Keisha looked between the two of them. “Mr. Krause, this is Ms. Owens, your colleague. You’ll be teaching in her classroom for two periods, and you’ll be working together on issues related to the AP program in our department.”
When he moved closer, Rose took a certain grim satisfaction in the realization that she stood taller than him, at least when wearing heels.
She was a forty-two-year-old professional, and she’d act like a forty-two-year-old professional. And forty-two-year-old professionals shook hands with new colleagues and offered help, no matter how violently frustration and fury hammered at their temples.
She extended her hand, and he took it.
“I’m Martin.” The handshake was brief, his hand dry and warm, his gaze direct. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Under his scrutiny, she struggled to remain as smooth and impervious as a polished diamond. “And I’m Rose. If you’d like, I can stay until after your meeting with Keisha and answer any questions you might have about our Honors World History curriculum and our AP program.”
Keisha answered for him, her smile rife with both relief and gratitude. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Ms. Owens.”
Martin echoed Keisha’s thanks in a low murmur.
As Rose left the office, the department chair followed her out and shut the door.
“I mean it,” Keisha whispered. “Thank you. I won’t forget how well you handled this. E-mail me if you want to discuss these changes again before our report date.”
Rose forced her tongue to form the words. “I’m fine. Just send Martin to my—” Oh, Jesus. This was going to sting. “Just send Martin to our classroom when you two are done.”
Keisha nodded and spoke at her normal volume. “Thank you again, Ms. Owens. I hope you have a relaxing last week of vacation.”
The other woman reentered the office and closed the door behind her, leaving Rose alone in the empty, echoing hallway, waiting to assist the paragon.
Sometimes being a forty-two-year-old professional sucked enormous, hairy kiwis.
Two
“The state’s standardized testing happens the week after the AP exam?” Martin double-checked the schedule Rose had printed in the department office, hoping he’d gotten the dates wrong. “Those kids will be exhausted.”
She tapped a gleaming nail on the paper. “They are. But the AP prep usually covers everything they need to know for the state test, so it’s not quite as terrible as it sounds.”
“By the time all the testing ends, I imagine you’re exhausted too.” He offered her a small, forced smile. “Maybe more than the students.”
She turned away with a noncommittal hum. “Let’s designate some areas for you to store your supplies in my room.”
Nope. Nothing there except pure professionalism. No connection whatsoever.
He let his expression revert to his normal—as his ex-wife used to call it—Resting Proctologist Face. Why proctologists, he didn’t know. But as over four decades of candid photos could confirm, his default expression did not tend toward jollity, no matter what he was actually feeling. In class field trip photos, he’d been the sternest, most worried-looking second-grader in school history.
To be fair, however, right now he had good reason to be concerned.
After an entire adult life spent swimming in the turbulent waters of department politics, Martin recognized its dangers, even those concealed beneath a mirror-like surface. So he knew for a fact: When he’d entered the social studies department office, he’d somehow ventured into water so cold and deep, he risked becoming a human popsicle.
Not because of his new supervisor, Keisha. She seemed genuinely pleased to have him in her department, and she’d welcomed him with natural—if harried—warmth.
Rose Owens…she was a different matter entirely.
She wasn’t actively repugnant or a bully, like the head of secondary-level social studies for the school system. During the interview process, Dale Locke had behaved like an unmitigated dick to the women and underlings around him. The type of dick Martin had tried to avoid his entire childhood, with notably limited success.
It was hard to avoid pompous blowhard assholes when they were your immediate family, he’d found.
Rose, in contrast to Locke, couldn’t have been more professional or generous with her help over the last hour or two. She’d shown him the textbooks he’d be using. Explained the school’s schedule. Taken him to her classroom, still empty for the summer. Discussed the information students would be expected to master for the end-of-year state tests.
But the chill surrounding her was so palpable, he’d half-wondered during their handshake whether his fingers might stick to hers as they would an ice cube.
No, not a cube. A smooth sphere of ice, like the ones at that fancy, way-too-pricey bar he and Sabrina had visited during their last-ditch, let’s-try-to-save-this-marriage getaway in Manhattan several years ago.
Like those spheres, Rose looked expensive. Beautifully rounded. Slippery in her perfection. And cold. Jesus, so cold.
She wore unrelieved black and dressed in sleek lines. Her shiny patent leather heels emphasized her impressive height, especially the length of her pale, strong legs. From a stick-straight center part, her hair was slicked back into a gleaming twist the color of bitter coffee.
Not a single word from her mouth was objectionable. Not a single word from her mouth was personal, either. She didn’t ask him about himself. She didn’t tell him about herself. She didn’t smile. She didn’t do anything but give him necessary, job-related information.
And that was absolutely, unequivocally her choice. She didn’t owe him, a near-stranger, smiles or warmth or personal information or interest.
He’d told his daughter Bea the same thing many, many times over the years. Being a woman didn’t obligate her to make men—or anyone—comfortable in her presence. People who said otherwise could contemplate their terrible life choices while she shoved their arrogant presumption somewhere exceedingly painful.
Rose’s chilliness didn’t offend him. Not at all.
It did worry him, though.
He could guess that she wasn’t thrilled about giving up her room for both her planning periods, since any rational human would feel the same way. And if he’d understood Keisha correctly, he was also taking Rose’s Honors World History classes. Again, since getting a new prep involved untold hours of work for even longtime teachers, he had to assume she hadn’t kicked up those slick, midnight heels in a jig of joy.
He hadn’t chosen to invade her classroom, of course. He hadn’t assigned her a different prep, either. But he’d been the unwitting cause of all the upheaval she was experiencing, and only an automaton could fail to resent him for it.
The problem: They needed to work together. And he needed to make a place for himself at this school. At least for a year, and maybe longer if Bea chose to attend Marysburg University.
So if that chill was directed at him, specifically, rather than the world at large, he should try to mitigate the damage as soon as possible. Because making an enemy in his department before the first day of school? Awkward at best, career-damaging at worst.
And knowing someone was angry at him, in whatever context, made him twitchy. Always had.