Learning Pleasure, cont.

“That is exactly my situation, Ms. McCoy. No friends or relatives available. My parents were here a couple of weeks ago, but they’re back in New Mexico now, my sister lives in Seattle, and none of other my friends would be, uh, suitable.”

He means his girlfriends, Ann thought, pursing her mouth and sandbagging her protective walls. She knew his type. Probably had a regular harem breathlessly awaiting his nightly arrival.

“Anyway, I have to be out of town on business three days next week, and I don’t have anyone I can leave Aidan with. Could he stay with you?”

Stilling a sudden rush of panic, she managed to control her voice enough to make a reasonable reply. “Surely he would be more comfortable staying with one of his friends.”

Most of the children who boarded with her had fathers who were over-fed, middle-aged, and boring. Neil Graham was the exact opposite—athletically built, in her age range, and far too interesting. She didn’t want to get involved in anything even remotely connected with him. His very existence posed a danger to her.

He cocked an impatient eyebrow at her. “Get real, Ms. McCoy. Aidan has problems socializing. He doesn’t have any friends and, at the rate he’s going, he never will.”

She nodded. That was true, of course. Aidan was a loner, just like she was.

His voice softened, became cajoling. His hazel eyes were seducing her to his purpose. “If you would take him home with you on Thursday of next week, I would pick him up on Saturday, after four.”

Ann knew she should say no. Neil Graham was just too . . . too masculine.

But then there was Aidan, sweet Aidan who followed her around like a lost lamb who’d finally found Bo Peep. She could turn down the father, but she couldn’t turn down the son. Her shoulders drooped.

God help her. She really had no choice.

“I’ll need a medical release, a list of his doctors and any medications, and emergency contact information.” Her voice was as crisp and dry as she could make it.

“Done. I came prepared.” He slipped two folded pages out of his pocket of his jacket and handed them to her. “I don’t know your usual rate, but would this be enough?” He laid four hundred dollar bills on her desk.

Ann shook her head. “That’s too much.”

“Keep it, Ms. McCoy. My son is very important to me.” He rose from his chair. “Oh, one more thing. I’ll be calling Aidan every evening at seven sharp. He has his own cell phone. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, of course.” So many of the parents didn’t bother. Despite herself, Neil Graham went up a notch in her estimation.

“And I’ll need your address.” He produced a small spiral notebook and handed her a fat fountain pen with what looked like a garnet mounted on the clip.

She stiffened. “Why?”

He smiled at her again, as if amused at her suspicious reaction. “So I know where to pick him up on Saturday. Why else?”

Ann bent her head over the notebook to hide her embarrassment. He’d thrown her off balance and her paranoia was starting to show. She grabbed the pen and scribbled down her address. “It’s just a few blocks from school.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “I usually walk.”

She always walked. It had been three years since they owned a car.

“And your phone number?” He nodded toward the notebook. At her hesitation, he smiled and, in dulcet tones, added, “in case I have a change in plans.”

Catching her lower lip in her teeth, Ann wrote down her number. She didn’t know why she was being such a ninny. She’d given the same information to other parents when they’d left their children with her. What was it about this man that frightened her so? That excited and interested her so? She closed the spiral and returned it to him.

“Thank you, Ms. McCoy,” he said, flashing his dimple. “I’ll go tell Aidan now. I’m not sure he would have gone home with me if you had turned me down.”

He stood up and left the room quickly, Ann noted, as if afraid she might change her mind if he stayed a minute longer.

She sat at the desk with her hands on her hot cheeks for several moments to calm her frayed nerves, then stood and looked around the room--her classroom, her kingdom, her refuge. She felt safe surrounded by the evidence of her students’ creative endeavors: cardboard castles, tissue paper piñatas, origami birds and animals, drawings of houses and flowers and night monsters and multi-colored spaceships. And now her refuge had been invaded by a tall man with dark mahogany hair and an easy smile.

What had she gotten herself into?

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.

Learning Pleasure

Fiorella is at the National Romance Writers of America conference in New York. While she is there, you're invited to sample the beginning of one of her novels. LEARNING PLEASURE has won two writing contests and placed in two others.


Chapter One

“How do you do, Mr. Graham,” Ann said, holding out her hand and hoping he wouldn’t take it.

Neil Graham was exactly the sort of man she tried to avoid: tall, handsome, and charming. But handsome is as handsome does, and twelve years ago she had learned not to trust handsome any further than she could throw it. And Ann wasn’t too fond of height either. Risking a quick glance upward, she realized that the top of her head would barely reach his shoulder.

He shook her hand briefly and smiled, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. McCoy. You’re my son’s favorite teacher. He talks about you all the time.” He winked. “I think he’s got a crush on you.”

“He--he’s a darling boy,” she answered in a tight voice, jerking her hand away before she had a full-blown panic attack.

Better to seem rude than crazy. She readjusted her heavy, black-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose and backed up two discreet steps.

He smiled again, as if encouraging her to smile in return, but she had long ago disciplined herself not to respond to masculine smiles, dimpled or not.

Neil Graham was a looker, all right. Her artist’s eye appreciated his regular features and springy, dark mahogany hair, even as she noted how well that white polo shirt and casual corduroy jacket showcased his wide-shouldered build. Women probably drooled all over him, she thought, but not her. She’d sooner cut her throat than try to attract his attention. In fact, as far as she was concerned, attracting Neil Graham’s attention would be the same thing as cutting her throat.

Her visitor glanced around the room, frowning slightly. Assuming he was offended by the tabletops covered with cardboard tubes and extravagantly turreted castles in mid-construction, she lurched into a garbled apology. “I’m sorry for the mess. The glue smells terrible and I haven’t had time to tidy up anything yet . . . ”

Again the dimpled smile. “I wasn’t looking at the tables, Ms. McCoy. It’s where we’re going to sit that concerns me. This may take a while, and I don’t think either of us would be comfortable on these pint-size chairs.”

She almost did smile then, picturing him trying to fit his long, tall frame into one of the student chairs. His knees would probably touch his nose.

“I--I have a visitor’s chair at my desk, and I’ve got a stack of Aidan’s artwork up there for you to see.”

Damnit, Ann, get hold of yourself.

Walking away from him without waiting for a reply, she pushed her way through a display of colorful animal-shaped piñatas dangling lower than she’d thought they would from criss-crossed lines strung from wall to wall. She moved quickly so her visitor wouldn’t get too close. Then, picking up the drawings from her desk, she turned to hand them over to him.

God! He was right behind her, close enough to touch her. Barely stifling a shriek, she dropped the pages all over the floor.

Preview

Fio will be flying off to New York tomorrow for the annual conference of the Romance Writers of America. While she is gone, you might want to read the first several pages of one of her prize-winning stories. Learning Pleasure has placed first in Connecticut's The Write Stuff and Southern Magic's Linda Howard Award of Excellence and second in Northwest Houston's Lone Star competition.

It's about a convenient marriage between a woman who knows everything about sex but nothing about pleasure and a man who knows everything about pleasure but nothing about love.

Enjoy!

Stray Throughts

Good ideas never die. They just hibernate. But bad ideas do the same.
*
Each mother's daughter is another chance at the person she wanted to be. We pass on our dreams, hoping they will fulfill them. But in realty, our only futures are our own. Except for Dina Lohan, of course.
*
Thank you, God, for the new day
That is all I have to say.

Keep on Truckin'

The world is a terrible place, full of injustice and violence, but it's hard to metaphorically tend one's own garden, as Voltaire and Fiorella advise, when one's actual garden is a disaster. That expensive landscaping, which was supposed to be healthy and blooming this year, is definitely a wreck in progress.

The freezes last winter, the drought and high temperatures this spring, the deer and armadillos--they've all taken their toll. Fio and husband are out almost every evening (it's too hot to go out during the day) doing what they can, but nature turns the tide.

And August is yet to come.

Need Jobs

Seems like everyone's going through tough times right now. Younger Son is still job-hunting in California, as is Friend Suzy's husband in England. Fio usually turns to the newspaper comic strips for relief, but now Brad, Luanne's brother has been laid off from his EMS/firefighting job.

Fio doesn't like her comics striking that near home and hopes Brad will soon move to bigger and better as an encouragement to the rest of us.

Hmm, has Fio been striking a theme lately?