“Oh, it’s no problem, really.” The escalated treble in her voice gave her away. “Would you like to come inside for a minute?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
She led him across the small wooden bridge into their backyard, around the pool, through the French doors, and into the kitchen. “Could I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I grabbed a biscuit and some juice on the way. I won’t be here long, I promise.”
She turned on lights and pulled a bottled water from the refrigerator, downing half of it before she was even willing to look at him again.
“You’ve got a beautiful home here, Mary Catherine.” He ran his hands across the walnut armoire in the breakfast room. “This carving is extraordinary.”
She walked over to admire it with him. “I got that a couple years ago on a trip to France. It’s nineteenth century.”
“I love the symmetrical precision of the French Empire pieces.”
She tilted her head at him. “You know antiques?”
“Antiques, architecture, art—all passions of mine. If I hadn’t become a principal, I probably would have ended up selling fine antiques and art.”
Mary Catherine felt a little breathless. “Oh, me too. I love everything about antiques: the lines, the history, the styles. Every piece tells a story—where it came from, who created it, what they were feeling.” She pointed to the painting over the fireplace. “Like this Chagall here . . .”
“Is that a real Chagall?” His dark eyes widened as he moved closer.
“They make fake ones?”
He laughed. “They make prints. Reproductions.”
“That’s appalling!”
He was still staring at the painting: the magnificence of it, the sweeping drama of the colors, the varied images. “It’s not appalling; it’s wonderful. It allows the magical work of this artist to be in more homes, for others to enjoy the beauty of what he has created.”
She hadn’t quite thought of it like that. “I see your point.”
“Can we sit?” He motioned toward the breakfast-room table.
She sank into a chair across from him, clutching at her bottle of water.
“Mary Catherine,” he said, “I like you. I hired you because I felt it was the right thing to do. Now, I know our students can sometimes be difficult. But you left your classroom unattended, and that is simply not acceptable, no matter what the circumstances. For that alone, you should be fired on the spot.”
He watched her with those calm dark eyes, letting this truth sink in. Mary Catherine said nothing. She couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat.
“Now,” he went on after a minute or two, “I am willing to give you one more chance.” He held up an index finger. “Only one. And you have to come in with a different game plan, or you’re never going to make it. Our teachers actually have to teach. That’s what we pay them for.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you really want this job?” He narrowed his eyes at her.
She didn’t tell him why, or what her ulterior motives might be. She simply said, “Yes, sir, I do.”
“And you understand that things have to change. Starting now.” She nodded. “Starting now.”
His expression grew distant and meditative. “You know, Mary Catherine, when I was in the second grade, a teacher called me retarded. I spent years thinking that was who I was, until one day another teacher looked me in the face and said, ‘Don’t you ever let what anyone says about you define who you are. ’
“That statement changed my life. That is the power a teacher has. She can convince a child he is stupid or convince him he can rule the world. I see something in you, Mary Catherine. Something that you obviously don’t see in yourself. You can do something important here, make a difference in the lives of these students, if you want to. But you can’t do it for me or for any other reason. You have to do it because you believe that you have something to impart to these kids’ lives.”
He paused and got to his feet. “I’m asking you not to come back today unless you can believe that for yourself. These kids deserve that. And if they were honest, and didn’t have to pretend to be cool, they would tell you so themselves.”
The school was still quiet at seven thirty in the morning. Mary Catherine stood over the lesson plan book and ran her finger down the lessons she herself, a certified teacher, had actually written. She pulled the desk chair underneath her and scooted toward the desk, and for the next thirty minutes she read over those lesson plans like a teacher. A real teacher.
She was determined to try this all over again.
The warning bell rang, and students began to file into their classroom.
“Well, looky, looky,” Nicole said in her sneering drawl. “Mrs. Butter Bean has graced us with her appearance once again.” The girl began her slow, cocky, and lumbering stride in Mary Catherine’s direction, advancing until they were almost nose to nose.
“You staring at me, Mrs. Bean?”
And in that moment something snapped. All movement in the classroom ceased, and everyone turned to look.
Mary Catherine took a step forward, and her fear vanished. Nicole took a step backward. With that one small step, Mary Catherine knew she had control. No one spoke. No one even breathed.
“Nicole, despite what you may think, I’m the teacher of this class.” She took another step forward. Nicole’s chest sank slightly. “And it will be best advised for all of you”—she cast her gaze around the room—“to remember that.”
She turned back to Nicole. “You will sit down.”
Nicole stood, still facing her.
“Now.”
Nicole sat.
Mary Catherine walked to the front of the class and gave the white erase board in front of her a rather substantial smile. Had she not thought they’d notice, she’d have given it a high five too. Then she turned around.
“Now, you are at school. And when you are at school, you learn. So I suggest you open your English books.”
A snickering laugh came from Terrance’s direction.
She walked straight to Terrance’s desk and stood in front of it. “Something funny, Terrance?”
“Uh, no, ma’am. Nothing all that funny.”
“Then find your English book.” She turned back toward her desk and could hear the shuffling of books, the flipping of pages.
The sound of victory.
Elizabeth opened the door to be greeted by utter pandemonium.
The offices of the Benefactor’s Group swarmed with bodies. Telephones were ringing everywhere. A young man who looked like a college student sat behind the receptionist’s desk. For one brief moment she almost wished for the controlled chaos of yesterday.
A hand protruded into her space. “Ward Bennett,” the kid at the reception desk said by way of introduction.
She studied his face, then scanned the rest of the group. Suddenly she felt ancient. She and Ainsley were the oldest people there.
“Elizabeth,” she said. “Elizabeth Wilcott.”
“Oh, I know.” He flashed a goofy smile. “I know all about you, Ms. Wilcott. You and your family are famous in this city.” He pushed his glasses up, scrunching his nose as if to hold them in place. “So, how did you like your initiation day?”
“My what?”
“Your initiation day. Yeah, it was Ainsley’s idea. Let you have the place all to yourself. Answer the calls. Of course, she did transfer two of the office lines off-site so it wouldn’t be like it is today.” He gave a snorting laugh.
“Will you excuse me, um . . .”
“Ward, ma’am. It’s Ward.”
“Yes, Ward. I need to see someone.” She turned her back on him and headed straight for Ainsley Parker’s door. She didn’t bother knocking; the door hit the doorstop and bounced back slightly.
A gray-haired woman was seated in front of Ainsley’s desk and darted her head toward the door. Ainsley shifted a stack of papers and looked up.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Elizabeth nodded to the woman and then returned her attention to Ainsley. “I wondered how long it would take you to prove that this ‘little miss nice’ role of yours was nothing but a pile of—” She cast a glance at the older woman. “Nothing but a charade. One day. It took one day.”
“Elizabeth, I don’t know what—”
“Save it, Ainsley. You hated me from the moment law school began. You thought you’d make my first day here miserable enough that I wouldn’t have the guts to return.” The gray-haired woman shifted slightly and looked in Ainsley’s direction.
“Well, let me tell you something,” Elizabeth went on, “you just got stuck with me for the next year whether you like it or not. I’m not going anywhere. And there is absolutely nothing you can do to get rid of me.”
Ainsley leaned her weight against the edge of her desk and folded her arms. “Anything else?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate it if you’d quit pretending that you are Something you’re not. You’ve competed with me for years. Why pretend this isn’t all about competition now? Go ahead, Ainsley, be the little boss. I’ll follow your little rules, and we’ll see who ends up on top when this year is all over with.”
“Does that mean you’re staying?” Ainsley asked with an annoying smile.
Elizabeth fumed. “That means the game you thought you won back in law school isn’t over.”
She turned to leave the office and heard behind her an exchange.
The elderly lady said to Ainsley, “This will be interesting.”
And Ainsley responded, “It always has been.”
Will climbed into his Porsche and noticed the tank was on empty. He had to get back to the registrar’s and get his tuition taken care of, and then he had to arrange for pizza and a couple of kegs for the frat house beer bust tonight. He was a genius at squeezing the last drops out of a tank, and he could probably wait until after the party, but he didn’t want to take the chance of running out of gas at 2 a.m. and having some cop find him drunk along the roadside, rather than taking ten minutes now to fill up.
He pulled into the gas station two blocks from the fraternity house and chose the premium grade. You didn’t fill a Porsche with cheap gas.
He stuck his Master Card into the slot on the gas pump, leaned against the car, and waited for the pump to kick on. Nothing happened. The screen said, “Insert card again.”
“Give me a break.” He inserted the card again. This time the message said, “See attendant.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” He tried three more cards, including the American Express, which didn’t have a limit. Same message.
Will slammed the car door and marched into the gas station, where a bleary-eyed college student jerked his head up from the counter. “Listen, you need to get out there and do something to that pump. It won’t let me use any of my cards.”
“Um, well, why don’t you try using another pump? Maybe it’s just got a short or something.”
“That ever happened before?”
“Not that I know of.”
Will moved his car, tried again, got the same message, and didn’t even bother trying the other cards. He marched back into the gas station.
“All your pumps are broken.”
“Huh, well, sorry about that. Want to pay with cash?”
“Cash?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He found two twenties wadded up in the side pouch of his wallet, pulled one out, and threw it on the counter.
Twenty bucks’ worth wouldn’t get him very far in a Porsche. First thing tomorrow he’d call Harvey at his father’s office about his credit cards. This shouldn’t have happened to him.
He was a Wilcott, after all, and Wilcotts were never out of money.
chapter nineteen
Ward the Geek slipped a document in front of Elizabeth. She raised her eyes, and he stepped back and withdrew his hand from the paper he had just laid on her desk.
“Ward, I’m not going to bite you.”
His eyes didn’t reveal that he actually believed her. “It’s just—well, this will be your first case. Honestly, it may be your only case.”
She looked down at the document in front of her.
“The client is Hazel Moses. But she’s going up against one of the big guns. It’s a company out of California that does a lot of developing around here.”
Elizabeth scanned the yellow form rapidly. Then she saw it. Everett and Associates. Her client. Her company. She felt her morning coffee begin to work its way back up.
“You okay, Ms. Wilcott?”
“What?” She looked up and saw him still standing there. “Yeah, I’m fine. No problem. Sure you want to trust a newbie with an opponent this big?”
“Mrs. Parker said you would be the perfect one to handle it.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She breathed in and out steadily, trying to calm herself. When she lifted her head, Ward was gone. The only one in her view was the red-headed she-devil behind the glass.
Elizabeth was certain she smelled smoke. Because she knew she had just landed in hell.
Will left the fraternity house and headed over to the ATM machine in the lobby of the Stern Center. After the fiasco with the credit card at the gas station last night, he thought it might be a good idea to keep a little change in his pocket.
The young-looking kid in front of him pulled out a pristine brown leather wallet and inserted his card.
“Just get that shirt?” Will asked, eyeing the starched and crisp Izod shirt.
The kid raised his head in a half nod. The alcohol from Will’s breath filled the space between them.
“It looks nice on you. Really,” Will said. He tugged a stray piece of thread from the frayed bottom of his ragged polo. “You a freshman?”
“Yeah,” the kid said, pulling his money from the slot. “Just got here yesterday.”
“Well, if you need anything, my name’s Will,” he said extending his hand. “I’ve been around awhile. Know just about everything there is to know. Just ask for Will, and people will know who you’re looking for.”
The kid opened his new wallet and tried to wedge his card back into the stiff slot. He stuck his cash inside and folded it back into his jeans pocket.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
Will turned his attention to the ATM in front of him. He reached into the front pocket of his torn jeans, retrieving his credit cards, which were held together by a large black paper clip. He pulled out the top one and stuck it into the slot. The noise assured him the machine was accomplishing something. He punched in his request, then his pin code, and waited. Then a terrible sound came from the guts of the machine—a grinding, tearing noise. The screen flashed a message: Your card has been destroyed. Please notify your bank immediately.
Jeffrey had never cared whether it was a Monday, a Wednesday, or a Friday. He had always set his own schedule, controlled his own life. Now, Friday had become his day of salvation.
A couple of residents stared at him as he strode down the hall to the boardroom. He didn’t even bother to return their stares. He wasn’t here to win friends and influence people. He was here to get what was rightfully his.
Dr. Nadu sat at the conference table.
“Hello, Dr. Nadu.”
“Jeffrey. Sit, please.”
Jeffrey still hated the arrogance of this man, continually telling him what to do, but nevertheless he sat. Dr. Nadu pushed the morning newspaper across the table. Jeffrey immediately recognized himself looking back from the front page. Even upside down, it was a pretty good picture.
He smiled. “I had completely forgotten this was coming out today.” He picked up the paper and opened it. It was a long article touting Jeffrey’s new venture at the Medical Hospital and his work with Dr. Nadu.
“I’m going to have to ask you to get your things and leave, Dr.
Wilcott.”
Jeffrey looked up sharply. “You’re asking me to what?”
“I told you the first day we spoke that I would not allow what we do here to be exploited. Your work here is not some mission of mercy to further your career.”
“But that’s not what—”
Dr. Nadu stood. “I’ve made my decision, Dr. Wilcott. Your presence here is no longer needed or desired.”
Jeffrey felt a foreign panic seeping into his blood. This couldn’t be happening. This was a good day. It was Friday. He was on the cover of the newspaper. With a phenomenal picture, he might add. Pamela was a PR genius. He could pump this puppy for at least six months.
“Dr. Nadu, please let me explain.”
Dr. Nadu paused.
Jeffrey fumbled for a lie that would sound believable. “This isn’t what you think. I have this publicist see, and she’s worked for months for this article. It just happened to be coming out at this time. What do you want me to do, tell these people no?”
Dr. Nadu’s bushy black eyebrows twitched. “Get your things, Jeffrey.” He opened the door to the boardroom. “I do not tolerate dishonesty.”
Was this man psychic? Jeffrey walked over to the door and closed it. “What do you want from me?”
“I want the truth. And unless you are willing to give it, you will leave immediately and not return.”
Jeffrey let out a sigh and sank into one of the conference chairs. “All right. You win. I have to be here. I can’t tell you why. But I have to be here. And, yes, that article was all about me. It was about me wanting my face on the front page of the paper. Are you satisfied?”
Dr. Nadu didn’t respond. He remained standing by the door as if he were waiting for more.
“And there is another article coming out on me in the Charleston Magazine.”
“You will stop it.”
“It’s the cover!”
“You will stop it.”
“What kind of man are you?” Jeffrey demanded. “All doctors want the spotlight! We’re like gods to people! We shape them. We mold them. We sculpt them. We heal them!”
Dr. Nadu walked over to Jeffrey and leaned over him. “A man who believes himself a healer is a very foolish man. A man who believes himself to be God is a man to be feared.” His eyes went hard, glittering like marbles. “You will not play God with my patients.”
The Will of Wisteria Page 15