Sweetest in the Gale: A Marysburg Story Collection (There's Something About Marysburg Book 3)

by Olivia Dade

  His throat might be dry, but he would remain entirely businesslike.

  “I also believe you left the student diorama assignment too open-ended, given the limited time available for this unit. You might consider providing a handout of preapproved topics in the future.” That was the last item on today’s list, but he continued looking down at his legal pad. “Finally, I inadvertently insulted both you and your work last week. My remark was rude and uncollegial.”

  After sketching a tiny, perfect cube on the edge of his paper, he continued. “Furthermore, my study of your work today elucidated my comment’s essential injustice. I might consider the subject matter disturbing, but it was quite evident why consumers would pay a great deal of money to possess such a wondrous, meticulous piece of artistry.”

  Two squared is four. Two cubed is eight. Two to the fourth power is sixteen.

  He raised an expressionless face. “Please accept my sincere apologies.”

  Her face had also turned unreadable, but at least she wasn’t openly scowling at him anymore. As always, small victories.

  After a lengthy pause, she spoke slowly. “I’ll address your feedback one topic at a time, if that’s acceptable to you?”

  He gave her a jerky nod, and somehow he already knew.

  By the end of this conversation, he’d feel like a fool once more.

  “Last Tuesday, the day of the faculty meeting, my students were making papier-mâché masks using paper plates, aluminum foil, hot glue guns, newspapers, flour, water, and paint. I defy anyone to oversee the making of those masks without finding their clothing soiled in some fashion, protective apron be damned.” Her lips tilted up in a little, satisfied smile, a silent warning that this entire conversation was only going to get worse for him. “More importantly, if you’d consulted with Principal Dunn, you’d have discovered that we already discussed the issue of appropriate clothing and came to a mutual agreement on the matter.”

  Yes. This was definitely worse.

  “On days like today, when I’m lecturing and likely to remain clean, I follow the standard dress code.” She swept a hand downward, indicating her current outfit. “On days when my clothing is likely to get stained, I’m allowed to wear jeans and more casual tops. Because, as we both concluded, asking me to replenish my work wardrobe every time an item became slightly soiled was both unreasonable and cost-prohibitive.”

  No amount of exponential multiplication was going to save him now. “It appears I owe you another ap—”

  “If I were you, I’d save further apologies until we’re finished,” she interrupted, still smiling. “You might as well beg forgiveness for everything at once. For the sake of efficiency, which I know is of the utmost importance to you.”

  Shit. Worse appeared to be an understatement.

  “Now onto your next critique, concerning the inappropriateness of today’s lesson.” She ticked off her multipart response on her fingers. “First, inappropriateness is very much a subjective matter. I’m surprised a man like you, who seems to prize objectivity, would use such a nebulous, essentially undefinable concept as part of your feedback. Second, I ran the unit and its contents by Principal Dunn before the school year even began. She gave her approval. She did so because, third, I sent a letter home to the parents and guardians of my students weeks ago, one that described this week’s topic in detail and required their signatures for student participation.”

  How he’d fucked up so badly, he couldn’t even say. All he could do was keep listening, silent, as she enumerated the flaws in his conclusions.

  “As far as listing a set of preapproved diorama topics—I agree such a list would contribute to greater efficiency in my classroom.” She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “But it would detract from the actual experience of making art, which is as much about the creative process as it is about the final result. I want my students to find topics that speak to them on an individual level, and I certainly don’t know them well enough to be able to predict the contents of their hearts or the subjects that consume their innermost thoughts. I’m happy to guide them if they have difficulty choosing a topic, but I don’t want to prematurely limit the expanse of their imaginations.”

  It all sounded like chaos to him. Total and complete chaos.

  She tapped a fingertip on the table. “This isn’t a math problem with one right answer, Mr. Burnham. There aren’t even ten right answers, or a million right answers. There are infinite right answers.”

  That lack of surety was discomfiting at best. Terrifying at worst.

  But it didn’t matter how much he feared problems without a clear solution. What mattered: the wrong he’d done his colleague by presuming her less a professional than she actually was.

  “I apologize, Ms. Wick. Again.” He maintained eye contact as a reassurance of his sincerity, despite his desire to turn away in shame. “I’ve underestimated you, and I promise to try my best not to do so in the future.”

  He wouldn’t make excuses for himself. He wouldn’t. But she needed to understand, if only to comprehend—

  Well, not the contents of his heart. But maybe his innermost thoughts. Some of them, anyway.

  “I just—” Under her scrutiny, he fumbled for the right words. “As you said, maybe I should have talked to Principal Dunn before offering my critique. But I didn’t want to get…”

  No, he should just keep his mouth shut. His innermost thoughts were his to keep.

  But it was too late. That same glow of revelation he’d seen on her student transfused Ms. Wick’s expression, and her mouth pursed in a silent oh.

  She blinked at him, her throat shifting as she swallowed.

  “You didn’t want to get me into trouble,” she finally finished for him, her voice hoarse and warm and so liquid he could have bathed in it.

  Yes. Yes, that was exactly what he’d tried not to say.

  After giving herself a little shake, she sat up straighter. “I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Burnham, but you still could have asked me if I’d somehow addressed your concerns ahead of time, instead of assuming I hadn’t.”

  He could have. It would, in fact, have been the logical way to handle the situation.

  Which was…a disturbing realization.

  An outside observer would almost conclude that he was, for some reason, trying to think badly of Ms. Wick. Determined to see flaws where they didn’t necessarily exist.

  It was yet another problem whose answer wasn’t quite clear to him. Yet another mystery to unravel, when he’d never, ever, been good at interpreting clues.

  “You’re right.” He didn’t equivocate. “That’s what I should have done.”

  Her chin dipped in a firm little nod. “Graciously conceded, Mr. Burnham. I forgive you. For everything.”

  The chunky amber spheres of her necklace glowed against her pale skin, and her eyes were fathomless.

  “Please call me Simon,” he said.

  “Gladly.” The curve of her lips was small and sweet. “And I’m Poppy.”

  She offered her hand, as if they were meeting for the first time, and he shook it. Her fingers were long and blunt, her palm warm and slightly rough, her grip firm.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  As quickly as was polite, he let go and met her gaze. “If you’re leaving soon, why don’t I walk you to your car? The sun’s going down earlier and earlier these days.”

  Shuffling steps in the darkness.

  I feel so much less safe now.

  Mildred got what she deserved.

  No, Poppy wasn’t going to that deserted parking lot alone. Not if he could help it.

  “All right,” she said after a moment, her gaze tentative, the words halting. “I just need five minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t.”

  The rules of gentlemanly behavior were clear under the circumstances, and he followed them. After she’d packed her belongings in her tote, he offered to carry it for her. As she locked her
classroom door behind them, he scanned the dim hallway to ensure her safety. Once they reached her car, he made certain she left the lot before driving away himself.

  The entire time, he tried to hide the disconcerting truth.

  Her touch had incinerated him so thoroughly, he might as well be the house in her diorama. And the burn had left him feeling anything—anything—but gentlemanly and professional.

  Three

  As the seventh period bell rang on Wednesday, Simon sat at his usual table and congratulated himself on having remained cool, calm, and controlled for almost a full forty-eight hours, despite having spent several of those hours in Poppy’s unsettling presence.

  Yesterday, the students had begun creating their dioramas. Controlled chaos was perhaps the best way to describe her classroom then. Or possibly paint-bedecked and glue-soaked.

  No wonder she’d worn her faded jeans again. That pretty black dress would have been absolutely ruined.

  At the end of class, he’d asked whether she knew of any reasonable way to limit the mess created by her students during their projects. Not so much because the mess was excessive—which it wasn’t, under the circumstances—or because mess bothered him in general—which it did, of course—but rather because cleaning up that mess required a considerable chunk of student time at the end of the period and an even more considerable chunk of Poppy’s time after the students left.

  “Well, I can’t leave everything to the custodial staff. Mildred, the teacher I replaced, apparently used to have poor Mrs. Denham do all the cleanup, but that’s just cruel. No wonder they hated her so much.” Poppy had patted him on the arm then, the gesture not quite pitying, but not quite not pitying either. “Besides, Simon, mess is both inevitable and part of the artistic process for most people. Don’t worry.”

  Yes, the contact burned, but her near-pity had helped temper the worst of it.

  He’d helped her clean and made a quick stop back in his own classroom to gather the night’s grading. Then once again, he’d walked her to her car, and once again, he’d been forced to recite prime numbers to himself that night before he could fall asleep.

  Still, he’d neither insulted her nor pinned her against the classroom wall to claim that wide, impish mouth of hers. He hadn’t even buried his fingers in her drooping bun and angled her head to reveal her soft neck, hadn’t sucked at her rapid pulse there, hadn’t left a mark with his teeth on her pale flesh.

  Small victories. Small, small victories.

  Today, he hoped, would prove equally satisfying.

  Or, rather, unsatisfying, but predictable. Understandable and under control.

  The students were hard at work again this period, their educational dioramas beginning to take shape minute by minute. Occasionally, someone paused a moment to peruse the half-charred diorama perched at his table, but for the most part, no one went near him.

  Which, now that he considered the matter, was rather odd.

  Two students shared each work station, and space was tight. He’d deliberately placed himself at the very end of his long table, right next to the diorama, to leave Poppy’s kids as much room as possible. But no one had moved to claim the open space or even bothered to deposit an overflow of supplies there.

  Maybe she’d previously told them not to spread out on his table. It was the closest one to her desk, so maybe she reserved it for her sole use. Or maybe the students were simply too terrified of him, not in a fun way, to share the space.

  Or maybe—

  He could swear some of the Goth softball players kept looking at the table. Not him, not the diorama, the table. In fact, Tori was saying something to her pale-powdered friend right now, in between glances at the faux-wood surface. In response, the poor girl blanched even further, her black-lined eyes round with horror.

  Casually, Simon got to his feet and wandered closer.

  “I mean…” Tori said with a shudder. “Can you believe it?”

  “I—” The other young woman clapped a hand to her belly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Tori corralled a nearby trash can with her boot, nudging it toward their work station. “Here you go. If you have to hork, keep it as clean as possible.”

  Very practical. Simon was growing fonder of Tori by the minute.

  “I’ll never be able to use that table again.” Nausea apparently conquered for the moment, the pale girl wrinkled her nose. “Not without picturing what happened…there.”

  He couldn’t deny it any longer, even to himself. He really, really wanted a full explanation for Mildred’s departure, because some of his imaginings were…

  Well, he’d clearly seen one too many blood-soaked dioramas.

  Just as Simon was mentally urging the Goth girls to elaborate, elaborate, they caught sight of him and hurriedly turned back to their dioramas-in-progress.

  “So as I was telling you,” Tori said a bit too loudly, “art often serves a crucial societal role when it comes to dissemination of important information.”

  “Why, yes,” her friend affirmed. “I remember you saying that very thing only moments ago, as we discussed our class objectives for the day.”

  No point in lingering, except for the sheer entertainment value of their faux-conversation. He wasn’t going to get any more information out of them.

  Accordingly, he returned to the diorama and studied the booklet containing witness statements, looking for information he hadn’t properly registered the first time. But no new clues stood out to him. Not a surprise, given his lack of—

  Poppy gasped loudly, and his head jerked up.

  He knew exactly where she was. Of course he did. If she was within sight, part of his attention never, ever left her.

  “Ms. Wick, are you—” a tall young man with thick-framed glasses was asking, but she was already striding toward the classroom sink, her forehead pinched in seeming distress.

  Simon intercepted her along the way. “What happened?”

  “I’m fine, Demetrius. Don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder, and then answered Simon. “Hot-glue-gun burn on the back of my hand. I just need to—”

  With a flick of his wrist, the water was running and set to a cool temperature. He guided her right hand beneath the spray, pulse hammering in his ears.

  A reddening blotch marked the spot of her injury, visible even through the streaming water, and he scowled at it.

  “Simon.” Her voice was low and gentle. “To an art teacher, hot-glue-gun burns are basically badges of honor. They’re inevitable and nothing to be concerned about.”

  His scowl only deepened. “You’re in pain. Do you need to see the nurse?”

  “No, Simon.” Her hand moved, and suddenly he wasn’t supporting it anymore. Instead, she was holding his, as if comforting him. “No. It’s already feeling better. But I’ll cover the spot with a bandage, if that would make you less worried.”

  If that would make you less worried.

  The utter ridiculousness of his reaction—his overreaction—struck him in that moment, and he dropped her hand as if he’d been scorched himself.

  Despite her minor injury, she was in complete control of herself and the situation, while he—he—

  He wasn’t. He wasn’t in control of himself.

  Spinning away from her, he hurried to the classroom door. “I’ll get you a bandage from the nurse’s office.”

  “But I—Simon!” She was calling out to him, trying to flag him down, but he pretended not to hear or see. “I already have ban—”

  The door shut behind him, and he forced himself to walk, not run, away from her.

  When Simon returned toward the end of the period, a fresh box of bandages in hand, he found Poppy—no, Ms. Wick—bent over a student project, her burn already covered neatly.

  At his arrival, she glanced up at him, but only for a moment before turning back to Amanda’s diorama-in-progress. Which appeared, upon first glance, even more grisly than the murder scene on the table beside him. God help
them all.

  He settled in his usual spot, beside Ms. Wick’s diorama. His heartbeat no longer echoed in his skull, and his hands were almost steady enough to create his own miniature crime scene. Not that he would ever employ his limited free time in such a disturbing manner.

  Yes, fifteen minutes spent locked in his unlit room and mentally multiplying had accomplished wonders, as always. Outside his colleague’s orbit, the impetus behind his urgent concern for her well-being had become clear, clear and comforting.

  The rules of professional and gentlemanly conduct required him to assist a colleague in distress. Accordingly, he’d done so.

  No need for either panic or anxiety.

  In fact, he’d emerged from his classroom certain he could find rational solutions to all the mysteries cluttering his brain. With a little effort, he’d explain Mildred Krackel’s disappearance, solve the miniature murder in Ms. Wick’s diorama, and pinpoint precisely why the woman herself fascinated him so much. To accomplish the latter, he merely needed to determine the precise equation governing her behavior and the workings of her mind.

  Then, solution in hand, he’d relegate her to the appropriate slot in his life.

  Wick, Poppy. Talented but impertinent colleague. Best avoided for peace of mind.

  Similarly, once he’d solved the other mysteries, he’d dismiss them from his thoughts. Simple as that.

  And he could make progress this very moment, with the miniature crime scene. Given ample opportunity to observe the diorama and its clues more closely, surely he could discover the arsonist and murderer. Besides, P—Ms. Wick had dared him to solve the case. Doing so would prove his intelligence, and thus his ability to mentor her effectively.

  Any professional would do the same.

  With the help of a magnifying glass, he studied the blackened living room again. The shriveled corpse. The half-burned recliner. The bar cart, complete with tiny, tiny glass bottles full of amber liquid. The bookshelves. The overturned television. The ashtray. The neat row of shoes just inside the door. The charred jackets on a metal coat rack.