Independence Day. Amy Frazier
area. What if this gossip filtered through his staff to the recruits? How would it affect his image as a professional and a leader?
He spied Abigail, John’s wife and bookkeeper, peeking out from behind curtains in the office window, an unmistakable smile on her pretty face. Nick sighed heavily. “You know Chessie, John. Just some Fourth-of-July hijinks.”
“If you say so.” The mechanic wiped his hands on a rag.
“Oh, hell!” Nick ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you know what women really want?”
John snorted. “Abigail says all she wants is a little bit more than she’s ever going to get.”
“But what exactly is that little bit more?”
“In Abigail’s case, money.”
Nick shook his head. That wasn’t the case with Chessie. Or was it? She’d said she wanted to be romanced. Did that mean expensive jewelry and exotic bouquets? Those things hadn’t mattered to her in the past. But, as far as he’d been concerned, Chessie had seemed content, and look at how wrong he’d been on that score.
“What about romance?” he asked.
“Frankly, Abigail seems to get her kicks from a ledger in the black. But what do I know?”
“You’re saying you haven’t a clue.”
“Not a one.” John raised his hat, repositioned it, then set it back on his head in the age-old male gesture that begged to change the subject. “So, you want a ride to work?”
“Yeah. I hope you’re better at figuring out transmissions than you are at figuring out women.”
At the high school, Hattie St. Regis, his administrative assistant, met him with a fresh pot of coffee and a double-parked agenda. “Restful holiday?” she asked, her eyes betraying no sign of gossip-induced interest.
“Yes,” he lied, trying to focus on the day planner on his desk, obscured with new paperwork.
“Good. We have quite a schedule today.” She poured them each a cup of coffee. “I’m thinking of getting an espresso machine in this place. Regular coffee just doesn’t spark my plugs any more.”
What did spark women’s plugs these days? He didn’t dare ask Hattie’s advice. For the past year the two of them had maintained a strictly professional relationship.
Shuffling papers, he spotted a petition from a large section of last year’s female student body, requesting the addition of an elective course on women’s studies.
“Hattie.” He held up the petition. “I think we’ve been vigilant in updating our curriculum. We’ve tried to include important contributions, events, philosophies from all groups regardless of ethnicity or gender.”
“Yes?”
“So why would we need a separate women’s studies class?” He noted her sharply raised eyebrows. “I mean, if we’re sincerely trying to appreciate the accomplishments of women in the curriculum at large, why would women want to segregate the issue? What do women want or need that’s so different from what men want or need?”
She eyed him sharply without speaking, and he wondered if she didn’t see clear through to his real question.
“Do you want a professional opinion or a personal one?”
He swallowed hard and took the plunge. “Personal.”
“Women of any age want to be taken seriously. Need to be noticed for the whole of who and what we are.” A hint of mischief warmed her eyes. “Sometimes we have to get demonstrative. With, say…petitions.”
She picked up her coffee mug and turned to leave his office. Over her shoulder she added, “If I were you, I’d okay the women’s studies course…and I’d pick up a big box of Chessie’s favorite chocolates on your way home tonight. It’s not a solution, but it’s a start.”
Nick rubbed his eyes. Everyone wanted to be taken seriously. To be noticed for their skills and accomplishments. Women couldn’t claim that need as their own. But Chessie felt strongly enough about it that she was afraid of turning forty and faded.
How could his own red, white and blue trumpeter feel faded? She was Technicolor, for crying out loud. Neon. Hadn’t he told her as much time and time again?
Hadn’t he?
Hattie was right. He’d pick up chocolates on his way home from work. And he’d find out all about that pottery project the museum trustee had shown interest in—a fifteen hundred dollar interest, no less. Maybe then Chessie would forget about her ridiculous no-sex challenge.
And if she didn’t? Well, Nick might just have to admit he had a problem. But wasn’t solving problems his stock-in-trade?
CHESSIE SUPPRESSED A SCREAM and the urge to hose down her heel-dragging daughter, who didn’t seem to care that her mother couldn’t wait to hook up with the art class that would begin in fifteen minutes. Couldn’t wait to be in the company of artists like herself. Self-motivated adults. As compared to her girls, who’d fought her at every turn today.
“Isabel,” she said, trying desperately not to nag. “I’ll be back in two hours. Your dad should be home from work by then. We can eat any time after that.” With dismay she viewed the mountain of dirty Fourth-of-July dishes. Obviously, she needed to provide some impetus. Not nagging, but nudging. “You can’t prepare supper, and we can’t eat without clean recruits from the dish department.”
“This is so unfair,” the teenager complained.
“Unfair or not, dishes happen.”
“But I have a headache.” With a pained expression, Isabel sank against the counter.
Chessie felt no sympathy. Her elder daughter was prone to hypochondria and a sort of Victorian lethargy. “A lovely hand-soak in dishwater should cure it.”
“We have to be the only house in Maine without a dishwasher. It’s absolutely prehistoric.”
“Nevertheless.” Chessie heard Gabriella thumping down the stairs. “Ah, reinforcements. I’m sure you and your sister—” She gasped in shock.
Gabriella, whose wavy strawberry-blond hair had been her crowning glory, now sported a buzz cut with only a fringe of bangs, which she had dyed a startling lime-green.
“Gabriella!” Chessie squeaked. “What have you done?”
“Don’t go ballistic.” Her younger daughter shrugged. “You’re not the only one in this family entitled to a little recognition.”
“But your hair…” Even Isabel seemed stunned by her sister’s daring.
Gabriella slouched against the door frame. “It’s not as if I pierced anything.”
“Oh, gawd! Just wait till Dad sees,” Isabel drawled dramatically. “You do remember Dad. The principal of your school for the next four years. You might as well learn early he’s a dictator when it comes to the dress code.”
“It’ll grow back by September.”
The new Chessie bit her tongue. Let Gabby deal with her ’do and any consequences. Chessie was headed for professional development.
“Dishes and dinner, girls.”
“We’ve got it covered,” Gabriella replied, reaching into the Mason jar that held money for emergencies. “On our way back from the mall we’ll stop at Boston Market and pick up supper.”
More tongue biting on Chessie’s part. She’d told Nick she didn’t care if takeout was on the menu. “Okay,” she conceded, “but feed the cats, please.”
She had to leave quickly before she reverted to form.
Once outside and hustling toward the town square, she