After that first doctor’s appointment, when I received the diagnosis, I sat in the stairwell of the medical building, crying until I was pretty sure I’d tapped dry all the rivers in the greater Arlington area. A woman wearing a similar scarf but tied smartly at the nape of her neck approached me. She told me that she finds someone like me sitting right here about once a week. We chatted for a few minutes and she connected me to her support group. I attended, tentatively at first, but it soon became my lifeline—and Heidi.
The women in the group all had different experiences and approaches to care and recovery, but they were all supportive and without judgment. We cheered each other on through all stages and they were there for me when I opted not to have reconstructive surgery. They’re my Wise Warrior Women and I wouldn’t have survived with a sense of humor without them.
With the group’s help, I could breathe again. Live beyond the surgery. I owed them so much—and the cold, Viking man who’d afforded me the procedure and top-level care.
Looking in the mirror, I wipe away a tear and smooth a few wild pieces of my brown hair. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and with my guidebook to Blancbourg in hand, I step into the hall, ready for my new job.
The manor is quiet except for the chiming of a grandfather clock that leads me toward the entryway with a double staircase—the kind women in gowns would carefully step down before going to a ball. I also imagine girls balancing books on their heads as they descend to practice perfect posture. According to the guide, we won’t be covering that lesson, but I wouldn’t mind living one of those movie makeover scenes with the main character having a big reveal, complete with a fancy hairstyle and gown.
With a welcoming morning greeting, Arthur gestures me over. He passes me a little paper bag. “Gingersnaps. Goodie said you’d need them today.”
I smile and thank him and then go to Cateline’s office. Shortly after, a peppy woman named Pippa enters with a flurry of energy.
She opens a pastry box. “Anyone care for something scrummy to start off Monday?” Then she apologizes for being late and we get down to business.
I walk away from this meeting having learned three things:
The pastries in Concordia are delicious and lucky me, I have cookies for later
The new students are rasc-letes (part rascals, part athletes) who’re likely to be handfuls
And never call Cateline, Cat, unless you want your face scratched off, theoretically. But Cate is okay.
With the new student file in hand, I find our meeting room. I want enough time to review the info and understand as best I can who I’ll be working with.
However, if I were on hold, there wouldn’t even be enough time for bad Muzak to blare through the phone speaker when a giant beast of a man lumbers into the room.
His blond hair is long and wild, his beard full, and he has the qualities of a Norseman from mythic sagas. He’s a veritable Viking.
I meet his crystal-clear gray eyes. Despite his appearance, they’re gentle, honest, and trustworthy. Eyes I’ve seen once before.
My new student is the man I married in Michigan.
8
GREY
Well, this is a kick in the pants. I did my level best to forget about the little marriage arrangement back in Michigan, but the beautiful woman with sunny spring-green eyes, who is technically my wife, stares blankly at me.
“Lately, I’ll admit that my sense of humor has been severely lacking, but if this is a sick payback prank, I’ll crush the guys,” I mutter.
Tense all over, I hulk in the doorway to the meeting room where I’m supposed to learn how to be a gentleman. No chance. Not like this.
“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask.
Everly LeFevre, the woman I married as a favor to my brother’s best friend’s sister—yeah, I can hardly keep it straight either—stands in front of me.
