Bookfest Award Winner ~ CritiqueMatch First Prize, Romance
Julia Brighton has met the perfect guy in Caden McCaffrey. Handsome, mature, heroic, compassionate...and completely off limits.
Twenty and fresh out of college, Julia Brighton lands a job in the Writing Center at Heywood High in small-town New Hampshire after turning down a prestigious graduate program at Harvard. Flat broke and recovering from an abusive relationship, the last thing Julia needs to do is fall for eighteen-year-old Caden McCaffrey, a popular senior boy. Stunned by Caden’s intellect, maturity, and fierce protection of a bullied student in his class, Julia finds herself drawn to him in concerning ways.
But as Julia tutors him throughout the semester, she learns that they've both lost a beloved brother, that Caden has found solace in a strong yet simple faith. “The Fabulous Miss B”, as the students call her, has learned from experience that love only brings abandonment and shame. But Caden seems determined to slash through her defenses, to believe in her more than she does in herself.
Caden could burn to ashes everything Julia has worked toward...or he could ignite a fiery confidence within her that lights her way to a life of significance.
Bookfest Award Winner ~ CritiqueMatch First Prize, Romance
Julia Brighton has met the perfect guy in Caden McCaffrey. Handsome, mature, heroic, compassionate...and completely off limits.
Twenty and fresh out of college, Julia Brighton lands a job in the Writing Center at Heywood High in small-town New Hampshire after turning down a prestigious graduate program at Harvard. Flat broke and recovering from an abusive relationship, the last thing Julia needs to do is fall for eighteen-year-old Caden McCaffrey, a popular senior boy. Stunned by Caden’s intellect, maturity, and fierce protection of a bullied student in his class, Julia finds herself drawn to him in concerning ways.
But as Julia tutors him throughout the semester, she learns that they've both lost a beloved brother, that Caden has found solace in a strong yet simple faith. “The Fabulous Miss B”, as the students call her, has learned from experience that love only brings abandonment and shame. But Caden seems determined to slash through her defenses, to believe in her more than she does in herself.
Caden could burn to ashes everything Julia has worked toward...or he could ignite a fiery confidence within her that lights her way to a life of significance.
JULIA BRIGHTON PACED THE LENGTHY CLASSROOM like a caged leopard in high heels.
She paused to brush a speck of lint from her pencil skirt and checked
her face in the small compact flipping circles in her palm. Large emerald-green eyes in a heart-shaped face stared back at her. Julia snapped the compact shut, rolled her shoulders, and glanced at the digital clock above the whiteboard.
7:39 A.M., September 6, 2011. Six minutes until the floodgates opened.
Julia scanned the words written in red marker on the white board. WELCOME TO THE HEYWOOD HIGH WRITING CENTER! Beneath that, MISS BRIGHTON, in cursive.
Too flowery.
She scooped up the eraser and rubbed out her name, rewriting it in a block print.
It's slanting upwards.
She rewrote it. Black marker instead of red.
The wooden door to her right creaked, and Julia flinched. The marker flew from her hand and bounced off the door, just missing a spectacled face framed with soft, silvery hair. Mrs. Beasley, the five-foot English teacher who had taught at Heywood High since the earth cooled (as she liked to joke), didn’t even blink, as if being attacked by writing implements was all in a day’s work. She shuffled through the doorway and gave Julia a quick once over.
"How ya doin', kid?" she said in a crisp New Jersey accent.
“Oh, just fabulous.” Julia gestured toward the teacher’s podium standing near the white board. “I feel like Julius Caesar preparing for a lovely spring day in the Senate.”
Mrs. Beasley raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have the boys’ attention.”
Julia’s gaze swept her fitted black skirt as her fingers strayed to the loose bun capturing her unruly, caramel-toned waves. She had wanted to appear older than her twenty years, but the other staff members’ loose khakis and cotton polos left her feeling a peacock among swans.
Mrs. Beasley’s features softened. "Look, kid, it’s understandable to dread your first day on the job. You’re young, but you’ll have the cream of the crop walking through that door. Just remember what Winston Churchill said as he led the United Kingdom through World War II: 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' Good luck, hon."
"Thanks," Julia whispered as the door clicked shut.
Hell’s bells. The shoes and skirt had depleted her anemic bank account. Maybe she could sell them to a consignment shop. Julia drew in a deep breath and imagined Katharine Hepburn, cool and confident, leaning against the teacher’s podium. The queen of 1940’s film noir would never have allowed herself to suffer like this. She also would have been smart enough to wear a pantsuit.
Two minutes.
A clipboard with a roster lay on the podium, and Julia snatched it up, scanning twenty names she had already memorized. Her only true class, if one could call it that. These juniors and seniors had earned the privilege of spending their first hour of the fall semester in the Writing Center. Here they would have the freedom to work on assignments while Julia provided mini-lessons and one-on-one writing assistance. The remainder of the day would be open to all students, with a sign-up sheet for college test prep and English tutoring.
Twenty upperclassmen. An image flashed in Julia’s mind, she cowering behind her desk as students played games on their cell phones, drew cartoons on the whiteboard, howled while spinning around in her podium chair…
She erased MISS BRIGHTON and wrote MS. BRIGHTON.
Julia turned to examine her classroom, the brand-new Heywood High Writing Center, and a burst of pride broke through the flutters like sunlight through storm clouds. The space was twice the size of a normal classroom – it had been the art room in years past – and the half nearest the door still resembled a standard classroom with a whiteboard, podium, twenty desks, and her own, larger, desk behind them. In the back, polished cherrywood counters lined all three walls with keyboards that slid smoothly from underneath and slick new monitors sitting atop. Ergonomic desk chairs stood ready for use, along with a couple of printers and rectangular tables in the middle where students could spread out books and papers.
There had been several applicants for the new Writing Center Administrator position, Mrs. Beasley had let slip. And with no teaching credentials, Julia had won the spot. The principal, Mr. Fellows, had pulled some strings and adjusted the position to an uncertified staff role. Just for her.
DING DING DING.
The bell rang, politely, like an elevator whose door won’t close properly, and despair punched Julia in the gut. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be starting grad school at Harvard today, not helping teenagers with essay writing in Heywood, New Hampshire, population 9,000. Her plan had been to immerse herself in academia, earn her PhD in English, and nestle into a cozy college professorship filled with research, intelligent colleagues, and blossoming scholars. That plan had blown up in her face, so why hadn’t she found a position assisting second grade, the grade she had skipped, just to see what she’d missed? Her 5’8” frame would have towered over those little guys, she would be in charge, she…
You’re here, and they’re coming. So get a grip.
With shaky hands, Julia propped open her classroom door, amplifying the sound of speech and sneakers rising like an orchestra approaching a finale. She stood in the hallway beside the door, clutching the clipboard to her chest like a shield, a smile frozen on her face as students milled by, checking schedules and greeting friends. One by one, they stepped through her doorway, some nodding at her, others ignoring her altogether.
Across the hall stood Mrs. VanHoose, who taught senior English. Tall, bony, and pushing sixty, her mahogany dyed hair was chastened into a severe bowl cut. Meeting her gaze, Mrs. VanHoose favored Julia with a curt nod before returning a hawkish eye to the incoming traffic. The room next to Julia remained dark. Ms. Fitzhugh, a pretty blonde Julia had only seen in passing, taught junior English and had first hour planning period. Lucky gal...
Julia caught the mingled scents of citrus and mint and sensed that someone had stopped beside her. She turned her head and…every thought drained away.
He stood at least six feet tall with an athletic build that stretched a red polo shirt and faded jeans. But it was his eyes that caught her, a kaleidoscope of green, gold, and brown in a ruggedly handsome face framed in dark hair that curled around his ears. Those eyes reflected an intense intelligence, and a wisdom, deep and discerning.
She could not have said how long that moment lasted.
Then his lips parted. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She extended a disembodied hand. “Julia.”
He took her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. “Caden.”
Caden. He had to be a coach with that build. Where had she heard that name…she gasped, jerking her hand from his, taking in the backpack slung over his shoulder, the student schedule in his other hand. A heartbeat later, he blinked and seemed to realize where he was. Who she was. “Wait, you’re…oh.”
“Miss Brighton,” Julia stammered, her eyes darting to Mrs. Van Hoose, who observed them with furrowed brow, her mouth a hard, thin line.
No no no. Julia needed this job, and she was going to be fired on day one. She straightened to her full height and tapped the clipboard. “This is the Writing Center. Where are you supposed to be?”
Wide-eyed, Caden slipped into the room – her room - and Julia scanned the names on her clipboard. Caden C. McCaffrey, a senior. Eighteen years old, born in July. But there had been something in his eyes that made him seem older-
A behemoth of a fellow strode to the doorway and looked as if he might crush Julia in a bear hug. “Barry Nowakowski,” he announced, eyes alight and wild in a cheerful, ruddy face. He sized her up before glancing over her shoulder. “Caff, since when do you need help with English?” He lurched over to greet Caden and a group of guys who clapped him on the back as if he had just pulverized a running back on the football field. Thank heavens they were all following her one instruction on the whiteboard – PLEASE TAKE A SEAT UP FRONT – rather than sniffing around the computers in the back.
The final bell rang, and Julia found herself at the front of the room, looking upon a sea of faces. Game time. She got the distinct impression her legs were getting some attention, and she vowed to burn the pencil skirt. She drifted behind the podium and cleared her throat.
“Good morning,” she began, relieved that her voice held steady. “My name is Ms. Brighton, and I want to welcome you to your brand-new Heywood High Writing Center.”
Julia kicked things off with attendance. She’d arranged the desks to face each other like a chess set with a wide space in the middle. Girls filled the front row seats, notebooks out and pencils at the ready. One student, Katie, bright and attentive, looked as if she would participate in discussions. Barry and his buddies, all athletes, were squeezed into desks in the back. Among them sat Caden, who introduced himself quietly and averted his eyes when Julia looked his way.
Introductions over, Julia drew in a steadying breath and tapped the stack of papers on her podium, agreement forms for proper use of the Writing Center. What if they refused to sign?
"How old are you?" Katie’s singsong voice, a gong in the silence.
Julia’s mind raced. Were they allowed to ask that question? But Katie didn't look out to get her, so to speak, just…curious.
"Old enough to have a college degree," Julia replied. She gestured toward her framed diploma on the wall behind her desk, a Bachelor of Arts in English from Boston University. If only she could fasten that diploma to the front of her blouse like a marathon racer.
Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled to the degree on the wall, then back to her.
"You don't want to tell us?" asked a slender boy who bore a striking resemblance to Harry Potter, even down to the round glasses and mussed brown hair.
To hell with it. "How old do you think I am?"
"Twenty-two." Katie, the instigator.
"Pretty close."
"Twenty-three!" bellowed Barry, almost bounding up from his seat. He glanced around at his buddies for support, and they nodded and chuckled.
"Twenty-four," from a quiet girl in a light blue sari near the door.
Julia held out her right fist, thumb down. Lower.
"Twenty-one?"
A pause.
"Twenty?" This from an incredulous ginger-headed boy behind Katie.
Julia nodded. "But I'm almost twenty-one."
This was a lie. She would not be twenty-one until April. She watched them do the math.
Katie finally asked the question they were likely all wondering. "How old were you when you graduated from high school?"
"Seventeen. But I finished college in three years. An abundance of AP courses in high school served as a boon to that end."
“Boon?” someone murmured in the back. Several students exchanged looks, some regarding her with a degree of awe. This was the cream of the crop, after all. Some had already earned a black belt in AP credit.
“Uh, Ms. Brighton?” asked the student with the round glasses, eyeing an object on her desk like it was the Holy Grail. “Is that a phone?”
She smiled at him, glad of the diversion. “It is a phone, but you’ll only see this kind in old movies. It was popular in the 1940s.” It was one of the old candlestick phones, the kind with the mouthpiece mounted at the top of the stand and the rotary dial at the base, the earpiece hanging on a hook that protruded from the side of the stand.
“Does it work?” someone asked.
“No, it doesn’t work!” His neighbor sneered. “It’s not plugged in, genius.”
“And that,” Julia broke in, pointing to a little desk by itself in the corner, “is a student desk from the early 1900s. It used to sit in a one-room schoolhouse in Newton, Massachusetts. All grades, from kindergarten to upperclassmen.” She barely breathed as every head turned as one to observe her other prized anachronism. Impossibly small, it looked built for a third grader. “Can you imagine trying to squeeze into that desk every day?”
“No.” This from an awestruck Barry, who looked so solemn that, before she could help it, Julia let loose a snort-laugh. So much for decorum.
She seized the momentary pause to cover the agreement forms – they all signed it - and a tour of the writing center. The remainder of the hour passed in blissful communal chatter as students mingled and swapped stories about summer activities and class schedules. Julia moved to the podium, trailed by Katie, blue eyes alight as she peppered Julia with questions about her “college experience”. As they chatted, Julia’s gaze wandered the room, coming to rest on Caden at one of the back tables. He was a popular guy. Caden chose a spot, and the cluster formed around him, guys and girls alike. Amid the laughter and gestures and tapping on cell phones, Caden said little, focusing his full attention on this one speaking to him, then that one, his hands resting in his lap.
His eyes met hers, and her breath caught – there it was again, a forest glen she could sink into – and he frowned, as though offended. With an effort, she forced herself to focus on Katie, willing the sudden tightness in her chest to loosen. No wonder Caden drew a crowd. Aaron had drawn her in a year ago with his mesmerizing charm, then violently upended her world. She may have crash-landed in Heywood instead of Harvard, but she was free from him. She was free.
When the bell rang to dismiss, Julia sank into the chair behind her desk and toed off her shoes to stretch her aching feet. She was slated to spend the remainder of the day visiting English classes to introduce herself and the Writing Center’s services, a tall order for a gal who would rather ensconce herself in a library writing research papers. She sighed, realizing she had no clue where the nearest coffee pot resided.
After school, Julia limped up the front steps of her house to find her roommate Dezra sitting on the front porch swing, cross-legged with a blue quilt across her lap. An ice bucket with bottles of Dezra’s homemade lemonade sat beside her. Blackberry mint. Julia’s favorite.
“There’s the working girl.” Dezra withdrew two bottles and placed the bucket on the wooden floorboards so Julia could sit next to her. Dezra was twenty-five and owned Mug o’ Mocha (or MOM’s, as the locals called it), one of two coffee shops in Heywood and by far the most popular. She embodied the no-stress, easy breezy vibe Julia both envied and admired, with her laughing brown eyes and cropped blonde hair, always a bright shade at the tips. At present, her vivid pink tips matched the tattoo of a rose that traversed the length of her right arm.
Julia kicked off her heels and pulled a long swallow from the bottle, pressing the chilled glass to her flushed cheek. “I survived. No more, no less. And I got the age question right out of the gate.”
Dezra snorted. “So the grown-up disguise of spiky heels and messy bun didn’t work?”
“Apparently the spiky heels were more of a distraction.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Dezra brandished her bottle in a mock salute.
The breeze shifted, and Julia perked up. “Is that quiche?”
“I figured you’d be hungry after a long first day,” Dezra said, nodding toward the open window beside her. She drew out her cell phone and peered at it. “Ready in fifteen minutes.”
Julia pulled her own phone from her bag, remembering it was still silenced. Few people knew her cell number, the one she’d acquired a month before graduation. Switching to her own phone plan, she’d explained to her parents. Neither had pointed out that she could switch plans and keep her original number. Perhaps they didn’t know. Or care.
Julia had three missed calls, including one from Kiri. Her best friend was a senior at Boston U but currently resided in Madrid, Spain, for a journalism internship. It would be nearing midnight in Madrid, so Julia made a mental note to call her tomorrow. The second call came from Aunt Lisa in Plymouth, where Julia spent the bulk of her summer after graduation. Humorous and energetic, she would pepper Julia with quirky questions about her first day at Heywood High. How’s the food? Are you already their favorite? Meet any cute coaches?
The third call…Mom, back home in Massachusetts. A familiar pang of sorrow needled Julia’s stomach as she stared at the number. Diane Brighton had contacted her daughter twice the entire summer. But it was something. It was something, she thought as she pulled herself from the swing and headed inside.
Dezra owned a quaint, two-story house with a full front porch in a quiet neighborhood not far from the high school. Born and raised in Erie, Dezra now owned the home and coffee shop her beloved grandmother had struggled to maintain. Julia found the rent affordable and Dezra agreeable.
As Julia trudged upstairs, she thought back to that cloudless August day when Dezra had shown Julia her furnished bedroom with a private bathroom and a small guest room down the hall. “The upstairs is all yours,” Dezra had said. “You can invite your parents to stay in the guest room when they come to town. Just let me know ahead of time.”
“I doubt they’ll visit much,” Julia had murmured. Dezra had opened her mouth, given her a searching look, then closed it again, and Julia had known they would get along just fine.
***
THE NEXT DAY AT LUNCHTIME, Julia ventured from her classroom to wander the high school, a two-story red brick building built in the 1920’s that held 600 students, freshmen through seniors. Avoiding the boisterous cafeteria, she made her way to the second floor and paused at a nondescript door marked STAFF. She opened it to find a tiny break room equipped with a mini fridge, a chipped counter with sink and microwave, and a table with mismatched chairs. The mingled aroma of casseroles and body lotion hung in the air.
Three women who looked to be in their mid-twenties surrounded the table, filling their plates from crock pots and plastic containers. They had obviously planned a private smorgasbord, for when Julia entered, they froze in place as though engaged in a culinary version of freeze tag.
“Hi.” Julia held up her lunch and flashed a smile. “I’m unarmed.”
The attempt at humor went over like a fart in church. One of the women, a petite redhead, tightened her grip on a serving spoon plunged into a colorful pasta salad. “Can we help you?”
Julia fought the urge to back away. “This is one of the staff lounges, right?”
“Uh, right.” This from another gal, short, rotund, and unimpressed with Julia’s aptitude. “We were just having our traditional back-to-school lunch.” She leaned over the food as if their uninvited guest might dive in headfirst.
The rebel within Julia snapped awake. “Great!” she said with a sunny smile. “Can I join you?” Two pairs of eyes darted toward the beautiful woman in the middle, platinum ponytail, glowing tan, and Julia recognized her as Farrah Fitzhugh, her classroom neighbor.
Farrah’s glossy lips hung open for a moment. Then she snapped them shut and smiled. “Of course. Of course you can. Of course she can.” This last was directed at the others, which appeared to be the “Simon Says” sign to unfreeze, though the air remained frosty. They settled around the table, the conversation stilted, and Julia ate quickly in preparation for a hasty exit.
“So, you’re from out of state?” Farrah asked Julia, as if the idea was unpleasant.
Julia, who had just taken a bite of her turkey and Swiss on sourdough, could only nod for a moment. “I’m from Massachusetts.”
“And how many years have you taught?”
“Oh, I just graduated in June.”
“Just graduated?” Farrah shared a look of surprise with the other members of her squad. “You’re certified in what? English?”
“N-no. I’m not certified.”
Farrah folded her arms. “So no student teaching. How exactly did you nab the Writing Center position?”
So that was it. Julia’s eyes dropped to her sandwich as her appetite vanished. She hadn’t even considered who might have been in the running, who might have been passed over when they offered her the position.
They offered the position to me. And I’m going to make them glad they did.
Julia lifted her chin, not making eye contact but managing to skim her gaze across all three faces. “I’m not sure, but I’m happy to be here.” She rose from the table and scooped up her lunch. “I’ve got to run and take care of some things.”
Farrah sniffed. "See ya. We’ll, uh, let you know when we plan our next little potluck."
The rest of her pack issued half-hearted murmurs of agreement, and Julia managed to leave just before tears stung the back of her eyes, knowing full well that Angelina Jolie would become a nun before those three ever threw her a lunch invite.
***
TEACHERS ARE THE DRILL SERGEANTS of America’s information army, charged with the daunting task of taking on a platoon of fresh troops every September and equipping them with the skills needed to survive in the field of battle. Along with that comes “duty”, an unpaid assigned post intended for teachers to keep an eye on the sneaky and rebellious.
Julia was not a teacher, per se, yet she had received an assignment to keep order in the cafeteria on Fridays before school.
The Heywood High cafeteria served as the heart and soul of the building, placed in the middle of the first floor with four hallways leading to the various classrooms and exits. Julia marched in at the appointed time of 7:15 a.m. with her coffee thermos ready to use as a weapon if Armageddon itself descended on the unsuspecting students of Heywood High. Dressed in a powder blue button-up shirt tucked into khaki pants, she took up her position across from the library, a room set off like an atrium from the cafeteria, with floor to ceiling glass walls. The ranks were thin at 7:15 but began to fill up around 7:30. Most students looked half-asleep, and Julia decided that she’d landed one of the easier assignments.
As she sipped her coffee, Farrah and her two friends - the Farrahm, as Dezra had dubbed the group after hearing Julia’s story – sauntered past. Julia straightened and scrutinized the cafeteria crowd, hoping that the trio would notice that the privileged Writing Center Administrator wasn’t above a duty assignment. They noticed her all right, giving her smug looks as they passed. Julia longed to chase them down and crow about her 4.0 GPA from prestigious Boston University, followed by her acceptance into Harvard’s PhD program. But how the hell would she explain why she landed in Heywood with a paltry hourly salary?
Mrs. Beasley shuffled in, making her way through a throng of admirers peppering her with high fives and stories of their summer vacations. “How ya doin’, kid?” She joined Julia and scanned the crowd with the practiced eye of a four-star general.
“Pretty well, Mrs. Beasley. I’ve almost earned my week one belt.”
“Call me Bees if you want. Everyone else does.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “The word is that they like you, your smarts and your sense of humor. That’s what I call a good start.”
“I’m glad to hear that...Bees.” Though they could have boasted the widest age gap among the staff, Julia found Mrs. Beasley’s wisdom and wit comforting. Oh, to have her for a classroom neighbor instead of Farrah! But Mrs. Beasley had taken on speech and debate the year before and moved to one of the electives hallways, leaving Julia to fend for herself.
Julia had expected her first-period class to balk at the classroom style mini-lessons in favor of the allure of the computers and tables in the back of the room. Though they did enjoy the autonomy of the Writing Center, her students had surprised her with a stream of questions about grammar: when to use who versus whom, its versus it’s, and was it he had swam or he had swum? Julia had gladly complied, and most students had taken notes, only a few slipping to the computers in the back before she’d finished.
Mrs. Beasley placed a soft hand on Julia’s arm and nodded to the left. They watched as a boy crept in, eyes sweeping his environs like a rabbit slipping into a fox’s den. With his plain white tee shirt and windswept hair, he bore a remarkable likeness to James Dean.
No one spoke to him or even seemed to notice him, and moments later he navigated the perimeter of the cafeteria to the safety of the library. Mrs. Watson the librarian, a motherly type with a warm smile, greeted him from behind the checkout counter. The boy waved at her, then grabbed a stack of books off a cart and headed for the fiction shelves.
“That’s Kevin Niemeyer,” Mrs. Beasley murmured. “Remember, kid, this is a fishbowl, and some fish swim alone. They are the vulnerable ones, so be sure to look after them.”
An image of her father flashed in Julia’s mind, rage in his watery green eyes, his lips curled into a snarl, and she patted her chest as if it would somehow loosen the sudden tightness. Even a hundred miles away, John Brighton could strike her like lightning, a flash of white-hot pain followed by a lingering, unsettling hum in the air.
Mrs. Beasley’s chuckle brought Julia’s attention to a familiar group of athletes, who approached and smothered Mrs. Beasley in a show of admiration. Barry Nowakowski could have crushed her, but Mrs. Beasley simply laughed as she disappeared in his embrace. Caden greeted her next, with a surprising degree of animation.
“How’s my Queen Bee?” he asked, flashing a brilliant smile that revealed a set of dimples. “You’re still my favorite. You know that, right?”
“I pay them well,” Mrs. Beasley quipped, glancing at Julia.
Caden followed her gaze and spotted Julia. In an instant the wide grin tucked into a chewed lip, and the shining eyes darted away. “Miss Brighton,” he murmured.
Julia watched the group move to their usual table and greet other friends. Caden chatted with Matt, a serious and observant student who stuck close to Caden in writing class. A teacher passed by – Mr. Thomas, the French teacher, if Julia wasn’t mistaken – and Caden stood to clap him on the shoulder, his eyes focused on Mr. Thomas as they spoke.
Hell’s bells, why couldn’t he talk to her? Caden had avoided her all week in class, his gaze never quite meeting hers, his body tensing at his computer when she approached to ask how things were going. She yearned to tell him not to be embarrassed, it was just a misunderstanding…but what could she say that wouldn’t be awkward?
Julia spoke without thinking. “Caden McCaffrey is in my class.”
“He’s a great kid,” Mrs. Beasley said. “I had him in speech last year, English the year before.”
“I can’t figure him out. I see him chatting up all the other teachers, but he avoids me.”
“He puts up a guard at first. Give him some time.” Bees glanced at the clock and shuffled off. “He’s had a rough go of it, but he’s very resilient. A fine young man who takes care of people. You’ll be glad to know him.”
Julia replayed Bees’ words as the bell summoned them like cattle to their pens.
***
FRIDAY NIGHT ARRIVED WITH SOME FANFARE, for Dezra had promised to throw a party to introduce her friends to “the new girl in town”. After five full days of teenagers, Julia was more than ready to be in the company of people old enough to think about rent.
As the setting sun draped their living room in swaths of gold, Dezra flitted around the living room lighting candles as Julia placed the Victrola’s needle on a Billie Holiday record. Dezra’s cat Clio, a soft and sophisticated Calico that Dezra inherited with the house, followed their movements in complacent silence from her burgundy cushion atop a small table. Freed from the pressure of having to be a role model, Julia wore a dusty pink, button-up shirtdress and brown booties. Her wavy hair spilled loose around her shoulders, and she wore small emerald earrings that set off her eyes.
The mouthwatering aromas of grilled meat and baked bread wafted in from the kitchen, and Julia’s stomach growled in protest. “Dezra, what are you cooking up in there?”
“Oh, a little of this and a little of that.” Dezra wore a simple cream tunic with leather sandals, jeans, and a string of turquoise beads around her neck. She blew out a match and stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the room. “I think we’re ready.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang, followed by a steady stream of guests. Ben and Amy, the next-door neighbors, arrived bearing a cheesecake and a bottle of merlot. Early 30’s and tennis enthusiasts, they both worked as physical therapists. On their heels came Eva, a dark-haired, dark-eyed waif of a girl who worked at Mug o’ Mocha by day and sang with her Latin blues band by night.
Lonnie was the last to arrive. Twenty-six-year-old mortgage banker, he bounced in with a bulging backpack and kissed Dezra on the cheek. “Ah, the new girl,” he exclaimed, beaming from beneath the brim of a navy-blue fedora. “Where did you find this beauty?” Startled, Julia caught him admiring, not her, but her gilded hat tree near the front door.
“Julia is something of an antique collector,” Dezra said with a wink. “See, now you have a place to hang your hat.” And Lonnie did just that, revealing a tight curl of red hair that matched the splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose on his cheerful face. He disappeared into the kitchen.
In the living room, Dezra’s friends wasted no time in discovering Julia’s accumulated collection of keepsakes. Ben and Amy admired a framed movie poster of Swing Time, the incomparable Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers striking a dance pose.
“Oh my,” Eva gasped, circling the red Victorian chaise lounge as though it were on display in a museum. Julia’s most prized possession, it still bore the faint scent of her Gran’s floral perfume. Eva turned a glowing face upon her. “Can I sit on it?”
Julia laughed at her unadorned excitement. “Of course you can.”
Eva eased herself down, running her fingertips along the buttoned upholstery and carved wooden trim. She toed off her shoes and stretched out, posing with one arm behind her head. “I feel like a movie star.”
“That’s the idea.”
The kitchen door swung open to Dezra and Lonnie, the former balancing platters of bruschetta and crispy egg rolls, the latter brandishing a tray filled with…shot glasses?
“All right everybody, bottoms up now, tops off later,” Lonnie crooned as he placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Dezra’s wraparound sofa.
“What are these?” Julia asked as she sat on the sofa. Each tumbler was filled with a bright colored liquid - blue, red, yellow, green, even purple.
“Lonnie’s famous stiff upper lip shots,” Dezra said as she sat beside Julia. “He won’t share his recipes,” she added, shooting him a mock look of disgust, “but they’re delicious and one will do ya’ fine for the evening.” She lifted a glass and examined the vibrant green liquid. “And they will definitely numb your lips.”
“Come on, while we’re young.” Lonnie waved at the tray and everyone selected a glass. Julia’s nose tingled when she sniffed the ruby liquid, a blend of cherry and strong liquor. She avoided alcohol as a rule, but this was her party, and she had no need to drive afterward.
Lonnie lifted his glass, and everyone followed suit. “Here’s to the new girl in town. An official Heywood welcome to Miss Julia Brighton. Cheers.”
“Cheers!”
As one, they knocked back their shots, scrunching their faces as the burn settled in.
Dezra rubbed a hand across her lips and set her empty tumbler on the tray, then rose and headed toward the food on the dining table. “Come and get it while it’s hot.”
Lonnie plopped down next to Julia. “So, what brings you to the bustling metropolis of Heywood? Dezra tells me you’re from somewhere in the dark shadows of Central Massachusetts.”
Here we go. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Julia met each person’s gaze in turn – Ben and Amy on the chaise lounge, Eva in a chair opposite her, Lonnie beside her - setting the stage, gathering her thoughts. “It was my senior year at Boston University, and I still didn’t know where I wanted to work after graduation. I knew I wanted to stay in the Northeast, but that’s as far as I’d gotten. We were at a friend’s playing darts in the game room when my best friend Kiri got this idea. We drew a map of New England, taped it to a cork board, and threw darts at it.”
“No way,” said Eva, her dark eyes wide.
“Yes way. Kiri turned it into a game and made me throw over sixty darts so she could make a bracket, like college basketball. Then we had playoffs.”
It was well rehearsed, rolling right off the tongue. She knew people would ask why she had moved to Heywood. They didn’t need to know about the breakup with Aaron, or her acceptance to Harvard that went unanswered because he still roamed its grounds. The fact that she couldn’t go home. That she didn’t care where she ended up, as long as it wasn’t Massachusetts.
Lonnie was hyperventilating. “So, what were your final two contenders?”
“First of all, Kiri’s going to be a political correspondent, so we’re talking congressional districts here. It came down to New Hampshire’s first district and New York’s 26th. Near Buffalo and Niagara Falls,” Julia added at their blank looks. “New Hampshire won out, so I started sending applications. And here I am with all of you fine people!” She held a second glass aloft to general cheers and drank it down. “Whoo!” She sucked in a breath and patted her sternum. Minty, that one. “Lonnie, my lips are numb!” She clapped her hand over her mouth, staring wide-eyed at him, as he laughed.
“Dez, we’ve got a live one here!”
As if on cue, Dezra whirled into the living room with the hat tree, holding it before her like a dance partner, Lonnie’s fedora still perched atop it. “I love this thing, Julia.” She dipped it, and Lonnie’s hat rolled across the floor. “Oh, pardon me, sir.” They all laughed in response as Dezra danced the hat tree back to its spot in the foyer.
A thrill shot through Julia as she took in the shining faces, the cozy living room, the comforting aromas of a home-cooked meal. For the first time in years, Julia felt she was home. A safe space. A place where she could simply be.
The Fabulous Miss B is an engaging novel that takes the reader through protagonist Julia Brighton’s journey of discovery, emotional growth, and romance. Julia has chosen to work as a high school instructor rather than a Harvard graduate, due to a mixture of family conflict and a past abusive relationship. Through her new job as a tutor she meets Caden McCaffrey, a popular sports star who seems to be “off-limits.” However, as they bond over their brothers, faith, and interests, they develop a romance that must be kept secret at all costs. Through her relationship with Caden, Julia is able to confront the obstacles she left behind at home and her inner struggles with pain and loss.
This novel takes many unexpected turns while simultaneously abiding by the typical teacher-student romance trope. Every effort is made to characterize the love interest, Caden, as “a man” even though he is a high school senior. He is eighteen, a loyal friend who stands up to bullies, guided by faith and honor, and has been matured by the death of his older brother. Considering Julia graduated college age-twenty, their relationship is clearly meant to avoid being labeled inappropriate. In addition, when the two realize their mutual feelings, Caden switches out of her writing class, mostly eliminating the imbalance of power in their dynamic. This instantly makes their romance easier to root for throughout the rest of the story.
The main character, Julia, is well written, with emotional baggage that leaves her less confident in herself and her relationships. During the course of the novel she builds a support system and a life for herself, even as she deals with figures from her past that form a real threat to her wellbeing and romance with Caden. She is generally mature, although she tends to be indecisive and a little confusing with how she handles certain situations. There are a few times Julia will create a problem where none existed to add conflict to the story. Despite this, her personality, including her love of vintage and antiques, is endearing. This aspect of her character, coupled by Caden’s heroic nature, connect them thematically to the star-crossed lovers of classic literature.
Overall, this book is recommended for contemporary romance readers who appreciate elements of intrigue and self-discovery. It receives a rating of 3/5 stars because it delivered in character development and plot progression, but had nonexistent conflict and a sometimes unconvincing romance.
Trigger Warnings: mentions of death; mild explicit content.