Page 9 of All I Want for Christmas

  Nell's classroom door was open. Not like any class­room he'd done time in, he thought. This one had a pi­ano, music stands, instruments, a tape recorder. There was the usual blackboard, wiped clean, and a desk where Nell was currently working.

  He watched her for a long moment, the way her hair fell, the way her fingers held the pen, the way her sweater draped at the neck. It occurred to him that if he'd ever had a teacher who looked like that, he would have been a great deal more interested in music.

  "Hi."

  Her head snapped up. There was a martial light in her eyes that surprised him, a stubborn set to her jaw. Even as he watched, she took a long breath and worked up a smile.

  "Hello, Mac. Welcome to bedlam."

  "Looks like a lot of work." He stepped inside, up to the desk. It was covered with papers, books, computer printouts and sheet music, all in what appeared to be ordered piles.

  "Finishing up the first marking period, grades, class planning, fund-raising strategy, fine-tuning the holiday concert—and trying to make the budget stretch to producing the spring musical." Trying to keep her foul mood to herself, she sat back. "So, how was your day?"

  "Pretty good. I just had a conference with the twins' teacher. They're doing fine. I can stop sweating report cards."

  "They're great kids. You've got nothing to worry about."

  "Worry comes with the territory. What are you wor­ried about?" he asked before he could remind himself he wasn't going to pry.

  "How much time have you got?" she shot back.

  "Enough." Curious, he eased a hip onto the edge of her desk. He wanted to soothe, he discovered, to stroke away that faint line between her brows. "Rough day?"

  She jerked her shoulders, then pushed away from her desk. Temper always forced her to move. "I've had bet­ter. Do you know how much school and community sup­port the football team gets? All the sports teams." She began to slap cassette tapes into a box—anything to keep her hands busy. "Even the band. But the chorus, we have to go begging for every dollar."

  "You're ticked off about the budget?"

  "Why shouldn't I be?" She whirled back, eyes hot. "No problem getting equipment for the football team so a bunch of boys can go out on the field and tackle each other, but I have to spend an hour on my knees if I want eighty bucks to get a piano tuned." She caught herself, sighed. "I don't have anything against football. I like it. High school sports are important."

  "I know a guy who tunes pianos," Mac said. "He'd probably donate his time."

  Nell rubbed a hand over her face, slid it around to soothe the tension at the back of her neck. Dad can fix anything, she thought, just as the twins had claimed. Have a problem? Call Mac.

  "That would be great," she said, and managed a real smile. "If I can beat my way through the paperwork and get approval. You can't even take freebies without going through the board." It irritated her, as always. "One of the worst aspects of teaching is the bureaucracy. Maybe I should have stuck with performing in clubs."

  "You performed in clubs?"

  "In another life," she muttered, waving it away. "A little singing to pay my way through college. It was better than waiting tables. Anyway, it's not the budget, not re­ally. Or even the lack of interest from the community. I'm used to that."

  "Do you want to tell me what it is, or do you want to stew about it?"

  "I was having a pretty good time stewing about it." She sighed again, and looked up at him. He seemed so solid, so dependable. "Maybe I'm too much of an urbanite after all. I've had my first run-in with old-fashioned rural attitude, and I'm stumped. Do you know Hank Rohrer?"

  "Sure. He has a dairy farm out on Old Oak Road. I think his oldest kid is in the same class as Kim."

  "Hank, Jr. Yes. Junior's one of my students—a very strong baritone. He has a real interest in music. He even writes it."

  "No kidding? That's great."

  "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Nell tossed her hair back and went to her desk again to tidy her already tidy papers. "Well, I asked Mr. and Mrs. Rohrer to come in this morning because Junior backed out of going to all-state auditions this weekend. I knew he had a very good chance of making it, and I wanted to discuss the possi­bility with his parents of a music scholarship. When I told them how talented Junior was and how I hoped they'd encourage him to change his mind about the auditions, Hank Senior acted as though I'd just insulted him. He was appalled." There was bitterness in her voice now, as well as anger. "'No son of his was going to waste his time on singing and writing music like some..."'

  She trailed off, too furious to repeat the man's opinion of musicians. "They didn't even know Junior was in my class. Thought he was taking shop as his elective this year. I tried to smooth it over, said that Junior needed a fine-art credit to graduate. I didn't do much good. Mr. Rohrer could barely swallow the idea of Junior staying in my class. He went on about how Junior didn't need singing lessons to run a farm. And he certainly wasn't going to allow him to take a Saturday and go audition when the boy had chores. And I'm to stop putting any fancy ideas about college in the boy's head."

  "They've got four kids," Mac said slowly. "Tuition might be a problem."

  "If that were the only obstacle, they should be grateful for the possibility of scholarship." She slapped her grade book closed. "What we have is a bright, talented boy who has dreams, dreams he'll never be able to explore because his parents won't permit it. Or his father won't," she added. "His mother didn't say two words the entire time they were here."

  "Could be she'll work on Hank once she has him alone."

  "Could be he'll take out his annoyance with me on both of them."

  "Hank's not like that. He's set in his ways and thinks he knows all the answers, but he isn't mean."

  "It's a little tough for me to see his virtues after he called me—" she had to take a deep breath "—a slick-handed flatlander who's wasting his hard-earned tax dol­lars. I could have made a difference with that boy," Nell murmured as she sat again. "I know it."

  "So maybe you won't be able to make a difference with Junior. You'll make a difference with someone else. You've already made one with Kim."

  "Thanks." Nell's smile was brief. "That helps a little."

  "I mean it." He hated to see her this way, all that brilliant energy and optimism dimmed. "She's gained a lot of confidence in herself. She's always been shy about her singing, about a lot of things. Now she's really open­ing up."

  It did help to hear it. This time Nell's smile came easier. "So I should stop brooding."

  "It doesn't suit you." He surprised himself, and her, by reaching down to run his knuckles over her cheek. "Smiling does."

  "I've never been able to hold on to temperament for long. Bob used to say it was because I was shallow."

  "Who the hell's Bob?"

  "The one who's still in the rut."

  "Clearly where he belongs."

  She laughed. "I'm glad you dropped by. I'd have prob­ably sat here for another hour clenching my jaw."

  "It's a pretty jaw," Mac murmured, then shifted away. "I've got to get going. I've got Halloween costumes to put together."

  "Need any help?"

  "I..." It was tempting, too tempting, and far too dan­gerous, he thought, to start sharing family traditions with her. "No, I've got it covered."

  Nell accepted the disappointment, nearly masked it. "You'll bring them by Saturday night, won't you? To trick-or-treat?"

  "Sure. I'll see you." He started out but stopped at the doorway and turned back. "Nell?"

  "Yes?"

  "Some things take a while to change. Change makes some people nervous."

  She tilted her head. "Are you talking about the Rohrers, Mac?"

  "Among others. I'll see you Saturday night."

  Nell studied the empty doorway as his footsteps echoed away. Did he think she was trying to change him? Was she? She sat back, pushing away from the paperwork. She'd never be able to concentrate on it now.

  Whenever she was ar
ound Macauley Taylor, it was hard to concentrate. When had she become so susceptible to the slow, thorough, quiet type? From the moment he'd walked into the auditorium to pick up Kim and the twins, she admitted.

  Love at first sight? Surely she was too sophisticated, too smart, to believe in such a thing. And surely, she added, she was too smart to put herself in the vulnerable position of falling in love with a man who didn't return her feelings.

  Or didn't want to, she thought. And that was even worse.

  It couldn't matter that he was sweet and kind and de­voted to his children. It shouldn't matter that he was handsome and strong and sexy. She wouldn't let it matter that being with him, thinking of him, had her longing for things. For home, for family, for laughter in the kitchen and passion in bed.

  She let out a long breath, because it did matter. It mat­tered very much when a woman was teetering right on the edge of falling in love.

  Chapter 7

  Mid-November had stripped the leaves from the trees. There was a beauty even in this, Nell had decided. Beauty in the dark, denuded branches, in the papery rustle of dried leaves along the curbs, in the frost that shimmered like diamond dust on the grass in the mornings.

  She caught herself staring out of the window too often, wishing for snow like a child hoping for a school holiday.

  It felt wonderful. Wonderful to anticipate the winter, to remember the fall. She often thought about Halloween night, and all the children who had come knocking on her door dressed as pirates and princesses. She remem­bered the way Zeke and Zack had giggled when she pre­tended not to recognize them in the elaborate astronaut costumes Mac had fashioned for them.

  She found herself reminiscing about the bluegrass con­cert Mac had taken her to. Or the fun they'd had when she ran into him and the boys at the mall just last week, all of them on a mission to complete their Christmas lists early.

  Now, strolling past the house Mac was remodeling, she thought of him again. It had been so sweet, the way he'd struggled over choosing just the right outfit for Kim's pres­ent. No thoughtless gifts from Macauley Taylor for those he cared about. It had to be the right color, the right style.

  She'd come to believe everything about him was right.

  She passed the house, drawing in the chilly air of eve­ning, her mood buoyant. That afternoon she'd been proud to announce that two of her students would par­ticipate in all-state chorus.

  She had made a difference, Nell thought, shutting her eyes on the pleasure of it. Not just the prestige, certainly not simply the delight of having the principal congratu­late her. The difference, the important one, had been the look on her students' faces. The pride, not just on Kim's face and that of the tenor who would go to all-state with her. But on the faces of the entire chorus. They all shared in the triumph, because over the past few weeks they had become a team.

  Her team. Her kids.

  "It's cold for walking."