A Gentleman's Kiss Romance Collection

by Ginny Aiken

  Reba wondered if Mason knew what real worries were. Did he have to worry about anything serious? Did he understand what it felt like to budget for his next meal? Had he ever coasted down a busy street concerned about his car’s brakes? Could he imagine the trials a single parent faced—especially a single parent who didn’t know who had killed her husband, because they hadn’t been caught?

  Chapter 3

  The first Monday of school was always disorganized. Mason directed two lost freshman out of his History 101 class and into the Spanish room next door.

  The yellowing window shade at the back of the room had a jagged tear. The sun managed to shine through in just a way to blind him. He left the security of the podium and started walking between the aisles. “Read the syllabus. It is law. Notice how tardies affect your final grade.”

  The door opened. Jag walked in. Mason felt sure that some of the students were mentally deducting a point from Jag’s final grade. Those students would probably even verify the points with Jag at the end of the semester. Most students didn’t look as if they cared. They probably didn’t believe Mason. A few did exactly what he wanted them to, which was read the syllabus.

  “I want you to especially note the attendance policy. Three absences and you’re dropped.”

  Jag hadn’t even taken a seat. His hand shot in the air, and he asked, “What about sports-excused absences?”

  “Coach Martin will give me the names and dates. If you read the syllabus you’ll notice I wrote that. Also, your homework is due the next time you attend class.”

  “All of it?” Jag asked.

  “All of it.”

  Mason walked around while the students read his syllabus. His first-hour class rubbed sleep from their eyes while they mused over homework and six upcoming tests. His text for this class started with Christopher Columbus.

  After more than half the class penned their names on the syllabus’s signature sheet, Mason had them open their textbooks to page seven and called on Jag to read the chapter’s introduction. Picking up the roll, Mason tried to put names to faces. There were three names he couldn’t pronounce, and four people hadn’t bothered to show up. It was an unfounded rumor that instructors did nothing on the first day, as those students who hadn’t bothered to purchase the textbook were finding out.

  Jag read until the end of the section. Mason chose two more students, then assigned six questions before dismissal. Two more classes went exactly the same.

  Mason ate lunch in the cafeteria, then headed over to his office. Unless he missed his guess, there’d be some students waiting. Since there wasn’t an opening for a full-time counselor, Mason taught but was allotted a few students to guide. His degree was in Social Sciences, and his minor in History had not been obtained with teaching in mind. He wanted to be a full-time counselor. He wanted to help students figure out they weren’t alone; Christ walked with them, and they all could shape their own destinies. His dream was tarnishing. What they hadn’t told him in college was that youth had its own language, and there was no way to decipher the code. Worse, he suspected he’d missed out on his own generation’s jargon.

  The waiting room was full. A few students started to stand when he entered, but Linda Simms, the secretary, shooed them back. “Give him a moment.”

  “All for me?” He raised an eyebrow. Mason worked with the students whose last names began with G–M. Most of them had registered over the summer. Their schedules should be fairly accurate. Usually the changes didn’t come until day three.

  He helped the first student with a job-related transfer, then helped a second student who felt overburdened and wanted to change his schedule. When a third student asked about changing English teachers, Mason caught on. Mrs. Robards transition from sixtyish lady with beehive, to twentyish lady with sparkling eyes had not gone unnoticed by the male population of Shiloh Christian College.

  Taking a breath, he stuffed the transfer cards back into his desk and opened his office door to announce, “If you’re hoping to transfer into Mrs. Payne’s English classes, they’re full.”

  The waiting room emptied. Linda shook her head. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Have you met Rebecca Ha—Payne?”

  “No, but I hear she’ll be coaching the softball team, so I expect I’ll get to know her real soon.”

  The powers-that-be had all kinds of things planned for Rebecca Payne. Mason wondered if Reba was ready to coach softball, sponsor a sorority, and help with the yearbook. Somehow, he doubted it. There was an air of sadness about her that hadn’t been there before. Oh sure, she was mourning a husband, but something else had gone missing from her personality. Just what, Mason couldn’t put his finger on. “I’m going to step out for a moment.” Mason left Linda alphabetizing freshman files and restocking drop/add slips.

  Fall in Iowa was a beautiful collage of oranges, browns, reds, and greens. The wind whipped through Mason’s hair as he strolled down the curving sidewalk toward Clark Hall. His office, and Reba’s, occupied the second floor. The first floor was devoted to classes. The hallway smelled like chalk, perfume, and dust. Reba’s class was at the end. Peering in, he saw her standing by the chalkboard. She’d written her name in neat curls of letters.

  The students were reading a piece of paper, probably her syllabus. A few of the guys alternated their attention between the paper and the woman.

  Mason watched as Reba walked to the board and wrote, “No Payne, No Gain.” Next to that, she wrote, “Know Payne, Know Gain.”

  Now this was the Reba he remembered. Her blue jean skirt brushed against perfectly shaped knees. Her white shirt, covered with a crocheted vest, accented a slender form that looked too young to be in front of a classroom. He’d thought that this morning when they’d introduced her in chapel. Her hair was shorter than before, barely touching her shoulders, but with a natural curl that bounced when she spoke. She was still animated. He’d loved those interviews when she worked on the paper. She’d balanced a notebook on her lap and kept her pencil stuck above her ear. She never took a single note. Reba couldn’t, because she talked with her hands. Every word came with a gesture, yet she never misquoted him or left out an important detail.

  Mason needed to get back to the office. He had plenty of things to do. Transferring more students into her classes was not one of them, though with every fiber of his being, Mason knew had he needed an English credit, he’d be first in line trying to enroll.

  Chapter 4

  The day-care center was two blocks north of SCC. Reba parked her car and hurried in, surprised at how much she had missed spending the day with Hannah. Hannah had been two when Reba and Ray got married. From that time on, Reba had embraced motherhood and relished seeing the world through Hannah’s eyes.

  The letter A was at the top of the color page. Hannah haphazardly crayoned blue and orange onto what was supposed to be an apple. Reba signed the time card and braced herself to receive forty-five pounds of happy child.

  “Do I start kindergarten tomorrow?”

  “No, Monday, but we’re headed there now.”

  “Good. Marky’s going to be in my class.”

  “Marky?” Reba looked around.

  “His mother already picked him up. He has a cat, too.”

  “We’re not getting a cat.”

  “Okay, but if we had a cat, we wouldn’t ever have mice. That’s what Marky said.”

  Shiloh Christian Academy was on the same plot of land as the college—a plus in Reba’s mind. It had day-care, too, although Reba was hoping not to have to use it. Air-conditioning escaped out the doors as they went in. A secretary greeted them with a smile and a sheaf of papers to fill out. Reba handed over copies of Hannah’s birth certificate and medical records.

  The kindergarten teacher met them in her room. The Christian school tested all incoming students, but Reba wasn’t worried. Hannah was bright, already knew her letters, most of the single sounds, and how to write her name. While Hannah pointed out colors on a
chart, Reba explored the school. Ray would have loved this place with its hallway self-esteem posters and trophy case of spelling bee ribbons and Bible Bowl awards.

  “Mrs. Payne?” The kindergarten teacher called down the hall. What was the woman’s name again? Reba wondered. Luckily the sign outside the class proclaimed, WELCOME TO MRS. HENRY’S KINDERGARTEN CLASS.

  Hannah stood at the chalkboard drawing circles while Mrs. Henry handed Reba a supply list and said, “She did fine.”

  Reba skimmed the inventory and realized from now until the next paycheck, McDonalds was out. “Hannah, the bathroom is right down the hall. I want you to go there and wash your hands after.”

  Skipping between the desks, Hannah paused at one and said, “I’ll sit here. Marky is way across the room.” That important announcement accomplished, Hannah bounced out of the room.

  “You have some questions?” Mrs. Henry sat on Marky’s desk.

  “No, not really. I wanted to let you know that Hannah’s father died a few months ago. I’m not sure she understands he isn’t coming back. She’s usually happy, but every once in a while … Well, every once in a while.” Reba stopped. How could she put into words something she sensed as a mother. “She’s wet her pants a few times, and that’s unusual. Um, she stares into space a lot more now. I made sure the office had my home phone, my office, and my cellphone. Don’t hesitate to call if you notice anything unusual or if she needs me for anything.”

  Mrs. Henry nodded, her face somber. “How did he die?”

  How did he die? It made sense that someone would ask that question. Reba had known it would happen, expected it, but she didn’t want to answer.

  The words came out a croak. “He was in an accident.”

  “Ready, Mama?” Hannah stood at the doorway, already alert to the fact that Reba was talking about Ray. Hannah’s head tilted to the side inquisitively. Ray had that habit, too, always looking like there was something more to be said.

  Taking Hannah’s hand, Reba left the kindergarten room as fast as dignity would allow and before the teacher could ask any more questions. Grief was such a tangible sorrow and not one Reba was willing to touch with a stranger.

  “Are we going to the store? I want a pink shirt.”

  “This school has a dress code, honey. Looks like you’ll be wearing lots of blue and white.”

  “Dress code?”

  “It means all the students wear the same outfit.”

  “No cartoons?”

  “No cartoons, but we’ll get you a special headband. Okay?”

  A few minutes later, Reba realized she’d be washing clothes every night. She picked out one navy blue jumper and white collared shirt. They’d also be eating lots of peanut butter. The school supply aisle was not the bargain it advertised. Hannah didn’t want plain yellow pencils; she wanted cartoon character ones. They cost a dollar more. The smallest bottle of glue looked pitiful traveling down the conveyor belt towards checkout. And, although Reba hadn’t touched a single designer folder or school box, there they were, traveling merrily toward her checkbook.

  “Hannah Lynn Payne!” Reba plucked mouse-eared erasers out of the cashier’s hand. “We don’t need these.”

  When the amount glowed from the register, Reba knew even if she turned her purse upside down and unloaded every spare chunk of change from the black hole, she’d not have enough. It was only a matter of cents, but sales tax obviously differed from New Mexico to Iowa. Reba had no clue what to put back. She’d been as frugal as possible. Not the uniform. She could use pencils from her office, but …

  “Everything okay?”

  At first, Reba thought the checkout lady was asking the question, but the male voice didn’t jive with the blond perm or red lipstick.

  Mason Clark stood behind her. He held an electric pencil sharpener box in one hand and an open wallet in the other. “Do you need some money?”

  “No.”

  The cashier repeated the amount.

  “Reba, let me help.”

  “We bought too much,” Reba insisted, grabbing the pack of eraser tops. The deduction didn’t change the decimal, nor did it effect the ten’s place.

  Who turned off the air-conditioning? Reba wondered, wiping perspiration from her brow. If she’d been wearing a sweater, she’d have shed it by now.

  When the plastic ruler and watercolors left the conveyor belt, Hannah’s mouth opened. “Mama!”

  “This is stupid.” Mason handed the cashier a fifty and growled, “If you don’t charge me for all her belongings, I’ll talk to your manager.”

  The cashier hit the sale key.

  “Maybe I’ll go to the manager,” Reba sputtered. “I told you we didn’t need any money.”

  “The manager is my cousin, Phil. He’s a senior at Shiloh. You won’t have him in class.” Mason took the bag containing his pencil sharpener and guided Reba out of the way so the next customer could be taken care of.

  Hannah had the plastic bag with their purchases. It was bigger than she was. The child had given up so much. Reba didn’t want to take anything else away.

  “Fine. Thank you. On payday I’ll return the money.”

  “Payday? That’s going to be more than three weeks for you. Do you need a loan?”

  Reba rolled her eyes. “No, everything is fine.”

  “Didn’t your husband provide for you before …?” Mason’s gaze traveled downward. “Who is this?”

  “My daughter, Hannah.”

  “Daughter?”

  “I’m in school. Want to see my new blue dress?” Hannah started to rip the bag, but Reba took it.

  “Mason, it’s going to be hard acting like we barely know each other if you insist on paying for school supplies. Thanks for helping. I do appreciate it. I don’t like it, but I do appreciate it. We need to go now. I haven’t fed Hannah yet.”

  “McDonald’s,” Hannah suggested.

  “Spaghetti from our stove top,” Reba amended.

  “But you said—” Hannah began.

  “I said we’d see. That doesn’t mean yes.” Taking Hannah firmly by the hand, Reba started for the door.

  “I like spaghetti,” Mason said.

  “Come over,” Hannah invited. “I’ll show you the neat doghouse we builded in our backyard. Bark likes it.”

  The exit was just a few feet away, so close. Hannah always warmed up to strangers. So had Ray. The invitation had more to do with snazzy pencils than common sense, but what five-year-old had sense? Reba looked at the exit longingly before arguing, “Mason, this is ten-minute spaghetti, nothing special.”

  “I was going home to a microwave dinner. Spaghetti sounds plenty special. Besides, you can call it payback for the school supplies.”

  “Fine.” Reba sent Mason a tight smile and exited the store. She didn’t want anyone to know she was broke. Now Mason would know when he saw her house … and what was not in it.

  Stupid, stupid, Mason told himself as he headed for his Cherokee. He needed to avoid Reba, not dine with her. And she had a kid! This Ray character, who didn’t think to provide for his wife, must have been been dishwater blond, because Hannah didn’t look much like Reba. The kid was cute. Mason’s nieces and nephews were cute, too, and they especially looked cute once he peeled their sticky hands off his jeep’s door handles, or should they come to his house, away from his books. The kids all loved him.

  Barely a week went by when a niece or nephew didn’t call to see if they could spend the night with him. At Christmas, Mason was the only adult to receive coloring books and yo-yos in his stocking. He was the only Clark over twenty-one to have every action figure from the latest space movies. Half of it, he knew, was his brothers and sisters letting him know that it was his turn to produce grandchildren. The other half was some invisible force that drew kids to him.

  Reba turned into the driveway of the house straight across from Clark Hall. That made sense. The Webbs were missionaries in India. It was the perfect house for Reba to rent.

 
Hannah jumped out of the passenger side and ran to the end of the driveway to point to where he should park, which was right behind Reba, the only place to park. Hannah obviously took after her mother: bossy.

  Reba went into the house without a backward glance. Clearly, she didn’t want him here. The sensible thing to do would be to suddenly remember a conflict of schedule. Instead, he opened the door, stepped outside, and let Hannah grab his hand and drag him around to the back.

  “This is Bark. He’s a chiwowwow.”

  What the dog was, was a poofed-up sausage of a canine with twigs for legs. Bark took an immediate dislike to Mason. Growling, the beast bared his teeth and made attacking bull movements.

  “Bark!” Reba called from the kitchen window.

  Bark shut his mouth, gave Mason a dirty look, and strutted to his doghouse.

  “What is that?” To Mason’s eye, it looked like the dog lived in a short, wooden teepee with many doors.

  “That’s his doghouse. Isn’t it beyooootiful? Me and Mommy made it this morning. And we didn’t use a hammer.”

  No kidding. Before he had time to format a comment about the doghouse that badly needed to be condemned or the pink ribbon stuck on the dog’s head and inching its way toward the dog’s chin, Hannah was dragging Mason over to a tree. “I’m going to build a treehouse.” Next, she sat on the awkward swing. The seat was so off balance that Hannah had to hold herself in place. “We hung this up, too. Mama’s afraid of hives so she hurried. I like climbing to the top of trees; I’m not afraid of hives. I wanted to help. Mama says I’m too little, but I like hammers. They are my favorite thing, except when they smash my finger instead of the nail. Once I smashed Mama’s finger instead of the nail, but we got the bookcase together, except it leans. Do you think the books will fall out?”

  He opened his mouth to answer.

  Hannah lowered her voice and confided, “Mama comes out here and swings when I’m not looking.”