Heat Wave (20 page)

She
had
to get a good night’s
sleep.

But she’d overheard most of Caleb’s
telephone conversation, and she couldn’t fall asleep as long as his
words tumbled and twirled inside her mind. He’d sequestered himself
inside the bathroom and spoken softly, but she’d heard him say,
“Jerry,” and she’d heard him mention a plea bargain, and she’d
heard him swear that he’d fight for the town manager and make
everything all right.

The guilty town manager. Lawyers might
recommended plea bargains to clients they knew to be innocent, but
only in desperate situations. Jerry Felton’s situation wasn’t
desperate. Massachusetts didn’t have the death penalty. At worst,
he was facing a fine if he was found guilty. Maybe some jail
time.

But he wouldn’t even be facing those
penalties if the best lawyer north of Boston defended the man with
all his might. Caleb would get the town manager off with, at most,
a slap on the wrist.

It was what lawyers did, she reminded
herself. It was what her father, her brother, and her
brother-in-law did, whenever they could. It was what their clients,
no matter how guilty, paid them to do.

She could accept that. She didn’t have to
like it, though.

Pressing her head more deeply into the down
pillow, she pondered the concept of legal ethics. Was it ethical
for her to be Caleb’s lover when she was also his client? He’d
originally thought it wasn’t, and then he’d thought it was. It was
probably no less ethical than figuring out a way to manipulate the
law so a man could go unpunished after embezzling a town’s pension
fund.

A pension fund into which she, as a town
employee, had paid. A pension fund she could expect to provide her
with a safe and comfortable retirement if she got tenure and
managed to enjoy a long career teaching at Brogan’s Point High
School. A pension fund from which her contribution would be
reimbursed if she didn’t get tenure—and she might need that money
to tide her over until she landed another teaching job.

Assuming she could actually land another
job. If Stuart noted in her file that she’d exposed herself in a
public place, she might never get hired to teach again.

Caleb lay close behind her, his body
spooning hers, the heat of his chest radiating into her back. She
opened her mind to the truth that, in spite of their having been
brought together by a song that had reflected the steamy weather,
in spite of the fact that she hadn’t known him long, in spite of
the fact that he was a lawyer who did lawyerly things—like fight to
keep guilty people from having to pay for their crimes—she had
fallen in love with him. She accepted his truth in her mind—and in
her heart.

But the reality of his work as an attorney
lodged in her soul like a cold, hard stone. She had spent her
entire adult life avoiding lawyers, refusing to go to law school,
refusing to date the lawyers with whom her family tried to set her
up, because she didn’t want to give her heart to someone who raked
in enormous fees by helping bad people avoid the consequences of
their actions.

She reminded herself that lawyers did good
things, too, noble things. They defended innocent people. They
helped people like her, who made silly mistakes. They contributed
to maintaining the social order, just as teachers did, and police
officers, and town managers. She knew Caleb was sometimes on the
side of the righteous. He’d cleared the name of the boyfriend of
the woman who ran this hotel, hadn’t he?

And received largesse in return—a bottle of
wine, the best table in the restaurant, a room in the inn on
ridiculously short notice.

She simply couldn’t dismiss the
understanding that there was something tawdry about all of it. And
here she was, resting in the circle of Caleb’s arms, his knees bent
against the backs of hers, his steady breath ruffling her hair as
he slept. Here she was, enjoying the spoils of that tawdry
pursuit.

How on earth was she supposed to fall
asleep?

***

His phone chimed gently. His groan of
protest rolled over her shoulder and into her ear, and he tightened
his arms around her. “You really want to get up this early?” he
asked.

“I have to.” She’d managed to doze on and
off through the night. By her estimation, she’d gotten about three
hours of sleep, total. It had been so easy to sink into slumber
after their lovely evening, hours of chatter and wine and
lovemaking. But once he’d gotten that phone call in the middle of
the night, and she’d heard him reassuring his client that he’d do
everything within his power to help the swindler beat the rap, the
romantic mood that had enveloped her as cozily as the plush
comforter on the bed had evaporated, leaving her anxious and
tense.

How she was going to get
through this day was beyond her. How she was going to explain to
Caleb her misgivings about their relationship was an even greater
challenge. She’d made peace with the odd way they’d come together.
She’d accepted that, uncharacteristic though it was for her, making
love to a man after barely a week’s acquaintance with him was all
right. But this new thing, this
lawyer
thing…

What’s the difference
between a dead lawyer and a dead skunk
in
the middle of the road? There are skid marks by the
skunk.

“I have to go home,” she told Caleb now. No
way was she going to have a conversation about his phone call at
five a.m., with the fate of her job looming just a few hours ahead
of her. “I have to shower and change and get my head on
straight.”

“Your beautiful head,” he murmured, easing
her around to face him and giving her a deep, leisurely kiss.

Unfair tactic, she thought as the heat from
his kiss melted her. She returned his kiss—she couldn’t help
herself—and then eased out of his arms and flung herself off the
bed. Caleb remained where he was, propped against the pillows in a
halfway-sitting position, flagrantly admiring her as she darted
around the room, gathering her clothing. Once she had everything
but her sandals, she escaped into the bathroom and closed the door.
The notion of dressing in front of him inhibited her, for some
reason. So much for her being an exhibitionist.

Once she was dressed, there were more
kisses, a promise from him that he’d contact her later in the day,
and a reminder that the police detective, Ed Nolan, would try to
get a copy of the video for her. “Do you want me to be a go-between
for you and Ed Nolan?” he asked.

“No.” She didn’t want Caleb
to view the video. She didn’t want to think of him as
her
lawyer as well as
Jerry Felton’s lawyer. She didn’t want to believe she needed a
lawyer. “He has my number. He can reach me directly.”

Twenty minutes later, she was back at her
condo, standing beneath the spray of a stinging hot shower. That
the pre-dawn air she’d driven through was already warm and muggy
didn’t bode well for the rest of the day. She should have taken a
cold shower. The scalding water sluicing over her skin reminded her
of Caleb’s hands, of his breath, of his mouth gliding over her most
sensitive parts.

Not helpful. She squeezed some shampoo onto
her hair and dug in with her fingertips, rubbing her scalp so hard
it hurt. As if she could wash away her confusion, her doubt, her
troubling thoughts concerning the relationship she was in with
Caleb—if it actually was a relationship. She wanted it to be.
But…

But if he managed to maneuver the justice
system to clear a guilty man, was he the right man for her? Could
she really love a man who spent his days doing that kind of
thing?

She arrived at the high school a few minutes
early, energized by two cups of strong black coffee and a fair
measure of panic. She opted to enter the building through a side
door, so she wouldn’t pass the administration offices off the front
lobby. She wanted to avoid having Stuart glimpse her, if
possible.

She also detoured away from the faculty
lounge, in case he was there, or a teacher who wanted to earn
points with him spotted her and reported her presence to him. She
made it safely to her classroom without encountering anyone who
could cause her problems. As she unpacked her tote bag and reviewed
her notes for her first class of the day, the door squeaked open.
She steeled herself, then turned to see Henry entering.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She smiled brightly. Heaven help her, if she
did get kicked out of the school, everyone’s last memory of her
would be this stiff, false smile. “I’m fine.”

“I heard Kezerian told you to take a leave
of absence for the rest of the school year.”

“Where did you hear that?”

He shrugged. “It’s making the rounds.”

“Like my video,” she said, giving up on her
attempt to smile.

He crossed to her desk and patted her
shoulder. “There was talk in the faculty lounge. I said it was
crazy. No way would Stuart pull a teacher during the last few weeks
of school.”

“Thank you. I wish I could believe
that.”

“If he forces the issue…” Henry gave her
shoulder another squeeze. “You’ve been in touch with that lawyer I
recommended, haven’t you? Caleb Solomon.”

“Yes. I’ve been in touch.” Quite an
understatement.

“And Reuben Martinez? Our union rep?”

“If I have a problem with Stuart, I’ll bring
Reuben into the loop,” she promised. She just wanted the whole
situation to disappear. She didn’t want to turn into a big party to
which lots of people had been invited.

“If you need anything…” Henry fell silent as
a couple of her pupils escaped the flow of students filling the
corridor and entered the classroom. “…I’m just down the hall,” he
concluded, motioning with his head in the direction of his own
classroom. “Come get me.”

“I’ll be fine,” Meredith said, wishing she
believed it.

More students trickled in. On the other side
of the open door, she heard a din of chattering voices and
pattering footsteps. Surely they had more important things on their
minds than a teacher’s naked breasts. Finals. Summer jobs. College,
or their course schedule at the high school next year. Vacation
trips. The town’s lovely beaches, where one could lie baking
beneath the sun—with one’s swimsuit fastened in all the proper
places.

Meredith smiled and nodded at her students
as they entered. Ashley and JoJo swept in, dressed in camisoles,
short shorts, and flip-flops, their heads bowed together and their
hair pulled back into ponytails. Tommy Lynch swaggered in, giving
Meredith a cocky smile. Like most of the boys, he wore
loose-fitting shorts that fell to his knees. Like Ashley and JoJo,
most of the girls wore shorts that barely covered their underwear.
The illogic of gender decency baffled Meredith. On the street—or in
school—girls paraded around in clothes that exposed their
shoulders, their upper chests, their bra straps, and their legs
from the crotch down, while boys wore baggy T-shirts and baggier
shorts. Yet on the beach, boys strutted about with their chests
exposed for all to see, while girls received citations and worse
if, purely by accident, they bared a breast.

By eight-ten, all her students had taken
their seats. They squirmed, conversed, and hollered greetings
across the room as she tapped attendance into her laptop and sent
it to the front office with a click. The public address system
crackled to life, leading the students in the Pledge of Allegiance
and reciting news about the Senior Week festivities, the final exam
schedule, a complaint about cars in the student parking lot
straddling the lines and taking up two spaces, and a reminder that
the summer job registry in the guidance office still listed a few
unfilled jobs.

The announcements tended to
calm her students down, to transition their focus from their social
to scholarly. “This morning, we’re going to talk a little more
about how we use themes as a key to analyzing literature—and yes,
this will be on the final,” she quipped, prompting laughter.
“You’re all masters at the classic five-paragraph essay by now. But
a good essay needs to do more than simply present a thesis, provide
three examples, and restate the thesis. To understand any piece of
writing—whether it’s
The Help
or an opinion essay on a blog, or a campaign
speech by a candidate—we need to dig beneath the surface. Theme
breaks the surface. It’s your shovel. It helps you to
dig.”

The classroom door swung open and Stuart
stepped in. He wore a neat polo shirt and twill trousers, and his
thin gray hair looked like a layer of lint on his sweat-shining
scalp. “Ms. Benoit?” he said briskly. “A word, please?”

He had a soft chin, but he jutted it toward
her as if it were a weapon. By now she’d had plenty of practice
faking smiles, and she manufactured one for him. “I’m in the middle
of a lesson,” she said quietly. “Can it wait?”

His eyes glinted. He knew she was
challenging him, and he clearly didn’t like it. “I don’t think
so.”

Her knees trembled slightly, but she was
standing behind her desk so no one could see them. And unlike her
female students, she wore a skirt that covered much of her legs.
She had been raised to be modest, polite and deferential. Yet she
knew that if she stepped outside the room, Stuart would prevent her
from reentering it.

She couldn’t call Reuben Martinez, who was
probably teaching his first math class of the day right now. And
she certainly couldn’t call Caleb.

But she didn’t need a lawyer. She’d done
nothing wrong.

She surveyed her class—twenty-six pairs of
eyes peering curiously at her. They had seen her breasts. No sense
hiding anything else from them. “Principal Kezerian wants me to
take a leave of absence for the last few weeks of the school year,”
she told them, her voice steadier than her nerves. “He believes I
can’t be an effective teacher because of—well, I’m sure you all
know the reason. If I take a leave of absence, I suppose he’ll
bring in a substitute teacher to oversee the year-end review. A
substitute teacher who hasn’t worked with you all year, who may not
be familiar with the coursework we’ve covered. What do you think
would be more helpful to you as we approach final exams? Reviewing
the work with a teacher who knows you and has worked with you all
year long, or having a substitute teacher see you through the last
stretch of class time?”