Enticed (4 page)

The sun blazed across the cloudless sky as I waited to resume my time with Jonathan. Alex tumbled and sparred with him for a good hour before he thankfully departed. He sent me a mock salute before turning to leave, which ground my gears even more.

The only one sorry to see Alex go was Jonathan, whose mood took an immediate nosedive as soon as his uncle disappeared from his sight. He was sullen as he faced me from the other side of the fence. “I should probably go change before dinner,” he said, and I raised no objection. I followed him quietly into the house, hanging back in the kitchen as he slipped through the door and
down the hall.

Cleo was hard at work chopping vegetables for our dinner that evening. I stopped at the sink to wash my hands before I joined her at the island. “
What can I do?”

Cleo brushed away my suggestion with the wave of a hand. “
Absolutely nothing, miss. It would be highly improper.”

“Screw propriety,” I said with an impish grin.
“I’m the help, same as you. So let me help.”

She gave me a narrowed, side-eye glance. “Master Fullerton would be terribly cross if he knew.”

“Master Fullerton is not here,” I reminded. “I’m not going to tell him. Are you?” She shrugged and handed me a knife to chop some vegetables. “What are you making?”

“
Master Jonathan’s favorite, as usual. He’s quite picky.”

I couldn’t help but chortle. “He’s definitely been groomed to get his way, hasn’t he?”

Cleo shrugged. I knew she wouldn’t break any confidences with the family. “He has terribly big shoes to fill,” was all she would say.

“Even more reason for him to be adaptable,” I said. “What’s on the menu?”

“He wants fish sticks.”

“Fish sticks?” I repeated. “That’s a little mundane.”

Again, Cleo shrugged. “When it’s just Jonathan by himself, it seems pointless to make a full meal.”

“How often is Jonathan by himself?”

“Quite a bit,” she conceded begrudgingly. “At least three or four nights a week, easily.”

It made me think of how happy he was to see Alex, like a puppy starved for attention. “
Does he ever get to spend time with his mother?” I asked.

A dark cloud crossed Cleo’s face. It was clear I had trespassed into some very uncomfortable territory. “It’s not my place to say, Miss.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, instantly remorseful I had put her in such an awkward position. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”

“You’re curious,” Cleo dismissed. “It’s only natural. But I would suggest you not address the subject with Master
Fullerton once he returns home. The subject is generally forbidden.”

I acknowledged the warning with a nod. “Well, I guess that’s even more reason to make time together special,” I said as I went to the fridge to examine the contents. After I calculated what I had to work with, I let out a triumphant cry. I knew how to make a nine-year-old boy happy, with something a little more substantial than fish sticks. I pulled out an armload of groceries including ground meat, eggs, bacon, cheese as well as mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise.

“What are you going to make?” Cleo asked.

“Meatloaf with a twist,” I announced with a big grin. “You have breadcrumbs, right?”

“Well, yes, but… Master Jonathan doesn’t like meatloaf.” In fact, she looked rather distressed that we might make anything that would displease him. It only fortified my resolve.

“He’ll like mine,” I said before I went over to the Intercom on the wall. It only took a minute to figure out how to call Jonathan’s room. “Jonathan? It’s Rachel.”

“Yes?” he asked cautiously.

“Come to the kitchen, please.” It wasn’t a request, but an authoritative command. Still, he defied it.

“I’m playing my video game,” he said, as if that was all the reason he needed.

“You can save your game,” I pointed out. “Ten minutes, please.”

Maybe it was simple curiosity, but Jonathan arrived at the kitchen eleven minutes from our conversation on the intercom. “What?” he asked with a slump in his shoulders as he leaned on the counter.

“Rule #2,” I said, “Common courtesy. You may either call me Rachel or Miss Dennehy when you greet me, but you will address me by name, standing straight and attentive for all lessons.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and I waited.

“You’re not hired yet,” he said with a slight
sneer. “
Rachel
,” he added with emphasis.

“You are correct,” I conceded. “This week is part of the interview process, for
both
of us,” I pointed out. “Your father needs to know I can teach you, but I also need to know if you are willing to be taught. Otherwise I might as well go back home to Texas and teach children who really want to learn.” I could tell that remark hit home. “There’s no better time than the present to dip our toes in the water.”

He looked at all the ingredients on the counter. “It’s a
cooking
lesson?”

“Do you know how to cook?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“Then, yes. It’s a cooking lesson.”

“But why do I need to learn how to cook?” he persisted.

“Do you like to eat?” I responded easily.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Of course.”

“Cooking
is like knowing a magic trick. It’s therapy, really, because it is self-care at its finest. And it won’t hurt you to know how to meet some of your own needs. I’m not here to help you memorize some text books until you parrot what everyone else has researched and written. I’m here to show you how to think independently, to be self-sufficient. What better way than learning how to meet one of your most basic human needs?”

I could tell by the way he stared at me that he was seriously reconsidering this whole home-
schooling business. But I didn’t care if he liked me or not. The last thing this kid needed was someone else to give into his demands and treat him like a king.

The whole reason he was acting out
was because he was continually testing boundaries only to find they were simply not there. I had seen it many times with my students who were the children of divorce. Their parents felt so guilty about how their split may have affected the child that they didn’t reinforce rules and boundaries. No one wanted to be the bad guy and risk that the child would love them less, virtually turning parenthood into a popularity contest. They wanted to be friends, rather than authority figures that could, and should, say no. I knew that if I wanted to reach this kid, I had to establish firm boundaries early. If I couldn’t do that, that meant the train was already derailed and there was no point in my taking the job.

Both Jonathan and
Drew had to trust me and my methods. He needed a stable influence and clear rules with concrete consequences should he defy them.

Apparently the threat of my leaving was enough to get his attention.
He straightened and walked around to stand next to me at the island prep counter. “What are we making,” he asked, before adding, “Rachel,” with a lot less snark than before.

I smiled. “Meatloaf.”

“Meatloaf?” he whined. It was the first time I saw the nine-year-old little boy hiding somewhere behind that carefully cultivated demeanor.

“Yep,” I said as I placed the bowl in front of
him. “But I’m pretty sure you haven’t tried meatloaf like this before.” I turned toward the cooktop. “How’s that bacon coming, Cleo?”

She used tongs to place the final sizzling strips onto the plate, which she brought to us.

I had Jonathan’s interest from the moment he spied those crispy strips. “I like bacon,” he said.

I grinned. “I had a feeling you might. You crumble the bacon. It’s hot, so be careful. Use the tongs.”

After he was done with that task, I instructed that he add it to the bowl with the ground meat. Next, he grated some block cheddar into the bowl. I cracked the egg, showing him how to do it and not lose any shell, and then let him measure out the breadcrumbs and the mayonnaise while I explained the purpose they served in the recipe. “Go wash your hands,” I said as I put the empty cookware into the sink. “Now let’s have some fun.” I thrust the bowl in front of him. “Dig in.”

His eyes widened with disgust, which made me laugh. “Come on, dude. You’re a Kung Fu master
.” I slipped my hands into the mixture, which made disgusting noises as it slid through my fingers. I made a face, which made him laugh. “Come on,” I said again. “Pretend they’re brains.”

He gingerly put his hands into the meat mixture, making the same face that I made. “Ew, it’
s gross!”

“That’s because they’re
zombie
brains,” I teased. He giggled even more as we mushed together the meat mixture, and then he helped me mold it into a loaf and cover it with a ketchup/mustard mixture. Cleo, who had been working on the potatoes, let us toss the potato wedges in olive oil and rosemary before we popped those in the oven as well.

While those cooked, Jonathan and I cleaned up all the dishes and instruments we dirtied. I rinsed while he placed each item into the dishwasher. Once that was done, I toasted him with a bottle of ginger ale
served in crystal flutes to celebrate our successful first lesson. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“Just because I made it doesn’t mean I’ll eat it,” he proclaimed, but an hour later he
had practically licked his plate clean. Cleo rewarded our hard work with some chocolate cake. We were stuffed and happy as we retired to the media room to watch TV.

Of course their media room better resembled a movie theater. The darkened room had walls upholstered in Corinthian leather, with theater bucket seats that faced a screen which covered an entire wall.

I asked him to show me his favorite show, which was a smart anime series focused around a group of teenagers. He asked to see one of my favorite shows, which happened to be an offbeat family comedy that had us both laughing and nearly weepy and sentimental by the end of the hour long marathon we watched it. I was yawning as the clock ticked toward nine o’clock, which according to my Texas clock was two hours later than that.

“I guess you probably want to go to sleep,” he said after yawn number three.

“It’s been a long day,” I agreed. “I had fun, though,” I assured him.

He offered me a shy smile. “Me, too.”

He walked me to my door before we bid each other goodnight. Before he turned toward his own room, he halted me with, “Rachel?”

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“Can we cook again tomorrow night?”

I softened into a puddle as I looked in those hopeful blue eyes. “Sure,” I said.

He grinned as he bounded off to his room.

After I changed into my shorty pajamas, brushed my teeth and washed my face, I slid in between the
luxurious sheets on the big canopy bed. I had already placed a leather-bound book on the nightstand, so I picked up the copy of
Great Expectations
to read some before I drifted to sleep. I was on page 4 before the phone rang.

“This is Rachel,” I answered.

“I see you have survived Day One,” Drew Fullerton murmured into my ear, which made me snuggle deeper under the covers as though he could see me in my current state of undress. “Found the armor, did you?”

“
None needed,” I said. “Your son is very intelligent and curious and willing to learn. He responded very well to the boundaries I attempted to establish today.”

Drew
chuckled. “Are you sure that was my son?”

I laughed. “Quite.
As a matter of fact, we had a lovely evening.”

“
So nothing has you making a beeline back to Texas?”

I thought about my run-in with his cocky brother. “Nothing,” I lied easily.
“But it was only Day One.”

“Well,” he said softly, “I have full confidence that you can handle yourself. Otherwise I never would have offered you the job.”

While we’re on the subject, why did you offer me a job
? “I will do my best to live up to your expectations, Mr. Fullerton.”

“
Drew,” he corrected; his voice as smooth as silk sliding across my senses. I could almost feel his warm breath against my ear. I found myself unexpectedly discombobulated by the visceral reaction I had. I had spent far too many years pounding those kinds of thoughts into dust like a mental game of Whac-A-Mole, so much so I was sure I wouldn’t know what to do with a naked man if he landed right in my lap with chocolate in one hand and wine in the other.

“
Are you there?” he asked, his voice cutting through the fog in my brain. I instantly knew I had zoned out for a moment, forcing him to pull me back out of my own head.

“I’m sorry,” I said as I blushed, hot with embarrassment. “I’m just tired, I guess. It’s been a big day.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “I won’t keep you; I just wanted to check in. Rest well and sweet dreams, Miss Dennehy.”