by Nora Roberts
He only thought about her as a woman, a very attractive woman, a couple of dozen times.
Going for pizza afterward seemed such a natural progression, he suggested it himself. They competed for a table in the crowded pizzeria with teenagers out on date night.
“So . . .” Nell stretched out in the booth. “How’s Zeke’s career in spelling coming along?”
“It’s a struggle. He really works at it. It’s funny, Zack can spell almost anything you toss at him first time around, but Zeke has to study the word like a scholar with the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
“He’s good at his arithmetic.”
“Yeah.” Mac wasn’t sure how he felt about her knowing so much about his kids. “They’re both taken with you.”
“It’s mutual.” She skimmed a hand through her hair. “It’s going to sound odd, but . . .” She hesitated, not quite sure how to word it. “But that first day at rehearsal, when I looked around and saw them? I had this feeling, this—I don’t know, it was like, ‘Oh, there you are. I was wondering when you’d show up.’ It sounds strange, but it was as if I was expecting them. Now, when Kim comes without them, I feel let down.”
“I guess they kind of grow on you.”
It was more than that, but she didn’t know how to explain. And she wasn’t entirely sure Mac would accept the fact that she’d very simply fallen for them. “I get a kick out of them telling me about their school day, showing me their papers.”
“First report cards are almost here.” His grin flashed. “I’m more nervous than they are.”
“People put too much emphasis on grades.”
His brows shot up at the comment. “This from a teacher?”
“Individual ability, application, effort, retention. Those things are a lot more important than A, B or C. But I can tell you, in confidence, that Kim’s acing advanced chorus and music history.”
“No kidding?” He felt a quick surge of pride. “She never did that well before. Bs mostly.”
“Mr. Striker and I have markedly different approaches.”
“You’re telling me. Word around town is that the chorus is dynamite this year. How’d you pull it off?”
“The kids pull it off,” she told him, sitting up when their pizza was served. “My job is to make them think and sing like a team. Not to slam Mr. Striker,” she added, taking a generous bite. “But I get the impression he was just putting in time, counting the days until he could retire. If you’re going to teach kids, you have to like them, and respect them. There’s a lot of talent there, some of it extremely rough.” When she laughed, the roses in her cheek bloomed deeper. “And some of those kids will do nothing more than sing in the shower for the rest of their lives—for which the world can be grateful.”
“Got some clunkers, huh?”
“Well . . .” She laughed again. “Yes, I have a few. But they’re enjoying themselves. That’s what counts. And there are a few, like Kim, who are really something special. I’m sending her and two others for auditions to all-state next week. And after the holiday concert I’m going to hold auditions for the spring musical.”
“We haven’t had a musical at the high school in three years.”
“We’re going to have one this year, Buster. And it’s going to be terrific.”
“It’s a lot of work for you.”
“I like it. And it’s what I’m paid for.”
Mac toyed with a second slice. “You really do like it, don’t you? The school, the town, the whole bit?”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s a fine school, a fine town.”
“It ain’t Manhattan.”
“Exactly.”
“Why’d you leave?” He winced. “Sorry, none of my business.”
“It’s all right. I had a bad year. I guess I was getting restless before that, but the last year was just the pits. They eliminated my job at the school. Economic cutbacks. Downsizing. The arts are always the first to suffer.” She shrugged. “Anyway, my roommate got married. I couldn’t afford the rent on my own—not if I wanted to eat with any regularity—so I advertised for another one. Took references, gauged personalities.” With a sigh, she propped her chin on her elbow. “I thought I was careful. But about three weeks after she moved in, I came home and found that she’d cleaned me out.”
Mac stopped eating. “She robbed you?”
“She skinned me. TV, stereo, whatever good jewelry I had, cash, the collection of Limoges boxes I’d started in college. I was really steamed, and then I was shaken. I just wasn’t comfortable living there after it happened. Then the guy I’d been seeing for about a year started giving me lectures on my stupidity, my naiveté. As far as he was concerned, I’d gotten exactly what I’d deserved.”
“Nice guy,” Mac muttered. “Very supportive.”
“You bet. In any case, I took a good look at him and our relationship and figured he was right on one level. As long as I was in that rut, with him, I was getting what I deserved. So I decided to climb out of the rut, and leave him in it.”
“Good choice.”
“I thought so.” And so was he, she thought, studying Mac’s face. A very good choice. “Why don’t you tell me what your plans are with the house you’re renovating.”
“I don’t guess you’d know a lot about plumbing.”
She only smiled. “I’m a quick learner.”
It was nearly midnight when he pulled up in front of her apartment. He hadn’t intended to stay out so late. He certainly hadn’t expected to spend more than an hour talking to her about wiring and plumbing and load-bearing walls. Or drawing little blueprints on napkins.
But somehow he’d managed to get through the evening without feeling foolish or pinned down or out of step. Only one thing worried him. He wanted to see her again.
“I think this was a good first step.” She laid a hand over his, kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”
“I’ll walk you up.”
Her hand was already on the door handle. Safer, she’d decided for both of them, if she just hurried along. “You don’t have to. I know the way.”
“I’ll walk you up,” he repeated. He stepped out, rounded the hood. They started up the stairs together. The tenant on the first floor was still awake. The mutter of a television, and its ghost gray light, filtered through the window.
Since the breeze had died, it was the only sound. And overhead countless stars wheeled in a clear black sky.
“If we do this again,” Mac began, “people in town are going to start talking about us, making out that we’re . . .” He wasn’t quite sure of the right phrase.
“An item?” Nell supplied. “That bothers you.”
“I don’t want the kids to get any ideas, or worry, or . . . whatever.” As they reached the landing, he looked down at her and was caught again. “It must be the way you look,” he murmured.
“What must?”
“That makes me think about you.” It was a reasonable explanation, he decided. Physical attraction. After all, he wasn’t a dead man. He was just a careful one. “That makes me think about doing this.”
He cupped her face in his hands—a gesture so sweet, so tender, it had every muscle in her body going lax. It was just as slow, as stunning, as sumptuous, as the first time. The touch of his mouth on hers, the shuddering patience, the simple wonder of it.
Could it be this? she wondered. Could it be this that she’d been waiting for? Could it be him?
He heard her soft, breathy sigh as he eased his mouth from hers. Lingering, he knew, would be a mistake, and he let his hands fall away before they could reach for more.
As if to capture one final taste, Nell ran her tongue over her lips. “You’re awfully good at that, Macauley. Awfully good.”
“You could say I’ve been saving up.” But he didn’t think it
was that at all. He was very much worried it wasn’t that. “I’ll see you.”
She nodded weakly as he headed down the steps. She was still leaning dreamily against the door when she heard his car start and drive away.
For a moment, she would have sworn the air rang with the distant music of sleigh bells.
Chapter 6
The end of October meant parent-teacher conferences, and a much-anticipated holiday for students. It also meant a headache for Mac. He had to juggle the twins from his sister to Kim to Mrs. Hollis, fitting in a trip to order materials and an electrical inspection.
When he turned his truck into the educational complex, he was jumpy with nerves. Lord knew what he was about to be told about his children, how they behaved when they were out of his sight and his control. He worried that he hadn’t made enough time to help them with their schoolwork and somehow missed a parental step in preparing them for the social, educational and emotional demands of first grade.
Because of his failure, his boys would become antisocial, illiterate neurotics.
He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop his fears from playing over and over like an endless loop in his brain.
“Mac!” The car horn and the sound of his name had him turning and focusing, finally, on his sister’s car. She leaned out the window, shaking her head at him. “Where were you? I called you three times.”
“Bailing my kids out of jail,” he muttered, and changed course to walk to her car. “I’ve got a conference in a minute.”
“I know. I’ve just come from a meeting at the high school. Remember, we compared schedules.”
“Right. I shouldn’t be late.”
“You don’t get demerits. My meeting was about raising funds for new chorus uniforms. Those kids have been wearing the same old choir robes for twelve years. We’re hoping to raise enough to put them in something a little snazzier.”
“Fine, I’ll give you a donation, but I shouldn’t be late.” Already he was imagining the young, fresh-faced first grade teacher marking him tardy, just another item on a growing list of negatives about Taylor males.
“I just wanted to say that Nell seemed upset about something.”
“What?”
“Upset,” Mira repeated, pleased that she finally had his full attention. “She came up with a couple of nice ideas for fund-raisers, but she was obviously distracted.” Mira lifted a brow, eyeing her brother slyly. “You haven’t done anything to annoy her, have you?”
“No.” Mac caught himself before he shifted guiltily from foot to foot. “Why should I?”
“Couldn’t say. But since you’ve been seeing her—”
“We went to the movies.”
“And for pizza,” Mira added. “A couple of Kim’s friends spotted you.”
The curse of small towns, Mac thought, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So?”
“So nothing. Good for you. I like her a lot. Kim’s crazy about her. I suppose I’m feeling a bit protective. She was definitely upset, Mac, and trying not to show it. Maybe she’d talk to you about it.”
“I’m not going to go poking around in her personal life.”
“The way I see it, you’re part of her personal life. See you later.” She pulled off without giving him a chance for a parting shot.
Muttering to himself, Mac marched up to the elementary school. When he marched out twenty minutes later, he was in a much lighter mood. His children had not been declared social misfits with homicidal tendencies after all. In fact, their teacher had praised them.
Of course, he’d known all along.
Maybe Zeke forgot the rules now and then and talked to his neighbor. And maybe Zack was a little shy about raising his hand when he knew an answer. But they were settling in.
With the weight of first grade off his shoulders, Mac headed out. Impulse had him swinging toward the high school. He knew his conference had been one of the last of the day. He wasn’t sure how teachers’ meetings worked at the high school, but the lot was nearly empty. He spotted Nell’s car, however, and decided it wouldn’t hurt just to drop in.
It wasn’t until he was inside that he realized he didn’t have a clue as to where to find her.
Mac poked his head into the auditorium, but it was empty. Since he’d come that far, he backtracked to the main office and caught one of the secretaries as she was leaving for the day. Following her directions, he turned down a corridor, headed up a ramp and turned right.
Nell’s classroom door was open. Not like any classroom he’d done time in, he thought. This one had a piano, music stands, instruments, a tape recorder. There was the usual blackboard, wiped clean, and a desk where Nell was currently working.
He watched her for a long moment, the way her hair fell, the way her fingers held the pen, the way her sweater draped at the neck. It occurred to him that if he’d ever had a teacher who looked like that, he would have been a great deal more interested in music.
“Hi.”
Her head snapped up. There was a martial light in her eyes that surprised him, a stubborn set to her jaw. Even as he watched, she took a long breath and worked up a smile.
“Hello, Mac. Welcome to bedlam.”
“Looks like a lot of work.” He stepped inside, up to the desk. It was covered with papers, books, computer printouts and sheet music, all in what appeared to be ordered piles.
“Finishing up the first marking period, grades, class planning, fund-raising strategy, fine-tuning the holiday concert—and trying to make the budget stretch to producing the spring musical.” Trying to keep her foul mood to herself, she sat back. “So, how was your day?”
“Pretty good. I just had a conference with the twins’ teacher. They’re doing fine. I can stop sweating report cards.”
“They’re great kids. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Worry comes with the territory. What are you worried about?” he asked before he could remind himself he wasn’t going to pry.
“How much time have you got?” she shot back.
“Enough.” Curious, he eased a hip onto the edge of her desk. He wanted to soothe, he discovered, to stroke away that faint line between her brows. “Rough day?”
She jerked her shoulders, then pushed away from her desk. Temper always forced her to move. “I’ve had better. Do you know how much school and community support the football team gets? All the sports teams.” She began to slap cassette tapes into a box—anything to keep her hands busy. “Even the band. But the chorus, we have to go begging for every dollar.”
“You’re ticked off about the budget?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” She whirled back, eyes hot. “No problem getting equipment for the football team so a bunch of boys can go out on the field and tackle each other, but I have to spend an hour on my knees if I want eighty bucks to get a piano tuned.” She caught herself, sighed. “I don’t have anything against football. I like it. High school sports are important.”
“I know a guy who tunes pianos,” Mac said. “He’d probably donate his time.”
Nell rubbed a hand over her face, slid it around to soothe the tension at the back of her neck. Dad can fix anything, she thought, just as the twins had claimed. Have a problem? Call Mac.
“That would be great,” she said, and managed a real smile. “If I can beat my way through the paperwork and get approval. You can’t even take freebies without going through the board.” It irritated her, as always. “One of the worst aspects of teaching is the bureaucracy. Maybe I should have stuck with performing in clubs.”
“You performed in clubs?”
“In another life,” she muttered, waving it away. “A little singing to pay my way through college. It was better than waiting tables. Anyway, it’s not the budget, not really. Or even the lack of interest from t
he community. I’m used to that.”
“Do you want to tell me what it is, or do you want to stew about it?”
“I was having a pretty good time stewing about it.” She sighed again, and looked up at him. He seemed so solid, so dependable. “Maybe I’m too much of an urbanite after all. I’ve had my first run-in with old-fashioned rural attitude, and I’m stumped. Do you know Hank Rohrer?”
“Sure. He has a dairy farm out on Old Oak Road. I think his oldest kid is in the same class as Kim.”
“Hank, Jr. Yes. Junior’s one of my students—a very strong baritone. He has a real interest in music. He even writes it.”
“No kidding? That’s great.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Nell tossed her hair back and went to her desk again to tidy her already tidy papers. “Well, I asked Mr. and Mrs. Rohrer to come in this morning because Junior backed out of going to all-state auditions this weekend. I knew he had a very good chance of making it, and I wanted to discuss the possibility with his parents of a music scholarship. When I told them how talented Junior was and how I hoped they’d encourage him to change his mind about the auditions, Hank Senior acted as though I’d just insulted him. He was appalled.” There was bitterness in her voice now, as well as anger. “‘No son of his was going to waste his time on singing and writing music like some . . . ’”
She trailed off, too furious to repeat the man’s opinion of musicians. “They didn’t even know Junior was in my class. Thought he was taking shop as his elective this year. I tried to smooth it over, said that Junior needed a fine-art credit to graduate. I didn’t do much good. Mr. Rohrer could barely swallow the idea of Junior staying in my class. He went on about how Junior didn’t need singing lessons to run a farm. And he certainly wasn’t going to allow him to take a Saturday and go audition when the boy had chores. And I’m to stop putting any fancy ideas about college in the boy’s head.”
“They’ve got four kids,” Mac said slowly. “Tuition might be a problem.”
