Page 7 of The Headmaster’s Rule

We walk in companionable silence for a while, when a loud cheer catches my attention. I follow the sound to find it coming from the new teacher’s classroom.

Eleanor Hart.

Peering through the door, the first thing I notice is the plethora of decorations adorning her walls. Motivational posters, a maple-leaf garland glowing with fairy lights, colorful beanbags and pillows clustered in the corner. And are those pumpkins on the windowsill? Halloween is still over a month away.

But that’s nothing compared to what I spot next: Miss Hart crawling along the floor through what appears to be some sort of obstacle course, students chanting as she clambers over a chair, ducks under a table, then reaches what I can only assume is the finish line. Straightening, she turns to notice me amid the cheers of her students, her cheeks streaking pink. She smooths her hair, gesturing for the class to quiet down.

“What the hell was that?” I mutter, more to myself than to anyone else.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Danny asks, glancing past me. He waves to Eleanor, who responds with a sheepish wave of her own.

“What inspired you to hire someone so…” I roll my hand, searching for the most professional way to phrase it.

“Hands on?” Danny offers, but the twinkle in his eye tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Figured we could use a fresh perspective here. Her references raved about her teaching, and the kids already love her.”

I glance back at Eleanor, watching as she settles the rowdy group into quiet reading time. Whether she was already planning to do that, or has changed her plans because we’re watching, I’m not sure. Either way, Danny isn’t wrong. The kids do seem to respond well to her.

“She’s the only one who volunteered for the fundraiser,” I say, even though Danny knows this as well as I do.

He shrugs. “So?”

I look at him incredulously. “So… I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, are you? After the mistake I made last year…”

His expression softens. “You need to stop beating yourself up, Theo. It’s not your fault.”

I grind my molars, brushing off his words. If I’d been more vigilant, I would have caught it. I should have caught it.

“So, what would you do?” I ask.

Danny motions to Eleanor. “Give her a shot. She seems like the kind of person who’ll come up with something great. You should try trusting someone again.”

His casual dismissal of the situation makes irritation flicker in my chest. Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have the board breathing down his neck, his every decision questioned.

“And if I can’t?”

Danny sighs. “Then run it yourself. But you’ll need help, and she’s your only option.”

I follow his gaze to where Eleanor sits, reading quietly to her class. The sunflower barrette in her hair has come loose from the morning’s activities, and a strand of caramel-brown hair falls across her eyes. I’m struck by the sudden urge to brush it away, but immediately shake the bizarre impulse off.

Her first day here, and she’s already thrown me off balance.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that handing the fall fundraiser to someone so inexperienced is a risk I can’t afford, but bringing in more people makes it harder to stay in control. And the truth is, there isn’t anyone I trust with this. Not when I promised the board I’d oversee it.

Danny’s right. If this is going to work, I’ll have to run it myself.

With her.

CHAPTER 4

Eleanor

By the end of the day, I’m both exhausted and exhilarated. I’m almost sad to come home to my quiet house by the beach after the excitement and activity of the classroom, though I know I’ll fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow.

Shutting off the engine, I haul my bags inside. I grabbed a pizza from The Salty Slice on the way home through town, and I set it on the counter beside my tote, overflowing with the art projects the students made this afternoon. They’re posters about themselves, with drawings of their favorite things. I’ll laminate them tonight and hang them in class tomorrow.

Before I do that, I need to eat. Today was so busy that I skipped lunch, using my break to tidy the room and set up for the afternoon’s activities. Now, my stomach rumbles loudly in protest.

I grab a slice of pizza and lean against the kitchen counter, looking around at my new home as I chew. It’s a carriage house set back from the main house, with a cobbled walkway and weathered shingle exterior. The space isn’t much larger than the one bedroom I rented in New York, but the high ceilings and exposed beams make it feel more open. The oak floor creaks when I walk, and the old barn-style door sometimes sticks, but at least here I can breathe.