CHAPTER
THREE
On one side of the old steepled church that housed the Learning Ladder stood three turn-of-the-century grave markers, worn by age and hidden amid a canopy of trees. The other side contained a small playground with a sandbox and a blue-and-yellow climbing structure. Symbols of life and death bookending the church, which had witnessed countless ceremonies honoring both occasions.
One of the headstones was inscribed with the name Elizabeth Knapp. She’d died in her twenties and her grave was set a bit apart from the others. Nellie took the long way around the block, as she always did, to avoid passing the tiny cemetery. Still, she wondered about the young woman.
Her life could have been cut short by disease, or childbirth. Or an accident.
Had she been married? Did she have children?
Nellie set down her bag to unlock the childproof latch on the fence encircling the playground as the wind rustled through the trees. Elizabeth had been twenty-six or twenty-seven; Nellie couldn’t remember which. The detail suddenly nagged at her.
She began to walk toward the cemetery to check, but the church’s bell rang eight times, the deep, somber chords vibrating through the air and reminding her that her conferences would start in fifteen minutes. A cloud drifted in front of the sun, and the temperature abruptly dropped.
Nellie turned and stepped through the gate, pulling it closed behind her, then rolled back the protective tarp covering the sandbox so it would be ready when the children came out to play. A sharp gust threatened to yank one end away. She fought back against it, then dragged over a heavy flowerpot to secure the edge.
She hurried into the building and down the stairs to the basement, where the preschool was. The earthy, rich scent of coffee announced that Linda, the director, had already arrived. Ordinarily, Nellie would have settled her things in her classroom before greeting Linda. But today she bypassed her empty room and continued down the hall, toward the yellow light spilling out of Linda’s office, feeling the need to see a familiar face.
Nellie stepped in and discovered not just coffee but a platter of pastries. Fanning paper napkins beside a stack of Styrofoam cups was Linda, whose shiny dark bob and taupe pantsuit cinched by a crocodile belt wouldn’t have been out of place at a board meeting. Linda didn’t just dress like this for the parents—even on field day, she looked camera ready.
“Tell me those aren’t chocolate croissants.”
“From Dean and DeLuca,” Linda confirmed. “Help yourself.”
Nellie groaned. Just this morning the scale had revealed she still had five—okay, eight—pounds to lose before her wedding.
“Come on,” Linda urged. “I got plenty to sweeten up the parents.”
“These are Upper East Side parents,” Nellie joked. “No one’s going to eat sugary carbs.” Nellie looked at the platter again. “Maybe just half.” She divided one with a plastic knife.
She took a bite as she walked back to her classroom. The space wasn’t fancy, but it was roomy, and high windows allowed in some natural light. The soft rug with an alphabet-train pattern running around the edges was where her Cubs sat crisscross—applesauce for story time; in the kitchen area, they donned tiny chef’s hats and clattered pots and pans; and the dress-up corner held everything from doctor’s coats to ballerina tutus to an astronaut’s helmet.
Her mother had once asked Nellie why she didn’t want to become a “real” teacher and hadn’t understood why Nellie took offense at the question.
The feel of those pudgy, trusting hands in hers; that moment when a child deciphered letters on a page to sound out a word for the first time and looked up at Nellie in wonder; the freshness with which children interpreted the world—how could she explain how precious it all felt?
She’d always just known she wanted to teach, the way some kids feel destined to become writers, or artists.
Nellie licked a buttery flake off her fingertip, then took her planner out of her purse along with a stack of “report cards” she’d be distributing. Parents paid $32,000 a year to send their kids here for a few hours a day; the tepee-link-sending Porters weren’t alone in wanting things done a certain way. Every week, Nellie received emails, such as a recent one from the Levines requesting supplemental worksheets for gifted little Reese. Teachers’ cell phone numbers were printed in the school directory in case of emergency, but some parents applied loose definitions to the word. Once Nellie fielded a call at five A.M. because Bennett had thrown up during the night and his mother was curious about what he’d eaten at school the previous day.
That sudden shrill ring in the darkness had prompted Nellie to turn on all the lights in her room even after she realized the call was innocuous. She’d burned off her surge of adrenaline by reorganizing her closet and dresser drawers.
“What a diva,” her roommate, Sam, had said when Nellie recounted the call. “Why don’t you turn off your phone when you go to sleep?”
“Good idea,” Nellie had lied, knowing she’d never follow the advice. She didn’t listen to loud music while she jogged or commuted to work, either. And she never walked home alone late at night.
If a threat was approaching, she wanted as much warning as possible.
Nellie was scribbling a few final notes at her desk when she heard a knock on the door and looked up to see the Porters, he in a navy pin-striped suit and she in a rose-colored dress. They looked as if they were on their way to the symphony.
“Welcome,” she said as they approached and shook her hand. “Please, sit down.” She suppressed a smile as they struggled to balance on the child-size chairs around the snack table. Nellie was sitting on one, too, but by now she was used to it.
“So, as you know, Jonah is a wonderful little boy,” she began. All of her conferences started with a Lake Wobegon tone, but in Jonah’s case, it was true. Nellie’s bedroom wall was decorated with paintings created by her favorite students, including Jonah’s depiction of her as a marshmallow woman.
“Have you noticed his pencil grip?” Mrs. Porter asked, taking a notebook and pen out of her purse.
“Um, I don’t—”
“It’s pronated,” Mr. Porter interrupted. He demonstrated by grasping his wife’s pen. “See how his hand curves in like this? What are your thoughts on whether we should sign him up for occupational therapy?”
“Well, he is only three and a half.”
“Three and three-quarters,” Mrs. Porter corrected.
“Right,” Nellie said. “A lot of kids haven’t developed the fine motor skills at that age to—”
“You’re from Florida, right?” Mr. Porter asked.
Nellie blinked. “How do you— I’m sorry, why do you ask?” There was no way she had told the Porters where she was from. She was always careful not to reveal too much about her background.
It wasn’t difficult to dodge questions once you learned the tricks. When someone asked about your childhood, you told them about the tree house your father built for you, and your black cat that thought he was a dog and would sit up and beg for a treat. If college came up, you focused on the football team’s undefeated season and your part-time job at a campus restaurant, where you once started a small fire while making toast and cleared the dining area. Tell colorful, drawn-out stories that deflect attention from the fact that you aren’t actually sharing anything. Avoid specifics that will separate you from the crowd. Be vague about the year you graduated. Lie, but only when completely necessary.
“Well, things are different here in New York,” Mr. Porter was saying. Nellie looked at him carefully. He was easily fifteen years older than she, and his accent suggested he’d been born in Manhattan. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed before now. How could he have known?
“We don’t want Jonah to fall behind,” Mr. Porter said as he leaned back in his chair, then scrambled to keep from overturning it.
“What my husband is trying to explain,” Mrs. Porter interjected, “is that we’ll be applying to kindergarten next fall. We’re looking at top-tier schools.”
“I understand.” Nellie pulled her focus back. “Well, it’s certainly your decision, but you may want to wait a year.” She knew Jonah was already signed up for Mandarin classes, karate, and music lessons. Twice this week she’d seen him yawn and rub his sleepy-looking eyes. At least he had plenty of time to build sand castles and stack blocks into towers while he was here.
“I wanted to let you know about something that happened when one of his classmates forgot to bring lunch,” Nellie began. “Jonah offered to share his, which showed such empathy and kindness . . .”
Her voice trailed off when Mr. Porter’s cell phone rang.
“Yep,” he said. He made eye contact with Nellie, holding her gaze.
She’d met him only twice before, at Parents’ Night and during the fall conference. He hadn’t stared at her or acted peculiarly.
Mr. Porter twirled his hand in rapid circles, indicating she should continue. Who was he speaking to?
“Do you do regular assessments of the kids?” Mrs. Porter asked.
“Sorry?”
Mrs. Porter smiled, and Nellie noticed her lipstick matched the exact hue of her dress. “They do at the Smith School. Every quarter. Academic readiness, small-group pre-reading circles based on ability, early multiplication initiatives . . .”
Multiplication? “I do assess the children.” Nellie felt her back straighten.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mr. Porter said into the phone. She felt her gaze being pulled back to him.
“Not on multiplication . . . on, um . . . more basic skills like counting and letter recognition,” Nellie said. “If you’ll look on the back of the report card, you’ll see . . . I have categories.”
There was a moment of silence as Mrs. Porter scanned Nellie’s notes.
“Tell Sandy to get on it. Don’t lose the account.” Mr. Porter hung up and shook his head. “Are we done here?”
“Well,” Mrs. Porter said to Nellie, “I’m sure you’re busy.”
Nellie smiled, keeping her lips pressed together. Yes, she wanted to say. I am busy. Yesterday I scrubbed that rug after a kid spilled chocolate milk on it. I bought a soft blanket for the quiet corner so your overstressed boy can rest. I pulled three late shifts this week at a restaurant where I waitress because what I earn here won’t cover my cost of living—and I still walked through these doors at eight every morning with energy for your children.
She was heading back to Linda’s office to claim the other half of her croissant when she heard Mr. Porter’s booming voice: “I forgot my jacket.” He reentered her classroom and retrieved it from the back of the tiny chair.
“Why did you think I was from Florida?” Nellie blurted.
He shrugged. “My niece went to school there, too, at Grant University. I thought someone mentioned you did as well.”
That information wasn’t in her bio on the preschool website. She owned nothing with her college’s insignia—not a single sweatshirt or key chain or pennant.
Linda must have given her credentials to the Porters—they seemed like the type of parents who would want to know, Nellie told herself.
Still, she looked at him more carefully, trying to imagine his features on a young woman. She couldn’t recall any with the last name Porter. But that didn’t mean the woman hadn’t sat behind her in class or tried to rush her sorority.
“Well, my next conference is about to begin, so . . .”
He looked at the empty hallway, then back at her. “Sure. See you at graduation.” He whistled as he walked back down the hallway. Nellie watched until he disappeared through the door.
Richard rarely talked about his ex, so Nellie knew only a few things about her: She still lived in New York City. She and Richard had split up shortly before he met Nellie. She was pretty, with long dark hair and a narrow face—Nellie had done a Google search and come across a blurry thumbnail photo of her at a benefit.
And she’d been perpetually late, a habit that had irritated Richard.
Nellie sprinted the final block to the Italian restaurant, already regretting the two glasses of Pinot Grigio she’d had with the 3s and 4s teachers as a reward for surviving their conferences. They’d swapped war stories; Marnie, whose classroom was next to Nellie’s, was declared the winner because one set of parents had sent their au pair, whose English wasn’t very good, to represent them at the meeting.
Nellie had lost track of time until she checked her cell phone on the way to the bathroom. As she’d exited a stall, a woman nearly bumped into her. “Sorry!” Nellie had said reflexively. She’d moved to one side but dropped her bag, scattering its contents across the floor. The woman had stepped over the mess without a word and quickly entered a stall. (“Manners!” the preschool teacher in Nellie had longed to chastise as she knelt to retrieve her wallet and cosmetics.)
She made it to the restaurant eleven minutes late and pulled open the heavy glass door as the maître d’ looked up from his leather reservations book. “I’m meeting my fiancé,” she panted.
Nellie scanned the dining area, then saw Richard rising from his seat at a corner table. A few fine lines framed his eyes, and at his temples strands of silver were woven through his dark hair. He looked her up and down and gave her a playful wink. She wondered if she’d ever stop feeling a flutter in her stomach at the sight of him.
“Sorry,” she said as she approached. He kissed her as he pulled out her chair, and she breathed in his clean citrus scent.
“Everything okay?”
Anyone else would’ve asked almost as a formality. But Richard’s gaze stayed fixed on her; Nellie knew he truly cared about her answer.
“Crazy day.” Nellie sat down with a sigh. “Parent conferences. When we’re on the other side of that table for Richard Junior, remind me to say thank you to the teachers.”
She smoothed her skirt over her legs as Richard reached for the bottle of Verdicchio cooling on ice in a bucket. On the table, a votive candle burned low, casting a golden circle on the heavy cream-colored tablecloth.
“Just half a glass for me. I had a quick drink with the other teachers after the conferences. Linda treated; she said it was our combat pay.”
Richard frowned. “Wish I’d known. I wouldn’t have ordered a bottle.” He motioned to the waiter, a subtle gesture with his index finger, and requested a San Pellegrino. “You sometimes get a headache when you drink during the day.”
She smiled. It was one of the first things she’d ever told him.
She’d been sitting next to a soldier on a flight from South Florida after visiting her mother. She’d moved to Manhattan for a fresh start immediately after graduating from college. If her mom didn’t still live in Nellie’s hometown, she’d never return.
Before the plane took off, the attendant had approached. “There’s a gentleman in first class who would like to offer you his seat,” she’d told the young soldier, who stood up and said, “Awesome!”
Then Richard had walked down the aisle. The knot of his tie was loosened, as if he’d had a long day. He held a drink and a leather briefcase. Those eyes had met Nellie’s and he’d flashed a warm smile.
“That was really nice of you.”
“No big deal,” Richard said as he settled down beside her.
Then the safety announcements began. A few moments later the plane lurched upward.
Nellie gripped the armrest as they bounced through an air pocket.
Richard’s deep voice, close to her ear, surprised her: “It’s just like when your car goes over a pothole. It’s perfectly safe.”
“I know that logically.”
“But it doesn’t help. Maybe this will.”
He passed her his glass and she noticed his ring finger was bare. She hesitated. “I sometimes get a headache when I drink during the day.”
The plane rumbled, and she took a big gulp.
“Finish it. I’ll order another . . . or maybe you’d prefer a glass of wine?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and she noticed the crescent-shaped silver scar by his right temple.
She nodded. “Thank you.” Never before had a seatmate tried to comfort her on a flight; usually people looked away or flipped through a magazine while she fought through her panic alone.
“I get it, you know,” he said. “I have this thing about the sight of blood.”
“You do?” The plane shuddered slightly, the wings tipping to the left. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
“I’ll tell you about it, but you have to promise not to lose respect for me.”
She nodded again, not wanting his soothing voice to stop.
“So a few years ago one of my colleagues passed out and hit his head on the edge of a conference table in the middle of a meeting. . . . I guess he had low blood pressure. Either that or the meeting bored him into a coma.”
Nellie opened her eyes and released a little laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that on an airplane.
“I tell everyone to step back and I grab a chair and help the guy into it. I was yelling for someone to get water when I see all this blood. And all of a sudden I start getting light-headed, like I’m going to faint, too. I practically kick the injured guy out of the chair so I can sit down, and suddenly everyone is ignoring him and trying to help me.”
The plane leveled off. A soft chime sounded, and a flight attendant walked down the aisle, offering headphones. Nellie let go of the armrest and looked at Richard. He was grinning at her.
“You survived, we’re through the clouds. It should be pretty smooth from here on out.”
“Thank you. For the drink and the story . . . You get to keep your man card, even with the fainting.”
Two hours later, Richard had told Nellie about his job as a hedge fund manager and revealed he had a soft spot for teachers ever since one had helped him learn to pronounce his R’s: “It’s because of her that I didn’t introduce myself to you as Wichawd.” When she asked him if he had family in New York, he shook his head. “Just an older sister who lives in Boston. My parents died years ago.” He bridged his hands and looked down at them. “A car accident.”
“My father passed away, too.” He glanced back over at her. “I have this old sweater of his. . . . I still wear it sometimes.”
They were both silent for a beat, then the flight attendant instructed the passengers to close their tray tables and tilt their seats fully upright.
“Are you okay with landings?”
“Maybe you can tell me another story to get me through it,” Nellie said.
“Hmmm. Can’t think of one off the top of my head. Why don’t you give me your number in case one comes to me?”
He handed her a pen from his suit pocket, and she tilted her head to jot it down on a napkin, her long blond hair falling forward in front of her shoulders.
Richard reached out and gently ran his fingers down the length of it before tucking it back behind her ear. “So beautiful. Don’t ever cut it.”