Maggie's just coming back with his own glass of water. The faintest shadow of an expression passes over her face for an instant when she sees Marie with her nose in a book. Chris dares her with his eyes to say something, and she doesn't.
Ten minutes later, he's digging into one of the best steaks he's eaten in his life, and fifteen minutes after that, he's leaving without having said another solitary word to the pretty new woman in town.
Three
There are a few more than a dozen kids sitting in the classroom. Marie knows, in the back of her mind, that there are more children than that, but there's no way that she knows of to force their parents to send them along.
The children age anywhere from six or seven to fifteen year olds who come in to pass the time when they're done with their chores. She takes a deep breath and settles down beside one of the desks.
The problem with such a small town is, there's no way to regiment their teaching. The younger ones need to learn the same things every year, but you can't just teach the older kids their letters every year.
Compounding all of that is that Mrs. Whittle was the one teaching them until just a few months ago. Marie wonders idly how many of the older boys have come in just to see what the fuss is all about.
There couldn't have been too many. There weren't that many students regardless—she could only imagine if some of them were only there for idle talk.
She settled into one of the seats with the young ones and checked the work. He had an expression on his face that wasn't totally unfamiliar to her: one of absolute confusion. Marie sympathized, but she couldn't exactly let him stop doing it just because it was hard.
Looking down at the sheet, she couldn't see where the confusion lay. He'd marked the letters exactly like she'd asked.
"What's wrong, Jamie?"
He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed a bit.
"Nothin' wrong, Miss Bainbridge, ma'am."
She looked at the sheet again. It wasn't the finest handwriting she'd seen in her life, but she couldn't find fault with it. Not at seven years old.
"You look vexed," she pressed.
"It ain't nothing," he says.
"If you're sure. If you decide you want to talk, then just ask. Practice that again, okay?"
Halfway to pushing herself back up he decides to talk after all.
"You don't think my letters ain't so good?"
She settles back into the seat, glancing around the room to make sure nobody looks like they're having an emergency. One of the older girls sits with her head leaned down over another piece of paper, helping one of the younger. Everything seems to be doing alright, for the moment.
"What do you mean, Jamie?"
"Well, I's lookin' at your writing, and—"
Her eyes shut for a moment, and she can't keep a warm smile from crossing her face. "Is that what's got you worried, Jamie Pearson?"
He frowned. "Missus Whittle, she said—"
"You've got a long time to learn to do it properly. I'm not going to abandon you, Mr. Pearson. But you have to start with the basics."
"So it don't have to be perfect?"
"Only the Lord is perfect," Marie recites automatically. "We he
re down on Earth have to make do with the best we can do. You did good, okay? Don't worry. You'll get better with practice. Trust me."
The crease between his eyebrows lessens, but it doesn't go away. A little air of doubt remains.
"Your parents are up in Oklahoma City, right?"