Good Girls Lie(7)

Goode scholarships are based on need but can’t be applied for. It’s the school’s way of carrying on the tradition from which it was born. A small nod to the past.

Ash is sworn to secrecy; so long as she keeps her mouth shut, no one will have to know. She will be treated as just another Goode girl, accepted because of privilege, brains, and whatever inestimable quality Ford has seen in the application and interviews.

Ford waits another moment, surveying the acreage, the students, the gentle slope of lawn and trees, the possibilities ahead for another year at Goode, then turns to go. She has a meeting with Carlisle in a few minutes. She has rehearsed what she will say, as she does with every interaction. So long as Ford has time to prepare, she is perfect.

Always.



6

THE MEETING

I knock on the thick, tall wooden door and am rewarded with a trilling “Come in!”

I step through into a lovely large space. Bookcases line three walls, floor-to-ceiling built-ins with crown molding, stocked so full it makes me itch to stand in front of them, run my fingers along their spines, ignore the dean entirely.

Along the fourth wall, flanked by tall casement windows, is a creamy red marble fireplace, wood stacked in the grate as if ready for the match despite the warm day. Two gray tweed sofas face one another in the center of the room, perched atop a thick wool Oriental rug in shades of green and cream. The big wooden desk looks like a French antique; the right side of the top is taken up by an old-fashioned typewriter, a crisp white page rolled onto its platen, the carriage slide half-mast as if the writer stepped away midreturn. I can see the faint image of words through the sheet.

Above the desk is a framed map of 1900s Virginia. A flag of the United States, stars out, housed in a triangular black frame, sits alone on a shelf in a place of honor.

The entire room is elegant, feminine, old-school, and inviting.

Dean Westhaven, too, is elegant, feminine, old-school, and inviting. Her dark hair is swept into a classic chignon; she is draped in a nubby Chanel suit, discreet black pumps with a two-inch heel on her slender, high-arched feet. She is not beautiful, her gray eyes with their large pupils too widely set and her nose a shade too thin to balance the sharp cheekbones, but she is striking, a presence. And watchful. So watchful. Like a gray-eyed hawk, measuring and peering.

Those disconcerting eyes hold unfathomable secrets and take my measure, and this unerring attention is intimidating. I am not used to being looked at so closely; I much prefer to hide in the shadows. Choosing to come to Goode means I won’t be able to do so, this I know. I am going to be seen. As one of only two hundred in such a small space, with my height, my hair, my face, there is no way to hide. Not completely.

Despite this scrutiny, there is something about the dean that makes me want to know more about her, and this puts up my guard.

Careful. Don’t go getting attached.

The dean gestures toward the two chairs in front of her desk. “Sit, sit. You must be exhausted after your journey.”

I take a high-backed wing chair, one leg bent beneath me on the soft seat until I remember my manners and put both feet on the floor, and watch the woman who is to direct my life for the next three years bustle around her homey office.

Dean Westhaven finally taps a stack of paper together, sets them on the desk, and smiles tremulously. “I can’t abide a mess. I was so sorry to hear of your father’s death, Ash. And your mother...” The sigh is audible, loud and sad. The words sound practiced, as if the dean has said them a hundred times.

How many students’ parents have died?

Creepy.

“It was all very sudden,” I reply, wooden, eyes cast down. I have learned this is an appropriate response.

“Yes. Yes, of course, it was. Forgive me, I hadn’t meant to bring it up, but I saw the inquest has been resolved... Would you care for tea?” The dean plunks a cup and saucer down in front of me, pours out from a lovely floral teapot. “Take some sugar. It will help with the jet lag.”

I dutifully reach for the sugar and drop two brown cubes into my teacup. I use the small silver spoon to stir, three times clockwise, then set it on the edge of the saucer. The tea is surprisingly good, hot and fragrant, and I close my eyes as I swallow. When I finish this display, the dean is looking at me curiously.

“It’s quite good. Oolong?”

“Yes. Not surprising that you have a palate for tea.” The dean smiles amiably, and I respond in kind, not the heartbreaking grin, but a small one, lips together, teeth obscured. It makes my dimples stand out.

“I was very pleased when you decided to join us for term after all. I know you weren’t excited about leaving so soon after...”

“It’s for the best. Thank you for having me still. I needed to get away.”

The dean is looking at me closer now. “You’ve lost weight since we spoke last. Granted, I’ve only seen you through Skype—it’s hard to get the full measure of a girl through a screen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The dean sips her tea, I follow her lead. Long silences are her thing, apparently.

“It’s understandable, considering. With some tender loving care, you’ll be back to yourself in no time. The loss of a parent—Were you close to your father, Ash?”

“He worked a great deal.”

“Ah.” The dean says this as if she’s heard it all before—the daughters of scions are often neglected by one parent or another. The pursuit of power dictates long hours.