Dean’s mother came from sturdy stock. Eleanor Luchetti had birthed six children in seven years, raising them all with one iron hand while she helped his father with the other. But they were semiretired now, and she had no business out in the heat doing Dean’s job.
“Leave it,” he repeated. “Tim can help me since he’ll be free this afternoon.”
“Tim’s in second grade and weighs sixty pounds soaking wet.”
“But he works like a dog.”
“He does.” Eleanor smiled. She was almost as crazy about Tim as Dean was.
“Why don’t you and Dad take a nap?” Dean suggested.
His parents were notorious for taking naps that involved very little sleep, hence the six children.
“Before lunch?” his mother said with mock innocence.
“Go wild. You’ll have the whole farm to yourself.”
Dean strode toward the thresher’s cottage on the far side of a cornfield that separated the house where he now lived from the house where he’d grown up. As soon as he entered the yard, a herd of dogs surrounded him.
His mother was right; having five dogs was pushing it. Of course, they used to have eight.
“Move your kids,” Dean muttered.
Bear, one of an original pair of dalmatians named for the Luchettis’ favorite sports teams, knew that tone. A herder at heart, he ushered his four remaining offspring toward the backfield.
Bear’s love affair with a French poodle had resulted in six fluffy, spotted puppies, known as doodles. Dean had managed to foist two of them off on his brothers. He hadn’t had a speck of luck with the rest.
The second dalmatian, Bull, had recently completed an affair of his own with a Mexican mutt by the name of Lucky. Bull had chosen to move to Quintana Roo with the love of his life and their flock of puppies, dubbed mutations since they were so ugly they were cute.
With the dancing, prancing dogs out of the way, Dean was able to make it into his house. He considered taking a shower, but opted for a quick wash in the sink and a change of his T-shirt instead.
A veteran principal’s-office sitter himself, Dean didn’t want Tim incarcerated there any longer than necessary, so he snatched the keys to his red pickup from the nail on the wall and headed for town.
School had been hard on Dean. He’d never been able to sit still, hadn’t cared about reading or math; he’d only been interested in the land and the animals.
Twenty-seven years ago there’d been no testing, no special classes, no mainstreaming. You either made it through school or you didn’t. Dean had made it, but just barely.
These days kids had the benefits of special education, extra funding, Ritalin—things Dean had once considered a bunch of namby-pamby nonsense— until Tim came along.
He wheeled into the parking lot of Gainsville Elementary and hopped out of the cab. The place hadn’t changed much since he’d attended classes here, which meant it had a lot in common with the rest of the town.
Not that Gainsville hadn’t changed—there was a brand-new hospital and quite a few new businesses— but in truth, the same people ran the place that always had. And if not them, then their kids. Just look at him.
Dean strode into the building and headed for the office, nodding to the volunteer parent aide seated just inside the door.
Times had changed since he’d last been here—not a big surprise. Gone were the days when you could just walk off the street and into a classroom to talk to your child. Even in Nowhere, Illinois, they’d had to institute school security.
Although he doubted Chloe Wrycroft, five foot two and eyes of blue, would be able to stop anyone from going anywhere that they wanted to if they wanted to badly enough. Still, she had a high-pitched shrieky voice that had already deafened her husband and would no doubt arouse the entire school if she chose to use it. At least no one would be surprised by an attack.
The thought was so disturbing Dean shoved it from his mind as he pushed through the door into the main office. Laura Benedict lifted her gaze from the computer with a tense smile.
Dean frowned. Laura was usually so cheery.
“What happened?” he demanded.
She glanced at the closed door that read Principal. Then inched to the counter and lowered her voice. “Near as I can piece together, some boys were teasing Tim.”
“About what?” Dean asked, but he already knew.
“Being dumb, being an orphan—”
Dean cursed.
Laura flashed him a glare. They’d known each other since they were younger than Tim, and she always spoke to him as if she were his sister. Hell, she spoke to everyone that way. “I thought you were cutting down.”
“So did I. Where is he?”
“With her.”
“You left him alone with Mrs. Little?”
The principal of Gainsville Elementary resembled Mary Poppins, until she opened her mouth. Then she was more like the Attila the Hun. Mrs. Little had frightened the spit out of generations of boys and girls. He didn’t plan to let her continue with his son.
But Laura was staring at him as if he’d lost his marbles. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Mrs. Little fell off her high heels and ripped her Achilles tendon.”
“So she’s meaner than usual?”
“She’s retired.”
Dean blinked. Now that Laura mentioned it, he did recall seeing something about that in the Gainsville Gazette.
“So who’s in there?”
As if his question had summoned the occupant, the door began to open.
“Dean, I thought you knew,” Laura whispered.
He glanced at her. “Knew what?”
Laura’s gaze shifted and his followed. Dean froze at the sight of the woman in the doorway.
“Stella,” he said. “What in hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWO
“ME?” STELLA SNAPPED. “What about you?”
She glanced at Laura, who frowned and said, “I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Dad?” Tim said from the doorway.
Ah, Stella thought. That.
She’d understood she would see Dean eventually; she just hadn’t figured on seeing him so soon, or so here. She definitely hadn’t figured on him being the father of one of her students. But she should have considered that, if he were, Dean would be the father of a difficult one.
Nature? Nurture? Either way, trouble usually showed up in the next generation.
In this case, however, Stella had the distinct feeling the incident with the other boys hadn’t been all Tim’s fault. Not because Tim was adorable, and Dean’s, but because after six years in various school systems, she knew when something smelled fishy even without using her nose. The explanations of every child involved reeked.
She glanced at Tim, whose stained shirt, which he hadn’t had time to change, made him resemble an escapee from a war zone. Even Stella, who’d already had the nurse determine the boy was fine, wanted to fetch him an ice pack and call 911.
He crossed the short distance and stood in front of Dean. “I messed up.”
“What the…?” Dean’s fists clenched, his mouth tightened.
Stella took two quick steps forward so she could put herself between them if she needed to. If Dean wanted to punch someone, better her than his son.
He seemed to struggle with his temper. Dean had never been big on patience. She remembered that well—along with too many other things.
The taste of his mouth, the scent of his hair, the bulge of his biceps against the palms of her hands.
“Let’s discuss this in my office,” Stella blurted. Dean glanced up, noticed her defensive position and muttered, “Hell.”
Tim held out his hand. Without missing a beat, Dean reached into the pocket of his dusty jeans and pulled out a quarter.
Noticing Stella’s curious expression, Dean shrugged sheepishly. “Not supposed to swear.”
The
two of them stared at each other, uncertain what to say. Hadn’t they said it all fourteen years ago? Or had they said anything back then besides goodbye?
“Ahem.” Laura cleared her throat pointedly. “Jeremy’s parents will be here soon.”
“Yes. Right.” Stella took a breath to calm herself, then got back to work. “Stay with Mrs. Benedict, Tim, while I talk to your father.”
As she said the last word, Stella fought a wince at the thought of Dean being with another woman the way he’d once been with her. Not that she hadn’t been with other men, but that was beside the point.
Distracted, she stumbled over the carpet in her office.
Dean grabbed her elbow. “Watch it or you’ll end up like Mrs. Little.”
He released her right away to shut the door, but the slight touch, impersonal as it was, flustered her even more. Her suit coat covered her completely, yet she could still feel the heat of his skin and the scrape of his calluses. Once the door was shut, the room was too small for Stella and Dean and all of the memories.
The man was still as handsome as ever. Of the five Luchetti brothers none could be called homely, however Dean was downright gorgeous. What a waste to keep him down on the farm.
The sun and wind had drawn lines on his face that hadn’t been there in high school. His eyes were still a bright clear blue, his hair dark, his skin tanned. He was tall, lanky, with broad shoulders and rough hands. A hardworking man in a lazy man’s world.
Why did she find that more attractive than a college degree and a thousand-dollar suit?
Stella escaped behind her desk. “Your wife couldn’t come?”
The instant the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. Even though the question was a legitimate one, she had no desire to hear about the woman who’d captured the heart she’d always coveted.
“I’m not married.”
Her gaze went to his left hand, but the lack of a ring meant nothing these days. Especially to a farmer who could get such things caught in a machine and lose a finger for such sentimentality.
“Don’t you have a file on Tim?” he continued. “Didn’t Laura fill you in on what’s been happening since you left?”
The idea that she would have been gossiping over coffee with her secretary about Dean Luchetti was as insulting as it was mortifying.
“I’ve got better things to worry about than what you’ve been doing,” she muttered.
“Ditto.”
“Why don’t you save us a few minutes and fill me in?”
“I’m adopting Tim.”
Stella frowned. “Adopting? As in, haven’t adopted him yet?”
“Soon.”
“Then his name’s not Luchetti.”
“What?” Dean shouted, and Stella flinched. “Sorry,” he said more quietly.
Dean had always been loud, boisterous, full of life. That was one of the things she’d loved about him.
Stella was an only child of older parents. Her household had been so quiet. She’d sapped up the energy and the sheer noise of Dean and his huge family like a camel that had found an oasis in the middle of the Sahara.
“The kids who were teasing Tim said his name wasn’t Luchetti.” Stella had gotten that much out of one of Jeremy’s cohorts. “He took offense.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“He hit Jeremy Janquist so hard the boy couldn’t get up under his own power.”
“Really?” Dean smirked.
“It’s not funny. I know you and your brothers thought fighting was entertaining—”
“What else was there to do on a rainy spring afternoon?”
Stella’s eyes flicked to his, recalling what they’d done—several times. Her father at the bank working, her mother playing bridge. Stella had been Dean’s math tutor, but he’d been the one showing her a whole new world.
“Fighting isn’t allowed in school,” she snapped.
“From the looks of my son, he wasn’t the only kid throwing punches. And if I remember the Janquist boy, he’s a muscle-headed beast who shouldn’t be allowed out of his cage—just like his father.”
“Be that as it may, they’re both suspended.”
“Fine by me.” Dean stood.
“Before you go, we need to discuss those bruises.”
Dean glanced down at his hands. “Bruises?”
“On Tim. I’m going to have to call social services.”
Slowly Dean lifted his gaze to hers. “You think I hurt him?”
“Did you?”
“No.” His voice was quiet, but she sensed the fury bubbling just below the surface.
Stella waited for the panic that had made her leave L.A. The fear of violence that had taken away the job she’d loved, but it didn’t come.
She trusted Dean. She always had. Nevertheless, her job was to ask about the bruises.
“There are bruises on his arm,” Stella said.
“Tim falls a lot, runs into things, too.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Maybe they all fall.” Dean sighed. “Tim’s accident-prone, excitable, rash—a tad hyper.”
“Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder,” Stella muttered.
“Give the girl a gold star.”
ADHD explained a few things about Tim but not everything.
“The marks are on his forearm, and they’re finger shaped.”
Dean scowled. “Someone grabbed him, shook him?”
“You tell me.”
“I never touched the kid, except—” He tilted his head as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. “He took a header off the barn fence. I grabbed him before he kissed mud. Left arm?”
“Yes.”
“Guess it was me.” Dean held out his wrists. “Take me away, Miss O’Connell. Or is it Mrs. Something Else?”
“It’s Ms.”
Dean snorted. “How’d you end up back in Gainsville? I thought you were going to take the world by storm.”
“I did,” she said shortly, and that was all she planned to say about that.
“So you’re an elementary school principal?” Dean’s voice was incredulous.
Her eyes narrowed. “You got a problem with that?”
“No. I mean, well…” He took a deep breath. “You’re a genius, Stella. What are you doing here?”
She kept asking herself the same question. Since childhood Stella had loved books—reading them, talking about them, touching them, owning them—so despite excelling at math and science, she’d gotten a doctorate in English. But what jobs existed around books besides publishing, where you made no money, and law, where you made no friends?
Teaching, of course.
“For the past several years,” she said, “I’ve been the principal of a high school in L.A.”
Dean made a face. “Rough.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
“I always figured you’d wind up a brain surgeon or maybe an astronaut.”
“You never…?” Stella cut off the question before she could utter it.
Of course he’d never asked her parents where she was, or what she’d become. Her father hated Dean.
She really couldn’t blame him. Coming home early one day with a splitting headache to find the town bad boy with his hands all over your valedictorian daughter would make any man murderous.
The incident had led to the two of them sneaking around for the rest of the summer, which had only added fuel to the fire in her opinion. She’d been unable to resist the danger, the intrigue…and let’s face it, the sex. Dean had not only been handsome, he’d been knowledgeable. Stella hadn’t had sex like that since.
Not that she hadn’t had sex. She’d even had a fairly serious relationship in grad school—been engaged and everything. But Brad had gotten a job in Texas, and she’d had her job in L.A., and, in truth, her job had meant more to her than he did. Which didn’t make the basis for a good marriage—even without the mediocre sex.
Stella’s cheeks h
eated. How could she be sitting here remembering what Dean’s body looked like in the moonlight, what his tongue had tasted like in the dark, while he was waiting for her to explain how she’d wound up as the principal of Dinky Town Elementary in Podunk, U.S.A.?
“I like helping people,” she said shortly. “I’m good at it, and I’m good at running things.”
“You always were,” he murmured. “Student council, the yearbook, prom committee.”
She’d had to organize the prom. It was the only way she’d gotten to go.
“I took a temporary job teaching high school,” Stella continued. “Loved it. Kept moving up and voilà—I was a principal.”
He tilted his head. “Doesn’t school start in L.A. right about now, too?”
“I’m on a leave of absence. My father asked me to take Mrs. Little’s place until a permanent replacement can be found.”
All of that was the truth, albeit with a lot of omissions. Omissions she didn’t plan on filling in.
“Don’t you have to have a license or something?”
“My dad was able to get the requirement waived for the time being.”
“Helps to have a dad on the school board.”
“Or hurts,” she muttered.
Her father was mortified she’d lowered herself to be a “nose wiper,” as he referred to teachers of every level. A somewhat disturbing opinion for a school board member.
However, she’d discovered there were a lot of people who ran for the school board who were more interested in the power they could wield in the community than any good they could do.
“I’ll make a note of the bruises and their origin in Tim’s file,” she continued.
“If you have to—”
“I do.”
Dean shrugged. “When can he come back to school?”
“Day after tomorrow.” Stella tilted her head. “Will he be upset?”
“He’ll be thrilled. I’ve never understood why you people think it’s a punishment to send kids home. The only ones who’d be worried about missing class are the ones who’d never get sent home in the first place.”
He had a point. “Maybe you should run for the school board,” she said.
“Yeah, me and your dad would have a grand old time.”
Her father did know how to hold a grudge. She doubted he’d ever forgive her for not becoming the first woman president of the United States.
The Mommy Quest Page 2