I knew Mark Laine was a gifted History Prof but I didn't think he was a miracle worker.
I was ready to give up and resign my position as writer-in-residence at U of T before I even began―I was feeling that overwhelmed by the prospect of teaching three diiferent sets of candidates in one course, all of whom had different and at times conflicting needs.
I didn't see how I could reconcile these diverse groups but Mark worked wonders setting up a curriculum that was able to meet the needs of everybody while allowing flexibility to satisfy the univeristy's academic standards.
To say the least, I was impressd by my friend, especially when we were able to go for drinks afterwards at Sweetwaters and I could relax and look ahead to a new chapter in my writing career.
"I told you not to worry, Mark crowed, "setting up the curriculum was the easy part, now you just have to supply the creative genius, something I could never do, but for you will be a piece of cake."
I smiled and shook my head. "Your image of me is what I can only hope to be."
"On the contrary, Cam, you're like the mediaeval rabbis who poured honey over letters of the alphabet and taught their students that learning was like licking honey off a slate. You're a gifted writer, Pal--your writing group will come to know that and appreciate you."
"Licking honey off a slate?" A female voice echoed behind us, "sounds enticing."
I looked up to see a beautiful woman about our age smiling at both of us.
"I'm sure that's how your students view your lectures, Vi," Mark smiled.
I have no doubt they're enthralled, I mused, gazing at her lovely face and friendly demeanour.
I suppose I gazed a few seconds too long, because she smiled at me and said, "Are you the new writer-in-residence?"
Before I could reply Mark jumped in, "Vi Thompson, neet Cam Marshall, and yes, he is our new literary guru."
"Pleased to meet you, Vi, but I'd hardly call myself a guru, maybe just a writing coach--more an encourager."
"Well, we all need encouragement," she smiled, and I got the impression from her dancing eyes that there was a teasing element in her reply that cause me to colour slightly.
"Why don't you have a seat and join us?" Mark asked, pulling out a chair for her.
"I'd love to but I'm here for Preston Wright's retirement send-off. Maybe another time," she said, giving me an encouraging glance.
"I'm sure our paths will cross in the faculty lounge," I reassured her.
"Oh, I'd say those odds are very high―we all need a refuge now and then from the academic grind. Nice meeting you, Cam."
I watched her thread her way gracefully through tables back to her waiting colleagues.
The woman was strikingly beautiful, an observation I needn't make to Mark because he knows all my tells, and I knew he'd inevitably comment, which he did.
"She's quite a looker, don't you think?" he grinned, touching his draft glass to mine.
"She is," I nodded, "but why the toast?'
"Just a gesture to let you know in case you missed it, she liked you. Congratulations, she doesn't like many men."
"Well, that and a twenty will get us another round of drinks―I can't concntrate on anything for the next few weeks but finding my way in the seminar. After that, who knows where I'll be."
"I get it, Pal, but you're over-thinking this whole thing. You're a writer and a creative genius―this does come easy for you. Don't take a vow of celibacy―just be yourself, and take a few breaks now and then. You'll need them."
I knew he was right, but this phase of my career was entirely new to me and I didn't do well processing uncertainty...
And the last thing I needed was to be distracted by a beautiful face, at least, that was the lie I told myself to set my nerves at ease.
