The Saint (3 page)

The letter was apparently very long—or else Mrs. Straine was a very slow reader. Claire adjusted her modest navy skirt and tried not to be nervous. But Mrs. Straine's smile was so tight right now her lips had almost disappeared. Not a good sign.

Maybe the better quote was “To be or not to be.” To be or not to be
fired.

Finally Mrs. Straine looked up. “This is very troubling,” she said softly. She said everything softly. It forced other people to be perfectly quiet, and to lean in slightly, in a deferential pose, in order to catch her words.

“Is it true, Miss Strickland? You have unilaterally decided to teach
Hamlet
to your seventh graders?”

“Not the entire play,” Claire said. “Just some of the famous speeches. It's part of a larger unit on Shakespeare.”

Mrs. Straine took off her reading glasses and tapped them against the letter. “It says here you've been telling the children there are such things as ghosts. It says you've told them about fratricide and suicide.” She shook her head. “They even accuse you of using the
I
word.”

Claire frowned. The
I
word? What on earth was the
I
word? Insanity? Iago? No, that was
Othello.

Iambic pentameter?

Mrs. Straine closed her eyes, apparently grieved that Claire was forcing her to utter it.

“Incest,” she whispered.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

“I didn't call it incest,” Claire said. “Shakespeare did. Or rather Hamlet did. It's just a small part of the overall story. You see, Hamlet's mother marries his uncle—”

“I know what happens in
Hamlet,
Miss Strickland.”

Claire leaned back in her chair. “Of course you do. I'm sorry.” She'd swallowed her pride in this job so often she'd almost gotten used to the bitter taste. “Then of course you know it isn't incest with the same connotations we might have today.”

“I don't believe any of that word's connotations are socially acceptable,” Mrs. Straine said. She was sitting up so straight her back wasn't touching the chair. “I honestly would have thought you understood that vocabulary like that has no place in an HGA classroom.”

Claire tried one more time. “But this is
Hamlet,
Mrs. Straine. This is Shakespeare.
Hamlet
is taught in classrooms all over the world every day, and—”

Mrs. Straine waved her hand. “We do not judge
ourselves by everyone else, Miss Strickland,” she said. “At HGA, the standards are far higher.”

Higher than Shakespeare?

“I'm afraid we must insist that our teachers meet those standards. Every teacher, every day.”

So was this it? Was this where Claire would be told to take her copy of
Hamlet
and go home? She realized suddenly that she didn't care very much. Since Steve died, she hadn't cared about much of anything. But she tried to look earnestly concerned. She did have to earn a living, and HGA at least had the virtue of paying well and recruiting bright, well-behaved students.

“However,” Mrs. Straine went on, “I don't think we need to overreact. Overall, your performance since coming to HGA has been exemplary. I think it will be adequate merely to place you on probation.”

“Probation?”

Mrs. Straine folded up the letter and placed it in a file marked Strickland, Claire. “Yes. It should not be construed as punitive. It's merely precautionary. I'll be keeping a close eye on your work. I'll need to see your lesson plans daily, of course. After six months, we'll review the matter and see where we stand.”

Claire understood she'd been dismissed. She stood and nodded—though she drew the line at thanking Mrs. Straine for her tolerance. She looked at the other woman—at her high, tight, extremely sophisticated French braid, her severe Armani suit, her Tiffany-set diamond wedding ring—and she wondered whether there really was no Mr. Straine, as the other teachers sometimes suggested.

It was possible. Claire's own mother had pre
tended she was a “Mrs.,” and she undoubtedly wasn't the only woman who did. Mrs. Straine's reasons would be different, of course. She wouldn't be trying to protect her two illegitimate children. But whatever the reason, living a lie took its toll.

As she left the school, Claire thought how much nicer it would be if she could go home and tell Steve about all this. What fun they'd have parodying Mrs. Straine's Victorian syntax and ridiculous whisper. If Steve were there, this would seem hilarious in no time. They'd laugh away any sting, and then they'd sit around and think up absurd new meanings for the school's initials. She could almost hear him now. Humongous Growling Amazons. Hippos Gathering Acorns. Hot Greasy Aardvarks.

But Steve wasn't there, of course. Her half-furnished apartment would be empty when she finally got home later tonight. She had a meeting after school, which she would go through like a robot. Then she'd stop by the grocery store, and then drive to the apartment.

When she got in, she'd ignore the five or six messages on her machine—it was easier to ignore an invitation than to turn it down, and the result was the same in the end. She'd read a little. And then, as soon as she possibly could, she'd go to sleep.

To sleep. Perchance to dream.
Yes, Hamlet knew where the real dangers lay. Claire still dreamed about Steve at least once a week. They were cruel dreams—the kind that woke you up with your heart in your throat. In the dreams, she always drove down Poplar Hill one second too late. Steve always died in her arms while Kieran McClintock stood over them and smiled.

But that night her meeting ran long and it was after ten before she got home. All in all, it had been an exhausting day. Maybe she'd be too tired to dream.

She pulled into the complex parking lot, gathered her books and papers and purse and groceries and made her way to her second-floor apartment.

And, there, on her elegantly lit landing, she came face-to-face with a man she had thought she'd never see again.

The smiling man of her terrible dreams.

K
IERAN WAS SHOCKED
by how different Claire looked. How much older.

He hadn't seen her in two years, but still…

Part of it was her hair. She had beautiful hair, a deep, shiny brown. She used to wear it almost to her waist. When she taught, she just whisked it up into a casual twist that always had adorable bits and pieces escaping from it. Now it was cut in a sleek, chin-length bob that fit like a helmet.

And her outfit. It was the pencil-thin uniform of a corporate lady-shark. What had happened to the flowing cotton jumpers and soft pastel T-shirts?

But most of all, it was her face. Even in the worst days of her first grief, she hadn't looked this tight and closed-in. Her brown eyes, round, large and long-lashed, had always reminded him of some gentle woodland creature.

Not any more. Now she just looked tired and strangely distant. She didn't even seem interested enough to be shocked to see him standing on her front porch.

“Kieran,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

That was a damn good question, actually. What the hell was he doing here? Back in his hotel room, he'd told himself a thousand times to quit being such a fool, put down his car keys, order room service,
raid the minibar, turn on the television,
anything.
But none of it had stopped him.

“I'm in town for a conference.”

She shifted her packages so that she could see him better over the groceries, but she kept her fist tightly closed around her keys. She seemed to have no intention of opening that door.

“Not here in Richmond,” she said. “I meant
here.
What are you doing
here?
”

“I wanted to say hello.” Was that true? Actually, he had no clear idea why he had come. He'd just opened the telephone book, found her name and found himself getting a map from his laptop. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

She shifted again, her keys clinking against a glass bottle, or maybe a can. “I'm doing fine.”

No, you're not,
he wanted to say. Any fool could tell she was lost. But he didn't have the right to say anything like that. Hell, he didn't even have the right to be standing here.

One date. That was all they'd ever had. One night when he'd sat across from her, eating salmon and salad and some stupid little bonbon dessert, and quietly going wild with wanting her.

One night—compared to Steve's death, for which she had always blamed him. No, he'd say he had pretty damn few rights in this situation.

“I just—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I thought maybe we could talk for a while. Maybe I could take you out for coffee. I haven't eaten dinner yet. I just got into town. Are you hungry?”

She looked at him with those shallow eyes. “We don't really have anything to talk about, Kieran. We
don't have anything in common except Steve. And I don't talk about Steve.”

You don't? Oh, Claire…that's not healthy.
But of course he didn't say that, either. He just looked at her sober face in the silvery light from the carriage lamp and wished he could go back two years and start over. God, the things he'd do differently!

“It's been two years, Claire. Isn't it time to let old—” But her face warned him to stop, so he did. “All right, then, how about if I promise we won't talk about Steve?”

Her fingers must have clenched a little. The brown paper bag made a brief crinkling noise. “What topics would be left, then? Politics? The weather?”

“I could tell you about Heyday. It's grown since you left. They've put in a new multiplex movie theater. Stadium seating. Four whole screens. The kids all want jobs there.” She wasn't interested, but he kept going, determined to hit on something. “The bookstore expanded. And they put in a new traffic light.”

“Did they really. Where?”

Oh, hell. He hesitated just a second too long, as he recognized his mistake. She was smart. She knew what the hesitation meant.

“Where?”

He took a deep breath. “On Poplar Hill.”

“So much for that topic.” She turned away firmly. “I don't mean to be rude, Kieran. I appreciate the effort you made to come. But I really think it's better if we just say good-night.”

She fumbled with her key, trying to insert it into the lock.

“Claire.” He touched her shoulder, and she
twitched away quickly. Too quickly. The oranges on the top of her grocery bag began to teeter. She shifted them, reaching out with her other hand to try to balance things, but at that very moment the door swung open, and she lurched forward.

Fruit and fresh vegetables spilled everywhere, and a box of spinach spaghetti hit the landing with enough force to split open. Thin green straws hopped and tumbled crazily, covering the concrete and bouncing down the stairs.

He caught the bag as it fell, just in time to save the sparkling water.

She knelt immediately and began scooping up bits of broccoli. “I'll get it,” she said. “It's okay. I've got it.”

He crouched beside her. “Let me help.”

For a minute he thought she was going to refuse. For a minute, she thought so, too. He could read it in her eyes. But obviously even she could see how impossibly rude that would be. She blinked, brushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded.

“Thanks,” she said. She dumped a handful of little green florets into the bag and began scooping up some more.

It took several minutes, but finally they had it all, down to the last strand of green spaghetti. She went in first. She left the door open behind her, so he assumed she wouldn't call the police if he followed her in.

It was a beautiful apartment. Had she just recently moved in? The living room had high ceilings and an elegant coffee-colored molding; a brand-new, thick, champagne-beige carpet; and almost no furniture. One chair with a throw blanket across its arm, one
small coffee table and a bookcase with a stereo on top—that was it. No sofa, no lamp, no stack of unopened mail on the foyer table. No tail-wagging puppy, no roommate, no—

No
anything.

“It's a nice place,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”

“A couple of years. Since I left Heyday.” She had gone straight to the kitchen. He heard the growling sound of the garbage disposal churning up broccoli—and discouraging any further conversation.

Two years? He stood in the doorway and looked around incredulously. She'd lived in this apartment for two years, and she had yet to hang a picture? She had never bought a television?

He moved through the big, hollow room and entered the kitchen. It looked a little more lived-in. The small breakfast bay had two chairs, and the table was covered in books and papers. He had heard she was still teaching. This must be where she created her lesson plans and did her grading.

He handed her his collection of ruined food and watched as she fed it to the disposal. “Thanks,” she said again. But she didn't quite look at him. She didn't quite meet his eyes.

When she was finished, she washed her hands carefully; dried them on a blue towel, which she refolded neatly on its bar; and then turned to him.

“So. You said you were hungry. I'm a terrible cook, but I have a few frozen dinners. Would you like me to heat one up for you?”

“That would be very nice,” he said. He wasn't sure what had made her decide to let him stay. Maybe she was too tired to go on arguing with him.
Maybe she'd decided it was easier to feed him and then send him on his way.

Whatever the reason, he wasn't going to give her an opportunity to change her mind. “How about if I set the table?”

She turned and smiled a little. “The table's a terrible mess. Sometimes I eat in the living room. But there's only one chair. I'm not exactly set up for entertaining.”

It almost took the years away, that smile. He felt something relax inside. Perhaps the real Claire was still alive inside that uptight iron maiden. He hoped so. He wasn't sure why that mattered so much, but it did.

“No problem,” he said. “Just tell me where everything is, and I'll improvise.”

She pointed out the cabinets and drawers that held all the flatware and dishes. Then she rummaged a minute in the freezer and emerged holding two red-and-white cartons.

“I've got vegetable lasagna and vegetable lasagna,” she said. She raised one eyebrow. “Your choice.”

He smiled. “Vegetable lasagna sounds good.”

They didn't talk while she put the microwave through its paces. His instincts told him not to rush things. They were doing fine, especially considering how long it had been since they'd seen each other, and how hostile their parting had been. But the truce felt fragile, and he didn't want to test it.

When both boxes were warmed up, she moved to the breakfast table and began stacking papers, preparing to move them to the kitchen counter.

“That's okay,” he said, touching the pile of pa
pers. He avoided connecting with her hand. “I've got us set up in here.”

She looked up with a quizzical expression. “Where?”

“Come see,” he said. He led the way to the living room. He'd put the plates and utensils on the coffee table, but he'd solved the seating problem a little more creatively. While she'd been putting away the few groceries that survived, he had taken the throw and spread it across the carpet like a picnic blanket.

He thought it looked kind of nice. The only light in the room came from three brass sconces at intervals along the cream-colored walls, so it wasn't terribly well illuminated. But it had a pleasant, picnic-under-the-stars feeling, and he hoped she'd go for it.

She hesitated, holding a little plastic tray of vegetable lasagna in each hand. He could feel her internal debate—was this too cozy? Was he trying to get too close?

Finally she held the food out to him. “If I'm going to sit on the floor, I'd better put on something more comfortable. I'll be right back.”

And she meant it. When she returned, just a couple of minutes later, she was wearing a yellow cotton sundress, and she had brushed some of the stiffness out of her hair. Now that it was swinging more naturally, and shining in the light from the sconces, he realized that her haircut was actually quite sexy.

In fact, she looked beautiful.

She paused at the stereo. She turned it on—maybe feeling that awkward silences would be more easily covered up if they had some background music. A classical station was playing Chopin, and she made a small face, probably judging it to be too much like
“mood” music. She punched a couple of preset buttons and found an oldies station that was playing some nice, low-key rock and roll.

“That okay?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

He was already cross-legged on the floor, with his pseudo-food in front of him, and as she dropped down beside him, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was the same perfume she'd always worn. He smiled, strangely relieved. It was as if Claire, the real Claire, was materializing before his eyes.

They each took a bite of their lukewarm lasagna. God, it was awful.

She grimaced. “Maybe if we open a bottle of wine, that would take the edge off this stuff. Someone gave me one as a moving-in present. I'm pretty sure it's still in there.”

Two years ago? If the lack of a dining-room table hadn't told him she didn't socialize much, the two-year-old bottle of wine would have.

“Great,” he said. He didn't care about the food, but he was definitely in favor of anything that might take the edge off this stilted conversation.

“I'll get it.” As she climbed to her feet and headed into the kitchen, he watched her go, pleased to see how soft and feminine her sleeveless dress was, pleased that she still wore yellow, which used to be her favorite color.

Strange that he should remember that. He wasn't usually the least bit interested in women's clothes. Through the years, many of his girlfriends had complained that he simply never noticed, no matter how much money they spent. So why on earth should Claire's wardrobe matter?

Suddenly, he felt a flash of insight. And he finally realized why, in spite of every urging of his own better judgment, he had searched out Claire Strickland's address tonight.

It was purely selfish, really. He needed to assure himself that, all things considered, she was doing okay. That Steve's death had not destroyed her.

He needed to get at least that one small load of guilt off his breaking back.

Kieran didn't know whose fault Steve's death really was—not in any absolute moral, philosophical, religious sense, anyhow. In the eyes of the law, of course, it had been Steve's own fault. He had been speeding.

But
why
was he speeding? Because he didn't want to disappoint Kieran. Because Kieran had made it clear that commitment to their team was the most important thing in the world.

Maybe, as Claire had thrown in his face that night, Steve had died trying to live up to Kieran's impossible expectations.

He couldn't bring Steve back. But perhaps, if he could see that Claire's life hadn't been lost that morning, too, his conscience would let up a little.

He leaned back against the wall, swallowed another bite of cardboard lasagna and waited. Wine was exactly what they needed. Maybe after a couple of glasses he just might find out how deeply under this mound of grief and repression the real Claire Strickland was actually buried.

 

W
HILE
K
IERAN RINSED
the dishes, Claire rested her head against the wall and decided that she definitely shouldn't have opened the wine.

It wasn't that she was drunk. She'd had only a couple of glasses, and, even as out of practice as she was, it would take more than that. No, the problem was that she had begun to feel relaxed. Somewhere during this weird picnic dinner, she had begun to enjoy herself, to enjoy Kieran's company, to enjoy hearing about home and laughing at his stories.