Learning Pleasure, cont.

“Sorry to startle you.” He knelt to retrieve his son’s artwork, standing tall to hand it back to her. She accepted the pages warily, avoiding any contact with his hand.

He waited until she had seated herself to claim the adult chair beside her desk.

Nice manners, she grudgingly admitted to herself. But how does he act when he’s not out in public?

“You’re probably wondering why I asked for this conference,” he began, shifting his chair forward.

She restrained the impulse to move her own chair backwards in response and even risked a small smile—after all, there was a solid oak desk between them.

“Not at all. When a parent has a child as artistically gifted as Aidan, it’s only natural to check out his teacher. He’s been attending St. Thaddeus for only a month, but his talent was obvious from the start.”

Sifting through the papers, she pulled out one which portrayed a bloody battle scene. “This was his first drawing for me. The subject is typical for an eight-year-old boy, but I was very impressed by the detail, the graduated perspective, and the sense of composition.”

“Yes, yes.” Neil Graham waved his hand in dismissal. “It’s genetic. His mother is an artist, Melinda Melendez.”

“Melinda Melendez?” Ann was impressed, then confused. “I didn’t know she lived here in Austin.”

“She doesn’t. She’s been living in Paris for the past two years and has recently remarried.” His voice seemed bitter.

“Oh, I see.” Several of the children at St. Thaddeus came with emotional baggage. Family conflict was so often expressed in their pictures that she’d wondered whether she was teaching art or running a psychology clinic--which would be a classic case of the blind leading the blind.

Laying the battle scene on top of the stack of drawings, she sat as tall in her chair as possible and faced her visitor fully. This was her second semester teaching at St. Thaddeus and, if she wanted to keep her job at the ultra-conservative parochial school, it was vital that none of the parents have reason to complain about her. Accordingly, she lifted her chin and charged into battle.

“Well, if you’re concerned about the level of instruction Aidan will receive in my class, Mr. Graham, let me assure you that I am up to the challenge. I graduated from The University of Texas with a degree in studio art and have been critically acclaimed in several juried shows. Granted, I haven’t had a gallery show in the Big Apple yet, but locally I have quite a good reputation.”

“I’m sure you’re qualified, Ms. McCoy,” her visitor returned, again with that easy smile. “But that isn’t what I came to talk to you about.”

Ann frowned. This was getting sticky. Taking a deep breath, she regrouped her defenses and tried another tack. “If it’s Aidan’s attitude you’re concerned about, I understand that he’s had some problems in other classes, but he’s quite attentive and participative in art. I have no complaints.”

He snorted cynically and looked right at her. “Ms. McCoy, let’s lay our cards on the table.”

Now there was no trace of the smiling charmer. His hazel eyes were hard, his expression somber. “Aidan is depressed, confused, and frightened. You’ve probably read his records. After refusing to honor our custody agreement for two years, my ex-wife suddenly dumped him on my doorstep last month, without a suitcase to his name. I wish you could have seen him, poor kid, standing there all alone in the hall, clutching his teddy bear, knowing his mother didn’t want him anymore.”

He looked her straight in the eye. “The public schools wouldn’t touch him without documentation, and I damn near had to endow the whole of St. Thaddeus Elementary to get him enrolled here. The kid’s been through the wringer. It’s no wonder he’s apathetic. But for some reason, he’s bonded with you. Whether it’s the art or what, I don’t know, but you are the one bright light in his dark, dark world. He likes you and trusts you.”

Ann blinked. She didn’t know what to say so she didn’t say anything.

He narrowed his eyes, and she knew he was getting down to brass tacks.

“The reason I’m here is that your principal, Mr. Kennemer-- Kennedy-- whatever his name is, says that you and your father sometimes board students when their parents have to be out of town.”

Folding her hands primly in front of her on the desk, Ann raised her guard higher.

“Only in special circumstances, when there are no friends or relatives available.”

He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. It was a well-shaped hand, she noted, with long, tapering fingers. Sensitive fingers. She wondered if he played the piano or if he . . . .

No, she wasn’t going there! She wasn’t going to wonder anything about Neil Graham—or his hands!

But, despite her resolve, a shiver of excitement swept through her.