Читать книгу Faithfully Yours - Lois Richer - Страница 8

“That man will turn my hair gray,” Gillian Langford sputtered, twisting the emerald engagement band around the ring finger on her right hand in frustration.

“Not yet, I hope,” Mary Teale teased, her eyes flashing. “This is only your third year teaching—your first at JFK Elementary.”

“And it may be my last in the fair town of Mossbank, North Dakota,” Gillian retorted. “I’m not kidding! Mr. Nivens is so strict, I’ve forgotten half of the six thousand rules he’s made in the past five weeks.” There was a sudden silence in the staff room, and Gillian turned around in her chair to see why, her heart sinking as she did.

“That fact is very evident, Miss Langford.” Her nemesis stood behind her, his face hardened into the usual stern lines. “I would like to speak to you privately, please. In my office.”

“Now?” Gillian heard the squeak of surprise in her voice and wished she had been able to control it. He didn’t need to know how badly her feet were aching.

“If you please?”

She forced herself to follow his tall form and noted the short, precise cut of his hair above his stiff white shirt collar. Jeremy Nivens was at all times perfectly groomed with never a hair out of place or a spot on his tie. Gillian hated that. She felt like a grubby child when she stood next to all that neatness.

“Be seated, Miss Langford.” He sat stiffly behind his massive desk, his back ramrod straight, arms resting on the desktop. “I wanted to discuss this afternoon’s unfortunate incident with you.”

Gillian frowned. What in the world was old Jerry talking about now, she fumed, and then corrected herself for using the term bestowed on him by the other teachers. Actually, Jeremy Nivens wasn’t all that old, her aunt Hope had assured her. But you couldn’t tell it from his unyielding demeanor.

Gillian had noticed other aspects about him, too. He was certainly good-looking with that tall, lean, wide-shouldered body under a perfectly tailored suit. He had the long, straight, haughty nose of an aristocrat with the same high cheekbones and patrician features.

As she stared across at him, Gillian almost grinned. This situation reminded her of her own schooldays and the times she had been reprimanded by the principal. Only this time it was more serious; her job was at stake. Mr. Nivens’s chilly blue-gray gaze was focused directly on her. Again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,” she said softly, rubbing her shoeless foot against the carpet on his office floor. “Did something unusual happen today?”

“I’m speaking about that disgraceful display on the playground this afternoon.” His icy stare wiped the smile off her face. “My science students were totally unable to concentrate on their work, with you and your students racing about, shrieking like wild animals.”

“It was phys ed,” she told him shortly. “They’re supposed to run around. Goodness knows, they needed a breath of fresh air after the stuffiness of this school.” She had referred to the current heat wave, but it was obvious from the grim tightening of his face that the principal had taken her reference personally.

“Rules and regulations do not make a school stuffy, Miss Langford. They make it an orderly place where children can learn more easily.” As he spoke, Mr. Nivens flicked a speck of dust off his gleaming oak desk and straightened the already-neat sheaf of papers on top into a military-precise line. “Which is why the children can’t run in the hall, use profanity or chew gum on the school premises. If everyone follows the rules and conforms to what’s expected of them, the school year will progress smoothly. For all of us.”

His eyes narrowed. “Which is why I suggest you get rid of the blue and yellow chalk and use the regulation white in your classroom. Colors are only to be used for special occasions. Now, about your, er, outfit.”

Gillian glanced down at herself worriedly. So far in one month’s teaching at JFK a button on her blouse had come undone in his presence, he’d reprimanded her for wearing sandals and not wearing hose in the classroom, and he’d given her a lecture on the advisability of keeping her hair tied back, after one of her students had inadvertently caught his watch in it. What now?

“My suit?” Gillian stared down at herself.

She’d chosen her current outfit partially because of the dull brown color that couldn’t be easily marked, and partly because it had a lack of buttons, zippers or other fasteners. And she definitely had panty hose on, Gillian grimaced. She’d been sweltering in them all afternoon. His glare was frigid and she bristled under the indignity of it all.

“What’s the matter with my clothes this time, Mr. Nivens?” she demanded, a blaze of indignation lighting up her clear green eyes. All her life her parents had told her to make allowances for people who had beliefs different from her own, but Gillian figured she’d given Jeremy Nivens about as much room as he was going to get.

“Well,” he began solemnly, folding his fingers tepee style on top of the desk. Gillian caught a faint tinge of pink on his cheekbones. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful suit for some things but it does not, er, lend itself to gymnastics.” His eyes followed the smooth, fitted lines of the knit cotton as it hugged her well-shaped form and emphasized her obvious assets. “Your skirt, for instance. It’s far too short.”

“It’s below my knees,” she sputtered angrily.

“Perhaps. But when you bend over to get the ball, it has certain, er, disadvantages. Both front and back.” Jeremy averted his eyes from her angry, red face. “And I can hardly imagine those shoes are meant for football.”

It was the last straw in a long, tiring day and Gillian felt her usual calm demeanor explode. She bent over and retrieved her shoes, barely noticing the way her neckline gaped slightly in the front. She stood, thrusting her long curls behind her ears, and glared at the man behind the desk.

“Why you rude, obnoxious man! I wore these stupid heels because you said we had to be dressed in a businesslike fashion at all times. And I bought this suit because thus far in my employment there has not been one item of my clothing in my wardrobe that you deem suitable for the business of teaching. Well, tough!” Gillian practically bellowed the word.

“From now on I wear what I want, when I want, the way I want. If you have some complaint, I’ll be pleased to take it up with the Human Rights people. Your only business is with my job, and I do that very well.”

“Miss Langford, if you would kindly be seated…”

“No, I won’t. I’ve tried to go along with your silly little regulations and your unceasing demands for weeks now. I’ve taught in other schools and never had anyone question my taste in clothes. And I’m not taking it from you anymore. You’re making my life miserable, and you’re doing it on purpose. You think I’ll quit, don’t you?” She stared at him as the thought dawned. “You think that if you keep at me, I’ll give up and leave. We’ll, I’m not going,” she told him firmly.

“Miss Langford, I am not trying to force your resignation. I merely wanted to advise you that the entire grade-six class was ogling your, er, posterior this afternoon!”

Jeremy Nivens’s generally unmoving face was full of fury. His dark eyebrows drew together as he glared down at her, mouth pursed in a straight, disapproving line. He had surged to his feet and now stood towering over her, even though Gillian stood five feet eight inches in her stocking feet.

“I was trying to spare you some embarrassment,” he offered a moment later, in his normal hard tones.

“You know what? Don’t bother! From now on I’m going to wear exactly what I’ve always worn to teach my classes. I’m sorry you don’t approve of slacks but I like them. And shorts. And jeans. And when the occasion demands, I will wear them.”

“Business attire is the only appropriate apparel in this school,” he began his lecture again. Gillian walked to the door in her stocking feet and pulled it open, ignoring the icy coolness of his words.

“I work with twenty-eight first-graders. I have to be comfortable, to be able to get down on their level when I need to. I certainly don’t need to dress up for some high-powered, executive-type office. If you want to institute a school uniform, fine. But until then, don’t try to force me to conform to your strictures.” Her green eyes glittered with frustration as she thrust the last stab home.

“You know, Mr. Nivens, you could have closed the blinds if the view was so disturbing,” Gillian told him savagely. She tossed him one more angry glance over her shoulder and then strode from the office, high heels dangling from one finger as she left the school, muttering dire epithets all the way home. As she walked, she reviewed her stormy relationship with Jeremy Nivens.

“Of all the nerve,” she grumbled. “For two cents I’d go back to Boston and St. Anne’s without a qualm.”

But she knew it was all talk. She couldn’t go back; not now. Since Michael’s death she hadn’t been able to face living alone in the city, remembering their special haunts, driving past the places they’d gone together, attending the same church they’d attended together and where they had planned to say their vows. The pain of his death was too new, too fresh there. She’d had to get away, and Aunt Hope had been the answer to her prayers. In a lot of ways.

“Hello, dear. Did you have a nice day at school?”

Gillian had been so preoccupied with herself she hadn’t noticed the slim woman busily raking leaves on the front lawn. She studied her tall, blond aunt curiously, noting her ageless, blue eyes that still sparkled and the lean, athletic build Hope worked so hard to retain.

“Nice,” she griped angrily. “No, it was rotten. That Carruthers child is a klutz. She spilled the glue all over me. Again. And the Stephens’s youngest son is deaf—I’m sure of it.” Gillian flopped down on the top step with disgust. “If that weren’t enough, that contemptible man nattered at me about my clothes again—said I shouldn’t wear these shoes for phys ed. Imbecile! As if I didn’t know that.”

“Well then, dear, why did you wear them?” Hope’s voice was quietly curious.

“Because he’s ordered us to wear business dress at all times,” Gillian bellowed and then grinned wryly. “Sorry, Auntie. I’m taking it out on you, and it’s not your fault. But don’t worry. I told him that from now on I’ll wear what I blasted well please.” She spread her arms wide and stared up at the bright sun. “You’d think I looked like a bag lady or something, the way he talks to me.”

Her aunt smiled thoughtfully as she stared at the tattered shreds of her niece’s panty hose. “Well, those stockings would certainly qualify, my dear.” She chuckled.

“Don’t you start now,” Gillian ordered. “I’ve had enough for one day. Petty little man.” She glared at the cement walkway as if it was to blame for her problems.

“My dear, there are bound to be adjustments with a new principal. You may just have to bite your tongue and accept the changes. Not all change is bad, you know. The possibilities that are ahead of you are endless. Open your eyes.”

“I don’t want to. They’re too tired.” Gillian faked a snore. “Thank heavens it’s Friday. I intend to relax tonight.” She sprang to her feet and leaped up the three stairs. Gillian was almost through the door before she remembered her manners and turned back. “Is that OK with you, Hope, or have you something special planned?”

Her aunt swept the rest of the crackling red and gold leaves into the huge black bag and neatly tied the top. Gillian noticed that her aunt’s pale aquamarine pantsuit was as pristine as it had been this morning; her shiny blond hair swaying gently in its neat bob as she lifted the bag and deposited it at the curb.

“Gillian,” her aunt chided her softly. “You don’t have to keep asking me that. I want this to be your home, too. Please don’t feel pressured to involve yourself in my activities. Feel free to go out with people your own age, dear.”

“Then you are going out,” Gillian muttered, dropping her shoes in the hall and curling comfortably on her aunt’s pale floral sofa. “What has bustling Mossbank scheduled for the inmates tonight?”

Hope favored her with a look that spoke volumes about her niece’s attitude, but she answered, anyway.

“The church has a fowl supper on tonight. I offered to help in the kitchen.” As she spoke, she lifted a huge roaster from the oven. Immediately the house was filled with the succulent aroma of roasting bird and tangy sage dressing.

“I always thought it was a ‘fall’ supper. Doesn’t matter, I’m starved,” Gillian breathed, closing her eyes. “Maybe I should go with you. I could help wash up afterward. Who all goes?”

“Almost everyone,” her aunt chuckled. “It’s an annual event. If I were you I’d get there early.” Her astute eyes watched as Gillian twisted the glowing band around her finger. “Please don’t think I’m trying to boss you or anything, dear.”

Gillian felt her body tighten at the sad but serious look in her aunt’s eyes.

“You know you can say anything to me, Hope. I won’t mind.” Gillian examined her aunt’s serious countenance. “What is it?”

“Don’t you think it’s time to put Michael’s ring away, Gilly? He’s gone and he’s not coming back,” she said in a soft but firm tone. “You have to move on.”

“I’m not sure I can.” Gillian stared at the floor, her mind flooded with memories. “We would have been married by now,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

“Oh, darling.” Her aunt rushed over and hugged her. “I’m so sorry. I know it hurts. But, dear—” she brushed Gillian’s burnished curls off her forehead and pressed a kiss there “—Michael loved life. He wanted to experience everything. Now that he’s with God, I don’t think he would want you to stop living. There are marvelous things in store for you. You have to accept the changes and move on…go out and find what God has planned specially for you.”

“I already know my future,” Gillian whispered at last, pressing herself away and straightening the hated brown suit. “I’m going to teach, Auntie. I’m going to focus my energies on my students and their needs.” She smiled sadly at her aunt’s worried look. “You and I have a lot in common, you know. We’ve both lost the men we loved—you in the Viet Nam war and me because of some stupid drunk driver.

“I’m sure I couldn’t do better than follow your example. Teaching will be enough for me. It has to be.” Gillian choked back a sob and smiled brightly.

“Sweetheart,” her aunt began slowly. “Don’t use me as a role model for your life.” Her eyes were shadowed, and Gillian saw her aunt’s face grow sad. “I have had opportunities to marry that I sometimes wish I had taken.” She shook her blond head and focused on her niece. “Be very sure of what you ask out of life. You may just get it.”

“Right now,” Gillian said, grimacing. “I’d settle for Mr. Jeremy Nivens moving to another country. At the very least, another school.” She made a face. When Hope chuckled, Gillian jumped up and plucked at the repulsive brown fabric disparagingly. “I’ll just go change and we can go to the fall or ‘fowl’ supper.”

Which was probably how she ended up pouring tea for Jeremy Nivens that evening, she decided later.

“Miss Langford,” he murmured, his gray-blue eyes measuring her in the red-checked shirt she wore tucked into her denim skirt. “You look very, er, country tonight.”

Gillian knew he was staring at the spot of gravy on her shirt, and she would have liked to tell him how it got there, but instead, she swallowed her acid reply with difficulty. After all, this was the church.

“It’s comfortable,” she told him shortly. “Do you take cream or sugar?” She held out the tray, knowing perfectly well that he took neither. When he waved it away she turned to leave.

“The meal was excellent.” His voice was a low murmur that she barely caught. “Is there anything I can do to help out? As a member here, I’d like to do my bit.”

“I didn’t know you went to this church,” Gillian blurted out, staring at him aghast. School was bad enough. A person should have the sanctity of their church respected, she fumed.

“It is somewhat less formal than the English one I’ve attended for years, but I find it compatible with my beliefs. Besides, my great-aunt goes here.” He nodded his head at a woman Gillian identified as Faith Rempel.

Although Gillian certainly knew of Faith from her aunt’s vivid description of one of the two ladies she called her dearest friends, she herself had never actually met the woman formally.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Mrs. Rempel. She’s your aunt?” It was strange to think of such a happy-looking woman as the old grouch’s relation. Gillian watched in interest as a grin creased the principal’s stern countenance.

“Apparently my aunt, your aunt and another lady have been great pals for years. I believe the other lady is Mrs. Flowerday. They seem to get along quite well. It must be nice having friends you’ve known for a long time.” His voice was full of something—yearning?

Gillian stared at him. He’d sounded wistful, just for a moment. “It must? Why?”

“Oh, I suppose because they make allowances for you, afford you a few shortcomings.” He smiled softly, glancing across at his aunt once more.

“Why, Mr. Nivens,” Gillian sputtered, staring at him in shock. “I didn’t know you had any.”

He looked startled at that; sort of stunned that she would dare to tease him. A faint red crept up his neck, past the stiff collar, to suffuse his cheeks.

“There are those,” he muttered snidely, glaring at her, “who say that I have more than my fair share.”

It was Gillian’s turn to blush, and she did, but thankfully the effect was lost in Pastor Dave’s loud cheerful voice. “Just the two folks I was most hoping to corral at this shindig.”

Gillian winced at the stomp of the cowboy boots that missed her bare toes by a scant inch and the thick beefy arm that swung round her shoulder. Pastor Dave was a cowboy wannabe and he strove constantly to perfect his image as a long, tall Texan, even when he remained a short, tubby Dakota preacher.

“What can we do to help you out, Pastor?” Gillian queried in a falsely bright voice. “Another piece of pumpkin pie or a fresh cup of coffee?”

“No sirree, Bob. I’ve eaten a hog’s share tonight.” The short man chuckled appreciatively, patting his basketball stomach happily. “No, I was hoping you and your friend here would consent to helpin’ a busy preacher out with the youth group.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to work with young people,” she heard Jeremy Nivens begin nervously. “And with the Sunday school class you’ve given me, I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time for anything else.”

Gillian peered around Dave’s barrel chest to stare at her boss’s shaking head.

“I’m afraid I’m in the same boat, Pastor,” she murmured, thankful that she wouldn’t have to work with old, stuffedshirt Nivens. Their contact at school was quite enough for her. She didn’t need more proximity to know that the two of them would never work well together, especially not in the loose, unrestricted world of teenagers.

“Nonsense,” Pastor Dave chortled. “Why, you folks just being here tonight is a good sign that you have Friday evenings free. And I know the young folk would appreciate having you whippersnappers direct their meetin’s more than they would old Brother Dave.” He whacked Jeremy on the back and patted Gillian’s shoulder kindly before moving away. “I’ll be calling y’all about an organizational meeting next week,” he said, grinning happily. “See ya there.”

Gillian stared aghast at the tall, lean man in front of her. It couldn’t be. No way. She wasn’t going to be conned into this. Not with General Jeremy Nivens.

“I don’t think that man listens to what anyone says,” Mr. Nivens muttered in frustration. “He bulldozed me into taking the Sunday school boys class, but I can’t take on a bunch of hormone-crazy teens, too.”

“Well, you don’t have to act as if they’re juvenile delinquents or something,” Gillian said, bristling indignantly. “They’re just kids who don’t have a whole lot to amuse themselves with in a town this size.”

“Hah!” He glared at her, his gray eyes sparkling. “They should be able to make their own fun. Why, these children have every advantage—a lovely countryside, acres of land and rivers and hills. They should be happy to be free of the inner-city ghettos that lots of children are enduring where they don’t get enough to eat and—”

“Please,” Gillian muttered, holding up one hand. “Spare me the sermon. It sounds just like something my grannie used to say.” She shifted to one side as the family behind her moved away from the table, children gaily jumping from bench to bench.

“‘When I was a child,’” she said in a scratchy voice meant to copy her grandmother’s thready tones. “‘We never had the advantages you young things have today. Why I walked three miles to and from school every single day, even when it was forty-below. In bare feet. Without a coat.’”

Mr. Nivens’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline as he listened to her. When at last he moved, it was to brush off the crumbs from his pant leg and remove a blob of cream Gillian had slopped on the toe of his shoe when Pastor Dave had grabbed her.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he murmured, stepping around her carefully. “No one could walk through forty-below without shoes or a coat and survive.” He started up the basement stairs after tossing one frowning look at her bright curling tendrils of hair where they lay loose against her neck.

Gillian snapped the tray down on the table and motioned to the folk holding out their cups.

“Help yourself,” she advised, with a frown on her face. “I’ve got something to say to Mr. Nivens.”

“Go for it, Missy,” Ned Brown advised, grinning like a Cheshire Cat “That feller needs a bit of loosenin’ up. Seems to me you’re just the girl to do it.”

As she raced up the stairs, Gillian decided Ned was right. She had a whole year of Mr. Jeremy Nivens to get through. She might as well start off as she meant to go on.

He was striding across the parking lot when she emerged—huge, measured strides that made her race to catch up. Fortunately, she wore her most comfortable sandals and could easily run to catch up.

“Just a minute, Mr. Nivens,” she called breathlessly. “I have something I want to say.”

He stopped and turned to stare at her, the wind ruffling his dark brown hair out of its usual orderly state. One lock of mussed hair tumbled down across his straight forehead, making him seem more human, more approachable, Gillian decided.

“I was making a joke,” she said finally, aware that his searching gray-blue eyes had noted her flushed face and untucked shirt. “It was supposed to be funny.”

“Oh.” He continued to peer at her through the gloom, and Gillian moistened her lips. It was the kind of stare that made her nervous, and she shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. “Was that everything, Miss Langford?”

“My name is Gillian,” she told him shortly, frustrated by the cool, distant frigidity his arrogant demeanor projected. “Or Gilly if you prefer.”

“It sounds like a name for a little girl,” he told her solemnly, his dour look suggesting that she take the information to heart. “At any rate, I barely know you. We are co-workers in a strictly professional capacity. I hardly think we should be on a first-name basis.”

“Look, Mr. Nivens,” she exhorted. “I’m trying to be friendly. That’s the way people in Mossbank are, friendly and on a first-name basis. No one at school uses titles except in front of the children.” She drew a breath of cool, evening air and counted to ten. “If you don’t want to help with the youth group, fine. But don’t pretend it’s because they’re too uncivilized for you to be around.” Her eyes moved over his three-piece suit with derision.

“I doubt you and they would have anything in common, anyway,” she muttered. “You’re far too old for them.”

His stern, rigid face cracked a mirthless smile.

“Not so old,” he said sternly. “I was a teenager once, also, Miss Langford.”

“Really?” Gillian stared at him disbelievingly.

“I’m sure of it.” His eyes sparkled at some inner joke as he watched her.

“Well, anyway—” she shrugged “—if you don’t want to work with them, just say so.”

“I thought I had,” he murmured so softly she barely caught the words. He studied her face. “Are you going to fall in with Pastor Dave’s suggestions?” he demanded.

“I think I might,” she mused, deliberately ignoring that inner voice that quietly but firmly whispered NO. “They really need some direction, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else.” All around them the rustle of wind through the drying leaves and the giggles of children romping in the playground carried in the night air. The musky odor of cranberries decaying in the nearby woods wafted pungently toward them on a light breeze.

“But you’re not that much younger than I am,” he objected.

“In some ways,” she said through gritted teeth. “You and I are light-years apart.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he admitted at last. He turned to leave. “Good night, Miss Lang—Gillian.”

As he walked away into the dusky night, Gillian stood with her mouth hanging open. For the first time in over a month, he’d called her by her first name. How strange! Perhaps the man really wasn’t as stuffy as she’d thought. Maybe, just maybe, he’d unbend with time.

Then she frowned.

He hadn’t outright refused to attend the organizational meeting, had he? Did that mean he intended to show up and offer his staid opinions?

“No way,” she muttered angrily. “I don’t care how much they need helpers. Mr. Jeremy Nivens is not going to work in the youth group, not if I have anything to say about it.”

As she turned to go back inside, Gillian tried to ignore the sight of Jeremy almost lost in the shadows up ahead, children racing along beside him, chattering eagerly as he ignored them.

She had not misread the situation. He wasn’t the youth leader type. Not at all.

Was he?