II. Boston
Adam was struggling with his bow-tie.
He always struggled with his bow-tie. That darn thing just never wanted to sit straight, and when it did, it would suddenly seem to become too tight and to cut off his air supply, so that he had to untie it and start over again. Then, unfailingly, his fingers got clammy and he became even more impatient and clumsy, and in the end he always went out with a mess around his neck. Usually someone, a well meaning friend, a blushing parlor maid, or even a tsking lady of the house took pity on him and, with a magic finger play, neatened everything in a second—and when he was very lucky he was even spared a patronising inflection. But still he found that all very embarrassing, especially when his dear friends witnessed his humiliation, and made uproariously funny comments about ranch-couture and—
There. The tie sat. A little too tight maybe, but nothing he couldn't live with. He checked his appearance one last time in the tiny mirror over the wash stand. His hair was as smooth as he could force it to be, his shirt was clean, his bow-tie surprisingly straight. He inhaled deeply and then grinned at his reflection. This evening was going to be good. A small social at the Franks' house: some of his college friends would be there, they would have music, dance, and witty conversations—and there would be Fiona Keats.
Fiona. Fiona.
Fiona, the girl who made Adam's heart beat quicker. The girl who made his mouth go dry. The girl who stirred something in him he had never felt before.
Fiona. If ever a girl had a fitting name then it was the petite Fiona. She had the face of a porcelain doll with pale blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a small heart-shaped mouth; and hair that looked like spun gold. Her smile made a room light up, even on a dark February day, as Adam had noticed when he first met her. She had captured his heart with that smile, with her kind and quiet manners, and with her interest in everything Adam had to tell.
Fiona would be there tonight, and maybe, just maybe, Adam would be lucky enough to sneak out into the Franks' garden with her and perhaps even be able to bestow upon her that kiss he had been dreaming about ever since Etienne had introduced him to her.
A kiss. Lord, a kiss.
Would she? Fiona was a sheltered girl, from a good family with good...
But she felt as he did, didn't she?
Adam craned his neck and fingered his collar, trying to loosen the tie a bit. He swallowed dryly.
A girl like Fiona would kiss a young man when she was betrothed to him.
Betrothed. Betrothed, as in "engaged to be married."
Did he want to marry Fiona Keats?
Adam looked into the mirror again. He watched his face as if he saw it for the first time, then tilted his head, smiled, and raised an eyebrow.
"Why not?" he said out loud.
"Why not what?"
Adam spun around and faced his grandfather. "Why not...er, never mind."
"Adam, are you all right?" Grandfather Abel looked amused. "Your friend is waiting downstairs; but if you'd rather talk to yourself for a little longer, I'll tell him to go ahead without you."
Adam grinned. "Oh, no, I've finished. A man has to talk to at least one reasonable fellow a day, but now I'm through."
"Hear, hear. Our scholar seems to be in an exceptionally good mood tonight," Grandfather chuckled. "Good for you, boy; you need to relax a bit now before the next term makes you all too serious again."
Adam's return smile was genuinely grateful. Living with his grandfather during term breaks had turned out to be a most interesting experience. Adam had been told that his mother had been a very bright and witty person who had loved to tease and banter; but Pa had never mentioned that Abel Stoddard shared this quality with his daughter. After the awkward first few weeks, Adam and his grandfather soon had come to an easy relationship; and even though Adam would never treat Grandpa with anything less than utmost respect, he knew he didn't have to watch his words as carefully as he had to at home. Abel Stoddard appreciated good wordplays, creative jokes, and an occasional sarcastic comment—even at his own expense.
Adam suspected that Grandpa saw him more as Elizabeth's son than as his grandchild, and that in Adam he sought and found traces of his daughter, or even of himself, which made him more accepting and more inclined to exercise leniency. Whatever it was, Adam enjoyed the easiness in his grandfather's house that stood in sharp contrast to the tightly packed curriculum and tense atmosphere at college.
He squeezed the old man's hand, just that split second longer that turned it from casual to meaningful. "Thank you, Grandpa," he said soberly, and then they looked at each other in that wordless understanding that Adam seemed to have achieved only with his grandfather. But before it could get too maudlin, Adam grinned and said, "I promise you I'll be as non-serious as possible tonight, if you insist."
Grandpa wiggled his right index-finger in front of Adam's face. "Don't twist my words, sailor! You better stay on course, or your non-seriousness will have serious consequences—you wouldn't be the first bluejacket I've keelhauled."
Their silent laughter was interrupted by a shout from downstairs.
"Adam! Are you coming already? Mon dieu, you are more bad than any mademoiselle!" That was Etienne. Etienne, a student from France, who was even more exotic at Harvard than Adam and therefore almost naturally his best friend.
"Worse," Adam called back as, after a hurried goodbye to Grandpa, who practically shoved him down the landing, he hastened down the stairway. "It's worse."
"Mais oui! As I said," Etienne cried out with a sardonic smile as he shook hands with Adam. "And you're not even as beautiful as a mademoiselle."
And then they bantered about the beauty of mademoiselles and New England girls and about the strange peculiarities of English grammar all the way to the Franks' house.
ooOoo
