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

by Olivia Dade

  Her voice lowered almost to a whisper, as if they were sharing secrets, and maybe they were. “During the observation, when one kid didn’t understand how you’d solved the problem on the board, you explained everything a second time, clearly and patiently.”

  Her praise was a warm tide in his chest, soaking into his limbs, spreading through his cold, aching bones. So welcome he had to fight against closing his eyes again.

  “I was impressed. Beyond impressed. Those kids already adored you, Simon. After less than two weeks. If you wanted to provide them a peaceful, safe space…” In a graceful gesture, she spread her hands wide. “Mission accomplished.”

  The question was neither his business nor appropriate to ask. He shouldn’t ask. Couldn’t.

  But really. She was standing there, fine wisps of disordered hair haloed around her head, round and kind and so very lovely, smart and funny and accomplished, and—

  “How the hell are you single?” Goddammit, Burnham. “Not that it’s any of my concern, and perhaps you have a partner you haven’t mentioned, but—”

  “Oh, I’m single.” Her smile vanished. “No doubt about that.”

  Thank fuck.

  “I am too,” he told her without the slightest intention of doing so. “Never married.”

  Which was way less surprising than her lack of a partner. A man like him neither experienced nor inspired passion and lust and devotion.

  At least, he hadn’t. Before now.

  Poppy’s mouth had tightened into a thin, pale line.

  “I listen to podcasts about unsolved murders and serial killers.” It was a stark announcement, seemingly disconnected from the topic he’d raised. “I read books about psychopathology and Jack the Ripper and forensics. I watch terrible, hilarious reenactments of crimes late at night on cable. I make some tiny dolls bleed and others kill. And I do all that happily. Enthusiastically.”

  She spoke slowly, giving each word emphasis.

  A warning: Caveat emptor.

  “The last woman I dated and brought home told me I was creepy as fuck. When she saw the workroom in my old house, she was out the door in less than five minutes. And when I’m not being creepy, I’m grading or planning lessons or going to IEP meetings.” Her chin had tipped high, and she didn’t break eye contact once. “I’m too wrapped up in my work and my hobbies. Which is why my last ex-boyfriend said I was a terrible partner and broke up with me after two months.”

  He scoffed in mingled disbelief and disdain. “Because you refused to make yourself less for him? What a jackass.”

  Her amused huff flared her nostrils, and her shoulders dropped a fraction. “Can’t disagree with you there.”

  “And you’re not creepy.” His tone dared her to argue. “You’re curious.”

  “About murder. Which isn’t at all creepy,” she said dryly. “But enough about me. Why aren’t you in a long-term relationship, Simon?”

  Another question no one had asked him before now.

  His instinctive response, true but incomplete: I’ve never been interested in one.

  But unlike last time, he wasn’t going to make her work for the full, honest answer. Not after she’d bared at least a corner of her scarred heart to him, despite her obvious wariness.

  “If I were going to invite that kind of upheaval into my life…” The words were slippery, but he was trying to grasp them, trying to explain himself in a way he’d never attempted before. “Sometimes, two people come together and become less than what they were separately. They subtract from one another. One and one making zero.”

  His mother and father. On their own, decent people. Decent parents. Together: nothing he wanted in his life.

  When she nodded in understanding, he continued. “Other times, two people in a relationship make nothing more than the sum of their parts. One plus one equals two.” He rested his fists on his hips and made himself say it. “But if I’m going to risk a relationship, I want something more. Something transformative. Not just a sum.”

  She was listening so carefully, with no attempt to fill in words for him or interrupt, and it was just one more reason he needed to kiss her.

  “I want a product. An exponent. I want one plus one to equal eighty, or a thousand, or infinity.” He shook his head, exasperated with himself. “It isn’t logical. I know that. My entire life, I’ve doubted that kind of partnership, that kind of love, even existed. I’ve never seen a hint of it. Not on any date I’ve ever had.”

  Until now went unspoken.

  With Poppy, he could glimpse the possibility of more.

  His gaze dropped to her hand, because his reaction to her burn had been the first warning siren he’d actually acknowledged, the first unmistakable sign he could be transformed by her.

  He stepped closer than necessary, closer than was wise. Closer, until her back was pressed against her shelves, her lips soft and parted, her breath hitching with each deliberate step he took.

  If he gripped the shelves on either side of her, he could cage her with his body. Lower his open mouth to her jaw. Whisper hotly in her ear, then trace its curve with his tongue.

  Instead, their only point of contact was comparatively innocent. His hold on her wrist, raising her hand for his inspection. She gasped at the contact, and he swayed even closer, until the brush of his knee against her thigh sent lightning arcing through his veins.

  The burn was a faded pink spot now.

  “Does this still hurt?” His voice was raspy and quiet, foreign to his ears.

  She shook her head, round cheeks flushed with heat.

  “Good.”

  He turned her hand, exposing the cup of her palm and the pale, velvety skin of her forearm. Blue veins traced just beneath the surface of that skin, curving and branching like the ivy she’d doodled in her notebook.

  Beneath his thumb, her pulse was rabbiting.

  He slowly stroked that tiny, frantic beat. “Do I scare you?”

  She shook her head again, then hesitated.

  “Not…” When she licked her lips, he wanted to taste that pink tongue. “Not in that way. Not physically.”

  He met her half-lidded gaze. “You scare me too.”

  More truth, offered freely in the hush of a quiet, shadowed home, her bedroom barely more than a heartbeat distant.

  He had thinking to do, and it wouldn’t happen with temptation inches away, all warm skin and lush curves and sharp eyes.

  “Tonight’s a school night.” He inclined his head in a stiff little nod, released her hand, and stepped back. “I should head home.”

  She paused, opening her mouth as if to say something. Her fingers curled into fists. Then her gaze flicked to the floor, and she silently led the way to her front door.

  Out on her small porch, the night’s autumnal chill transformed their breath to fog. Turning to him, arms wrapped around herself, she spoke before he could take the two steps down to her driveway.

  “Simon.” Her brow was puckered. “That first conversation in my classroom.”

  He waited. Listened.

  “You hurt me,” she finally said, her voice a whisper. “I barely knew you, and you hurt me.”

  The rest didn’t need to be stated aloud.

  Please don’t hurt me again.

  He wanted to tell her he wouldn’t, but he might. He wanted to tell her not to worry, but he was terrified too. He wanted to brush a fingertip over that puckered brow and kiss the telltale sign of anxiety away, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

  Instead, he bowed his head, then left her in the cold.

  Six

  Those same two science teachers were whispering to one another in the faculty lounge as Simon gathered his lunch from the refrigerator the next day.

  They were veteran educators, near retirement. Respectable enough in reputation, he supposed, although he generally didn’t pay attention to such things. One woman—for reasons he couldn’t explain—wore a large brooch in the shape of an arched, hissing cat, its jeweled eyes glinting with
malice. The other appeared half-swallowed by her oversized scarf.

  And right now, he wanted both of them to eat that fucking scarf and choke on it.

  “Can you believe they replaced Mildred with her?” Murderous Cat Teacher said. “She’s an embarrassment to our school. Have you seen what she wears every day?”

  Smothering Scarf Teacher shook her head. “Shirts smeared with paint. Jeans. Messy hair. It’s a disgrace.”

  “I can’t believe she’s gotten away with it.” Murderous Cat Teacher sniffed loudly. “I knew Principal Dunn wasn’t up to the job. Too soft-hearted, as Mildred and I always said.”

  “Have you heard about Ms. Wick’s little side business?” Smothering Scarf Teacher’s lip curled. “Those dioramas are grotesque and—and creepy.”

  Creepy.

  Poppy had described herself that way too, chin high, hurt darkening her clear eyes.

  He didn’t slam the door of the refrigerator, but he wanted to. Not just because of his rage at Mildred’s cruel cronies, but also because he’d thought—he’d said—almost the exact same things such a short time ago, and it shamed him. Gutted him.

  You hurt me.

  After a fraught, sleepless night, he’d finally solved his problems. He’d found his solutions, unnerving though they might be.

  He was done hurting Poppy, and he wasn’t about to let others do it instead.

  “Excuse me.” Rising to his full height, he stepped closer to the table, until he was looming over them. Deliberately. “Or, rather, excuse you.”

  They blinked up at him, Murderous Cat Teacher’s eyes wide and magnified behind her glasses.

  “Ms. Wick, your colleague, received administrative permission to dress in a manner appropriate to her daily tasks, which involve ably shepherding bloodthirsty teens through a sea of paint and glue and other horrible substances.” His tone was icy enough to freeze them in place. “Furthermore, when I talked to various students this week, I discovered the reason Mrs. Krackel was able to wear formal clothing when she taught.”

  He planted both his hands on the table and leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Because, on a daily basis, Mildred didn’t do a goddamn thing.”

  The women gasped, and he was almost certain they’d report him for his word choice. He couldn’t have given less of a fuck.

  “She didn’t help students with projects. She didn’t help clean their mess.” He spoke slowly, so they had to take in every word. “Ms. Wick’s dioramas are stunning examples of meticulous, clever artistry, and they accordingly command a high price. In contrast, from my understanding, Mildred’s main talent was collecting a monthly paycheck.”

  “How—how dare you?” Smothering Scarf Teacher sputtered. “Mildred—”

  “—is gone,” he finished for her. “I don’t know how or why, and for these purposes, it doesn’t matter.”

  He had a theory he intended to run by Poppy later, though. He hoped she’d prove impressed by his reasoning abilities and investigative prowess.

  “No matter what happened with Mrs. Krackel, Ms. Wick is an invaluable asset to this school, and she is anything but grotesque. She’s kind and warm and talented.” Heaving himself upright once more, he stalked to the door, then turned to make one final, chilly statement. “You, on the other hand, are grotesque.”

  When he slammed out of the faculty lounge, two of his longtime colleagues staring aghast at him—their cold, controlled colleague, fuming and foul-mouthed—he dimly realized he’d lost his temper. At work. For the first time ever.

  But it was for good reason. The best reason.

  And quite honestly?

  It felt amazing.

  Bending over, Simon inspected Tori’s diorama-in-progress with a magnifying glass. “It’s a coffin. With bloody claw marks and a corpse inside.”

  Because of course it was a coffin with bloody claw marks and a corpse inside. Why had he expected anything else from one of the Goth softball players in Poppy’s class?

  “It’s the first of two coffins,” Tori corrected with an easy grin. “I’m educating my teachers and classmates about a very special period in our history via my diorama, Mr. Burnham.”

  He lifted a brow, and she took the gesture as the invitation it was.

  “In the nineteenth century, people were very nervous about being buried alive.” Turning to her friend, she tucked some of her braids behind her ear. “Do you remember that project we did in Mr. Krause’s class, Stacey? About how that one woman in England in the 1600s—”

  “Alice Blunden,” Stacey provided, face lit with excitement.

  “—drank too much poppy tea, which was an opiate, and they thought she was dead, so they buried her, but then kids heard sounds from her grave, so someone exhumed her and saw she’d tried to escape, but they thought she was dead again, so they reburied her, and then—

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “—the next day, she really was dead, but there were signs she’d revived and struggled a second time before finally, totally, dying. For real.”

  Jesus, he’d be having nightmares about that.

  Tori beamed at him. “So people were scared, and they invented special coffins with ladders and air inlets and bells so if supposedly-dead people woke up in the grave, they could save themselves. My other coffin will be a miniature of that invention. It’ll show a woman safely climbing out of her grave, only half-dead, instead of all-the-way dead.”

  Stacey frowned thoughtfully. “Did you consider including zombies in your diorama?”

  “Of course I did.” Tori tossed her braids over her shoulder. “But Ms. Wick said zombies were insufficiently educational, and thus did not meet class objectives.”

  There were many, many things he could say in response to Tori’s diorama, but Simon confined himself to one. The truth, however inadequate.

  “Impressive work, Ms….” He trailed off, uncertain of her last name.

  “Walker,” she supplied, then shook the hand he offered. “I’ll probably be in your calculus class next year.”

  “Good,” he said, again with perfect honesty. “I look forward to it.”

  Then he fled back to his accustomed table, before either she or Stacey could inspire further nightmares.

  A few moments later, Poppy found him taking notes on his legal pad. “You doing okay, Mr. Burnham? You look…I don’t know. Kind of pale and nauseated?”

  Her usual buns were slipping from the top of her head, but she was wearing a dress today, for some unknown reason. Rust-red and silky-looking, the material suited her coloring, and the hem flirted around her knees in a distracting way. The garment was also stained with fresh smears of paint and glue, which was exactly why she should have been wearing her jeans instead.

  Although he’d been studying her almost nonstop, she’d been cautious around him the entire period. Meeting his eyes for fleeting moments before looking quickly away. Keeping her distance, so they never quite found themselves within arm’s length of one another. Addressing him with all the formality due a colleague.

  He understood why, and if he had anything to say about it, that professional reserve would disappear within the next hour. But it still made him want to snatch her into his lap and thread his fingers through her hair and yank her mouth to his.

  “Tori described her diorama,” he told Poppy.

  She nodded. “Ah. That would explain your expression.” After eyeing him carefully, she strode over to one of her cabinets and returned with a handful of blank paper and a freshly sharpened pencil. “I am absolutely certain you’ve already written your evaluation, so today’s observation is simply a formality.”

  He dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

  In fact, he’d drafted the praise-packed evaluation Wednesday evening, and was prepared to send it to Principal Dunn as soon as the school day ended. The notes he’d been taking on his legal pad weren’t about Poppy’s teaching talents, manifold though they were. They were his thoughts about Mildred’s disappearance, and about the m
urder in miniature currently sitting on his table, approximately eight inches to his left.

  He’d solved the mysteries—he hoped—last night, but wanted to order his thoughts before presenting his findings to Poppy.

  She set her stack of paper in front of him, then handed him the pencil. “Since you’re done with your evaluation, why don’t you distract yourself from the prospect of being buried alive by drawing something?”

  “I’m—” He winced. “I’m not much of an artist, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s not about the result, Simon.” Her voice was gentle. “It’s about the process. There’s literally no way for you to be wrong, as long as you try. Just…express yourself.”

  Her warm fingers trailed along his shoulder as she walked away, and he clenched his eyes shut. Thirty more minutes, and they’d be alone. He could keep control that long. He had to.

  By the time the final bell rang, Simon had finished his drawing. Such as it was.

  In one of their early conversations, Poppy had said she couldn’t predict the contents of her students’ hearts or the subjects that consumed their innermost thoughts. That applied to him too, he imagined.

  One glance at his paper, which now lay face-down on the table, and she’d know his heart. His innermost thoughts.

  He wanted her to know.

  As the students filed from the room, he helped her clean up. Then he sat down at the table again and waited for her to venture near.

  She fiddled with paperwork on her desk. She typed something into her laptop. She fussed over a splotch of paint on one of the student chairs.

  She was nervous.

  “Poppy…” At the sight of her right bun, now sagging a millimeter above her ear, he had to smile. “Come here.”

  Without turning to him, she shook her head. “I just need to…”

  She couldn’t even finish the breathless sentence, and she still didn’t come close. He’d spooked her last night, no doubt. All that heat, all that intimacy, and he’d left her in the cold.

  No matter. He knew how to draw her back to him.

  “The brother did it. Barron. He set the fire that killed Kaden.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “What’s my reward?”