Snowbound

kind of music did John like? What kind of movies?

Books? Was he fan of any professional sports? Given

how much she did know about him, it was startling to

realize how much she didn’t.

She wished she’d known him before he went to war.

Had he smiled easily? Laughed? Or had he always been

closemouthed, perhaps even a loner?

Why, she wondered, were some people more traumatized by war than others? Was it what they’d experienced? What they’d seen or—worse yet—what they’d had to do? Or did personality predetermine

who would suffer from PTSD? Now that he’d made

her curious, she would have to find a book on the

subject once she got home.

“Dieter, Amy and Erin, you’re the cleanup crew tonight,” she said, picking the names almost at random—

except that she always tried to team Amy up with kids

who’d keep her on task.

She’d enjoyed teaching at Willamette Prep in part

because she didn’t have to use the well-motivated pupils

to propel the rest forward. In a school where students

were accepted on academic merit, the kids were pretty

uniformly motivated and college-bound. Amy, however,

was proving surprisingly deft at evading work. Fiona

was beginning to wonder whether she was the same

with her schoolwork. And if so, how was it that she consistently turned in essays and papers that lifted her grades above the results of midterm and final exams?

And, oh, how Fiona hated to have such a suspicious mind.

After dinner, she had the kids bring the remaining

soggy clothes down, and she folded laundry, moved a

load to the dryer and started yet another.

Thank goodness for multiple hot water tanks! she

thought, passing back through the kitchen to see Amy

and Dieter unloading and drying dishes from the commercial dishwasher while Erin rinsed off plates and placed them in a rack in preparation for starting it again.

They had all proclaimed the dishwasher, which did

a load in under two minutes, “major cool.” The fact that

they had to dry dishes rather than leave racks to air-dry

on the counter had dimmed its appeal.

“Anyone know where John is?” she asked casually.

“Who?” Amy asked. “Oh. Him.”

“I think he went that way.” Erin nodded toward the

great room.

Surprised he hadn’t shut himself in his apartment,

Fiona followed. Not because she necessarily wanted to

spend time with him—after what happened today, she

wasn’t so sure that was a good idea—but because she

ought to check on the rest of her students.

Kelli and Tabitha were nowhere to be seen, but

Willow sat curled in one of the armchairs watching the

boys bouncing a hacky-sack between them, using heads

and knees. John was just tossing a piece of wood in on

the fire, creating a burst of sparks.

“Hey, Mr. Fallon,” Troy said, “do you have a

soccer ball?”

He turned and stared at the boys, who were still

keeping the hacky-sack in the air. “No.” His voice was

guttural, the look on his face strained.

None of the kids noticed. Fiona started toward him.

He walked past her as if oblivious to her presence,

unlocked the front door and went outside, closing it

behind him. Determined, she followed.

He stood in the dark between bands of light that fell

through the windows. His back was to her as he stared

out at the night. Fiona didn’t have to be able to see him

well to know that he stood rigid, undoubtedly wishing

to be alone.

Hesitating—perhaps she should have pretended not

to notice that something in the exchange with the boys

had upset him—she hugged herself against the bitter

cold.

“Are you all right?” Her voice sounded as uncertain

as she felt.

“Yes. Go back in.”

She bit her lip and took a step back toward the door.

About to turn, she stopped. “Why soccer?”

For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to

answer at all. He didn’t move.

A shiver racked her.

“I can’t talk about it.”

The words sounded torn from him. Painfully, leaving

an open wound.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind listening, if you want

to talk.”

He wheeled toward her. “But you’re not listening, are