Chapter 187

Almara’s Pov

Our savings might be depleted, but the school is up and running. Mostly. Arthur and I finished the project six months later than we thought we would and only being able to get so far when my paintings were selling.

But finally, it is finished. The final result is a simplistic three-story building with stained glass windows along the edges of the building that give the entire structure a warm glow. Where there isn’t glass there’s Bess-inspired cobblestone. It’s a beautiful combination of rustic and modern.

The only problem is we don’t have all of the permits completely secured, but enough so that we began hiring a couple of teachers- well for now they’re more like volunteers. We’ve decided to call the school, “ARC Art” It’s an abbreviation of Arthur and my name.

The A for Almara, R for Arthur, and C for Covington. We’ve only been open a week, but more than a hundred students are signed up. Arthur made sure that Roman had nothing to do with those who paid the tuition.

While having this school open is a dream come true, I’d say my favorite part is seeing the faces of every student who walks in and admires the interior dark-wooden arches lining the hallways, exposed beams, complementary wall colors, and fresh florals dangling from every ceiling.

This truly is my greatest masterpiece. Grace loves it too. The first floor is a daycare, which I think is one of our biggest selling points and allows us to charge as much as we are. Here, Grace is meeting so many other children her age, even though she prefers the older kids since she’s mentally way more at their level.

I can’t believe she’s five years old already. Though when I think about how she is still young and she’ll grow up with this place, knowing her parents built it- makes every bump in the road completely worth it.

The second floor is where all the classes are held. Six different class rooms. Each room has its one artistic purpose; painting, sculpting, drawing, design, pottery and crafts, and architecture and woodworking which is run by Arthur.

The third floor is for stored art projects, art supplies, cleaning products, filing papers, and a whole bunch of other things that might be important one day so we hold on to for that ‘just-in-case’ scenario.

Classes for the day are done. I’m in the paint room, gathering all the used smocks. Even though they’re brand new, they’re already looking like they have years of use. “There’s the sexy teacher I’ve been looking for.”

I look up and see Arthur leaning against the doorway. Some woodchips sticking to his black button-up. ‘Sexy’ would probably be the last word I would use to describe how I look after a full day of painting, but still my heart picks up.

“Do you think we’ll ever get used to it?” I ask.

“No,” Arthur says with a smile. I look around, I doubt we will either. “How was your class?” Arthur asks stepping into the room.

I let my hands fall at my side. “Honestly, some of these students are better than I am.” Arthur laughs.

“Well, I doubt that. But even if they are, I once had a mentor tell me that the goal is for the student to surpass the teacher. That’s how you know you’re doing a good job.” I roll my eyes.

“Not after a week!” I say. I toss the dirty smocks into a hamper. “Anyways, want to get dinner?” I ask just as my stomach growls loudly enough for Arthur to hear from across the room.

“Yes!” I hear Grace say and I look down and see her standing at her fathers leg, only coming up to his mid thigh.

“Grace, I told you to wait for me!” I hear Mrs. Tailborne, the daycare supervisor, call out from down the hall. By the time she reaches us, she’s winded which tells me that Grace used her super high energy to run from the daycare up to my classroom.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Tailborne says sheepishly. “I tried to tell her to wait, but-” she trails off. I nod in understanding.

“A bit hard to control?” I say, now stroking Grace's hair.

“A bit.” Mrs. Tailborne agrees.

Thirty minutes later the three of us are seated at a restaurant not too far from the school called Chomps, a wonderful steak house. It’s a bit expensive, but things at the school have been picking up and the food is delicious, it doesn’t take much convincing for us to come here.

Grace is reading everything off the menu, sounding out the fancy cheeses and even the expensive wines. “You know, if we keep doing this well we can buy our own house soon.” Arthur says, taking a sip from his water glass.

“Awh, but I like living at grandma and grandpa’s.” Grace whines.

“You’ll like having your own room a whole lot better,’ Arthur says and clinks his glass to hers.

“I think we will too,” I say and slide my ankle around Arthurs underneath the table. He gives me a wink, ignoring Grace’s objections otherwise.

I can’t lie that even though the school is built and has been a major source of my happiness and contentment recently, a house all to ourselves would really complete the dream.

The waiter comes over and takes our order. As Arthur is telling the waiter what he would like is when I look around the restaurant only to notice the subtly pointing fingers and hushed whispers. I pretend that I don’t notice, even if my skin flushes. I take a sip of my wine and hope people just assume it’s from the drink.

“Do you see this?” I ask quietly with my glass still raised to my lips.

“See what, mommy?” Grace asks as loudly as you’d expect a five-year-old to be. Not knowing the different between a whisper and a regular talking voice, and still somehow being louder than than both options.

“The artwork on the walls.” I point to some cheap landscape painting behind her. As she turns her head to see, I motion to Arthur the whispers and looks from people. He subtly takes note and then leans back.

“Well, the Hurricane Pack is making a new name for themselves, this time all by themselves. People are probably recognizing this.”

I suppose it’s possible. Arthur and I have lived outside of the limelight for so long, despite Roman and even Robert’s continued fame and the media being more interested in our lives by proxy. Still, getting used to fame is something I’ll have to get acquainted with, again.

Once our food arrives, I don’t focus on anyone or anything else other than the delicious meat melting in my mouth. I try my best to ignore this persistent feeling that something is wrong as the night continues on without any incident.

I tell myself that I do this. Just as things start going well, I wait for them to crumble even when there’s no reason to think so.

Arthur and I settled into bed, we finally upgraded to a queen-sized bed once we we’re able to move my art supplies into the school and open the floor space a bit. Once my head hits the pillow, I’m out.

Unfortunately, my sleep is filled with tossing and turning as the gnawing sensation of doom grows ever more persistent now that I’m not consciously trying to suppress It. My dreams consist of someone chasing me, or me chasing someone but never catching them.

I’m thankful when the time to get to work rolls around. Though I’m groggy, I think I need the distraction of the day's work.

My mom is off today and asked to keep Grace with her and spend the day with her at the park. Grace loved that idea and I figured some outside time would be good for her. Arthur and I try to balance her mental and physical abilities.

So, it’s just Arthur and I driving to work together. “I think I need another coffee.” I say, stifling a yawn.”

“Want to stop before we get there?” Arthur asks, but I shake my head.

“I have a student coming in early to catch up on some work. I’ll be okay.”

“Well, here,” Arthur says and hands me his to-go mug of coffee from home. “Take mine. I’ll drop you off and go out and get more.” I know it’s a simple gesture, but it’s really the little things that mean so much.

“Thank you,” I tell him and take a sip, relishing in the hot liquid. Arthur makes it strong and normally it’s too much, but today it’s perfect.

We roll up to the building and normally by this hour the stained glass is glistening under the morning light, but not today. Today, something is completely wrong.

For a second, we don’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say. All we can do is stare and hope, pray, that our eyes deceive us. Except they don’t.

The stained-glass windows have been shattered. In bright ugly spray-paint red is the word ‘fraud’ spelled out across the front doors. Toilet paper is strewn over the building, it must be a hundred rolls- at least. Even though cobblestone is sturdy, whoever did this was still able to chip away at some of the stones using what looks like a sledge hammer or an axe.

Arthur throws his door open in rage, but not me. I can’t move. The coffee falls from my hand and lands at my feet with a splash. I don’t even react to the piping-hot liquid against my shins and ankles. I don’t react to anything, at all.