A Father, Again. Mary J. ForbesЧитать онлайн книгу.
The old thing would have the nerve to die when she was running late for the first day of work this week. Well, bemoaning the fact wouldn’t start the car either. Thank goodness Sam had gone ahead on his bike.
“What’s the matter with the car, Mom?”
Emily wasn’t so lucky. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, the three days Rianne taught in Chinook Elementary’s library, they rode to school together. A comforting ritual after they’d moved to Misty River a year ago, when her children hadn’t established friendships yet. Then Sam met Joey Fraser who lived up the street and, for her son, going with Mom became “uncool.” But Emily still rode with Rianne.
“The battery’s probably dead, Em.” Rianne sighed. Darned old car. There goes another chunk of budget. Laughing yet, Duane?
“I thought gas made the car go,” Emily said.
Rianne patted the child’s hand, hoping to ease the disquiet she knew churned inside her daughter when things went slightly off kilter. “They both do, pooch.”
“Can you get a new one?”
“Yes, but I need to go to the Garage Center for that.”
Emily followed Rianne out of the vehicle, dark eyes big behind her glasses. “Are we gonna be late? Can I take my bike? Please? I don’t want to be late, Mom.”
“Hang on, honey.” Rianne popped the hood. “Maybe it’s something else.” Something simpler. She could hope.
Other than caked-on grime and grease, the engine appeared the same as the last time she’d seen it. Were the battery terminals more corroded? She couldn’t remember. The car was thirteen years old and, during their marriage, Duane had looked after its mechanics. How long did a battery last? Five years? Ten? The life of the car?
Why hadn’t she asked the mechanic when she’d bought new rear tires last fall?
Because you didn’t want to admit a lack of car sense to a man. Now, look where it’s got you. Late for work and Emily late for school.
She checked her watch. Eight-forty. Fifteen minutes before first bell. If they walked fast they’d make it just in time. “Get our lunches out of the car, Em. We’re walking.”
“But Mo-om, we’ll be way late.”
Rianne surveyed the engine again. “I’ll call Mrs. Sheers and tell her our problem.” Cleo Sheers was the secretary. She’d pass the message on to the principal and Beth Baker, Em’s teacher.
Emily tugged Rianne’s sleeve. “Mom,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Looking at this mess, she knew she needed a whole new car.
“Troubles?” a low, rusty voice said.
Rianne jackknifed up, almost batting her head on the hood.
He stood by the driver’s door, hands jammed in hip pockets. She should have guessed by Em’s behavior that her big, moody neighbor hovered nearby. What did he do, keep her under surveillance?
“Good morning.” Ungrateful thoughts weren’t her style, although hot stuff appeared to be his in those worn black jeans and that snowy T-shirt. She couldn’t take her eyes off his damp hair caught in a loose tail. Like a settler, traveling the Oregon Trail in a prairie schooner.
Clipping a nod, he stepped forward and closed the hood with a flick of the wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Driving you and your daughter to school. The battery’s done for.” He pointed his chin at the front seat. “Why don’t you get your things and I’ll start the truck.”
Not a question, a subtle command. Cops, she knew, issued directives to maintain order and stability. She, however, was not a felon nor an obnoxious bystander nor, for that matter, a wife whose independence and self-worth had been boxed into the dirt.
She was a woman standing securely on her own two feet.
About to say as much, she opened her mouth—except he was already striding for the black truck in his driveway.
“Are we going with him, Mommy?” Emily asked, pinky disappearing into the corner of her mouth.
Rianne squelched the urge to raise a fist to her dead husband. “It’s okay, sweets.” Carefully, she adjusted the girl’s glasses on her freckled nose. “We won’t be late now. Come on.” Hand in hand they stepped between the barren rose bushes and headed for the grumbling diesel truck.
Jon leaned across the seat and shoved open the door. “Give me your bag, Bo Peep.”
A timid smile crept along Emily’s mouth. In that instant, Rianne forgot her woman’s right to independence. A warmth spread from her heart outward. Jon Tucker, man of few words, had baited a smile from her little girl.
A precious, rare smile.
Emily climbed onto the high seat. While Jon strapped her in, Rianne climbed beside her. Why hadn’t she chosen slacks today or one of her loose, ankle-length skirts? No, silly woman that she was, she’d selected her favorite: black, slim and short.
The truck smelled of tools. And Jon. Over Emily’s head, Rianne caught his regard—flame-blue and intense. Her heart pinged. She faced the windshield and worked on her seat belt.
Calm down.
Five minutes of speed and silence got them to Chinook Elementary. He parked near the entrance. Children hung in clusters up and down the sidewalk. Across the playground smaller ones dashed between older students, chasing balls, playing tag. A group of boys, a few years younger than Sam, rough-housed near the gym exit.
Rianne climbed from the cab. Emily slid to the ground with a “’Bye, Mom” and drifted toward some girls skipping rope.
Jon rounded the nose of the idling truck. “Got a minute?” His gaze lingered on the skin below her hemline.
She looked toward the school doors. “If it’s quick.”
“What time are you finished?”
“I’ll get one of my colleagues to drive us home.”
“What time?”
Another take-charge man.
He’s different.
How so?
She relented. “Three, but I usually don’t get out of here until four.”
“Your daughter stays with you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be here at four.” He started for the driver’s side.
She went after him. “It’s not necessary. We can get home on our own.”
He stepped from the curb. Even with the added height of the sidewalk, she still had to tilt her head.
“It’s not a contest, Rianne. I’d like to pick you up after school, okay?”
His quiet “like” did it, had her tongue powerless. “Fine.”
A softness she hadn’t seen before touched his eyes. “See you then,” he said.
Without another word she walked into the school. She would not watch him drive away. Not with this warmth in her cheeks.
The day crawled. Although four different classes came into the library throughout the morning, the clock was glued to one spot for endless, interminable minutes at a time.
Midmorning she made a call to the Garage Center and requested an attendant put a new battery in her car. The house call would be an added expense but she’d manage it.
Shortly after one she received a call that her battery had been looked after—not by the attendant. By a neighbor.
She didn’t need to ask which neighbor.
The