By Chance (Courtland Chronicles) (3 page)

“Ally’s not my girlfriend,” he said, wincing inwardly. It’d come out a lot sharper than it’d sounded in his head. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“Really? You two seem pretty close for exes.”

“Good friends usually are.”

“My mistake.” Eric dog-eared a page in his textbook before flipping it shut.

Nick couldn’t resist glancing at the cover. “Economics, huh? Is that your major?”

“Double major, actually, with political science.”

Impressed, Nick stifled the urge to whistle. Most of the well-off guys in his classes skated by on “gentlemen’s C’s,” but in the short time they’d been roommates, he’d never seen Eric go more than an hour or two without burying his nose in a book. “That’s pretty heavy-duty. Guess you’re getting ready to follow in your dad’s footsteps, huh?”

Eric’s lip curled. “Hardly. I want nothing to do with Courtland Industries or anything else my father’s involved in. Lately I’ve been considering a career in politics.”

“You want to run for president or something?”

“Eventually.” Eric smiled. “After I get my doctorate out of the way.”

“Why do I get the feeling that if I look up ‘ambitious’ in the dictionary, I’ll find your picture?” Eric laughed—and this time, it actually sounded sincere. Taking it as a favorable sign, Nick yanked out the other chair and sat down. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Eric pondered it a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

“For someone who wants to run for public office, you sure don’t seem to
like
people that much. I haven’t seen you down in the dining hall once.”

“That’s an observation, not a question.”

Annoying, even if he was technically right. “Okay, then. Why do you avoid people?”

Eric flinched. “I’m, um, not especially fond of crowds.”

“That’s a pretty big handicap for an aspiring politician. You’ll have to give speeches in front of huge crowds when you’re campaigning.”

“True.” Eric flashed him the same tiny half smile that had made Nick so nervous earlier. This time it sent a sharp
zing!
sailing through him, tingling all the way to this fingertips. What the hell? “Since you’re so astute at diagnosing my problem, how do you suggest I cure it?”

“What time’s your first class tomorrow?”

“Ten, I think.”

“Good. The dining hall’s pretty deserted after nine. C’mon down with me tomorrow, and we’ll have breakfast.”

Now Eric stiffened, shaking his head. “I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He nodded at Eric’s bowl. “Is that what you live on all semester? No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“Your concern’s flattering, but there’s no need—”

“Just humor me, okay? One meal downstairs won’t kill you, I promise. Who knows? You might end up liking it.”

A slow grin crept across Eric’s face, right before he burst out laughing. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that, I wouldn’t need a trust fund.”

Amazing how happy—
cute,
even—Eric looked when he let himself smile like he really meant it. It softened his features and put a warm spark in those pale blue eyes. Nick smiled back, even as his stomach did a weird little flip-flop.

Five minutes in line, and Eric was already itching to bolt. He clutched the tray Nick had handed him and looked over the morning’s breakfast menu with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “This place stinks of rancid grease.”

“That’s one reason to avoid the scrambled eggs,” Nick replied. “Besides the fact that they’re powdered eggs.”

“Then what would you recommend from this delicious selection?” He barely refrained from rolling his eyes, but Nick’s lopsided smile told Eric he’d picked up on the sarcasm in his tone.

“I usually go for the oatmeal, and milk instead of coffee.”

“Fine by me.” He let Nick order for both of them, then slid his tray down to the next station, reaching over the counter to take the steaming bowl handed to him by a dining hall worker.

A very familiar-looking well-built dining hall worker who winked at him and said, “Hey.”

From the puzzled crinkle between Nick’s eyes, he’d obviously picked up on that too. “You two know each other?” he asked as they moved to the end of the line.

“Only in the biblical sense.”

“Oh.” Twin spots of high color sprang to life on Nick’s cheeks. “Sorry.”

Twenty years old, and he still
blushed?
God, how charming. Eric couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Don’t worry about it.”

Baskets of assorted apples, oranges and bananas sat next to the cash registers. Nick grabbed two apples and two bananas, putting one of each on his and Eric’s trays. “For snacks in between classes. They’re a lot healthier than chips or candy bars.”

“You’ve got this down to a science,” Eric observed, handing his meal card over to the cashier.

“When you’ve been on a training diet for six and a half years, you learn a few things. C’mon, let’s go sit down.”

But no sooner had they entered the dining room when Nick froze, gaze locked on a bunch of jocks at a nearby table, all sporting blue-and-white Columbia Lions letterman’s jackets.

“Friends of yours?” Eric prompted, giving the room a quick once-over. True to Nick’s word, the place wasn’t that crowded.

“Teammates. And believe me, no one I especially want to talk to.”

Strange, but still, none of his business. Eric spied an empty table close to one of the hall’s front windows and headed toward it.

“Would you rather sit in the corner instead?” Nick called after him. “It’s quieter.”

“I prefer sitting where I can see outside.” He shrugged. “City-dweller’s paranoia, I guess.”

“Whatever you want.” Nick followed, then sat down across from him and started digging into his breakfast.

Eric spooned up a healthy mouthful, chewing it a few times before realizing it was a leaden, flavorless mess. It stuck to the roof of his mouth, so thick he could barely work his teeth through it. At last he managed to swallow, chasing it all down with a generous slug of milk.

Nick glanced up from his bowl. “What’s the matter?”

“This stuff tastes like the paste they give you in grammar school art class, only hot.”

Nick picked up a salt packet and a pat of butter and handed it to him. “Try some of this.”

It helped, if only a little. The salt gave it flavor, and the butter made it go down easier. Eric shrugged and took a smaller bite. It was all just fuel anyway. Weirdly enough, now that he’d started eating, he realized he really was hungry.

“Do you eat this slop every morning?” he asked, training his incredulous gaze on Nick’s half-empty bowl.

Nick laughed. “Every winter since I was a kid, but my mom’s oatmeal’s a lot better than this. Only thing that keeps you warm when you’re out in subzero temperatures milking cows.”

“You grew up on a farm?” With an odd pang, it dawned on him that he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in Nick’s background until now.

“Yeah. My folks own a dairy operation upstate, a few miles from Seneca Falls.”

“You’re kidding.” Eric set down his spoon, darting a glance around the room to make sure Rod Serling wasn’t lurking nearby. “I grew up on the other side of the lake, in Geneva. My mother still lives there.”

“Get out!”

“It’s the truth, I swear.”

Nick laughed. “So here I am, rooming with a guy who’s lived ten miles away from me my entire life. What are the odds?”

“Well, we didn’t move there until I was ten. I was actually born right here in the city.”

“And I’d only visited the city a few times before I got accepted here.” Nick wagged his head. “This is too bizarre.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you end up at Columbia?”

“You mean, how’d the hick farm boy get into an Ivy League university?” Eric’s breath hitched at the sudden edge in Nick’s tone, until a lopsided twist of his lips told Eric he was joking. “One word—football.”

Of course. Why hadn’t it occurred to him sooner? “You must either really love or really hate the game to play for this lousy team.”

“I got scouted by Berkeley, Northwestern, and here. Columbia’s the only one that offered me enough financial aid to make college even possible.” Nick slouched back in his chair, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t really like playing that much anymore. At least during spring semester I can concentrate on my studies, but in the fall when the season’s going full swing, it’s like having two full-time jobs.”

“I take it you’re not interested in going pro?” Oh, great. Now he couldn’t get the image of Nick—grimy, sweaty, with black grease paint under his eyes—in a New York Jets jersey out of his head.

“No way. I’ll play for another year till I graduate, and that’s it. I’m ready to move on.”

“To what, exactly?” He shifted in his seat, trying to ease the sudden tightness in his jeans. “I couldn’t help overhearing you talking to your friend Ally about Stevenson’s twentieth-century history class. That’s one of the hardest courses in the department. Are you majoring in history?”

“English, with a minor in history.”

“What’re you planning to do with a background in sports and liberal arts?”

“I could get a teaching credential, I guess. But what I’d really love is to stay here and go to journalism school, if I can figure out a way to finance it.”

This breakfast had become quite the eye-opener. Eric had assumed at first glance that Nick was a stereotypical dumb jock, but upon scratching the surface, he’d discovered a serious student cloaked in gridiron drag. How did his judgment get so profoundly out of whack?

“Why, Nick Thompson,” he drawled, “you have unsuspected depth.”

Nick laughed nervously, glancing down into his bowl, cheeks going pink again. Could he get any more adorable? “What about you? Columbia’s a great school, but with your money and connections, I can’t believe it was your first choice.”

That was a can of worms Eric would’ve rather left unopened. But Nick had already shared so much about himself, it seemed rude not to reciprocate, no matter how much the memories stung.

“No, it wasn’t. But my mother’s been having some health issues. I wanted to stay close to home.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

And he would have to sound so damn sincere about it too. “Thanks.” Eric cleared his throat, then blurted, “My father was none too pleased with my decision. He was pushing for me to go to Harvard. When I told him I was coming here instead, he cut me off.”

“Oh.” Nick’s apparent surprise mirrored Eric’s. What was it about him that made Eric want to spill all his secrets? “Then how do you pay your tuition?”

“My mother’s the trustee of my trust fund. She pays all my expenses and gives me an allowance. I gain control of it when I turn twenty-one next year.”

Nick let out a long, slow whistle. “Must be nice.”

“Believe me, there’ve been plenty of days when I wished I could’ve been a regular kid growing up on a farm.”

“That’s the first time anybody’s ever told me they envied my life.”

Eric just smiled and changed the subject.

* * *

Eric got up at five on Saturday morning to catch the train upstate. He’d brought along his economics textbook to keep him occupied on the long trip, but instead found himself sitting in the semi-deserted car staring dully out the window, watching miles of snow-covered scenery zip by.

The train pulled into Rochester a few minutes before noon. Eric rented a car and drove the remaining thirty-seven miles to Geneva. Relief mixed with apprehension washed over him as he pulled through the front gate onto the freshly plowed and salted private road, then pulled up in front of the house, right next to his mother’s sleek black Mercedes sedan.

He let himself in through the kitchen door, the spicy aromas of garlic, sweet basil and standing rib roast tickling his nostrils. “Hey,” he said, giving Estellita a wave and a smile.

The housekeeper gave a tiny jump, then shook her head, hands planted on her hips in mock consternation. “As usual, she didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“She probably forgot. She was pretty of out of it when I talked to her the other night.”

With a sympathetic nod, Estellita held her arms out to him, and Eric sank gratefully into her warm, well-padded embrace.

“How’s everything going?” he prompted at last.

“I poured out all the bottles I could find, and flushed the pills,” she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “But you know she always gets more. The next time she goes back up to the city, that doctor will write her another prescription.”

He sighed. “We’ll deal with it when it happens, I guess. Thanks for taking care of her.”

“She hasn’t been feeling quite so grateful these past few days. I keep dodging slippers every time I bring up her meals—not that she’s eaten enough to fill up a thimble all week.” She pushed back a lock of gray-streaked hair with a resigned smile. “Ah, well. I’m used to it.”

He headed up the short stairway into the main part of the house, his footsteps tapping eerily down empty halls. He stopped to spare an admiring glance for his favorite Monet seascape in the foyer before climbing another flight to the house’s second floor, then paused outside his mother’s room before knocking. “It’s me,” he said, opening the door slowly.

She was reclining in the window seat, a down blanket tucked around her legs, book open on her lap. Her face lit up the moment she saw him. “Sweetheart! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

He almost reminded her of their phone conversation last weekend, but stopped himself just in time. There was no point. She’d get confused and defensive, and he’d spend the next half hour trying to smooth it over. Instead, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and sat down next to her.

She was wearing her favorite robe, a deep green shantung silk that brought out the darker hues in her hazel eyes. The harsh winter glare flooding the room only served to highlight how pale and delicate she looked. Her hair was brushed back into its usual chic shoulder-length bob, though there were a few gray strands woven in with the golden blond that Eric hadn’t noticed before. Fresh lines pulled at the corners of her mouth, the purplish circles under her eyes livid as bruises. Only forty-eight, but she could have easily passed for a decade older.