40-Love (There's Something About Marysburg Book 2)
Page 28
Even those who could decipher subtext didn’t always wish to perform the labor. He hadn’t required a teaching degree for that revelation. A decade of joyous, sometimes-contentious married life had clarified the matter sufficiently.
Yes, subtext was difficult. Fraught. No question about it.
Still. Since that first faculty meeting, he’d been amazed. Nay, stupefied.
People seemed to think Candy Albright was as straightforward and direct as her pronouncements, as if she possessed no subtext at all. No river running swift and hidden beneath the craggy, immovable, desert-dry boulders of her words.
Worse: No one, as far as he could tell, seemed to wonder about context either, or consider the simplest and most obvious question. The question he trained his ninth graders to ask over the course of a school year together.
Those times when he couldn’t successfully occupy himself with other matters—times like these—he did wonder. He did consider. He asked himself why.
Why her students claimed to fear her, yet seemed entirely certain she would spend hours after the last bell working with them on their college application essays. Which she did. He’d seen her night after night, bent over a desk, red pen in hand, attention sharp as the tacks studding her bulletin board on the students and papers before her.
Why, when she worried and grew exasperated, she borrowed the words of mobsters instead of poets and threatened—unconvincingly—to put hits on those causing her distress. She, an English teacher of considerable repute, who guided her seniors inexorably through poetry and prose and the vagaries of the AP English Literature and Composition exam.
Why a woman, so often humorless as a dirge, had a laugh as loud and honking and unabashed as hers. A cascade of sound, its joyful draw undeniable. Though he had done his best to deny it anyway.
Why a woman so brash and unafraid and amusingly certain—a tidal wave in human form, a force—had arrived weeks early to set up her classroom, face grey and wan. Hair shorn, also greyer than the previous year. So quiet. Too quiet. Even before her injury.
Why, in short, Candy Albright was Candy Albright. The cocksure Candy Albright of last year, and the bafflingly diffident Candy Albright of today.
He shouldn’t wonder, of course. It didn’t speak well of him that he did. Or rather, how he did, with fascination and anxiety and something like urgency.
He wondered anyway.
Finally, once the bedside clock ticked past two in the morning, he punched his pillow, turned on his side, and forced his eyes shut.
This preoccupation—this foolish, damnable fascination with Candy—was a mere academic exercise, the allure of a puzzle yet to be solved. At most, the automatic, perfunctory concern of a coworker. Nothing more than that.
Please God, nothing more than that.
Sweetest in the Gale: A Marysburg Story Collection will be available soon! To preorder, click here. And for more news and release-day alerts, sign up for my newsletter, the Hussy Herald, here.
Also by Olivia Dade
SPOILER ALERT
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT MARYSBURG
Teach Me
40-Love
Sweetest in the Gale: A Marysburg Story Collection
LOVE UNSCRIPTED
Desire and the Deep Blue Sea
Tiny House, Big Love
LOVESTRUCK LIBRARIANS
My Reckless Valentine
Mayday
Ready to Fall
Driven to Distraction
Hidden Hearts
About Olivia
Olivia Dade grew up an undeniable nerd, prone to ignoring the world around her as she read any book she could find. Her favorites, though, were always, always romances. As an adult, she earned an M.A. in American history and worked in a variety of jobs that required the donning of actual pants: Colonial Williamsburg interpreter, high school teacher, academic tutor, and (of course) librarian. Now, however, she has finally achieved her lifelong goal of wearing pajamas all day as a hermit-like writer and enthusiastic hag. She currently lives outside Stockholm with her patient Swedish husband, their whip-smart daughter, and the family’s ever-burgeoning collection of books.
If you want to find me online, here’s where to go!
Website: https://oliviadade.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/OliviaWrites
Newsletter: https://go.oliviadade.com/Newsletter
Acknowledgments
This novel went through more iterations—more vastly different iterations—than any book I’ve ever written. Accordingly, I have many, many people to thank. MANY.
Some of my trusted friends read the story when it was a 40K novella, rather than a full-length novel. Mica Kennedy, Karen Booth, Ruby Lang, and Kate Clayborn: Your time and insight and feedback meant the world to me and improved this story immeasurably. Thank you so much!
Next, two wonderful friends bravely read this book when it was (briefly) an 80K deep-dive into angst. Therese Beharrie and Ainslie Paton, I am so grateful and so very sorry.
Finally, two intrepid, loyal souls read both the initial novella and this third, final, less-angsty version of 40-Love. Emma Barry and Erin, you deserve medals of some sort. Thank you for helping me polish the remaining rough edges of the story and reassuring me I’d finally gotten it right.
I also owe a big thank-you to Sarah Younger, who championed 40-Love from the beginning and coaxed me to make it longer and more Swedish. :-)
Sionna Fox is so patient with me and generous with her time and skills. Leni Kauffman—the artist who created my glorious cover—has earned my endless admiration. Thank you, both of you.
Finally, I edited this book amidst a pandemic, with my family close by at all times. Which was…uh, challenging?...at times. But they tried their best to give me the time and space I needed to work, because they take me and my writing seriously. I love my husband and daughter for that, just as I love them for countless other reasons. Thank you, now and always.