Dare to Love Again

by Julie Lessman

  “Yay!”

  “But what play will we perform?” asked Angi Griffis, the shy sixteen-year-old beauty who’d lived with Miss Penny since the age of six, after her mother was murdered in a brothel.

  “Well, since comedies are more fun than dramas,” Allison said, “how about what we’re studying next week—A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “But I liked what we studied this week, Miss Alli,” Kara Grant said with a crimp of brows. “Taming of the Shrew was funny, so can’t we do that instead? Please, please?” Hands clasped in prayer, the little dickens begged with her eyes.

  “Yes!” The consensus came back in an outbreak of squeals.

  “But there are boy parts,” ten-year-old Denise Hogan said with a scrunch of her nose. “I don’t like boys—they’re nothing but pests and they smell bad.”

  “Denise Therese Hogan!” Allison said with a cock of her brow, fighting the squirm of her lips. “That is not a nice thing to say.” Except about Nick Barone. “And they do not all smell bad, young lady,” she emphasized with a lift of her chin, thoughts of Mr. Ga-roan pinking her cheeks. Unless you have an aversion to Bay Rum and animal crackers . . . Pushing thoughts of Mr. C.P. from her mind, Allison pursed her lips. “Besides, all of Shakespeare’s plays have men in them and since we don’t have any men here, some of you will just have to play the boys’ parts.”

  “What about Mr. Nick?” Lottie suggested. “Petruchio’s handsome, and so is Mr. Nick.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s gorgeous!” Angi said with a dreamy sigh. “And perfect.”

  Alli’s smile went flat. Yes, a natural bully. She cleared her throat. “I think we need to stick with something a little lighter like A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” she said loudly, hoping no one would notice the fire in her cheeks over mention of the Neanderthal who’d broken his promise. And he called her a loose cannon—ha! Oh, if only she were! She’d have promptly blasted that nasty look off his handsome face when he’d called her a liar in front of Uncle Logan. She stifled a grunt, thinking the barbarian would make a perfect Petruchio—browbeating Kate into submission with his club. Clapping her hands to get the girls’ attention, she raised her voice over both giggles and whines. “I’ll have copies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream for each of you next week so we can get started, all right? Class dismissed, and don’t forget your homework is due Monday,” she called after them, “and, Angi, you’ll help Lottie with hers as usual?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angi said with a smile. She held out her hand at the door. “Come on, Miss La-di-da—Miss Penny needs our help shelling peas.”

  “But Teacher needs me to sharpen pencils, don’t you, Miss Alli?” The little tyke whirled around with a plea in blue eyes that melted Allison to the spot.

  “Yes I do, as a matter of fact,” she said with a wink at Angi while collecting pencils from the groove in each of the desks. “I’ll walk her next door when she’s done, Angi, all right?”

  “All right, Miss Alli. Good night.”

  “Come on, little girl,” Allison said with a tweak of Lottie’s neck. “I’ll put you to work.” Squeezing her hand, she led her over to the pencil sharpener where Lottie perched upon a polished wooden stool handmade by Mr. Nick himself, for her birthday, she’d proclaimed proudly. Alli hadn’t the heart to deny her when she’d asked if she could bring it to school to sit on it while sharpening pencils, since that was her job. Alli watched as the sweet little thing fondled the inscription with chubby fingers before arranging her faded, hand-me-down dress over it with loving care.

  “I just love my new stool, don’t you, Miss Alli?” She sighed again. “Mr. Nick is the nicest boy I know, don’t you think?”

  Nice? Allison issued a silent grunt. If you’re six years old. She handed Lottie the pencils and bent to kiss her cheek, wondering for the umpteenth time how someone as cantankerous and annoying as Nick Barone could be so loving and kind to a little girl. She studied the perfectly crafted furniture that bore Lottie’s initials in equally perfect scrollwork and tried to imagine the same hateful man bent over Lottie’s stool with chisel and knife. Burnished with a rich mahogany stain, the stool bore the mark of a master with Lottie’s initials relief-carved in graceful script that clearly indicated talent and artistry. And yet this was the very grouch who’d betrayed her confidence without batting an eye. The pencil sharpener ground along with her teeth. “Ha! Nick Barone, nice?” She muttered under her breath, reluctant to admit a heart might actually beat in the Neanderthal’s chest. With a twinge of guilt, she blew a stray hair away from her eyes. “Well, who knows—maybe there’s hope for the cretin yet . . .”

  “What’s a cretin?” Lottie asked, face upturned in innocence.

  “W-what?” Allison blinked, painfully aware the pencil sharpener had stopped. She pressed a hand to her cheek. Goodness, did I really say that out loud?

  “You said, ‘Maybe there’s hope for the cretin yet,’ and you said Mr. Nick’s name.” She tipped her head in question. “Does that mean you think he’s nice too?”

  “Of course I do, sweetheart,” Alli said with a squeeze of Lottie’s shoulder. Nice and cranky. “I’ll let you finish up here while I erase the blackboard, okay?”

  “Goodness, Al, what a week, huh?” Cassie all but limped into the room, dropping into one of the desks to massage her ankle. “I’m going to have to talk to Aunt Cait about letting me wear my cowboy boots instead of these awful button-up shoes. I’m telling you, God did not intend for women to wear three-inch heels.”

  Allison grinned and lined up the desks, pausing to lift her skirt for Cassie’s benefit. “Tell me about it. I made the mistake of wearing these brand-new kid slip-on heels, thinking they’d be more comfortable than my awful lace-ups.” She scrunched her nose as she continued to straighten things up. “Now I have blisters on both feet.”

  “Well, at least you can slip yours off under the desk,” Cassie said with a moan, attempting to knead the toe of her leather shoe. “I may never walk again.”

  “And I may never breathe again.” Palms flat to the front of her whalebone corset, Alli sucked in a deep breath—or tried to—wishing she were as free-spirited as Cassie, who’d conveniently left her corset at home. “At least you’re not wearing that new whalebone S-curve Mother bought for us,” she whispered loudly, sneaking a peek at Lottie as she blissfully sharpened away. “I may just follow your lead and leave it at home, at least when I teach.”

  “Oooo—shocking!” Cassie’s green eyes sparkled like emeralds. “The adventurous tomboy finally surfaces in the well-bred Allison McClare, defying convention at last.” She blew several honey-blond strands out of her eyes from her Gibson Girl pompadour. “I knew I’d make a country girl of you yet.” Glancing at the watch pinned to her pale-yellow shirtwaist, she shot to her feet. “Ooops . . . forgot Miss Tuttle sent me to fetch you for an impromptu meeting with Aunt Cait.” The sharpener stilled, and Cassie shot Lottie a grin. “Hey, no fair—I don’t have anybody to sharpen my pencils.”

  “I’ll do it for you, Miss Cassie,” the little girl said with a sweet smile over her shoulder. She blew on the tip of the last pencil she’d sharpened and carefully bundled them in a cup.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Cassidy McClare—Miss La-di-da’s all mine!” Alli swooped down on the tiny angel and gave her a monster hug that sent little-girl squeals bouncing off the walls. “Come on, honey bun—I need to take you home.” She glanced up at her cousin. “What’s the meeting about, Cass, do you know?”

  Cassie stretched and made a sad attempt at stifling a yawn. “Well, it’s the last day of our first week, so I’m guessing Aunt Cait wants to powwow over what worked, what didn’t, et cetera.”

  “Probably.” Alli took Lottie’s hand. “Will you tell her I have to take Lottie home first?”

  “Sure.” Cassie tweaked Lottie’s neck, coaxing a giggle. “See you soon, Miss La-di-da.”

  Steering Lottie out, Alli made their way to the kitchen, Lottie’s contented sigh floating down the hall. “Jeepers, M
iss Alli, I sure hope I grow up to be a teacher like you and Miss Cassie someday.”

  “Well, if you study real hard, you could very well be, as smart as you are, young lady.”

  “Gee whiz, that’d be swell!” She glanced up as Alli led her across the flagstone walk in Miss Penny’s backyard. “Do you like being a teacher, Miss Alli?”

  Alli smiled, joy swelling inside over the satisfaction she experienced as an educator. “Oh, yes, Lottie, I love it. I think being a teacher is one of the most noble professions a person can have.”

  “Me too,” she said, face beaming. Lottie’s little shoulders suddenly sagged. “I’m sad for Mr. Nick, though, ’cause he’d like to be a teacher too, but boys can’t be teachers, can they?”

  Alli frowned. “Well, some are, of course, but not at our school.” She paused, brows knit as she put a hand on the knob of Miss Penny’s kitchen door. “Mr. Nick is a police detective, Lottie—whatever makes you think he’d like to be a teacher?”

  Lottie looked up, gaze innocent and as soft and serene as the blue sky above. “’Cause he told Miss Penny he’d like to teach you a thing or two, but she said he couldn’t.”

  Heat stung Allison’s cheeks. “I see.” Lips pursed, she squatted to give Lottie a hug. “You have a wonderful weekend, Miss La-di-da, and I’ll see you on Monday, all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Returning her hug, Lottie slipped inside to join the fray in the kitchen while Alli quietly closed the door. “Teach me a thing or two,” she muttered, storming across the lawn. “Humph . . . how to be rude and grumpy, maybe.”

  Good mood considerably dampened, Allison hurried in the school’s back door and rushed down the hall, her new shoes pinching as much as her pride. “Oh, enough!” she muttered, screeching to a stop midway. She removed her heels, refusing to endure both the pain of shoes and insults from Nick Barone. After all, all the students were gone. Her silk stockings glided the glossy wooden floor that Mrs. Lemp kept buffed to a shine, and Allison’s outlook suddenly improved. She took a run to slide the last twenty feet to Mother’s office, bad mood forgotten. Giggling, she skated past the door, arms flailing and feet skidding.

  Boom! The ceiling stared back at her and she blinked, heat storming her cheeks as she lay flat on her back in front of Mother’s door. Mortified, she scrambled to her feet and snatched her shoes from the floor, praying no one had noticed as she tiptoed into the room. “My apologies for being late,” she said, tone breathless, “but I had to take Lottie home.”

  Her mother blinked. “Good heavens, Allison—are you all right?”

  “Fine, Mother, really, just a little stunned.”

  Her mother’s saucer eyes did a quick scan from Alli’s disheveled hair down her partially untucked shirtwaist to her navy silk stockings that peeked out beneath her now-wrinkled linen skirt. “What on earth were you doing, young lady?”

  Alli took great pains to smooth her skirt as well as she could with her shoes still in one hand. “I was . . .” She chewed on her lip, not daring to look at anyone but Mother lest she break into laughter from the hidden grin she was certain twitched on Cassie’s face. “Skating.”

  “Skating.” Her mother’s tone was as flat as the bottom of Alli’s stockinged feet as they fused to the floor, toes curling beneath the hem of her skirt. Mother’s shocked gaze flitted from a renegade curl spiraling down Alli’s shirtwaist to the confounded shoes she now pinched in her hand. “In your stockings,” she whispered, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen.

  Alli offered a sheepish shrug of her shoulders, lowering her voice as she leaned in. “Well, these new shoes hurt like the dickens, Mother, and after all, there’s nobody here but us.”

  Caitlyn cleared her throat and stood, shoulders square and voice resuming its usual self-possessed air. “Put your shoes on, Allison, and tuck in your blouse, please. We’ve already covered most of the meeting, but at least allow me to introduce you to a new member of our staff.”

  New member of our staff? Her shoes slipped from her fingers and clunked to the floor. She fought a gulp. Sweet mother of mercy, caught skating the hall in my stockings! And in front of a stranger, no less. Cheeks aflame, she dared not look anywhere but down while she grasped the edge of her mother’s desk with bloodless fingers to shimmy on first one shoe and then the other. With a hard swallow, she carefully retucked her shirt and slowly straightened with as much dignity as humanly possible after landing on her backside in the hall. Leveling her shoulders, she turned to acknowledge the new employee with a deep ingest of air. And promptly hacked it back out again in a coughing spell that sounded like she had the croup.

  Her mother quickly skirted the desk to pat her on the back, arm scooping her daughter’s waist as if to shore her up in her moment of humiliation. A gentle apology laced her tone even as her fingers laced Allison’s own. “I believe you’ve already met Mr. Barone, Allison?”

  Yes—way, WAY too many times. Allison sucked in air like sustenance, dizzy from the lack of blood in her brain—it was all in her cheeks.

  His gray-green eyes held a trace of humor held in check only by the clamp of lips in a stiffly polite smile. He inclined his head toward Allison, a muscle flickering in his shadowed jaw as he assessed her with a cool gaze. “I trust you’re well, Miss McClare?”

  Her chin ascended several degrees. “Fine, Mr. Barone, thank you,” she replied, purposely dropping the long e.

  Mother patted her waist and nudged her toward the last free chair in the room—right next to his. “It’s Barone, darling, long e. Apparently Mr. Barone’s people hail from Sicily.”

  Allison nodded in feigned interest as she slid into her chair with a silent grunt, hands knotted in her lap. Yes . . . cave country, I believe.

  “Allison is our English and drama teacher, Mr. Barone,” Mother continued. “Which along with my niece Cassidy teaching arithmetic and music, Miss Mary Tuttle teaching science and geography, and Miss Sophie Merdian overseeing our art and reading program, rounds out our core curriculum.” Mother resumed her seat, the picture of grace and poise as she folded slender hands on her desk with a touch of a twinkle in her green eyes. “And, I’m happy to say, I’ve been able to coax my beloved housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Rosie O’Brien, into teaching the girls culinary skills once a week as well.” She offered a bright smile in Mr. Long-e’s direction. “So you see, Mr. Barone, having you aboard the next six weeks as watchman and handyman in Mr. Bigley’s absence, no matter how brief, is the final piece of the puzzle for a school we hope will be a blessing to many.”

  Excuse me? Allison’s jaw dropped before she could stop it, the sharp intake of her breath causing her to choke once again. A firm hand clapped on her back as she coughed, and she quickly fended it off, inching to the far side of her chair. “Thank you, but I’m fine, truly.”

  Or will be in six weeks or so . . .

  “Goodness, Allison, do you need a drink of water?” Mother stared in concern.

  “No, Mother, I’m fine, really,” she said, her voice akin to a croak.

  “Well then, as I was saying, starting Monday, Mr. Barone has graciously agreed to step in during Mr. Bigley’s absence despite a demanding workload as a senior detective for the 14th precinct. He will be on premises before and after school, during lunch recess, and as needed during the day for odd jobs or projects, so if you have any security or safety concerns or odd jobs, please see me. I will provide Mr. Barone a docket of tasks each day, and he has offered to devise a sound security plan for us as well.” She glanced around the room. “Any questions?”

  “How is Mr. Bigley faring, Mrs. McClare, do we know?” Miss Tuttle asked, the snow-white bun on top of the elderly woman’s head more off-kilter than usual. Gnarled hands rested in the lap of her serviceable black skirt while she picked at her nails, the tic in her eye particularly active after a full week of teaching high-spirited girls.

  “Thank you for asking, Miss Tuttle. He’s doing well, although Mrs. Bigley claims he’s a wee bit grumpy because
it’s such a slow process. Says he’d rather be doing his job than sitting idle in a bed or chair.” Caitlyn smiled. “I told her to let him know how much we miss him.”

  Alli shifted. You have no idea, Mother . . .

  Miss Merdian raised a bony hand, the natural scowl on her thin, angular face reminding Alli of Mr. Personality on a good day. “We discussed outings with the children such as the de Young Museum and Sutro Baths—will Mr. Barone be available to accompany us on such excursions?”

  Mother nodded. “Yes, Miss Merdian—excellent question. I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with Mr. Barone for the last half hour before you ladies arrived, and he assures me he is more than willing to assist in any way needed, including a fine arts excursion to de Young or a field day for the children at Sutro Baths. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Barone?”

  Mr. Personality actually smiled, his civil response as courteous and gracious as the most respectful of gentlemen. “Yes, ma’am—it’s an honor to assist you in any way I can.”

  Allison gaped at his smiling profile, her jaw distended for the second time that day.

  “Thank you, Mr. Barone. I cannot adequately express our gratitude and appreciation for your services.” Caitlyn glanced at the watch pinned to her dress. “Well, then, I’ve taken enough of everyone’s time, so thank you for a truly excellent first week, ladies, and we’ll see you all on Monday.” She rose to her feet, head cocked in Cassie’s direction. “Cassie, would you mind telling Hadley we’ll be right out? Mr. Barone and I need to speak with Allison privately for a moment.”

  Privately? A lump glugged in Allison’s throat. Surely he hadn’t complained to Mother . . .