Tracy Kelleher - Falling for the Teacher

But before Katarina knew what was happening, Ben swiftly pushed up the loose leg of her jeans and exposed her knee. She saw him study the long railroad track of her scar, as well as the other jagged patches of scar tissue from where the bullet had ripped through the skin. Looking at it now in the firelight made even her a little queasy.

“It’s gross, I know,” she said.

But then he did the unexpected. He lifted her knee and he lowered his head. And with an aching sweetness, he kissed her leg. Not just her leg, every inch of her scars.

Katarina’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You—you don’t have to do that,” she said.

He lifted his head after planting one last feathery kiss.

“Yes, I do.”

Dear Reader,

I live in a small town. The other day I was walking my dog when I passed two neighbors deep in conversation. The man was a young German engineer whose company had transferred him to America three years ago, but who now was returning home. The other was a spry woman in her seventies, a former actress who taught drama. He was saying goodbye before leaving. “I hope you have something planned for the weekend,” he said sweetly. “Honey, I’m busy every day of my life,” she replied.

My first reaction was, only in a small town! Where else can people who’ve known each other forever or just a few years become so close? And where else can we gain snippets of wisdom while walking the dog?

I was delighted to bring the fictitious town of Grantham, New Jersey, to life in this story, as well as highlight a great community resource—adult education classes. I hope you will enjoy going back to school with me!

Tracy Kelleher

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Tracy sold her first story to a children’s magazine when she was ten years old. Writing was clearly in her blood, though fiction was put on hold while she received degrees from Yale and Cornell, traveled the world, worked in advertising, became a staff reporter and later a magazine editor. She also managed to raise a family. Is it any surprise she escapes to the world of fiction?

To Jan and John, for providing the perfect place to write, not to mention the inspiration of their dog Mickey.

A special thank-you to Katarina Sekacova, my expert in Slovak.

And in loving memory of my dad, my biggest fan.

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Six weeks earlier…

FROM OUTSIDE THE HOUSE, Ben Brown could hear the insistent ring of the kitchen phone. But Ben had more urgent concerns to address. Chief among them, breathing.

He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his forearm, bent over at the waist and sucked in oxygen, ignoring the stitch in his side. He had told himself that turning thirty-eight the week before had been no biggie—just another nonexistent birthday candle on a nonexistent birthday cake.

But if it was so inconsequential, why the hell was it becoming next to impossible to clock seven-minute miles on his daily run along the towpath? Father Time was a cruel son of a bitch. Not to mention, almost as irritating as the phone that continued to drone on, demanding attention like an early morning alarm clock.

Ben straightened up—breathing was becoming tolerable—and considered the situation. Only three people had his unlisted number: one, his housekeeper; two, his one remaining friend from his former job—may everyone else burn in their greed and sense of entitlement; and three, his lawyer. Ben always thought in terms of numbers. According to his ex-wife, that was his strength but also his failing. What had been her name again?

He shrugged and cocked his head toward the open upstairs window, toward the sound of the vacuum cleaner going in his bedroom. That could only mean Amada, his housekeeper, had showed up when he was out running. So much for possibility number one. As for option number two, Ben knew that his friend and partner, Hunt, was in Davos, theoretically skiing, but more likely courting Swiss investors for their new venture capitalist firm. He looked at his sports watch. Four o’clock in the afternoon, which would be ten o’clock at night in Switzerland, too late for Hunt to be calling. So it had to be his attorney.

Never a happy option if recent history was any guide.

Ben considered letting the call go to voice mail when he heard the vacuum cleaner stop. God knows he didn’t want Amada to get mixed up in his business. Quickly he pushed open the door, the wood scraping along the slab of gray stone, an original element of the centuries old cottage.

I really do need to plane that, he reminded himself and picked up the phone.

“Brown,” he said.

“George B. Brown? Is this Mr. George Benjamin Brown?” The voice was female, unctuous and unfamiliar. Female he could take. Unctuous and unfamiliar held absolutely zero appeal.

He was about to hang up when the woman added, “My name is Trudy Colliver, and I’m calling from Steamboat Springs, Colorado.”

It was the “Steamboat Springs, Colorado,” that stopped him from slamming down the receiver. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“Oh, good. I must say, you’re not an easy man to reach,” the woman at the other end of the line said. “I tried the Wall Street firm where you recently worked, and they suggested I contact your attorney in Manhattan. He, in turn, gave me your current number in—” Ben could hear a shuffling of papers “—in Grantham, New Jersey.”

“Did he now?” Ben was wondering if he should fire his lawyer today or wait for tomorrow. If he remembered correctly, it was the ambulance chaser’s birthday. Definitely today then.

“You see, I’m also an attorney, and I’m calling on behalf of a client. Charlise Worthington? I believe you were acquainted with Ms. Worthington?”

Charlise Worthington. Steamboat. Names out of his past, say, fifteen years ago, right after he’d gotten out of the Marines. Thumbing his way across the country with no particular focus, Ben had somehow landed in Steamboat Springs for one winter season, despite the fact that he’d never skied or snowboarded in his life and didn’t know a stem Christie from a telemark. No surprise there since foster homes didn’t exactly cater to expensive winter sports.

He had eked a meager wage playing piano at a bar where Charlie had been a waitress. She was a local, addicted to powder. The kind you skied on, that was. Charlie had had no time for drugs, any more than world politics, corporate greed or long-term leases. They’d shared laughs, more than a few beers and a brief affair.