by Sally John
Kate blinked.
“School superintendent. Dapper little guy.”
“I don’t know.”
“Track him down. Find out what he thinks. Of course, you’ll want to ask Kingsley what he’s up to. Get some parents’ opinions. Interview a couple of students, two or three school board members.” She dug through a pile of papers on her desk. “Here’s a list of them. Be sure you talk to Norton Pinsky. He always goes against the grain. We want to get all sides quoted.”
Kate took the paper from her and stood. “Okay.”
“What was Olafsson’s answer?”
“She said yes.”
Rusty smiled. “Good for her. We need to get this in Thursday’s edition. It’s timely, related to Valentine’s Day.”
“We can do a follow-up article next week.” Kate rolled her chair out of the way and shuffled toward the door. “What they did on their first date. What they wore. Did they go Dutch treat? Did they double with another couple?”
“Katy-girl.”
She unhooked her coat from its peg and turned.
“Lesson number one. You gotta pay your dues. Nobody makes it to DC without ’em.” Rusty swiveled back to her typewriter. “Did you get a photo?”
Photo! Oh, fiddlesticks! The camera! “Uh, I think so. At least, the camera clicked. See you later.”
Outdoors on the sidewalk Kate stood a moment and inhaled the garlic-scented frigid air. I’m sorry, Lord. Was that a lie? It felt like one. She’d better hustle over to the school and find the Sweater. Hopefully the guy knew how to take a decent picture.
Two
Kate entered the high school’s main office, a humming beehive of activity. Several students and teachers milled about, talking and laughing. According to her school experience, the scene wasn’t believable. Either the morning’s public display of romance had set an abnormally merry tone or else her glasses had taken on a rosy tint, skewing her vision.
The room was divided in half by a counter. Behind that stood a short, 40-something woman. From her crisp white blouse tucked into a gray skirt to her kind, brisk manner of directing traffic, Kate knew she was in charge.
Kate stepped to the counter. “Hi. I’m Kate Kilpatrick from the Times.”
Smiling, the woman reached over and firmly shook Kate’s outstretched hand. “Well, hello. I heard we had a new reporter. Nice to meet you. I’m Lynnie Powell, secretary. Hey!” She directed her commanding voice over Kate’s shoulder, “Quiet down!” The hubbub lessened a degree. “How may I help you?”
“I was here earlier, in the commons—”
“He didn’t!”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Kingsley. He called you, didn’t he? I do not believe it.” She chuckled and raised her hands in a helpless gesture, as if the man were an endearing, precocious child.
“Yes, well, anyway, I loaned my camera to a guy, and I forgot to get it back from him. He was wearing this sweater—”
“Tanner. One of our subs. He’s in Room 12 today.” Lynnie slid a clipboard over the counter toward her. “Just put your John Henry right there. We need to keep track of who’s in the building. Thank you. Room 12 is down the first hallway on your left.”
“Thanks. I need to talk to Mr. Kingsley also. Do you think he’d have a few minutes this morning?”
She chuckled again. “Oh, I think it’d be a safe bet to say yes. I’ll track him down. See you in a bit.”
Kate crossed the commons and entered a hallway lined with brown-gray lockers. Above them hung large, framed photo collections. She paused to study one. It was a collage of roughly 60 pictures of students, all classic high school senior poses: fresh-faced girls in fuzzy sweaters smiling over their shoulders; boys in white, button-down collar shirts and ties. In the center was a sketch of a bearded Viking and the words “Valley Oaks High School, Class of 1962.”
Kate quietly sighed. Such a simple thing shouldn’t trigger strong reactions, but it did. It reminded her yet again that this town of 1,947 located just 20 miles southwest of where she had grown up was unfathomable. In no way, shape, or form could she relate to it. Lord, I sure wish You’d let me in on why it is You’ve brought me here!
At Room 12 she stopped in the open doorway. The Sweater lounged against the teacher’s desk, half sitting on a corner of it. He was speaking to the class, not looking at the textbook in his hand.
“Psst.”
He glanced her direction and immediately smiled in recognition.
Kate held out her arms in an apologetic shrug.
“Class, excuse me for a moment. Go ahead and start on the assignment.” He walked around the desk and pulled her camera from a drawer.
She backed into the hall as he neared, out of earshot of the students. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“No problem, Camera Lady. Here you go.”
She accepted the camera from him and slung it over her shoulder. “Thank you. Do you think you got a picture? My editor seems to think the event is news.”
“Oh, it is. The moment was priceless. You must be a newcomer to the newspaper.”
She held out her hand. “Kate Kilpatrick, 17 days with the Times.”
Smiling, he shook her hand. “Is that the Los Angeles or New York Times?”
“You’ve found me out. I’m delusional.”
“Aren’t we all? I’m a history professor here at the academy.”
She laughed, instantly liking his open face. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, whoever you are.”
“My name’s Tanner Carlucci.”
“Carlucci. That sounds familiar—” She snapped her fingers. “I remember! We graduated the same year from Rockville High. You played guard when Tommy Kennedy played center.”
“Now you’re being delusional about me. I spent most of every basketball season sitting on the bench. I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
“You wouldn’t. You were the jock who made news. I was the geek who wrote the news. Our paths didn’t cross, but your name came up once or twice.” She shrugged. “And besides, we had eight hundred and seventy-three classmates.”
“High school. The ultimate delusional state.” His sparkly brown-black eyes clouded. “It had nothing to do with real life. Here we are, twelve years later. I’m an athletic has-been with long hair, wondering what to do with the rest of my life. You’re out there, gifts already honed, living your dream as journalist for either the Los Angeles or New York Times. You haven’t said which yet.”
“But you’re teaching.”
“Long story. Maybe we could meet for coffee, catch up on old times.”
She grinned. “We didn’t share any old times.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well…” He glanced furtively over one shoulder and then the other. As if about to share a secret, he hunched toward her and said in a low voice, “I could give you the inside scoop on the Magic Kingdom here, if you’re interested.”
“Magic Kingdom?”
“I know. Most people refer to it as Valley Oaks. But you’ll find out if you hang around for a while,” he waggled his brows, “that there is something magical about the place.”
“I know there’s something elusive about it. I haven’t the foggiest how to relate to it.”
“Then we should definitely talk.” He straightened, and his voice returned to normal. “Are you living in town?”
“Yes, I’m renting a room from a woman. It’s easier to reach me at the Times office. That’s the Valley Oaks Times.”
“I see. Los Angeles or New York has loaned you out.” He grinned. “I’d better get back in there. Nice meeting you, Kate.”
“Thanks again for taking a picture.”
“My pleasure. I hope it works for you.” He rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb and went inside the room.
Life certainly was strange. Who would have guessed a Rockville classmate would turn up as a source? And in Valley Oaks, of all places.
Kate settled into a chair across the de
sk from the principal, not bothering to remove her coat. She didn’t plan on being there long. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Kingsley.”
“Please, call me Joel. And thank you for seeing me.” A small, contented smile eased what would otherwise have been a perfectly daunting face. One look at his piercing gaze and chiseled features would hustle any adolescent down the straight and narrow. Kate felt herself sitting up a bit taller.
He continued, “Knowing Rusty, I figured she’d want details.”
“You hit that nail on the head.” She poised her pen above the stenographer notebook. “Why did you do it?”
“I love Britte Olafsson.” No hesitation.
Kate blinked, shoving aside the fact that the interview was the most ridiculous she’d ever conducted. “Mr.—Joel, what I mean is, why did you stage this public display of an extremely personal moment?”
“I feel that as teacher and principal, Britte and I are public servants. Most of what we do is open to public scrutiny, as it should be to a certain extent, especially in front of the students. What help are we if we preach one way and live another? I want them to see how adults handle a relationship. If the community is gossiping about a romance, things get blown out of proportion.” He held out his hands, palms up. “I wanted to be up front about where I stand with Miss O.”
“How do you hope the community will respond?”
He thought for a moment. “Like everything I do for the school, I hope they’ll accept it and give it some time until the results indicate whether or not it was the best course of action for the majority of the students.”
Good heavens. The man had just tied together romance with hoping for a fair assessment of his performance as principal. What had Rusty said? Something about another nail in his coffin. Was his job in jeopardy?
“Did you get all that?” he asked.
“Um,” Kate started writing again, “I think so.” She skimmed over what she had written in her own version of shorthand. “But I don’t understand what dating a woman has to do with keeping your job.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t either until recently. Welcome to Valley Oaks, Kate Kilpatrick.”
Kate parked on Cherry Street in front of Adele Chandler’s house and climbed out. Dusk had fallen and winter still nipped the air, keeping the six inches of snow firmly intact with no hint of a melting.
The afternoon’s interviews tumbled about in her mind. She had managed to find the superintendent, two school board members, a handful of students and parents. Everyone had an opinion on the Kingsley-Olafsson development, but she still couldn’t imagine coordinating the disconnected jangle into a news article. She needed a break.
Walking up the front sidewalk, she studied the white, twostory clapboard built in the 1920s. It was large, too large, according to Adele, for just herself and her 16-year-old daughter, Chelsea. Through the years she had often rented out the two rooms Kate now lived in on the first floor. Adele was a friend of a friend of Kate’s mother’s, a connection for which she was grateful. It saved her from commuting from Rockville or signing a lease. The rent was low, and the easygoing Chandlers were ideal roommates.
Just inside the small entryway, she slipped off her coat and heavy hiking boots. Voices came from the kitchen, and she crossed the dining room to enter it. Mother and daughter stood at the counter, chopping vegetables.
“Hi, honeys, I’m home!”
“Kate!” Chelsea cried, spinning around to face her. “Was that the wildest thing you’ve ever witnessed in your entire life or what?”
“I assume you’re referring to the scene in the commons?”
“Yeah! I saw you come in.”
“I didn’t notice you, but then last night your hair was white blonde.”
“That was my winter look.” She patted her mass of long, bright red natural curls, “Now it’s Valentine’s Day and time for red.”
“Lucky me, I’m all set.” Kate exchanged a smile with Adele. Though the slightly older woman wore her natural, dark blonde waves in a shorter, bouncy style, the Chandlers resembled each other. They both had large, gray-blue eyes, medium builds, and a distinct artistic fluidity about their dress and personalities. Even their lilting voices were similar.
Adele dried her hands on a towel. “So what do you think, Kate?”
“I think it was charming and bizarre, but my opinion doesn’t count when it comes to reporting. Tell me what you two think. On the record.”
“Oh, Kate,” Adele laughed, “I hope you’re not going to quote me often. Even after seventeen years I’m still a major oddball to three-fourths of Valley Oaks. I’m not seen as a typical community member.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m a single mom with a pottery studio in my basement and I dress funny.”
“What’s funny about colorful, flowing skirts?” She glanced down at her own African-print skirt and crocheted gold sweater over a forest green shirt. “At least you don’t wear combat boots and your brother’s winter jacket.”
Laughing, Chelsea added, “And only one mitten.”
“I wear two mittens.” She watched the almost imperceptible raise of their brows. “Don’t I?”
Adele grinned. “We’ve only seen one.”
Kate sat at the table and pulled her notepad from her oversized shoulder bag. “Anyway, you’re not an oddball in this matter. You’re a parent. What do you think?”
“I like Joel Kingsley’s honesty. He’s devoted to the school and to the students. Based on his track record, I trust his judgment. If he wants to take the opportunity to present a life lesson using his own personal experience, it’s all right by me. All the better that the kids see him walk his talk.”
Kate wrote Adele’s words. They more or less echoed what Bruce Waverly, two teachers, and one board member had told her that afternoon. Of course, those had been from politically correct people adept at speaking without the emotion coating Adele’s rendition.
She turned to Chelsea. “And what do you think?”
“I want a man like Mr. Kingsley for my mom!”
Her mother groaned.
“I would have preferred him, but I guess he’s unavailable now. They’re about the same age you know. Mom’s thirtysix. When he first came, I told her he was different and we should have him over for dinner, that she would like his nononsense attitude. But she dragged her feet and now Miss O has snapped him right off the market—”
Adele grabbed her daughter around the shoulders with one hand and stuck a carrot into her open mouth with the other. “Chelsea Chandler! How did you ever become so full of jabberwocky?”
The girl bit off the tip of the carrot and giggled around her chewing, “I had a good teacher who doubles as my mother!”
“No way!”
“Mom, you should hear yourself. Like in the pharmacy the other day.”
As the teasing continued, Kate heard muted strands of Beethoven’s Fifth emanating from her bag. She dug out the new cell phone and walked into the dining room, away from their noisy banter. “Hello.”
“Kate? It’s Tanner.”
“Hi!”
“I called your office and Rusty gave me this number. Do you have dinner plans? I’m still in town, and the Rib House is calling my name.”
In her mind’s eye she saw Adele and Chelsea’s mountain of chopped veggies. They always welcomed her to join them in their tasty, albeit vegetarian dinners. “I assume the Rib House serves meat?”
“All kinds. Are you a vegetarian? They have—”
“No, I’m not a vegetarian.” Her stomach rumbled at the thought of a plateful of lipsmacking slabs of pork and beef covered in barbecue sauce. The Chandlers ate seafood and dairy products, but nothing like ribs. “The Rib House sounds great. Meet you there in ten?”
“See you.”
Back in the kitchen, Kate said, “That was Tanner Carlucci, inviting me to dinner.”
“Mr. Carlucci?” Chelsea exclaimed as she dramatically threw a hand against her chest. “Mr. Carlucc
i?” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Dinner with Mr. Carlucci?”
Kate turned to Adele, who was tossing a salad. “What?”
“His nickname—among the high school girls—is Adonis.”
Kate thought of his expensive sweater and easygoing manner. Perfectly handsome as a Greek god? She hadn’t really noticed. “Why?”
That sent Chelsea off on another round of squeals and swoonlike motions. “Kate! Are you blind? The guy is six feet tall with broad shoulders, gorgeous thick black hair, brown velvet eyes, and the longest eyelashes I’ve seen in my entire life.”
Adele handed her the salad bowl. “And way too old for you to be concerned about, right?”
“Oh, Mother!”
“Right?” Her voice rose sternly. Like now, she could quickly slip back into her role as mother when she deemed the situation called for it.
“Okay, okay. Right.” Chelsea set the bowl on the table, a pout forming about her mouth.
Kate cleared her throat. “You know, Adonises aren’t totally what they’re cracked up to be. And besides, all I’m looking for is some information and barbecued ribs!”
Three
Standing just inside the Rib House Restaurant waiting to be seated, Kate cast a surreptitious, sideways gaze at the socalled Adonis beside her. If the epitome of Adonis was tall, husky, dark, and handsome—as in a perfectly symmetrical face—then Tanner fit, hands down. His wavy black hair was stylishly long. From the side, she discerned his eyelashes were suitable for an ad touting the wonders of mascara.
“What?” He must have caught her not-so-furtive stare.
At about 5′2″, she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. “Oh, just the reporter in me checking out a rumor. Do you know what the high school girls call you?”