Caught Redhanded by Gayle Roper Page B

at me.
    “Well, you can. There’s sunlight in Pittsburgh and art supply stores and art galleries and anything else you might need.”
    “And my work with Intimations?” he asked, referring to the gallery in Philadelphia with a branch here in Amhearst.
    “They can still show your work. They show the work of lots of artists who don’t live locally.”
    “But I teach for them.”
    “I’m sure you can teach in Pittsburgh.”
    “You’ve checked into it for me, have you?”
    “Well, no, but we’re not talking the end of the earth here. There have to be lots of people who want to learn to paint there.”
    He grunted again. “What if I want to keep teaching my students here? What if I want to teach in North Carolina?”
    “North Carolina?” Where had that come from? Then I remembered he’d mentioned North Carolina when he’d stopped at the office this morning to see how I was after discovering Martha.
    “In the Appalachians.” His eyes looked fondly into middle distance.
    “You want to teach in North Carolina?” I all but screeched, albeit quietly. Screeching is more tone than volume, more intent than decibels. “But that’s too far to commute.”
    He focused on me, his eyes shuttered to hide his emotions. “I was thinking of something more permanent.”
    “What?” Surely I didn’t understand him correctly. “You want to move to North Carolina?”
    “Maybe. You’re not the only one who gets job offers, you know.”
    I was appalled. “Someone in North Carolina offered you a job? But you’re self-employed.”
    He pushed his empty coffee cup aside and leaned toward me. This time he was eager, not displeased. “I got a call this morning from West Carolina Art Institute. They want me to come talk with them about joining their faculty.”
    “Why you? How you?” North Carolina?
    “Apparently one of the art profs was in Philadelphia and visited Intimations. He was impressed enough with my work to look up my Web site. He noted that I taught school before I started painting full-time and that I taught art classes now. Long story short, they approached me about filling a position unexpectedly vacated.”
    “But what about the academic credentials to teach at a university?”
    He looked much too pleased with himself as he said, “I have my master’s and with my credentials as a producing, selling artist, they feel it’s enough for an adjunct professor.”
    I frowned at him. “So just like that you want to move to North Carolina? Without talking it over with me?”
    “I don’t know if I want to move to North Carolina or not. I have to go visit, look the place over and talk with people.” He looked at me. “I’d like you to come with me when I go.”
    “Oh.” The man was really serious about this possibility! “I can’t. I’ve committed all my vacation time for our honeymoon.” Not that I wanted to go even if I had the time.
    He smiled. “I went on the web and checked, and there’s a wonderful paper in the area, sweetheart, just the thing for you. You’re very fortunate because newspapers are everywhere.”
    “Right.” I stood, feeling betrayed, which I knew was foolish. But he was supposed to be delighted for me, not offering an alternate plan. “But they don’t all need another reporter.”
    He stood to leave, too, and I followed him out. The temperature outside had moderated from the heat and humidity of the afternoon and the soft, long twilight of summer wrapped around us as we walked together to our separate cars, both parked in The News lot.
    As I hit the electronic key to open my driver’s door, Curt swung his arm around my shoulders and drew me close. He kissed the top of my head, then my lips. I wrapped my arms around his middle and kissed him back.
    “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
    “Yeah,” I said as I rested my head on his chest. But I didn’t know how without one of us feeling cheated. Resentful. There was a good start for a marriage.