His Beauty

by Sofia Tate

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sofia Tate

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Forever Yours

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10104

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  First ebook and print on demand edition: May 2018

  Forever Yours is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever Yours name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  ISBN 978-1-4555-6581-8 (ebook edition)

  ISBN 978-1-5387-1330-3 (print on demand edition)

  E3-20170314-DANF

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sofia Tate

  More Great Reads from Sofia Tate

  About the Author

  Newsletters

  For my Catskills lovelies

  Antonia, Meabh, and Sadhbh at

  The Windham Spa

  Cordelia at Ze Windham Wine Bar and

  Roxanne at my local post office

  Thank you for your friendship, making me laugh when I needed it most, and being there for me when I was at my lowest.

  Love, S. xoxo

  Chapter One

  The ten-year-old with the gap teeth and blond pigtails stares back at me.

  “Meeley,” she insists.

  “It’s not Meeley, Olenka. It’s Miley.”

  As much as I dislike talking about pop singers with my second graders, I believe it’s my duty as a teacher of English as a Second Language to at least correct my students’ pronunciation.

  “Yes, Miss Lily. I know. Meeley Cyrus. She played Hannah Dakota.”

  As well as teach her the correct state. “It’s Hannah Montana, which is right next to North Dakota.”

  “Who is North Dakota?” she asks with a confused look crossing her face.

  “It’s a state, stupid,” Ramon, a skinny boy with Harry Potter-like glasses, offers in reply.

  Head-desk.

  I turn to Ramon. “Please read Class Rule number 2 out loud so everyone can hear.”

  His face turns beet red, swallowing before he begins. “We do not call each other bad names.”

  “Thank you, Ramon. Now please apologize to Olenka.”

  He pivots in his chair to her. “I’m sorry, Olenka.”

  She nods shyly. “Okay, Ramon.”

  Thankfully, at that exact moment, the PA system crackles to life. The steady voice of Cottage Grove School’s principal, Mr. Henry Palmer, comes over the system with the final announcements for the day.

  “Good afternoon, boys and girls. I hope you all had a productive day of learning. I have no announcements, just to wish you a lovely holiday. I look forward to seeing all of you in the New Year.”

  The sound of papers shuffling over the PA echoes into the room.

  “Actually, I do have one announcement. Miss Lily Moore, please come to my office after the final bell.” The PA system shuts off with a squeak.

  I’m sure it’s nothing.

  My ten ESL students instantly emit a Pavlovian response of “Oooh! You’re in trouble!”

  I sigh to myself. Great.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Now, you know the drill. Pack up your bags, get your jackets, chairs on top of your desks, and quietly line up at the door single file.”

  Per their usual daily routine they follow my instructions, without the quiet component.

  Once I lead the students outside and ensure they’re safe with their parents or parent-approved minders, I take a deep breath and head back inside the one-story brick building and down the hallway to the principal’s office. I wait in the outer room for the okay from his secretary, looking out the window at the snow-covered Catskill Mountains across the Hudson River. An intercom buzzes, indicating I’m allowed to enter.

  Dressed in his usual tweed jacket with a button-down shirt and tie and tortoise-shell glasses, Mr. Palmer resembles a college professor more than a grammar school principal. He is mild-mannered and kind, and even chivalrous, rising to his feet when I walk in.

  “Miss Moore, please,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

  “Thank you,” I reply with a nod, placing my hands folded together in my lap, sitting up straight to give him my full attention.

  I look directly at my boss, who smiles at me sheepishly, then stretches his arms out on top of his desk, folding his hands together like mine are, but then he bounces them up and down on the oak wood, clearing his throat.

  Oh, shit. This isn’t good news.

  “Miss Moore, I hope you know how much I appreciate your work here. I never receive anything but rave reviews from the other teachers, your students, and their parents.”

  I give him a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  He sighs audibly.

  Please, just pull off the damn Band-Aid and get this over with.

  “I heard from the school board today. Apparently, they hired an efficiency expert and she concluded that a separate ESL class is not cost feasible for the district.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that after the Christmas break, you won’t have your own classroom anymore.”

  My mouth drops; my hands clench together now even more tightly. “But what about the students? They need ESL. You can’t put them into the mainstream classes. Many of them have serious issues, and not just the lack of English proficiency. Some of them barely say a word in class, and many have never even been in a classroom setting before—”

  Mr. Palmer holds up his palms to me, effectively telling me to stop talking. “I know. Believe me, I repeated those same sentiments to the board members, but because of the size of our district, money comes before the needs of the students.”

  I swallow before asking the question, dreading the answer. “So, what happens to m
e?”

  He gives me a conciliatory smile. “Well, the good news is that you’ll still be teaching. Tutoring, really. The board approved funds for after-school ESL tutoring sessions twice a week.”

  “Twice a week?” I screech. “There’s no way that’s enough time with them!”

  Shocked at my outburst, my face grows red in embarrassment. “Mr. Palmer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  He shakes his head at me. “Please, no need for an apology. I actually admire your passion for your students and their learning. But I need to know if you’re interested in still continuing with them.”

  I practically jump up in my seat. “Yes, of course.”

  “Silly question. I knew you would say that, but I’m glad to hear it just the same. You’ll start the tutoring after Christmas break. Of course, your pay will be half of what you earn now.”

  Of course.

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No, that’s all for now. I’m so sorry about this. I truly am.”

  I look at my principal’s face, his mouth downturned, his eyes soft and sympathetic, and I believe him.

  I rise from the chair. “Thank you, Mr. Palmer. I appreciate your kindness in this situation.”

  He follows, coming to his feet and extending his hand to me. “Miss Moore, if there’s anything you need, do let me know. I hope you have a lovely holiday with your family.”

  Yes, Merry fucking Christmas to me.

  I slap on a grin and nod. “I wish you the same.”

  I walk out of my boss’s office in a fog. If anyone addresses me, I don’t hear them. I reach my classroom and walk straight to my desk chair, the one I’ve sat in for two years, and slump my body down into it. I glance around the room at the colorful posters I’ve put up; the maps of the countries where my students were born, with push pins marking their hometowns; their work stapled to various bulletin boards, gold stars contrasting against the lined notebook paper. I want to cry so much, but I can’t afford to.

  I reach for my purse, rummaging around in it for my phone. I need to call Reed. I need to hear my boyfriend tell me everything will be fine and it’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to.

  I listen as the phone rings once, twice…then goes straight to voicemail.

  Damn it.

  I shake my head and throw my cell back into my purse. I grab my tote bag, locking my classroom behind me. I wrap my wool scarf tighter around my neck as a cold breeze hits my face the second I step outside.

  A light dusting of snow covers the hood of my dark blue Volvo. I shove the key in the lock, hip-checking the driver’s side door of my baby, which I inherited from my mom six years ago.

  Once I secure myself with the seat belt I greet my Swedish car lovingly, petting the steering wheel. “Hello, Ingrid. You’ll get me home safely today, ja? Because I’ve had a crap day and I can’t deal with any more shit right now. I’d be really grateful. ’kay, thanks.”

  I turn the key and Ingrid comes to life, bless her. Backing out of my assigned space, I drive out of the staff parking lot, turning west for my alma mater.

  Like other upstate New York colleges such as Ithaca and Skidmore, Ashby College is a liberal arts college known for its small class sizes and professors who challenge and inspire. Located on the edge of Hudson, a town with bustling art galleries, antique stores, and bistros, it was my first choice when I was applying to college. It helped that I lived across the river in Catskill, so I could commute to campus.

  But with all of my student loan debts, living on half my current pay isn’t an option. I need to find a second job.

  I love Ashby’s campus. It’s spread out across rolling green lawns, and there are oak trees everywhere, the buildings all low and red brick. My favorite feature is the collection of sculptures by Ashby grads who have become famous artists in their own right.

  I pull into the visitor parking lot, give Ingrid another hip-check when I shut the door, then make my way toward the admin building. I walk up the stairs, turning right for the career services office. I greet the staff with a smile, masking my desperation.

  An older woman occupying the seat at the reception desk glances at me curiously. “Looking for a job, sweetie?”

  “Just something part-time. Could I…?” I ask, gesturing toward the computers for students’ use.

  “Of course. Nice and quiet today, so take as long as you need.”

  “Thanks.”

  I plant myself in front of one of the monitors, dropping my purse to the floor. I use my old Ashby user ID and password, which are still valid, thank God. I click on the link for part-time jobs and begin scanning the listings. There are various positions—babysitting, snow shoveling, baristas at a local café.

  I sigh in frustration.

  None of them interest me until one catches my eye.

  “Part-time house cleaner wanted for single occupant home. 2 days a week. Light cleaning. No cooking. No laundry. Excellent compensation.”

  The “excellent compensation” line grabs my attention. There is no phone number listed, only an email address with the name “SEstate.” The name disconcerts me, but I don’t care. It could be some old money family in Hudson with a mansion overlooking the river that wants someone to wax their floors like Cinderfuckingrella. But now…desperate times, desperate measures.

  I pull out my thumb drive from my purse and connect it to the computer’s tower. I knock out a quick cover letter, attaching my résumé from the drive, and hit send. Logging out, I thank the receptionist and head for the exit, pulling my wool hat tighter over my head and turning up the collar on my coat to face the bitter cold outside.

  * * *

  I pull into the driveway of the two-story A-frame house I call home. With its wraparound front deck, two large front windows, and three small windows on the second floor lined with flower boxes—all of it covered in a light coating of snow—the entire structure could have been airlifted straight from the Swiss Alps.

  And I hate it. It’s too cute, too sweet. Too perfect.

  But it’s what came with the package when I met Reed Shepard—of the Shepards of Saratoga Springs—at a mixer freshman year, so I had to swallow the fact that he lived in a house straight out of Heidi.

  We live in a section of Cottage Grove known as Cottage Grove Hills. It was founded back in the 1920s by a group of families from the Capitol Region of Albany who wanted a place in the country. Their blood runs blue; their names are permanently featured in every annual edition of the Social Register.

  I turn off Ingrid’s engine and pat the steering wheel, wishing her good night.

  I get out of the car and shake my head at the sight of Reed’s BMW sedan covered in its protective tarp that he had custom made for it. He always covers it during inclement weather, which is so ridiculous since the weather in the Catskills is inclement ninety-nine percent of the winter season. The Shepards overlooked one important component of the house when they had it built—the garage—but I figure that was on purpose so they could show off their various luxury automobiles.

  I stomp my feet on the mat outside the door to shake off any residual snow. “I’m home,” I shout when I walk through the door.

  “Study,” I hear Reed reply in return.

  I drop my bag on the sofa in the living room and make my way to the book-paneled room where Reed is sitting at his desk, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him.

  Dressed in a light blue long-sleeved polo shirt and his Ashby sweats, he doesn’t acknowledge my entrance.

  I walk over to him and kiss the top of his head. “How are you?”

  “Stressed,” he replies curtly.

  I glance at his desk, where open copies of science textbooks are strewn about. “What’s going on?”

  “Hopkins told me the new department chair is going to observe me next week in my Computer Science 101 class. If I do well, she’s going to recommend me for a full-time position, so I have to knock the lesson
plan out of the park.”

  “Have you met the new chair yet?”

  “No, but I’ve heard mixed things about her, which doesn’t help.”

  Reed is an adjunct computer science professor at Ashby, teaching mostly the 101 level courses to incoming freshmen as part of their prereqs. I never mention to him that he probably won’t be promoted since he doesn’t have a PhD. As loving and caring as he is, Reed tends to live in his blue-blooded world, where the right name and money can buy anything. In my family, the blood doesn’t run blue, but its collar does.

  This is why I clear my throat before I share my news with him. “Honey, I need to tell you something.”

  He runs his hands through his hair. “Can it wait?”

  “They’re taking my classroom away from me.”

  His head whips around, his eyes widened in shock. “Why?”

  “The school board decided to cut the ESL program, so I’ll only be a tutor in the after-school program when the holiday break is over, which means my pay will be cut in half and I’ll need to get a second job.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Today. Palmer called me into his office after class.” I glance over and point to his cell sitting on the desk next to his computer. “You would’ve known all this if you’d answered your phone when I called you about two hours ago.”

  He pauses and picks up his phone to check the screen. “Fuck.”

  Reed rises from his chair and studies my face carefully, then shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’m really worried about the observation, the new department chair…”

  I step closer to him, folding him into my arms “It’s okay, honey. I know. You’ve been working so hard trying to prove yourself to the faculty that you forget about everything else.”

  “You’re right. So, this means you probably won’t be home until after five once you start tutoring?”

  I pull back from him, his segue into another topic completely catching me off guard. “Probably, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I always loved coming home from class, knowing you’d be waiting for me.”

  I can’t help but smile at the memories his comment conjures. “I know. Remember that lacy black number I got from Victoria’s—”