Smoky Mountain Reunion

She knew he cared about her. She saw the glow in his eyes when they talked and laughed. He touched her when they were working together—nothing sexual, of course. Anybody could walk in on them in a classroom. But his hand would rest on her shoulder while he looked over the work on her desk. Or his fingers would brush hers and linger, as he reached for one of the gazillion papers she had to fill out for every college application.

Nola had been with her share of guys, and she could read the signs. Mason was falling in love with her. Not for her money, like the idiots back in Boston. Mason had a job, and money of his own. And not even just for sex, because any woman would want him if he looked at her twice.

No, Mason wanted her because they were soul mates. Because they were meant to be together, forever. And as soon as she graduated, as soon as she got free of Hawkridge, he would make her his own.

Like most adolescent fantasies, Nola’s had been destined to remain unfulfilled. And now, away from the distraction of his magnetic personality, she could remember her resolution regarding Mason Reed. She wanted to put him—her memories and fantasies of him, to be exact—firmly in the past where they belonged. Then she’d marry Ted and have his children, sharing a home and their careers in Boston. They’d spend summers on Cape Cod, or even in France, perhaps, renting a small cottage in Provence. Ted specialized in Napoleonic politics. He could do research while the children learned fluent French.

Unfortunately for her plans and intentions, however, the encounter with Mason this afternoon had simply confirmed Nola’s worst fears.

The man appeared to be as irresistible as ever.

Chapter Three

“Why do I have to eat in the kitchen?”

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Mason frowned at the knot of his tie, pulled it loose and started again. “Because you aren’t old enough to eat at the head table.”

“I could eat at one of the girls’ tables.”

“You don’t belong there, either.”

“I don’t belong in the kitchen.” Arms folded, lower lip stuck out, Garrett sat cross-legged on the floor and pouted as hard as he knew how.

“What’s wrong with the kitchen?” Mason started over on his tie for the third time. “It’s big and warm, and Mrs. Werner lets you eat as much as you want.”

“Babies eat in the kitchen.”

“I’ve never seen a baby there. Just you.”

“Why can’t I stay here by myself?”

Here they went again. “You’re not old enough to stay alone.”

“I am, too! I’ll do my homework, watch some TV. I won’t let anybody inside until you get back.” He sprang to his feet and threw his arms around Mason’s waist. “Please, Dad, please? I’m old enough to take care of myself while you’re just over at the school. Please?”

Mason was tempted. Mostly, he was tired of arguing. But he knew what Gail would say if she were here to be asked. “No, Garrett. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.”

“That’s stupid.” Garrett kicked at the door, slammed it back against the wall and stomped down the hallway to his room. He slammed that door, too.

Mason braced his hands on the edge of the counter and let his head hang, chin to chest. He and Garrett seemed to be flying at different altitudes these days. Nothing much happened without an argument—breakfast, dinner, homework, bath, bed.

As he left the bathroom, he noticed that Garrett’s slam had dented the plaster wall behind the door. Mason swore to himself. The house belonged to Hawkridge and he was trying to keep the place intact so he could turn it over to the school without qualms when…if…he left. One more job for the to-do list—repair plaster.

“Come on, Garrett, let’s go.” He knocked on the closed door as he went by, but got no response. Backing up, he knocked again. “Garrett, don’t make this a battle, son. Just do what I ask, please?”

After a long minute, the door opened and a stone-faced boy emerged.

“Thanks,” Mason said, putting a hand on one thin shoulder.

His son shrugged off the touch and marched downstairs without a word.

“Get your coat,” was a waste of breath. Jaw clenched, Mason slipped into his own jacket, pulled the front door shut and followed Garrett down the porch steps. The only way this day could get worse was if he had to sit beside Nola Shannon during dinner.

Surely fate would not be so cruel.

WITH THE COTTAGE door key in the pocket of her slacks, Nola stepped into the front garden, where rosebushes were leafing out. Early tulips and late hyacinths glowed like jewels in the last rays of spring sunlight. Climbing rose canes rambled through the arched trellis over the gate, as well, and the white picket fence stood in a border of “pinks”—carnations in shades from white to deepest burgundy.

She stopped for a moment, charmed by the pink stucco cottage and its setting. Thankfully, she’d determined how to conquer the challenge Mason’s continued appeal presented—all she had to do was keep her distance. She’d taken this sabbatical in the first place to escape the pressure of Ivy League academics, the stress of a publish-or-perish lifestyle, the constant demands on her time and energy from people who always wanted more. She could escape at Hawkridge as well as anywhere else, maybe even better.

Long walks in the mountains, good books to read, easy math to teach—those were her goals for the next few months. If she could help some of the students at Hawkridge, then she’d feel her time well spent.

She didn’t need Mason’s friendship anymore, or his advice. He’d dismissed her when she was eighteen, and she would return the favor now.

Stepping through the garden gate, Nola saw her path was about to merge with that of a young woman approaching with strong, athletic strides. Her hand lifted in greeting as she drew close.

“You’re Nola Shannon, right? I’m Ruth Ann Blakely, the riding instructor. Welcome to Hawkridge.”

“Thank you.” Nola fell into step with Ruth Ann on the cobblestone walk. “It’s good to be here. The mountains are so gorgeous this time of year.”

Ruth Ann glanced at the hills surrounding them and drew in a deep, appreciative breath. “We’re having a really nice spring. I still think fall is my favorite, though. I love the richness of the colors.”

“Do you live in one of the cottages?”

The trainer nodded. “Barrett’s. It’s nearest the stable, done in blues. I hate pink. Are you sitting at the head table tonight?” When Nola nodded, Ruth Ann gave a low whistle. “It’s a little unnerving, sitting up there above the rest of the dining hall, knowing everybody’s watching and waiting for you to choke on your food.”

Nola grimaced. “I hadn’t thought about it quite that way.”

“Or you could dribble gravy down your front.”

“Thanks so much for the suggestion.”

Ruth Ann looked her over. “I’m thinking you don’t suffer from accidents of that kind, though. Me, I always seem to leave the table with something on my shirt. Last year, the first time I sat at the head table, I dribbled raspberry sauce on my white blouse.”

“So you’re fairly new to Hawkridge yourself?” They’d reached the paved service road leading to the Manor.

“Yes and no. I only started full-time teaching last fall. But I grew up at Hawkridge, more or less. My dad was the trainer until I took over. My grandfather managed the stable for Howard Ridgely.”

“I liked riding,” Nola said as they climbed the steps of the east entrance to the house. “Though I wasn’t devoted the way some girls were. Still, shouldn’t I remember you?”

Ruth Ann opened the heavy mahogany door for Nola to enter. “I groomed and tacked up the horses in the barn and Dad would lead them out for the students to mount. You wouldn’t have seen me too often.”

She shrugged as she came into the hallway. “But I run my program differently. If you want to ride, you need to know how to take care of the animal. I don’t treat these girls like princesses. They may be rich, but they’re still human.”

Nola winced. “Ouch.”

The other woman stopped, thunked the heel of her hand against her forehead and groaned. “Sorry. Tact is not my strong suit. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just saying—”

Smiling again, Nola shook her head. “It’s okay. Hawkridge has always been criticized for being too exclusive and costing too much. I’m surprised they haven’t made some changes by now.”

“There are scholarships available nowadays, a few more each year. Miss Agatha was a real snob, though. She’s probably turning over in her grave to see the ‘lower classes’ getting a chance to attend her school.”

“It’s about time.” The paneled doors along this hallway opened into the math and science classrooms. Nola wondered which one would be hers when classes started on Monday. Which one was Mason’s?

At the end of the hall they pushed through double doors into the main entry hall and turned right, following a group of girls into the dining hall, once the mansion’s ballroom, which occupied the north wing underneath the literature department and the library. Nola caught sight of the students in front of her, dressed in jeans, T-shirts and flip-flops, and leaned close to Ruth Ann.

“No uniforms? They come to dinner in jeans?”

“On weekends,” Ruth Ann whispered back. “During the week they have to wear slacks or skirts, nice shirts and proper shoes. Uniforms are for classes only these days.”

That would take some getting used to. Nola’s Hawkridge uniform hung in one of the closets in her Boston house—a pleated skirt in the sky-blue plaid of the Saint Andrew’s clan, to which the Ridgely family was distantly related, along with a white shirt, black sweater and black kneesocks. Maybe she would give away those clothes when she returned home—a personal declaration of freedom.

“I’m sitting with the students,” Ruth Ann said as girls filed past them and found their places at the long tables. “I’m advising the girls on Third West this year—all sixth and seventh graders.” The dormitory wings at Hawkridge ran east to west, three floors on each side, with twenty-four tenants on each hall. Advisers sat with their students at each meal, rather than at the faculty tables.

“They must give you some trouble, since they’re new to the school.”

“Oh, they do.” The light of battle shone in Ruth Ann’s eyes. “But there are twenty horses in my stable, each of them producing fifty pounds of manure a day. Mess with me, I tell them, you’ll be moving half a ton of poop before breakfast every morning. Most of the time, they listen.” With a wave of her hand, she headed toward the Third West table.

Nola swallowed hard, squared her shoulders and made her way down the long center aisle to the head table. On either side, she felt the curious gazes of the girls, heard whispers running along the tables. There was surveillance, as well, from the dining-hall staff setting out food, and from those teachers already seated on the dais. She couldn’t see them clearly, and although she kept walking, the head table seemed to recede with each step, until she began to think she would never arrive. By the time she reached it, she wondered if trial by fire wouldn’t have been easier.

Jayne Thomas was waiting for her. “Thanks for coming.” She put one hand on Nola’s back and motioned her forward with the other one. “I know that’s a tough walk, but it is a Hawkridge tradition. I’ve put you on my right, with Mason Reed on your other side. You can relax now.”

Hah, Nola said to herself. That’s what you think.

Mason stood up as she approached, and pulled out the chair she would sit in. Tonight, he wore a navy blazer and tan slacks, with a white shirt and the Hawkridge tie—burgundy with a golden hawk’s head pattern. His smile seemed stiff, even distant, and his dark eyes somehow missed connecting with hers.

Still, a peculiar kind of vibration hummed through her body at the sight of him. Nola didn’t know whether she was going to faint or be sick. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite.

But she managed some kind of smile. “Hello, again.”

“Welcome to dinner.” He slid the chair in behind her as she sat down, catching her behind the knees at just the right moment. Then he took his seat beside her. “You handled that quite well.”

She reached for the water goblet at her place and took a much-needed drink. “I wish I’d been warned. I didn’t remember it as such an ordeal.”

Mason shook out his napkin. “The girls never do realize. But it’s basically the final test before you get the job.”

Nola surveyed the crowd rather than look into his face. “Has anyone ever failed?”

“I once saw a prospective teacher break down and run out,” he said. “A couple of years after you left, I’d guess that was. He never returned.”

“He?” She lifted the goblet again, watching the play of light through the cut crystal. “What was he supposed to teach?”

He hesitated for a pregnant moment. “Self-defense.”

She’d just taken another sip of water. Stunned by Mason’s dry delivery and unbalanced by her own nerves, Nola laughed so suddenly and so hard that she sprayed water over her plate, the tablecloth and the front of her shirt.

A single second earlier, Tommy had rung the bell signaling the start of the meal. An immediate silence fell, exposing Nola’s indecorous sputter to the entire crowd.

Under the table, Mason handed her his napkin to wipe her dripping chin. Tommy glanced their way, but kept a straight face. “Students and faculty of Hawkridge School, welcome back from your spring travels. The staff and faculty are glad everyone’s returned safely, and we look forward to getting down to work again. For now, however, enjoy your meal.”

After a brief round of applause had died away, Mason said, “Salad?”

Her gaze fixed on her plate, Nola shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Dark green spinach leaves, golden orange slices and huge walnut pieces tumbled onto her plate from the spoon in his hand. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Nobody noticed.”

“Of course they did,” she hissed. “The entire dining room saw me make an utter idiot of myself.”

“They saw you being human.”

She snorted, but didn’t speak. When the baked chicken and wild rice came Mason’s way, he served Nola, then himself. “You’ll get more attention if you don’t eat something,” he told her.

She picked up her fork, searching for a diversion of some kind. “Where is Garrett having dinner?”

“In the kitchen with the staff. They’re all practically family.”

Her first bite of the chicken awakened a cascade of food memories. “Mrs. Werner is still the cook?” Forgetting to be wary, she stared at Mason in surprise. “I always thought she would retire any minute. She must be in her seventies now.”

He nodded, smiling. “She brought in her daughter to help. And her granddaughter lends a hand for big occasions.”

The bread basket arrived. Nola unfolded the cloth and inhaled deeply. “Oh, they make the same rolls as when I was here. How wonderful!” She placed one roll on her plate, hesitated, then took another.

Beside her, Mason chuckled. “That’s the first enthusiasm I’ve seen you exhibit since you arrived.”

She tore off a piece and closed her eyes to savor the yeasty, buttery flavor. “I used to steal them,” she confessed. “I’d gather as many as I could get away with and put them in my shirt, under my sweater. After lights-out, I’d have this orgy of roll eating. They were so warm, so sweet—”

“Is that your best memory of Hawkridge School, then? The dinner rolls?”

The question seemed casual enough. Just in time, though, Nola recognized the easy familiarity that had sprung to life between them. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall under the spell of his grin, wouldn’t allow herself to be enchanted by his warm, intimate drawl. She didn’t need Mason Reed anymore.

So she would turn the tables on him. “I’d forgotten that about you,” she told him, spearing her fork into crunchy spinach and a juicy slice of orange.

“Forgotten what?”

“That you’re always asking questions, always poking and prodding, getting people to think, to reveal details they hadn’t planned to share.”

When she glanced at him, he was staring at her with his dark eyes round, his brows lifted. “I do that?”

“Don’t try that innocent face with me. You know you do it quite deliberately.”

“But you didn’t answer the question.”

“My favorite thing about Hawkridge…” She looked out over the dining hall, at all the girls settled in to eat, at the teachers sitting with them, keeping an eye out for any trouble, at the quiet, caring servers, mostly women, moving among them. At that moment, one of the staff set a bowl of ice cream and a steaming apple pie on their table, just to Mason’s right.

Confessing the truth would make her vulnerable. She had to stay strong, keep him at a distance.

“My favorite thing at Hawkridge,” Nola said firmly, “was always dessert.”

AFTER DISMISSING the girls from the dining hall, Tommy turned to Nola and Mason. “I’m having a few people in for drinks. Please come, both of you.”

Nola hesitated, but Mason did not. “Thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes on the headmistress, “but I think I’d better get Garrett home. He’s supposed to show up for a soccer game out in town at eight tomorrow morning.”

“So he is on a team?” Tommy asked. “I wasn’t sure you’d convince him to try out.”

Mason shrugged. “I can’t always get him to go to practice, which means he doesn’t get much chance to play. I’m hoping a few games spent sitting on the bench will change that behavior.”

Tommy nodded. “Well, good luck.” She turned to Nola. “Professor Shannon, can you join us?”

At that moment, Mason lost the battle to keep his gaze away from Nola Shannon. Her fair hair shone silver in the lights of the dining-hall chandeliers. She wore solid black—a shirt and slacks Mason thought were silk, and a jacket he knew was cashmere from the feel of it when he’d helped her put it on after the meal. He’d managed the process without actually touching her at all. Too bad he hadn’t held his breath, and so would have to remember the drift of expensive perfume he’d caught when she was close.

Then she shook her head in response to Tommy’s invitation. “I’m very grateful, but I flew out at six this morning and haven’t really caught my breath since then. Could I take a rain check?”

“Of course. I should have realized.” Tommy put her hand on Mason’s arm. “Your way goes past Pink’s Cottage. Be sure Nola gets home safe, won’t you?”

Not exactly what he’d intended, but at least Garrett could chaperone. “Sure.”

Tommy walked with them to the kitchen to give Mrs. Werner her compliments on the dinner, and then left for her own quarters in the main part of the Manor. Garrett sat at the big oak table in the center of the huge Victorian kitchen, finishing up a giant-size dish of apple pie and ice cream.

He ignored Mason, but his eyes lit up when he saw Nola. “Ms. Shannon! I got Homer down to the pond this afternoon. He slipped right into the grass like he belonged there.”

“I’m glad he felt at home,” Nola said. “I’m sure he was grateful to you for taking care of him.”

“Unlike some children,” Mason muttered to himself. More loudly, he said, “Finished, Garrett? We need to get home.”

Picking up the bowl, Garrett proceeded to slurp down the last of the melted ice cream.

“Garrett.” He closed his eyes in shame. “That’s rude.”

Slurp.

“I try,” Mason told Nola. “But he’s a boy.”

She smiled. “A suitable explanation.” Glancing around the room, Nola shook her head. “I spent more than my share of time in here. Whenever I made trouble—and I made a lot of trouble in the first couple of years—a teacher would assign me kitchen duty. I developed into a terrific potato peeler.”

“That you were.” Mrs. Werner set a wide ceramic bowl covered with a cloth on the table. “Did you like my rolls tonight, Miss Nola?”

Before Nola could answer, the cook tugged her into a hug. Caught in the ample embrace, Nola’s slender body remained stiff. After a moment, she lifted a hand and patted the cook’s shoulder, then drew back, putting a good distance between them.

“Of course,” she said, cheeks pink, voice shaky. “Those rolls are even better than I remembered.”

“You should take a few with you.” Mrs. Werner turned to one of the cabinets. “I always have leftovers.”

“No, really…” But Nola’s voice died away as she was handed a paper package. “Thank you,” she said, blushing yet again. “I’ll enjoy them, I know.”

Mason pulled Garrett’s chair away from the table, then scooted it back in when his son stood up. “We’ll get out of your way,” he told Mrs. Werner. “’Night.”

“More rolls in the morning,” Mrs. Werner told Nola. “Come for breakfast.”

They left through the kitchen door and turned west, toward Pink’s Cottage. “I’ll need a new wardrobe when I leave here,” Nola said. “I’ll have gained fifty pounds eating these rolls.”

“You’ll get your share of exercise,” Mason said, watching Garrett sprint ahead of them. “The faculty still plays volleyball on Mondays and Wednesdays. You can join them.”

“I haven’t played in years,” she said. “I remember the student/faculty game my senior year, though. You spiked the ball practically down my throat. Scared me to death.”

Mason grinned. That had been a great hit. “The students won anyway.”

“Are you still playing?”

The answer wasn’t easy to give. “When Gail…” He cleared his throat. “There’s not as much time as there used to be. I don’t play anymore, either.”

“That’s too bad.” Her hand lifted as if to touch his arm, then fell back at her side.

They walked the rest of the way to her cottage in silence, with six feet of cool night air between them. When Mason opened the Pink’s Cottage garden gate, Nola stepped through, then turned to face him, closing the white picket panel between them.

“Thanks for the escort.”

“My pleasure.” His pleasure, indeed. The night’s shadows showed off the arches of her cheekbones, the squared curve of her chin, the provocative fullness of her lower lip. Mason made himself look away from Nola’s mouth and found himself caught in the glimmer of her pale eyes, shining almost silver in the darkness. She stood just a breath or two away, protected only by the flimsy barrier of the picket gate. A kiss would be so easy to give…to take….

“Hiiiyah!” Garrett yelled from somewhere behind him, battling imaginary aliens with his own brand of martial arts.

Nola jumped, and took a step backward. “He’s quite a handful. And a charmer to go along with it. I didn’t know children could be so easy to talk to.”

“Oh, yes.” Mason scrubbed a hand over his face, hoping to clear his brain. “Until you say no. Then he turns into the Incredible Sulking Child.”

Since sunset, the breeze had picked up, become an actual wind. Clouds veered across the sky, obscuring the stars, veiling the moon. “Here comes our rainy weather.”

Nola shivered inside her sweater. “But today was so beautiful!”

Mason rejected the urge to put himself between her and the cold. “The mountains are unpredictable. We’ve had snowstorms later in the spring than this. Hope you brought your raincoat and boots.” He glanced over his shoulder and called, “Come on, Garrett, let’s go.”

Even as he looked back toward Nola, he heard the door to Pink’s Cottage shut tight. The lock clicked into place. She’d gone inside without saying goodbye. He only wished he felt relieved.

Garrett ran up and tackled him around the waist. Apparently, all was now forgiven. “Where’s Ms. Shannon?”

“In her house, where we should be.” A Freudian slip, if ever there was one. “I mean, we should be in our house.”

His son didn’t notice the mistake. “I was gonna ask her to come over tomorrow to see the pond and the animals.”

Close call. Mason sighed. “Right now, you need to go to bed, get ready for your soccer game tomorrow.”

“Aw, Dad, do I hafta play?” Garret dropped his arms and trudged on alone, his head hanging low. “I don’t like the guys on the team. And the coach is mean. Can’t I stay home?”