Jessamine Grove

Excerpt

Jessamine Grove
D.J. Blankenship © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

December

Florentina Bay

Along with Sarah’s letter came an exquisite origami Christmas ornament. Not having a tree upon which to hang it, I attached the multicolored star to the toggle of my rucksack. Now, as I opened the bag, I admired it once more. I tried origami when I was a kid. Unfortunately, I never managed to produce anything that resembled the intended object. What other creative projects had I put my hand to? Shadow boxes, model rockets, the iconic “science project,” and finally, painting. All failures. Not for lack of intelligence or skill, but for a surfeit of impatience. I wanted everything I did to be perfect. Instantly. When it was not, I stomped on, tore up, or otherwise destroyed it.

Now, with the wisdom of maturity, I looked upon Sarah’s handiwork with more admiration than envy. I had learned to accept there were certain things I could not do—or do well—and it was a waste of time and energy to dwell on failures rather than concentrate on and hone strengths. This mindset had served me well in my career as an educator.

Sarah had bested me in artistic creativity, applying her crafty little hands successfully to everything from sewing and knitting to creating beautiful greeting cards and handbound notebooks. In her skill with, and love of, teaching, Sarah had been my equal.

As I pulled my thermos and the letter from my bag, I marveled at the passage of time. Almost thirty years since Sarah Lewis and I began work at Allerton Academy. The venerable Connecticut institution was in precarious financial straits when we were hired, holding tenaciously (or foolishly, depending on one’s perspective) to its old-fashioned curriculum and strict code of discipline while the outside world moved inexorably forward, and more successful private schools adopted contemporary education models. The anachronism of Allerton initially captured our shared romanticism—the feeling of having been hired as principles in a costume drama—and the reality of Allerton’s prestige and high standards that kept us on. From the start, Sarah and I entertained no false hopes that our honeymoon with Allerton would last forever, so we were both surprised the school managed to hang on for more than a quarter of a century.

With Allerton in its final death throes, Sarah, and I—and a few colleagues whose tenures matched or exceeded our own—faced the unenviable fate of being middle-aged and unemployed. Some, like I, chose early retirement. Others, without the luxury of a private income, scrambled to find positions commensurate with their experience working in an old-fashioned boy’s boarding school. Some found work abroad. A few, like Sarah, took positions as private tutors.

“Why?” I had asked Sarah, truly baffled.

Sarah had a promising new life awaiting her outside Allerton—a long suffering lover who had finally convinced her to accept his everlasting marriage proposal and follow him to wedded bliss and retirement in Italy. Instead, Sarah had opted for a two-year stint tutoring the precocious child of a wealthy Florida power couple.

“I can’t quit cold turkey,” Sarah reasoned. “I need some sort of transition. And I could use the extra cash. The Willoughbys are paying handsomely for the Allerton pedigree.”

When she divulged the figure, I was floored.

“Jesus. I can’t blame you for accepting. But what about Victor?”

Victor was the long-suffering boyfriend.

“His reaction was rather like yours,” she said, adding a few cubes of ice and a dash of scotch to her empty glass. “Victor has agreed to a compromise. He’s going to rent a condo nearby, and we’ll spend our holidays in Italy. When my contract is up, we’ll move for good.”

Halfway through the first year of that contract, Mrs. Willoughby passed away, and Sarah soon found herself reconsidering the wisdom of continuing in her position.

“I won’t be sad to leave this place,” Sarah had said in her letter to me, “but I worry about the boy.”

The boy. Max Willoughby.

How often, over the years, have we had that discussion about why some people choose to be parents? Ezra isn’t a bad man, really. But his parenting skills leave a lot to be desired.

Anyway, I’ve had enough. And despite his assurances to the contrary, I know Victor is getting antsy. For so many years, I used Allerton and my career to avoid a true, live-in commitment to Victor. I won’t do that anymore. I want to spend every moment of the rest of my life with the man I love.

And yet…

I don’t want to leave Max without knowing there is someone there for him. Someone to advocate for him. Someone to care for him. He’s certainly no day at the county fair, but there’s something about him. Sometimes when I’m with him I recall what you’ve told me about your own childhood. It’s the young Neil Boehm I see when Max rips up a perfectly good essay or kicks his easel to the ground when I offer the slightest constructive criticism about a work in progress. He has much creative potential but lacks a proper sense of self-worth—of confidence.

Though he denies it, the death of Mrs. Willoughby has affected Max deeply, and he turns to me more and more as a surrogate mother.

What I believe Max really needs at this stage in his life is someone who can be a mentor as well as both a mother and father figure. A buddy, a confidant. Ezra—though I do not doubt his love for his son—seems afraid of gentleness, of kindness, of, perhaps, showing himself as weak. He often forgets Max is a child, not a military cadet.

You’ve already guessed where I’m going with this, of course.

You’d start after the New Year.

Please, Neil. At least consider it seriously. Ezra has practically made up his mind to send his son to a boarding school in France. I think this would be disastrous for Max. If you agree, we’ll talk about it in more detail later.

I’ve already told Mr. Ezra about you—and he’s checked you out and is suitably impressed. And he seems, much to my feminist chagrin, to assume you would be less likely to run off and get married.

Would you? I wonder.

Details enclosed.

Love,

Sarah

I received the contract from Ezra Willoughby even before I met him via video conference. Despite the feeling I was being railroaded—gently by Sarah, imperiously by Willoughby—I accepted the offer. The charm of the lifestyle of an aging beach bum was beginning to wear off, and as much as I cherished the pleasant memories sparked by my return to Florentina Bay, other, darker memories overshadowed them and made remaining there untenable.

Allerton Academy had been my home for more than half of my adult life. Where would I live out the rest of it? Perhaps a leap of faith was in order.

*

I was met at Jacksonville International Airport by a stern-looking, white-haired Willoughby employee named Ned, who led me from baggage claim to a waiting black SUV. The casual attire of my escort—polo and chinos—and the budget model of my ride were letdowns.

The drive was pleasant, since the modest interior of the vehicle was spalike after so many hours in an airplane, and the driver made no attempts at small talk. I applied myself to the final chapter of the novel I had started during the flight and had just begun to nod off when the driver announced our arrival at our destination.

“Here we are, Mr. Boehm,” he said, lowering the right passenger window for a better view, “Jessamine Grove.”

A bizarre pastiche of Andalusian and Pueblo-style architecture, the house built by Harrison Willoughby in 1925 still managed to impress with the sheer chutzpa of its design. Although Willoughby’s dreams of a planned community for his fellow tycoons died with the Crash of 1929, the Grove survived. While other historic properties in nearby Old Saint Augustine had been converted to museums or hotels, the Grove remained private property.

As we approached the house, I looked about, puzzled. The driver, noting my consternation, laughed, and said, “There aren’t any.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jessamine vines. You were lookin’ for ’em, right? Everybody does. Time was, they covered nearly the entire estate. The scent was somethin’, I’ll tell ya. But the Señora took a dislike to them. Had them all ripped out. I’ll never forget the day she sent Nessa down to give the order. Too high and mighty to tell me directly. Nearly a hundred years of tradition gone in one fell swoop. Surprised she didn’t change the name of the place, to boot.”

“The Señora?”

“Fabiola Willoughby. Mr. Willoughby’s late wife. South American. That’s why we all called her the Señora. Some of the Spanish-speaking folk, they called her La Patrona. I don’t know much Spanish, but I know what that means. Can’t say they sounded like they said it with much respect though. But what do I know?”

Not a peep from the man for over an hour, and now he was showing himself to be an old gossip. “How long have you worked at the Grove?” I asked.

“Since I came back from Vietnam. My daddy was head gardener then. I wasn’t fit for much else, so old Mr. Willoughby was kind enough to take me on as my daddy’s apprentice. Been the head honcho since the old man passed on. Don’t live on the estate no more though. Our little house went the way of the jessamine.”

After being afforded the tourist view of the spectacular tiled fountain that was the centerpiece of the circular front drive, Ned escorted me to the rear of the main house, where he handed me off to a uniformed household staff member.

“See you around, Mr. Boehm,” said Ned, giving me a salute over his shoulder as he walked back to his vehicle.

I was led up the back stairs and thence deposited in my chamber in what I rightly assumed were the servants’ quarters.

“Mr. Willoughby should return sometime this evening,” said my guide, smiling for the first time. She was a diminutive young woman in her late teens to early twenties, with an elfin appearance accentuated by bobbed black hair neatly swept behind slightly pointed ears. “My name is Rosanie. Mrs. Hanson, the housekeeper, will introduce you to everyone else…the daily staff, and all that…eventually.”

Having lived for so many years in an institution that was run like clockwork, I found Rosanie’s lack of certainty irritating.

“And where can I find this Mrs. Hanson?” I asked, my voice sounding supercilious even to my own ears.

“Um…” Rosanie glanced from side to side, as if the housekeeper might suddenly pop out from some dark corner of the room, “She’s off today… I think.”

You think?

Rosanie must have read the incredulity in my expression.

“I mean,” she continued, “Mrs. Hanson is usually off on Tuesdays and today is Tuesday, so”–Rosanie shrugged–“she must be off.”

She’s not the only one.

“Thank you for the clarification, Rosanie. You really have no idea at what time I can expect to meet Mr. Willoughby?”

“Um…after six?”

God, give me strength.

“Thank you, Rosanie,” I said with what I hoped would be interpreted as a tone of dismissal.

Rosanie remained where she stood, looking down at the floor.

“This was her room,” she muttered, turning her gaze from the floor to me, her dark eyes looking on the verge of tears. “Miss Sarah’s room.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t I be assigned the same room?

“She was such a nice lady,” added Rosanie, fidgeting with the hem of her apron. “I miss her.”

I felt a pang of tenderness toward this young woman I had written off as an irritating nitwit. If she had liked Sarah, she couldn’t be all that bad.

“Yes,” I agreed, “She was. I miss her too.”

Rosanie smiled, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then made an awkward gesture somewhere between a bow and a curtesy.

“Well, um…if you need anything, Mr. Boehm, just ask. I’ll be in the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs, down the hall to the left.”

“Thank you again, Rosanie.”

And with that, I was left alone in my new digs.

I was pleasantly surprised. The apartment consisted of a small living room and adjacent bedroom. The furniture was a quirky hodge-podge of periods from Art Deco to contemporary—all good quality—that managed to coexist in a manner pleasing to the eye. Along the wall to the left of the bedroom door was a small but high-end kitchenette. In the bedroom, there was a sleigh bed, a highboy, and a dressing table worthy of a 1930s film star. A spacious Jack and Jill bathroom led to what must once have been a matching suite, but now appeared to serve as a storeroom.

As I unpacked, stowed, and hung my belongings, I thought of Sarah doing the same on her first day of employment. I imagined the personal touches she would have brought to her temporary quarters: scented candles, African violets, or a fern (her favorite houseplants), and her monthly journals—handmade of bits and bobs from the Allerton art department scrap heap and bound with ribbon from her vast collection of holiday paraphernalia.

My personal touch was a collection of beloved books—a vintage copy of Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Shakespeare’s sonnets, a 1920 printing of the Victrola Book of the Opera, The Count of Monte Cristo, and The Wind in the Willows among others–that I endeavored to arrange in order of size on the small marble fireplace mantel.

“Sarah had a clock there.”

Startled by the sound of the voice, I let Kenneth Graham’s masterpiece slip from my hand, and it hit the floor with a thud, disheveling the dust jacket and sending several folded letters I’d tucked within its pages—my memento mori—flying.

“Sorry.”

I reclaimed the childhood birthday gift from my mother, replaced the letters, and smoothed the creased cover.

Maximillian Willoughby’s apology was perfunctory. He could not have known how much the damage to the book bothered me. Understandably, he was more attuned to the absence of Sarah than to the feelings of the usurper of her domain.

Sarah had described Max as the “skater boy” type. The kid who stood in the doorway of my room wearing a misshapen grey T-shirt, baggy wide-legged jeans, and worn tennis shoes fit her description perfectly. The only thing lacking was the board.

“An eighteenth-century French ormolu clock?” I asked, as I placed the book next to its brothers. Max nodded. “I was with Sarah when she bought it at a flea market in Manhattan years ago. She stole the darned thing, really. The gentleman who owned the stall was clueless.”

I smiled at the remembrance of the trips to New York City that had been a staple of my friendship with Sarah. “Jaunts to civilization” Sarah called them.

“You must be Maximillian,” I said, walking toward the boy, my right hand outstretched in greeting. “I’m—”

“Neil Boehm,” interrupted Max. “I know. And yes, I must be Maximillian. Unless, of course, my parents adopted twins and the one they’ve kept locked in the basement managed to escape.”

I retracted my hand and clasped it to my other behind my back—my nonthreatening at-ease pose—Max having ignored the offer of a handshake. “Like The Man in the Iron Mask?”

Max smiled and I felt relief at having scored an early point. “Yeah. Dumas is awesome.”

“My favorite is The Count of Monte Cristo,” I said. “Have you read it?”

“Not yet. Just The Three Musketeers and The Man in the Iron Mask.”

“Good. We can read it together.”

Max’s smile broadened.

“And then you can write an essay on it.”

Adios to the smile.

“Okay,” I said, putting my hands up in a placating gesture, “we’ll read that one for fun. I’ll save the essay assignment for something more tedious.”

“Gee, thanks, professor.”

Max had advanced into the room during our conversation, and he now stood next to me examining the books on the mantle. Mr. Willoughby told me that Max had been bullied at school. Seeing Max up close, I thought I understood part of the reason why. It was often a curse for a boy of Max’s age.

Though gangly in build and awkward in gait, Maximillian Willoughby had a face worthy of the study of a Renaissance master: a mass of curly black hair, wide brown eyes framed with long lashes, well-defined cheekbones, and a cherubic mouth.

While I despised bullying, I reminded myself of Sarah’s assessment of Max as “hardly a day at the county fair.” I needed to get to know Max before jumping to facile conclusions.

“Please call me Neil,” I said, breaking the habit of formal teacher-pupil relations acquired at Allerton.

“Sarah said the same thing,” murmured Max, turning away from the books and toward me. “I mean, not Neil, obviously, but…”

“I get it.”

“How about Prof?”

“That will do nicely,” I said.

“Is that your real voice?” Max asked, as he removed my hardbound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo from the shelf without asking permission. He was testing me. I should have reprimanded him, but I did not. “You sound like a British actor or something.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I replied, putting my hand out for the book. “Thank you.” I replaced the book on the shelf. “When I was your age, I used to like to mimic people—singers, actors, teachers. I was intrigued by the sound of voices, of different languages. One day, I discovered the musical My Fair Lady, and from that day, I was hooked on elocution.”

“Elocution?”

“Yes. The art of speaking properly and clearly. The story of the musical comes from a play by George Bernard Shaw about a phonetician—a speech professor—who endeavors to teach an uneducated girl how to speak proper English and pass her off as an aristocrat.”

“Why?”

“To prove his theory of the power of language and comportment—that if you speak and act properly, people will assume that you are sophisticated, intelligent, and cultured, even if you aren’t.”

“Does it work?”

“Well,” I said with a shrug, “It worked for me.”

Max smiled. “Sarah said you were the only person she knew who could be silly and serious at the same time. She called you ‘seriously silly.’”

“I shall do my best to live down the moniker.”

Max’s smile faded, to be replaced with a dejected look.

“I miss Sarah,” Max said, moving to the window and sitting in a slouch on the narrow sill.

“I understand, Max,” I said. “Losing your mother, and then Sarah…”

“No,” said Max looking up sharply. “You don’t understand. Nobody does. And Fabiola was not my real mother. I don’t care that she’s dead. I hated her.”

I did not have a response for this. No one can fully understand the grief of another, and anger is part of the grieving process. Max being an adopted child added yet another challenging dimension to the scenario. I wondered if I was out of my depth. There was no guidance counselor to whom I could send Max, no school psychiatrist, no minister. Throughout my career, I had found myself in all those roles at one time or another. But never all of them at once.

“If you want,” said Max, changing the subject with the jarring facility of the young, “I can show you around the house and grounds.” He hopped down from the windowsill and followed me into the bedroom as I hung the last of my clothes. “Mrs. Hanson doesn’t come in on Tuesdays. And Rosanie doesn’t know anything. About the house, I mean. Even though she’s lived here, like, forever.”

“I’d enjoy that very much,” I said. “Where is your father? I thought I would meet him when I arrived.”

Max sighed heavily, and I wondered if the gesture was informed by garden variety preteen drama or actual exasperation with his father.

“Dad is at some fundraising committee thing.”

Dad. Interesting. Though Ezra Willoughby was no more Max’s real father than Fabiola Willoughby had been his real mother. The late Mrs. Willoughby was Fabiola, not Mom.

“So, you have the run of the castle?”

“More or less. Without Hideous Hanson breathing down my back.”

It was my turn to smile.

“All right, then. Lead on, McDuff.”

*

“Unlike the Doctor’s TARDIS,” said Max as he led me through french doors into the central great room of the Grove, “it’s smaller on the inside.”

I understood what he meant. The grounds Max had shown me were extensive, and the architect had obviously worked closely with the landscape designer to create a visual impact that suggested a rambling, multi-tiered property. There were ornamental ponds, follies, balconies extending from almost every room, an Olympic-sized swimming pool ensconced in an elaborate porticoed shelter. Yet, the main house was modest in size by my idea of a mansion. What the Grove lacked in square footage, it made up for in grandeur and detail.

“My dad says the dolphin mosaic at the bottom of the pool was stolen from an archeological dig on the island of Delos,” said Max, his tone of voice indicating a degree of misplaced pride.

“It would not surprise me, Max,” I replied as I followed Max up a sweeping marble staircase with gold filigree balusters and wrought iron banisters on the way to his attic room. “In your grandfather’s time, the laws and the attitudes relating to archaeological excavations were quite different than they are today.”

“My dad says the world’s museums are full of stolen shit,” continued Max.

So that was how the land lay. I had a future of “my dad says” moments to look forward to.

“Stolen property. I don’t tolerate vulgarity.”

“Yes, Prof.”

“And your father is correct, unfortunately.”

I was tempted to argue that art of dubious provenance on display at the Louvre or the Met was not quite the same as a Hellenistic masterpiece in your backyard pool, but I restrained myself.

The second-floor landing was dominated by a grand piano. I let out an involuntary whistle of appreciation as I noted the make and took a guess at the age.

“Do you play?” I asked Max as I caught up with him as he lopped along to the end of the west hall.

A quick, negative shake of Max’s head.

“I’m not allowed.”

What? Not allowed to play piano?

Maybe Max meant that specific piano. Something in his tone of voice told me otherwise.

Max looked back at me as he mounted a precarious-looking spiral staircase. He must have noticed the dubious look on my face before I willed it away.

“Do you have vertigo, or something? Fabiola was scared of heights.”

“No.”

I did not suffer from vertigo, but I did have a dislike of twisting, narrow staircases.

I made a cautious ascent behind my guide, who scrambled effortlessly over the iron treads. At the center of the landing was the entrance to Max’s bedroom. A large barn-style door was rolled to the side, revealing the interior.

The overall impression I had formed of the Willoughby residence thus far was one of overstated, impersonal expense. The hand of a zealous interior designer with a mania for art deco and chinoiserie was clearly behind the color of every wall, the placement of each piece of furniture, the effect of every mirror or chandelier. The house was like a vintage grand hotel: beautiful and impressive but lacking the unique touches of a family home. It seemed the house had been painstakingly preserved in its entirety from the days of its original owner.

Almost monastic in its simplicity—if not its size—Max’s room stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house. Though bare of all but the essentials in the way of furniture—a bed, a desk, a bureau that might have come from a second-hand store—the walls and surfaces were decorated with an eclectic collection of paintings and objet d’art. The windows—all open to receive the cool afternoon breeze—were large and numerous and the sun shone through onto every surface. Stepping into Max’s room was, quite literally, a breath of fresh air.

“Is that an original Kahlo?” I asked, not bothering to hide the awe in my voice as I eyed the self-portrait of the artist that hung above Max’s bed.

“Yes.”

“You have excellent taste, young man,” I said, feeling instinctively that Max, not a decorator had chosen that painting. The same applied to the exquisite reproductions (or where they?) of pre-Columbian pottery I spied on Max’s desk and atop his bureau.

“Thank you, sir. Well, this concludes our tour. On your way out, please take a moment to visit the gift shop. The price of your ticket includes a fifteen percent discount on all merchandise. We hope to see you again soon at the Willoughby Memorial Museum.”

“An excellent tour,” I said. “But there was one glaring omission.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes. Where is our classroom?”

“Oh, that,” said Max, as if I should have somehow known. “It depends. Sarah did the art classes outside in good weather, here in bad weather—because of the light—and history, science, and math in the library. I hate math, by the way. I don’t see the point of it when we have computers and stuff to do it for us. I mean, unless you’re a math nerd or something.”

Of course, I could not admit to Max that I shared his aversion to mathematics. I had hoped that he would be a math nerd. It would have been so much easier.

“And language classes? I understand you’re fluent in Spanish and Sarah told me you excel in French and English.”

Max eased up a bit on his habitual slouch, pride straightening his shoulders.

“Usually the library. Sometimes here. I like the sound of French. The verbs suck. I really like English literature and ancient history.”

Thank you, Lord.

“Good. I’ll be introducing you to Latin. The Latin will help you with French and enrich your knowledge of English and ancient history.”

I tried not to laugh at the fleeting look of horror that passed over Max’s face at the mention of Latin. I had seen it innumerable times on an equal number of young faces.

“I’ll put Greek on hold until I see how you progress.”

“Greek??”

“Just kidding.” Sarah had told me of Max’s talent for photography and drawing. I was curious to see his work and decided that it might be a good moment to request a viewing. “Where do you keep your work?” I asked, glancing around the room. “I’d love to see it. May I?”

“No.”

I’d expected modest prevarication or eager assent. Max’s immediate refusal to my request both irritated and puzzled me. “All right, then. Perhaps some other time?”

Max turned away from me and put his attention to rearranging some items on his desk.

It was clearly a dismissal, and I accepted it as such. Teaching could often be a battle and I was willing to let the first round go to Max. At Allerton, I would never have allowed such insolent behavior to go unchecked. But this was not Allerton. This was Max’s home. I was in uncharted territory, and I had little idea how to navigate it. How would I wield authority and earn respect without overstepping invisible boundaries?

“I’ll see you later, then,” I said. Max responded with a half turn of his shoulders and a nod.

Descending the stairs, I wondered at Max’s behavior. Was he being intentionally provocative? I knew how to deal with that. Having an attitude was normal for boys his age. But Max’s vacillation between open friendliness and cold rudeness concerned me. However, neither Sarah nor Ezra Willoughby had said or suggested that Max suffered from any emotional or psychological disorder. I put his behavior down to the effects of loneliness and grief upon an adolescent psyche. Still, I wished that I’d had more time to speak with Sarah professionally about Max.

“You know how I dislike talking about anything important over the phone,” Sarah had said, stating what was obvious to me or anyone who knew her even casually. Sarah disliked talking on the phone. Period.

“Important? Is there something particular I should know about Max—or his father—before I sign on the dotted line?”

“Well… No, of course not, Neil. I wouldn’t have suggested you take the job if that were the case. I mean, Max isn’t the anti-Christ or anything. And, as I said in my letter, Ezra Willoughby is a decent man, and he does try. It’s just… When I see you, we’ll talk, okay?”

The uncharacteristic hesitancy in Sarah’s voice had set off alarm bells, but I was so eager for a new start that I was deaf to their clamor. “All right. I’ll see you in a few weeks. And tell Victor I expect him to welcome me with his fabulous Bolognese.”

“I will.”

But there was to be no talk, no pasta. I met Victor briefly after Sarah’s funeral and then flew back to California to hastily arrange my departure and begin the next stage in my life.

*

The baronial style of the dining room suited Ezra Willoughby. Seated at the head of an enormous mahogany table, which could comfortably accommodate sixteen people, Willoughby looked every inch the dominus of Jessamine Grove. His beautifully tailored, charcoal gray suit, pale pink tie with its crisp oriental knot, and snow-white shirt were the perfect complements to his naturally sun-tanned skin. His face was clean-shaven but sported a heavy five o’clock shadow, intimating that his silver, Caesar-cut hair had once been black as pitch. His eyes, like my own, were blue but watery rather than bright. In contrast to my typically Germanic broad-nosed and round-chinned face, Ezra Willoughby’s was a strong-boned, horsey visage that reflected his English and Iberian blood lines. It was an interesting face that reminded me in some way of Max. Like Max, I suspected that in his youth Ezra Willoughby may have had something of his adopted son’s prettiness. Many times, during my years at Allerton, I witnessed the transformation from boyish beauty to manly distinctiveness. I was certain I was looking at the result of such a transformation.

I was also staring.

“Is something wrong, Boehm?” asked Ezra Willoughby, snapping me out of my physiognomic ruminations.

“No, sir. I’m sorry. I was thinking that you remind me of your son in some ways.”

Willoughby laughed goodhumoredly. “I’ve heard that many times. And I take it as a compliment. He’s a good-looking boy. Unfortunately, it’s done him more harm than good, so far. Went through the same thing myself when I was Max’s age—bullying, name calling, ostracization from the “in crowd.” But he’s a tough kid. He’ll pull through. Just like I did.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said, not as certain as I claimed to be. “He definitely has a strong personality,” I added, intentionally vague. Willoughby smiled, and I understood that he also took this as a compliment.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh?” said Willoughby. “Max’s mother was a force of nature, and I’ve always held my own and then some. We tried to raise our son to value the principles of hard work and discipline. Most kids today are more interested in wasting time on the internet—social media and all that garbage—as if a person’s value is based on how many followers he has. It’s a mad world we live in, Boehm.”

Having previously met Ezra Willoughby only via pseudo-scripted video conferences, I decided at that moment that I liked him. He was a straight shooter, and I admired people who spoke their mind. That he was also handsome and charismatic only added to my appreciation of the man. However, I had not been so wooed that I could resist a mild riposte to his comments.

“Mr. Willoughby, I believe that empathy is the bedrock of the successful education of young people—empathy combined with expectations that are high but not unattainable and discipline that is consistent and not unreasonable. Discipline alone doesn’t shape a maturing mind. And hard work is only fruitful if one is working toward a goal that is within the scope of one’s intellect. Work for the sake of work is either a waste of time or an unfortunate necessity. I hope that you agree neither scenario should apply in your son’s case.”

Though I appeared calm as I reached for my wine, my heart was hammering under my ribs. Had I overstepped?

“And what’s your opinion of social media?” asked Ezra Willoughby mildly, as he topped up my glass.

He appreciates honesty. Go for it.

“I must admit I’m of a dual mind on that subject, Mr. Willoughby. I have no personal use for what you call garbage, yet I am open-minded enough to appreciate the potential efficacy of social media platforms in certain circumstances and the inevitability of their existence in the lives of young people. Like the old saying goes, you can’t keep them down on the farm once they’ve seen Par-ee.”

“And what if they never see Par-ee?”

“I don’t consider that an option. Keeping a young person completely cut off from the grid would do more harm than good. At the same time, parents and educators have a responsibility to serve and protect. From what I’ve observed of Max thus far, I would say that you and the late Mrs. Willoughby have done an excellent job of both.”

Willoughby considered this for a moment, swirling his Shiraz. “Thank you. Your predecessor wasn’t quite so…fulsome in her praise of our parenting skills.”

“Well,” I replied, “I did say ‘thus far.’”

Willoughby chuckled, and I was relieved that he seemed to appreciate sarcastic humor and subtlety. If Sarah had one fault, it was a lack of self-censoring. I imagined that Willoughby might have found the quality refreshing.

“I’m glad I decided to take you on,” said Willoughby. “Ms. Lewis must have mentioned to you that it was initially my intention to send Max to a boarding school in France?” I nodded. “L’institut Belliveau. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure.”

Dear God, yes.

Though it sounded more like a psychiatric hospital than an exclusive boy’s school, Belliveau counted princes, world leaders and captains of industry among its alumni. It was also one of the few schools in France to openly condone corporal punishment and although the stories of its hazing rituals were apocryphal, they were nevertheless disturbing.

“Belliveau has quite a reputation,” I said, noncommittally. “But, as we discussed in our virtual meetings, I think home schooling is the right choice for Max at this juncture, and I am honored to have been chosen as his mentor.”

Willoughby inclined his head, and I took the gesture for approval, feeling the weight of responsibility upon me anew.

“I will do my utmost for your son, Mr. Willoughby.”

“I believe you will.”

Rodrigo, the distinguished gentleman who’d served our appetizer and main course—and whom I learned was the father of Rosanie—served dessert. Although I disliked flan and almost all eggy confections, having lived for a time in Spain, I could appreciate that it was perfectly executed, and I managed to clean my plate and give my praise to the chef.

“After dinner drink, Boehm?” asked Willoughby as we finished our coffee. He suggested an aged rum, which proved to be delicious.

“Excellent, sir. Thank you.”

“Glad you appreciate it.”

We savored the rich liquor silently before I said, “Mr. Willoughby, your taste in rum is equaled by your taste in antique musical instruments. The piano on the second-floor landing is spectacular.”

Willoughby’s hitherto jovial expression hardened for a moment before he managed to restore a shadow of its former good humor. “A lucky find, I thought,” he said, more to himself than to me. “But a bad investment in the end.”

“How so?”

Willoughby finished his rum with a quaff and refilled his glass. He added more to mine without asking if I wanted it.

“I keep it as a reminder,” Willoughby said.

“I see.” I did not, but Willoughby was clearly unwilling to expand on the topic. “Since I’ve brought up the subject of music,” I continued after a sip of rum, “I’d like to propose adding music appreciation and music theory to Max’s curriculum. I thought—”

“No.”

“Sir?”

“I said no. No music. Maximillian has no musical talent, and he wastes enough time drawing, taking pictures, and playing chess.”

“Sir, if I could only—”

“I said no. End of discussion.”

I’d been well and truly put in my place. I felt a rush of indignation but stifled it. I was no longer a headmaster. Ezra Willoughby was my employer, and I was handsomely compensated for my loyalty.

“Of course. As you wish.”

An uncomfortable silence dragged on.

“I’m sorry,” Willoughby said at length. “I was rude. You’re a professional, and I respect you. It’s just…I…” Willoughby ran a hand over his smooth hair, then swiped it across his cheek and neck. He took a deep breath. “Just no music. Understood, Boehm?”

“Of course.” What else could I say? Clearly, some unexplained aversion lay behind Willoughby’s unusual stricture, but I was in no position to press for reasons. Perhaps, in time, he would offer an explanation by his own volition—though I doubted it. I had taken his dinner invitation as a good omen as to how our relationship might proceed. Yet, by the end of the meal we were still on formal terms. I left Mr. Willoughby feeling secure in my employment, but uncertain as to my position in the household.

Like the governesses of bygone years and the au pairs and nannies of the contemporary world, did a live-in private tutor exist in a state of limbo between employee and pseudo-family member? I had no point of reference. Sarah had never discussed this topic with me directly, but she often referred to the Willoughbys as Ezra and Fabiola, suggesting some degree of intimacy. Nonetheless, I suspected that to Ezra Willoughby I might always be “Boehm”.

Would the invitation to dine at the family table be renewed? Or was I expected to have meals alone in my room or communally with the rest of the help? Perhaps the late Mrs. Willoughby had seen to these details. And, of course, Sarah had been a woman. There should have been no “of course” to it. However, in the minds of many, mine was a woman’s job. I was an oddity in a job widely considered an anachronism.