Sweetest in the Gale: A Marysburg Story Collection (There's Something About Marysburg Book 3)
Page 9
His heart, his life, his future—they were and. Not or.
He grieved Marianne, and he desired Candy. Marianne was his beloved wife, and he could find joy in his life after her death. He loved Marianne, always would—and he was falling in love with Candy.
Candy. Loud, opinionated, sexy, whip-smart, devoted, hilarious Candy. Sweet as her name, although not everyone saw that.
Then again, not everyone could recognize or decipher subtext.
He could. Thank heavens, he could.
But he wasn’t going to make her do the same. Not any longer.
Before dawn, Griff had formulated his plan.
No more dithering or delays. He was ready to act, before Candy slipped away from him in the darkness.
As soon as he arrived at school, he tracked down Rose and Martin, who were waiting for their turn in the second-floor copy room. As he’d hoped, they were happy to help with the setup for the poetry slam that evening. Or so Martin claimed, although Rose did not second the statement.
“If Candy needs me, I’ll be there,” she said instead. “Just send instructions.”
He wondered if Candy knew she’d earned that brand of fierce loyalty from her history department colleague. Somehow, he doubted it.
During lunch, he called to make an appointment of his own. The receptionist squawked at the short notice, but he promised to bring decorated cookies from his favorite local bakery, Sweet Elizabeth, and his blatant bribery worked.
Immediately after school, he drove home. Dropped his briefcase just inside the door. Stripped off his jacket and button-down and tossed them onto his bed. Strode into the master bathroom.
He had just enough time to do this before his appointment.
Bracing his fists on the edge of the vanity, he leaned forward and stared at himself in the mirror, all itchy, shaggy beard and overlong hair.
If Marianne walked through the door right now, she’d barely recognize him. Hell, he barely recognized himself some days.
That hadn’t mattered to him, though. Not really, not for the longest time. Even if the man in the mirror hadn’t matched his past self, the reflection had matched how he felt inside. Who he was, down to his soul.
An abandoned husk, empty and useless.
It’d seemed like symmetry, somehow. Like justice. Like an act of love, even though seeing him this way would have gutted Marianne.
One final, hard look. He had to know for sure.
Then he did. At long last, he did.
That man was a stranger, and not just on the outside. Not anymore.
He reached into his under-sink cabinet, hand steady as a surgeon’s.
And without another second of hesitation or doubt, he unearthed his clippers and got to work.
Seven
Despite his best efforts, Griff ran late.
Because they were fitting his appointment in between those already scheduled, it took longer than he’d hoped. The department store’s checkout line was slow too. And although he’d well remembered the name of Candy’s doctor—Dr. Payne? he’d said wonderingly in the emergency room after the nurse asked where Candy’s records should be sent, and despite her injury, Candy had laughed and agreed on the name’s insalubrity—actually locating the correct office also required some time.
When he finally entered the practice’s waiting room, she’d already been called back. Unable to do anything else, he tunneled his fingers through his hair and took a seat against the wall. Crossed his ankle over his knee and jiggled his leg, a nervous habit that had occasionally irritated Marianne. Plucked at the side seams of his new jeans, the placket of his new shirt.
They were the first items of clothing he’d bought since moving to Marysburg.
Previously, he’d always chosen muted shades for his attire. His new shirt was a rich blue. A jewel tone because Candy loved vibrant colors. Blue because, in a fit of dressing-room vanity and optimism, he’d decided it flattered the green of his eyes.
Candy liked his eyes. He thought. He hoped.
Hopefully she’d like his haircut too. After some consideration and a consultation with the stylist, he’d left it longish, but neatly trimmed. The women working and waiting at the salon had extended their wolf-whistled approval at his transformation, but Candy was an entity unto herself. The opinion of others wouldn’t drive her reaction.
Another reason to adore her. Another reason for nervousness.
Casting yet another glance at the door she’d eventually exit from, he crossed his arms and drummed his fingers against his biceps, discontented.
He’d wanted to be with her as the doctor removed her cast. Wanted to offer support at the end of her injury as he had at its beginning. The potential symmetry had pleased him.
Nothing in actual human life, rather than literature, was that neat, of course. Today wasn’t truly the end of her recovery. She’d require time and effort to regain full movement and strength in her limb. But her healing was well on its way.
As was his.
He supposed that was enough of a metaphor for him.
Minutes ticked by. A quarter hour. A half hour. Forty-five minutes.
Then, finally, the nerve-racking wait ended. She burst into the waiting room in full flight, eyes on her phone as she tapped rapidly at the screen.
Immediately, he spied at least one reason for her lengthy time in the back. She’d rolled the left sleeve of her blouse above her elbow, but even so, the edges of the fabric were wet.
Her new skin appeared a bit pink and damp, but not flaky or peeling. With her typical efficiency, she’d already scrubbed off whatever unfortunateness lurked beneath her cast. Probably for the best, because they both knew teenagers would like nothing more than to tell tales of fearsome Ms. Albright’s crusty, possibly smelly arm.
That forearm was a bit withered, true. Straight as a soldier at attention, though, and still as capable as any limb he’d ever seen. Although perhaps that was indulging in a bit of synecdoche.
With one final, decisive tap, she looked up from her phone and spotted him.
In that same moment, his own cell dinged with a new message.
“What the—” She stumbled to a halt, her brow puckered. “Griff, what—”
He stood. Strove for archness. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Shaking her head, she tried again. “I just texted to tell you I was on my way. What are you doing here? And what happened to your—” Sudden panic widened her eyes. “Oh, God. If you’re here, who’s setting up for the poetry slam? Dammit, Griff—”
He raised a soothing hand. “It’s being taken care of. Rose and Martin are coordinating the preparations until we arrive.”
Utterly unappeased, she glared at him. “You said you were doing the setup.”
“I said I would take care of the setup,” he corrected. “Which I did, through judicious use of delegation.”
The unintentional ambiguity of that verb choice had suited his purposes nicely.
“But how do they even know what we intended?” Her mouth pinched tight, she started for the exit. “I’d planned to stop home and change, but now I guess I shouldn’t.”
Shoving open the glass door, she stomped onto the sidewalk outside.
He fell into step beside her. “Candy, please stop and listen for a moment. Please.”
At that second please, she slowed and swung to face him.
“If this is about why you’re here and why you look so…” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip, her gaze tracing him from crown to toe. “Anyway. That can wait. We have responsibilities.”
He smiled at her. “Do you really think I’d let them handle setup without a detailed explanation of what we wanted? Do you really think Rose or Martin would skimp in their efforts to make the poetry slam successful?”
Her gaze flicked away even as the set of her chin turned truculent. Which meant, as always, she knew he was right but was loath to admit it.
“Fine,” she eventually allowed. “I suppose you make a sa
lient point.”
It was a begrudging admission, but he didn’t care. He’d already wasted too much time, and he was seizing this opportunity. Right here. Right now.
Gather ye mulish, delicious English teachers while ye may.
Her face had regained some of its color since yesterday, although she still appeared a bit pale, her hair a tad rumpled. Those wide headbands usually held everything precisely in place, but she’d skipped using one again today. Her students had probably marveled at the sight.
Tenderly, he smoothed a stray strand back behind her ear. “We can spare five minutes, Candy. Ten. As many as we need.”
“Why…” Her swallow worked her throat, and he wanted to trace the shifting shadows with his tongue. “Why do we need ten minutes?”
Screw your courage to the sticking-place, he instructed himself, and you’ll not fail.
“I have some updates to discuss with you.” Ones not related to the poetry initiative, but she’d realize that soon enough. “But first, I want to hear what your doctor said.”
With a light touch to her arm, he ushered her toward a bench near the sidewalk, beneath a tree blazing with autumn color. At the contact, she cast him another befuddled glance, but she didn’t move away from him, and she sat without protest.
“Umm…” She kept darting glances at him. His hair. His face. His clothing. “Dr. Payne said I should start physical therapy so I can regain my full range of motion and rebuild my strength. As everything heals, I can start lifting weights.”
Exactly what his research had indicated. “But overall, everything looks good?”
“Yes.” Plucking her glasses from her nose, she let them hang around her neck. Her spike-lashed eyes searched his. “Griff, we agreed to share updates via e-mail. We agreed not to exchange physical intimacies. So what in the world are you doing here? Why did you—”
She cut herself off, her eyes turning glassy.
Her hand fluttered to the spot on her cheek where he’d smoothed away her hair. The exact place on her arm he’d touched to guide her to the bench.
“This isn’t fair.” She was whispering, but he could lip-read the words, because she was facing him as they talked. Keeping her promises, yet again. “You’re taunting me with what I can’t have, and it hurts. It’s cruel, Griff, and you’re not a cruel person. So why—”
When he cupped her soft cheek in his palm, she bit her lip again and leaned into his hand. But she was crying silently, her eyes stricken, and he chose his words carefully.
This was the fulcrum of his life, his heart, his future. The moment he crossed over to the other side of his and. If only she’d still have him.
“I told you I have significant hearing loss in my right ear.” He stroked along her cheekbone with his thumb. “I have since I was a child.”
Her brow knitted, but she hitched her head in a little nod.
“That hearing loss hasn’t gone away over time. It never will. It’s changed who I am, forever. And in some ways, it’s made my life harder.” He watched her carefully. Saw when her eyes sharpened in recognition of their common language. “But when someone is speaking to me, my hearing loss ensures I pay them total attention. It makes me extraordinarily, consistently protective and careful of the hearing I do have, because I don’t want to damage it.”
He repeated himself with deliberate slowness. “I never, ever want to damage it.”
Tears spilled over her lashes again.
Leaning in close, he paused. When she didn’t move, when she simply stared up at him, lips parted, he kissed away a stray tear gleaming at the top of her cheek and leaned his forehead against hers.
“Because of my hearing loss,” he added, “I also tend to appreciate those who speak clearly and loudly. Very loudly.”
At that, her lips tipped in a trembling smile.
“Someone who speaks clearly deserves clarity in return.” He gulped. “I—”
And, he reminded himself. And.
“I’m falling in love with you.” There. There it was. “It’s not a betrayal of Marianne, and I’ve accepted that. Our hearts are large. My heart is large. I can keep her there and still love you, still devote myself to any life we might make together, still do my damnedest to make you happy each and every day on this earth.”
She sniffed loudly, and her hand covered his.
“Are you certain?” Her eyes were the stars in his firmament, bright and true. “You have to be certain.”
It was a plea and a demand both. Scared but determined. Essentially, gorgeously Candy.
“If you’ll have me,” he told her, “I would not wish any companion in the world but you. May I woo you?”
“Woo me?” She huffed out a laugh, and its warmth banished the chill of endless weeks without her. “Really?”
He inclined his head. “Woo. Court. Seduce, as necessary.”
She ran her fingertips lightly over his beard, and he shivered at the carnal pleasure of it. “Consider me seduced. You were already devastating, but now...”
Studying himself in the mirror earlier that afternoon, he’d considered removing all his facial hair. Going clean-shaven, as Marianne had preferred. Then he’d remembered how Candy had reacted to the abrasion of his beard against their entwined fingers. Her parted lips. Her desperate swallow.
If that beard earned him open, unguarded heat from Candy, he’d keep it forever.
In the end, then, he’d merely tamed it. Made clear it was a choice, not the exhausted shrug of a broken man. He liked it now, more than he’d expected.
He suspected he’d like it even more soon, once he’d rubbed it against the most tender, sensitive reaches of Candy’s body and felt her shudder and gasp and break.
She murmured into his good ear, her mouth brushing his lobe with every syllable, and he had to close his eyes. “Now you’re irresistible.”
He’d once said the same to her. He’d meant it.
When her fingers sifted through his hair, he let out a hard breath. “A haircut and beard trim are nothing. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you mine and be yours.”
The words were rough. Hoarse. Honest.
“Griff.” She moved back far enough to see his face, to trace it lovingly with her gaze, her smile wide and piercing in its sweetness. “Don’t be obtuse, dearest. I’m already yours.”
Then she kissed him, and the world vanished.
Late that night, after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, in his bed, he e-mailed her the first of many poems. Tokens of his love, in a language they both spoke. Something to start her new morning once they’d arrived at work together and walked to their classrooms hand in hand.
All day, she could keep it cupped safe within her heart, a light to guide her through more hard hours to come. A reminder that no matter how the wind whipped and tore at her, she was beloved. His beloved.
There was love. There was hope. And the birdsong of that hope, as Emily Dickinson once wrote, was sweetest in the gale.
He knew that down to his marrow, because Candy had showed him.
Unraveled
About “Unraveled”
The more tightly wound a man is, the faster he unravels…
Math teacher Simon Burnham—cool, calm, controlled—can't abide problems with no good solution. Which makes his current work assignment, mentoring art teacher Poppy Wick, nothing short of torture. She's warm but sharp. Chaotic but meticulous. Simultaneously the most frustrating and most alluring woman he's ever known. And in her free time, she makes murder dioramas. Murder dioramas, for heaven's sake. But the more tightly wound a man is, the faster he unravels—and despite his best efforts, he soon finds himself attempting to solve three separate mysteries: a murder in miniature, the unexplained disappearance of a colleague...and the unexpected theft of his cold, cold heart.
This story is dedicated to my mom, the sort of elementary school teacher kids hugged around the knees in the grocery store, faces alight with joy at seeing her. I love you.
One
In defiance of the faculty dress code, she was wearing jeans. Not even dark, trouser-style jeans, which at a casual glance might be mistaken for appropriate work pants. No, hers clung faithfully to her ample hips and bottom. More importantly, they were faded and splotched with…what was that? Some sort of floury glue concoction? And now that he was looking more closely, flecks of paint revealed themselves on the denim covering her round thighs. A rainbow of color, and a silent testament to her defiance of necessary rules.
On Fridays, to be fair, teachers could donate money to charity in exchange for wearing jeans. But today was Tuesday, and the entire faculty of Marysburg High was sitting around cafeteria tables listening to the superintendent’s latest consultant drone on while wearing a suit more expensive than any teacher could ever afford, and Ms. Wick was doodling.
He glanced closer.
A skull, surrounded by ivy. Dear Lord.
At the very least, she might have had the dignity to sketch cubes or other three-dimensional geometric shapes, as he sometimes did. Although not during faculty meetings, and never with his hair in two wispy, drooping little reddish-blond buns, perched high on either side of the head. He kept his own dark hair neatly trimmed every two weeks and in strict order, despite its distressing tendency to wave.
She’d had a free seat beside her for the faculty meeting, and he’d taken it in hopes of observing her at least once before their respective positions became clear. Which was optimal, since knowledge of his scrutiny and its purpose would naturally change her behavior. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle: The Teacher Observation Corollary.
He sighed and began making a list of topics he and Ms. Wick would need to address in their initial consultation.
Why their principal, Tess Dunn, had assigned him as the mentor to an art teacher, he hadn’t the faintest clue. Yes, Ms. Wick had recently joined the faculty, and all first-year teachers at MHS received a mentor, no matter how long they’d taught in other school districts. Yes, mentors were chosen at random. But he was the chair of the math department, unsuited for—