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Chapter Two

Over the next few weeks, Laya continued to prattle on about the favorite new adult in her life. Tessa tried not to conjure an image of the kindergarten teacher every time Laya mentioned something new and miraculous Eleanor Chapin had said or done, but it was difficult to tune out only part of what her daughter said. She didn’t want to join the ranks of the parents who replied “Uh-huh” and “Wow” without actually listening to anything their child said. She knew too many of those, both in her old life and here in L.A.

Amalia, Laya’s nanny, had noticed the girl’s fixation on the evidently faultless Miss Chapin, too. “This is like celebrity worship, no?” she said to Tessa one morning after breakfast had consisted of a detailed analysis of the teacher’s affinity for trail running, apparently mentioned during story time the day before. “Only without the celebrity.”

“Miss Chapin has her own miniature stalker,” Tessa agreed.

“Do you think she knows?”

“How could she not?”

For once, Tessa had a free morning—the Byerly sisters were taking a long weekend to visit the King Tut exhibit up in San Francisco, and Tessa didn’t have anywhere to be until an afternoon meeting with the consultant they’d recently hired. Perhaps, she thought as she drove Laya the short distance to school, she should stay and watch the object of her daughter’s affection in action. After all, Eleanor Chapin had invited her to observe anytime. Who knew when she’d get another chance?

The April day was sunny and crisp, heat yet to descend as she guided the Escape around the curves of Mulholland Drive, Laya singing to herself in the backseat. The mountains blocked their view of the city to the south and the ocean to the west, while stucco walls and landscaped terraces camouflaged multi-million-dollar homes near the school. Tessa found herself wondering where Eleanor Chapin lived, what her commute was like. Maybe she would ask her over lunch in the school cafeteria.

Then she caught herself. It had been years since she’d attempted to befriend someone outside the film industry, for good reason. What made her think Eleanor Chapin would be interested in getting to know the real her anyway? In her experience, women (and men) were more intrigued by the plastic Hollywood version they were sure they already knew. This whole idea was preposterous. She should just drop Laya off and return home to get some work done around the house.

But she parked in the visitor’s lot and joined a handful of other parents escorting their elementary-aged students into the school, ignoring the customary double takes cast her way.

“Are you coming in to see Miss Chapin again?” Laya asked as they walked, beaming up at her.

“I thought I’d stay and watch your class this morning,” Tessa said, “if that’s okay with you.”

“Duh, Mom,” Laya said, and danced across the sidewalk. “Come on!”

Inside, as they strolled down the hall hand in hand, Tessa chatted absently with her daughter—no, they weren’t having pizza for dinner tonight, and yes, they could watch a movie over the weekend—and counted the doorways to the kindergarten classroom. One down, three to go. Now two, one… She took a breath and turned into the room with a smile intended to simulate the appearance of calm.



Eleanor Chapin was standing at the front of the classroom again, talking this time to a young woman Tessa guessed was her aide. As Tessa paused in the doorway, the teacher looked up and saw her. Blast it, she thought as their eyes met. Eleanor was just as attractive as she’d remembered.

The teacher stopped mid-sentence, handed a stack of construction paper to the aide and moved toward the door, her smile welcoming. The young woman had followed her gaze and was now staring wide-eyed at Tessa.

“Miss Chapin,” Laya said, nearly bouncing in place. “My mom wants to watch you this morning.”

It took supreme will for Tessa not to flush in embarrassment. She followed up her daughter’s unfortunate choice of words with a composed, “I had a free morning and was hoping the offer to observe a class still stood.”

Eleanor was already nodding. “Of course,” she said, and waved the stunned aide forward. “We’re happy to have you. This is Megan. Megan, this is Ms. Flanagan, Laya’s mother. Why don’t you help her get settled while I start the morning routine.”

As the bell rang and the rest of the children filed in, chattering monkey-like amongst themselves, Tessa hid her disappointment at being handed over to the starstruck aide. She hoped the girl would recover use of her voice soon. Surely she couldn’t be the only celebrity parent who had ever dropped in to observe a class?

The morning routine consisted of a variety of activities that made time pass quickly. By the time the children had recited the Pledge of Allegiance (they still did that?), discussed the weather report, dictated the morning message for Eleanor to inscribe on the blackboard and read the sentence back as a class, Megan had rallied and was directing Tessa through what appeared to be a fixed level of involvement. Parents volunteered most frequently in this and the pre-school class, she told Tessa, but the ones who hadn’t passed a background check were only allowed minimal contact with children other than their own. This struck Tessa as ironic—she was the one who usually ordered background checks on the people in her employment. Or one of her lawyers did, anyway.

For most of the morning, she sat at the edge of the classroom watching Eleanor and Megan guide their students through a series of workstations that focused on literacy, the natural world, social studies and health. As she watched the children nearest her tackle a vocabulary-building computer game, she was impressed. She’d had no idea how much her daughter learned on a daily basis. Laya’s dinner reports tended to focus on nature-oriented lessons or on recess, her self-proclaimed favorite part of the school day. Perhaps the ungodly amount the Barclay School charged was worth it, after all.

Despite the sustained level of commotion, Eleanor didn’t ignore Tessa’s presence. She smiled each time she drifted near, asked her to help with various tasks, answered her questions about particular activities. Laya, meanwhile, kept grinning and waving at her. She waved back, amazed as ever that this lovely, articulate child was hers. Not that she was biased.

Mid-morning, Eleanor announced that it was time for individual reading. After the children had each picked a book from the communal storybook box and were ensconced on the brightly colored rug in the center of the room, the teacher left Megan in charge and ambled over to where Tessa occupied one of the two adult-sized chairs in the classroom.

As Eleanor approached, Tessa wished she had something to occupy her hands. As it was, she could only pretend to be more interested in the artwork set out to dry on a nearby table than in Eleanor’s lithe frame revealed in close-fitting khaki capris and a pale blue T-shirt with the image of a sun splashed across the chest. She looked like a runner, Tessa thought, suddenly more aware of her own contrasting curves.

“So what do you think?” Eleanor asked, leaning against the whiteboard at the back of the room.

“I’m impressed,” Tessa said, watching her daughter and the other students mouth the words to their selections. “You certainly pack a lot in.”

“Children this age, as you’ve probably noticed, are not great at focusing for extended periods of time. That’s why kindergarten is an ADHD’s dream.”

Tessa laughed. “In that case, I know some directors who might benefit from your instruction.” She glanced over at Eleanor, her smile fading as she noticed the color of the teacher’s eyes. Green-blue, like the ocean off Kauai. Uncanny.

“Eleanor,” Megan called from the front desk, where a small boy was holding his stomach.

Eleanor murmured something and hurried away. Tessa looked out a nearby window and wiped her palms against her jeans. What was she doing? She knew better than to flirt with an ordinary person. There was a reason Hollywood stars dated each other. The last thing she wanted was to set the paparazzi on the scent of an innocent bystander. Or, for that matter, to reveal too much to a woman who, despite the ridiculously complete background checks the Barclay School required for all employees, was still a stranger.

They didn’t speak again until the lunch bell had rung and Megan had led the children out into the hallway, Laya waving again before disappearing from sight. Tessa approached the front of the room where Eleanor stood staring down at her desk. She didn’t move, but Tessa knew that Eleanor was aware of her. She was accustomed to people losing their ability to speak in her presence. Most of the actors she knew had the same experience—utter silence or the opposite, verbal diarrhea. But Eleanor seemed to be responding in a slightly different way. Was it possible she was gay? Tessa checked her left hand—no ring. Not that that meant much anymore. Even the word “partner” had been appropriated by straight people.

“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s the food around here?”

Eleanor looked up. “You’re staying for lunch?”

“I have a little time before I have to get back to the city. Do you mind if I join you? I was hoping to talk to you about Laya.” Which was entirely untrue but gave her an excuse to prolong her time at the school.

“Of course,” Eleanor said. “We can eat in the teacher’s cafeteria. Unless you’d prefer someplace more private?” As Tessa’s head tilted, she added, “To talk about Laya.”

“No, the cafeteria is fine.”

As they walked down the hall together, Tessa commented, “You said before that you worked in Boston until last year. Is that where you’re from?”

“Close. I grew up in Vermont. But I went to school in Massachusetts and stayed there after college.”

“Which school?”

“Smith. It’s a women’s college in Western Mass.”

“Northampton,” Tessa said. “I’ve actually spent some time there.” So Eleanor had gone to Smith. If the rumors Tessa had heard about the liberal college were true, then her daughter’s teacher was at least familiar with the notion of Sapphic love, if not the practice.

“Really,” Eleanor said. “When were you in Northampton?”

“I worked on a film in New York a few years ago, and one of my co-stars had gone to Hampshire College. We spent a weekend in the Valley eating at wonderful restaurants and walking through the autumn leaves next to the pond at Smith—what was it called?”

“Paradise Pond.”

“That’s right.” As Tessa followed Eleanor out into a sunlit courtyard, she pulled a pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on, oversized lenses camouflaging as much of her face as possible. Here such precautions weren’t necessary, though. Security was tight. While photographers might be able to sneak onto the front lawn, they could never make it into the interior of campus. Or so Miss Van Arndt had assured her on her first visit to the school three years earlier.

“I can’t believe you know Smith,” Eleanor said. “So few people I’ve met out here do. Usually I get comments like, ‘Isn’t that a girls’ school?’ Or, ‘Is that like Jones University?’ I’m still not sure why that one’s supposed to be funny.”

Tessa nodded. “Californians tend to be a little insular. It’s like they don’t understand why anyone would want to live someplace else.”

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

They had entered a different building where students occupied one half of a large open seating area divvied up by a sliding partition, teachers and staff the other. Tessa felt a variety of eyes lingering on their entrance and automatically schooled her features into a neutral expression as she stowed her sunglasses back in her Jimmy Choo bag. She had been watched for so much of her adult life, she should have been used to it. But the weight of a crowd’s appraisal still sometimes unnerved her.

“Where did you grow up?” Eleanor asked, leading her to the lunch line.

She almost said Chicago. It almost slipped out as she stood in line beside her daughter’s teacher, caught by eyes that didn’t have a thing to hide. “All over,” she said instead, and pointed at the food spread out beneath a plastic buffet shield. “What do you recommend?”

As Eleanor advised her on the Barclay School menu—cheeseburgers and fries, mixed green salad, grilled chicken breast, pizza, homemade soups and sandwiches—Tessa reminded herself to be careful. Just because the nearness of a woman she’d only just met evoked a sense of security that had been missing from her own childhood, it didn’t mean she should let her guard down. The best way to stay the self she’d become was to remain a mystery to others. And that included Eleanor Chapin.

Laya’s mother, Eleanor noted as she and Tessa stood in the lunch line, was a hard nut to crack. She didn’t seem to mind asking questions, but as soon as the spotlight shifted to her, she noticeably withdrew. This was not at all what Eleanor had expected. She’d assumed someone like Tessa Flanagan would be a narcissist only too eager to blather on about her life and career. Instead, Eleanor had the sense of being gently redirected anytime she came too close. But too close to what?

As they selected their meals and paid the cashier, Eleanor kept telling herself that this was really happening. Tessa Flanagan had actually appeared in her classroom that morning and invited her to lunch. Of course, she was only there to talk about her daughter, Eleanor reminded herself, trying to rein in her absurd excitement at seeing the famous actress again.

“About Laya,” she said once they were seated on the teacher’s side of the cafeteria. “Your daughter is one of my brighter students. She’s curious, quick to learn and a fan of anything related to the natural world. She doesn’t mind getting dirty, and she’s often the first to volunteer when I need a helper.”

“That’s because she adores you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed?” Tessa made it a question.

“Well, sure,” Eleanor said, tearing apart a crescent roll and dunking it in her cup of soup. She had long since accepted the pull she had for dogs and children as a welcome gift. The fact that she could connect on a basic level with kids only reinforced her career choice. But a sudden thought occurred to her. “Is that what you’re concerned about? Are you worried that Laya is becoming inappropriately attached?” Perhaps Tessa Flanagan had learned from the Barclay School administration that she was a lesbian, and wasn’t comfortable having her daughter in Eleanor’s class.

“God, no,” Tessa said. “It’s perfectly normal for Laya to be so attached to her teacher. In fact, I feel lucky that she has you to come to every day. I mean, someone who can make learning enjoyable. I don’t have any concerns on that front.”

Eleanor felt a tad silly for suspecting Laya’s notoriously liberal mother of homophobia. Like her former school in Boston, Barclay was a fount of progressive ideas, socially, philosophically, pedagogically. But as an out lesbian teacher, she often worried about parental response. “What did you want to talk about, then?”

Tessa took a bite of her salad and chewed slowly and methodically. After she swallowed, she sipped from her bottle of water. At last she said, “I only wanted to make sure that Laya wasn’t acting out in the classroom. She was quite attached to Mrs. Pierce too, and I’ve read that children in single-parent homes sometimes react more to disruptions in their routine.”

“I haven’t noticed anything.” Single parent—that meant that Tessa was un-partnered, despite the linking of her name with assorted male Hollywood luminaries. (Eleanor had discovered a previously unknown interest in celebrity gossip magazines the past couple of weeks.) Who, then, was the other woman that Laya often mentioned? “Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” Tessa said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Does a woman named Ama live with you?”

“Yes, she’s Laya’s nanny, and has been with us since Laya was born. Her name is actually Amalia, but Laya couldn’t pronounce it. Kind of funny—Ama means father in Tagalog. Amalia says since Laya doesn’t have a father, she might as well take the name.”

“And Dani?”

“He’s Amalia’s husband. He’s in charge of the garden and does most of the cooking.”

“Ah,” Eleanor said. Tessa lived with a married couple, not another woman. Or man, for that matter. “The thing is, developmental problems usually occur at a higher rate in kids who experience multiple changes in circumstance. It sounds to me like Laya has a stable home life.”

“I’d like to think so. Now, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have any children?” Tessa was watching her now with a slight smile, dark eyes seeming almost to see through her.

“Nope. No kids yet.”

“Too bad. You’re good with them. I bet you would make a great mom.”

Tessa Flanagan thought she would be a great mom? Eleanor filed the compliment away to recount to Sasha later, simultaneously cursing the Northern European heritage that made her skin tone an easy-to-read emotional barometer. “Kindergartners are easy,” she said, trying to ignore the blush she could feel creeping up her neck. “They’re my favorite age—developing language, learning to identify and quantify, and they’re so excited about everything. It’s hard to be cynical around them. Kind of redeems my faith in the world.” She realized she’d waxed sentimental and stopped to take a bite of roll. Sentimentality was typically not well-received in L.A., in her limited experience. Or, for that matter, in New England.

“You, cynical? That’s hard to imagine,” Tessa said. An insistent beep issued from her leather bag, and she pulled out a BlackBerry. “I hate to say it but I have to get back to the city. Work beckons.”

Eleanor couldn’t imagine what sort of work might beckon a fabulously wealthy, retired-by-choice actress. As they carried their trays to the counter, she said, “I thought you retired from acting.”

“I did.” Tessa dumped the remains of her salad in the compost bin as a bell rang. “I’m in the process of starting up a charitable foundation with some other people. It’s not public knowledge yet. Actually, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to anyone,” she added, frowning a little.

“I promise I won’t leak the story to my numerous contacts in the press,” Eleanor said.

She was rewarded with what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Thanks.”

They walked back to the classroom together, and Tessa stopped in to say goodbye to Laya, who gave her a hug and a kiss before scampering off. Eleanor accompanied her out to the hallway, trying to think of something to say. Talking to Tessa had been easy over lunch, but now that it was time to say goodbye, her tongue-tied state had returned.

“Thanks for lunch,” Tessa said. Her gaze dropped, and Eleanor wondered if Tessa Flanagan could actually be staring at her mouth in a distinctly non-parent-teacher way.

“My pleasure,” she said, feeling her pulse spike. If Tessa had been the friend of a friend, or someone she’d met at a bar or on one of the trails around the city, she would have known what to say. But she only watched as Tessa gave her one last unreadable look, and then the movie star was turning away, walking down the hallway and out of her life while Eleanor remained where she was, wishing that Laya’s mother was anyone else.


Date: 2015-02-28; view: 664


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