She Was the Quiet One

“Yep. The Bard of Avon never fails to impress. There are some benefits to being married to an English teacher, you know.”

He ducked his head sheepishly, and she read his thoughts. Heath loved his work, but he was ashamed of the size of his paycheck. He’d never intended to spend his life as an English teacher. There had been a more fabulous, lucrative goal once, and he’d come achingly close to achieving it. Heath was supposed to be a famous novelist by now. On the bestseller list, winning literary prizes, opening fat royalty checks at a house on Martha’s Vineyard. But things had gone terribly wrong, and they’d fled back to Odell in disgrace. (A private disgrace, with a confidentiality agreement to ensure it stayed that way.) Back to a safe place, where they’d first met. Now, a fancy dinner out was a rare treat. Sarah wasn’t disappointed with their lot in life. They had each other, the two babies she’d always dreamed of, the dog, jobs that were rewarding if not glamorous. But Heath was disappointed, and he didn’t hide it.

“There are many wonderful benefits to being married to Heath Donovan,” she said, lifting his hand and kissing it.

His smile reached his eyes, and she was grateful for it. In the past few weeks, since they’d gotten the promotion to dorm head, Heath had found his way again after years in the wilderness. An ambitious man of a literary bent and few practical skills could do worse than rising through the ranks at a prestigious boarding school like Odell. Heath had a plan. Dorm head today, but tomorrow, head of the English department. Then dean of faculty, and eventually, headmaster. It would take time, but at least he was dreaming again. Heath wasn’t Heath when he didn’t dream. Sarah was starting to believe that the demons were banished, but she wouldn’t say it out loud, for fear of jinxing it.

They sipped champagne, and chatted about their week. There were a couple of new girls in Moreland, twins, who’d been orphaned. Heath and Sarah had taken them on as advisees, and would keep a close watch. They both remembered their early days as students at Odell. How tough the place could be, how hard it was to get your feet under you. Sarah hadn’t been thrilled about the dorm head job. She took it for Heath’s sake. But if this job gave her the chance to help girls like the girl she’d been once—shy, insecure, daunted by the school and everyone in it—then something good could come of it.

Heath opened his menu and studied it, an adorable wrinkle forming between his brows. Sarah paused to appreciate his face—the elegant bone structure, the intense blue-green eyes. Even his ears were perfect—small and neat and dignified.

He looked up and caught her staring. “What?”

“Just thinking how lucky I am.”

“Me, too, always, love,” he said. “Hey, what do you say we split the seafood tower for the first course?”

She looked at the price and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on, we just got raises,” he said. “YOLO, am I right?”

She laughed. “You sound like a Moreland girl.”

“Uh-oh, it’s starting to rub off. Seriously, it’s your birthday, so I’m making an executive decision. We split the seafood tower. You get the Dover sole because I know you want it. I get the filet mignon. Then we order the chocolate lava cake with a candle and two spoons.”

“Mmm, you always know what I like,” she said.

“That’s why you married me. So, what do you say?”

“You’ve got a deal.”

They placed their orders, and Sarah pushed the thought of money from her mind. It wasn’t something she’d worried about much, before the setbacks of the past few years. Sarah came from a tight-lipped, old-money, old-Odellian family. She grew up in a stately house in a wealthy town in Massachusetts, where life was comfortable, but cold and restrained. Nobody showed off, nobody cried or danced or displayed much emotion of any kind. Her mother wore sensible shoes and tweed skirts, and belonged to the Junior League. Her father commuted into Boston, to a law firm that his own father had worked at before him, and that he would work at till he retired, or died in the harness, whichever came first. They went to dinner at the country club and to church on Sundays, and talked about trimming the hydrangeas and how the neighbors’ house needed painting. Money was never discussed—which was possible only because they had plenty of it, of course.

Heath arrived at Odell like a whirlwind in junior year, on a tennis scholarship. Most kids who came late in the game never made it to the golden circle, but Heath was different. Kids were bored with each other by then, and Heath—so good-looking, so athletic, so charming—was a sensation. Sarah got assigned to be his peer tutor in math, or she never would’ve gotten near him. They had no classes together, and Sarah didn’t run with the popular crowd. Not that she wanted to; they were a rotten bunch. The same beautiful mean girls Heath sat with at lunch had tormented Sarah since freshman year. Yet Heath took a shine to Sarah, despite the disdain of his friends. Maybe he took a shine to her because his friends didn’t like her, because she was different from them—low-key and nonjudgmental. Heath found refuge in talking to Sarah. He was confident on the surface, but that was an act. His parents were going through a brutal divorce. His father had left his mother for another woman, and Heath’s mother—who’d doted on him and raised him to believe in his own greatness—tried to kill herself. There were lawyers involved, involuntary commitment to a mental institution, money problems. Nobody at school knew except Sarah. She kept Heath’s secrets, and loved that he trusted her. Once he kissed her, that was it, she was done. Though they didn’t get engaged till the end of college. Her parents were none too happy. They thought Heath was beneath her.

Their first few years as newlyweds were bliss. They lived in the city. She worked in a consulting firm, he freelanced for magazines and wrote his novel on the side. Sarah thought Heath was a literary genius, even if his novel hit a bit too close to home for comfort. It was the story of a relationship between a wealthy young woman and a penniless young man that began at an East Coast boarding school. The boarding school details were lifted straight from their Odell years. The couple was even named Henry and Sophia—H and S, Heath and Sarah. But the resemblance ended there, and the latter half of the book—in which Henry and Sophia move to France and get caught up in a decadent, expat social scene that ends in murder—was searingly brilliant. Sarah wasn’t the only one who thought so. Heath got a book deal, a major one, and had a famous director interested in the film rights. They were on the way to realizing their dreams—well, his dreams. Heath’s big break was well deserved. He was a rare talent, a genius. They’d both known it since high school. The world had now caught on, and was giving him the recognition he deserved.

They were so happy.

Then the accusation of plagiarism surfaced. An early reviewer caught it. Whole passages lifted directly from Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night, not the revised edition, but the first, convoluted one, that wasn’t widely read. Heath denied it, and Sarah believed him with all her heart. It was only when the publisher pulled the book, prior to publication, that she went out and bought a copy of Tender Is the Night and compared for herself. Heath must’ve thought that nobody would check, because when you put the pages side by side, the plagiarism was obvious. She was almost as angry about his carelessness as his lies. How could he have been so cavalier about something so important to their future? He was used to being admired and adored; that was why. Heath was confident that his transgressions would be overlooked, or forgiven. And she tried to forgive. But it was hard.

Heath was asked to pay back the advance, which was a problem since they’d already spent it. That hadn’t been Sarah’s doing. She was frugal by nature, but Heath wanted things. A lot of things. New clothes, a car, a better apartment, restaurants, parties. Who was she to say no, when he’d felt so deprived, growing up? Her parents stepped in and lent them the money to pay back the publisher—and never let them forget it.

Her father had thankfully managed to hush up the scandal, or else Heath would’ve been unemployable in teaching at any reputable school. If it came out, even now, a school like Odell would have no choice but to fire him. Some nights Sarah lay awake, worrying. About the past coming back to haunt them. About Heath’s mental stability, how despondent he’d become when things went wrong, and whether he was susceptible to falling into that deep, dark pit again. She didn’t think so. She prayed not. She was grateful that, with the dorm head job, he’d found something to feel excited about again. She wanted him to be happy. Heath wasn’t a dishonest person. He’d just wanted to succeed so badly—to impress Sarah, to impress her parents—that he’d taken a shortcut to get there. Then he got caught, and felt ashamed, which was why he’d lied. It was a unique situation, far in the past, and unlikely to repeat itself. Besides, they had the children to think about now, and Heath adored his children. He wouldn’t let himself get out of control emotionally again, she was certain.

Maybe not certain. But hopeful.

The waitress headed for their table, carrying the seafood tower. Heads turned to admire the dramatic presentation, just as they’d turned when her handsome husband walked in the door a half hour before. People were naturally drawn to Heath. The Moreland girls were crazy about him already. A colleague had said to her that very afternoon: Whenever I see your husband, he’s trailing a gaggle of pretty girls. Sarah didn’t let it bother her. She trusted Heath, and besides, it wasn’t his fault. If she was a student here, she’d follow him around, too. Just look at that incredible smile, as the waitress presented the seafood tower. It was wonderful to see. Heath’s happiness was the only gift Sarah needed.

8 (#ulink_0077faa7-42ad-573a-a13b-343cc2eee782)

Bel sat in Mr. Donovan’s classroom in Benchley Hall, watching the hands on the old wall clock creep toward two-twenty, when English class would end. She had a meeting scheduled with Mr. Donovan then, and the thought of it made her queasy. Though she’d been feeling off all day anyway in this awful, sticky heat. Everyone said that the heat wave was unusual, but that didn’t help her sleep at night or eat anything more substantial than a piece of fruit. Heat in L.A. had never bothered her, but the climate here was just evil.

The fan buzzing in the corner lulled her, and her eyelids drooped. But then Mr. Donovan spoke, and she bolted upright, her eyes flying open. Heath Donovan was the one thing in this new life that made Bel feel wide awake. He stood at the whiteboard, writing out a line from Shelley and explaining the concept of synecdoche. English was her favorite class just because she liked watching him and listening to his voice. Every day, Bel noticed new details about him. A small scar above his eyebrow, a beauty mark on his cheek, how his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the whiteness of his teeth. She paid attention not only to what he said, but how he moved, when he laughed, what he wore. Today he was wearing khaki pants and a blue-check dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The outfit looked amazing on his tennis player’s body. He wasn’t overly jacked like so many of the jock boys. He was lean and elegant. She didn’t try to notice these things. He just made an impression on her, whether she liked it or not.

Mr. Donovan turned to recite the line to the class.

“‘Its sculptor well those passions read,’” he quoted, in his deep, rich voice, “‘which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked him.’”

He asked for a volunteer to identify the synecdoche in that line, and Bel averted her eyes. If she tried to speak, she’d stutter and blush and generally make a fool of herself. Not because she hadn’t done the reading—this was the one class she always prepared for. But because she was shy in front of these hyper-verbal Odell kids, and because Mr. Donovan unnerved her. That part was Darcy Madden’s fault. Normally Bel would never stoop so low as to get a crush on a teacher, but Darcy and her posse of Moreland seniors were obsessed with Mr. Donovan and talked about him nonstop. Naturally their obsession had rubbed off on her. Bel listened to Darcy, and followed her lead in all things. Darcy was older, sophisticated. She understood how things worked around here. Bel felt fortunate to have been taken under her wing.

Yet, she had to laugh, because the seniors’ contest to seduce Mr. Donovan had gone nowhere. Girls went to his office hours or cornered him in the dining hall. They flirted shamelessly, made heavy eye contact. The bold ones flashed some cleavage or bared a thigh in a short skirt. And they got no response. Zero. Donovan didn’t seem to notice at all. He was apparently loyal to his wife, though nobody understood why. Darcy said the wife was a total mouse, a real loser. That she must have some unnatural hold over him. Maybe it was money, or some secret she was using to blackmail him. Otherwise, he’d be susceptible to the seniors’ charms, like any man would be. To Darcy’s own charms, anyway. Bel had to agree—Darcy was killer. She had those perfectly regular features: the long, swinging blond hair; a sharp tongue hidden behind a wide smile. Everybody danced to her tune. To Bel, she was the Oracle of Moreland, not to be contradicted. Yet, Bel thought Darcy was wrong about Mr. Donovan. His love for his wife was pure, and Mr. Donovan was chivalrous. Honorable, like a knight of old. He would see Darcy’s sharp edges, and keep his distance. Which made him all the more attractive in Bel’s book.

The bell rang. Class ended, and Bel gathered her things, hesitating. Was she supposed to go up to him, or wait for him to speak to her? Would their meeting happen here in this room, or should she go to his office? Talking to teachers wasn’t Bel’s thing to begin with, and him, well, she couldn’t imagine speaking to him alone. Well, she could imagine it, but the things she imagined were unlikely to happen.

A couple of kids went up to the front of the room to talk to him, and Bel breathed a sigh of relief. Kids at Odell loved to hang around after class and suck up to teacher. Back home, being smart made you uncool, but here it was the opposite. Everybody spoke up in class, and competed to get noticed. Everyone except Bel, who kept her mouth firmly shut unless a teacher called on her, and then struggled to get a word out. Back home, teachers hadn’t cared what she thought, not enough to put her on the spot anyway, and she preferred it that way.

With Mr. Donovan distracted, Bel took the opportunity to slink toward the door, hoping to escape before he noticed. She could claim she forgot, or that something suddenly came up, or—

“Bel,” Mr. Donovan called. “Hold on. I’ll be done in a minute.”

Crap. Bel waited, palms sweaty, heartbeat skittering. Once they were alone, she’d be struck dumb, she knew it.

After a few minutes, the students left to go to their sixth-period classes, and he came over to her.

“Were you going to my office?” he asked, with a puzzled smile. Up this close, his teeth were so white, his eyes so blue, and he smelled so good that she felt dizzy.

“Um. Sorry?”

“I saw you leaving. You remember we have our first advisory meeting now, right?” he asked.

“Oh. Right. Yes. No, I didn’t forget, I just wasn’t sure, uh, where to, or—what to do,” Bel said, her cheeks burning. She sounded like the biggest idiot.

“It’s so warm today. I thought we could grab an iced coffee and sit outside. My office is like an oven, but there should be some breeze if we go over to the Art Café. Come on.”

Coffee? With Mr. Donovan? Alone? The Moreland girls would be pea-green with envy.

They went to the snack bar in the basement of the Art Studio, which was empty at this hour, since most kids were in class. (Bel had scheduled the meeting for her free period.) Mr. Donovan bought two iced coffees, which he carried to the patio out back. They sat down facing each other at a small iron table in the shade of a tall tree. (The trees in this place were insane. All that chlorophyll, she could gag on it.)

“Since this is our first advisory meeting, I thought I’d start by explaining the role of advisor here at Odell, which is not exactly the same as a guidance counselor in a public school,” Mr. Donovan said.

Bel was relieved that he was talking about official-sounding stuff. If she was lucky, she could sit here and enjoy listening to him and never have to say a word.

“At Odell, we’re fortunate to have professionals for every function,” Mr. Donovan continued. “There are counseling services at the health center if you’re having emotional or mental health issues. You’ll be assigned a college counselor starting next year. My job is to advise you about academics, and more generally . . .”

She got distracted by the color of his eyes. They were such an intense shade of aqua-blue that they almost seemed fake. Was it possible that he wore colored lenses? But they went beautifully with the long, sooty lashes, and the rich, dark color of his hair, so maybe they were real after all.

“Bel, are you listening?”