Teach Me Page 2

  Hating such an unexceptional face might prove difficult, but she’d persevere.

  Keisha looked between the two of them. “Mr. Krause, this is Ms. Owens, your colleague. You’ll be teaching in her classroom for two periods, and you’ll be working together on issues related to the AP program in our department.”

  When he moved closer, Rose took a certain grim satisfaction in the realization that she stood taller than him, at least when wearing heels.

  She was a forty-two-year-old professional, and she’d act like a forty-two-year-old professional. And forty-two-year-old professionals shook hands with new colleagues and offered help, no matter how violently frustration and fury hammered at their temples.

  She extended her hand, and he took it.

  “I’m Martin.” The handshake was brief, his hand dry and warm, his gaze direct. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Under his scrutiny, she struggled to remain as smooth and impervious as a polished diamond. “And I’m Rose. If you’d like, I can stay until after your meeting with Keisha and answer any questions you might have about our Honors World History curriculum and our AP program.”

  Keisha answered for him, her smile rife with both relief and gratitude. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Ms. Owens.”

  Martin echoed Keisha’s thanks in a low murmur.

  As Rose left the office, the department chair followed her out and shut the door.

  “I mean it,” Keisha whispered. “Thank you. I won’t forget how well you handled this. E-mail me if you want to discuss these changes again before our report date.”

  Rose forced her tongue to form the words. “I’m fine. Just send Martin to my—” Oh, Jesus. This was going to sting. “Just send Martin to our classroom when you two are done.”

  Keisha nodded and spoke at her normal volume. “Thank you again, Ms. Owens. I hope you have a relaxing last week of vacation.”

  The other woman reentered the office and closed the door behind her, leaving Rose alone in the empty, echoing hallway, waiting to assist the paragon.

  Sometimes being a forty-two-year-old professional sucked enormous, hairy kiwis.

  Two

  “The state’s standardized testing happens the week after the AP exam?” Martin double-checked the schedule Rose had printed in the department office, hoping he’d gotten the dates wrong. “Those kids will be exhausted.”

  She tapped a gleaming nail on the paper. “They are. But the AP prep usually covers everything they need to know for the state test, so it’s not quite as terrible as it sounds.”

  “By the time all the testing ends, I imagine you’re exhausted too.” He offered her a small, forced smile. “Maybe more than the students.”

  She turned away with a noncommittal hum. “Let’s designate some areas for you to store your supplies in my room.”

  Nope. Nothing there except pure professionalism. No connection whatsoever.

  He let his expression revert to his normal—as his ex-wife used to call it—Resting Proctologist Face. Why proctologists, he didn’t know. But as over four decades of candid photos could confirm, his default expression did not tend toward jollity, no matter what he was actually feeling. In class field trip photos, he’d been the sternest, most worried-looking second-grader in school history.

  To be fair, however, right now he had good reason to be concerned.

  After an entire adult life spent swimming in the turbulent waters of department politics, Martin recognized its dangers, even those concealed beneath a mirror-like surface. So he knew for a fact: When he’d entered the social studies department office, he’d somehow ventured into water so cold and deep, he risked becoming a human popsicle.

  Not because of his new supervisor, Keisha. She seemed genuinely pleased to have him in her department, and she’d welcomed him with natural—if harried—warmth.

  Rose Owens…she was a different matter entirely.

  She wasn’t actively repugnant or a bully, like the head of secondary-level social studies for the school system. During the interview process, Dale Locke had behaved like an unmitigated dick to the women and underlings around him. The type of dick Martin had tried to avoid his entire childhood, with notably limited success.

  It was hard to avoid pompous blowhard assholes when they were your immediate family, he’d found.

  Rose, in contrast to Locke, couldn’t have been more professional or generous with her help over the last hour or two. She’d shown him the textbooks he’d be using. Explained the school’s schedule. Taken him to her classroom, still empty for the summer. Discussed the information students would be expected to master for the end-of-year state tests.

  But the chill surrounding her was so palpable, he’d half-wondered during their handshake whether his fingers might stick to hers as they would an ice cube.

  No, not a cube. A smooth sphere of ice, like the ones at that fancy, way-too-pricey bar he and Sabrina had visited during their last-ditch, let’s-try-to-save-this-marriage getaway in Manhattan several years ago.

  Like those spheres, Rose looked expensive. Beautifully rounded. Slippery in her perfection. And cold. Jesus, so cold.

  She wore unrelieved black and dressed in sleek lines. Her shiny patent leather heels emphasized her impressive height, especially the length of her pale, strong legs. From a stick-straight center part, her hair was slicked back into a gleaming twist the color of bitter coffee.

  Not a single word from her mouth was objectionable. Not a single word from her mouth was personal, either. She didn’t ask him about himself. She didn’t tell him about herself. She didn’t smile. She didn’t do anything but give him necessary, job-related information.

  And that was absolutely, unequivocally her choice. She didn’t owe him, a near-stranger, smiles or warmth or personal information or interest.

  He’d told his daughter Bea the same thing many, many times over the years. Being a woman didn’t obligate her to make men—or anyone—comfortable in her presence. People who said otherwise could contemplate their terrible life choices while she shoved their arrogant presumption somewhere exceedingly painful.

  Rose’s chilliness didn’t offend him. Not at all.

  It did worry him, though.

  He could guess that she wasn’t thrilled about giving up her room for both her planning periods, since any rational human would feel the same way. And if he’d understood Keisha correctly, he was also taking Rose’s Honors World History classes. Again, since getting a new prep involved untold hours of work for even longtime teachers, he had to assume she hadn’t kicked up those slick, midnight heels in a jig of joy.

  He hadn’t chosen to invade her classroom, of course. He hadn’t assigned her a different prep, either. But he’d been the unwitting cause of all the upheaval she was experiencing, and only an automaton could fail to resent him for it.

  The problem: They needed to work together. And he needed to make a place for himself at this school. At least for a year, and maybe longer if Bea chose to attend Marysburg University.

  So if that chill was directed at him, specifically, rather than the world at large, he should try to mitigate the damage as soon as possible. Because making an enemy in his department before the first day of school? Awkward at best, career-damaging at worst.

  And knowing someone was angry at him, in whatever context, made him twitchy. Always had.

  Too bad Rose Owens didn’t seem interested in any overtures of friendship.

  He shook his head, impatient with himself. Give her time, man.

  “I think the storage areas you indicated will fit more than enough of my supplies.” He rested a hand on the cabinet she’d designated as his. “Thank you. And thank you for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  No expression whatsoever. That might as well serve as his signal to go.

  “I’d better get—” he started to say, just as his daughter walked into the room.

  “Hey, Dad. There you are.” Bea pulled out one of her earbud
s, letting it dangle against her faded Where Are We Going? And Why Am I in This Handbasket? tee. “You ready to head out?” Turning to Rose, she offered a shrug and a smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m hungry enough that the guidance counselor started to resemble curly fries.”

  Good timing. “Ms. Owens, this is my daughter Beatrice, who’ll be a senior here this year. Bea, this is Ms. Owens, who teaches U.S. history. I’ll be sharing her room for two of my classes. And we’ll get out of her hair now, so she can get home or…” What did a woman that gorgeous, that statuesque, and that chilly do in her spare time? Freelance ice sculpture impersonation? “…or whatever.”

  Then the miraculous happened.

  Rose swiveled toward his daughter and…Jesus.

  She smiled.

  Black clothing be damned, everything about her—everything—illuminated. That flawless pale skin transformed from opaque to luminescent. Her wide-set eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time, he noticed they were lovely. Not just brown, but the translucent, rich amber of dark maple syrup. And that mouth…

  He’d vaguely registered her lips as pale and pinched and thin. But now he knew better. Her mouth was generous, her lips glossy and pink, as plump and stunning as the rest of her.

  None of that—none of the warmth, none of the liveliness—was for him. It was all for Bea, his sweet girl. And he couldn’t have been happier.

  Because this meant Rose probably didn’t treat her students the same way she treated him. Plus, anyone who smiled like that at his daughter couldn’t be too unforgiving.

  “I love your shirt,” Rose told Bea. “Do you know whether it comes in black?”

  His daughter had been wearing that tee on an almost daily basis for months now. At some point, he’d inquired as to whether it indicated her state of mind since the divorce, and Bea had scoffed at him.

  “It’s just comfortable, Dad. And I wash it between wears.” She’d flicked her fingers in the direction of his head. “I’m not traumatized and stinky and subtly revealing my pain through overuse of quippy tees, so stop with the proctologist face.”

  Such an adorable smartass.

  He loved having her in his new house every other week, even when she talked enough for three people, ate all his favorite Pop-Tarts, and clogged the shower drain with long, soggy strands of her blond hair. How she wasn’t bald when she shed like that, he had no idea. And when she left for college, he didn’t know what he was going—

  No. He wouldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about that.

  Bea removed her other earbud and beamed at Rose. “I can check. If it comes in black, I’ll have Dad send you the link.”

  “That would be amazing. My wardrobe was clearly missing a key element. Snark.” Rose gestured at the brochures in Bea’s grasp. “You’re deciding on colleges?”

  “Yup. Dad’s car is in the shop, so I drove him here and looked at a few options while I was waiting.” She shook the stack of papers. “I’ve split them into three piles. Really expensive, prohibitively expensive, and I’d-better-see-about-cashing-in-Dad’s-life-insurance-policy expensive.” Her voice lowered to a faux-whisper. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”

  At that, Rose actually snorted, and he would have hugged his daughter if he hadn’t known she’d shove him away and tell him he was being gross and mushy.

  “We’re touring UVA this weekend.” Bea’s elbow jabbed his ribs, and he smothered a grunt. “I know he looks like he’s about to deliver a fatal prognosis most of the time, but Old Sobersides here is actually pretty fun on a road trip. We do taste tests of gas station snacks.”

  At the mention of his ex’s other favorite nickname for him, he shifted his weight, and his daughter shot a glance in his direction.

  He didn’t mind the sobriquet. Not usually. Not when it was said with such obvious affection.

  But a part of him wished Bea hadn’t used it in front of Rose.

  “Gas station snacks? Really?” Rose cast a skeptical—but not unfriendly—glance his way. “He doesn’t seem like someone who consumes a lot of Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies.”

  She knew about Little Debbie? Enough to name a specific product? Odd. He’d have bet a good chunk of his inadequate salary that she’d never stepped impeccably shod foot in any store less highbrow than Whole Foods.

  Bea grinned, her blue eyes bright. “Don’t let the lean frame fool you. He can pound the Ho Hos like nobody’s—”

  Okay, enough about pounding Ho Hos. “All right, Beatrice. Off we go. Say goodbye to Ms. Owens.”

  “Goodbye to Ms. Owens,” Bea parroted.

  Rose met his eyes, and for the first time, he saw warmth—at least a little of it—directed his way. “You’ve done well with this one, Krause.”

  When he laughed, she stilled for a moment, her smile dying.

  He didn’t understand what had happened. But he wanted that smile back, so he worked for it. “Funny. I was just thinking I should return her to the cabbage patch and tell them there’d been a clerical error.”

  And there it was again. That incandescent curve of her lips. This time, because of something he’d said. Him, Old Sobersides with the Resting Proctologist Face.

  Why that made his shoulders straighten a fraction, he couldn’t have explained. But it did, and the adjustment felt…different. Good different.

  His daughter poked him again. “You’d miss me, and you know it.”

  He would. He already did, every other week.

  “Possibly. But your college fund would buy a lot of therapeutic Ho Hos.” With that, he aimed for the door. “Thank you for all your time and help, Ms. Owens. I feel much more prepared for the school year after having talked with you.”

  “That was the intent.”

  A cool dismissal. But when he glanced over his shoulder, she was studying him with his daughter, her brow creased in an expression he had no way of interpreting correctly.

  “Good night, Ms. Owens,” he said.

  Bea paused in the doorway and looked at Rose. “See you when school starts. I’ll let you know about the tee.”

  “Thanks, Bea. Come by anytime.”

  Rose, still and silent, watched his daughter disappear into the hallway. The setting sun bathed her skin with rosy light, but that light wouldn’t last much longer. And if something about leaving his new colleague alone in the gathering shadows of her classroom tugged at his chest, he wasn’t paying the pull a bit of attention.

  “Good night, Mr. Krause.” With Bea’s departure, Rose was opaque again. Still lovely, but a definite chill had descended. “See you in a week. Please close the door behind you when you leave.”

  After one final, unhappy survey of the rapidly darkening, nearly empty parking lot outside her classroom windows, he did. Jogging to catch up with Bea, he fell into step beside her as they trundled down the stairs and toward the main school entrance.

  For once, his daughter remained silent, even without her earbuds in place. And in that brief oasis of quiet, his brain picked through images from the afternoon. The vivid sunflowers on Keisha’s dress and the charming way she kind of crossed her eyes when making a point she considered vital. The personality-free patch of the department office where he’d spend his own planning periods, a space containing only a countertop, a chair, a cart, and a few shelves overhead. Lists of test dates and schedules and learning objectives.

  Rose Owens. Ivory covered in ebony, polished from crown to pointed toe. Tall. Lush. Controlled. Scrupulously polite, undeniably helpful, and unfathomably distant.

  A frozen monarch, melted by a teenager in a quippy tee.

  Funny how he’d enjoyed both the ice and its temporary thaw. How he’d found both impressive. How something inside him had awakened when his nonsense earned her smile.

  As they settled into her car and buckled their belts, his daughter finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  Despite the dusk, Bea’s hair still gleamed from the driver’s seat. His golden girl, now staring at him with beetl
ed brow, clearly remorseful. Why, he couldn’t guess.

  “What about, sweet Bea?”

  The childhood nickname didn’t elicit a protest, which was evidence enough of her distress. She didn’t say anything for a minute, and he tried not to cringe as she reversed the car out of the parking space with a speed he’d never have attempted and zipped out of the lot.

  “I thought…” She came to a full halt at a stop sign and looked both ways before proceeding through the intersection, and he sent a silent thanks to the ever-patient instructors at her former driving school. “I didn’t think you minded the names.”

  “The names?”

  He knew which names. But she needed time and space to work through what she wanted to say, and he wouldn’t insert his own words into the process.

  “Old Sobersides. Resting Proctologist Face. I thought they were kind of like…I don’t know.” Her throat shifted in a hard swallow. “Family jokes, or something.”

  “They were.” He hesitated. “They are.”

  “But we’re not a family anymore.” At his immediate protest, she raised a staying hand from the steering wheel, eyes still on the road. “I know, I know, you and I are still family. Mom and I are still family. But the three of us aren’t. Not since the divorce. And definitely not since Mom got engaged to Reggie and came here.”

  “Sweet Bea…” He gave her arm a brief, gentle squeeze. “I moved to Marysburg to be near you for at least one more year. You’re my family, no matter what. Never doubt that.”

  “I don’t doubt that. That’s what I just said.” His daughter’s voice contained an uncharacteristic snap. “Please listen to me.”

  He subsided back into his seat. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”

  Her voice lowered. “This isn’t about whether you love me, Dad. You do. I know that. This is about whether you ever really liked those nicknames, or whether you put up with them because Mom and I thought they were funny. And if you didn’t like them, you shouldn’t have had to hear them. Not when we were all a family, and definitely not now.”