8. Eleanor
Eleanor
First thing Saturday morning I head out onto Wetherly Cove’s Main Street. I want to get the work Headmaster Wright assigned me over with as quickly as possible, because I have something else to work on.
My pitch for the fundraiser cause.
I didn’t pitch my idea last night because it wasn’t ready.
At the moment, it’s incomplete. A few loose strands still need to be woven together to create a powerful and moving proposal that he can’t turn down.
I’m not sure if it’s what he wants, but I have to try. For me, for the kids, and also for him.
Last night in the stuffy conference room, under the glare of the fluorescent lights, he admitted that he wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
There was something so weary in his tone, his expression, when he finally said that, it made me pause.
Like he’d carried this weight around on his back and could finally set it down, if only for a moment.
And seeing that tiny crack in his facade reminded me he’s human, too.
Maybe that’s why his harsh tone didn’t sting as much as it normally would have. I got the sense that it wasn’t really about me. That maybe he actually does need help, even if he won’t admit it. That maybe I could shoulder a little of the burden with him.
And weirdly, that feels like progress.
I probably crossed a line, telling him he didn’t have to do it alone, but it felt like something he needed to hear. It’s something we all need to hear at some point. Hopefully, he doesn’t think less of me for it, and will give me the chance to pitch this idea.
It’s one of those bright, crisp fall mornings, the sky clear and blue, the maple trees along the street turning red with the change of season.
This is my favorite time of year. The foliage is so pretty, and I get to pull out my favorite cardigans as the weather grows cooler.
Today, I’m wearing a chunky crimson one over jeans as I head down Main Street with a smile, soaking in the quiet, the early hour, and this quaint little town I now call home.
A small historic town on Eastern Long Island, Wetherly Cove sits between the dunes and the woods, tucked away from the main Hamptons stretch.
Even on a beautiful Saturday morning like today, I can’t help but notice how much quieter it feels than other Hamptons towns.
There’s less traffic. Fewer tourists. More locals.
My stomach growls as the sweet scent of cinnamon drifts my way. I spy a chalkboard outside The Salt Box Cafe advertising fresh cider donuts, and make a mental note to stop there later.
Next door, a bookstore called Tide’s End sits beneath a weathered hand-painted sign. Across the street, pumpkins and corn stalks crowd the entrance to Sea Glass Blooms, while marigold garlands hang between the lampposts overhead. The whole town seems determined to celebrate fall.
I pass a couple walking their golden Lab, an older man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his barbershop, and a teenage girl in a Wetherly Prep sweatshirt sipping coffee as she laughs at something on her phone. Everyone nods or smiles, and my heart swells with a sense of belonging.
At the end of the street, I glimpse the marina, and beyond that, the old lighthouse on the cliffs, glinting in the sun.
I close my eyes, listening to the boats clink gently against the dock, the quiet hum of people going about their morning.
Wetherly Cove is nothing like the city, and exactly what I need.
My first stop is Ed’s Hardware, top of the list. A bell chimes as I push open the worn front door, and take a moment to soak up the smell of metal and sawdust. An older man with white hair and thick glasses stands behind the counter, and I take a deep breath as I approach.
His weathered face lights with a smile when he sees me.
“Well, hello, miss,” he says brightly. He must be Ed. “What can I do for you today?”
I grin. Off to an excellent start. What a lovely old man.
“Hi. I’m Eleanor Hart, a teacher at Wetherly Prep.
I just started there this fall.” I pull my binder out, locating the one page flier I made up last night to hand out to businesses.
It’s a little tricky not knowing the cause yet, but I made a general plea for support.
These businesses have been donating for years, so I’m sure they won’t hesitate, even with the details being a little fuzzy.
“I’m helping coordinate our fall fundraiser,” I continue, handing over the flier. “I’m stopping by a few local businesses to see if you might be open to donating something for our community raffle or silent auction?”
Ed stares at the flier in my outstretched hand, his expression souring. “I’m not so sure I want to be involved after what happened last year, young lady.”
My smile falters. “Oh,” I say, still holding the flier awkwardly between us. I think back to what Headmaster Wright said about last year’s fundraiser, something vague about “some issues” and “things not going to plan.” What happened?
“I’m… sorry to hear that,” I add, scrambling. “I’m new, so I’m still catching up, but I know the fundraiser is for a very good cause.” At least it will be if Headmaster Wright accepts my proposal.
Ed doesn’t take the flier. Instead, he crosses his arms, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.
“A lot of folks donated generously last year, then never saw where the money went. It just disappeared. And no one had much to say about it afterward.”
A tiny flutter of panic begins in my chest. I should never have agreed to this without asking more questions about last year.
“I completely understand,” I say. “Honestly, if I were you, I’d feel the same way. I think that’s why Headmaster Wright is taking such a hands-on role this year, to make sure the entire event is handled properly. He wants transparency.” This part, at least, is true.
Ed squints at me for a long moment, then finally takes the flier from my hand with a heavy sigh. “Well. You seem nice enough, Miss Hart. I’ll consider it.”
I smile with relief. “Thank you.”
My pulse thrums as I leave the store, silently cursing Headmaster Wright. A little heads up about what to expect would have been nice.
At least when I enter Tide’s End Bookstore, I’m prepared. I hand the flier over with a smile, using the same speech I gave Ed, this time preempting the awkwardness.
“I know it didn’t go according to plan last year,” I say smoothly to the slender red-headed gentleman who runs the store. “But the school is taking precautions to ensure that won’t happen again. The fundraiser is being organized and run by Headmaster Wright himself.”
The store owner is skeptical, but he takes the flier anyway, and I count it as a win.
I continue along Main Street with the same success, and by the time I reach The Salt Box Cafe, I’m pleased with the result.
The school is an institution here, and I can tell people want to donate, they’re just hesitant after whatever it was that happened last year.
The Salt Box Cafe hums with activity when I enter, the scent of cinnamon swirling through the air. I order a pumpkin spice latte and a cider donut, then find a seat by the window. Pulling out my binder and colored pens, I settle in to work.
Speaking with the local business owners, I got a real sense of how much they want to help, but maybe asking for donations to the fundraiser isn’t the best way.
What if they could donate to the students directly?
Share their time instead, or items that students could actually use?
Tools for crafts or woodworking. Gardening and art supplies.
Books on mental health and mindfulness. Even yoga or meditation classes.
The more I think, the clearer it becomes: this could be about more than raising money.
What if the fundraiser laid the groundwork for something longer-lasting? A program giving students space to breathe. A pause in the academic calendar for a little while, where the focus shifts to emotional literacy, social connection, and resilience.
I imagine a quiet week between grading periods.
We could have journaling and mindfulness workshops led by the school counselor.
Classes taught in crafts and non-academic skills to boost confidence.
A volunteer exchange between students and locals, restoring bonds between the school and the town.
I can picture a school garden that donates produce to local shelters, and there could even be an artsy summer camp, run by Rowan, head of art.
It’s more than a fundraiser. It’s a new kind of support system.
But what should I call it?
I glance around the Salt Box Cafe, smiling. I love how so many of the businesses here are nautically themed. Maybe I could do the same with this program. Tie it to the town, the school, this beautiful location.
The perfect name appears in my mind, and I scribble it down with a grin.
Then I get to work.
My knee jiggles anxiously as I wait outside Headmaster Wright’s office.
I wasn’t sure I’d have my proposal ready by first thing Monday morning, but I do; I spent all weekend working my ass off.
Now, I’ve got a complete overview. Timeline.
Projected costs. I’ve teased out the internal aspects that work within the school, and the community partnerships, got a clear list of goals behind the program, and ways to measure their success.
I’ve even got a cute theme to market it.
What I don’t have is a meeting scheduled with Headmaster Wright, but this can’t wait. He needs to see it. Now.
Margaret peers at me over her glasses, letting them fall to her ample chest, hanging from the chain around her neck.
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed first thing in the morning, Miss Hart. Are you sure you can’t come back later?”
I shake my head, worried I’ll lose my nerve. “I have a proposal for the fall fundraiser cause I’d like him to see.”
Margaret sighs. “Fine.” Her gaze moves across me from head to toe, before she turns back to her screen. “I’ll let you know when you can go through.”
I look at my outfit anxiously. I chose a black and white horizontal-striped tee, tucked into a bold floral skirt, and my Mary Janes.
It felt like the right choice when I put it on this morning, an outfit that makes me feel very much like myself, but now as I hover near the headmaster’s door, I wonder if it was a mistake.
“Nora!”
I glance up to find Mr. Fells, smiling broadly.
“How are you?” he asks, not giving me time to answer before lowering his voice. “How is it working with Theo on the fundraiser?” He and Margaret share a look as Mr. Fells drops into the chair beside me.
Theo. So that’s his first name. It suits him.
“Miss Hart actually has a fundraiser proposal she’s about to show Mr. Wright,” Margaret says, and Mr. Fells’s face lights up.
“Fantastic. Can I see it?”
“Uh…” I shift in my seat, glancing at the headmaster’s closed door. Something doesn’t feel right about showing it to Mr. Fells before Headmaster Wright sees it.
Mr. Fells rises from the chair, motioning for me to follow. “Come into my office and we’ll chat,” he says kindly.
I look at Margaret uncertainly, and she waves a hand. “I’ll call for you when Mr. Wright is available.”
Exhaling slowly, I stand and follow Mr. Fells into his office beside the headmaster’s.
I don’t feel anywhere near as nervous to share my proposal with Mr. Fells.
If anything, I think he’ll be on board with it, and I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a practice run presenting it.
He might even give me some tips to help it go over better with Headmaster Wright.
“Have a seat.” He motions to a pair of chairs opposite his desk, plopping into one himself.
“Thanks, Mr. Fells.”
“Please, call me Danny.”
That feels unbelievably informal, but given everyone else here seems to do it, it would be weird if I didn’t, right?
“Danny,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks. So, um…” I open my folder, gut tightening as I turn to the first page.
“I’m sure whatever you’ve got is great,” Danny says, and my gut settles.
I smile. “Well, what I’m proposing is—”
There’s a knock at the door, and Headmaster Wright enters the room. “Margaret said you were looking for me, Miss Hart?”
“Theo!” Danny grins, gesturing for him to join us. “Perfect timing. Nora was about to show me her idea for the fall fundraiser cause.”
Headmaster Wright looks at me, expression inscrutable. My stomach flips under his gaze, and not only from nerves. God, he’s handsome. Tall and sharp and powerful in a way that makes my knees weak.
“Was she?”
Crap. Does he think I’ve gone behind his back?
“I wasn’t, uh, I mean—”
“Well then, Miss Hart.” He crosses the room to stand in front of Danny’s desk, leaning back against it. He folds his arms, jacket stretching over his shoulders as he does, a movement that’s far too distracting. “Let’s hear it.”
He’s close now, close enough for me to catch the scent of his cologne, something crisp and clean, with a hint of sandalwood. It makes my mouth dry. His muscular frame looms over me, calm and commanding, and it takes all my strength not to shrink into myself.
This is not how I planned it at all. I was going to stand and project confidence, maybe pace a little as I spoke.
But what choice do I have? He’s here, he’s listening, and having Danny beside me is actually a good thing. His presence feels more supportive than threatening.
Here goes nothing.
With a deep breath, I square my shoulders, look Headmaster Wright dead in the eye, and begin.