Faithfully Yours. Lois Richer
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she stared across at him, Gillian almost grinned. This situation reminded her of her own schooldays and the times she had been reprimanded by the principal. Only this time it was more serious; her job was at stake. Mr. Nivens’s chilly blue-gray gaze was focused directly on her. Again.
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,” she said softly, rubbing her shoeless foot against the carpet on his office floor. “Did something unusual happen today?”
“I’m speaking about that disgraceful display on the playground this afternoon.” His icy stare wiped the smile off her face. “My science students were totally unable to concentrate on their work, with you and your students racing about, shrieking like wild animals.”
“It was phys ed,” she told him shortly. “They’re supposed to run around. Goodness knows, they needed a breath of fresh air after the stuffiness of this school.” She had referred to the current heat wave, but it was obvious from the grim tightening of his face that the principal had taken her reference personally.
“Rules and regulations do not make a school stuffy, Miss Langford. They make it an orderly place where children can learn more easily.” As he spoke, Mr. Nivens flicked a speck of dust off his gleaming oak desk and straightened the already-neat sheaf of papers on top into a military-precise line. “Which is why the children can’t run in the hall, use profanity or chew gum on the school premises. If everyone follows the rules and conforms to what’s expected of them, the school year will progress smoothly. For all of us.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which is why I suggest you get rid of the blue and yellow chalk and use the regulation white in your classroom. Colors are only to be used for special occasions. Now, about your, er, outfit.”
Gillian glanced down at herself worriedly. So far in one month’s teaching at JFK a button on her blouse had come undone in his presence, he’d reprimanded her for wearing sandals and not wearing hose in the classroom, and he’d given her a lecture on the advisability of keeping her hair tied back, after one of her students had inadvertently caught his watch in it. What now?
“My suit?” Gillian stared down at herself.
She’d chosen her current outfit partially because of the dull brown color that couldn’t be easily marked, and partly because it had a lack of buttons, zippers or other fasteners. And she definitely had panty hose on, Gillian grimaced. She’d been sweltering in them all afternoon. His glare was frigid and she bristled under the indignity of it all.
“What’s the matter with my clothes this time, Mr. Nivens?” she demanded, a blaze of indignation lighting up her clear green eyes. All her life her parents had told her to make allowances for people who had beliefs different from her own, but Gillian figured she’d given Jeremy Nivens about as much room as he was going to get.
“Well,” he began solemnly, folding his fingers tepee style on top of the desk. Gillian caught a faint tinge of pink on his cheekbones. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful suit for some things but it does not, er, lend itself to gymnastics.” His eyes followed the smooth, fitted lines of the knit cotton as it hugged her well-shaped form and emphasized her obvious assets. “Your skirt, for instance. It’s far too short.”
“It’s below my knees,” she sputtered angrily.
“Perhaps. But when you bend over to get the ball, it has certain, er, disadvantages. Both front and back.” Jeremy averted his eyes from her angry, red face. “And I can hardly imagine those shoes are meant for football.”
It was the last straw in a long, tiring day and Gillian felt her usual calm demeanor explode. She bent over and retrieved her shoes, barely noticing the way her neckline gaped slightly in the front. She stood, thrusting her long curls behind her ears, and glared at the man behind the desk.
“Why you rude, obnoxious man! I wore these stupid heels because you said we had to be dressed in a businesslike fashion at all times. And I bought this suit because thus far in my employment there has not been one item of my clothing in my wardrobe that you deem suitable for the business of teaching. Well, tough!” Gillian practically bellowed the word.
“From now on I wear what I want, when I want, the way I want. If you have some complaint, I’ll be pleased to take it up with the Human Rights people. Your only business is with my job, and I do that very well.”
“Miss Langford, if you would kindly be seated…”
“No, I won’t. I’ve tried to go along with your silly little regulations and your unceasing demands for weeks now. I’ve taught in other schools and never had anyone question my taste in clothes. And I’m not taking it from you anymore. You’re making my life miserable, and you’re doing it on purpose. You think I’ll quit, don’t you?” She stared at him as the thought dawned. “You think that if you keep at me, I’ll give up and leave. We’ll, I’m not going,” she told him firmly.
“Miss Langford, I am not trying to force your resignation. I merely wanted to advise you that the entire grade-six class was ogling your, er, posterior this afternoon!”
Jeremy Nivens’s generally unmoving face was full of fury. His dark eyebrows drew together as he glared down at her, mouth pursed in a straight, disapproving line. He had surged to his feet and now stood towering over her, even though Gillian stood five feet eight inches in her stocking feet.
“I was trying to spare you some embarrassment,” he offered a moment later, in his normal hard tones.
“You know what? Don’t bother! From now on I’m going to wear exactly what I’ve always worn to teach my classes. I’m sorry you don’t approve of slacks but I like them. And shorts. And jeans. And when the occasion demands, I will wear them.”
“Business attire is the only appropriate apparel in this school,” he began his lecture again. Gillian walked to the door in her stocking feet and pulled it open, ignoring the icy coolness of his words.
“I work with twenty-eight first-graders. I have to be comfortable, to be able to get down on their level when I need to. I certainly don’t need to dress up for some high-powered, executive-type office. If you want to institute a school uniform, fine. But until then, don’t try to force me to conform to your strictures.” Her green eyes glittered with frustration as she thrust the last stab home.
“You know, Mr. Nivens, you could have closed the blinds if the view was so disturbing,” Gillian told him savagely. She tossed him one more angry glance over her shoulder and then strode from the office, high heels dangling from one finger as she left the school, muttering dire epithets all the way home. As she walked, she reviewed her stormy relationship with Jeremy Nivens.
“Of all the nerve,” she grumbled. “For two cents I’d go back to Boston and St. Anne’s without a qualm.”
But she knew it was all talk. She couldn’t go back; not now. Since Michael’s death she hadn’t been able to face living alone in the city, remembering their special haunts, driving past the places they’d gone together, attending the same church they’d attended together and where they had planned to say their vows. The pain of his death was too new, too fresh there. She’d had to get away, and Aunt Hope had been the answer to her prayers. In a lot of ways.
“Hello, dear. Did you have a nice day at school?”
Gillian had been so preoccupied with herself she hadn’t noticed the slim woman busily raking leaves on the front lawn. She studied her tall, blond aunt curiously, noting her ageless, blue eyes that still sparkled and the lean, athletic build Hope worked so hard to retain.
“Nice,” she griped angrily. “No, it was rotten. That Carruthers child is a klutz. She spilled the glue all over me. Again. And the Stephens’s youngest son is deaf—I’m sure of it.” Gillian flopped down on the top step with disgust. “If that weren’t enough, that contemptible man nattered at me about my clothes again—said I shouldn’t wear these shoes for phys ed. Imbecile! As if I didn’t know that.”
“Well then, dear, why did you wear them?” Hope’s voice was quietly curious.
“Because