1. Prologue

Prologue

Fall, 2007

P erhaps every female college student has nursed a crush on a tweed-clad, leather-elbow-patched professor at some point during her undergraduate education. One might even say it is a rite of passage on the road to womanhood. However, for very few young women does this school-girl crush dictate the course of their career and, well, existence for the following decade.

But that is exactly what transpired for Lucy O'Shields.

It all began ten years ago, on the first day of her senior year at Paducah State University. The small, liberal arts college in Western Kentucky had become a refuge for Lucy over her first three years as an English major.

Lucy was a Southern girl born to a Southern belle. Her mother, petite and feminine and absolutely certain she knew what was best for her only child, had pushed Lucy to attend PSU. What Lucy chose to study was irrelevant. What mattered to her momma was that PSU was close to home, the Alma Mater for the past two generations of the O'Shields family, and, most importantly, rife with gentlemen in need of wives. Lucy had agreed to attend PSU because she had heard their English department, though small, was staffed with an exceptional faculty and provided an intimate, rigorous educational experience.

Lucy knew from a young age that she would one day major in English. Books had been for her what they have been for so many not-perfectly-happy adolescents throughout modern history: an escape. For Lucy, an escape from a world in which she never quite belonged. A world where the dresses felt too ruffly, the tea tasted too sweet, the bless-your-hearts had a few too many syllables, and she herself was a little too (in her mother's words) "cerebral." And when her mother was not feeling so censored, the terms "big-boned" and "unfeminine" had also been mentioned.

Five minutes early to her first class of the fall semester, Lucy sat in the second row of a lecture hall. The second row was Lucy's sweet spot. Not so close she would be noticed overly much. Just close enough she wouldn’t miss a single bullet point. Despite how unladylike her mother would probably find it, Lucy loved to learn, and she planned to soak in every kernel of knowledge she could during her final year at PSU.

In a PSU sweatshirt, jeans, and navy Chuck Taylor All Stars, Lucy felt comfortable and at home as a college student. If she were being honest, she dreaded the day she left campus for good. After all, what would she wear? She hadn't shopped for clothes outside of the campus bookstore in years.

"So, what have you heard about the new prof?" Miriam Howatch asked Lucy as she plopped into the seat next to her, shoving her over-full backpack under the desk.

For the past three years, Miriam had been Lucy's closest friend. Lucy valued the memories of sitting by Miriam through their English courses, and she looked forward to this, their final year. They had been inseparable since Freshman Welcome Week. Miriam was from Louisville and had chosen PSU for the same reasons as Lucy. She, too, had wanted the small-school experience. While she was outgoing and extroverted and always full of energy, she was also deeply authentic and caring. Her big personality complimented Lucy's warmth and gentleness, and the pair had become a valued fixture of the PSU English department.

"So...the new prof?"

Lucy shook her head. Clearly, she needed more coffee this morning. "Not much. Obviously, he is an expert in American lit from the 19th century. Hence, why we're currently sitting in American Literature from the 19th century."

"You are a trove of knowledge."

Lucy chuckled and then waited. Miriam always had more information than seemed possible ( or prudent , Lucy mused). Miriam knew everyone in the department, and everyone in the department liked talking to Miriam. She was the sort of person one spilled the beans to without even realizing one was talking. It was only a matter of time before her best friend's self-reserve gave way to a greater desire to gossip.

As expected, a mischievous grin broke across her face, and Miriam began aggressively whispering, "So here's what I've heard so far: He is a Western Kentucky boy from a poor town who barreled through undergrad, graduate, and post-grad freakishly fast. At the ripe old age of 27, he’s been published in no less than three journals. And, here’s the best part..."

Miriam grabbed Lucy's wrist, leaned over, and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, "He is apparently, so I've been told on good authority, cute. Not hot in a Firehouse Calendar kind of way. Nothing like that. Better than that. He is cute, in an adorably nerdy kind of way. You know, the way us English-majors picture Mr. Darcy."

Lucy shook her head and laughed. She responded, "Here's what I want to know: is this cuteness of a caliber to make a seminar course in 19th century American literature feel more exciting than an afternoon of CSPAN? That is the real question."

"Unfortunately, my source was not that specific."

"I'll have to admit, I'm glad I put off this course until Dr. Jones retired."

"Oh my goodness. Can you imagine? The last course we took with him, he actually put himself to sleep."

Lucy put her hand to her forehead, shaking her head at the memory. "I'll never forget sitting quietly for fifteen minutes until he woke up and resumed his lecture."

Looking at the clock, Lucy saw that they still had a couple of minutes left before class began. She asked Miriam, "Have you been to the Career Counseling Center yet? Apparently, all seniors are supposed to go this semester to, you know, figure out the rest of our lives."

"Not yet. How about you?"

"No," Lucy sighed. "What's the point. All English majors become secretaries, right?"

Lucy and Miriam were smiling at this little inside joke when a deep voice from over their shoulders said: "I think we can do better than that."

The girls turned around to see a tall, trim, bearded man smiling at them with laughter touching his eyes. He did, indeed, looked like Mr. Darcy. That is, if Mr. Darcy had been American. American and heading West on a horse or some kind of raft. The beard, though perfectly groomed, was definitely a bit Western for Jane Austen's hero. But despite that, Lucy had no doubt she was meeting the new professor.

Her heart made the funniest little tap, and Lucy thought to herself, Don't even go there, Lucy O'Shields. He is your professor, and you are no Elizabeth Bennett .

***

Forrest Graham woke up to the white empty walls of the apartment he had moved into only a week prior. The job offer to work at Paducah State University had come in late June, a mere six weeks after he had successfully defended his dissertation. It had only taken a few weeks to make the arrangements to move back to Western Kentucky after spending the past ten years earning his degrees in the Northeast.

Forrest was uncertain if he had made the right decision coming back home. He feared this new adventure would feel like running a marathon in ill-fitted shoes.

For one thing, Forrest no longer sounded like he belonged here. His accent was as neutral as he could achieve through years of consciously training his tongue. Though he had grown up in Kentucky where a Southern drawl was a point of pride, Forrest could not separate those stretched-out vowels from the broken mess of a family he’d sprung from. While the Southern accent might serve well the Southern gentleman, it did not get a poor Southern boy very far.

Despite his misgivings, Forrest was encouraged by his father's joy at his returning. He was thrilled to have his son only a half-hour's drive away, but no amount of joy over Forrest's return was likely to banish his father's affinity for Kentucky bourbon. His father was not a cruel drunk. He was just a chronic drunk, and Forrest could not think of many memories from the past twenty years in which his father's speech was not at least a little slurred.

In truth, the decision to move back had not been all that optional. It was the first job offer Forrest had received, and he knew that it was crucial he not let too much dust settle on his doctorate before beginning his career as a professor. Nascent Ph.D.'s can’t afford to be too picky.

During his youth, the world of academia had always been distant and foggy to Forrest. His parents and grandparents had never attended college, and coming home to a father who was wasted and smelled of liquor each night had made the thought of ivory towers as fantastical and seemingly likely as an enchanted castle. When he had started showing academic promise in high school, encouraging teachers began pointing him in the direction of higher education. And when he finally graduated from high school and found himself a student within an English department, Forrest knew he was home.

He sped through his undergraduate and master’s degrees within five years, and he immediately dove into his doctoral program to become an English professor. The feverish pace didn't daunt Forrest. He would have walked through fire if it meant a life of study and research and teaching and knowing he was good at something.

Forrest rolled out of bed to prepare for his first day of teaching as Dr. Graham. After a quick shower, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror scrutinizing his beard while holding small clippers in his steady hand.

"I see you there," Forrest whispered to a stray, wiry beard hair sticking up from his chin. Forrest liked order where he could have it. His straight, light brown hair was always cut short, though not severely short, and his full beard and mustache were precisely groomed to complement the length of his hair. His sister had realized when he first started growing a beard that it could provide years of Christmas presents, thereby solving her struggle to find gifts for a brother who only liked books but was picky about what books he liked. Thus, Forrest now had an impressive collection of artisan beard oils and trimmers.

Forrest smiled to himself in the mirror, practicing the first impression he hoped to give his students. Dimples peeked over the edge of his beard. No amount of facial hair could hide this boyish trait, but many female classmates had assured him over the years that it was a trait he did not want to hide. With his forced smile, faint laugh lines stemmed from his chestnut brown eyes. Those, at least, suggested the maturity Forrest desperately wanted to convey. His smile fell, and he headed to his room to dress.

When he had completed the defense of his dissertation three months earlier, he went out and bought the wardrobe of a serious academic. His pants were khaki, his shirts were plaid, and his sports jackets were patched with leather at the elbows. With his neutral palette and tweeds and leather accents, he cut an image that was almost a caricature of the quintessential professor. Dressed so, he looked just as professorial in a line at Wal-Mart as he did in front of a lectern.

Forrest walked to the front door of his apartment and picked up the briefcase he had carefully packed the night before. The briefcase was another post-dissertation-defense purchase, and, really, Forrest had not intended for the leather of the briefcase to so perfectly match his elbow patches. It was just a happy accident.

Leaving his apartment, the early morning Kentucky air was just starting to whisper of the approaching fall. He had rented close to campus because he preferred walking to driving when possible. From his front door to Hart Building, where the English Department was housed, was a twenty-minute walk for most, but with his long, purposeful strides, he easily made it in fifteen.

Halfway through his walk, Forrest saw Dr. Porter Finch a few paces ahead and ran to catch up with him. His new colleague looked like the headshot of a 1950s movie star, and Forrest had already heard that he was constantly running from moon-eyed undergraduates. Perhaps when they had developed more rapport, Forrest would kid him about it. But for now, Dr. Finch was to be pitied; a few years ahead of Forrest in his professorial career, he was beginning the stressful process of obtaining tenure.

"Dr. Finch. How are you doing this morning?"

Dr. Finch grinned and said, "Good morning. I’m fantastic, but you have got to start calling me Porter. Otherwise, everyone will assume you're a student."

"Good idea. I definitely don't want to be mistaken as an undergrad on my first day of teaching."

"When is your first class for the day?"

"In exactly six minutes. I timed leaving so that I would arrive precisely on time."

With his eyebrows raised and a smirk, Dr. Finch said, "So you’re completely relaxed and going with the flow today?"

Forrest let out a gust of laughter that immediately dissipated some of the nerves that had built throughout the morning. "You're figuring me out quickly. I just wanted to avoid pre-class small talk."

"I remember my first day in my own class, not just assisting another professor."

"Yeah. How did it go?" Forrest was hopeful Porter's story would bolster his confidence. After all, even the most ancient professors had once taught their first day.

"I puked in the bathroom, marched into the class, and delivered one hell of a lecture on Ernest Hemingway."

"That's good, I think?"

"You're going to do great," Dr. Finch said as he gave Forrest two firm pats on the shoulder. "I'm heading to the faculty gym for a quick workout before my 10 o'clock, but come by my office this afternoon and tell me about your day."

"Will do," Forrest called out as Dr. Finch headed towards the athletics center.

***

Forrest stepped into the back of the class and looked around. He took a few more steps in and paused to survey the nearly-full lecture hall. These students were here to learn from him. He was going to tell them about some of his favorite people, about Mark Twain and Walt Whitman and Harriet Beecher Stowe. Everything he had done for the past decade had been leading to this moment.

Just as he was slipping from his reverie back into the present moment, Forrest heard a female voice with laughter behind it saying, "What's the point? All English majors become secretaries, right?"

Apparently, English major humor was not all that different in Kentucky from what it had been in the Northeast.

Forrest chimed in with his own laughter-laced voice: "I think we can do better than that."

The two female students who had been talking looked back at him with eyes round with shock. The one with wild, wavy strawberry blond hair blushed deeply, clearly realizing the identity of the eavesdropper. Forrest made a quick mental note that he should try not to mortify any more students that day.

Hoping to put her at ease, Forrest gave a small wink. After all, no one studied existential despair to the extent of the average English major without developing a brand of humor that was deeply sarcastic. He certainly was not going to take offense at her joke.

A few strides took him to the front of the class, to a podium that felt as though it had been waiting for him since his first day of college. He pulled some notes out of his briefcase and placed them on the podium. Forrest took a deep breath. With his practiced smile now coming more naturally to his face, Forrest began: "Good morning, class, and welcome to 19th Century American Literature. I am Dr. Graham."