resentful at having to intrude on Rose, stuck her head in.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, the deep Yankee voice rumbling from her immense bosom. “Mr. Diller wonders if he could have a word with you. I told him you were busy, but he wonders anyway.” Her tone suggested that it was her strongly held opinion that if Mr. Diller had any sense of propriety whatsoever, he would have faded directly into the ground upon being told that Mrs. Conger was busy.
Rose suppressed a grin and did her best to impersonate the grande dame that Mrs. Goodrich obviously expected her to be. For a long time, when she had first come to live in the Conger house, Mrs. Goodrich had frightened her to death, and she had been painfully aware that she did not meet the standards that Mrs. Goodrich had set for the senior Mrs. Conger-in-residence. But she had eventually come to realize that, whatever she did, Mrs. Goodrich would see her as Mrs. Goodrich wanted to see her. In the last couple of years Rose had found a certain enjoyment in trying to play the role. So now, for the benefit of the old housekeeper, she stood up, drew herself as erect as she could, and tried to sound imperious.
“It’s unusual that he should call without an appointment, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Goodrich nodded a vigorous agreement.
“But I suppose it would be useless to try to send him away.”
Again Mrs. Goodrich nodded vigorously.
“So I suppose you may show him in.”
The door closed, and in a moment it reopened to allow George Diller to enter. Rose promptly relaxed and smiled at him. He was a little younger than she, and sported a full beard. He was one of the teachers at the White Oaks School, but since he seemed to have a special way with the children he taught, he also drove the van that picked them up and delivered them home every day. The school had tried other drivers, but things always seemed to go better when George Diller drove, as if the children, trusting him, tried to behave better for him.
“What was that all about?” he said, glancing back toward the door.
“You heard?” Rose replied, chuckling.
“You sounded just like my Aunt Agatha, down in Boston. She could order a servant to kill himself, and he wouldn’t dare disobey. Fortunately for everyone, she never did.”
“Mrs. Goodrich would have loved your Aunt Agatha. She’s convinced that’s the way a proper lady should talk, so I do my best for her. It’s kind of fun, really.”
“Well, it almost scared me off. But not quite.”
“That’s good. Would you like some coffee?”
“Not enough time. The kids won’t wait long.”
Rose glanced out the window and saw Sarah climbing into the front seat of the van. In the back, six or seven children stared out at her, and she could see that one or two of them were already getting restless.
“Then what can I do for you?” Rose asked.
“Nothing for me. It’s about Sarah. It isn’t anything serious, but the staff at the school would like you and Mr. Conger to come in for a talk.”
“Oh?” Rose looked concerned, and George hurried on.
“Really, it’s nothing. I think they’re thinking of making some changes in Sarah’s program, and they want to talk to you first.”
Rose nodded. “Of course. Is there any time that’s best for the school?” She moved to the desk and opened her calendar.
“Not really.” George shrugged. “Afternoons are best, after the kids have gone home, but if you don’t have time, we can always work around you.”
Rose knew they could. White Oaks was a very expensive school, and had a policy of going out of their way both for their students and the families of their students. Consequently, they found that they very rarely had to go out of their way. Parents, realizing that the school would do what it could for them, tried to do what they could for the school. So Rose searched for a free afternoon, and picked up a pencil.
“How’s Thursday? Of course, I’ll have to check with my husband, but I imagine he can get away.”
“Fine,” George said. “About four?”
“I’ll mark it right now—” Rose broke off as she heard a little cry from the front of the house. She glanced up, and for a moment she didn’t see anything amiss. Then she saw it: The van was moving.
“George!” she yelled. “Quick! The van!”
Without asking any questions, George headed for the door. It stuck, and he grappled with it