They might learn something.

The problem was he couldn’t keep his own attention focused.

Should he call her and apologize again? Maybe he should write her a note. He did better writing things down than saying them. Most of the time.

Should he just let it go? It had been a couple of days. Well, one day and two nights to be anal about it.

He knew he was being anal about it.

He wanted to let it go, just let it go and mark it down on the lengthy list of Carter’s Embarrassing Moments. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her.

He was right back where he’d been thirteen years before. Suffering from a pathetic crush on Mackensie Elliot.

He’d get over it, Carter reminded himself. He’d gotten over it before. Almost entirely.

He’d just lost his head for a moment, that’s all. And it was understandable considering the rest of the experience.

Still, he should probably write her a note of apology.

Dear Mackensie,

I want to offer my sincere apology for my untoward behavior on

the evening of January fourth. My actions were inexcusable, and

deeply regretted.

Yours, Carter

And could he possibly be any more stiff and stupid?

She’d probably forgotten about it anyway, after having a quick laugh with her friends. Who could blame her?

Let it go, that was the thing to do. Just let it go and get back to leading the class on a discussion of Rosalind as a twenty-first-century woman.

Sexuality. Identity. Guile. Courage. Wit. Loyalty. Love.

How did Rosalind use her dual sexuality in the play to become the woman at its end, rather than the girl she was in the beginning, and the boy she played throughout?

Say “sex,” and you drew teenagers’ attention, Carter thought.

How did—

He kept scanning notes, and called out an absent, “Come in,” at the knock. Ah, evolution, he thought, of identity and courage through disguise and . . .

He glanced up, blinked.

With his mind full of the engaging Rosalind, he stared at Mac.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

He lurched to his feet, scattered his papers so some sailed to the floor. “Ah, it’s all right. No problem. I was just . . .”

He bent to retrieve papers as she did the same, and knocked his head against hers.

“Sorry, sorry.” He stayed down, met her eyes. “Crap.”

She smiled, and the dimples came out to play. “Hello, Carter.”

“Hello.” He took the papers she offered. “I was just going over some launch points for a discussion on Rosalind.”

“Rosalind who?”

“Ah, Shakespeare’s Rosalind.

As You Like It?”

“Oh. Is that the one with Emma Thompson?”

“No. That’s

Much Ado. Rosalind, niece of Duke Frederick, is banished from his court, and disguises herself as Ganymede, a young man.”

“Her twin brother, right?”

“No, actually that’s

Twelfth Night.”

“I get them confused.”

“Well, while there are some parallels between

As You Like It and

Twelfth Night as far as theme and device, the two plays address markedly divergent . . . Sorry, it doesn’t matter.”

He laid the papers down, took off his reading glasses. And prepared to face the consequences of his actions. “I want to apologize for—”

“You already did. Do you apologize to every woman you kiss?”

“No, but under the circumstances . . .” Let it

go, Carter. “Anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped by to give you this. I was going to leave it at the front office, but they told me you had a free period, and were in here. So I thought I’d give it to you in person.”

She offered him a package wrapped in brown paper. “You can open it,” she said when he only looked flustered. “It’s just a token—appreciation for letting me dump on you the other night, and for the hangover you spared me. I thought you might like it.”

He opened it carefully, peeling up the tape and flapped ends. And took out the photograph matted in a simple black frame. Against the black and white of snow and winter trees, the cardinal sat like a living flame.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s nice.” She studied it with him. “One of those lucky breaks. I took it early yesterday morning. It’s no belly-crested whopado, but it’s our bird, after all.”

“Our . . . Oh. Right. And you came in to give it to me.” Pleasure flustered him nearly as much as embarrassment. “I thought you’d be angry with me after I . . .”

“Kissed my brains out,” she finished. “That would be stupid. Besides, if I’d been pissed, I’d have kicked your ass at the time.”

“I suppose that’s true. Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“I liked it,” she interrupted, and rendered him speechless. Turning, she wandered the room. “So, this is your classroom, where it all happens.”

“Yes, this is mine.” Why, dear God, why couldn’t he make his brain and his mouth work together?

“I haven’t been back here in years. It all looks so much the same, feels so much the same. Don’t people usually say the school seems smaller when they go back as an adult? It actually seems bigger to me. Big and open and bright.”

“It’s a strong design, the building I mean. Open areas, and . . . But you meant that more metaphorically.”

“Maybe I did. I think I had some classes in this room.” She walked around the desks to the trio of windows along the south wall. “I think I used to sit here and look out the window instead of paying attention. I loved it here.”

“Really? A lot of people don’t have fond memories of high school. It’s often a war of politics and personalities, set off by the cannon fire of hormones.”

Her grin flashed. “You could put that on a T-shirt. No, I didn’t like high school all that much. I liked it here, because Parker and Emma were here. I only went here a couple of semesters. One in tenth and one in eleventh, but I liked it better than Jefferson High. Even though Laurel was there, it was so big we didn’t get to hang out all that much.”

She turned back. “Politics and warfare aside, high school’s still a social animal. Since you’re back in the classroom, I bet you loved every minute.”

“For me, high school was a matter of survival. Nerds are one of the low levels on the social strata, alternately debased, ignored, or reviled by those on others. I could write a paper.”

She eyed him curiously. “Did I ever do that?”

“Write a paper? No, you meant the other part. Not noticing is different from ignoring.”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” Mac murmured.

“I wonder if we could go back to the other night, and your ‘I liked it’ response. Could you be more specific, in case I’m misinterpreting?”

He just made her smile. “I don’t think you’re misinterpreting. But—”

“Dr. Maguire?”

The girl hesitated in the doorway, radiating freshness and youth in the prim navy uniform of the academy. Mac noted the signs—the rosy flush, the dewy eyes—and thought: serious teacher crush.

“Ah . . . Julie. Yes?”

“You said I could come by this period to talk about my paper.”

“Right. I just need a minute to—”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Mac said. “I’m running behind as it is. Nice to see you again,

Doctor Maguire.”

She strolled out, passing pretty young Julie, and made the turn for the stairs. He caught up with her before she’d made it halfway down.

“Wait.”

As she stopped and turned, Carter laid a hand on her arm. “Would not misinterpreting include it being okay for me to call you?”

“You could call me. Or you could meet me for a drink after school.”

“Do you know where Coffee Talk is?”

“Vaguely. I can find it.”

“Four thirty?”

“I can make five o’clock.”

“Five. Great. I’ll . . . see you there.”

She continued down, glancing back as she reached the base of the staircase. He stood at that halfway point still, hands in the pockets of his khakis, his tweed jacket just a little saggy, and his hair carelessly mussed.

Poor Julie, Mac thought and continued on. Poor little Julie, I know exactly how you feel.

“YOU ASKED HER TO COFFEE TALK? WHAT’S WRONG WITH you?”

Carter scowled as he loaded files and books into his briefcase. “What’s the matter with Coffee Talk?”

“It’s a hangout for staff and students.” Bob Tarkinson, math teacher and self-proclaimed expert on affairs of the heart, shook his head sadly. “You want to make it with a woman, you take her out for a drink. A nice bar, Carter. Something with a little sense of atmosphere and intimacy.”

“Not every contact with a woman’s about making it.”

“Just every other one then.”

“You’re married,” Carter pointed out. “With a baby on the way.”

“Exactly why I know what I know.” Bob rested a hip against Carter’s desk, putting his wise expression on his pleasant face. “Do you think I got a woman like Amy to marry me by taking her out for a cup of coffee? Hell, no. You know what turned the tide for me and Amy?”

“Yes, Bob.” Because you’ve told me a thousand times. “You cooked her dinner on your second date, and she fell for you over your chicken cutlets.”

Still wise, Bob wagged his finger. “Nobody falls for somebody over a latte, Carter. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t even know me, not really. So the falling-for portion is irrelevant. And you’re making me nervous.”

“You were already nervous. Okay, you’re stuck with coffee, so see how it goes. If you’re still interested, do the follow-up call tomorrow. Next day latest. Dinner.”

“I’m not making chicken cutlets.”