“Don’t pack up too much,” he said with mock alarm as he glanced around her office, as if reassuring himself that all the major furnishings were still in place. “You’ll make me think you’re never returning from your sabbatical!”
“You’re not going to get rid of me that easy,” she said as she put the lid on a box that contained some materials that she’d collected from her files for her summertime teaching endeavor. It still amazed her a little to think that it had been over a half year ago when she’d sat in this very office and heard Anne Rothman first mention the prospect of teaching a class to high school students downstate. At the time Niall didn’t have the vaguest hint that she would end up being the teacher that the Institute hired for the job.
But that just went to show you how much could change in a half a year.
She stood and waved in invitation to one of the chairs in front of her desk. She sat in her chair and leaned forward, studying her boss with abrupt intensity. “I hope nothing is amiss with the Nakamura paintings. I saw to the packaging myself . . .”
“No, no, nothing like that, Niall,” Mac said as he gave a dismissive wave. “They’re wrapped up, snug as a bug and ready for shipment, just as the rest of the exhibit is. You really outdid yourself on this one.”
Niall smiled, warmed as usual by his praise and the twinkle in his brown eyes. Mac had always been supportive of her, but in the six years that Niall had been at the museum, their relationship had grown into a connection that more resembled a father-daughter one than that of employee-employer.
“I have to admit I was proud of it,” Niall conceded as she sat back in her chair and exhaled. “I only wish that Nakamura would have allowed me to have the paintings for longer . . . at least until the end of the summer.”
Mac shrugged elegantly. “We were fortunate to have them for as long as we did. It was a stunning show, Niall. Everyone is saying so. Besides, if the exhibit went on that long, you wouldn’t be able to take your sabbatical, would you?”
“No, I suppose not,” Niall agreed. Something about the pause in conversation that followed told Niall that Mac had something he wanted to say but was having trouble finding the appropriate opening. She waited while he resituated himself in his chair.
“You know, I was wondering—when was the last time you actually taught?” he asked.
“I haven’t officially since I was a graduate student, but you know that I give lectures here in the museum regularly about our collection.”
“It’s going to be quite different for you, teaching high school students, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “Yes, but I’m feeling up for the challenge.” She paused, experiencing a rush of gratitude when she recognized the truth of her words.
It might have taken her half a year of soul searching to get this way but Niall was, indeed, up for the challenge. And that meant a hell of a lot more than teaching art history to a group of high school students during their summer break. It meant reclaiming her life.
It meant going after Vic Savian—whether he liked it or not.
“Actually, Meg Sandoval says that they’re quite a talented, gifted group of kids,” Niall told Mac. “I’m sure it won’t be that different than teaching nineteen- and twenty-year-old undergraduates.”
Mac smoothed his pant leg distractedly. Her boss always dressed impeccably. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Niall shook her head and laughed. “Mac, why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”
His gaze met hers abruptly. “Can’t put anything past you, can I, Niall? It’s just that Kendra and I were concerned about you at the beginning of the year. All of that stuff with Stephen had to be enormously stressful for you. And of course”—his eyes flickered over her face cautiously—“I know that January has always been difficult for you anyway, seeing as how it’s the anniversary of Michael’s death.”
Niall tensed, more out of habit than anything else. When she realized that the mention of her son’s death didn’t strike her with the painful, resounding blow that it used to, she exhaled slowly. Her gaze settled softly on the tri-fold of pictures that she always kept on her desk—Michael in the blue knit cap and blanket that he’d been wearing when the nurse first brought him to her from the nursery; Michael grinning from ear to ear, holding a green dinosaur clutched in one hand on his third birthday; Michael with his light brown hair carefully combed and a much more sober, sweet smile as he stood by their front door at the house in Barrington before his first day of nursery school.
“It’s been three and a half years now since Matthew Manning shot Michael,” she said quietly. She thought Mac might have been as shocked as she was that she’d mentioned not only her son but his murderer’s name out loud. “It’s hard to believe that much time has passed. In many ways, it still feels like it was yesterday. And then my divorce was finalized in February,” she added softly. “So I guess you’re worried that I’m running off to the country for the summer in order to bury my head in the sand—or the fertile soil, more appropriately. You’re wondering if my taking this sabbatical is a good thing for me or if I’m running scared.”
Mac looked like he was going to deny it, but then he raised a hand. “Yes. I suppose that is what Kendra and I have been wondering. I’ve approved your sabbatical, Niall. I’m not changing my mind as your boss. But as a friend I’m worried about the abruptness of your decision, the . . . unexpected nature of it . . .”