Dark Notes(4)

As I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist with more strength than I thought he was capable.

“They’re lucky to have you.” His dark eyes flash. “Damn lucky sons-a-bitches. Don’t you let them forget it.”

He’s right. Just because my family can’t offer wealthy donations or powerful connections doesn’t make me a charity case. My four-year tuition was paid in full when I was ten-years-old, and I passed the required auditions when I was fourteen, just like my peers. As long as I continue to outshine the others in coursework, recitals, essays, and behavior, the academy might not be so hard-pressed to drop me.

With a kiss on Stogie’s wrinkled cheek, I head toward the bus stop, unable to stop the dread from returning to my stomach. What if my new music instructor hates me, refuses to mentor me or support me in the matriculation process for college? Daddy would be devastated. God, that’s my greatest ache. Is Daddy watching me? Has he seen the things I’ve done to make ends meet? The things I’ll have to do again, as soon as tonight? Does he miss me as much as I miss him?

Sometimes the terrible hole he left behind hurts so badly I can’t bear it. Sometimes I want to give into the pain and join him, wherever he is.

Which is why I’m moving my biggest challenge to the top of my task list.

Today, I’m going to smile.





As the early morning faculty meeting adjourns, my shiny new colleagues file out of the library in a monochrome of starched suits and clicking heels. I remain seated at the table, waiting for the herd to disperse while watching Beverly Rivard out of the corner of my eye.

She hasn’t shifted her authoritative stance from the head of the table, hasn’t given me so much as a glance since she introduced me at the beginning of the meeting. But she will, as soon as the room clears. No doubt she has one more agenda item to discuss. Privately.

“Mr. Marceaux.” Her eyes cut to mine as she glides across the marble floors, surprisingly quiet in her pretentious pumps, and closes the doors behind the last staff member. “A quick word before you go.”

It’ll be more than a word, but I won’t use semantics to unbalance the position she thinks she holds over me. There are more inventive ways to put her on her knees.

Folding my hands in my lap, I recline in the leather chair, an elbow on the table and an ankle on my knee. I give her the full force of my gaze, because she’s the kind of woman who wants something from everyone, something powerful she can manipulate according to her own will and vision. For now, all she’s getting from me is my attention.

Beverly strolls around the long table, her modest skirt-suit tailored to fit her slender frame. Twenty years my senior, she carries her age with remarkable elegance. High, pronounced cheekbones. Narrow, aristocratic features. Barely a wrinkle in her pale complexion.

Hard to tell if her hair is gray or blonde where it gathers at her nape. I bet she never wears it down. Attracting attention from men isn’t her especial vanity. No, her ferocious pride lies in her sense of superiority in giving orders, and watching subordinates scramble to kiss her ass.

Our first and only face-to-face meeting over the summer exposed some of her nature. The rest I deduced. She didn’t become the dean of Le Moyne through the goodness of her heart or by shrinking from competition.

I know firsthand what it takes to oversee a prep school like this one.

I also know how easy it is to lose that position.

As she saunters toward me, her sharp eyes pass over the nooks between the mahogany bookcases, the empty librarian desk, and the vacant couches at the far end. Yes, Beverly. We’re alone.

She lowers into the chair beside me, legs crossing at the knees, and regards me with a calculated smile. “All settled in your new house?”

“Let’s not pretend you care.”

“Fine.” She drags trimmed fingernails over her skirt. “Barb McCracken’s attorney contacted me. As it turns out, she decided not to leave quietly.”

Not my problem. I shrug a shoulder. “You said you’d handle it.”

Perhaps Beverly isn’t as competent as I assumed.

She hums, holding on to her smile, but it’s tighter now. “I handled it.”

“You threw more money at it?”

Her smile slips. “More than was warranted, the greedy bit—” Her lips thin as she leans back in the chair and stares across the room. “Anyway. It’s finished.”

I relax my mouth in half-smile, a deliberate signal of amusement. “Second guessing our arrangement already?”

She flicks her gaze back to me. “You’re a risk, Mr. Marceaux.” Her eyes taper into frosty slivers as she swivels her chair to face me. “How many job offers have you had since your fiasco in Shreveport? Hmm?”

Her taunting awakens a torrent of anger and betrayal that kicks up my pulse. My throat burns to lash out, but all I give her is an arched eyebrow.

“Right. Well.” She sniffs with insolence. Or uncertainty. Probably both. “Le Moyne has an inimitable reputation, one I’m responsible for upholding. McCracken’s departure and my willingness to hire you as her replacement have stirred unwanted suspicion.”

While Shreveport destroyed my professional reputation, the reason for my resignation was never made public. Nevertheless, people talk. I suspect most of Le Moyne’s faculty and student families will hear the whispers. I’d rather air the truth than subject myself to judgments based on twisted rumors. But Beverly’s terms for the job offer require my silence.