Her Man Friday(47)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

"And I suppose your teachers only reinforced that," Kimball surmised.

"Not at all," Caroline countered. "Our teachers are the best in the country, Mr. Kimball. We pay them well in the hopes that they’ll stay on here at the school—that’s part of where your money goes. In addition, however, we have a cooperative program here that invites considerable teacher participation. Despite our efforts with Chloe—and I assure you we have made efforts—she has slipped beyond our sphere of influence."

He hesitated only a moment before asking, "Why is that, do you think?"

"Because the way she’s viewed and treated at home is infinitely more important—and holds infinitely more impact—than the way she’s viewed and treated here. And at home, she simply isn’t getting what she needs."

Caroline paused as they approached Chloe’s core classroom, then she opened the door for them to enter. On the other side was a standard issue classroom circa 1942, little changed from its original state, save the addition of a few computer terminals and Formica-topped tables that were at least twenty years old. The evening sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite, in spite of their smudges and grime, tinting the room with gold and orange, colors that continued in the autumn-themed bulletin board on one wall. The chalkboard bore evidence of recent—and not quite thorough—erasure, and a few errant motes of dust danced and spun in the long sunbeams.

"Oh, God," the billionaire murmured beside her before he strode quickly to the center of the room. "It’s as if I never left."

Startled by his remark, Caroline followed him in. But she stopped well short of where he stood himself. "What are you talking about?"

But he didn’t answer her right away. Instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, holding it inside himself for a moment.

"Mr. Kimball?" she urged him. "What is it?"

"That smell," he finally said. "That smell of chalk and floor wax and dust. If I close my eyes, I can almost make myself believe that I’m in seventh grade again." His eyes snapped open. "Although now that I think about it, why on earth would I want to be in seventh grade again? I despised school."

"Did you?" Caroline asked.

Kimball turned to the big, silent man standing just outside the classroom, looking in. "Close the door on your way out, would you, Claudio?"

Without a moment’s hesitation, the man reached in and pulled the classroom door forward until it clicked shut, exactly as the billionaire had commanded. Only then did Schuyler Kimball turn to Caroline again.

"Yes. I did. I loathed and detested every moment I had to spend in the hallowed halls of education."

She studied him in silence for a moment, thinking that yes, a man like him would have doubtless had a very unsatisfying educational experience. When Schuyler Kimball was growing up, there had been few programs for gifted children that worked well, and even fewer teachers who tried to identify students who were light years ahead of the others. As a result, many children who should have been in accelerated learning programs were instead mis-identified as troublemakers, and even slow learners on occasion. Too many had gone without the guidance they should have received.

And a child with a brain like Schuyler Kimball’s, one that would have commanded constant—and very challenging—stimulation, would have probably been labeled difficult, at best. Mainly because he doubtless had been difficult as a child without the proper stimulation to keep him challenged or entertained. She could certainly believe that he’d not had an easy time of it at school.

"I wish I had been your teacher," she said suddenly, as surprised to hear the admission as Kimball appeared to be.

He arched his dark brows speculatively. "Do you, Mrs. Beecham?"

She nodded, realizing it was true. "Yes, I do."

He took a few steps toward her. "You doubtless would have handled me with kid gloves. Would have taken extra special care to coddle my big brain, is that it? Then you could have exploited it for all it was worth."

She shook her head. "No, I would have been worse than a Marine Corps drill instructor, exercising your big brain with the most demanding mental calisthenics I could manage."

She smiled warmly, feeling, for the first time since meeting him, as if she might actually be able to get along with him. Because for the first time, she began to understand what kind of person he was. Namely, a normal one. With normal feelings. And normal failings.

She took a step toward him, then thought better of it. No need to get overly confident, after all. She still wasn’t the kind of woman who could hold her own with a man like him. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help adding teasingly, "Had I been your teacher, Mr. Kimball, you would have had no satisfaction from me."

This time Kimball was the one to smile, but the warmth in his was of a completely different variety than the kind hers had held. Warmth, she echoed to herself derisively. Fire was more like it.

Slowly, he covered the rest of the distance between them, until he stood in the perfect rectangle of light that tumbled through the window behind her. "Oh, I’d have had satisfaction, Mrs. Beecham," he said. "Eventually."

Once again, just like that, the two of them were on entirely different wavelengths. Caroline couldn’t quite keep herself from taking a step backward to preserve the distance she required between them. At least, she tried to take a step backward. But Schuyler Kimball reached out a hand and circled her left wrist with sure fingers, tugging her forward again.

"Mr. Kimball," she began to object.

But he lifted her hand and studied her fingers, then asked, "Where’s Mr. Beecham? You call yourself ‘Mrs.’ but you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Why is that?"

Caroline dropped her gaze to both their hands and inhaled a shaky breath, hoping it might slow the rapid pulsing of her heart that had kicked in the moment he had touched her. But when she transferred her attention back to his face, her heart rate nearly tripled.

Without breaking eye contact, she told him, "I don’t wear my ring, because it’s with my husband."

"And where is your husband?" Kimball asked.

"He’s, um…" She swallowed hard and furrowed her brows in an effort to ward off the emotion she felt rising. "He, uh… I buried him almost a year ago."

The billionaire’s expression changed not one whit at her revelation. As always, he appeared to be bored by life in general and people in particular. But his voice was a little rough when he asked, "Your husband is dead?"