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Dexter Kaplan is not Eli Green, high school boyfriend from the netherworld. He’s not out to humiliate me. He’s not using me for nefarious ends. And I’m so over Eli Green. For years now. And, again, I remind myself Dexter is not Eli. He’s simply proud of his own good work. That’s not horrible. That’s awesome. Admirable.
I catch Wanda Chamberlain’s eye again and she smiles at me. Sharing a little confidence. I appreciate it, and I return her smile.
I sit up straighter and look at Dexter. This show is going to work out just great. I can ignore his overconfidence and focus on his good traits. There are plenty of those. He reads a funny exchange between Hamlet and Lady Macbeth, and everyone laughs. I let my eyes meet his, and I feel that jolt of unspoken communication again. Like he can see inside me. I fight the urge to look away. His eyebrow jumps up just enough that there’s a question there. I don’t really know what the question is, but I feel myself nod, just a little.
It really is amazing work. I can see how it can look on stage. I can see a hidden part of him, an unexpected depth, emerging as he explains his play. He looks better to me in every way when he lets himself exist in that creative space.
A little more business about the Harvest Ball. A few more notes on the art exhibit. After the meeting’s over, I take my time sliding my laptop into my bag and picking up my sweater and water bottle. Dexter is shaking hands with a Chamberlain Board lady who seems to be sharing her theatrical resumé. Great. An actress. Actor. Whatever. No reason for me to join in that conversation. She is clearly smitten with him. With his ideas. She doesn’t have time to speak with me. This lady is already choosing favorites.
That’s okay. Dexter can be that lady’s favorite.
Because Wanda likes me, and she’s the only person in the room actually named Chamberlain.
Stop it, I tell myself. Don’t write the end of this story. Don’t assume—not for the worst and not for the best. I hitch the smile back on my face and pull my bag over my shoulder. Thanking Dr. Moreau for her time, I make for the door.
“Hang on, honey,” Wanda says, grabbing my arm with her bright pink fingernails. She holds on as she turns back to say goodbye to Dexter. “This is going to be lovely. You’re doing a tremendous job, Mr. Kaplan.”
I keep my smile on as I clench my back teeth and look toward the door. Dexter says something I can’t hear over the grinding of my teeth. I remind myself that a compliment for him does not equal an insult for me. Then Wanda Chamberlain spins back around and wraps her arm around my waist.
“I like you,” she says, squeezing me in a half-hug. “Walk with me.”
Not that I would have said no, but Wanda isn’t waiting for an answer. She maneuvers us out the door and down the hall, all the time nodding and repeating, “I like you.”
Deciding it was time to add to the conversation, I say, “Thank you. I like you, too.” We step outside and Wanda propels me down the sidewalk between the library and the cafeteria building. I wonder if I should put my arm around Wanda’s waist, too. I’m pretty sure not. “And thanks again for hiring me. I love this job.” I say it to be polite, but as the words come out of my mouth, I realize that I mean it. Over the past few weeks, working so hard in the classroom and with the extra projects, the love has snuck up on me.
Wanda nods. “We made a great decision bringing you on. The visual arts department was getting a little stodgy just being run by a couple of old men.” She doesn’t seem to find anything ironic about using the word “old” to describe people at least two decades younger than she is.
She keeps talking. “I love Jarvis Kraft, and I know how lucky we are to have him. He’s America’s darling painter. I hope he stays here forever. We had another impressive name teaching here years ago. He was a great artist, and maybe even a great educator, but he wasn’t much of a teacher.”
I wait for her to clarify, but she keeps walking, arm clamped around my waist. I realize it’s my turn to say something. “What’s the difference? Between a good educator and a good teacher?”
She nods, her eyes smiling. “There’s good work. And there’s important work. And there’s helping kids improve their abilities and their art. And that’s useful. But he never loved them.” She shrugs, as if to say, “what can you do?” and leaves it at that.
“I wanted to ask you about your family,” I say. “I assume that you’re one of the Chamberlain Chamberlains. But is that true? Do you belong to the school?”
She nods. “My great grandfather was born here, on this property, in 1850. Of course, then it was a family farm with some decent sugar maple trees and a lot of cows. He and his wife started the school, and at least one member of my family has been serving on the board ever since.”
“Did all the Chamberlains get to come to school here?” I ask.
“It’s not as easy as all that to get in here, you know.” She pretends to look at me sternly but can’t keep a straight face. “We have very high standards, Miss Harker. Even in a family as remarkable as the Chamberlains, we have a few apples that fall from the tree before they’re ripe. Or something. So, no. Not everyone attended the academy. But I did. And I loved going to school here.” She looks around us and breathes in as if the very air on campus fills her with life.
I get it.
“Did you never marry?” I ask, and immediately regret being so personal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
She shakes her head and smiles at me. “Do you harbor such old-fashioned ideas about marriage that you assume that I would have taken my husband’s name?” She waves her left hand in front of us, showing off a wide gold band with a huge solitaire diamond mounted on it.
“In fact, I married the love of my life in a lavish ceremony right here on campus.” She gestures over her shoulder to the main quad. “But, you know, it was the sixties. And I’m a forward-thinking woman. And a Chamberlain. So I chose to stay a Chamberlain. Forever.”
I want to ask about him. I want to know their story. But I ask only, “So, did he take your name?”
She laughs, which is exactly what I had hoped she’d do. “He wasn’t quite as progressive as I was,” is all she says.
She stops at the end of the street and clicks her keys. A parked car beeps the unlock sound and flashes its lights. “Thank you for walking me to my car,” she says. “I always park here. Under this chestnut tree. It’s my favorite.” She leans a little nearer, which I would not have felt was possible, since she was already so very close to me. “I had my first kiss under this tree when I was a student here.” She nods at her own story. I want to hear it all. But I’m learning that she’s going to say what she plans to say and nothing more.
“My first kiss,” she repeats, “but not my best kiss.” She laughs. “And certainly not my last.” She steps closer to the tree and gives its trunk a pat. “Not a bad tree for kissing under, all told.”
A couple of students walk by, and Wanda waves at them. They say hello and call her by her name. When they pass, Wanda continues. “This is a famous tree.”
