Trip and I are renovating houses this summer,” I said. I felt a rush of overweening pride that I should’ve suppressed, but I guess I was trying to impress him. “I’m doing the design.”

I expected a biting comment, but he surprised me by nodding thoughtfully. “Why are you removing this wall?” he asked, pointing to the plans for the bungalows.

“Because we want young families to buy the houses,” I said, unconsciously falling into the familiar role of the student being grilled by the professor. “And they only have one bathroom. So I decided to take out this pantry—the wall wasn’t load-bearing—and extend the master bedroom so I can add a private bath.”

“You need to remember storage, too. Not only in the kitchen, but here as well,” he said, indicating the linen closet between the two smaller bedrooms.

“The house already has storage,” I said, pointing to the small closets in each of the bedrooms.

“But if you move your linen closet here,” he said, pointing, “you can give these bedrooms larger closets, which means more storage space.”

“But if I move the linen closet, then I’ll have to redesign the master bath.”

“Why not have the linen closet open into the master bath as well as the hallway?” he suggested.

“Because then I’d have to...” My voice trailed off as I actually considered his idea.

“You could have a full door for the hallway opening, but a cupboard-style door for the master bath. It would only be for the top shelves, but a housewife would be able to retrieve towels without having to walk back into the hall.”

I started to protest again, purely out of habit, but my words died unspoken. He was right, and I immediately saw the wisdom of his suggestion (even though I hated admitting it, however silently).

“Bring these plans by my office tomorrow, Mr. Hughes.”

“Why?” I asked, not bothering to hide my suspicion.

“Think of it as extra credit,” he said.

“Will I actually get extra credit?”

He smiled with a combination of amusement and benign tolerance. “No, but you will need a licensed architect to review them.”

I looked at him in growing understanding. And dismay.

“And I wouldn’t want your first real-world design project left to some unknown architect.”

“You don’t have to do that, Professor Joska,” I said. “Trip has an architect lined up. I’m sure—”

“With all due respect to Mr. Whitman’s choice in architects, I’m sure he doesn’t understand your strengths and weaknesses as well as I do.”

I clamped my mouth shut and suppressed a snarl of frustration.

“Do you know when my office hours are?”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

“Then I expect to see you there tomorrow.”

In my mind, I was silently gnashing my teeth: Joska already ruled my academic life, and he’d just taken over a significant portion of my budding professional life as well. I wanted to rail at the injustice of it all. I wanted to tell him to mind his own damned business. I wanted to—

“I’ll tell my secretary to expect you, Mr. Hughes,” he said. With that, he nodded farewell and strode toward his fifth-year students without a backward glance. They greeted him deferentially, and I clenched my fists in exasperation.

There ain’t no justice! I silently howled.

When I calmed down, I looked at my drawings again. I knew I couldn’t get out of showing them to Joska—not if I wanted to stay in the architecture program—so they’d have to be perfect. Nothing less would satisfy him.

On top of all that, I still had my class projects to complete, and I knew that Joska wouldn’t cut me any slack because I had house plans to work on as well. To make matters worse, his suggestion about the linen closet was both intuitive and clever. I could ignore it, but I knew myself well enough to admit that I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t do the best job possible.

Unfortunately, the plans would take hours to redraw (especially to Joska’s exacting standards), and I was supposed to meet Kendall. I reluctantly decided that she’d have to wait. I wanted to see her, but...

I started to pull out my eraser when I had a sudden thought: I hadn’t made time for Gina, either, and it had cost me the relationship. After thinking it over for several moments, I went to the lab’s campus phone and called Kendall.

“Hi, sweetie,” I said. “I’m still at the design lab. And I’m sorry, but I’ve got another couple hours’ work to do.”

“But it’s already nine o’clock,” she said.

“I know. But I just had an idea, and I need to redo a drawing.” Kendall wouldn’t care whose idea it was, but I mentally chided myself for taking credit for it.

She sighed. “All right.”

“Why don’t you come down here?”

“To the A&A building?”

“Yeah. The desk next to me is free, and you can study while I finish my drawing.”

“Okay,” she said immediately.

I told her which design lab I was in and then went back to work. I was proud of myself for inviting her, since I’d get to finish my drawing and spend time with her. It wasn’t the relaxing evening we’d planned, but it was better than nothing.

I just wish I’d done the same thing with Gina, I thought. Maybe if I had...

I was still lost in thought when Kendall tentatively stuck her head into the lab. I shook off my melancholy and took a deep breath. Then I caught her eye and waved her over.

“Hi,” I said, kissing her. I cleared my things from the adjacent desk. “I’m sorry about dragging you down here, but...”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m just happy we can see each other tonight. Now, you get back to your drawing, and I’ll get back to my French.”

Maybe I am learning from my mistakes, I mused, smiling at her sidelong as she opened her book. Maybe, just maybe.

I looked at my watch as Professor Feller worked toward the climax of a haranguing lecture about Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. As the minutes crept past, I wondered why she spent so much time on a book she obviously hated. Personally, I liked it, even though it was as thick as a Bible. But maybe I liked it simply because Professor Feller didn’t.

Finally, the bell rang, but she held up a hand for us to stay, so she could finish her condemnation of Rand’s “misguided elitist egotism.” I shook my head and sank back into my seat, along with the rest of the annoyed students. Finally, the professor reached her conclusion and we bolted. In the hallway, I almost ran someone down, and when I turned to apologize, I froze.

“Paul!”

“Gina?!”

She smiled, and my heart skipped a beat. For a moment, we simply stared at each other, at a loss for words. The moment passed, however, and years of friendship and intimacy came rushing back. Pain came with it, but was quickly overwhelmed by the other feelings. Her cheeks flushed, but she mastered her emotions and smiled stoically.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked.

“I just got out of Western Civ., down the hall.”

“I was in English,” I said, determined to act normally. Then I made a sour face. “The professor is this former hippie who’s—”

“Professor Feller?”

I furrowed my brow. “Yeah. Have you had her?” Without thinking, we fell into step, headed for the stairs.

“No, silly,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Her beautiful, dark, full, liquid eyes ... Stop it!

“I heard you talk about her all the time. Duh.” She grinned to take the sting out of her words.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Duh! Anyway, she was going on and on about Rand’s elitist this and elitist that. I swear to God, Gina, I was ready for her to start using words like ‘proletariat’ and ‘inevitable dialectic of materialism.’”

She laughed. “Lemme guess, you’re reading Atlas Shrugged, right?”

I nodded.

“I never did like it. I mean, I like Rand’s ideas about individualism,” she said, “but I think she created an artificially simple society in order to make her theories work. You should read The Fountainhead. She wrote it before Atlas Shrugged, but it’s got a lot of the same ideas. I think you’d like it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s about an architect who won’t conform to society.”

I felt my face heating in chagrin.

Gina laughed, musical and soothing at the same time.

My chest grew tight as I realized that I missed her more than I thought possible.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, checking her natural impulse to reach out to me. “But now that I think about it...” She grinned.

“All right, all right,” I said. “Enough teasing the ex-boyfriend.”

“Okay, I’ll quit.”

I glanced at her sidelong.

“I do think you’ll like the book, though. Maybe...” She faltered, but then went on in a stronger voice. “Maybe Kendall has a copy.”

I nodded, my mood turning subdued.

“How is she?”

I didn’t want to hurt Gina’s feelings by rubbing her nose in Kendall’s happiness, so I hedged. “She’s okay.”

Gina knew me well enough to recognize my hesitation for what it was, so she changed the subject. As we walked toward the dorms, we talked about other things, all of them innocuous. When we reached the Carrick breezeway, we paused and looked at each other awkwardly.

“It was good seeing you,” she said at last.

“It was good seeing you, too.”

She smiled diffidently.

I smiled in return, although I probably looked just as uncomfortable.

“Okay ... well ... I guess I’ll see you around,” she said.

“Yeah. Seeya ‘round.”

We lingered for a moment before she turned to leave. I watched her go, but she didn’t look back. I could see the tenseness in her shoulders, how stiffly she held them, fighting the urge to look back. I smiled to myself wistfully, and headed into my own building.

I hate to admit it, but two days later, I walked out of English class and loitered, my eyes searching the faces streaming down the hall from the direction of Gina’s classroom. When I saw her, I hastily looked down and pretended to study my watch.

“Hi,” she said from right in front of me.

I looked up in feigned surprise.

She smiled wryly. “Don’t try to fool me,” she said. “I know you too well.”

“Was I that obvious?” I asked, my cheeks heating.

“Maybe a little. But...”

I looked a question at her.

“Okay, maybe I was hoping you’d be here.”

“You were?!” I hastily schooled my expression and cleared my throat. Then, deliberately nonchalant: “I mean ... you were?”

Her dark eyes sparkled.

I laughed, an admission of guilt. “All right, you got me.”

“Now, what should I do with you?” she asked archly.

It took every ounce of willpower not to tell her what I was really thinking: that I wanted her to take me back. But I knew she wouldn’t. More importantly, I knew that our relationship had changed, and that we could never go back. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was too honest to deceive myself. So I didn’t say anything, and I could see the silent thanks in her eyes. I nodded in recognition and she smiled.

“Were you headed back to Carrick?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah. You?”

She nodded, and we began walking. On the way, we talked about her work at the hospital, and my house plans. Our goodbyes in the breezeway weren’t quite as awkward as before, but they were still hesitant and unfamiliar.

The following Monday, I didn’t even pretend to be doing something else as I waited for her. When she saw me, her eyes lit up, and we fell into step together. Our conversation was a bit easier, less stilted and artificial. We talked about her chemistry professor, and intramural soccer. When we reached the breezeway, we lingered a moment and then said our goodbyes, promising to see each other in two days.

I didn’t tell Kendall about spending time with Gina, since I knew it would just cause trouble. Gina and I had been friends far too long to simply throw it all away in the blink of an eye.

I understood why we couldn’t be boyfriend-girlfriend, but I guess I wasn’t willing to give up her friendship. In a way, I think I craved it. I definitely still loved her, but I also liked her. I knew she still loved me, but I hadn’t been very likeable toward the end of our relationship, and I wanted to make up for that.

At first, I worried about doing it for the wrong reasons, for selfish reasons. But then I realized that I honestly wanted Gina to be happy. And knowing I wasn’t bitter or resentful went a long way toward that. So I quelled my longing and heartache, and I gave her what she wanted—friendship—with no strings attached, and no ulterior motives.

Seeing her in the afternoons weighed on my conscience, though. And it made me think of Felicia. I didn’t like keeping things from Kendall, but I also didn’t want to face her disappointment, or worse, her wrath.

To complicate matters, I could make a good argument for both sides: telling her or not telling her. As I thought about each, I chuckled—the world wasn’t as black and white as I’d once thought. I saw shades of gray all around me, from my own actions with Gina and Felicia, to people like T.J. and Regan.

“What’s so funny?” Christy asked as she knelt in front of her refrigerator.

I started to lie, but then decided not to. Instead, I thought I’d be mature—before I made a mess of things—and ask her advice. “Would you be upset if you found out your boyfriend was talking to his ex-girlfriend?”

She set down a bag of carrots and looked up at me.

For a moment, I was taken aback by the piercing familiarity of her eyes. So different from Gina’s, yet so alike, I thought.

“I think the boyfriend in question better have a good explanation,” she said. “If I ever found out about it, that is.”

“Huh?”

She stood and smoothed her hands over her Bermuda shorts, gathering her thoughts. It was a familiar gesture, and I smiled as she did it. Finally, she looked at me—studied me, really. “Do you want to keep talking about this in abstract terms,” she asked, “or do you want to tell me about you and Gina?”

I blushed guiltily.

She merely cocked her head to the side, her blonde hair falling across her face as she gazed at me calmly, inquisitively.