Prologue

Evangeline

"What can I get you?" I ask from behind the counter, simultaneously grabbing a muffin and placing it on a plate while I wait for the customer to answer.

Rubbing my hands on my apron, I barely look up to register who I'm speaking with, and when I do, I notice an older man with dark, wavy hair, and eyes a color I can't discern. He's wearing a suit, not something I see often in here. A line starts to form behind him, and I remember the other drinks I need to get started on.

Pressing the grounds, I flip on the espresso machine while grabbing a cup for another drink.

"Just a black coffee." The man shrugs.

"Taking it easy on me," I jest, raising my eyebrows, because otherwise why would he have been taking his time to order if it was just going to be a black coffee?

"You look busy," he observes, handing me his card.

"Tap it here." I point to the card reader.

He laughs, embarrassed, taking the card back and touching it to the reader. "I can never get used to these things."

"It's okay, there are a lot of things I can't seem to get a handle on either," I mention before starting on the backlog of drinks. I grab a paper cup, pour black coffee into it for him, snap on the top, and hand it to him at the end of the counter.

"Thanks." He grabs hold of it and puts a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar which I'm not shy about accepting as I nod appreciatively at him.

I sort through the rest of the drinks and glance at my open book on the counter, trying to get in a few extra minutes of studying before I have to leave for class.

"Where's Natalie?" my manager, Michelle, asks.

"I don't know." I'm done covering for Natalie because there are only so many excuses I can make, and if she thinks I'm sharing the tips with her, she's crazy.

Michelle huffs and then picks up taking orders at the register while I finish the rest of the drinks. The morning rush dissipates just in time for me to leave. Checking the clock, I realize I only have fifteen minutes to get to class. I rush out the door, juggling my drink, when I smack right into someone, coffee spilling over my books as they crash to the pavement.

"Jesus, I'm sorry." The man kneels to help me with my things and I notice his shiny dress shoes, and the hem of neatly pressed trousers splattered with coffee.

"No, it's my fault." I look up at him to make sure the rest of his expensive-looking suit isn't tarnished. I push a few papers into my bag and shake my hair out of my face.

We both stand, and I notice he's holding my book, looking at it with an interesting expression. "Collective works of Ralph Waldo Emerson," he observes.

I realize he's the man who just ordered a black coffee. Taking the book from him, I toss my now empty cup of coffee in the nearby trash.

"Yeah," I laugh. "It's so boring."

"You think Emerson is boring?" He sounds appalled.

"I mean, half the time I have no idea what he's trying to say." I stuff the book back in my bag and hoist it over my shoulder.

"Emerson is a fascinating historical figure! I mean, he was compared to Nietzsche, and supported the Transcendental movement with the likes of Walt Whitman. Boring, no, no, no. You cannot think he's boring," he exclaims, and I now realize his eyes are a complicated color, and they light up while he talks about Emerson, trying to convince me to like the man, not just his poetry.

"Are you a professor?" It would be just like me to put my foot in my mouth and end up having him as a teacher next semester. He looks to be the right age, maybe somewhere in his mid to late forties.

"No," he laughs. "I'm giving a lecture to the student senate, and hopefully they don't mind if I throw in a little Emerson."

"What does Emerson have to do with politics?"

"Everything," he declares, and his smile is so inviting, so genuine, that I'm eager to understand more.

"I wish I had time to ask you to explain that to me, since I'm about to take a test on Emerson, but I don't have time," I apologize.

He holds his coffee out to me. "I didn't drink any. I was waiting for it to cool off."

"I don't take drinks from strangers." I lift an eyebrow. "Even handsome ones," I add.

"Oh, um," he scratches his head and I'm immediately embarrassed for misreading his kindness. "I wasn't trying to…. Old habit of charming voters," he stumbles over his words.

He's definitely charming, even if he doesn't mean to be. "A politician huh?"

"Afraid so." He looks around the small courtyard that connects the student dorms to the cafeteria, and then points to a shady spot under a tree where a man who looks completely out of place is standing with a watchful eye. "Security," he explains, "so don't try anything or he'll tackle you."

I laugh, holding a hand to my face. "I'm sorry, I'm so late for class. Good luck with your lecture."

I race off toward the English building. Once I'm across the street, I turn to see if he's still there, but he's walking in the opposite direction with the security detail at his side.

When I get to the classroom, I pull on the door, but it doesn't budge - locked. Looking through the small window I can see everyone in their seats, pencils up, and heads down.

"Shit!"

I raise my hand to knock on the door, but hesitate, because it will get the attention of the whole class. Continuing to stare through the window, Professor Abbott happens to look up and see me. When he gets ‘the look', I can already tell he's not going to let me in.

He's a tall man with blond hair and glasses too small for his face.

"You're late," he announces, peering at me over his spectacles.

"I know, I was leaving work and ran into someone…"

"Stopping to talk to your friends is no excuse for being late."

"No, I literally ran into someone on the street, my coffee went all over my book and papers," I explain, but all he does is shake his head and I don't know if he believes me or not.

"Did you know today was the test?" he asks.

"Yes, but…"

"Then you should have left work earlier to account for any mishaps."

"Natalie never showed up. I had to finish my shift." I pull out my book. "Look at my book, if you don't believe me." I hold it out for him, the pages discolored and wrinkled with coffee stains.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bowen," he says, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "The rules are you have to be in your seat when class begins. I can't give you a pass when everyone else was here on time."

Shoving the book back in my bag I let out a defeated breath.

"Is there any way I can make it up?" I plead.

"I don't give makeup tests unless you're sick," he continues, "and you look very healthy to me." Whether he means to or not, the way his eyes slide over my body makes me uncomfortable.

"What will an incomplete on the test do to my grade?" I inquire, because I need to keep my grade point average for my scholarship money to come through.

"You can see me after class and I can look up your grades," he offers, "but if my recollection is accurate, you don't have a stellar grade to begin with."

Maybe if Professor Abbott wasn't such a boring teacher I'd be doing better. Between the cafe in the morning and waitressing at night, I barely have time to study.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, I slump against the hallway wall and slide down until my butt hits the rough carpet. Why does everything have to be so hard for me? Tears prick at the back of my eyes, and I am defenseless against them.

Pulling my knees up, I rested my forehead against them.

I wanted to be Melinda Carleton, the investigative journalist who won a Pulitzer for her Russian spy piece, but all of that felt like grasping at stars – so far away that I'd never be able to reach. I began to feel resentful of girls like Natalie who miss work, and even if she gets fired, it's no real consequence, because it was just extra money for her. For me, it would determine whether I had a place to live next semester, or whether I could afford my meal plan.

Lifting my head, I wipe the tears away, not sure if that made me feel better or not. I've learned to give myself some grace for the occasional emotional breakdown. When my vision comes back into focus, I see a flyer taped to the wall - Student Government Welcomes Distinguished Speaker Senator Kerry Walker (R) Virginia.

A senator? The man with a nice smile and a slight southern accent was Senator Kerry Walker.

What does Emerson have to do with politics?

Everything.

There is so much potential in the word everything.