Sweetest in the Gale: A Marysburg Story Collection (There's Something About Marysburg Book 3)

by Olivia Dade

  Something was nudging his arm.

  When he looked up and to the right, his mentee winked at him, hazel eyes sparkling above rosy cheeks. She nudged him again, and he looked down at her spiral-bound notebook, currently poking against his forearm.

  Her looping script wasn’t difficult to read. Want to play Hangman?

  Ms. Wick appeared to be in her mid-forties, perhaps a year or two older than him. Still, she’d passed him a note, invited him to play a juvenile game, as if she were one of their sophomores.

  He stared at her, aghast.

  Retrieving her notebook, she added more, then slid it back in his direction.

  C’mon. You’re obviously distracted too.

  Well, yes. But that was her fault entirely. Especially since, now that they were face-to-face, he could spot yet more paint flecks dappling her high, broad forehead and rounded chin. There was even a little blue smear just above the bow of her curved lips.

  Another quick note. I’ll let you choose the word or phrase.

  Sighing, he turned to a fresh page in his own legal pad, determined to quash her unacceptable behavior.

  Ms. Wick, we are in a professional sett—

  The legal pad was yanked out from beneath his hand, and she jotted something beneath his half-finished scold. On his paper.

  How did you know my name? She paused, then huffed out an amused breath. I’m that memorable, am I?

  Eyes narrowed at her audaciousness, he reclaimed his notebook with a decisive tug.

  Not at all. Earlier today, I was assigned to be your first-year mentor.

  There. That should put an end to her unprofessionalism.

  She tilted her head for a moment, forehead crinkled, before her impish grin flickered back to full brightness. Damn. I was hoping for Candy Albright.

  Well, she’d at least written it on her own notebook this time. Small victories.

  He shouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t ask.

  Yet the word somehow appeared on his paper, in his usual, careful print. Why?

  She’s equally terrifying, but in a FUN way.

  Ms. Wick had underlined FUN three times.

  He paused, unable to understand why that stung. Being fun had never constituted one of his goals, and if he terrified her, wouldn’t that better assure her compliance with faculty rules and regulations?

  He should be glad he both bored and terrified her, after a mere quarter-hour in her presence. He was glad.

  Odd, though. She didn’t seem terrified. In fact, she seemed to be writing him yet another note, despite his scowling disfavor.

  Candy cornered me about Oxford commas last week. It was a memorable discussion.

  Yes, he imagined so. Candy’s opinions on grammar were both numerous and intense, and usually shared at top volume.

  Ms. Wick still wasn’t done writing. She left me an informative pamphlet on my desk. Then she told me how glad she was that I’d replaced Mildred, cackled, and shouted DING-DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD.

  She beamed at him, as if inviting him to share the humor, and for a moment he almost smiled back.

  Clearing his throat, he turned away instead, as if preoccupied by the consultant’s PowerPoint slides. No, he would not encourage his mentee’s behavior. This conversation was done, at least until after the faculty meeting.

  But minutes later, when he again glanced at his legal pad, he discovered that she’d managed to write a question there without him noticing, a question so simple he’d be churlish not to answer.

  I should know my mentor’s name. What is it?

  Dammit. He had to respond. The rules of politeness required it, as did a smoothly functioning mentor-mentee relationship.

  Simon Burnham, he wrote on his paper. Chair of the Math Department.

  At some point, she’d returned to her doodling. Now the ivy swept across the page, sliding through openings in the skull, the vines encroaching and ominous, edged and shadowed in black.

  She wasn’t paying him a bit of attention anymore, and he stared at her profile for a moment, unable to reconcile her blend of cheer and macabre sensibilities, unable to determine why he suddenly wanted her eyes back on him.

  His dignity wouldn’t allow him to poke her with his notebook, as she’d done to him. Instead, he lightly tapped her bare arm with his fingertips, just below where she’d pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan.

  Her skin was warm and giving, even under such a tentative touch. When he withdrew his hand, he clenched it around an unexpected burn.

  As she turned those bright eyes back to him, he pointed to his paper. She read his note, then contemplated him for a moment, smile absent, her scrutiny uncomfortably sharp.

  Shall I call you Simon or Mr. Burnham? she finally wrote in her notebook.

  He knew trouble when it nudged him in the arm.

  If first impressions proved accurate, Ms. Wick was a problem with no clear solution, a human version of the Riemann Hypothesis, and he wanted none of it. None of her.

  Mr. Burnham, he wrote, and determinedly ignored her for the rest of the faculty meeting.

  When the lengthy meeting ended, Ms. Wick tucked her notebook beneath her arm, slung her purse over her shoulder, and raised a pale eyebrow. “Have I passed initial inspection, Mr. Burnham?”

  Her voice was slightly hoarse, low and warm with amusement. It seemed expressly designed for sharing confidences and laughter. But Simon had never indulged in those sorts of dangerous intimacies, and he didn’t intend to start now. Especially with someone like her.

  “I’ll meet you in your room shortly,” he said.

  At that, she snorted. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  The prospect didn’t seem to bother her. She left the table after a saucy salute in his direction, and within a dozen confident strides, she was linking arms with one of the other art teachers and whispering briefly before they both convulsed with mirth as they left the cafeteria.

  Maybe she was laughing at him. His rigidity. His coldness.

  Fortunately, he didn’t care about her good opinion. He cared about professionalism and hard work and creating an orderly, calm environment for himself and his students alike. As long as the personal lives and judgments of his colleagues didn’t affect job performance, they were irrelevant. Hell, he didn’t even know why Mildred had left, or why Candy was so happy to see the older woman gone. He didn’t need to know, and he didn’t want to.

  Although Mildred, as of last year, hadn’t mentioned the prospect of leaving, and the customary ceremonies accompanying the retirement of such a longtime teacher hadn’t occurred. No announcement in a faculty meeting or presentation of flowers and a gift. No potluck in the library, which he visited only to offer a handshake before promptly departing once more.

  Odd. Very odd.

  Considering the matter, he slowly walked to the cafeteria door, only to find himself beside Candy and one of the newer English teachers—Greg? Griff? It didn’t matter.

  “Ms. Albright.” Simon was speaking to her. Why was he speaking to her? “Please pardon the interruption. I was wondering—”

  No, he wasn’t a gossip, and he didn’t care.

  Her brows rose behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, Mr. Burnham?”

  He wrestled with himself for a moment.

  “Mildred. Mrs. Krackel.” There. That wasn’t a question. Thus, he wasn’t a gossip.

  Greg-Griff-Whoever turned away to cough into his fist, shoulders shaking, while a tiny, evil smile curved Ms. Albright’s mouth.

  “Mildred got what she deserved,” she declared. “Mary Shelley would be pleased.”

  Then she marched down the hall without another word, her English Department colleague at her shoulder.

  Terrifying, Ms. Wick had called Ms. Albright.

  Mary Shelley had written Frankenstein, a story of horror and violence and transgression. And the author would be pleased about what happened to Mrs. Krackel? What precisely had Ms. Albright thought Mildred deserved?

  The halls of the s
chool seemed to empty with astonishing quickness that evening, and by the time he’d stopped by his room to gather his briefcase and journeyed to the opposite end of the school, where Ms. Wick’s classroom was located, shadows were amassing in the corners. His footsteps echoed in an unsettling way as he strode down halls he’d rarely visited.

  His pace quickened as he neared her door. It was getting late, and he didn’t intend to spend longer with his mentee than absolutely necessary.

  She was sitting at her desk, her high forehead crinkled as she typed on her laptop. Another man, one less intent on the business at hand, one interested in such matters, might have called that evidence of her concentration endearing.

  Her shades were closed against the gathering dusk outside, and the overhead fluorescent lights didn’t entirely banish the gloom. To his surprise, however, the expansive room, stuffed with work tables and cabinets, was neater than Ms. Wick herself upon first glance.

  He’d have time to inspect her classroom organization later. His first priority: making the rules and expectations regarding their relationship—their mentor-mentee relationship, that is—clear.

  When he knocked on her doorframe, she looked up from her laptop placidly, with no sign of startlement.

  Even as he approached her desk, he began instructing her. “Per Principal Dunn’s request, I will observe your seventh period class for five consecutive days, beginning this upcoming Monday. Since seventh period is one of my planning periods, I will stay the entire length of the class. As I observe, I will evaluate your performance based on criteria outlined in the memo you should have received via e-mail about the mentorship program last month. If you need another copy, I can forward one to you.”

  “I don’t need one.” Her lips quivering, she shook her head. “Shockingly, I managed to keep track of the memo.”

  Ignoring her impertinent choice of adverb, he continued. “After class, assuming you don’t have to leave for any necessary meetings, I will share my observations with you, and at the end of the week, I will write my initial evaluation, which, once approved by Principal Dunn, will be sent to you. After next week, we will meet monthly to discuss your progress or lack thereof. Other observations may occur, based on necessity. Any questions?”

  If he’d expected her to be cowed by his blunt speech, intimidated into silence by the prospect of his judgment, he would have been disappointed. If anything, those hazel eyes of hers had brightened further, alight with…challenge? Amusement?

  “Of course I have questions.” She propped her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her entwined, paint-flecked fingers. “How long have you been teaching, Mr. Burnham?”

  His frown pinched his brows. “Twenty years last fall. How is that relevant? Are you concerned I have insufficient expertise in pedagogy to serve as your mentor?”

  “No,” she said, one of her little buns now sagging only half an inch above her left ear. “I was merely curious.”

  To return her question in kind would not indicate curiosity of his own, but instead provide necessary context for his mentoring efforts. Professionalism demanded more information, and he was always, always a consummate professional.

  “And yourself, Ms. Wick? How many years have you been a teacher?”

  “Twenty-four.” Her gaze remained solely on him, and he found himself shifting beneath its keen sharpness. “Before this, I taught near D.C., but I wanted to move closer to my parents. I’m an only child, and their health is getting more precarious by the year.”

  Fortunately, she’d answered the question he wouldn’t have allowed himself to ask: Why did you change schools?

  “Any other concerns or queries?” If not, he intended to perform a preliminary inspection of her room and evaluate her organizational system and abilities.

  “Oh, countless. But we have plenty of time for those.” She smiled at him, very slowly. One might almost have called the expression smug. “That said, I should probably warn you about the unit we’re starting next week.”

  He merely looked at her, waiting for whatever had prompted that mischievous curve of her pink, pink mouth.

  Her explanation didn’t provide any clarity. “We’re tackling three-dimensional representation of objects and scenes and discussing the intersection of art and public service.”

  That all sounded completely, laudably appropriate and professional to him. So why—

  “Specifically,” she continued, “we’re studying Frances Glessner Lee’s mid-century efforts to advance forensic science through her Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death. Then the students will create their own educational dioramas, upon topics of their choosing.”

  Unexplained death? What the hell?

  She waved a casual hand. “And, of course, I’ll bring in an example of my own work as further inspiration.”

  He blinked at her, still stuck on the unexplained death bit. “Your…own work?”

  “During summers and in my spare time, I create and sell my own dioramas.” Her smile was no longer merely smug. It was now a wide, gleaming, toothy taunt. “If I didn’t enjoy teaching so much, I might consider doing my dioramas full-time, since I’ve amassed an appreciative audience for my work.”

  This. This was why she was pleased, why her rosy cheeks glowed so cheerily. He could tell that much, but he still didn’t understand why.

  And she wasn’t offering him the necessary context. Not this time. Oh, no, her soft lips were pressed shut as she waited for the question. Waited for him to break.

  Ten minutes ago, he’d have sworn he never would. But that stupid, wispy bun was almost touching the flushed tip of her ear, and the blue streak above her mouth was mocking him, and her delighted grin plumped those round cheeks, and he had to ask. He had to.

  “What—” He cleared his throat, studying her file cabinet as if it held vast importance in his eventual evaluation of her teaching. “What is your work, specifically?”

  She didn’t answer until he met her gaze again, and he didn’t know whether to admire or despise her for it.

  “Murder dioramas,” she said.

  As soon as he noticed he was gaping at her, open-mouthed, he snapped his jaw shut.

  Deep breath. Raise an eyebrow. Seem only distantly engaged in the discussion.

  “Murder dioramas?” he repeated coolly. “I’m afraid I’ll require more detail, so as to determine the appropriateness of your work for a classroom setting.”

  Her grin only widened. “Oh, naturally.”

  She made him wait again, because of course she did.

  “Yes, Ms. Wick?” he eventually prodded.

  “Sorry. My mind must have wandered for a moment. It’s getting late, isn’t it?” She glanced at the clock on the wall, and then gave what seemed to be a genuine gasp. “Oh, damn, I’m going to be late for my oil change.”

  Jumping to her feet, she began shoving papers into a tote and searching for her keys.

  From all appearances, she intended to leave him without further explanation, and that was unacceptable. Completely and utterly unacceptable.

  He stepped close enough to interrupt her frantic efforts. “An explanation, Ms. Wick.”

  “Fine.” Apparently lacking the time to taunt him further, she met his eyes and quickly summarized her ghoulish hobby. “My business is called Crafting the Perfect Murder. I imagine and recreate a violent crime in miniature form, complete with subtle clues as to what happened, why, and who was responsible. I also provide witness statements. People buy the dioramas and attempt to solve the mystery, and I can either send them the solution or not, as they desire.”

  His mouth temporarily refused to form words.

  “My dioramas are art, but people with plenty of spending money also buy them as a party game, especially around Halloween. You know, competing as to who can solve the case first.” Glancing down, she finally located her keys and brandished them in triumph. “There they are!”

  Finally, his tongue came untethered.

  “People pay for that?�
�� he asked, incredulous.

  Immediately, he wished he’d bitten that tongue instead, because she took a step backward and flinched, her smile vanishing in a microsecond. At the sudden movement, her failing bun unraveled entirely, the spiral of fine hair falling over her ear and against her reddening cheek.

  Dammit.

  The remark hadn’t been intended as a referendum on the quality of her work, as he had no way of judging that. He hadn’t even meant it as an insult, although he undoubtedly found such a hobby macabre in the extreme. More, he’d been confused as to why anyone would invite violence and confusion into their home if they had a choice not to, and wondering whether she could possibly get paid enough for her work to defray the costs of her creations.

  But she’d clearly taken his thoughtless comment as a slight against her work, and perhaps rightly so. Politeness required that he make amends. Immediately. Before the memory of the hurt in her eyes, however quickly masked, twisted his gut further.

  “Ms. Wick, please for—”

  But it was too late for apologies. She was already speaking, already headed for the door.

  “If you think what I do deserves so little respect, I dare you to solve the mystery in the diorama I’m bringing to class next week. Maybe then you’ll have a better idea why people pay for that, as you so charmingly put it.” When she reached the door, she swiveled to face him. “I have to leave. Are you coming or not?”

  He dropped his chin to his chest for a moment. “I, uh—I’d planned to evaluate the layout and organization of your classroom, if that’s acceptable.”

  The inspection could have occurred next week, of course, but he needed to sit and think a minute. Wait until solid ground formed beneath him once more.

  She shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Just ask a custodian to lock up behind you, please.”

  “I will.” He didn’t offer another apology. Instead, he simply watched her flee from his presence, her rapid footsteps retreating into silence.