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My decision is made. I have to do the right thing. As much as it might hurt my career to lose a case, at least Martha will be protected, and the school as well.
I may not be able to represent her, but I’m not going to let just any other attorney at this firm oppose her, only to fuck her over.
No, this is all up to me. It almost seems like fate. So much so that, deep inside the most illogical part of my brain, I wonder if it means that Martha and I might have another chance.
4
Martha
Some eager sixth graders help me plant the pretty yellow, gold and purple mums in the ornamental garden beds along the walkways of the campus, and they should look gorgeous in time for Homecoming.
When we’re finished and the kids head off to lunch, I have a seat on the stone bench to drink some water and stare at that blasted Virgin Mary statue overlooking the reflecting pond.
What the hell am I going to do with you, Scary Mary?
I roller-coaster between feeling scared of this lawsuit and indignant. I’m afraid one moment, and the next moment I find myself thinking that I don’t care if I’m being sued over the decision to have her removed. The school board left it up to me, and she’s got to come down.
She only serves to remind people of terrible times.
And now the family that made those times especially terrible is back for another round of accusations, interrogations and God knows what else. It’s been a few weeks since I was served my papers, and I still haven’t hired a lawyer. Maybe if I refuse to hire one, I can drag everything out and this will eventually go away.
I skimmed the highlights on that first day, barely able to stomach the details. I had closed up the contents of that envelope and shoved it in a drawer. The legal system is barbarically slow, so there’s probably nothing for me to do right now anyway.
I hear a text notification from my pocket, so I take off my gardening gloves and pull out my phone to read it. It’s from the front office receptionist.
“A Mr. McRae is here to see you. Says he doesn’t have an appointment so I told him to wait. Want me to tell him you’ve left for the day?”
McRae? It’s probably a coincidence. Surely my Aunt Katie didn’t jinx me that badly.
I text back: I’m in the garden. You can tell him where to find me.
Interesting name. It’s common enough; surely it’s not the same person by that name I used to know.
I don’t bother tidying up my appearance. I know I have dirt on my face, and I’m covered in sweat underneath my button-down shirt. My hair is a fright.
I shove my gardening gloves back on and bend over to harvest some rhubarb. After a while, I happen to glance backward between my feet, and my eyes land on a pair of fine Italian loafers.
When I keep working, I hear the wearer of those loafers clear his throat and announce himself. “So nice to see you again, Ms. Moody.”
That voice.
Oh my God.
It’s Miles McRae. From the debate team. Eight years ago.
No!
A familiar prickle of heat begins where the vibration of his deep, masculine voice lands between my shoulder blades and spreads across my skin and around my front like a bear hug. I bolt upright and swivel around to look at him.
His smart-ass sideways grin is still as effortlessly charming as it was when he was 18. Only now, eight years older, his five o’clock shadow is much more pronounced. His wavy black hair is no longer tousled and cute, but cut short and Ivy League-styled with tidy sophistication that’s a sharp contrast from the picture of him in my memory. But it works for him—and works pretty well for me, honestly—as does that bespoke suit. You can hide nothing in a well-tailored suit, and this is no exception. Miles’s widened chest, thick biceps and narrow waist tell me this is a fully grown man with a high-powered career and who still makes time to work hard at the gym. Gone are the days of the rumpled Greenbridge Academy cardigan and plaid necktie. My knees want to buckle.
I have to check my expression. And, oh God, my hair. And I am pretty sure I have dirt on my face, and leaves and grass sticking to my skirt. God, why couldn’t he have scheduled a visit while I was sitting in my office looking like a fully prepared badass bitch?
This is the same skirt I used to wear when I taught him as a student. The exact same skirt that he—oh God. And now he must think I’m an ancient spinster who’s been rolling around in the dirt.
I stick out my hand. “Miles McRae, what a pleasant surprise.”
He takes my hand in his, and that’s when I realize I’m still wearing my gardening gloves.
