Tears threatened. His vision blurred, hands began to shake. Carson swallowed the lump in his throat, put the stack down, and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. Adrenaline pumped through him, caused his pulse to skitter and jump. Saliva pooled in his mouth. By sheer force he willed his emotions under control. The bell rang and he turned to greet the children who rushed into the room. He watched as one-by-one they filed in and took a seat.
Someone was missing.
He rifled through the name tags then wandered over to the door and saw her, trudging toward the class. Desolation lined every feature of an otherwise lovely face. He turned back to the class and began roll call. He handed each child their student ID and waited for her to enter. The tardy bell rang seconds before she reached for the knob and pulled the door open. All eyes turned. She averted her gaze, mumbled an apology and slid into the only available seat.
“Hello, Miss Connor.” Warmth in his tone eased the frown from her face.
“How’d you know my name?”
He smiled and handed her a name tag. “Only one I had left.”
“Oh.” She ducked her head at the snickers coming from the other students. A flush darkened her cheeks.
“Enough!”
Everyone jumped to attention. Muffled laughter died.
“One thing I will not tolerate is rudeness especially when it causes disruption in my class or embarrassment to one of my students.” One at a time, he met each student’s gaze until assured his meaning was clear then continued. “We’re all equal here, classmates, and we will respect each other.”
Relief flickered in her eyes. He smiled down at her, pleased when the corners of her mouth tugged upward in response. Carson walked over to his desk then turned back to address the class.
“I never understood why we start the school year on a Wednesday, but since I can’t change that, we’re going to spend the next three days getting to know one another. I don’t mean in name only. Some of you have lived here your entire lives. Some are new and some have only been in the area a couple of years.” He hesitated, picked up a pen and tapped it against his palm.
“What I’d like for each of you to do is write a one page essay on your life….who you are, where you’re from, what you want to be when you grow up…keep it brief, concise, and to the point. We’ll read them aloud over the next two days. Friday is open house and I’m looking forward to meeting your parents or guardians. Any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”
His eyes met Laurel’s. Only a brief moment of contact, but long enough for him to see the sheer panic there. Color rushed to her cheeks. She lowered her head, placed a trembling hand to paper and began to write.
Later that afternoon, Carson sat at his desk, head in hands. Along with English, he taught Art and Physical Education. Between the academic subjects and herding a bunch of sixth-graders through PE, the first day of school left him exhausted. Added to that, the memories which bombarded him from the moment he picked up Laurel Conner’s name tag haunted him throughout the day.
Anger pummeled through his veins. Slapping his palms down on the desk, he pushed the chair back with such force it toppled, the crash intercepted by the window frame behind his desk. A low growl sounded in his throat. He pivoted on his heel to stare out the glass panes. His stomach roiled. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard and scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached then clenched them in determination. He would not speak aloud the tragedy, would not give this thing any more power over him.
Sleep that night was far from peaceful. He awoke more than once drenched in sweat, his heart at a gallop, so fast he thought the organ would explode. He rubbed the spot in his chest until the desperate pace eased then drifted back to hell. When the alarm rang at five a.m. he slapped it off and tumbled from the bed. On automatic pilot Carson dressed, downed a glass of juice and headed out for his morning ride. The sleek mountain bike, fresh air and soft dew refreshed his weary soul and helped him prepare for the day ahead.
After the children read their essays aloud on Thursday and Friday, Carson picked them up to examine. This would enable him to see which student needed help and where. Whether in basic points of English or specific aspects, he learned a lot about his student’s level of understanding from this first assignment of the year.
Laurel’s paper reverberated through his brain. He frowned. No doubt she made up most of her life story but why? What could be in the eleven-year-old’s past that would make her lie? He’d have to ask her mother at Open House if he wanted to find out the truth. Friday night he waited, even stayed late, but neither Laurel nor her mother showed up at the event.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Brilliant hues of orange and gold splattered across a baby blue sky. Warmth and light bathed the earth in vibrant colors of early fall. Scents perfumed the air as Carson set out on his bike— pine, magnolia, honeysuckle. He breathed deep and picked up his pace.
Over the hump and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go. The ditty flitted through his mind and made him chuckle. Laughter was a welcome relief after the last few days. The start of a new school year was always hectic and he relished the opportunity to ride away the tension. He wasn’t on his way to grandmother’s house, but to 123 Horseshoe Lane – the address on Laurel Connor’s, school records. Her mother’s name wove through his thoughts and shuddered through his entire being—Lorelei Connor. Goosebumps rose on his flesh. He clamped down on the dark emotions swirling, and shoved them from his mind. Rounding a curve, he slowed his bike and turned into the drive then stopped to study the tiny home.
His spirits lifted at the sight of the A-frame structure resembling an overgrown doll house. Lace-shaped shutters framed pale yellow windows set in vinyl siding a shade creamier. Cheery curtains swayed in the breeze. A wrap-around porch extended handrails on each side of the steps and welcomed visitors like open arms. Small flowerbeds on either side offered a smorgasbord of fragrance to tease the nostrils. He pedaled closer, careful not to disturb anything, and dismounted the bike. He snapped the kickstand in place then sauntered to the door and rang the bell. The door opened with a jerk.
“May I help you?”
“Ms. Connor?”
A wary expression crossed her face. “Who’s asking?”
He extended a hand toward her. “I’m Carson Alexander, Laurel’s English teacher. I’d like to speak with you a moment if it’s not too much trouble.”
She ignored his outstretched hand, stepped through the entry, and yanked the door shut behind her. “About?”
Surprised at her coldness, he took a step back and allowed his hand to drop to his side. “I asked the students to do an essay on their life so they would know a little more about each other and for me to get an idea of their strengths and weaknesses in English. Laurel’s paper was…shall I say…inventive?”
Her eyebrow arched, annoyance darkened her gaze. “Was there something wrong with the paper, Mr. Alexander?”
“No, the writing is very articulate.”
“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”
He cleared his throat. “The problem is that the entire story is made up. I’ve taught long enough to know kids will embellish what they consider a boring existence to a certain degree but I’ve never had one write an outright fairytale.”
“Were there misspelled words, poor sentence structure, or improper grammar?”
He shook his head.
“Then I suggest you concentrate on how well-versed she is in the English language and not the validity of her life story, which is none of your business, anyway.” She turned back into the house and slammed the door in his face.
Carson stood for a full minute before indignation set in. He ground his teeth and fought the urge to knock again. Swiveling on his heel, he tugged the bike from its rest, wrenched the kickstand into place and strode back up the walk. About half-way home the absurdity of what happened struck him. He chuckled and slowed
his pace. Boy what a beauty! Raven hair, crystal-green eyes like her daughter’s, finely-chiseled features, ivory skin, and a mixture of fire and ice in her veins. His heart executed a happy little flip. He’d found his woman. All of his life he’d known what kind of woman he wanted as a wife—strong, passionate, and beautiful. Lorelei Connor fit the bill perfectly.
The next morning he drove to church, surprised and pleased to see Laurel and her mother seated a few rows ahead of where he sat. No mistaking the identical-shaped heads, similar curve of cheeks, sweep of lashes, mysterious smile. Had he not known better, he’d swear the two were sisters, instead of mother and daughter. The only obvious difference in them besides age was hair color. Where Laurel sported thick, golden locks tied in a ponytail, her mother’s sleek, sable strands were pulled into a French twist. A few errant curls escaped to frame her face and caress the elegant arc of her neck.
His heart hammered against his ribcage, stomach quivered. Apprehension rose to choke him. Carson clutched his hands, sat back and closed his eyes and fought the demon within.
****
Lorelei stood in the driveway and surveyed the property before her. The tiny log cabin charmed her with its authenticity, but the lawn insulted her landscaper’s sensibilities. No flowers or shrubs. No bordered walkway to the house. Not a single item to accentuate the beauty of the land on which the cabin stood. She shuddered. Nothing hurt her soul more than to see an undeveloped lawn, especially one with such promise.
“Think you can fix this one up as pretty as you did yours?”
She turned to face the real estate agent who happened to be her landlord as well as her employer. “Depends on who lives here. We’d want the décor to compliment the tenant as well as accentuate the design of the home.”
He chuckled. “Since the tenant is a bachelor I guess you ought not choose those frilly looking shutters.”
She smiled. “I have a few ideas. When can I start?”
“Bring your sketches to the office tomorrow morning, early, and we’ll decide from there.”
The next morning, she arrived at the real estate office within minutes of dropping Laurel off at school. Mr. Flaven led her into a conference room where she spread the sketches out on a large table. She waited while he put a pot of coffee on to brew. He sat across from her and surveyed the various designs. He sat back and contemplated her over steepled fingers, an expression of awe on his face.
“Can you really do all this?”
She nodded. “Depending on which arrangement or combination you approve.”
“You sure your title is Landscape Architect and not magician?”
A flush warmed her cheeks. “Not magic, just passion. When other little girls played dolls, I built their houses out of sticks and stones.”
He laughed. “I’m sure there’s a wealth of passion inside you.”
A chill washed over her. She shifted in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Something in her demeanor must have alerted him to the fact he’d overstepped his boundaries.
He eyed her a moment. A kaleidoscope of emotions flitted across his features—suspicion, intrigue, and finally, concern. The interest in his gaze turned to tenderness. He leaned forward to close the gap between them. “That was not a come-on, Ms. Connor, merely an observation. I’m a happily married man.”
Tiny bubbles of hot air burst beneath her skin and scorched her cheeks. “I apologize for misunderstanding.”
She held her breath and sent silent, fervent pleas for grace heavenward until he lowered his gaze to the plans once more. Thirty minutes later she left the office and drove to the nearest lumber yard to pick up tools she’d need to cultivate the lawn. She perused the garden center and made a mental list of what plants and shrubs they had in stock. She also noted the faux rocks and boulders as well as stones and rough wood she could use in the design her employer chose.
Excitement paved the way to the home across town from where she and Laurel lived. She parked her car, climbed out, and leaned against the door for a moment. Visions of new grass, green shrubs, and a stone walkway filled her mind. Instead of flowers, he’d have a rock garden. In place of roses, a barrel cut in half and filled with local wildflowers would suffuse the area around the front entry with scent and add a splash of color to the otherwise masculine decor.
Makes no sense to stand around and daydream about the end result, time to get to work and make it happen.
She slathered sunscreen on her bare arms and face, pulled on canvas work gloves, then slapped the cap on her head. She took the spade, shovel and rake out of the car, then set to work. About mid-morning she sat on the porch, pulled a water bottle out of her lunch cooler and took a sip. The cool liquid relieved her parched throat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Contentment rolled through her. It had been so long…the smell of freshly turned earth, the vision of what would be…
The hours flew by. When her stomach growled Lorelei glanced at her watch in surprise and decided to go home for an hour or so, eat lunch, and rest before tackling the afternoon chores.
The first thing she did when she got home was to shower off the dirt and grime from her activities. Her sandwich had wilted despite the coolness of the lunch bucket, so she prepared another and poured herself a tumbler of milk. Carrying the plate and glass into the living room, she sat on the couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table. Before the first bite, she bowed her head and prayed.
“Lord, I’m forever amazed at Your provision. This job fits every desire of my heart – the pay, the hours, and the opportunity to beautify an otherwise bare lawn. And this town is so lovely, so beautiful and quaint. I feel Your presence everywhere I go. May Your glory reflect in everything I do and may we finally find a restful place to settle. In Jesus’ name I pray. Thank You. Amen.”
Peace reigned throughout her hour-and-a-half break and she returned to finish the day’s work with vigor.
****
Lorelei stretched beneath the cotton sheets and hummed with pleasure at the firmness of her bed and the clouds of softness surrounding her. Ever since her employer revealed who rented the log cabin where she currently worked, dreams of Carson Alexander haunted her thoughts. She closed her eyes and felt him beside her. Her arms ached to draw him close, mouth watered for want of his kiss.
Her eyes snapped open. Where on earth did that come from?
She recalled how cute he was, dressed in blue-jean shorts and sleeveless T shirt with his hair mussed from the wind the day he rode his bicycle to her house to discuss Laurel’s writing assignment. And, the morning after, he took her breath away when he appeared at church adorned in sharp, well-pressed dress slacks, a polo shirt pulled tight across the broad expanse of his chest, not a caramel-colored hair out of place.
She flung the covers back, slid from the bed and willed her chattering pulse under control. Her mind continued to whirl around the man. Something about him pulled at her as no other had. Not even Laurel’s father. She’d showered and changed into work clothes before she realized the thought of her ex-husband failed to stir fear in her heart.
She glanced at the clock. Time for one cup of coffee before Laurel had to rise and get ready for school. She moseyed into the kitchen and turned on the coffee pot. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, she whipped up a batch of lemon poppy-seed muffins and bacon for their breakfast.
Four hours later, she scraped the damp hair away from her face. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air. Heat and humidity stifled her creativity and drained her energy. She’d been on the job for more than two weeks but because her hours were scheduled around Laurel’s day, she’d yet to actually meet up with Carson again. Today, Laurel accompanied her. She woke up this morning and complained she didn’t feel well so Lorelei allowed her to miss school and tag along. Her malady disappeared about midday and her daughter wandered off to explore the wooded area bordering the property. Since whatever plagued the child seemed to fade as the day wore on, Lorelei decided to work as long as the weather he
ld out.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. She straightened from her task of transplanting flowers into the barrel beside the front door, rolled her shoulders and called Laurel back to the house as dark billows continued to roll in from the south. She raised her gaze skyward. “C’mon down rain, won’t hurt my feelings a bit,” she muttered at the water-laden clouds. “The plants and grass could use a good soak, too.”
As if on cue lightning sliced the sky, thunder roared, and the heavens opened up.
Lorelei tossed down the spade, stepped into the downpour and opened her arms wide to embrace the coolness. Within moments her clothes clung like a second skin. She brushed the drenched locks away from her face, undid the ponytail and shook out her hair. She rolled the barrel out from under the protection of the porch so the flowers could relish the rain and absorb the nourishment contained in the potting soil. Laurel joined her and they frolicked in the rain, dancing around the barrel. The next streak of electricity came a little too close for comfort.
“Under the porch, kiddo!”
She hurried to the car and took out the bags she always carried for emergencies or just in case they had to run again. One contained pajamas and a change of clothing for Laurel and herself, personal items, a small stash of cash, power candy bars, and two water bottles. The other held a couple of towels, washcloths and toiletries in case they had to shower at a truck stop or rest area while traveling
Laurel’s father’s face rose in Lorelei’s mind. A shiver shook her entire being. “You won’t scare me off this time. I’m tired of running.”
Thunder rumbled like eerie laughter. Lightning crashed. Electricity along the power lines above her crackled. She all but jumped out of her skin. Terror gripped its icy fingers around her heart. She scampered back to the porch, dug out a towel for Laurel and one for herself. She rubbed the thick terrycloth briskly to erase the goose bumps that rose on her skin.
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