A Deceptive Homecoming Read Free Page B

you to be responsible for having those impressionable young minds see you as a role model, given the path you took.”
    â€œPardon me? The path I took? I’m well-respected because I took advantage of my education at Mrs. Chaplin’s, and I strive to be the best at what I do. I’d never discourage another girl from emulating me.” I’d never had to defend myself so blatantly, but then again I’d done all kinds of things in the past year I’d never done before.
    â€œNo one denies you’ve been very successful in your professional life. But to involve yourself with the darkest side of our society calls into question your personal judgment.”
    â€œThe darkest side of our society? I’ve encountered a great deal of unseemly behavior of late. Which are you referring to: saloon smashing, poisoning, smuggling, slogan shouting, extravagant spending, rotten vegetable throwing, or character assassinating?”
    â€œMurder, Miss Davish,” Miss Gilbert said coldly. “No woman can soil herself with the stench of murder and think she is clean.”
    â€œI didn’t kill anyone.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to.”
    She bit the nail on her little finger. I remembered her habit from my student days. “To type, one must keep one’s nails very short,” she’d explained. I preferred to use a trimmer and file.
    â€œHattie!” Mrs. Chaplin shouted as she approached, trailed by several faculty members I recognized from my days at her school. I smiled as I recalled how often that same booming voice had sent shivers of fear down my spine. Now she was coming to my aid.
    Unusually tall with thick white hair piled on top of her head, she’d barely changed since the last time I saw her. She had a few more wrinkles about her shrewd blue eyes, perhaps, and a slight stoop in her right shoulder, but she was the same dynamic woman I remembered. She stopped before me and patted me briskly on the back, almost causing me to take a forward step. She’d lost no strength in her hands, but I could see now why she’d decided to give up her post as president of the school; her fingers were knobbed with arthritis.
    â€œI see you’ve been reacquainted with our capable Miss Gilbert.” That wasn’t the word I would’ve used to describe her, but I held my tongue and simply nodded. “And, of course, you remember these ladies?”
    â€œOf course.” I was glad to see their smiling, friendly faces.
    Madame Maisonet, the French teacher, a tiny, white-haired woman in her late sixties, took my hand and patted it. “ Bienvenue, ma chère! Welcome!”
    â€œ Merci, Madame.”
    Every student of Mrs. Chaplin’s school was required to take Madame Maisonet’s rudimentary French language class. “Every educated person in this world knows some French,” Mrs. Chaplin had said. She’d been right. My lessons had allowed me to read menus at several high-society dinners, as well as communicate with Mrs. Mayhew’s French chef more easily. But in addition to adding a touch of sophistication to my résumé, I owed much of my sanity to this little French lady. Without her trick of counting in French to calm down, I probably would’ve let my impatience and frustration get the best of me more than once.
    â€œWe’re very proud of you, Miss Davish,” a middle-aged woman with spectacles that kept slipping down her thin nose said. I couldn’t recall her maiden name but remembered she’d taught the shorthand classes before she left the school to marry.
    â€œYes, we all are.” Mrs. Chaplin’s voice boomed as she nodded vigorously. “Especially since we can take credit for some of your success!” The ladies shared in a subdued laugh. “You wouldn’t have broken out of that shell of yours if we hadn’t pushed you. ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ I said. ‘Don’t