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  She watched Noah. He alternately gestured and stood with his hands on his hips. At one point, when the dozer stopped, he turned to the students and began to talk. In lieu of hearing, which the idle of the machine precluded, Paige tried to make out his expression, but the mirrored glasses stood in the way.

  At his sign, the bulldozer started up again and kept at it for another little while until the driver cut the engine and climbed from the cab. Noah said more to the group, but even with the machine silent, Paige was too far away to catch his words. Then the students dispersed. Several stopped to talk with her—grumblings, which she passed off with an indulgent smile—but they were soon gone.

  She should have returned Sami to the stroller and headed back to the car, but something kept her rooted to the spot as Noah approached. He stopped directly before her.

  “Were you waiting for me?” he asked. The voice was as quietly steely as before, the sunglasses vaguely intimidating.

  “Not on your life,” she answered, willing her heartbeat to slow. “But it’s an interesting project.”

  He took off the hard hat and the glasses, wiped his forehead with his arm, put the glasses back in place. “I thought it was. To hear it from these kids, it’s an embarrassment. They think it’s beneath them.”

  That was the gist of the grumbling Paige had heard. “They’re spoiled.”

  “Among other things.” He glanced toward the dorms. “We caught a couple in the woods last night.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Drugs, alcohol, or sex—which was it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Sure does. Drugs and alcohol are illegal. Sex is simply unwise—at their age, at least.” Her heartbeat sped when Noah shot her a look. Defensively she added, “Assuming the sex is by mutual consent, and I’m referring to the punishment. If I was the one deciding, I’d be harder on drugs and alcohol than on sex.”

  “You must like sex,” he said.

  She wished she could see his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

  “You do, don’t you.”

  She could have sworn she saw the start of a smirk. “That’s neither here nor there,” she insisted. “Your kids are the ones at issue. But, hey”—she held up a hand, then promptly took it back down and used it to put Sami in the stroller—“what you decide to do with them is your business. You’re the Man.” She secured the strap and started off. She needed to be moving. Noah Perrine made her uncomfortable.

  “For the record,” he said, falling into step beside her, “the two we caught were draining a fifth of vodka. They’ll be suspended for three days and put on probation when they get back.” He made a dry sound. “At the rate we’re going, half the student body will be on probation by Halloween, which isn’t any sweat off my back—hell, I’m only acting Head until they find someone permanent—but they’ll have a tough time getting anyone to come with so much disciplinary action outstanding.”

  “You could always look the other way when rules are broken.”

  Sunglasses or no sunglasses, she felt his accusatory stare. “I should have known that a woman who keeps a baby strapped to her chest while she drives a car would say something like that.”

  “For the record,” Paige informed him, tossing his own words right back, “now that I’ve learned how to use the car seat, she’s in it. That was desperation you saw in action the other day. I don’t make a habit of breaking rules.”

  “Neither do I,” he said without raising his voice, “which is why I can’t look the other way and let these kids do what they want. I may only be here for a year, but during that time it’s my name that goes on the bottom line. It’s my reputation that’s at stake. It’s my caring for the lives of these kids that makes me rigid.”

  “Whew,” she said with a light touch, which was the only way she could think of to top off such a heavy speech.

  “So don’t tell me that I don’t care for kids,” he added, “because I do.”

  So he remembered their last conversation. “That was bothering you, huh?”

  “Damn right. I’m doing my best in a sticky situation, and I’m doing it because I care. I didn’t have to be here. I had a perfectly good job that I could have kept for as long as I wanted.”

  “Then why did you take this one?”

  He had no fast retort. Finally, resignedly, he said, “It seemed like a good thing to do for a year. How’s your team doing?”

  With the shift away from himself, she dared a glance up at his face. The mirrored aviators added nothing of a personal nature. She wished she had a pair of her own, or a hat with a low visor—anything to make her feel less exposed. “The first race is Saturday. I’ll let you know then.”

  “Have the girls calmed down?”

  “There haven’t been any more frantic phone calls, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Did they show up to talk on Saturday?”

  “Most of them.”

  “The sophomores, too?”

  “For a little while.”

  “Were they talking?”

  “Listening, more. As you pointed out, Sara had never met my partner.”

  “And you pointed out that being new, she doesn’t have a support group here yet. So how does she seem to you?”

  “Okay. She’s quiet, serious. She’s my strongest runner. I’m guessing she’ll place well on Saturday.”

  They walked on. Paige wondered where he was headed. She wished he would get to wherever it was. His presence disturbed the air around her.

  “I identify with her,” he said, and it was a minute before Paige realized he was still talking about Sara. “Being new and all. Do you think she’s making friends?”

  “She fits in fine with the team, but I have no idea how she is otherwise. What does her dorm parent say?”

  “To me? Not a hell of a lot. I’m not much more popular with her than I am with the students. I’m the one making rules that she has to enforce.”

  “But she’s your staff. Your staff is answerable to you.”

  “There are answers and there are answers. The ones they give are sometimes as begrudging as the ones the kids give. The last thing they want is to declare themselves my allies.”

  Paige reached the path that would take her to her car. Feeling imminent relief, she raised her hand in a quick wave and said, “Me neither. See ya.”

  Angie’s palms were damp. She waited for Dougie to run ahead into the house, praying that he would go to his room so that she could have a minute alone with Ben. If the boy had heard any of the previous night’s discussion, he hadn’t let on. Aside from one comment, a vehement, “I’m starved,” when he climbed into the car at school, they had talked during the drive home as though the disagreement the day before had never taken place.

  She had no idea how Ben would be. One part of her would have been very happy if, like Dougie, he acted as though nothing were wrong. The other part—the hurt, angry, realistic part—knew that Nora Eaton existed. She would have to be dealt with. The question was when.

  Angie preferred later. For now she would be satisfied to find the same old Ben watching the evening news. She could make dinner—she had taken chicken from the freezer that morning—and start a load of laundry. She could find strength in small, everyday accomplishments.

  She came into the kitchen and called out a hello, trying to make it as cheerful as always. Ben didn’t answer, but that was nothing new. Sometimes he didn’t hear or was preoccupied listening to a news report; then, when he heard her puttering around, he would come in to say hello.

  He didn’t this night. She assumed that he was having doubts of his own as to how he would be received. After all, he was the one who had cheated.

  When dinner was ready, she called out from the kitchen door. Dougie’s footsteps on the stairs preceded his appearance. He slid onto his seat. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Coming,” Angie said, hoping it was true. She started dishing out food; still he didn’t sh
ow. “He may not have heard,” she said, stopped what she was doing, and went to the den. Ben was just where she thought he would be. “Dinner’s ready,” she said.

  He looked at her—unsurely, she thought. The look she returned was one of confidence. Come to dinner, now. We’ll work this all out later. When she saw him start to rise, she returned to the kitchen. She had his food at his place and was fixing a plate for herself when he slid onto his seat.

  “Hey, Doug,” he said, holding out a hand for a high five. “How was school?”

  Angie listened to a repeat of the stories she had heard in the car. When Ben asked a question that got Dougie going off in another direction, she tried to concentrate, but her thoughts were on the “later” she had been thinking of in the den. She managed to put in an appropriate word, enough to ward off suspicion that something was wrong. She even managed to eat a good half of her dinner, but all the while she was plotting. “Later” came just after she placed large pieces of chocolate cake before Dougie and Ben.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said in what she thought was a reasonably conciliatory voice. “I know that neither of you is happy with the added hours I’ve been working since Mara’s death. My new schedule isn’t going over terribly well. So”—she cleared her throat—“I’ve decided to make some adjustments.”

  Both faces were wary.

  “Dougie, you object to having to get up earlier in the morning.”

  “That’s not it, Mom, but you drop me at school too early. It’s embarrassing. Nothing’s happening. The dorm kids aren’t even awake then.”

  “They should be,” Angie said, “if they want breakfast before school begins—but that’s their problem, not ours. Now that Paige has a live-in to help with Sami, she can take her turn with the early emergency drop-ins so that I only have to do it twice a week. On those days, your father can drive you to school at the usual times. Same thing with picking up at the end of the day. On the three days that I have to stay late, your father will pick you up and bring you home. You can have a snack here, so that you won’t be starved if you have to wait for dinner until seven.”

  Neither of them spoke. She looked from one face to the other. “Well? Does that sound better?”

  Dougie looked at Ben, who had his lips pursed and was looking at his plate.

  “What?” she prodded.

  Dougie looked back at her. “You’re missing the point, Mom. The point is that I want to be a boarder.”

  “We agreed last night that that wasn’t feasible.”

  “You agreed. I didn’t.”

  She tucked her napkin beside her plate, feeling genuinely confused. “Doug, why is this coming up now? Why not last spring? That would have been the appropriate time to decide whether you were going to board. Why now?”

  “Because the kids are great this year, and I’m a year older, and if I don’t board, you’ll be on my back all year about using the telephone at night. Besides, if I board, I can eat dinner when the rest of the kids do.”

  “I just said that your father would pick you up earlier so that you could get a snack here.”

  “I don’t want to come home earlier. I want to stay later.” He pushed away from the table.

  “What about your cake?” Angie asked.

  “You didn’t bake it. It came out of a box.”

  “I can’t do everything.”

  “The cook at school makes it homemade,” he said as he went out the door.

  Angie was bewildered all over again, wondering what had gotten into Dougie. When she looked to Ben for help, he met her gaze.

  “You don’t listen, do you?” he said quietly. “He’s telling you that he needs more freedom, but you don’t hear.”

  “I accommodated him,” she protested. “I told him that he could sleep later again, and that he wouldn’t have to hang around school until six-thirty at night because you would pick him up earlier. I’m doing the best I can to make things the same as they were before Mara died.”

  “But that isn’t what he wants. He’s telling you that he wants to board.”

  Angie caught her breath. “Do you want him to board?”

  “No, but that’s not the point. The point is that you’re still orchestrating things, which is what he’s rebelling against. He needs freedom from that. So do I.”

  “A household can’t function without organization.”

  “Organization is one thing, manipulation another. You’ve just informed Doug that I’ll be driving him to school twice a week and picking him up three times a week, but you never even asked me if that was all right.”

  She was speechless, feeling overwhelmingly wronged. Finally she pointed a shaky finger at the floor. “Right here, last night, you told me that I emasculated you, that I never let you do things for our son because I was afraid you wouldn’t do them right. Now I’m giving you a chance. I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

  “Because it’s your plan. You came up with it all on your own. You didn’t ask me what I thought, or if I had any better suggestion.”

  “Do you?”

  “That’s not the point.” He ran a hand through his hair, made a guttural sound, and rose from the table. “It’s a losing battle. I can’t get through.” He headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” A picture of Nora Eaton flashed through her mind.

  “Out.”

  “Ben—” But the screen door slammed shut, and he was off toward his car.

  Angie sank down on her chair and looked blankly at the uneaten servings of cake. When the numbness of his abrupt departure began to wear off, her insides were trembling.

  She had been so sure she was doing all the right things. She had certainly wanted to do them. She didn’t understand where she had gone wrong.

  But there was no denying how deep the resentment ran against her. She might have attributed last night’s flare-up to moodiness, had tonight’s not followed it. Not only did the resentment run deep, but it struck her that it must have been building for years. And all the while she had been oblivious of it.

  She wondered where had she been all that time, what she had been thinking. “You don’t listen, do you?” Ben had asked, echoing all he had said last night. To one who took pride in having a firm grip on her life, his words came as a blow—and that, on top of the cutting fact of his infidelity. They hadn’t even touched on that tonight. But perhaps rightly so. It was a symptom. Just as her schedules, and revised schedules, were placebos.

  The problem was that for all her knowledge, for all her training and skill and competence, she didn’t have the faintest idea where to turn.

  eight

  NOAH PERRINE CAME FROM A FAMILY OF academics. His father, his mother, and two older sisters were all teachers. It was understood that he would do the same. And he wanted that. Having grown up on the campus of the small southwestern college of which his father was a dean, he liked the sense of community that campus living offered. The seeming insularity of it didn’t bother him at all. He believed that electronic communication made the world a smaller place, such that he could be cosmopolitan and provincial at the same time.

  For the sake of tasting the cosmopolitan, he completed a doctoral program in New York, then took a position as the head of the Science Department at a prep school outside Tucson, but it soon became clear that his talents were wasted if limited to teaching. He had a way with adults. He had organizational skills and a feel for business that few others at the school had. Almost by default, he became involved in upper management and, in time, was named director of development. It was a position that allowed him to combine teaching with alumni relations and fund raising, both of which were critical to the institution’s survival. The fund raising involved travel, and although he wasn’t wild about that, he was paying his dues. His goal was to be named Head, if not of that school, then of another.

  Unfortunately there was no appropriate headship available at the time when he had a sudden, dire need to leave Tucson. So he moved to northern
Virginia to head the nonprofit Foundation for Environmental Awareness. There he was able to combine his knowledge of ecological issues and his teaching skill with his flair for fund raising, and over the course of twelve years, he thrived. If there were times when he missed the warmth of small-campus life, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had a meaningful job working for a cause in which he believed.

  When he turned forty, though, he began to feel detached. He was as apt to wake up in Minneapolis, Boulder, or Boise as in Alexandria. People moved in and out of his life. He craved the centeredness of the life he knew as a boy.

  A return to academia was inevitable, etched in his marrow like a spare gene, but he took his time, wanting just the right school, just the right setting.

  Mount Court Academy wasn’t it. Nearly insolvent, it had a dismal reputation punctuated by impotent leadership and a student body out of control. Academics had declined; disciplinary problems abounded. The school was a disaster that had already happened, waiting only for aftershocks, before imploding.

  But the timing was right. Noah needed the change. The fact that the appointment was for a year gave him a built-in escape clause. And there was something to be said for the challenge.

  He started in June and spent the summer cleaning up the administrative mess that his predecessor had left. By September he had worked out scheduling snafus with the registrar, weeded through a maze of alumni records with the development office, and, with the academic dean, critically examined every course being offered. While the basic curriculum was upgraded, electives were sorted through, tossed out, or restructured with an eye toward demanding a meaty academic load from every student.

  More than a grumble came from a less than enthusiastic faculty that suddenly had to rewrite lesson plans, but those sounds were nothing compared to the reaction of the students when they returned after Labor Day.