Dominic was in the schoolyard.
He was crouched on the blacktop in dress pants and a rolled-sleeve button-down, surrounded by a semicircle of fourth graders who were watching him with the rapt attention they usually reserved for pizza Fridays and fire drills. He had a piece of chalk in his hand — yellow — and he was drawing something on the asphalt while Oliver stood beside him, directing.
"No, the tail goes that way. More curvy. Like an S."
"Like this?"
"No. You're bad at this."
"I know. Help me."
Oliver knelt down next to him and took the chalk. Their heads bent together — Dominic's dark hair next to Oliver's close-cropped curls. Oliver drew the tail, and Dominic watched him. The expression on his face was one Charlotte had never seen during their engagement. It was closer to wonder.
"Your turn," Oliver said, handing the chalk back. "Do the wings."
"I'll ruin the wings."
"Then I'll fix them. That's how art works, Miss Hoffman says."
Dominic glanced up at the building — he didn't know she was watching — but in the direction of her classroom, and his mouth pulled into a half-smile. The half-smile she'd started cataloging against her will, the one that appeared when he heard Charlotte's name.
"She's right," he said, and drew the wings.
Charlotte stood at the window with her coffee going cold, her throat going tight and watched billionaire Dominic Weston draw a chalk dragon on a public school blacktop with a nine-year-old art director. He was terrible at it. The wings were lopsided, the body was disproportionate, and at one point he drew what was supposed to be a claw. Sadia leaned over and said, "That's a foot, not a claw. Claws are pointy.”
Dominic said, "You're absolutely right, I apologize to the dragon.”
The whole group dissolved into giggles.
Charlotte smiled. She couldn’t not smile.
This was the day of the Gallison Foundation's classroom visit. The first site check before the showcase. Amrita had come with two program staff, and they'd spent the morning observing lessons, meeting with teachers, reviewing the arts integration curriculum Charlotte had spent weeks developing. Dominic was supposed to be there in a donor capacity. Observe, evaluate, leave.
Instead he was in the yard, drawing dragons.
Kate appeared beside her. "He's been out there for twenty minutes. Amrita's inside reviewing portfolios. He told her he wanted to see the students in their 'natural environment.'" Kate made air quotes. "His words."
Charlotte didn't respond. She was watching Oliver show Dominic how to shade with the side of the chalk, pressing it flatand dragging it in long arcs. Dominic copied the motion. His shading was clumsy but earnest, and when Oliver said, "Better," he looked so pleased that Charlotte had to put her coffee down because her hand was unsteady.
"Charlie," Kate said quietly.
"Don't."
"He's good with them."
"I know."
"Like, genuinely good. Not performing-for-an-audience good. That kid Lucas who never talks to anyone? He's been standing next to Dominic for ten minutes watching him draw. He hasn't moved."
Charlotte looked. Kate was right. Lucas Park, who flinched when adults raised their voices and ate lunch alone every day by choice, was standing at Dominic's elbow, close enough to touch. Just present. And Dominic hadn't called attention to it, hadn't made a big deal of it, hadn't done the thing most adults did with quiet kids — projecting encouragement that sent them scurrying. He'd just made space.
She left the window and went downstairs to the yard. She walked across the blacktop toward the chalk circle, and the kids spotted her immediately.
"Miss Hoffman! Mr. Weston drew a dragon!"
"He drew a bad dragon!"
"Oliver fixed it!"
