Marrying Mr. English: The English Brothers #7 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 11) (12 page)

He held her closer, pressing his lips to her temple. “You’re tough, baby.”

“I don’t feel tough, Tom.”

“You are,” he said, leaning back and running his fingers through her hair. “You’re exceptional. And you’re mine. And we’re going to make it. In fact . . .”

His voice faded in his head as he merged onto the Palisades Parkway. He’d shared Van’s idea with her, watching her face morph from grieved cousin to supportive spouse in a matter of minutes. She declared it a wonderful idea and asked him a battery of questions about Kinsey Hall and Connecticut, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and hope.

“I’ll call them tomorrow,” he promised her.

“Nope,” she said, sitting up straight on his lap, her hands pressed down on his shoulders like she meant business. “We’ll leave early tomorrow, and you’ll go
see
them. Make your case in person, Tom. Get the job. You can do this!”

“Yeah?” he asked, marveling at her go-getter spirit and seeing, so clearly, the young girl who’d left her small town to find a better life in Vail.

He remembered some musings he’d had while they were in Vegas—wondering if there was anything she couldn’t do, wondering if she could be born in a poor town in Colorado and end up a millionaire’s wife. Or, heck, maybe a teacher’s wife. And the most incredible, wonderful thing about Eleanora Watters English? The fact that, though his salary—if he even
got
the job—would likely keep them just on the outskirts of comfortable, it wouldn’t bother her. She’d roll with it. She’d make it work.

It made his heart swell and surge with love for her. For her spirit and hope, for her faith in him, for her unsinkable, unshakable, unwavering conviction that things could always be worked out, that life could always be better.

“Yeah,” she said, beaming at him, her eyes bright and alive.

“I’m falling in love with you,” he murmured. “I can’t help it. When life presents you someone between a dream and a miracle, you hold on as tight as you can.”

Her eyes flooded with tears, but instead of answering his declaration with one of her own, she clasped his face fiercely in her trembling hands and kissed him passionately, letting him cradle her in his arms and carry her back to bed.

Sighing happily, he glanced over again at her sleeping form in the passenger seat and debated whether to wake her up. She’d told him that she wanted to see the views from the Bear Mountain Bridge, but he was reluctant to interrupt her rest after he’d kept her up for two nights straight.

Just as he paid the toll to cross the Hudson River, her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a lazy smile that made his heart jump.

“Hello, husband,” she murmured.

My heart.

“Hello, wife,” he answered, his voice gravelly.

She grinned at him, her blue eyes a mirror of yet-unspoken love.

“Are we there yet?”

“Dean Gordon,” said Tom, smiling at the older gentleman and offering his hand in greeting.

“Well, Tom English, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

He pumped Tom’s hand in the doorway of his office, then put his arm around Tom’s shoulders, ushering him into the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old head dean’s office at Kinsey Hall.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Tom had graduated from Kinsey fourteen years ago, but finding himself face-to-face with the former assistant dean, he couldn’t help feeling like a student again.

“Ha, ha,” chortled Neville Gordon, slapping Tom on the back. “They all come back and still call me sir.” He gestured to a rich-looking leather sofa. “Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Neville, Tom!” said Dean Gordon, taking a seat behind his desk. “We’re peers now. Neville’s just fine.”

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, um, Neville,” said Tom, smoothing his white shirtfront with his palm.

It turned out that Eleanora was not very handy with an iron. She had scorched one of his shirts on the ironing board in their room at the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge before Tom took over the job. However, Tom had never ironed a shirt either and soon understood how she’d scorched the first. The third shirt was at least wearable since the tan iron imprint was on the back, covered by his suit jacket.

“Don’t want to rush you, son, but my daughter—do you remember Charity?—is coming to meet me for lunch. She just broke off her engagement with another Kinsey alum, Geoffrey Atwell, though her mother and I are hoping she’ll patch it up.” He sighed, realizing he’d digressed. “What can I do for you, Tom?”

Tom hid a small, quasi-unkind grin. He did remember both Charity and Geoffrey. Geoffrey had been his year. And Charity had been, ahem, popular.

“Yes, well, I’ll get to the point. I heard the sad news about Professor Wiggins.”

“Ah, yes. Poor Wigs. Did you know he was my teacher too? And your father’s,” added Dean Gordon, his voice cooling a little at the mention of Tom’s father. “Everyone thought Franklin Wiggins would outlast Kinsey. But cancer’s a friend to no man.”

“No, sir,” said Tom.

Dean Gordon sighed. “He lived a good life. Taught for sixty years, Tom. How do you like that?”

“Impressive, sir.”

“I’ll say. Hard to replace. Having a devil of a time.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “Well, sir, that’s actually why I’m here.

“Come again?” asked Dean Gordon, looking up, distracted from his thoughts of his fallen colleague.

“The vacancy in the English department. I’d like to fill it.”

Dean Gordon narrowed his eyes, evaluating Tom. “You would, would you? Have a lot of teaching experience, Tom?”

Tom thought about lying. Truly, he did. But he wasn’t a very good liar. He didn’t like having to remember his lies, and besides, Dean Gordon had always been kind to Tom. He deserved honesty.

“Not a bit, sir.”

Dean Gordon chortled as though Tom was making a joke, then sobered as Tom stared back at him plain faced. “Oh, I see.”

“I worked for English & Son until a week ago.”

“English & Son. With your father. And grandfather.”

Was it Tom’s imagination, or did Dean Gordon’s voice cool again?

“Yes, sir.”

“But no longer.”

Tom sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. “No, sir. I recently got married, and my grandfather doesn’t . . .” He lifted his chin in defiance. “That is, he doesn’t approve of my wife, sir. I’ve been cut off.”

Neville Gordon’s eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. That’s the truth.”

“Blackballed too, I presume?”

Tom nodded, swallowing the bile in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Dean Gordon nodded slowly, staring at Tom with compassion. “I knew your grandfather a little.”

“Sir?”

“I was your father’s
original
roommate, but I was first-generation Kinsey, here on scholarship, and your father, Bertram, was the fifth English to attend. At your grandfather’s request, we were switched around.”

Tom ground his teeth. How fucking embarrassing.

“I’m sorry, Dean Gordon. He’s . . .”

“. . . set in his ways,” said Dean Gordon quickly, before Tom could say something worse. “I never blamed your father, Tom. Bertram was a good sort of fellow. Affable. Friend to everyone.”

“Weak,” snarled Tom softly.

“He wasn’t unkind to me.” Dean Gordon paused. “Though he never met a battle more important than keeping the peace, I’ll give you that.”

Tom rubbed his hand on the slick leather of the couch arm, sitting forward. “I’m sorry I came here. I’m not qualified to teach, and my family—”

“Tom, you went to Princeton. You studied . . .?”

“English, sir.”

“English.” Dean Gordon smiled. “We
are
looking for an English teacher. Let’s say I hired you . . . at least until the end of the year. That’s six months. What would you teach in six months to an unruly group of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, eh, Tom?”

For the next twenty minutes, Tom talked about his favorite novels, short stories, and poems. He told the dean that, although he’d respected Professor Wiggins, the old teacher had preferred classical literature and hadn’t discussed the contemporary writers—Vonnegut, Bradbury, King—whom Tom would have liked to share with the boys.

“
Stephen
King?”

“His novellas are excellent, sir.”

Finally, Dean Gordon sighed, gently slapping his desk twice and nodding at Tom. “Truly think you’re up to it? Six weeks of novels, six weeks of short stories, and six weeks of poetry? Not much time to get up to speed. Can you come up with a curriculum by next week, when the boys come back from Christmas break?”

Tom’s heart beat faster as he realized that Dean Gordon was actually—unbelievably—giving him a chance.

“I’ll give it my best, sir. I can promise enthusiasm!”

“Salary’s not much, Tom,” he said, his eyes sorry. “Seventeen thousand annual, and I can’t offer you health care until next year.”

Seventeen thousand dollars and no benefits?

Tom kept himself from wincing. He had only five thousand dollars in his bank account to begin with. Well, they’d just have to make it last.

“Could I pick up some extra work, if needed?”

“I don’t suppose you want to stay in the dorms as a resident adviser when you have a pretty young wife at home?”

Then Tom
did
wince.

Dean Gordon chuckled. “There’s always tutoring, son.”

“I’ll make it work, sir.”

Dean Gordon stood up, extending his hand. “Me too. I’ll need your semester syllabus for approval on January second. Boys come back the Monday after. Deal?”

“Yes! Yes, sir.”

“Well, welcome back to Kinsey, Tom.”

Tom leaped up and shook the dean’s hand, beaming at his new boss. “Thank you. I just . . . I can’t wait to tell . . . Thank you!”

“What’s her name? Your bride?”

“Eleanora, sir.”

“Eleanora English, eh? The girl who made Tom defy old Theodore. I’m fond of her already.”

“Me too, sir,” said Tom, chuckling softly.

“Neville, son. We’re colleagues now.”

The door to the office opened suddenly, and Tom dropped Dean Gordon’s hand, turning to find a pretty young blonde woman standing in the doorway of her father’s office: Charity Gordon. He would have known her anywhere.

“Ah, Charity!” said her father, circling the desk to greet his daughter with a quick kiss on the cheek.

But Charity barely acknowledged her father. She only had eyes for Tom. Big, wide, dark eyes for Tom, and lips that she suddenly felt the need to wet slowly and with great to-do before letting them tip into a sexy grin.

“Tom? Tom English?”

“Charity,” he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “You look well.”

She ignored his hand, enveloping him in a Chanel-scented hug that pressed her large breasts against the shirt his wife had tried to help him iron an hour ago. He patted Charity’s back awkwardly, wishing she’d let go of him. Finally, she did, though she barely moved far enough away for them to keep from touching.

“Tom English, as I live and breathe. You look . . .” She swept her eyes down his body and then back up slowly. “. . . fine.”

Dean Gordon had been putting on his overcoat as Tom and Charity exchanged pleasantries, but now he turned and smiled at them both.

“I’ve just hired Tom!”

Charity gasped, pressing her hand to her chest. “No!”

“Yes, dearest, it’s true. Tom is our new English teacher.”

She laughed softly. “But didn’t I hear that you were a banker, Tom? Something delicious like that?”

“I’ve decided to give teaching a try,” he said.

“Slumming in the country for a few months?” she asked, a teasing twinkle in her bright blue eyes. “Like community service?”

“Come now, dearest,” said her father. “That isn’t seemly.”

She gave her father a bored look and turned back to Tom with a brilliant smile. “Be serious now: are you
really
teaching here?”

“I’ve said so. Yes.”

“Well.” She shrugged. “That’ll make the long winter less lonely. How about we have some fun while we’re both stranded in the middle of nowhere, eh?”

“That’s a jolly good idea,” agreed Dean Gordon, grinning at Tom. “Why don’t you and your new wife join us for dinner next week, eh?”

“Wife?” asked Charity, her expression frosting over. “You’re . . . married?”

Tom nodded, holding up his ring finger, which wore the simple gold band Eleanora had slid on his finger in Vegas. “Newly.”

“Oh,” she said, taking a deep breath and giving him a much tighter smile than the enthusiastic ones she’d showered on him before. “Well, congratulations, I guess.”

“Thanks, I guess,” he said.

“I’ve just broken my engagement,” she said, as though engagements—and maybe even new marriages—were made to be broken.

“Yes, I heard. To Geoffrey Atwell.” Tom wasn’t sure of the protocol when someone announced their broken engagement without a hint of sorrow. “Too bad. Decent guy, Atwell.”

“That’s what
we’ve
been trying to tell her!” said Dean Gordon.

Charity rolled her eyes at both men, pulling on her black leather gloves and sighing. “Geoffrey Atwell will still be waiting if I change my mind, Daddy. There’s no rush.”

He doubted Atwell felt the same, but Tom hid his true feelings with a grim smile, turning away from Charity and facing Dean Gordon. “Sir, I’ll see you next week.”

Neville Gordon smiled at Tom, ushering his daughter out of the office and flicking the lights off before saying, “I meant it about dinner, Tom. New Year’s, eh? Come for dinner on New Year’s Day, won’t you?”

“Yes,” agreed Charity with barely concealed machinations narrowing her eyes. “Come for New Year’s. And bring the little woman too.”

***

While Tom had gone to Kinsey Hall to interview for a job, he’d tasked Eleanora with trying to find an apartment for them somewhere in or around Cornwall. But the small towns around Cornwall—Weston, Sharon, New Preston, Kent and Warren—didn’t have many apartments for rent; they had houses. And most of the houses in these quiet little towns were asking almost a thousand dollars per month for rent. The problem with this—aside from the fact that it was highway robbery—was that paying up the first and last months’ rent and security deposit would leave Tom only two thousand dollars in savings. Even with her saved eight hundred dollars thrown into the mix, it simply wasn’t much to live on.

“What do you think, Mrs. English?” asked the real estate agent, Gladys Hoover, who was kind, but clearly had other things she’d rather be doing two days after Christmas.

“It’s lovely,” said Eleanora, looking around the living room of a three-bedroom house that was way too big for her and Tom. “But nine-fifty a month is just too much.”

Gladys huffed impatiently. “My son’s having a holiday do in an hour. I don’t suppose we could look at more tomorrow?”

“I promised my husband that I’d—”

“Very well, Mrs. English. We’ll go see another. Fair warning, this next one is absurdly small. Still,” she flicked a glance over Eleanora’s threadbare, out-of-date coat, “maybe it will do.”

Eleanora got into Gladys’s Cadillac and, grateful that they were all small talked–out, looked out the window at the rolling hills of Connecticut, covered in pristine white.

It was a beautiful place, if somewhat stark, though Tom had assured her as they drove into town that it was peerless in springtime. He’d even recited a poem for her just before they turned into the parking lot of the Howard Johnson’s:

So when the earth is alive with gods,