Spiraling Deception (23 page)

Well, almost a blank—one burning question
bubbled forth. “Mrs. Henderson,” I blurted, halting her gait. “Why
me?”

She frowned at me; the combination of
impatience and confusion clouded her features.

I cleared my throat and rephrased the
question. “What I mean is—although I am extremely honored to be
offered this position, I’m just a little confused as to how you
knew I was looking for a teaching position in the first place. How
did you get my resume? You see, this school was not one of the
schools I initially applied for.”

“
Ah,” she murmured, and I
swear I saw a flicker of alarm flash through her fawn eyes before
she quickly masked it. “Let’s just say that you came highly
recommended to us, and at this point, Miss Gilmore, I don’t think
it would make a difference…unless you’ve had a better offer from
another school? Have you?”

Oh shit! I didn’t want her to think I was
playing her off against another school. Because, let’s face it—this
was the only offer I had.

“
Er, no I haven’t, and let
me just say that I am extremely grateful for the opportunity you’re
giving me here and I wholeheartedly accept. But…to say I was more
than a little curious as to how you obtained my resume would be an
understatement.”

“
Hmm, well, you know what
they say—curiosity killed the cat,” she deadpanned and I felt my
jaw drop open at her words.

“
Charlotte,” she added
softly as her hand clasped mine. “As I said earlier, I am an
excellent judge of character and after meeting you in person, I am
confident you are the right person for this position. Regardless of
how we came by your resume, it was your outstanding grades, glowing
references, and practical field experience that got you the
tenure.

“
Congratulations.” She
smiled as she released her hold on my hand and turned toward the
door. “Now, I really do have to go but I look forward to seeing you
next Monday. Seven thirty, bright and early in the morning, Miss
Gilmore,” she called over her shoulder as she strode through the
doorway.

Chapter Fifteen

Finding myself on yet another airplane for
the third time in just under a week was a tiresome experience and
let me also just say—flying coach sucked big time!

After flying first class home from Italy, I
was ruined for anything less—less being coach class in an
overcrowded airplane. The cabin teemed with weary passengers
clambering for their seats as the stewardess welcomed everyone
aboard. The pungent odor of jet fuel mixed with the stale odor of
bodies and the incessant chatter of voices had me curling up in my
seat with my nose tucked firmly into the collar of my light cotton
sweater. Thank God I managed to get a window seat on the second to
last row when I checked in.

Last Monday, I’d flown home on the red-eye
instead of staying the night in Manhattan and catching the next
morning’s flight as planned. With a sense of urgency and barely
restrained panic, I finally made it home, excited to break the news
to Courtney and Jake and to start the process of packing up my
life. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the interview
with Mrs. Henderson and I still couldn’t believe it: I’d gotten the
job of my dreams!

If you’d had asked me way back when I first
started college what grade I most wished to teach after graduation,
my answer would have been first grade… and now, years later, my
wish hadn’t changed. I could hardly contain my excitement—my very
own class filled with cute, little exuberant six-year-olds, all
eager to learn. The things I’d only ever imagined doing I could now
put into practice. Things like: how I was going to decorate the
classroom with my own personal touches, instating themed days of
the week as a learning experience, and the reading and math
progress reward charts I would create for each student. The list of
possibilities was endless.

Only one nagging doubt plagued my waking
thoughts through the week as I packed up my life in preparation to
move and those all centered on the mystery surrounding how Mrs.
Henderson and Whitfield Academy had initially gotten ahold of my
resume to begin with. Her explanation was vague at best and
evasively dismissive at worst. The whole conundrum left me feeling
somewhat discombobulated. And although I briefly considered the
only person I knew of who’d have the kind of influence to pull a
favor of that magnitude, I just as quickly dismissed the idea.

The chances of Roman using his influence to
get me an interview at Whitfield Academy was too bizarre to even
consider. Since he’d abruptly left me in Venice, in the dead of the
night weeks ago, I hadn’t heard a single word from him—no phone
calls or texts. And he’d made it abundantly clear during our time
together in Europe that he was not a man who did commitment. No,
Whitfield Academy must have been forwarded my resume from another
school I’d applied to, because the alternative was far too
ridiculous to consider.

In less than a week, I had managed to pack
up all my worldly belongings, which amounted to six large boxes—the
furniture I owned would stay with Courtney and Jake in their condo
in LA—and arranged to have them shipped to New York. I spent time
saying my good-byes to Uncle Mike and the rest of the troupe, who
were back in Los Angeles between performances, and I finished up my
last day of coaching at the local gymnasium on Thursday. It had
been bittersweet saying good-bye to all the kids at the gym, and I
would miss them all terribly, but I was also excited to begin the
next phase of my life.

Luck seemed to be on my side as the third
shared apartment for rent I looked at on Craigslist was perfect.
Samantha Andrews was a recent transplant to New York, only having
lived in the city for two months. Along with a friend, she had
rented a two-bedroom walk-up in SoHo; however, the friend turned
out to be flakey, barely staying a month before ditching out on
Samantha almost four weeks ago and leaving Sam to pay all of the
rent herself.

The apartment was a whopping $3,800 per
month, which had me momentarily doubting my decision to move to the
notoriously expensive city, but then I reminded myself that my
newly generous salary would be more than enough to cover my
share.

During our Skype session, Samantha revealed
it had been a huge struggle coming up with the rent all by herself
since her roommate had left, and she’d eaten up a good portion of
her savings over the last month. When I told her I needed to move
in as quickly as the coming weekend and could easily put up the
first and second months’ rent in advance, she was ecstatic.
Samantha, who insisted I call her Sam, seemed sweet, hilariously
funny, and had a lightning quick wit similar to that of Courtney’s.
Although nobody would ever replace my best friend, I had a good
feeling Sam and I would get along just fine.

All in all, everything just seemed to fall
in place, as if it were destiny. Now all I had to do was find a way
to erase those damn tormenting dreams of a certain indigo-eyed,
seductive billionaire jackass from my freaking head every night
while I slept and then everything would be just peachy.

Of course, I was going to miss Court and
Jake like hell, but with the impending arrival of their baby only
months away, I knew I’d be flying back to see them and meet the
baby in person. Courtney and Jake had already asked me to be the
godmother and there was no way I was missing out on being there for
the birth. It was only a five-hour direct flight or so from NYC to
LAX and with the salary Whitfield Academy was going to pay me, I
could likely afford to fly home for all the major holidays.

It was official: I, Charlotte Evangeline
Gilmore, was taking those final steps into the land of mature
adulthood.

The six thirty morning flight from LAX had
me landing into JFK at three in the afternoon. Although it was a
sunny and balmy eighty-two degrees in Los Angeles, New York was a
cooler and cloudy sixty-five degrees. After I hauled my two large
suitcases from the luggage turnstile, I found my way to the taxi
bay and waited in line as I sent Sam a quick text to let her know
my plane had landed. I loved that both Sam and I had that in
common—preferring to be called by the shorter versions of our given
names.

My phone vibrated just as I climbed into the
taxi and after giving the driver my new address, I swiped my thumb
across the phone’s screen. It was Sam letting me know she was at
work and wouldn’t be finished with her shift until seven but had
left a spare key to the apartment under a potted plant beside the
front door.

One very long but interesting ride later, I
paid the driver and thanked him when he lifted my two heavy
suitcases from the trunk and placed them safely on the sidewalk.
The apartment was located in Lower Manhattan in the neighborhood
referred to as SoHo and was famous, according to Wikipedia, for its
artists’ lofts, galleries, and trendy shopping boutiques. As I
stood on the worn gray sidewalk, my mouth gaped in awe as I took in
the quaint tree-lined street hedged with multiple five- and
six-story old brick buildings in varying colors of red, gray, and
brown. An assortment of shops, cafes, and bars were dotted along
the ground floors of each structure and just like on television,
each building had metal fire-escape ladders crisscrossing their
exteriors.

Holy moly, Monica—it was
like I was standing in an episode of
Friends
.

Exhaling a big breath, I
reached for my suitcases and dragged them up the small stoop to the
front door of my new apartment building.
Keeping up my fitness regime wouldn’t pose a problem while
living in New York
, I thought musingly.
Primarily because my new home just so happened to be located on the
top floor of a six-story walk-up. No elevator in a six-story
walk-up equaled firm, tight buns; however, dragging two
thirty-pound cases up six flights of stairs was definitely not
going to be my idea of a leisurely Sunday afternoon. Thankfully the
apartment came fully furnished, so the only other belongings I had
to haul up these stairs apart from myself were the six boxes of
clothes, shoes, books, and linens I had being delivered later in
the week.

After safely navigating
the stairs with my luggage in tow, I found the key, unlocked the
door and walked in. The apartment was small…actually,
small
wasn’t an accurate
description. Tiny was more like it but wow…just wow! The floors
were all lightwood, exposed brick covered the walls, and the
apartment was infused with an atmosphere of industrial chic
character. The narrow galley kitchen was lined with oak cabinetry
and charcoal Formica countertops. A small stainless-steel fridge,
microwave, and two-burner hot plate were the extent of the kitchen
appliances and a modest two-seater dining table sat propped in the
corner. The other end of the galley kitchen led into a cozy living
room with a two-seater cream couch; a wooden coffee table and
matching entertainment cabinet with a flat-screen television
perched on top and a plush chevron rug lay proudly on the floor to
tie the room together. There weren’t many personal effects such as
photo frames or knickknacks, so I guessed Sam hadn’t had a chance
to make the space fully her own yet. The lush green fern in the
corner and the black-and-white print of the city went a long way to
making the apartment homely.

Next I inspected the minuscule bathroom with
its toilet, single-door vanity and a half-shower recess. The walls
were rendered brick and painted in a soft subtle taupe shade that
made the space look much bigger than it actually was. And lastly,
my bedroom—with a double bed, side table, and single chest of
drawers—was surprisingly spacious in comparison to the rest of the
apartment. Instead of a closet, an ornate old-fashioned metal rail
hung on one side of the exposed brick wall and a small grated
window on the far side of the room was framed with sheer white
curtains.