Page 19 of The Headmaster’s Rule

Once Eleanor leaves, I let out a long breath. She’s right that I can’t put this off forever. That I need to think about the students, and what they need. I need to satisfy the board, but I also can’t lose sight of why we’re doing this. And as I’m forced to acknowledge it, I realize I might have been wrong about Eleanor. She’s a good teacher. The students like her. And if Marlene’s happy with their progress, I can live with that.

But that doesn’t change anything else. She’s still too young. Too optimistic.

Too tempting.

Wait—

Tempting?

Where the hell did that come from?

I slam my laptop closed, mind spinning, because I am not tempted by Eleanor. Not by her youthful exuberance, her bright, clashing outfits, or her big, sunshiny ideas. Not by the way she lights up when she talks about the students, or how her hands move when she’s expressing herself passionately.

I shake my head and gather my papers. She’s a new teacher with a lot to prove, that’s all.

Christ. I need a drink.

CHAPTER 8

Eleanor

First thing Saturday morning I head out onto Wetherly Cove’s Main Street. I want to get the work Headmaster Wright assigned me over with as quickly as possible, because I have something else to work on.

My pitch for the fundraiser cause.

I didn’t pitch my idea last night because it wasn’t ready. At the moment, it’s incomplete. A few loose strands still need to be woven together to create a powerful and moving proposal that he can’t turn down. I’m not sure if it’s what he wants, but I have to try. For me, for the kids, and also for him.

Last night in the stuffy conference room, under the glare of the fluorescent lights, he admitted that he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. There was something so weary in his tone, his expression, when he finally said that, it made me pause. Like he’d carried this weight around on his back and could finally set it down, if only for a moment. And seeing that tiny crack in his facade reminded me he’s human, too.

Maybe that’s why his harsh tone didn’t sting as much as it normally would have. I got the sense that it wasn’t really about me. That maybe he actually does need help, even if he won’t admit it. That maybe I could shoulder a little of the burden with him.

And weirdly, that feels like progress.

I probably crossed a line, telling him he didn’t have to do it alone, but it felt like something he needed to hear. It’s something we all need to hear at some point. Hopefully, he doesn’t think less of me for it, and will give me the chance to pitch this idea.

It’s one of those bright, crisp fall mornings, the sky clear and blue, the maple trees along the street turning red with the change of season. This is my favorite time of year. The foliage is so pretty, and I get to pull out my favorite cardigans as the weather grows cooler. Today, I’m wearing a chunky crimson one over jeans as I head down Main Street with a smile, soaking in the quiet, the early hour, and this quaint little town I now call home.

A small historic town on Eastern Long Island, Wetherly Cove sits between the dunes and the woods, tucked away from the main Hamptons stretch. Even on a beautiful Saturday morning like today, I can’t help but notice how much quieter it feels than other Hamptons towns. There’s less traffic. Fewer tourists. More locals.

My stomach growls as the sweet scent of cinnamon drifts my way. I spy a chalkboard outside The Salt Box Cafe advertising fresh cider donuts, and make a mental note to stop there later.

Next door, a bookstore called Tide’s End sits beneath a weathered hand-painted sign. Across the street, pumpkins and corn stalks crowd the entrance to Sea Glass Blooms, while marigold garlands hang between the lampposts overhead. The whole town seems determined to celebrate fall.

I pass a couple walking their golden Lab, an older man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his barbershop, and a teenage girl in a Wetherly Prep sweatshirt sipping coffee as she laughs at something on her phone. Everyone nods or smiles, and my heart swells with a sense of belonging.

At the end of the street, I glimpse the marina, and beyond that, the old lighthouse on the cliffs, glinting in the sun. I close my eyes, listening to the boats clink gently against the dock, the quiet hum of people going about their morning. Wetherly Cove is nothing like the city, and exactly what I need.

My first stop is Ed’s Hardware, top of the list. A bell chimes as I push open the worn front door, and take a moment to soak up the smell of metal and sawdust. An older man with white hair and thick glasses stands behind the counter, and I take a deep breath as I approach. His weathered face lights with a smile when he sees me.

“Well, hello, miss,” he says brightly. He must be Ed. “What can I do for you today?”

I grin. Off to an excellent start. What a lovely old man.

“Hi. I’m Eleanor Hart, a teacher at Wetherly Prep. I just started there this fall.” I pull my binder out, locating the one page flier I made up last night to hand out to businesses. It’s a little tricky not knowing the cause yet, but I made a general plea for support. These businesses have been donating for years, so I’m sure they won’t hesitate, even with the details being a little fuzzy.

“I’m helping coordinate our fall fundraiser,” I continue, handing over the flier. “I’m stopping by a few local businesses to see if you might be open to donating something for our community raffle or silent auction?”

Ed stares at the flier in my outstretched hand, his expression souring. “I’m not so sure I want to be involved after what happened last year, young lady.”