by Vicki Essex
Tiffany ground her jaw, but kept her smile stiff as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Tiffany Cheung. I guess you don’t remember me, Mr. Jamieson. I’m here to tutor your grandson in English.”
“You’re going to teach my grandson English?”
“Bill.” Jane’s reprimand had him whipping his head around to give her an innocent expression.
Tiffany didn’t need Jane to defend her against the likes of Will Jamieson. “In fact, I have a bachelor’s in English with honors from NYU. I also used to tutor Chris in high school.”
“Of course you did,” he said with a careless wave, both acknowledging and dismissing the fact all at once. “You might as well head back to wherever you came from. Simon doesn’t need a tutor. He should be spending the summer helping out around the farm where he’s needed.”
“Chris was the one who hired her, Bill,” Jane interrupted, and Tiffany didn’t miss her warning tone. She glanced at her watch. “Where is that boy?” She walked halfway up the stairs, shouting Simon’s name.
“This is a waste of time and money,” he muttered. “There’re no guarantees he’ll pass, anyhow.”
“I’ll do my best to ensure he does.” Tiffany had never liked William Jamieson much, but he was Chris’s father, and it wasn’t in her to hate an old man who was missing a leg. Her parents had often told her that no matter what he said or did, she should respect her elders and take the high road, smile and nod politely. Now seemed like a good time to put those lessons to use. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Jamieson.”
She kept her mask on until he grumbled something and hobbled back into the kitchen.
Jane walked down the stairs still talking to Simon. “You need to get your hearing tested. I’ve been shouting for the past five minutes.”
“I was napping.” The kid’s voice was husky and low, his words dragging as much as his steps.
“With your iPod thingy blasting in your ears?” Jane rolled her eyes toward Tiffany. Teenagers.
Simon was a pale kid with a dark mop of hair and an overdeveloped Adam’s apple. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and his lips stuck out in a belligerent pout. He’d probably be taller than her if he didn’t slouch like an italicized question mark. He wore a faded black hoodie sweatshirt and wide-legged blue jeans at least two sizes too big. His clothes appeared to be in the process of swallowing him whole.
“Simon, this is your tutor, Miss Cheung,” Jane introduced.
Simon reluctantly stuck out a limp, clammy hand, which she shook. There was a little something about his face that reminded her of Chris, but Simon’s cheeks still sported a touch of baby fat, which probably hid his father’s cheekbones. His coloring was definitely Daphne’s.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Jane said to her. “Simon, your father will be around later.”
“Whatever.”
The farm manager gave him an arch look. The teen shuffled his feet, stuck his hands into his pockets and murmured, “I mean, yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“Good luck, Tiffany.” Jane’s wave was more like a salute.
“So,” Tiff began, feeling the jitters crawl around her belly, “we’re not going to do any work today. I just came to get to know you and figure out how we’re going to do things. Where do you prefer to study?”
“In bed.” Now that Jane had left, he was glaring at her with open hostility. She sucked in her lower lip. Chris hadn’t said his son would be resistant to tutoring.
She straightened to her full height, wishing she’d worn heels. “Since that’s not going to work with two of us, would it be all right if we worked at the dining table?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I guess.”
“Would you prefer the couch?”
“Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Let’s work at the table, then.” She was trying to offer him choices, but if he wasn’t going to give his opinion, then she’d make the decisions for him. “Do you have your syllabus yet?”
He brought it down and she took note of all the books they’d be studying. Over six weeks, the class would be doing The Tempest, as well as Animal Farm and Catcher in the Rye, along with a handful of essays.
“These are all great books,” she said pleasantly. “It’s going to be fun reading them with you.”
“I can’t read all this in six weeks,” he complained.
“Trust me, they’re all really short. And The Tempest is easy in comparison to most of Shakespeare’s other plays. What did you study this past year?”
“Hamlet.”
“Another fun one, though not as fun as Romeo and Juliet or Macbeth in my opinion.”
Simon stared at her as though she’d told him she ate nails for breakfast. “You’re serious. You like this stuff?”
“Of course I do. Shakespeare’s fun, once you get the hang of it. Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who doesn’t like reading?”
“I can read,” he said, lip curling. “But I don’t see why we should study Shakespeare. It’s stupid and boring.”
“Boring? You found Hamlet boring? Did you even read it?” Okay, maybe she was laying it on a little thick—Hamlet was somewhat long-winded and she thought the prince of Denmark was a crybaby. But she still loved the Bard.
Simon scowled through his curtain of bangs. “I barely understood it. All I know is that he was whining about his stepdad and wanted to have sex with his mom or something.”
The English major in her died a little. But she had to admit it was more than some people got. “Was it the language that gave you trouble?”
It took him a while before he finally admitted, “I guess.”
“Did your copies have the plain English translations?”
His reply came in the form of a glare. She had the feeling she’d be getting a lot of those. It confirmed her suspicions, though: Shakespeare’s language had been so overwhelming, he’d probably given up reading it after a few pages. Chris had done the exact same thing.
“Shakespeare takes a lot of getting used to,” she told Simon, “and if you have no idea what the basic plot or themes are, it’s kind of hard to figure out when you read it cold. In fact, it’s easier to have the play performed.” She made a mental note to show him a DVD performance or two. “Do you know anything about The Tempest?”
“No.”
“It’s about a powerful wizard who lives alone on an island with his daughter, but then he causes this shipwreck to land a prince on the island—”
Simon yawned so widely she could see the bright orange remains of some Cheetos lodged in his molars. “I’m sorry, am I boring you already?” she asked irately.
“Actually, yeah, you are.”
She flinched. She’d heard rude in her life, but she hadn’t expected attitude from Chris’s son.
“Class doesn’t start till next Monday,” Simon said. “I don’t know why we have to do anything right now.” He tossed his bangs. “Look, I know Dad’s paying you to teach me for two hours, but can we pretend we worked? You can take the rest of the day off and still get paid. I won’t tell anyone.”
Tiffany scowled at his attempt at manipulation. She couldn’t believe he was already bargaining with her, and using his father’s money, too. “I’m not charging for this time. I drove out here because I wanted to get to know you.”
His darting look said, Are you serious? “I’m exhausted,” he groused. “This year was hard enough, and now I have to take an extra six weeks.” He rubbed his temples. “My dad’s the one making me do this. I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s going to help.”
“All right.” She picked up her purse. “If you don’t want to do this, fine. I’ll let your father know you don’t need me.” She started toward the door. “I didn’t think you’d give up before we’d even started, though.”
“I’m not giving up,” he shot back, voice rising in panic. She stopped in her tracks. He added hastily, “I just don’t want to do this right now.”
Those were the words she wanted to hear. Anyt
hing that told her he wanted something, that he was not simply playing the victim. If there was one thing she hated, it was people who blamed everyone and everything but themselves for their problems and refused to do anything about them.
“It’s your call,” she said, folding her arms. “You set the schedule. I’m here for you.”
Simon stuffed his fists into his hoodie pockets, shuffling in place. “I start class next Monday. I’m done at three-thirty.”
“I’ll see you here at four, then.”
The front door crashed open. Chris’s broad, tall frame filled the doorway, eyes landing squarely on her. Mud caked his jeans, and the strong musk of male sweat filled the room. “I was hoping I’d catch you in time.” He beamed. “Had to rush back here to see you.”
Her insides flipped and she struggled to keep from breaking into a goofy grin. “Was there something you needed?” she asked to stop herself from making ridiculous assumptions.
“Thought we might talk about how I’m going to pay you. Business stuff.” He yanked off his wide-brimmed cowboy hat, running a muscled forearm across his brow. His arm halted in midswipe and he made a face. “Sorry, I’m not smelling too fresh.” He gestured vaguely out the door. “How about we stand on the porch? I promise I’ll stay downwind.”
She didn’t care how he smelled. She was still trying to get over how good he looked covered in sweat and mud, his golden skin below the T-shirt sleeves lobster-red. “You should be wearing more sunscreen,” she remarked when they were outside.
He glanced at his arms and smirked. “This’ll go away. I usually work with long sleeves, but it’s been so hot lately, I can’t stand it. Most of the time, I have to go shirtless. Not to be vain, but I hate farmers’ tans.”
Tiffany’s brain went into meltdown. She looked away forcefully, afraid she’d end up burning a hole into his chest with her staring. She watched the horses in the field, letting herself cool off at the sight of those graceful, powerful beasts.
“Those yours?” she asked.
“The horses? No, we board them for their owners. The extra income is handy, and the manure we get makes quality composted fertilizer.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “You used to like horses a lot. I remember you had drawings of them all over your notebooks.”
Her cheeks flushed anew. He’d remembered that? “I think they’re beautiful animals.”
“Do you ride?”
“Never tried.”
“You lived in Everville and never went horseback riding?” he asked incredulously.
“Never had time.” Or permission. Or money. Or the guts. They were creatures best enjoyed from afar. “You wanted to talk about payment?”
It didn’t take long to work out her pay schedule. They could have had this conversation over the phone or via email, but she wasn’t complaining.
“So, what do you think?” he ventured.
“About Simon?” Was he expecting her to tell him it was going to be a piece of cake? That his son was the genius he said he was? “He’s got issues to work out. I won’t know until we jump into it.”
“I have faith in you,” he said stoutly and grinned. “I know he’s in good hands. I was.”
She did smile and blush at that.
* * *
UNFORTUNATELY FOR TIFFANY, she couldn’t go idle for a whole week while living under her parents’ roof, no matter how many excuses she came up with. Once her mother promised to pay her, however, she gave in and agreed to work at the diner. She couldn’t turn down the money. Besides, she was getting the feeling she was in her grandmother’s way. She didn’t know the reason for the tension between her and Sunny, but Poh-poh’s rueful gaze was like a sack of sharp, pointy rocks on her back. Perhaps her grandmother resented her intruding on her private time at home.
It was 9:00 a.m. and the kitchen was prepping for the lunch-hour rush. The sous-chef, Manny, had been doing the prep work for their family for more than seventeen years. Tiffany hollered a greeting, and he grinned toothily. “Joh-san, mui mui.” Good morning, little sister.
“¿Hola, Manny, qué pasa?” She greeted him the same way she had as a teen. He’d patiently allowed her to practice her Spanish on him in exchange for a few phrases in Cantonese. There was a bit of salt to his thick, black hair, and a few more lines in his face, but his smile and his eyes were as bright as ever.
“Your parents told me you were home,” he said. “All this time and you didn’t come to see your sook-sook?” He gave her a hurt look.
“I’ve been busy looking for work, tío.”
“Why? You could work here.” Her disdain must have shown because then he cackled. “C’mon, help me out here. Can you start the deep fryer going and throw in the egg rolls?”
She donned an apron and hairnet, turned on the fryer and got the egg rolls out of the freezer. Poh-poh used to make them from scratch, but the demand was too high to keep up with and they didn’t have the manpower to produce them fresh anymore.
When the lunch rush came, Daniel took over in the kitchen, and Manny went to his afternoon job at a nearby farm. Her mother made her work at the steam table, scooping sticky food into foam take-out boxes.
A few regulars recognized Tiffany and proceeded to interrogate her about her return to Everville. The ones who didn’t know her asked if she was new to town.
“That’s my daughter,” her mom would say proudly. And then they’d commiserate over how young Rose looked, how she and Tiffany could be sisters, and how nice it was that her grown daughter was working for the family business. Tiff might as well have not been there—even as an adult, people treated her like some artifact on display in a gallery. She would have preferred to stay in the back where no one could gawk at her.
Tony arrived at the tail end of the lunch rush, frowning at her as he approached. “You serve people with that face?”
“Gee, thanks, Dad.”
“Smile. Show everyone how pretty you are. People buy more when you treat them kindly, you know.”
That was her dad. Always thinking about the bottom line. “Aren’t you here a little early?” she asked.
“I’m preparing food for a catering event. When it slows down, come to the back and help me.”
“I need her up front,” Rose insisted. “It’s still busy.”
“I said after it slows down,” he shot back. “Why don’t you ever listen?”
She glowered back at him, and for a heart-stopping second, it looked like they’d go for each other’s throats. Tiffany’s stomach torqued.
Two heavy heartbeats later, Tony spun and pushed through the kitchen doors, uttering something in disgust. Tiffany exhaled, tension draining from her bones. Her mother continued wiping the counter. The customers in the diner didn’t notice the exchange.
“Got any chicken balls left?”
She jumped at the sight of Chris standing in front of her, grinning wide.
* * *
TIFFANY’S CHEEKS CHANGED from pale to flaming red. Chris wasn’t sure what had put that worried expression on her face, but he was glad to be the one to wipe it off. The lights from the steam counter bathed her in a golden light. Despite the hairnet, apron and sheen of sweat, she really was an attractive woman.
She regained herself quickly as her dark eyes dropped to his chest. “Nice T-shirt,” she said wryly.
He looked down. His T-shirt had come from a poultry farm in the next county, and featured a cartoon chicken serving up eggs in a pan, the words It’s Clucking Good hovering over its head. “Thanks. It’s all the rage in Paris.” He struck a pose and gave a duck-lipped moue.
She smirked. That seemed to be the closest he’d ever gotten to making her laugh. She pointed toward the golden deep-fried spheres. “I didn’t realize you were a chicken-ball fan.”
“I thought I’d get some for Simon. They’re his favorite.” He didn’t want to admit he’d only stopped in to see if she was there and to say hello, even though he had a million things to do.
She filled a take-out box
, studiously avoiding eye contact. Her reserved manner reminded him of the way she’d treated him in high school, and it made him smile.
“You must be hot,” he drawled.
Her hand jerked, and two of the balls jumped out of the container. “Excuse me?”
“Back there. From the steam.” He grinned.
She blinked slowly as her expression closed once more. “It’s good for the skin.” She continued filling the box with laserlike focus. He chuckled to himself. Getting any kind of reaction out of her was a private win. There’d been times as a teen when he’d wondered if she was immune to his charm, or simply hadn’t been interested in the opposite sex. And though he hadn’t admitted it to himself then, it had needled him that she’d been so unaffected.
He leaned up against the counter. “So, I was thinking, if you have time this week, I wouldn’t mind if you swung by and got a jump on things with Simon.”
She didn’t look up as she answered. “Simon doesn’t start class till Monday. I’ll work with him then.”
“Oh.” His disappointment surprised him. “I thought you might want to help him out in some of his other subjects.”
“He said he wanted a break before summer school starts. I don’t blame him. He looks like he could use a two-month nap.”
He laughed. “I was tired all the time in high school. That didn’t stop you from giving me a hard time.”
“He needs a break,” she said, mouth turning down steeply. “It’ll be hard enough making him sit through an extra two hours of tutoring regularly. If I don’t give him some space, he’ll shut me out completely. When he and I sit down, I’ll put him to the task. But I’m not going to drive him into the ground before we’ve even started.”
