The Keeper

Moon-Faced for Mr Finlay

Every time Martha found a note at the Post, it filled her heart so much her chest could barely contain it. The envelope smelled of the sandalwood soap he used and she contented herself with the smell alone until she was able to go to her private corner of the library to read it. She relished every word Dean wrote, the prose lifting her into his world. Dean was writing to her and only her. It was as if no one else existed.

She read his last note so many times that a hole began in the folds. She did deserve better than Greg. He was a jerk. But did she deserve Dean? Is that what he meant? She looked for a sign from him in class. But there was no secret smile, no nod, no wink. He barely looked at her, focusing only on her work. When he pointed out perspective errors in her painting, she thought she would faint with the intensity of his closeness. The smell of him was intoxicating then. She agreed with his criticism, looking into his gemstone eyes, but he fixed them on the work, only the work.

When he moved on to the next canvas, Amy nudged her. "You aren't going all moon-faced for Mr Finlay are you?"

"No," said Martha, painting over lines with the white gouache she wanted to cover her face with.

"Hey, no biggie, but you'll have to get to the back of the queue in this class."

Martha thought to herself, if only you knew. It's just me, Amy, just me and him. But she said, "Get real, Amy, he's ancient. He must be at least thirty."

"And married."

"Ugh."

"And with kids."

"Double ugh."

"And a teacher. That means he'll be hard up. I want someone who can afford to take me out to nice restaurants every week," said Amy.

"Well, you should give up flirting with Stefan Romano then; he doesn't even have a Saturday job."

"But he's so lush, Martha."

"And he knows it." Martha relaxed now that they were in the familiar territory of working out how Amy could get Stefan Romano to notice her. She glanced up at Dean and found the moment he was looking at her. He quickly looked away, but it was all she needed; what was between the lines wrote itself clear. She deserved him and he deserved her.

When the class ended, Martha dashed to the toilets and wrote a note for the Post.