Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  Aunt Isadora took Brooke’s hands in hers. “You look beautiful. Absolutely radiant.”

  “Thanks.”

  Aubrey made a weird, throaty noise. “The hermit finally goes on a date, huh?”

  Brooke planted her hands on her hips. “It’s not a date. It’s—”

  “For work. Right.” Aubrey nodded slowly. “Call it what you want, so long as you spill the details when you get back. Like moment by moment details. Every breath-taking, heart-throbbing, spit-swapping smooch.” She pushed her lips out and made a smacking sound.

  Brooke blushed. “Grow up.”

  Near identical scowls weighted Aunt Isadora and Uncle Lester’s faces, and her aunt crossed her arms. “There will be no spit swapping. Brooke is much too classy for that.”

  Aubrey giggled and turned back to the television.

  Brooke shook her head. Teenagers. She checked the time on her phone and perched on the edge of an armchair, careful not to wrinkle her dress. Headlights flashed through the window. A moment later, the doorbell rang.

  Her aunt’s mouth formed an O and she darted to answer it. Brooke followed, casting a stern glance toward her eyebrow wiggling sister.

  Her aunt opened the door with a swoosh. Caleb stood on the stoop wearing a charcoal suit and holding a hydrangea bouquet.

  Brooke received the flowers, lowering her gaze as warmth swept her face.

  “I know this isn’t a date per say.” He offered a slight grin. “But my mother told me never to pick up a girl empty-handed.”

  Uncle Lester walked over and cleared his throat. “Smart Momma.”

  Brooke shot him a warning glare before he launched into his “men of chivalry” speech, then offered Caleb a smile. “They’re lovely. Let me put them in water.”

  She turned around but Aunt Isadora interceded. “I’ll take care of those. You two go. And have a lovely evening, dear.”

  Uncle Lester wrapped his arm around Brooke’s shoulder. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”

  Her jaw went slack. Seriously? I’m 26, not sixteen.

  The corners of Caleb’s mouth twitched as if he fought a chuckle. He straightened and cleared his throat. “These events normally end around midnight.”

  Her uncle’s eyes narrowed, and Brooke patted him on the back. “Have a good night.” She kissed his cheek then tossed her aunt a help-me-out glance.

  Aunt Isadora slid her arm around Uncle Lester’s waist, her fingers reaching to the fringe of his pot belly. “Come on, dear. Let’s let these two enjoy their evening.” She shot Brooke a wink then guided Uncle Lester to his recliner. “Why don’t you find us a movie on Netflix while I get a batch of brownies in the oven?”

  “Shall we?” Caleb touched a hand to Brooke’s back and led her toward his car. Swirls of clouds reflected golden hues of the early evening sun against a pale blue backdrop. A gentle breeze stirred the sweet smelling alyssum lining the walk.

  He held her door open, and she hesitated. Studied him. Surely he wasn’t trying to make this a date. While he rounded the car and slid behind the steering wheel, she sat with her hands over her knees. Looked straight ahead.

  Hopefully this night wouldn’t ignite newsroom heckles and rumors.

  Had it really been that long since she’d been out with a man? The last guy she’d been alone in a vehicle with other than her uncle had been …

  Ubaldo. What was he doing tonight? She hadn’t even been back in the states a week, and already she missed him. An ache made all the more intense by the knowledge that she’d never again feel his strong arms wrapped around her or his sweet yet urgent kiss.

  The engine hummed to life.

  “You all right?” Caleb eased out of the cul-de-sac.

  “What? Yes. I’m just …” Thinking about another man while out on a date, that’s not really a date, with my handsome co-worker. “I’m fine.” She forced a smile.

  “You ever been to one of these events before?” He headed toward I-10.

  “Newbies don’t normally make it on the ‘must invite’ list.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. Pretty soon you can add ‘co-host’ to your resume.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t been offered the contract yet.”

  “In due time.” They merged behind a truck weighed down by mattresses, couches, and other furniture secured beneath numerous bungee cords.

  She gazed out her side window and watched the streetlights blur as they passed. If her ratings and fan base—fan base? She almost snorted. Not prideful at all. Nope. But she worked in television, after all. She’d never land a high-paying contract or get a bite on her El Salvador proposal without audience loyalty. Maybe after a year as co-host, Mr. Echo would give more consideration to her idea.

  Even if it was a dud.

  Okay, so she needed to come up with another idea. One with marketability and preferably, a ready-made audience. Hopefully a night of elbow rubbing with news industry professionals would stir her imagination. Maybe even open a door or two.

  Fifteen minutes later they pulled into the Ontario Hilton parking lot packed with luxury vehicles. Couples dressed in evening attire strolled across the asphalt with linked arms. A few came without dates, hotel guests pulling suitcases interspersed among them.

  “You ready to make your grand entrance?” Caleb glanced in the rearview mirror and finger-combed the sides of his hair.

  “My what?”

  “Your first appearance as a potential co-host.”

  “Stressing the word potential.”

  “Never underestimate the value of a well-made connection. If we’re lucky, we’ll be seated next to an industry bigwig.”

  She reached for the door handle.

  “Wait. I’ll get that. Another one of my mother’s rules.”

  It felt strange to wait on him, but rude not to. Flowers, opening and closing her door … So this was a date then.

  Was that what she wanted? Was she even interested in him like that? He was good looking, hard working, responsible, moderately successful, and kind. All ingredients for a happily-ever-after romance, so why did she feel so … so … tense?

  More importantly, why did she continue to think about a man well out of reach—1,862 miles, to be exact—while Caleb, someone who was not only interested but clearly a perfect match, attempted to sweep her off her feet?

  Because Caleb didn’t send her heart racing and stomach catapulting every time he looked at her.

  Her door swung open, and Caleb’s grin widened. “Shall we?”

  She gave a slight smile, tucked her cocktail purse to her side, and took his arm. He led her across the parking lot, through the lobby, and to the Sierra Ballroom.

  Just outside, two women wearing crisp blazers manned a long table covered in beige linen. A purple ribbon stretched across the edge and bows decorated the corners.

  The ladies offered tight-lipped smiles when Brooke and Caleb approached.

  The silver-haired woman on the right pushed her glasses further up her nose. “Your name, sir?”

  “Caleb Silvis, IETV3.”

  She nodded and flipped through the pages in front of her, then followed the text with her finger. “Table fifteen, toward the front on the right.” She handed him a plastic badge, his name printed in gold. Brooke received a blank badge and a permanent marker.

  “Thank you.” She moved aside to allow the next couple forward, wrote her name in careful letters, and returned the pen.

  Caleb touched the small of her back. “Let’s find our seats.”

  Inside the ballroom, people stood in clusters while others gathered around tables. Wait staff circulated, carrying glasses of wine and trays of hors d’oeuvours. Professional photographers scampered about snapping shots, and classical music drifted from a string quartet tucked in a far corner.

  Caleb guided Brooke by the elbow around tables and groups of people. “We’re over there.” He pointed to a distant table.

  As they approached, vanilla wafted from cream candles cen
tered in a white lily bouquet. Two couples occupied the table. The men—one with a shiny bald head and a neatly trimmed beard, the other with a fleshy under chin—stood.

  “Mr. Melton. Mr. Whilburt.” Caleb extended a hand to each of them in turn. “This is Brooke Endress, the reason for Home Haven’s recent ratings increase. Brooke, Mr. Melton is over IETV3’s news division and Mr. Whilburt is our Senior News Producer.”

  Brooke’s lungs tightened, and she clamped her lips shut to keep from sucking in air. Thank You, Jesus! The door didn’t get any wider than this. Okay, a slight exaggeration, considering she needed to present an attention grabbing pitch. But this couldn’t be a coincidence. Nope. God was laying the groundwork. All she needed to do was step forward. Without flubbing it.

  Mr. Whilburt’s expression remained stoic. “Nice to meet you, Miss Endress.” He sat, and everyone else did the same. “How do you like working at IETV3? How long have you been with us?”

  “I hired on as an intern two years ago, but joined the Home Haven crew just under a month ago. It’s been a wonderful learning experience.”

  Mr. Melton leaned back and rested twined hands on his stomach. “If this is a learning experience, you must have future goals and aspirations.”

  She swallowed. What was the politically correct response here? One that demonstrated her commitment to her current job while nudging the opened door a bit wider? “Life is a learning experience, sir, and a continual opportunity for growth.”

  He sipped his wine. “The well-rehearsed answer.” A waitress walked by with a tray of cocktail shrimp, and he stopped her with a raised hand. After selecting a few morsels, he turned back to Brooke. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

  She gripped her knees, perspiration building in her palms. Trying to ignore the din of voices around her, she mentally rehearsed her pitch. “I have a wonderful idea for a series. An investigative, human-interest piece spring boarding from Home Haven.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She recited her tagline then sailed through the show’s synopsis, pausing halfway through to catch her breath. Her pulse thudded against her eardrums.

  Mr. Milton frowned. “What’s your unique angle?”

  “I … uh … When I spent time in El Salvador, I saw …” Shanties made from slabs of discarded metal and cardboard. Homes made from branches plastered in mud. Two children who slept on the streets. “Honestly, I’m in the process of re-evaluating that, sir.” She wracked her brain for a new angle. Mr. Echo had shot down her other one so quickly. “But I’m thinking a mixture of Compassion With Passion and Living in the Extreme.”

  “An issues piece.” Mr. Whilburt shook his head. “America’s got enough issues.”

  “I think the exotic location—”

  “Too expensive without a payoff.” He wiped his hands on a linen napkin and rose to greet another couple nearing their table.

  Brooke stared at her water glass. She’d really messed that one up.

  Chapter Forty

  Ubaldo read the note left by the substitute teacher. His students hadn’t made as much progress as he’d hoped. Nor had they done well on the practice review. According to his lesson plans, he needed to issue a test, but they were far from ready. Some still struggled with familiar greetings.

  Why? They were smart enough. They remembered everything he taught them through games. So then … the problem stemmed from the curriculum.

  He closed his book and stood. “As you know, we’re supposed to have a test today.”

  The children moaned.

  “But, I think we could use a little more review.”

  Cheers.

  “What do you say we play a little game called ‘Say it, Show Me, Say it Again’?” The cheers grew louder, and Ubaldo motioned for silence. “Let me explain. I’ll call one of you to the front of the class, and you’ll make a statement telling us where you want to go or what you plan to do.”

  He continued his explanation, demonstrated with enough silliness to evoke giggles. By the time he finished, even his more reluctant students howled with laughter. “Who would like to go first?”

  Hands shot up and the students bounced, all except for one. Esteban, the new student from Honduras, sat on the fringe, shoulders hunched. He stared at the ground. As migrant workers, his family moved frequently, causing him to miss school for large periods of time. Most likely, he’d drop out within a couple years, which, according to some of the teachers, made him not worth their time. Ubaldo disagreed.

  “Esteban.”

  The student looked up.

  Ubaldo waved him forward. “You’re up first.” A few others protested but he silenced them with a firm look. He leaned close to Esteban’s ear. “Say, ‘I will study extra hard for my English test this weekend.’”

  Estaban grinned. He repeated the statement, his voice quiet.

  “Que? We can’t hear him!”

  Ubaldo nudged him, and he spoke again, louder this time. A few of the students understood immediately, and launched into action, while others watched then mimicked their classmates.

  As the game continued, the students grew increasingly creative, moving from simple commands to drawn out, silly statements. This only boosted the noise level until laughter filled the classroom. But Ubaldo’s tactics worked, and soon even his most reluctant learners answered back with improved English. As long as the weekend didn’t snatch what they learned, they’d be more than ready for their test come Monday.

  “Eh-hem!”

  Ubaldo spun around and the room fell silent. Principal Ramirez stood in the doorway, frowning.

  “Good morning, Señor.” Ubaldo forced a smile.

  “Come to my office during the break.” The principal eyed the students, then left.

  Ubaldo sighed, crossed the room, and picked up his curriculum. “Game’s over. Now we must prepare for the test.”

  The students groaned and slumped back into their seats.

  “Let’s review our action, linking, and helping verbs.” He continued, working through the curriculum line by line. By the end of class, they’d moved to adverbs—a part of speech, according to the review, they should have mastered already. But their lack of response to his questions suggested they hadn’t. What was he to do? Please Señor Ramirez and parents by drilling facts into students’ brains, or find alternative ways to teach them, and risk getting fired?

  He checked his watch. “You may go.” His students sprang from their seats and bolted toward the door. He followed after them, mentally bracing himself for what was sure to be an unpleasant meeting. But perhaps if he kept his mouth closed, nodding at the appropriate times, it would end quickly.

  “Ubaldo.” Señor Muñoz caught up with him at the end of the courtyard. “Are you still looking for an apartment?”

  “Do you know of one that’s available?”

  “Perhaps, although it’s a little expensive.”

  “I need affordable.”

  “Yes, well, this is in a good location. Maybe you could find a roommate.”

  “True.” He glanced around at the students racing across the inner courtyard, playing with wooden capiruchos and scampering onto the concrete stage. “Can we talk about this later? I’ve been summoned.” He flicked his head to indicate the hallway to his right.

  “Oh, I see. What have you done to warrant such personal attention?”

  “Challenged the traditional methods, of course.”

  Señor Muñoz patted Ubaldo on the back. “You and your anarchy. Perhaps you should consider changing professions.”

  “Si? And what profession do you think would best suit me, my friend?”

  “Politics.”

  “I get all the politics I want right here.”

  Still shaking his head, Señor Muñoz strolled toward another teacher standing against the far wall, leaving Ubaldo to continue his trek. He reached the principal’s office to find the door open. The tall, broad-shouldered man sat behind a metal desk, gaze fixed on the door.
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br />   Ubaldo entered. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Señor.”

  His boss motioned toward a folding chair across from him. Ubaldo sat.

  The principal pressed folded hands to his lips, his thick, bushy brows shadowing his dark eyes.

  Ubaldo shifted, and his chair wobbled.

  His boss dropped his twined hands to his desk. “Thanks to that distorted report made by the Human Rights Watch, our education system is under scrutiny.”

  Ubaldo nodded. According to human rights investigators, child labor was the result of extreme poverty, which in turn was caused by lack of education. Something Ubaldo wholeheartedly agreed with, although he suspected numerous other issues contributed to the problem. He even agreed with most of the reform efforts. In fact, the only person he disagreed with was his boss, who turned the government’s efforts into rigid rules that actually hindered learning.

  “Parents have complained about your teaching methods,” Señor Ramirez said.

  “Which parents, Señor?” Ubaldo could think of a few—those who felt important when stirring trouble.

  “That’s inconsequential. It’s imperative we gain the support of our community.”

  And of the North American people, considering there was talk their government might donate a sizeable sum to help El Salvador fight “the War on Drugs,” a portion of which would go towards funding educational reform.

  Ubaldo rubbed his palm with his thumb. “My methods, although unconventional, work, Señor. Since adding games and more kinetic activities to my lesson plans, student retention levels have increased dramatically.”

  “If that is so, then why didn’t they take their test today as planned?”

  “They weren’t ready.”

  “So now you will add to their delay by playing games when you should be moving forward.”

  “I can’t move forward if my students aren’t ready.”

  “Perhaps if you spent more time in the classroom and less with tourists from the US.” Mr. Ramirez’ eyes narrowed.