An After School Affair (Haddonfield High Book 3) Read online

  AN AFTER SCHOOL AFFAIR

  S. DOYLE

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also by S. Doyle

  PROLOGUE

  Janie

  I often think back to that time. August before junior year.

  How it changed my life so fundamentally at such an early age. When already I felt as if I’d been through so much.

  What if I hadn’t spent the first part of that summer working for Habitat for Humanity in Haiti? What if I’d heard all the rumors that had been swirling around town back then?

  What if I hadn’t taken the job as a senior aide to Mrs. Rochester?

  What if Ed and I hadn’t met?

  I can’t lie. There are times I think it would have been better. Easier. Certainly less emotional. Because for everything I was and everything I wasn’t, emotional was not my favorite state.

  I was practical. I was patient. I was quiet.

  But I was also willful. I can see that about me now.

  When I wanted something, I could be driven.

  When I loved someone, I could be unshakeable.

  And when someone betrayed me…

  I could be their worst enemy.

  My name is Jane Eyre. And this is my story.

  1

  August Before Junior Year

  Janie

  “What do you plan to study at college?”

  I hated this question, but I bit back my internal sigh. This was a job interview after all. Making sure to sit upright on the settee, I addressed the older woman in the wheelchair across from me.

  “I’m considering law as a career,” I said.

  It wasn’t a lie. It was just a half truth. I was considering law. I was also considering medicine. I was considering science. I was considering art. I was considering all of it.

  What I was actually considering was what it might take to save the world.

  But Mrs. Rochester, with her stern expression and perfectly drawn-on eyebrows, didn’t want to hear that. It would sound either too indecisive, or, no doubt, too naïve to a woman of her significant years.

  Checking my posture again, I made sure my ankles were crossed appropriately and my hands were folded in my lap. In many ways this interview felt more like an audition, and I was playing the role of the demure house servant.

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I had applied for the position. There were so many other jobs I could be doing that would benefit the community overall. But the hard truth was I needed something that paid well.

  Looking around the formal living room of the extravagant Rochester Estate, I had to believe being an aide to Mrs. Rochester would do that.

  Eleanor Rochester was a formidable figure in Haddonfield society. The leader of the Historical Society, in reality if not currently in title, she set the tone for many of the social functions of the year.

  There was never a party she wasn’t invited to, and there was never a Sunday dinner that she missed at The Club, the town’s oldest private golf course and dining club.

  At least that was what Beth, my best, and well, frankly, richest friend, had told me about Mrs. Rochester when I’d said I was going to be applying for the job as her aide.

  Eight weeks ago, Eleanor Rochester suffered a stroke. A serious one, leaving her partially paralyzed on her left side. She couldn’t walk, hence the wheelchair, and one side of her mouth bent dramatically, making speech difficult.

  For all that, she was still the picture of elegance. Silk blouse with a large gold broach at her neck. Shoes that had an inch heel on them, even though there was no hope she could walk on them. Her makeup was perfectly done, including the lipstick.

  Except if I was honest, the dramatic red color made the lopsidedness of her mouth even more extreme. I had no plans to be honest.

  Mrs. Rochester already had a full-time nurse to care for her. A plump, middle-aged woman, wearing pale blue scrubs, currently sat on a large sofa on the opposite side of the room. Clearly bored, as she read a magazine and ignored my interview completely.

  No, I wouldn’t be hired to provide medical aid for the old woman.

  I would be hired to do everything else.

  An assistant, a companion. Someone to fetch. Someone to read to her when her eyes got tired. Someone to observe what was happening in the house and report back to her the goings-on.

  At least that’s how she’d framed it when she told me what she was looking for in an aide.

  It all sounded fine to me as long as it paid well. And it did.

  “I think you are telling me what I want to hear.”

  I blinked and refocused my thoughts on the woman in front of me. While it was a struggle for her to speak, she didn’t slur her words. It was as if she put all her effort into the enunciation of each word, so it came out clearly and concisely.

  The stroke hadn’t impacted her mind. At least as far as I could tell.

  However, there was now a bit of spit showing in the corner of her mouth.

  I had a tissue in my pocket. I could stand up, cross over to her and wipe it away.

  Would she appreciate that I’d spared her the embarrassment of a little drool? Or would she be offended that I acknowledged it in the first place?

  If I was going to be all those things she needed me to be for her, I figured it was best to start now. This woman would not want to be seen with a bit of spit hanging from her lips. I stood and fished the tissue out of the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Of course, I’m telling you what you want to hear. This is an interview,” I said truthfully, even as I touched the corner of her mouth with the tissue and met her sharp gaze directly.

  I pushed the tissue back into my pocket and sat. Crossing my legs at my ankles, folding my hands in my lap.

  I’d worn my best jeans, which still had a patch behind the knee. My best summer shirt, a short-sleeved button-down with a collar. Although it tugged a bit at my breasts, which had gotten bigger over the summer. My cleanest shoes, the only pair of sneakers I had.

  I had to look exactly as I was. Poor. Humble. Needful.

  But Mrs. Rochester also needed to know I was no pushover.

  “Hmm,” she said. “All right. You’re hired. You can start by getting me tea. I have more questions.”

  I was hired. That meant I was going to get paid. I controlled my inner excitement, and simply put a smile on my face as if I was mildly pleased. I had the feeling Mrs. Rochester would not be a fan on squeeing.

  “I’m happy to answer anything else you need to know. Which way is the kitchen?”

  She pointed vaguely with her right hand towards the foyer.

  It was a large house, a mansion to be sure, but it wasn’t endless. Assuming the kitchen was on the first floor, I was bound to stumble into it eventually.

  “Milk and sugar?” I asked her.

  “Milk. A splash.”

  I nodded then went in search of the kitchen. I could have asked Mrs. Rochester’s nurse for more explicit directions, but in some ways, I think this was still part of the interview, even though she’d said I was already hired. A te
st of sorts, to see how comfortable I would be navigating the vast and opulent Rochester estate.

  Wealth didn’t scare me. I’d spent too much time with Beth’s family, the Bennets, who also had gobs of money and a big house. Maybe not quite as impressive as this home, however.

  The main living room where Mrs. Rochester had conducted the interview was sprawling, with two separate seating areas at each end of the space. Two couches, on either end. At least seven chairs in a style I’d named in my head Modern Downton Abbey.

  As I made my way down the hallway, in the opposite direction of the front door where I’d originally entered, I passed a room filled with books, another space that housed only a grand piano, a powder room and what appeared to be a game room based on the pool table and multiple televisions mounted to the wall.

  But I was right. Eventually, I found the kitchen. It basically took up the entire south side of the house. Restaurant kitchens weren’t this big, I thought.

  I’d spent June and July in Haiti helping to build one-room homes for families sometimes as large as ten people. So many of those families could have lived in just this space comfortably.

  “Unreal,” I muttered, as I tried to take in all the gleaming stainless steel appliances.

  “Yo, are you lost?”

  I jumped at the sound of the voice. I don’t know why I thought we would be alone in this house. Just Mrs. Rochester, her nurse, and me. There was probably a whole staff working to keep everything pristine inside and out.

  Composing myself, I turned and saw the person who’d spoken was coming into the kitchen behind me. Had he been following around downstairs as I poked my head in and out of the various rooms? Shoot. Was I going to get caught for snooping on my first day?

  “No,” I said quietly. “I’m not lost.”

  I knew who he was, of course.

  Edward Rochester.

  Haddonfield High, the high school I attended, was small enough that I knew everyone in my class as well as those above and below me. But even if it wasn’t a small high school, Edward Rochester was just one of those people who everyone knew, or knew of, regardless.

  One of the most popular kids in school, he hung out with Heath Cliff and Fitz Darcy. Fitz was considered by many to be the reigning king of the school, despite the fact he was only going to be a junior this year.

  I knew Edward played football. I knew he was a Snob, our term for the people in the school with money. As opposed to the Havenots, used for people like me, who, well, did not have.

  But that was all I knew about Edward really. We obviously didn’t move in the same circles.

  Standing there, wearing just a dark T-shirt and board shorts, I could see he was tall. Taller than I remembered, so he might have grown over the summer. Dark hair, brown eyes, dark thick eyebrows. A face that was more blunt edges than it was pretty lines. Like he wasn’t quite done growing into it, but when he did, he would probably look…formidable.

  Given his height, the broad width of his shoulders, he loomed over me and I tried not to shrink in on myself, which I had a tendency to do when I was uncomfortable.

  “Wait, I know you,” he said. “You go to Haddonfield.”

  Seriously? As I mentioned, our class was not that big. A hundred and thirteen of us. How could he not know me?

  Right. Because I was a mousy little Havenot.

  “Yes. We’re in the same year. Janie,” I said, even though I couldn’t believe he didn’t know my name.

  His eyes narrowed. Like he needed to squint to see me accurately. “You hang with Beth Bennet and that hot cheerleader.”

  “Reen Adler,” I said. “Her name is Irene. Not hot cheerleader.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Reen. But she is a hot cheerleader.”

  Yes, I suppose she was a hot cheerleader. Even though, technically, she was a Havenot like me, and we’d both grown up at Thornfield Home as orphans, guys like Edward knew who Reen was.

  “If that’s your definition of her.”

  He snort-laughed. “Uh…that’s every straight guy’s definition of her. Probably the not straight ones, too. She’s hawt!”

  I gave him my best bored expression.

  “So what are you doing here, uh…”

  Seriously? I’d just told him my name.

  “Janie!” I snapped.

  “Right. Sorry. Janie,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “So what are you doing in my house, Janie? You trying to get some dirt? Maybe thought you would come here on a dare?”

  It was strange, but it was like he’d suddenly gone into suspicion mode, when only seconds ago he’d been an oblivious guy thinking about Reen and all her hotness.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you think I’m going to tell you anything, you’re crazy,” he said, as if it was some kind of putdown.

  “Uh, I’m pretty sure if one of us is crazy, it’s not me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m here to interview for a job with your grandmother.”

  “Right,” he huffed. “Sure you don’t know what I’m talking about. Where’ve you been for the last two months?”

  “Uh…Haiti,” I said. “Rebuilding homes destroyed by the latest earthquake. You know, a place where people have real problems.”

  He sneered at me. “Is this the part where you school me on my privilege?”

  “I’m not here to school you on anything, but if the tuxedo fits…”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re a noble Havenot, off helping make the world a better place, and I’m a self-centered asshole. It’s not like I don’t know that about myself. I just don’t need anyone in my own home calling me out for it. Why are you here again?”

  “I’m interviewing to be an aide for your grandmother,” I said slowly and clearly, as if he were a small—or thick-witted—child. “Or not really interviewing anymore. She said I was hired and sent me to get her some hot tea. I imagine she predicted me running into you and wanted to see if I could handle myself against your boorish behavior. Newsflash. I can.”

  “Boorish?” He smiled broadly. “Who the fuck talks like that?”

  “I do,” I said simply.

  Reen often accused me of speaking like an old lady, but the truth was there were times I pretended if I spoke with a broad and full vocabulary, people wouldn’t automatically categorize me for what I was.

  An orphan who grew up in a state home.

  Poor.

  The foster child of an elderly single woman who benefited from the checks the state sent her on my behalf. Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely fair to Mrs. Fairfax. She was a nice woman who was always pleasant towards me. But still, I knew the only reason I was there was for the money I netted her.

  “So you’re going to be Gram’s aide, huh?”

  “Yes. Are we going to have a problem? I’ll probably be around quite a bit over the next few weeks.”

  He considered it for a moment then shook his head. “Nah, no problem. But be warned, I’ll probably be around, too.”

  “Of course. It’s your home.”

  His expression grew serious, then more thoughtful. “It’s been more than my home this summer. It’s my sanctuary.”

  I could have asked him why, but I didn’t really care. I had a task to accomplish and a schedule to establish with Mrs. Rochester. I was here for the money, not to satisfy my curiosity about her grandson.

  Not that I was curious. There was nothing whatsoever interesting about Edward Rochester.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Edward, I really need to prepare some tea.”

  “Edward, huh? Yeah, you’re a trip, Janie. I’ll see you around.”

  He made his way to the Subzero refrigerator, which must have been his destination all along, pulled something out of it, then left through a sliding glass door on the other side of the room, which I suspected, led to some type of backyard patio.

  I found what I needed to make tea, added a splash of milk and carefully carried the hot cup to the living room where I’d left Mrs. Ro
chester in her wheelchair. By the time I sat across from her again, I could see she was already asleep. The left side of her face drooping noticeably.

  “She might sleep for an hour, maybe two,” the nurse said, picking her head up from the magazine.

  I shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ll wait. I don’t want her to think I would leave until she said it was okay.”

  I settled into the chair that was really uncomfortable, drank the tea I’d made and tried not to wonder why someone like Edward Rochester needed a sanctuary.

  2

  August Before Junior Year

  Janie

  “…sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

  I looked up at the end of the sonnet and heard the soft and consistent intake of breath that suggested Mrs. Rochester had fallen asleep. Today we were in her bedroom, where she lay in her bed with pillows behind her back propping her up.

  I hadn’t made it through one full sonnet before she was snoring. Apparently she wasn’t the lover of Shakespeare she claimed to be.

  I set the book of sonnets on her nightstand and quietly stood. I pulled a light blanket from the end of the bed and covered her legs.

  Thus far in her employ, I arrived in the morning and received my direction for the day. And after a week of working for her, we’d established a pretty consistent routine.

  Mornings were when Mrs. Rochester had the most energy. I made her breakfast then ran errands and tackled any sort of tasks she assigned while she usually spent that time with her physical or speech therapist.

  When she was done with therapy, I would prepare her lunch.