He turned and headed out of the office without another word. I followed him, then stopped in the doorway. Brunhilda’s head was in her hands. She looked so broken right then. “Gretchen, maybe if you—”
“Oh, shut up already!” She rose up and glared at me. “You’ve said enough!”
I pressed my lips together and gripped the door handle. No more. No more being intimidated. I lifted my chin and said, “Have a good night.” And then I closed the door just as she flung something at the wall.
CHAPTER 23
I DIDN’T HEAR anything about Gretchen until Mindy called me two days after Christmas. “Brunhilda resigned,” Mindy said breathlessly. “I told you this manifesting stuff works!”
The gossip mill was in full swing when I came in before New Year’s Eve to set up my classroom. Apparently Gretchen left quietly and under the cover of Christmas, citing “personal reasons” in the letter she wrote to the board. The media was telling a different story. They were reporting that Gretchen and Marlene, nervous at the talk of salary freezes, had conspired to give themselves raises: Gretchen by falsifying standardized test scores to earn a bonus from the state, and Marlene by falsifying receipts. It all might have gone unchecked if Marlene hadn’t gone and used her money in a murder-for-hire scheme.
“The lesson is, only engage in criminal activity with someone trustworthy,” Eric said. We were disassembling my December bulletin board and setting up for the New Year.
I scrunched up my face at him. “Wait. How does that work—”
“Don’t question the wisdom, Aletta. Just keep it in a safe place.”
“Okay.”
“If you ever rob a bank . . .”
“I’ll find someone honest to rob it with me.” I pulled a paper snowman off the board and set it neatly on the bookcase. “Thank you, Gretchen, for that important lesson.”
I took a moment to admire him from behind. It was a nice view indeed. “I like this. Being out in the open.”
He smiled over his shoulder. “Me too.”
We no longer had to worry about disclosures and politics. Gretchen was gone, and Eric was leaving Noah Webster. The board of education was all too happy to do a clean sweep of the administration and to add a permanent vice principal at the same time as it added an acting principal. The new vice principal seemed lovely: enthusiastic, smart, and warm. She was exactly what a vice principal of an elementary school should be. But I would miss seeing Eric around the halls, even if I’d spent some time avoiding him.
“Are you looking forward to returning to the middle school?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I always thought there was preteen drama there, but it’s got nothing on the faculty drama here.”
Amen to that.
I’d helped him to pack his office already. There was only one thing left. “Do you want to see if someone is around to take your key?”
“Sure.” He climbed down the bookcase and set down his staple remover. Then he pulled me into his arms. “I’ve never kissed you in your classroom.”
“A tragedy.” I giggled as he drew closer for a soft kiss. His lips tasted like mint Chap Stick. When it was over, I said, “Aw, shoot. Now I have one more thing to miss about you.”
We walked down to the administrative wing, holding hands. The new vice principal would be unpacking once school resumed, but all of Gretchen’s office furniture had already been moved out, and the new principal had moved in. The school felt safer already. I tried to catch a glimpse of my new boss as we approached the open door, but Eric was too broad to see around. “Dr. Kelleher? Is this a good time to turn in my keys?”
“Oh, yes of course! Please come in.”
Her voice was light and vibrant, and as I entered the office I saw her bobbing around busily: a petite woman with black hair streaked with white and a bright smile. Then I saw that she was unpacking her boxes in a red sweater dress and matching heels, and I loved her for it. “Oh, the chaos!” she said with a wave of her hands. “Don’t mind the mess. Eric”—she took his hand in both of hers—“I’m so sorry you’re leaving. I’ve heard such good things about you.”
“I’ve heard the same about you,” Eric said. “It’s a shame we won’t be working together.”
Eric told me that the board had lured Renee Kelleher from the Westborough school system. She was said to be motivating and tough, but also fair. The board had been ready to offer her the vice principal position when Gretchen left, so Dr. Kelleher had received a promotion before she’d even started.
She turned to me. Her blue eyes were magnified by her bifocals. “Hello. I’m Renee. We haven’t formally met.”
Her fingers were bony and cool, but her manner was warm as she wrapped my hand in hers. “I’m Aletta Osbourne. I teach kindergarten.”
“A pleasure! I’m so glad you stopped by, because I’m trying to figure out how to meet everyone. I was thinking I could call a staff meeting.” She paused. “What do you think?”
I blinked. My principal had never actually asked me anything like that before. “Uh, well. I think that would be a great way to get everyone together, actually. But listen: We usually have doughnut holes and apple cider at those meetings.” I grinned as she wrinkled her nose. “It’s gross.”
“That’s food for children. You’re adults,” she said. “Do you think people would enjoy a fruit tray? Maybe with cheese and crackers?”
My head bobbed. “Definitely. The thing is, the teachers usually have to fund the food, and our salaries are frozen, so there’s some hard feelings—”
“Oh, sweetie. I get it.” She gripped my forearm. “Trust me. We had the teacher negotiations from you-know-where in Westborough last year. I think it’s only fair that I provide the refreshments for these meetings. It’s my way to show my appreciation for the hard work you all do. Oh, before I forget.” She removed her glasses and allowed them to hang on an amber beaded chain around her neck. “I’ve been going through some of Dr. Hauschild’s procedures. Between us, that dress code is insulting. And signing out supplies? I didn’t get a PhD to police crayons. Do you think anyone would be terribly upset if I did away with those things? Are there any sensitivities?”
I was dumbstruck. “Sensitivities?”
“Sorry, I should be clearer. Were these policies the result of a committee or anyone’s hard work, or were they simply a product of the former principal’s paranoia?”
I smiled. I liked her. A lot. “I don’t think there are any sensitivities, no.”
She patted my arm. “Very diplomatic of you. Then they’re gone.” Her eyes fluttered. “Is there anything else you can think of?”
Yeah. Are you for real? But I was speechless, so I only said, “No. No, that’s it.”
“Great.” She set her glasses back on her nose. “Aletta, I can tell we’ll work well together.”
Oh, the happiness that flooded me in that moment! I could love coming to work again! My head was so light that before I could stop myself I blurted out, “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
I heard Eric shift beside me and clear his throat nervously, but I wasn’t going to say anything about him. Dr. Kelleher removed her glasses yet again and stepped closer. “Of course.”
I took a deep breath. “I write erotica. I used to write children’s books, but then my publisher was sold and I started to write erotica. And I realize it’s maybe strange for me to be a kindergarten teacher who, uh, does that, but it’s become something I truly enjoy, and so I want people to know about it.” I paused and crossed my ankles demurely.
Dr. Kelleher was silent for a stretch. “Do you use a pen name?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. “Then good for you.” She turned and headed back to her desk.
It almost felt anticlimactic. How long had I been worried about hiding this part of myself? “That’s . . . it?�
��
“I don’t read it myself, but I admire anyone who has the dedication to finish a book. And dedication is something we need around here, am I right, Eric?”
Eric’s jaw was hanging open, but he pulled himself together and nodded, “Yes. Absolutely.”
“So as long as it stays out of the classroom and you exercise discretion, then I see it as a matter of freedom of speech.” She smiled. “I’ve always wanted to write a novel. I have this thriller manuscript on my computer, but the body count is so high that I worry people would wonder what was wrong with me!”
As she laughed at her own joke, I found myself joining in. Thinking, this was good. This was very good.
And so there I was, Oprah, thinking that my life couldn’t possibly get better than being in a great relationship with a man I adored, having a job I could look forward to, and having a hobby that brought out the best in me. Odin still chewed my shoes, my car was still old, but life was on the upswing. Eric and I were even talking about moving in together. I insisted that he move to my bungalow.
“It’s fine for now,” he said. We were lying in bed, and my head was on his chest. “But I was thinking we should talk about getting our own house. Together. Eventually.”
“But this house has everything we need. The yard is private, we have three bedrooms—”
“Sure, but I thought you might want to live somewhere else one day. Maybe somewhere with more space, now that our family is expanding.”
He paused to pet our new border collie puppy, Ginger, who was sprawled out beside him on the bed. Bad habits, but she was so darn cute.
He stared at the ceiling wistfully. “Faye has a nice house—”
“Ha!” I rose up on one arm to look him in the eyes. “Copper Hill.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He tilted his head at me, a small smile on his mouth. “I was. But I’ll bet you’re going to tell me why I’m wrong.”
I was only too happy to list the reasons. Copper Hill would smell us coming. We didn’t drive the right cars. We didn’t shop at the right stores. “You and I don’t hand-groom our lawn.”
He was laughing. “Lettie—”
“No, I’m serious!” But I was laughing, too. I couldn’t stay too mopey or serious around Eric.
“Fine. Whatever. There are lots of places in the world.”
“No Copper Hill. You promise?”
He kissed me on the forehead. “Promise.”
I made him pinkie swear just to prove a point. But I knew there was no way Eric and I would ever lead a Copper Hill life, no matter what. Love stories have to conclude in a way that’s true to the characters. Sometimes there are proposals, or babies, or a promise to give one woman exclusive use of a magical cock for the rest of her natural life. For me and Eric, our story didn’t end with a big house in Copper Hill and a membership to a country club. It ended the way I always suspected it would: with us riding off into a Poop Hole sunset, our dogs in the backseat.
No, wait, scratch that. It didn’t end at all. It had only just begun.
Acknowledgments
Sometimes it feels dishonest to have only my name on a book cover when there are so many individuals who have supported me and contributed to the final product. My heartfelt thanks go first to my agent, Rachel Burkot, at Holloway Literary, who answered all of my frantic e-mails with patience, professionalism, and speed, and even agreed to be my friend on social media. We make a great team. Thanks next to my wonderful editor, Kate Dresser, and to my book family at Simon & Schuster, who took so much care with my words. I must have rescued children from a burning orphanage in a past life for my manuscript to have landed in such capable hands. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
Then there are those who brought encouragement and support during the long, uncertain writing process. To my dearest friends, Megan and Kate: You both know everything about me and still answer when I call, and I think that’s pretty great. To Mom and Jess: Thank you for laughing at my jokes and asking for the next chapter. Mom, I forgive you for telling people I write pornography. To Ryan: None of this would have been possible without you. Thank you for your faith and endless support. I’m the luckiest. And to my children: Thank you for showing me how to find joy in unexpected places.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my daughter’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Kingman, for inspiring the best parts of Lettie as a teacher. You are warm and generous and everything a kindergarten teacher should be. And just to be clear, I have no reason to believe you write erotica.
Finally, thank you to my readers. You’re the reason I do what I do. I hope you will visit me at facebook.com/writernataliecharles or e-mail me at [email protected]. And if you enjoyed this book, I hope you will tell a friend.
About the Author
Natalie Charles believes she writes warmhearted contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her mother believes she writes pornography. When she’s not writing, Natalie can be found avoiding housework, baking, or engaging in eccentric do-it-yourself projects. She lives in a tiny town in Connecticut with her husband, their two young children, and a disobedient dog.
Natalie loves connecting with readers! Visit her at nataliecharlesromance.com.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Natalie-Charles
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Natalie Charles
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition February 2017
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ISBN 978-1-5011-6454-5
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 30