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neither their interests nor their personalities meshed. Would it be different with Amanda?
    He glanced at the information sheet again —Amanda, from Iowa City. Amanda, with soulful brown eyes that reminded him of milk chocolate. Amanda, who had dressed simply, but with elegance, for that meeting with the other newcomers. Amanda , who looked like she was going to be a much-needed addition to the English department. The only other female there had to be nearing sixty. He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. He was over due for a haircut. Had Amanda noticed?
    The owl hooted again.
    “What do you think, Mr. Owl? Did she notice me at all?” He punched in her number , and waited while the phone rang .
    “Hello?”
    He sat up straighter, as if she could see him. “Is this Amanda Gardner?”
    “It is. May I ask who’ s calling?”
    “Marc Dunbar. I was wondering if we might meet tomorrow for our interview —for the article on new faculty.”
    “Oh. Yes, but I have a meeting with my c hairman in the afternoon . After that, I’m free . ”
    Her voice had just the right combination of interest and politeness.
    “Great. Why don’t I meet you at your office? We can walk over to the coffee shop and talk there.”
    “I look forward to it.”
    So did he, imagining her smile.
     
    When Amanda returned from her meeting, Marcus was waiting for her outside her office . T h e y stroll e d across campus to th e local Starbucks .
    “Tell me about the c ollege , something other than what was in the brochure I was sent . ” Those eyes of his—so intense —so blue—just like Cece’s.
    “ Let’s see. You know it was founded by Jeremiah Buckley. He thought it s position on the highest hill in the town would attract students. There wa s some talk that he ran a speak easy during the twenties, though there’s nothing in writing about that.” He chuckl ed. “Maybe the lumber business was just boring enough for him to want a more interesting hobby.”
    “Perhaps.” She stumbled as she skirted a cluster of students crossing in front of them, one arm brushing against Marcus. His hand slid under her elbow and then across the small of her back to steady her until she pulled away just out of reach .
    “ I guess you’ve seen what a great view the campus has of the bay and the islands— ”
    “And the mountains to the west, too.” S he grinned. “ The view was one of the first things I noticed when I interviewed .”
    “ Most people say that,” he replied. “ Rumor—and some of the early letters on display at the historical society report — that the first instructors lived with townspeople who had extra rooms. Now mo st of the faculty are like the d ean. They live down the hill from campus and along some of the street s with views of the bay or the mountains . Where do you live?”
    “I’m renting a house about five blocks away— close enough to walk.”
    When they arrived at the cof fee shop, he held a chair for her then pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket. “Tell me about your thesis . You said it was a biograph y ?”
    “ No, it was about w riting biographies —the research that goes into them, and how to make facts interesting. ”
    “ And this is your first faculty appointment.” He jot ted quick notes.
    “Yes. After more than six years of grad school poverty , I’ m thrilled to be making a decent salary—what my daughter calls a real job.” S he laughed. “I’ve got loans to pay off.”
    “You have a kid?” He looked surprised.
    She nodded.
    “ Y ou’re married? ”
    She shook her head. “Does that matter for your article ?”
    He seemed to be gazing back at her . “Sorry. Too personal. Not important for the article.” His pen slipped out of his hand and he followed its route to the floor with his eyes.
    Before he could resume writing , she asked, “ What do you do besides teach j ournalism classes?”
    He smiled. “I’m work ing on a book about Ernie Pyle.”
    “ Oh. So you write