“Ah, I see. Army men, then. Same thing.”
“Not the same,” Liam retorted, frowning in mock seriousness.
Maybe there was more to the dragon lady than met the eye. Maybe she did have a soft underbelly.
Maybe he could get her to show him more of it.
“Did you always want to be a teacher, then?” she asked.
Liam nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Although grad school’s opened up some new doors, and now I’m working toward a doctorate in art therapy while I teach.”
Though his father had laid it on thick from the beginning that he disapproved of Liam’s career choice. It had interfered with the man’s plans for his only son—plans that existed prior to Liam’s birth and about which Liam had never had a say. His dad had always wanted Liam to go into the family oil business, and Liam’s open disinterest in the company had done nothing to dissuade the man. He’d pushed and pushed until Liam hadn’t had any option but to push back even harder by flat-out refusing to take over when the time came for his father to retire.
“I’m impressed,” Paige said, raising her eyebrows.
“I don’t think there’s anything out there like working with kids. You get access to these great little brains that are just starting to form ideas and perspectives about the world. And you get to watch them process it every single day and see the way their eyes light up when they’ve worked really hard and they finally understand. It’s really something, if you ask me.”
Liam looked up to find Paige watching him intently, and he felt silly. He always got a little mushy when he talked to people about his job.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I just really have a passion for it.” Almost unlike anything else. But since starting grad school and spending time with the kids in his art-therapy classes, he’d decided that, ultimately, becoming a full-time therapist was the best path for him. Both teaching and art therapy offered so many promising avenues for children to heal and process grief, but as soon as he completed his doctoral studies and the internship, he would set up a full-time practice of his own.
“I think that’s great, actually,” Paige said, interrupting his thoughts. “I wish we could find more like you. The kids need people with that kind of passion and interest in them.”
“And I think my favorite medium is a great way to get to know them on a deeper level. Kids will do a lot of things with art that they can’t do anywhere else.”
“What do you mean?” asked Paige. She’d leaned closer to him across the table and she was staring at him, her blue eyes intense under furrowed brows.
“I just mean that art is one of the best forms of communication.” Tentatively, he added, “It’s also the best way, sometimes, for people to heal.” At that, Paige scooted back a little and her eyes darkened. “Did I say something to offend you?”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just that word—‘healing.’”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s nothing. I just seem to find myself thinking more and more about what it actually means for someone to be healed from something.”
Liam knew he was getting closer to the core of Paige’s discomfort, whatever it might be. He guessed it must be related to Owen’s condition. It wasn’t a normal thing for a kid to completely stop talking, not unless there was real trauma at the bottom of it. His first thought had been that maybe there was an abusive father in the picture, but Paige had been very clear that she was a Ms., not a Mrs., so possibly that was out—at least he hoped it was.
But he couldn’t figure out what else it might be. Usually, children didn’t have such reaction to normal, everyday kid problems. It wasn’t like a bruise that would gradually heal itself, transitioning from black to purple to yellow, before it simply disappeared. Selective mutism was almost always a response to something very far out of the ordinary. Regardless, Liam knew it couldn’t be anything good, and, for some reason, he felt compelled to find out what may have caused it.
The truth was, he had something different to offer Paige and Owen—in the form of art therapy, of course. Liam figured Paige wouldn’t be open to it at first. Most parents he worked with had trouble understanding how art could help their children process their emotions. But maybe, just maybe, if he worked slowly to convince her, he could help her son get better. As it was, Owen was probably missing out on social experiences in his formative years. In fact, Liam estimated that, if the boy didn’t make major progress soon, resulting emotional damage could last beyond his elementary school years.
Liam could tell easily that Paige was a good mom—a great one, in fact. He knew, though, that often parents were so close to their kids that they lost the ability to see any alternative ways to help them. It was as though they’d sunk into an ocean of advice and needed to be pulled above water again to breathe and start fresh. As a teacher, it was his duty to help each child.
And his desire to help Owen had absolutely nothing to do with the ridiculously lovely Paige Graham.
* * *
Before Paige had a chance to say anything more, a microphone crackled up on stage. Principal Matthews addressed the staff, then a barbecue was laid out, filling the air with its rich, enticing scent, and Liam and Paige joined the long line of teachers to get their plates.
Paige knew she should have been mingling with a few teachers, but she had gotten sidetracked...by Liam. It was unnerving how easily he seemed to grab her attention. He was so close that she couldn’t concentrate on anything else but his presence behind her. She needed to watch out; otherwise she’d be entering territory she wanted to stay as far away from as possible. Even though six months had passed since her husband’s death and she truly wanted to move on at some point, the idea of letting Mark go completely was new enough to frighten her. Taking a step in that direction would be a risk she wasn’t yet certain she should take.
As Liam filled his plate, Paige headed off to grab a cup of sweet tea. Despite the delicious aroma that initially caused her mouth to water, and the passing plates piled high with some of her favorite dishes, she somehow wasn’t hungry anymore. And she needed to get back to work.
She circulated around the room, armed with her tea, and greeted all the new teachers before catching up with some of the more seasoned ones, many of whom had been close friends when she’d been in the classroom herself. She found herself relieved to be free of Liam for a few minutes. Something about him drew her in. Something comfortable and safe that had her stomach churning with uneasiness—a warm feeling she hadn’t had in a long time.
Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever really had a chance to grieve her husband’s death, so obsessed had she been with making sure Owen had everything he needed. Mark dying from the fire had been unexpected and traumatic—like something out of a shocking news story that could never actually happen to her.
Paige lost her train of thought as Principal Matthews approached. “How’s everything going?” she asked.
“Pretty well. I think I’ve managed to say at least a few words of encouragement to just about everyone. I think we’ll have a good year. You’ve hired an excellent staff, as usual,” Paige said, smiling in appreciation.
“I’m glad,” Principal Matthews said. Paige had known the older woman for many years and had admired her just as long. Her silver hair and round, pink cheeks gave her a grandmotherly appearance that kids naturally warmed to. Kind and fair, and always quick to smile at the children, she defied all stereotypes of what kids thought a principal should be. Ms. Matthews had a grandmotherly air about her and the students seemed to think that it would be worse to disappoint her than to be shouted at by her. If Ms. Matthews would indeed be retiring soon, her shoes would be very hard to fill. Paige couldn’t imagine anyone doing the job as well.
“Paige,” Ms. Matthews said, reaching up to place a small hand on her shoulder. “There is something I’d really like to