Page 19 of The Feud

♦

Shelbyville Primary is where my siblings and I attended school from pre-kindergarten to fifth grade. It’s where my dad went to school and his parents before him. It’s where Sylvie will be completing her fourth grade year as well.

In the binder of information that Todd Gillam left with me two days ago are Sylvie’s school transcripts from the town of Saint-Émilion, where she lived with her mother. It’s also where the Mardraggon winery is located. There are partial transcripts of the three months she attended Prescott Academy here in Shelbyville after Alaine brought her to Kentucky as well.

Shelbyville Primary School sits on the outskirts of town by only half a mile. I haven’t been to campus since I left fifth grade, but it hasn’t changed much, at least on the outside. Worn redbrick facade with two large flagpoles out front display the American flag and the Kentucky state flag. To the right is the kindergarten through second grade playgrounds and to the left is the recess area for the third, fourth and fifth graders.

Inside, the lobby and reception area are bright and child-friendly, the walls adorned with colorful artwork and educational posters. As soon as I enter with Sylvie, the familiar smells transport me back in time. Things are a bit different in this day and age as we had to walk through a locked and secured door, a metal detector and then sign in electronically as guests. We wait in the small reception area for someone to give Sylvie the grand tour.

Sylvie shows absolutely no interest, slouching in her chair with her chin tucked into the palm of her hand. She stares at the floor in boredom as students and an occasional teacher walk by. They all smile and exchange pleasantries with me, but Sylvie gives her standard cursory one-word answers if someone asks how she’s doing.

After about ten minutes of waiting, I’m getting antsy. I have a million things to do and probably only enough time today to do ten of them. While I’m all for doing whatever is necessary to situate Sylvie in her new school, I don’t have time to sit around doing nothing.

Pushing up out of the straight-backed chair, which groans slightly under me, I approach the receptionist sitting behind a glass window. She slides it open and smiles.

I glance at my watch. “Can you tell me how much longer we’re going to wait? I have a really busy day.”

Before the receptionist can answer, a woman breezes around the corner wearing an apologetic smile. “Mr. Blackburn, I am so sorry to keep you waiting. We had an emergency involving one of the children that I had to attend to.”

The petite woman sticks her hand out for me to shake and two things strike me in sequential order. The first, she is incredibly beautiful with dark red hair and sparkling blue eyes framed with long lashes. Her Kentucky accent is covered in a layer of raspiness that threatens to send a shiver up my spine, amplified when our hands touch.

The second thing I realize is that I know this woman. Or at least I’ve seen her around. She’s familiar but I can’t place her exactly.

“I’m Marcie DeLeon. You actually know my sister Michelle—her daughter Carmen rides at your barn.”

Realization hits. I just saw this woman a few days ago and I also remember that my sister was trying to set me up with Marcie’s sister Michelle, who is buying Lady Beatrice.

It’s all a moot point, so I don’t let it fluster me, simply saying, “Nice to meet you. And I certainly understand about the emergency.”

And I do. I might not have had fatherhood on my list of priorities, but I definitely like kids. A good chunk of our business focuses around training them.

I glance back at Sylvie. “I’m here to enroll my daughter. I was told that we would get a tour.”

Marcie nods with a broad smile showing even teeth. “That’s me. Your tour guide. And I wanted to personally welcome Sylvie to our school. While we have other bilingual children here, she will be our first one who speaks French.”

Marcie pulls away from my grasp and brushes past me to stand in front of Sylvie who reluctantly lifts her face to make eye contact. Marcie bends slightly at the waist, putting her hands on her thighs. I notice she’s wearing a pair of black skinny pants, black high-heeled pumps, and a black-and-white checkered blouse with a high neck and bow. It’s very chic and frankly, it looks like she’d be at home in Paris.

Marcie smiles at Sylvie. “Bonjour, Sylvie. Je m’appelle Mademoiselle DeLeon. Je suis heureux de te rencontrer.”

Sylvie’s eyebrows raise in interest and she replies. “Bonjour.”

Marcie reaches her hand out to shake and Sylvie accepts it. Marcie then regretfully admits, “I’m sorry, but that’s the only French I know and I practiced it this morning because I knew you were arriving. Maybe you can teach me some?”

I can see Sylvie is struggling not to be charmed by the kind principal and her smile slips a little as she nods.

Marcie glances over her shoulder at me. “I can give Sylvie the tour and take her on to her first class. You’re more than welcome to join us or if you need to get off to work…”

She gives me an out with that, allowing me the chance to escape back to the world I know and love, despite its challenges. I should go.

Instead, I find myself saying, “I wouldn’t mind a tour of the school.”

Marcie straightens and beams a brilliant smile that dazzles me. “Excellent. We’ll do the tour, escort Sylvie to her first class and then you and I can take a few moments to talk about what she hopes to accomplish the rest of this year.”

♦

“And this is going to be your classroom,” Marcie says as we stop outside a closed door with a thin rectangular pane of glass that allows you to see inside. Desks are grouped together in sets of four and all the kids are working with their heads down, pencils moving furiously over paper. Sylvie glances in and I can see over her head a young male teacher standing at a whiteboard talking. “Mr. Bartlett is your teacher. He’s taught at Shelbyville Primary for two years. I have it on good authority he’s one of the funniest teachers here.”

Marcie waits to see if that will elicit a reaction from Sylvie, who has been quiet during the tour, although she has in no way been taciturn the way she has been with me or my family.

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