“You want priority?” Adam grumbled. “What about this?” He gestured to the wall behind him. The left side was a pleasant shade of green, the right a murky gray.
Doreen clicked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s not Farley’s fault you changed your mind. What do you think, Rachel? Green or gray?”
Rachel studied Adam as he stood there, his arms folded across his chest, his brow creased with irritation. “They say that green is restful on the eyes,” she answered. “It puts the viewer in a calm mood. Like New Age music.”
“Who is this woman and why is she talking to me about New Age music?” Even as he spoke to Doreen, Adam’s eyes never left Rachel. He rested his gaze on the jacket of her peppermint-green suit and said, “I prefer the gray.”
It figures, Rachel thought, trying not to react to his rudeness. “Rachel Hartwell,” she said, extending her hand. When he didn’t take it, she pulled it back. “I’m here about the opening in the drama department,” she continued with forced confidence. She leaned over. “Uh, Mr. Wessler?” Adam had crawled underneath his desk.
“Here it is,” he said, emerging triumphantly. “I’ve been looking for this little gadget.” He got off the floor and began fiddling with his computer. “Now maybe I can get e-mail, seeing how my phone will probably never be connected.”
“Excuse me for butting in, but I don’t see how you can get e-mail without a phone.”
“For your information, we have a permanent Internet connection,” he said, looking up. “What did you say your name was?”
Rachel had no intention of being turned down for the job simply because her prospective employer was in a bad mood. “Mr. Wessler,” she said in a patient voice, “if this isn’t a good time for you, I can come back later. At your convenience, of course.”
“You see what you’ve done?” Doreen reprimanded her boss. “It’s a wonder you have any staff at all, the way you go on. Why I agreed to work for you in the first place is a mystery.”
“It’s because you’ve been secretly in love with me for years, and you’d run off with me in a heartbeat except that Roger won’t let you.”
“Just ignore him,” Doreen said, dismissing him with a wave. “He always gets delusional when he’s irritated. The truth is, my Roger could whip this boy thirty years ago, and he still can today.” She laughed when Rachel threw her a confused glance. “My husband and I were friends with Adam’s parents,” she explained. “These days, I’m kind of a second mother to him.”
Doreen seemed like a genuinely warm person, and Rachel felt herself relaxing. “He’s lucky to have two mothers,” she bantered back. “A man needs all the sound advice he can get.”
A silence fell as quickly as a late-summer fog, and Adam’s face paled.
What did I say? Rachel thought. She looked at the older woman for guidance, but Doreen’s unsmiling face was as sober as Adam’s.
“I’ll let you two get down to business,” Doreen said quietly. Then, just as quickly as it had faded, her smile reappeared, as welcoming as the sun breaking through a cloud. “Good luck, dear. I’m rooting for you.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Rachel said after Doreen had shut the door behind her. “How long has she been gone?”
“My mother is not gone. And she’s not going anywhere, now or for a long time to come.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wessler,” Rachel apologized again. “I just assumed—”
“Adam,” he corrected. “Call me Adam. I, for one, would like to go back to the time when employees addressed their superiors as Mr. or Mrs. Unfortunately those days are gone.”
He was pompous, all right. If his ego were any more bloated, he could run for king. And what was this thing about his mother? Evidently the well-composed Adam Wessler had issues. Issues the P.I. had overlooked. Which was odd, she thought, considering how detailed the P.I. had made his report. Several pages described Megan’s life—school, hobbies, friends—right down to her favorite flavor of soda. More pages contained similar information about Adam, although, Rachel conceded, his favorite flavor of soda was more than she wanted or needed to know.
“Ms.,” she said curtly.
“Excuse me?”
“The appropriate term is Ms. There’s no legal basis for an employer to know a prospective employee’s marital status.” She knew she was treading close to the line—he had the power to make or break her future—but, oh, he was so infuriating!
“Ms. Hartwell, let me assure you I don’t give a hoot about your marital status. I was merely trying to point out that it is perfectly fine for you to address me by my first name. In fact, it’s preferred. One of the center’s main goals is to reflect the community, and that includes its values. You know what I mean—apple pie, babies in strollers, Boy Scouts helping elderly women cross the street. One big happy family. It’s the kind of Pollyanna image we’re trying to promote.”
“I take it you don’t agree with this philosophy?”
He looked vexed. “It’s of no importance whether or not I agree. Now, shall we get started, Ms. Hartwell?”
“Rachel,” she corrected. “One big happy family, remember?”
He looked at her sternly for one hard moment, and then an unexpected grin washed across his face, catching her off guard.
She drew in a sharp breath. His whole austere demeanor had vanished, just like that. How could something as simple as a smile, just two lips curling up at the corners, completely transform a face?
And it was such a charming smile. He looked almost boyish, completely unlike the photographs back in her room at the inn.
This time he was the one to extend a hand. “What do you say we start again? I’m Adam Wessler, the arrogant, obnoxious director of this wonderful new establishment.”
“Rachel Hartwell,” she answered back, returning his handshake. She’d once read that a handshake told a lot about a person’s character. His was warm…protective…
She realized she had been holding on too tightly, and feeling the color rise in her face, tore her hand away. “You’re not that obnoxious,” she joked in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.
He let out a hearty roar. “Finally we’re agreed on something. Have a seat, Rachel Hartwell, and we’ll get down to business. Sorry about the folding chairs. As you can see, not all the furniture has arrived yet.” He sat down beside her. “Why don’t you start by telling me a little about yourself?”
“You don’t have my résumé? I have extras. Here, let me—”
He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “I have your résumé. I know what it says. I want you to tell me something I don’t know. Something about the kind of person you are. It’s not such an unreasonable request.”
What could she tell him that wasn’t on her résumé? After years of working and studying she’d finally earned her degree, and since then she’d been teaching at a private school in Hartford. Her résumé also described her active involvement in musical and children’s theater. Wasn’t she what a community-based job required? A well-rounded, involved person? What else did he need to know? “I don’t understand,” she said with trepidation.
No longer smiling, he said, “I’ll give you a hint. You can start by telling me why you want to teach here.”
“I’ve always loved kids,” she began slowly. “And musical theater. So it was only natural that I would want to pursue a career that involved both.” When he didn’t respond, she felt her panic rising. What could she say that