My professor, p.30
My Professor,
p.30
I have a high school diploma and one semester’s worth of community college credit hours. My resume consists of a string of bad jobs with titles like “deli technician” and “retail consultant”. In reality, I made soggy paninis and folded t-shirts that teenagers left tossed around the Old Navy dressing rooms.
She can’t want me for my exceptional skillset, and she can’t want me for my glowing personality either because I’m not all that personable. At least that’s what people have told me in the past.
“Lighten up, Maren!”
“We’re at a party—have fun!”
My friend Ariana used to constantly call me a bore, and the nickname still stings.
The few encounters I’ve had with Cornelia don’t help me pinpoint her motive either. I’ve only seen her at Holly Home a few times. We’ve never had a long conversation or a meaningful moment. I know she enjoys when I play the piano, but I’ve only done that on occasion, and probably not all that well. In my defense, that beast of an instrument they keep there would make Beethoven sound like an amateur.
So as I stand out on the curb in front of the group home the following day, I waver between feeling hopeful that this might be the first day of a new and exciting path in my life and berating myself for thinking it’ll be anything different than what I’ve experienced in the decade since my parents’ car accident.
Don’t get your hopes up, I tell myself as a black Range Rover turns the corner and slows to a stop in front of me.
The driver, an older gentleman, puts the SUV in park and opens his door so he can round the hood and walk toward me.
“Maren Mitchell?” he asks, all business.
I nod, taking in his black suit and tie and white gloves. Trimmed salt and pepper hair peeks out from beneath his driver’s cap. He’s dressed fancier than I ever have in my whole life, and all he’s doing is sitting behind the wheel of a car. I’m a little stunned.
He misreads my reaction.
“Is something wrong?”
I shake my head quickly. “No.”
He scans the curb around my feet, frowning when he finds it empty. “Do you have anything you’d like me to load into the trunk?”
I glance down at my red pleather crossbody purse, a bag I scored at a resale shop and that has survived quite a bit of wear and tear. Inside, I have my wallet, an apple, and a book—the essentials.
“Nope, I’m all set.”
He issues a curt nod and then reaches back to open the passenger door for me. I slide onto the seat, immediately aware of the rich leather smell as he shuts the door behind me.
The cupholders hold an unopened bottle of water and a little bag filled with an array of snacks: English biscuits I don’t recognize, a granola bar that looks like it would taste like bark, and some toffee. I don’t touch any of it. I don’t touch anything, in fact, outside of buckling my seatbelt. When that’s done, I place my hands on my thighs and leave them there.
When the driver retakes his seat, he straightens his rearview mirror then glances back at me.
“My name is Frank. I’m one of the drivers employed by the Cromwell family. If you need anything during the drive, I’d be happy to assist you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“We should arrive in about an hour.”
“An hour!?”
“Yes. Occasionally, I can get to Newport in less time, but not with this traffic.”
Newport.
It occurs to me now that I should have asked where Rosethorn is located, but then I don’t even know what Rosethorn is. Another nursing home? Please god no.
I had just assumed the driver would be taking me somewhere in Providence, but now that I know I’m wrong, it feels too late to pump the brakes—literally. Frank has already pulled away from the curb, and I’d look like a crazy person if I asked him to pull back over so I could leap out of the car. So instead, I sit quietly. We don’t say a word to each other for the entire drive. He keeps the radio dialed in to classical music, and I love every minute of it. I can’t remember the last time I listened to music like this, uninterrupted, with Rhode Island’s early summer landscape whipping past the windows.
The farther from Providence we travel, the more water splashes across the scene. Small pockets turn into expansive bays that stretch to the horizon. Once we’re on Aquidneck Island, we continue south until Memorial Boulevard takes us to the very tip of the world. I look out onto a sandy beach hosting a few brave souls as we climb a steep hill that eventually deposits us onto a road lined with shops that look straight out of a theme park. They’re all perfectly matching, a long line of two-story Tudor-style townhomes with green scalloped-edged awnings announcing cafes and art galleries, tennis shops and boutiques. We pass them by and then continue on into a neighborhood—at least that’s the only word I can think of to describe this place. Each house we pass is slightly bigger than the last. Properties expand. Gates grow toward the sky until it’s impossible to make out what’s concealed behind them.
I’ve heard of Newport; everyone in Rhode Island has. I’m pretty sure the rumors are only half true, but the story goes that there’s no world more exclusive, no property values more expensive. The difference between the Hamptons and Newport, as I’ve heard it, is that the Hamptons are where people move when they have a few million to spare. Newport, on the other hand, doesn’t have a price tag. The mansions here aren’t sold; they’re inherited.
I think of what it would be like to see one of them, almost working up the nerve to ask Frank if we can stop just to take a quick peek behind one of the gates, but then he clicks his blinker on and pulls off the road to the left, onto a long drive.
My first thought is that he’s headed in the wrong direction and needs to make a U-turn, but then he pulls up to a soaring limestone-framed gate with a pair of heavy copper gas lanterns, and he presses a button on the remote mounted on his sun visor.
The huge iron doors swing open and we pass through. At the last moment, before the gate disappears from view, I turn back to glance over my shoulder and notice the delicate word formed by scrolling ironwork at the very top.
Rosethorn.
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Afterword
In college, I minored in architecture at the University of Texas and considered for a short time whether I would enjoy working in the field. Though I didn’t end up taking that route, I’m happy that I found a way to include a subject I love so much within the romance world. Though the Belle Haven Estate mentioned in this book is completely fictitious, there are quite a few Vanderbilt estates still in existence in the United States today. I’ve had the pleasure of visiting The Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina twice and I’ve made a few trips up to Newport, Rhode Island so I could tour the Gilded Age mansions. I highly recommend adding both to your bucket list!
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Thank you for taking the time to read MY PROFESSOR. I know there are so many books to choose from these days, and I don’t take it for granted that you all chose to spend a day or two reading mine.
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XO, Rachel
R.S. Grey, My Professor
