Chapter Eight
I’m very good at making vows I can’t keep.
In my university office at 9:00 Monday morning, there’s a package on my desk addressed to Ellen Laurey.
“When the hell did this come in?” I blurt out.
With the door open, the department secretary and several students hear my exclamation.
Secretary Jenny, with the tiny skirt and the brown mop of curls, rushes to my call.
“Is there something the matter?” she asks, peering over the rim of her glasses.
“I’m not Ellen Laurey, why’s this here? Who brought it?”
“I’ve never seen it, Carolyn,” she replies. “Would you like me to reroute it to her office?”
“I doubt there is an Ellen Laurey anywhere—except the dead one.”
“The dead one?”
“She’s a poet that died some years ago.”
She nods, not really knowing how to respond, intimida
