“Fine. We leave it as is. But she might quit.”
“We’ll deal with that if it happens.”
He prods his food with his fork. “There’s something else.”
Great. Now what? “Do I have to know?”
“Nope. My parents would have buried their heads in the sand. You wanna take that approach, fine.”
The headache’s spreading. “What?”
“You know about Katie and Anthony?”
I wave his question away, like a pesky fly. “They’re just friends.”
“You in the habit of making out in the alley with your friends?”
I push my plate away, appetite now non-existent. “Where did you hear that?”
“First-hand. Walked into it myself.”
“Maybe you misunderstood.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “I may be in line for monk-hood, and the alley was dark. But no misunderstanding.”
“Well, it really is your problem. Dad did put you in charge.”
“Fine.” He slaps the table with an open palm. “If you don’t care, why should I?”
Ugh! Why does he have to be so aggravating? “Okay.” Big sigh. “I’ll handle it.”
“Thought you would.”
“Anything else?”
“That’ll do.” He downs his juice and leaves his glass on the table. “You don’t mind doing the dishes, do you? Since I cooked.”
Bowls and pots clutter the counter surface, with more in the sink. He did this on purpose. Lured me in, now cuts me loose.
And Carol wonders why I don’t want to get married.
* * *
I’m up to my elbows in soap suds, sweat trickling down my temple, when the doorbell rings. Perfect. I shake water off my hands, eyes searching for a dish towel. Nothing. The doorbell peals again, followed by pounding. Reaching into a drawer to my right, I yank out a towel and wipe my hands as I jog through the house to reach the door.
A quick peek out the minuscule window at eye level and I fumble with the handle. “Hey, Jules. Did I forget you were coming over?”
Julia, eyes red-rimmed, steps inside. “Sorry to impose.” Her voice wobbles. “I didn’t know who else to talk to.”
An adrenaline rush kicks my heart into overtime. Is it Max? Julia’s parents? “You’re never an imposition. What’s going on? Where’s Max?” I take her arm and lead her to the couch, where we sink together, side by side.
Tears well in her eyes. “He’s at the sitter’s.” She sniffles and snatches her purse from the floor where she dropped it. “Not that I can afford to leave him there. I should have picked him up before coming here.” She pulls out a crumpled tissue and dabs at her eyes and nose. “But I didn’t want him to see me this way.”
“You’re scaring me, Jules. What’s going on? It’s obviously not Max. Did something happen to your parents?”
“No.” Sniff. “They cut my hours.” Her voice cracks, and she looks at me with watery, red eyes. “Can you believe it? My paycheck barely covers rent as it is. And Max needs school clothes.” She waves her tissue-clad hand around. “Not to mention food. How’re we going to eat?”
“Wait a minute.” I take her hand and tug to get her attention. “Slow down. Why’d they cut your hours? I thought you were their only bookkeeper.”
“I am. But Dr. Hollister’s decided to retire, so they only need me part time. After all these years.” She blows her nose. “What am I going to do?”
It’s a God thing. At least, that’s what Dad would say. “Come work for me.”
Sniff. “You? Like you need a teacher’s assistant.”
I shake my head. “No, silly. The restaurant.”
“What?”
“Sure. Jake was just saying we’re short staffed.”
“I don’t know, Tess. I’m no waitress.”
“Who said anything about waitressing? We might need a chef, and you can cook. And by the looks of the mess Jake’s made of the accounting, we could use a bookkeeper, too.”
“What about Maris?”
“Long story.”
“Don’t you think you should check with Jake first?”
“I’m the owner. Not him.” I sound like a five-year-old. What is it about Jake that hurtles me back to childhood? “I’m doing what my dad demanded, aren’t I?”
Julia raises her hands. “Don’t get your dander up. I just thought you stepped away from the restaurant, is all.”
“Sore subject.”
“Apparently.”
“Do you want the job or not?”
“What is it exactly? A cook? A bookkeeper? What’ll my hours be? I mean, if I have to work nights, I’ll need to figure out childcare.”
Reality sours my already surly attitude. “You’ll have to ask Jake.” Boy, if that doesn’t sting.
She throws her hands up. “Make up your mind, Tess. Are you in charge, or aren’t you?”
Rattling in the kitchen draws my attention. “Katie? Is that you?”
Sleepy-eyed, hair in a tangle, Katie appears in a rumpled nightshirt. “What’s going on?”
I make a point of checking my watch. Ten o’clock. “Late night?”
She fists her eyes like a toddler, which makes it difficult to reconcile Jake’s earlier revelation. Is it possible he’s wrong? “I closed last night.”
“Sounds like you did more than that.”
Katie swings and retreats, hair flying behind her.
“I think it’s time I scoot.” Julia stands, reaching for her purse.
“Go by Bella’s first chance you get. Jake’ll give you the paperwork you need.”
Eyebrows raised, she catches my eye. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay. See you.” She looks toward the kitchen. “See you, Katie.”
Katie’s response is an unintelligible mumble.
After I see Julia out, I head for the kitchen to battle Katie’s teenage angst. Leaning against the counter, I watch her for a moment as she collects cereal from one cupboard and a bowl from another. She’s a child, yet she’s not. So much more mature in some ways than I.
“I suppose you’re going to chew me out too.” She pops open the cereal box and unfolds the waxed paper lining.
“Too?” As if I don’t know who she’s referring to.
“You guys act like I’m a little kid.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.” I shift so my backside is against the counter and cross my arms.
“Sounds like you did more than that,” she mimics in a falsetto, all but sticking her tongue out at me.
I shake my head. “Wow. You might want to rethink your strategy. I mean, if that’s your idea of a mature attitude.”
She slams the box down with a sigh and an eye roll.
“Is it true? Did Jake catch you making out with Tony in the alley last night?”
“Catch me?” Another eye roll. “You act like I did something illegal. We were kissing. So what?”
Pushing away from the counter, I face Katie. “You have no business—”
“Kissing?” She groans. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“He’s too old for you.”
“So if he was seventeen, it would be okay for me to be making out with him?”
“If Dad were here—”
“Which he’s not.” Her voice cracks and she swings her head, looking toward the window.
Katie pushing to date Tony is only a surface issue. There are layers below I have no idea how to uncover. What good is a degree in psychology if I can’t reach my baby sister?
“I know you miss Dad, Kitkat.” Tears clog my throat, and I fist my hand. If I reach for her, she’ll only push me away.
“And you don’t?”
“Of course, I do.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem.”
Batting at the tears on her cheeks, she looks at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Involving yourself in th
is relationship with Tony won’t make you miss Dad any less.”
“How do you know? It’s not like you’ve ever had a boyfriend.”
The crack of her words forces me back a step, the sting every bit as painful as a slap in the face. When did she learn to be cruel? It takes a moment to find my words and superhuman strength to keep my tone level. “Attacking me isn’t going to change anything.”
“Are you laying down the law?” Arms folded, hip jutting, she’s issuing a challenge.
“You have no business dating—or hanging out with—anyone four years your senior.”
“You’re just jealous,” she mutters.
Heat steals up my neck and into my cheeks. In the time it took her to spew venom, I’ve been rendered a sad and wretched Miss Havisham. If only I had Charles Dickens to write me out of this scenario.
Chapter 17
Tess
The idea of teaching sounds great in theory, but so does hang-gliding—and I wouldn’t be caught dead jumping from a high cliff with nothing more than a sail to keep me afloat. Then again, as I approach the classroom full of sophomore students, hang gliding seems pretty safe in comparison.
What was I thinking when I signed up for this? Dad’s stipulation was to finish my education, but why didn’t I consider a masters in psychology? I could have been a marriage and family therapist—facing a couple disgruntled people at a time instead of a mob of thirty.
The door to room 18 is open, the cacophony of voices twisting my stomach into a gazillion knots as I tighten my grip on my bag. First day of school and these kids are being handed a student teacher to torture. When I met with Ms. Barmore last week, she said the students are assigned her class. So, no expectations. However, if I were in their shoes, I’d have expected to be assigned a real teacher.
I take a deep breath and step up to the entrance. Rows and rows of desks, each taken up with a full-sized person.
Third grade. That’s what I should have chosen. So what if little kids have snotty noses and tend to be needy. Much better than teenage attitude—and I should know since I had more than my quota when I was their age.
One wall is made of windows, all open to allow the summer-warm air to breathe into the room. Another wall is floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with titles I’m sure not to have read yet. The front wall—panels of whiteboards with today’s date, a quote, and a question. And to the side, the teacher’s name.
Along with mine.
There’s a sea of faces—some with eyes half-mast. Late-nighters who spent their summer sleeping until noon, no doubt. Others are alert, almost hyper, as they talk to those around them. And still others look bored—and class hasn’t even started yet. It’s likely I’ll know each of them personally by the end of the month.
If I make it that long.
“Miss O’Shay.” Ms. Barmore stands from behind her desk on the far side of the room. “We were just getting settled. Please come in.” She doesn’t look the least bit nervous—which is encouraging—as she maneuvers through the desks to my side.
Maybe when I’ve been teaching twenty years, as she has, I’ll be comfortable too. I pray it doesn’t take that long.
If I show fear, they’ll be on me like a pack of dogs. Shoulders back, head high, I step inside. “Good morning.”
There are a few mumbled replies and many curious eyes. Maybe they don’t look so hostile after all.
“Class, this is Miss O’Shay. She’ll be observing this week, but starting next Monday, she’ll take over teaching on the days she’s here.”
“Everyday?” someone from the back says.
“Three days a week. Then, next semester, she’ll be here full time.” She smiles at me and waits.
Does she want me to say something? If only I had prepared for this, come up with something clever, but my tongue seems to be glued to the roof of my mouth. Way more awkward than being a student. “I…I appreciate you giving me this opportunity.” So lame.
“Why don’t you tell the students a little about yourself.” She waves to the front of the classroom.
Seriously? I’d much rather sit in the corner and learn by example. “Well.” I try a smile but fear it resembles a grimace. After setting my bag against the wall under the white board, I clasp my hands together and step in front of the firing squad.
“I’m earning my single subject credential in English”—like they don’t already know this—“at CSU Sacramento.” I search for one pair of sympathetic eyes. Is Carol’s daughter in this class, or is she scheduled in one of the other two?
A hand shoots up.
Ms. Barmore cranes her neck to see who it is. “Mikaela? Do you have a question?”
“I don’t want to sound rude.” Mikaela hooks her long, dark hair behind her ear and tilts her head. “But aren’t you kinda old for a college student?”
So much for tact. “I don’t think you’re ever too old to learn.”
A blonde sitting next to Mikaela raises her hand but doesn’t wait to be called on. “So did you have a different career?”
“Career might be too strong a word. Let’s say I had a different calling.”
A boy in the front row sits up. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Like running my family’s restaurant and raising my little sister.”
“How old’s your sister?” someone calls out.
This isn’t so tough. “She’s a junior this year.”
Another boy. “Does she go here?”
“No. We live in Placerville.”
“Is that where your restaurant is?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it called?”
I look at Ms. Barmore. How long is she going to allow this question-and-answer session?
She steps forward and holds her hands up. “I think we’ve bombarded poor Miss O’Shay with enough questions. You’ll have plenty of time with her later. Let’s see who completed their summer reading list.”
I step back, relief lightening my steps. What was I so afraid of? They’re just people—no different than Katie or Anthony. No different than Melody Marino or the other teenage patrons I’ve grown close to over the years.
Retrieving my bag, I search through the contents until I find the list Ms. Barmore gave me the week before. An impressive thirty-four books, three of which the students were to choose to read as a pre-requisite to get into this class.
From my perch at a corner desk, I take copious notes, ideas formulating with each question asked. I’m connected to each student in here by our mutual love of reading.
That’s a better starting point than most relationships have.
* * *
Jake
I pull my car into the alley behind the restaurant and shut off the engine. Pushing my sunglasses up, I rub my eyes with both hands. This place is starting to get to me. Too many problems. Too much drama. How did Sean do it?
Someone’s waiting at the back door, but the sun in my eyes makes it impossible to see who. Climbing out of the car, I squint toward the figure and step out of the glare. My eyes adjust.
“Maris?”
“Forgot my key.” She pushes away from the wall and waits, arms crossed.
“You’re early.” I step past her and unlock the door.
She shrugs.
What, no sarcastic comeback? Good enough for me. I leave her and head for the office. Bookkeeping is not my thing. Never has been. Never will be. Takes me three times as long as someone who knows what they’re doing. Maybe if I can get an hour in…
As I reach the entrance to the office, the back door opens. Light pours down the dim hallway, making the person a blob. “Katie? That you?”
“Dude.” Marty sounds insulted. “That’s humiliating. Never been mistaken for a chick before.”
“Wasn’t expecting you.”
“Still…” He follows me into the office. “Thought I’d check and see how things are shaking.”
I nod. Not going there. Not with big-ears down the hall. “Don’t you ever work
?”
“Banker’s hours.”
“You notice, banks stay open until five these days.”
“I don’t clock in.” He sits on the edge of the desk. “Going windsurfing this weekend. Want to come?”
“Can we be back by four?”
He shrugs. “Don’t see why not.” He taps his knuckles on the desk. Stalling?
“You need something?”
“Just wondered.” He looks at me then at his hands. “You talk to Tess?”
“Almost every day.”
He scowls. “About me?”
Gotta fight back a grin. Don’t know if I’m amused at his hang-dog look or happy Tess isn’t interested. That thought chokes off the humor. What do I care who Tess is interested in? “Don’t put me in the middle.” I sound like an old grouch.
Better than a besotted fool.
“Just thought you could ask—”
A knock on the doorframe, and Julia sticks her head in. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She turns her head to talk to someone. “Come on. It’s okay.”
Marty stands. “Who’ve you got there?”
She steps in, pulling Max behind her. “This is my son, Max. Max, this is Mr.…” Brows drawn together, she turns to Marty. “I don’t know your name.”
I grimace. “Rude of me. Julia, this is Marty. Marty, Julia. And her son, Max.”
Julia shakes Marty’s hand, eyebrows hitched. What’s that all about?
Marty squats down in front of Max and sticks his hand out. “Good to meet you.”
Max grins and shakes Marty’s hand. “Good to meet you too, sir.”
I snort. “Sir? You start up with that, Max, you’ll give the man airs.”
Marty stands and ruffles Max’s hair. “So, Julia. You a friend of Tess’s?”
Way to be obvious.
“I am, but I came to talk to Jake.” She repositions her purse strap onto her shoulder. “Do you have a minute?”
Something to do with Tess? “Sure.”
Max tugs on her hand. “Can’t I play outside ’til you’re done?”
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