Second Comings
Part I: August
Jordan Secord had, like so many professors in this day and age, managed to avoid a tenure tracked position at any reputable university with a breathtaking adroitness that had left his many peers dumbfounded. How could an intellect so curious, a historian and practitioner of American foreign policy of such wide achievement not have been snapped up by a Harvard or a Princeton? It just made no sense at all.
Secord was indeed generally well-regarded wherever he taught, but he was also aggressively shy, and always soon came to be regarded as a pompous and mean-spirited sort, and those academic associates who attempted to penetrate the veil of Secord's resolute intellectual intemperance generally came away from the experience wishing they had never made the attempt. As a result, he generally managed to hang onto academic appointments for a couple of years, then an administrative sort would call him in and advise that his contract would not be up for renewal, and that was that. After a series of such dismissals, Secord did what most self-effacing historians did: he lobbied for and secured a position working in the White House. He prepared the president's daily national security brief, and wrote position papers for speechwriters to use when staging the president's next sound bite. In the immediate post-9/11 political world, Secord's was a busy life indeed.
Still, the cozy confines of academia called, and when The President left office, Secord put out feelers and soon found a quaint college in Vermont with a tenure-tracked position in the offing; he fired off a letter of inquiry and hoped for the best. Things went well, and he accepted a five year appointment to the college after he toured the campus and met the department chair. He was, he noted dryly, to be the liberal college's token conservative, and the thought filled him with uncharacteristic cheer. He loved nothing more than analyzing liberal arguments, then cutting them to shreds. In fact, the prospect seemed more than fun at this stage in life...it would be grand entertainment to expose liberal ideologies for the shams they are!
Far from being a pious man, Secord nevertheless considered himself a moral man, and he had long considered a steadfast moral compass to be the foundation of his classroom principles. Whether discussing John C Calhoun or Jimmy Carter, Secord focused on the moral dilemmas faced by America's leaders when confronting dictators and madmen, and like any historian worth his salt, he always made an attempt to present all sides of the relevant arguments these leaders faced. Even so and in the end, he considered himself staunchly conservative, though he knew he had a hard time hiding this bias; indeed, his 'rightish' leanings had, more often than not, landed him in real trouble. Higher education in America had become, if anything, even more restrictive in it's tolerance of free speech, but he understood the pendulum swings both ways over time, and he simply wanted to take the long view this time around. To that end, he'd decided to avoid situations that might lead to confrontations with left leaning faculty, and to that end he'd decided to keep his opinions to himself. If by some miracle he achieved tenure...? Well, he might let loose then, for if anything Secord thought he'd learned this lesson, and learned it well. He was tired of moving, wanted some stability in his life, and Vermont looked enticing.
Two weeks before the Fall Term began, all new faculty were due on campus. Orientation sessions were scheduled, facility tours given, and much time was dedicated to getting acquainted with all the material the Resource Center had available. A week before first classes were scheduled, a faculty dinner was scheduled at the college president's house, a grand, rambling colonial-era mansion that stood on a bluff overlooking the Connecticut River. Weather permitting, the affair was usually held on the grounds behind the house, and when the anointed day arrived, very warm temperatures and a cloudless sky beckoned.
Secord walked the few blocks to the stately house, and he was really quite impressed with the state of preservation found on the idyllic campus. Most of the college's buildings pre-dated the American Civil War, while more than a few, including the President's House, had been built in Revolutionary War times. Deep red brick, white trim, black shutters on the windows, the houses he saw were simply gorgeous and every property was surrounded by the deepest green lawns he'd ever seen – while an overwhelming number of huge oaks and maples and pines cast deep shadows everywhere he looked.
He had opted to wear an old pale blue seersucker suit and white shirt, and an equally old bow tie. White bucks, of course, rounded out the image he wanted to convey, but it was so warm out he took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he walked along. A Prius hummed by and parked along the street, and he looked on in awe at the long legs that emerged from the Toyota. Shimmering hosiery, very high heels, long dark hair...there was nothing PC looking about the woman who walked ahead of him to the President's house. No, indeed not; this woman seemed as hot as a pistol.
Secord found himself mesmerized by the woman's legs, especially the smooth, full lines of her calves as he made his way up the walk behind her. She slowed, let him catch up, then stood aside and let Secord open the door for her! 'Holy Crap!' he said to himself as she passed, 'this sure as hell wasn't a Birkenstock wearing, hairy legged rug muncher!' Now he just had to find out who this dame was!
Cocktails were being served in a large lanai off the house's grand reception hall, and Secord found himself a decent scotch and water and walked over to a buffet table where an array of cheese and fruit lay artfully arranged. He picked up a plate and put some cubed swiss on it, added a few fresh looking strawberries for good measure, then walked outside and found his name on one of the tables set amongst the trees. He saw place holders for his department chair to the left, and someone named Michele Lansing on his right. Oh well, he sighed, it might be a long evening. He took a long pull on his scotch and loosened his tie.
"Jordan!"
He turned, saw Dennis Hastings, the Chairman of the History Department ambling his way, then he looked down at the man's hairy legs. Secord recoiled from the plaid madras shorts and lime green polo shirt he saw, and grimaced at the terra cotta colored Birkenstocks – replete with gray argyle knee socks – Hastings had on.
"Dennis! By golly, I wish I'd worn shorts! It's beastly bot out here...worse than D.C.! So! Is this your wife?"
The woman by Hasting's side was well endowed and seemed cast in stone of simmering anger, yet somehow she exuded a very refined appearance, yet it was her eyes that caught Secord's, for they were luscious. Deep blue pools set inside a gracefully aging wilderness...he found her face enchanting – and now found himself staring at Sharon Hastings as her husband made introductions. Secord guessed she was Harvard or Princeton, definitely not a Yalie, simply by the way she held herself...and by the pained look she expressed for her husband's attire. He felt for her, if only because Hastings looked like he'd just stepped out of a ratty old motorhome and counted on embarrassing his wife.
Then she came right for him and shook his hand, and dove right in.
"You're coming from the White House, aren't you?" she asked, and he was acutely aware she hadn't let go of his hand – yet.
"That's about the size of it, Sharon."
Dennis interrupted. "You want your usual, baby-doll?"
Sharon rolled her eyes. "Better make it a double, sweet-cheeks!" Dennis walked away, blushing. "That'll teach the bastard!" she said, chuckling. "So, what? NSC? Is that what I heard?"
"Yup. Position papers, daily briefs. That kind of stuff."
"Were you there for 9/11?"
"Just after. Interesting times. What do you do?"
"Sabbatical. I teach poli-sci at Holyoke, but I worked in the Clinton White House," she said reproachfully.
"Ah," Secord said. So that's why she asked for a double.
"Where'd you teach before? Did I hear Stanford?"
"Yes, a few years there. Also at USC."
"And you went to Yale?"
"Yes, Dartmouth undergrad. You?"
"Georgetown, then the Fletcher School."
That cleared things up, Secord said to himself as alarm bells went off in his head. Catholic, probably Boston, ties to the Kennedy clan almost a sure bet. Sharp as a scalpel, no doubt. "What are you working on now," he asked.
