She donned a black, ankle-length skirt and a tight-fitting, low-cut gray sweater that made her look thin, she thought, bound her hair up in a massive knot at her nape, put on the amethyst earrings she had picked up on the Isle of Skye during a research trip that had gone nowhere, and her brand-new Donald J. Pilner embroidered boots.
Okay, so she’d charged brand-new, extremely expensive boots at a point she was desperate for money. But she had the autopsy job, and if push came to shove, she could borrow the money from Robin or Rebecca. At least she hoped she could. But she really needed those boots to make her feel better.
Around her shoulders, she draped the lavender shawl she’d finished Saturday after her bath. At least her dabble in witchcraft wasn’t a complete loss—she had a beautiful shawl to show for it. But she wasn’t giving up. Not yet, anyway. And in an act of semi-desperation, she dabbed a little Mexican vanilla behind one ear. Really stupid, but it wasn’t like anyone was going to be sniffing around and asking if her perfume came in a bottle with the Pillsbury Doughboy on the label. Besides, she found the smell of vanilla to be very calming.
When she arrived at class with the box of yarns she would discuss, most of her students were already gathered. Sandy was regaling a very shocked-looking Mr. Gregory with her latest bout of diverticulitis, Chantal and Tiffinnae were arguing about the progress Tiffinnae had made on their weaving thus far, which was pretty close to none given their penchant for talking and bothering others who were trying to weave, and Jason was sitting quietly with a stack of what Rachel supposed was travel brochures—she made a mental note to mention them to the class.
She said hi, walked to the front of the class, and put down her box. There was a message taped to the chalkboard for her—it was from a school secretary and it said Dave and Lucy were running late, and one new student had signed up for class.
“Woo—hoo, girl!” Chantal said as Rachel read the note. “Don’t you got it going on!” Rachel looked up. Chantal was mimicking some sort of bird walk, going round in a little circle, dipping her head as she admired Rachel’s shawl.
“You like it?” Rachel asked proudly, and very theatrically tossed one end over her shoulder. “I made it this weekend.”
“You made that?” Tiffinnae exclaimed.
“I mean, I sewed the edges and the fringe.”
“What is that? Silk?” Tiffinnae asked.
“Chenille,” Rachel said. “I’m going to talk a little bit about it and all the different threads and yarns and how they’ve evolved through the years.”
Neither Tiffinnae nor Chantal looked very thrilled by the prospect, and Mr. Gregory actually groaned—at her or Sandy, she couldn’t say. Rachel arranged her visual aids and notes, and while she was reviewing her remarks, she heard the door open and glanced up; it was Dave and Lucy. She smiled, gave a little wave at the same time she looked away. When at last she was ready, she glanced up at the classroom clock, saw that it was time to begin, and took her place behind the podium. Only then did she look up, smiling at the class . . . and felt the hard leap of her heart.
It worked!
It was nothing short of a miracle that she stopped herself from dancing a little end zone dance. There he was, sitting in the back row next to Jason, wearing a navy blazer and a starched white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. On his feet was a pair of very European-looking boots. His hair, nice and thick, just brushed the top of his collar, and his smile, which was brilliantly white, made his skin look bronzed. Bronzed. And even more interesting, he appeared, at least from where she was standing, to have a black eye.
“Looks like we got us some new blood,” Chantal observed.
He must have come in behind Dave and Lucy, but never mind that; the whole class was looking at her, then looking at Flynn.
“Ah!” Rachel exclaimed brightly, silently cursing the little shake in her voice, not to mention the brilliance of her vocabulary.
Chantal twisted in her chair (as best she could, seeing as how she was a couple of sizes larger than the chair) and peered at Flynn. “What’s your name?”
“Flynn,” he said cheerfully, leaning forward on his desk. “Flynn Oliver.”
“Where’d you get that shiner?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“The black eye, she means,” Tiffinnae helpfully clarified.
“Ah. A bit of a contretemps, I’m afraid.”
Chantal blinked and looked at Tiffinnae. Both of them looked at Mr. Gregory, who shrugged. Then Chantal asked, “You from England?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” As Chantal kept staring, Flynn cleared his throat a little. “Ah . . . London, actually. But I, ah, was reared in Butler Cropwell.”
Dave, perhaps feeling a little sorry for Flynn, jumped right into the opening. “Is there some rule where the new guy gets the third degree?” he asked, and glanced over his shoulder at Flynn. “I’m Dave. This is my wife, Lucy.”
“How do you do,” Flynn said politely, and Chantal and Tiffinnae dipped their heads together to snicker.