Then, she was reminded of how wonderful it was for Sarah to spend more time among her family, and she shook the worry.
“Besides,” Megan went on, smoothing the shoulders of her daughter’s t-shirt, “Your aunt works there.”
“Cousin,” Sarah corrected her pointedly.
Chapter 5—Clara
“Viviana Fiorillo?” Clara called, glancing over her computer at the neat rows of freshmen, most of them nervous. Some of them prematurely ornery.
Clara settled her warm gaze on the familiar face that matched the name, but the girl was nonplussed. “It’s Vivi,” she corrected.
Clara’s gut clenched, and her eyes darted to the clock. Forty-five minutes until passing period. She blinked and smiled. “Vivi, of course. I know.”
In reply, the girl smiled back—her glossy lips stretching across brilliant, straight, white teeth. Swallowing, Clara returned the smile. Everything about Vivi was a version of Clara—an extreme version, as if Clara was cranked through a doll machine. Where Clara’s hair was bright blonde, Vivi’s was white blonde. Where Clara had warm, smooth skin, Vivi’s was deep, island tan. And so on and so forth.
“Mercy Hennings,” Clara continued, flicking her gaze to the girl in the seat behind Vivi. They shared an easy smile, a knowing one. Mercy raised her hand and nodded.
And on it went, until Clara was through the roster and learned that she already knew over half the class from the previous school year. The other half—those from St. Mary’s or out of town or who had been homeschooled—were by and large quiet. The ones who had already had Clara were compliant if comfortable.
She opened their first day lesson with a simple assignment. An ice-breaker. Each student was to write a short story about himself or herself. It could be fictional in that maybe the budding writers (as Clara called them) would cast magical creatures to represent their friends and family. They could pick new names and fantastical events. “But in the end,” Clara went on to explain, stepping languidly around her podium and settling half her weight on an empty front desk, “We should learn something about you from your piece of writing.”
In typical honors-student fashion, four hands shot up immediately.
Clara called on each in turn.
“How long does it have to be?” one boy asked.
Clara lifted her palms. “As long as it needs to be to satisfy the goal, but you only have thirty minutes.” She nodded toward the clock that hung next to the American flag.
A girl asked, “Do we skip lines?”
“Please do.” Easier to mark up that way.
Another: “Can I write in pencil?”
“Pen only. Cross through your errors and rewrite in the extra space.”
Finally, Clara called on Mercy, the last one with her hand up. “Miss Hannigan,” Mercy began. Clara smiled. “Will we have to share out loud?”
In fact, in her lesson plans, Clara had slotted five to ten minutes to allow for one or two students to read aloud if they liked, and so she cocked her head toward the clock again. “If we have time, I’ll take a couple of volunteers who’d like to read their pieces. But, no, Mercy. You won’t be required to share. These can be personal.”
Mercy’s face regained color, and she settled into her seat, but the question reminded Clara of something she had learned at the back-to-school in-service for teachers.
“One more thing before you begin, everyone.” Her eyebrows fell more heavily and her face solemn. She made eye contact with a few of the unfamiliar students and another few of the familiar ones who she suspected might need to hear what she had to say. “Keep in mind that while I would be honored to be your confidant, if what you share is… well, if it’s serious, I am a mandated reporter.”
Vivi lifted her hand in front of her chest, and Clara couldn’t tell if she was raising it. “Vivi? Do you have a question?”
“What do you mean you’re a mandated reporter? What do you report?”
The other students sat, rapt, and it occurred to Clara that she ought to be much, much clearer. The first day wasn’t ideal to wade into such weedy waters, but for open-ended, personal writing assignments, it was critical that students knew their boundaries… and their opportunities. They were encouraged to report abuse, but they were discouraged from penning a tall tale about drinking in the woods or smoking behind the school.
Clara swallowed and considered her next words carefully. “All right,” she started, finding her footing, “I’ll be frank. If you write a story about drugs or parties, I can’t ignore that.”
She bit her lip, wondering if her phrasing was off-putting. The students just stared at her.
She went on, “If you write that you’re being hurt—by a parent or even another student, I’ll report that, too. For your sake,” Clara added. After a beat, she continued, “Mandatory reporting means that if I learn a secret about you or your friend, and that secret suggests that you’re in trouble—maybe you’re dating someone too old or maybe another student corners you in the locker room—I’ll help you. That’s what it means. So, if you feel like this writing assignment is a good place for you to share about it—if you or a friend of yours needs help, then please do. I will help you. But if you want to go sneak off to some party next weekend and think it might be funny or cool to write about that, think twice—both about going to that party and about writing about the party.”
When she finished, Clara glanced around the room. She was met mostly with blank faces. This made sense. In an honors class, Clara expected that the kids weren’t much for parties, for one, and for two, they generally came from nuclear families, good homes. They didn’t need help. They likely wouldn’t submit a misguided cry for help, either.
But you never knew. That was the thing about teenagers. They surely couldn’t be trusted with their own emotions.
All Clara could hope for was to be a confidant and that her students wouldn’t abuse that and make a mountain of a molehill.
Her memory returned to her training where the speaker gave an example of how one student wrote a journal entry about a father who mistreated his children. The whole thing turned into an overblown investigation. The dad ended up fired from his job and on the brink of losing custody… and then the child explained it was a fictional story. The line between fiction and reality was blurred, and the teacher had mishandled the whole thing.
Clara offered a kind smile. “Simply this, guys, if you need something, you’re welcome to write about it, and you can trust that I’ll take that information and do the best I can. But don’t get too carried away with storytelling. Keep it school appropriate. And have fun! This is meant to be a fun story about you. Nothing more. Nothing less.” She turned her head to Vivi. “Does that answer your question?”
But the girl was already furiously scratching out lines on her paper—unleashed by the assignment.
With only twenty-five minutes left, Clara left the class to work, took a seat behind her desk, and copied names from her computer screen into her hardcopy attendance book. She preferred working with a pencil and paper over a mouse and screen, which perhaps set her apart from other teachers her age. It felt safer, though, to have the physical record of who was in her room during what hour and what they ought to be doing.
Her second period was another Honors English 9 group. After lunch, she’d have two regular English sections. After school, Clara expected to stay and prepare for the next day, but she also felt the need for a celebratory dinner. Or perhaps just appetizers. Maybe even a sip of wine.
In all her years of teaching, Clara had never been one of those teachers. The ones who met for happy hour at least once a week. Margarita Mondays or Taco Tuesdays. But with the rush of a new teaching appointment and her own personal changes, it might be nice to have someone to gush to. Especially since her date with Jake was only days away.
Fighting the urge to slide her phone out and text her sisters, she put together a to-do list instead.
Tackle Mom’s bedroom. Start on the basement. Fall flowers. New
wreath.
Though she didn’t have many neighbors up at the cottage, she had recently taken notice that she wasn’t the only one who lived along Birch Creek. How that had escaped her for so many years was beyond Clara. She supposed that she simply didn’t spend enough time outdoors. Didn’t walk quite far enough to see where in Birch Harbor she was situated.
But in the past couple of weeks, Clara had ventured once along Birch Creek, stumbling past the stretch that she’d previously considered the end. In fact, the end of the creek wasn’t where she thought—not where the water disappeared into a smattering of mossy rocks. Instead, it was a buried waterfall, of sorts, where the creek fell down a craggy enclave and streamed beneath black iron bars into Birch Harbor’s only gated community: Birch Harbor Heights.
Clara knew precious little about Birch Harbor Heights other than the fact that it was where many of Nora’s country club friends lived.
She didn’t realize the community backed to the expanse of woods that spanned the nether regions of the cottage.
This proximity to such beautiful homes had elevated Clara and one day, she drove herself to the front and found the gumption to ask the security guard if she could drive through. She didn’t give him a good cause. No, she wasn’t visiting a friend. No, she wasn’t house hunting. She lived on the other side of the gate—in the cottage by the creek. Did he know it? —and would like to see what she couldn’t see from her own plot of land.
Surprisingly, the guard let her in, and Clara had the thrill of gawking at beautiful suburban-style homes—each one sitting at the arch of a pretty patterned brick drive with flowers aplenty and green grass for days. Luscious wreaths filled the doors, and pops of color screamed inspiration at her.
So, that’s what Clara mentally set about doing: pulling a little of the upper class to her home. She could emulate them. It would give her a goal to aim for and something to distract her when it came time to sort through Nora’s personal effects.
She glanced at the clock, then jolted. “Oh, time’s up!” Clara chirped, standing and smoothing her floral print dress. She rounded the corner of her desk and returned to her position at the podium, watching as most of the class scrambled to tie up the loose ends in their impromptu life stories. Their miniature historical fictions, as Clara called the assignment in her own mind.
“We have just enough time for one of you to share, if anyone wants?” She started to go on, assuming they’d prefer to be released promptly with the bell. “If not, then go ahead and pass your papers—”
“I’d like to share, Miss Hannigan,” came a voice from the center of the room. Viviana’s. Vivi’s, rather.
“Oh, terrific,” Clara replied. “Go right ahead, Vivi. You can read from your desk.”
Without hesitation, Vivi sprung up, her paper in her hands. Clara caught sight of the girl’s French manicure, and a pang of envy hit her. Clara had never been one for French manicures or false eyelashes, but now here she was: confronted with a longing for some lifestyle far outside of Clara’s own. She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of father Matt Fiorillo was. How he’d brought up such a feminine, ethereal child as Viviana.
Like an old pro, Vivi cleared her throat and launched into an impeccably clear reading of her one-page story.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a perfect life. She had a loving mother and nice father. Or so she thought.” Vivi glanced up ominously. “This girl was beautiful and smart, and her parents always told her she was the most special girl in the whole wide world. Then one day, her mother and father had a serious argument. The girl’s mother decided to move far away, to a better place, and she wanted to take Viv—” Vivi flushed and cleared her throat again. “Sorry. The mother wanted to take the girl with her to a really spectacular big city, but the father didn’t like that. The two parents decided to share their perfect girl—the father kept her over the summer, and the mother kept her over the school year, and life returned to normal. Then one day, when the girl was still very young, the mother and father had another serious argument. They seemed mad at the girl, and so they agreed she would attend a private school instead of a public school.” Vivi lifted her eyebrow around the room.
Clara frowned then glanced at the other students, curious about where Vivi was going and if the others were prepared for such a journey. They sat entranced in the bizarre and naked tale of this beautiful newcomer, and so too was Clara. With three minutes left, she nodded at Vivi to go on.
“Soon enough, life returned to being perfect for this little girl. She had lots of friends in her private school, and she spent lots of time on the beach, playing with her friends and enjoying her perfect life. Her father was nice again, and the girl thought she was still the most special thing in the whole world. But all of her life, something was missing for the girl. It wasn’t her parents’ marriage. It was something else. She realized she didn’t like being the most special girl in the whole world. She knew life could be better if she had a best friend.”
Clara swallowed. Never in her experience had a fourteen-year-old written and then spoken with such… compulsion. Eeriness, even. With one minute left, she nodded again at Vivi, praying the raw story wasn’t some shocking revelation or drawn-out teenage drama.
“Then one summer, life did become better. The girl met another special girl.” Vivi twisted and smiled down at Mercy, and Clara released the breath she’d been holding.
“And they became best friends forever.”
Clara raised her hands in a quick and quiet applause. The other students suppressed their groans and packed in a fervor, leaving without being dismissed.
Even Mercy, who’d just been at the receiving end of the most enigmatic freshman’s affections, anxiously packed and urged her best friend forever toward the door.
But Vivi loitered.
With precious time to use the restroom and prepare for the next class, Clara tried to prod her along. “Wonderful story, Vivi. It read a bit like a fairytale, you know. I felt I learned a little of your life, but it didn’t come across as a dry autobiography.” She began to walk to the classroom door, holding her arm out.
“There’s more to it, of course,” Vivi answered, strolling slowly to the door behind Mercy, who grew more panicked to waste precious passing time.
Clara grew rigid. “Everyone’s life is a complicated story,” she answered, placating the child.
Vivi smiled and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll write more of mine.”
“You do that, Viviana,” Clara answered, her gaze narrowing and her desire to escape to the faculty lounge dissipating entirely. “But you’d better hurry to your next class. You wouldn’t want to get in trouble.”
Chapter 6—Kate
“How was your first week back?” Kate asked Clara between sips of her Arnold Palmer.
They sat on the back deck of the Inn—Kate, Amelia, Megan, and Clara—each with a cool drink in hand. A freshly prepared charcuterie board with cheese and crackers and hummus and pita bread sat untouched in the center. The temperature dipped with the sun, and Kate felt rejuvenated.
She’d spent the day with Matt, working on the attic. They came across little of historic value up there, but the few pieces Nora left weren’t valueless. Soon, the attic space would become two more guest rooms, and she would be well on her way to financial stability, so long as tourism in Birch Harbor held fast.
She thought it would.
Now, all three of her sisters had arrived for a last-minute at-home happy hour. Their cause for celebration? A new season. Back to school for Clara. A new event to plan for Megan. Amelia’s preparations for her grand opening. Kate having Matt all to herself to canoodle and continue work on expanding the Inn. Some days, of course.
Mostly, Matt was busy with his own projects. In fact, he was out at Hannigan Field with Megan’s husband Brian, as they spoke. Matt wasn’t a home builder or a contractor, but he could help with some of the plans and work, and he wanted to. Brian hired him immediately, and their friendship wa
s fast and easy. It melted Kate’s heart.
Clara let out a long breath. “Something funny happened during first period today,” she confessed, her brow wrinkling. “Actually, first period has been weird all week.” Clara glanced up and met Kate’s gaze.
The youngest of the four had been out of the picture all week. She’d gone home each night after school—tired, according to her text messages. Now, it was Friday, and the poor thing looked completely wiped out.
“That’s the hour Vivi has you, right? First period?”
Clara nodded at Kate. “She and Mercy Hennings are in there together.”
Kate’s stomach clenched involuntarily. “So… how is she?”
“Viviana, you mean?” Clara’s eyes slid to the platter of finger foods, and she stole a cube of cheese.
“Well, yeah.”
“You know I can’t technically talk about my students,” Clara answered, munching and staring across the backyard toward the lake.
Megan snorted. “Oh come on, Clar. You brought it up. Besides, what’s the point of having a sister work at the school if we aren’t going to get in the insider gossip?”
“Insider gossip?” Amelia chimed in. “That won’t come from the school. That’ll come from the beach parties those crazy kids flock to in droves. I’m the one with the insider gossip, you know.”
“Oh, you are?” Megan asked.
Kate cut in, “Let’s be real. Teenagers spend most of their waking hours inside the four walls of Birch Harbor High. And anyway,” she glanced meaningfully at Clara, “I don’t want gossip; I just want to check in.”
“I want to hear more about what Amelia has to say regarding the beach parties,” Megan protested.
Amelia threw up her hands. “Well, nothing that pertains to your precious Sarah, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m just talking about how they seem to wander all the way down to the lighthouse from the Village or the southern cove. It’s a long walk for a—”
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