Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1)

by Charlotte Raine

  Sam, 2014

  "MR. FLICK, YOUR HEART seems to be healing well," I tell him, pushing his echocardiogram toward him. He picks it up and examines it. Most patients can't actually figure out what they are looking at, but it makes them feel better to have something tangible in their hands to prove what I'm saying. "How are you feeling?"

  "Great, Dr. Meadows," he says. "I felt so terrible before the heart attack…I should have known what it was. But since the angioplasty…I'm beginning to feel like my old self."

  "That's great, Mr. Flick. Just continue to take your medications and everything should continue to go well."

  Leonard Flick suddenly launches himself at me and hugs me so tightly that I feel his muscles squeezing against my ribs. He lets me go with a giant smile.

  "Lisa just told me she's pregnant. I'm going to be a granddaddy!" he says. "I'm so glad that I'm alive. I can't wait to see my grandchild."

  "Congratulations, Mr. Flick." I squeeze his arm, genuinely happy for him, but now words are beginning to fail me as we shift to personal conversation. "Well, please see the receptionist outside to schedule your next appointment. I think we won't need to see each other for another three months unless you have any concerns in between now and then."

  I slip out of the room and return to the comfort of my office. I sit in my leather-padded chair and close my eyes. Most times, I would sneak in a five-minute nap or simply clear my mind to prepare for my next social interaction, but now I think about my night with Grace.

  Her body looks like marble, flawless and firm, but as soon as I touched it, it felt like it was made of warmth and rose petals. It had to be one of the best nights of my life. I had slept with my fair share of women—not to the point that I would be considered a "player," but enough to make it clear that I wasn't waiting for "the one"—but this was different. It was like everything became a miracle—the color of her eyes, the way we ended up in a hotel bed together, the very fact that Earth was revolving around the sun—it was all breathtakingly beautiful and extraordinary.

  I think about how she could have died back in Ohio when she was stabbed. It's amazing that her mother happened to come home right after she was stabbed and saved her. It reminds me that life is fragile. It's a risk, and you never gamble with the ones you love.

  I pick up my phone. My finger lingers over the numbers before I begin to dial. I listen to the ringing, unsure if I want someone to pick up or for the answer machine to click on.

  "Hello?" a gruff voice answers.

  "It's Sam, Dad."

  There's a pause. I watch the second hand on my clock above the door tick nine times.

  "Sam?" my father asks. "Sam Meadows?"

  "Yes, Dad, your son," I say, clenching my jaw. This is why I never call.

  "I only have one son," he says. "His name is Jacob and he calls at least once a month."

  "Dad, you told me to leave the house and never show my face in your house again," I hiss. "It's not my fault that I haven't called and I'm calling you right now, aren't I?"

  "Why?" he sneers. "Because you heard what happened and it made you feel guilty? Don't concern yourself with me. I'm fine, no thanks to you."

  "Fine," I snap. "I won't call again. The next time I'll see you will be at your funeral."

  I slam the phone down. I want to tear apart my office, but a childhood in my family's home has taught me how to shove my feelings down and ignore them.

  I pick up a pen and begin jotting down notes about Leonard Flick. Anger and resentment prowl under my skin, but I fake contentment until I convince myself that everything is good.

  ~~~~~

  Grace, 2014

  A COUPLE OF WEEKS after Francis Tate, I tried to test myself. I wanted to return to a feeling of normalcy, so I tried to confront my fears. It took me almost two weeks to stay in my family's kitchen without shaking. It took me nearly three months to not check every young man's hands for a knife or not assume that every sudden movement was made with the intent to hurt me. Knives, however, are a fear that I haven't conquered.

  In my head, I know that they aren't dangerous by themselves, but every time I see one, my heart feels as if it's going to beat out of my chest, and my breathing becomes so shallow that I get lightheaded. I wish I could have a normal response to something that is so commonplace, but I can't seem to desensitize myself from them.

  This has been proven to be a difficult task while substituting for a science class that is dissecting frogs with scalpels.

  "I think my frog's ovaries are filled with eggs," Liam Powers says.

  "Ew." Lily Walker, who is sitting next to him, moves her chair away from the frog and into the aisle. Deke Cochrane, who is sitting in the table across the aisle glances at her before meticulously taking out each part of the frog and putting it on the placemat that has a designated spot for every organ.

  "So, once you have all separated the organs onto your placemat, just show me and if you have it right, I'll give you a check on Mrs. Christensen's grade book," I tell them. "If you have it wrong, I'll just tell you how many that you have incorrect and you can try again."

  I vaguely remember dissecting a frog in high school, which is an amazing feat because the smell is atrocious.

  "Mrs. Ellery—" Lily says.

  "Miss," I correct.

  "Miss Ellery, what is the point of this?" she asks. Deke flicks his scalpel in her direction. I flinch, but nobody seems to notice.

  "The point is to make you squirm," Deke tells Lily, twirling the scalpel as he talks. I have to remind myself that he isn't Francis. He isn't a threat. "Don't you think it's interesting that you have the same insides as this frog? You're an animal just like it. Nothing separates you from it, except that you use your little brain to talk about boys."

  "Deke," I admonish. He glances at me and shrugs. He returns his attention to the frog. I take a step closer to him. His insult toward Lily was wrong, but I don't want him to think I singled him out. "You seem quite good at that."

  "I've hunted since I was eight," he says, not looking up at me. "If I can gut deer and bears, I think I can handle a frog."

  I've met students like him in interventional education. They put up walls using sarcasm and rage. There is always something beneath the surface.

  "Do you like hunting?" I ask.

  He smirks, glancing up at me for the first time.

  "Why? Do you want to watch me dissect more animals?" He points the scalpel at me. I take several steps back, almost tripping along the way. He raises his eyebrow, seeing my fear for the first time. The features on his face smooth and he looks like any other teen boy. "I'm sorry, Miss Ellery. I didn't mean to scare you. I just have a weird sense of humor."

  "It's fine," I mumble.

  "Miss Ellery, I'm done," Liam says. I take large strides over to Liam, keeping my hands hidden behind my back, so that the class can't see that they are shaking.

  ~~~~~

  Deke, 2014

  I CAN'T GO after Grace again. For the first shooting, the police assumed she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. After a second shooting…they would be suspicious. Some police officer would be following her around.

  I turn my bike onto Briar Road. When you get this far out, there's no corporations, subdivisions, or big box stores. In this rural area—just miles of woods and houses that you can't see your neighbors from—some of its residents are perpetually trying—and failing—to sell their acreage to the developers who have occupied most of Murray, while the majority grumble about the newcomers who have flooded into the area.

  When I end up in front of my house, I hit my kickstand with my foot and jump off my bike. Albert has owned the house since he was thirty-two years old. It's an American-style log house made of Douglas fir D-shaped logs. It's been my home since I was nine years old. Albert had already been taking care of me because my mom died after her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail when I was four years old. My father was fighting in the Iraq War and couldn't t
ake care of my brother, Tom, and me, so we lived with Albert. My father was killed when I was eight years old and Tom was twelve. I remember the soldier who came to Albert's door to tell us. Even though the soldier had to be about six feet tall, he seemed incredibly small in that moment while his words were heavier than boulders.

  Tom died while fighting in Afghanistan last year. Half my family died on the other side of the world, and I have no idea if someone was there to comfort them before they took their last breath.

  I push open the door.

  Albert is on the couch, watching some hunting TV show. He glances up at me. "How was school?" I take the remote and turn off the TV. "Hey! I was watchin' that."

  "Why aren't you working?" I ask. "It's Monday. You should have plenty of customers."

  "My knee was hurtin'," he says.

  I grind my teeth. He's been using this excuse more and more often. If it's not his knee, it's "nobody will come to the shop when it's raining" or pain in his back, but it won't stop him from going hunting or riding the four-wheeler through the woods.

  A couple of months ago, I talked Albert into trying advertising instead of relying on word of mouth from his current customer base. But results were discouraging. Getting better results was prohibitively expensive—and not guaranteed—so instead of trying to change his strategy, Albert went back to doing things the old way, while blaming his competitor's better prices on their relying on "foreign" labor instead of hiring "good Americans." Albert, who lost many of his childhood friends in Vietnam, and his only child and one of his grandsons in Middle Eastern military conflicts, was specifically bitter about the number of people of Asian and Middle Eastern descent who own and work in local auto mechanic franchises. He had once seen Lexi and her father at my middle school graduation. The words he used to describe them I wouldn't repeat anywhere, but I understand his rage.

  I tried to keep pushing him to increase his business, but I knew advertising was only a small part of the problem. Albert lost business continuously because he was always ignoring regular business hours and lacked the people skills to get customers to like him.

  "Albert," I say, as I sit down in the recliner and face him. "What are you going to do when I graduate?"

  He cocks his head. "What do you mean? You ain't going to college, are you? You know those places are just an extended party where they charge you an outrageous amount of money to drink and sleep with whores."

  "No, Albert," I say. "I'm not going to college…but I want to join the military."

  Albert stares at me. I can see his mind working—trying to figure out if I'm joking or if I have lost my mind.

  "Do you…know what branch yet?" he asks. I shrug. It doesn't especially matter to me. I just want to do something that will make my deceased family members proud. I just want to matter, to be remembered, to be worthy. "This ain't some suicidal wish, is it?"

  "No," I say, though, honestly it could be. Why not die in the same place as my family? Is there a better way to die than for your country? "It's just the best thing that I could do with my life. Fight the good fight."

  Albert nods. "True."

  His mind seems far off—I assume that he's thinking about Vietnam in the 1960s when he was a soldier. I've seen enough people come back who are haunted by war, but I'm not afraid. All of my ghosts linger here, so there's nothing to fear on the other side of the world. Albert looks back at me.

  "The Army is the place to be," he says, but his voice sounds weary. He's skeptical of me becoming another casualty. "Why are you tellin' me this? You don't need my blessing or advice. You're almost a man. You know what you're doin'."

  "I'm telling you because I need to know you'll be okay without me. If the shop closes down because you can't make payments—"

  "Boy," Albert interrupts. "I am not a child. Do not treat me like one. I am not senile either. I can damn well take care of myself."

  "I know, Albert, but…I'm just worried. You served this country. You deserve to get anything you want, but that's not how it works out and I want to make sure that you'll be okay. I can stay if you don't think—"

  "Deacon," Albert growls. "I will kick you out of this house the day after graduation. Don't you go pityin' me. I am a soldier still, whether there is a weapon in my hands or not. At some point, the people around here will realize these foreigners are stealing from good Americans and they will come crawling back to my shop. They won't get shoddy work done by an American."

  "I'm sure they will." I stand up, and then turn to walk toward my room.

  "Deacon," Albert says, and I turn back to him. "You make me proud."

  I smile. "Thanks, Albert."

  I keep walking down the hall. I haven't made him proud. At least, not yet.

  ~~~~~

  Deke, 2003 (11 Years Ago)

  THE AIRPORT IS SCATTERED with men, and a few women, in uniform. At six years old, everyone seems so tall and intimidating. I follow Dad, who is also in uniform. I stare at the pattern of green splashes and listen to the heavy sound of his work boots as they hit against the floor. My grandpa, Albert, and my brother, Tom, follow behind us. We all stop a few feet away from airport security.

  Dad turns to me. He holds out his hand. I shake it.

  "Be good for your grandfather," he says. "Make me proud to call you my son."

  "I will, Dad," I say. My eyes wander to a cookie shop until I remember that this will be the last time I see my father for months.

  He turns to Tom.

  "Be good," he says. "Take care of your brother. Don't make your grandfather do everything. Help out at the garage."

  He nods, but he doesn't say anything. He's like that. Strong and silent. Women seem to find it appealing, but it bothers me. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother?

  Dad turns to Grandpa. They are spitting images of each other—my grandfather just has more lines on his face and streaks of gray in his hair.

  "I don't mean to just drop them off on you," Dad says.

  Grandpa shakes his head. "I understand, son. This is the only way you'll be able to move on from Rebecca's death. And once you're a soldier, you're always a soldier."

  He nods. "I'll be back in…four months. Maybe six. I'll see when my unit allows it."

  "Fight the good fight, Greg," Grandpa says. Dad salutes him and my grandfather returns the gestures. Salutes seem so violent to me—the cutting motion with the hand, the tenseness of the body, the serious expression on their faces.

  Dad pivots on his heel. I count his steps—one, two, three, four, five, six—before my grandfather puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me away from airport security. Tom walks in front of us as we leave the airport, his shoulders square and his strides long as if he is already preparing to become a soldier at ten years old.

  I look up at Grandpa.

  "Grandpa, why didn't Dad say good-bye?" I ask.

  "He didn't want to appear weak in front of the other soldiers." He glances over at me. "Why don't you call me Albert for now on? You're a big boy, aren't you?"

  I nod. It seems to me that by telling me to call him by his first name, something has shifted within our relationship. He knew something was going to happen in which he could no longer associate me with his son.

  ~~~~~

  Grace, 2014

  SAM PICKS ME UP from school since I still don't have my truck. I called the police department during my lunch break and they told me they had to send the car into Richmond to be thoroughly examined by a forensic team that has better technology than they do. I doubt they have done anything at this point, but I also don't think they will find anything. It doesn't matter. My car insurance sucks and I'm sure they'll find a way to blame me for my truck being shot up.

  As we drive in his Dodge Charger, I take in the streets of Murray. I can see the old Murray peeking through the dirty streets and various franchises—American flags flying every twenty feet, tulips planted around a gazebo, and young children riding their bicycles without concern about adult
s with cruel intentions. I imagine it was idyllic a decade ago.

  "Have you always lived here?" I ask Sam.

  "No," he says. "I'm originally from Maryland. I grew up in a small town, but I lived in Annapolis from the time I was eighteen to thirty years old."

  "Why did you decide to move here?"

  "I used to work in a large practice that had cardiologists, general physicians, dermatologists, gynecologists, and a podiatrist," he says. "I began working there after graduation. It was convenient for the people there…essentially like a hospital, where we could recommend someone to see a different kind of doctor and send them down the hall. But, I felt…lost. There was a high turnover of patients and assistants. The practice work was pooled, so I rarely saw the same patient twice, and more often than not, as soon as I developed an easy working rapport with one of my assistants, he or she would be gone…usually to go to New York City or some other place they thought would be exciting. Five years ago, I read a newspaper article about how people in the rural areas of Northern Virginia often had to drive an hour or more to find a medical specialist and those people would choose not to see a doctor because it took too much time to travel. There were also comments from a couple of students who had interests in becoming medical specialists, one of them whom wanted to be a cardiologist, but they also didn't want to move away from their small town. So, I moved here. I bought an office building, hired the student who wanted to become a cardiologist, and worked hard to make the experience good enough for patients that they wouldn't hesitate to come back."

  "Wow," I say. "I didn't know that you had only been here for five years. From how much people respect you, I thought it had to have been at least…seven years."

  "I'm fair," he says, shrugging. "I won't advise patients to get any kind of medical procedure or medication that I don't think they need. I've raised money and run for charities to help those who can't afford to come. All I did was become one of the citizens of Murray, and they accepted me."