No Ordinary Day (5 page)

A few rows
away were the plants that belonged to the baby twins.

“Daddy,” Sarah said as they pointed the hose at the pots and carefully added water, “why’s Blythe and Bonnie’s plants different? Aren’t they s’posed to be the same?”

“Nope,” said Dave, shaking water from the leaves. “Each of you has a different middle name, even the twins, and the plant’s name is the same as the middle name. Each girl has a different plant that’s special to her.”

The little girl’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

“Are they baobab plants?”

“No,” Dave said, coiling the hose back up. “Baobabs are huge-mongous, gi-normous trees, and they grow on the other side of the world. They grow
very
tall and are
very
special—some people think they are magic trees, because they can do all kinds of amazing things.”

Sarah picked up the very end of the hose and helped him carry it back to the storage hook. “Like what?”

“Well,” Dave said as they walked, “a baobab can hold as much water in its trunk as a big swimming pool.”

The little girl stopped in her tracks. “Really?”

“Really. Keep walking.” Dave turned around so she could not see the grin on his face at her adorable expression of shock. “They can feed animals and people with their fruit, and they can be used to make clothes, and all kinds of other things. They are sometimes called Trees of Life, because they can keep a whole village alive—people
and
animals.”

“Is Oba-gran a baobab?” Sarah offered him the end of the hose as he hung the coil up.

Dave took it and smiled, then looked seriously into her eyes.

“No,” he said. “But it’s a Tree of Life.” He took her little hand. “Maybe someday we will all travel the world, you, your mama, the twins, and me, and go and see some real baobabs.”

“I think our baobabs would like that.”

“Good. OK, let’s take a stroll inside, then head back to the car—I have to get back to work soon.”

After their watering
chores were done, Dave took Sarah for a longer walk inside the greenhouse and store, out of the rain, quizzing her about the plants on the tables while he occasionally rang up a purchase for a customer. Every so often he glanced out the window to make certain that the station wagon was not being disturbed. Finally, he took his daughter’s hand again and they made their way back to the car.

He unlocked the door quietly and opened it slowly, then held up Sarah so she could wake her mother with a kiss.

Sue’s eyes blinked open, and she smiled.

“Good nap?” Dave inquired.

“Any nap is a good one at this point,” Sue said, sitting up behind the wheel. “So who’s going to go to the Town Board meeting tonight?”

“Not me,” Dave said, helping Sarah crawl over her mother and sit in the front seat, something she considered a privilege when the car wasn’t moving. “I’ve got fire training tonight.”

Sue exhaled. “I suppose that means that no one from our family is going, then,” she said, a little tersely. “I don’t have anyone to watch the girls.”

“There will be plenty of people there to argue our side of the debate,” Dave said. “No one is listening to anyone at this point, anyway. We’re inducting a few new members tonight, but otherwise it shouldn’t be too late.”

“It never is.” Sue’s tone was sarcastic.

Dave shrugged. “My term as chief ends in July,” he said. “Only a couple more months.”

“Thank goodness. Can you get Sarah back in her car seat, please?”

“Absolutely.” He obliged, then kissed his wife goodbye.

“Have a restful evening, ladies,” he said to the two awake females in the car, then looked over the seat at the babies who were still asleep. “You two too.”

“Have a good meeting,” Sue said. “If you finish early, drop by the Town Hall and see if anything interesting is going on. I suspect their meeting will run a lot longer than your training.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “I have no doubt you’re right. I’d rather stick forks in my eyes, however.”

“Daddy,” Sarah said seriously, “don’t do that. That’s not what forks is for.”

Her parents chuckled as he pulled back out of the car and shut the door again.

‡

3:57
PM

Obergrande Elementary School

A
s promised, Glen
Daniels came to her classroom exactly an hour later to find Lucy just finishing up her lesson plans for the next week. He waited patiently out in the hall until she was ready, then walked with her to the door of the school that led out into the faculty parking area, where he opened a large black umbrella and held it over her.

“Thank you,” Lucy said appreciatively. “I am sick of this rain, but nowhere near as sick of it as my students are.”

“I don’t blame them,” Glen agreed. “They have few enough hours of daylight in the spring as it is. The snow is finally gone, and now they can’t even play outside. It pretty much sucks.”

Lucy laughed in spite of herself at his final word, which was something she was far more likely to say outside of school than she thought he was.

“Normally I would offer to drive, but it seems to me that if you need to get to the Town Hall for the hearing, you might want to leave directly from Pita Gourmet,” he said as they made their way in the strafing rain across the parking lot. “If we drive separately, you’ll have your car there when we’re done and can get a space near the Town Hall.”

“Thanks,” Lucy said again. She was beginning to feel badly about her earlier attitude, especially in the face of Mr. Daniel’s thoughtfulness.

He held the umbrella over her while she got the car door open and into the front seat. As soon as she had started it, he peered out from beneath the umbrella himself.

“Do you know where the restaurant is?”

“Oh, yes.”

“All right, then I’ll meet you there.”

Lucy nodded, closed her door, and watched him dash off across the parking lot. She reached up to the rearview mirror, where the rosary that had been her mother’s and grandmother’s hung, and caressed the crucifix, murmuring a quick prayer, as was her tradition.

Then she put her car in gear and headed over to the near side of Lake Obergrande.

The Lebanese restaurant
was one she normally avoided. It was owned by a family that, while not directly unpleasant, had not made customer service a priority, at least in the times she had been there, though the food was excellent. But when she and Glen Daniels entered, the faces of the grumpy grandfather manning the ovens and the sullen, middle-aged blond waitress behind the cash register both lit up in delight.

“Bonsoir,” Glen greeted them.

“Bonsoir,” they replied in unison, smiling, or approximating it.

“Bone swa?” Lucy added in her best French accent, and failing.

The two restaurant staff stared at her in an ugly way.

“I’d be happy to order for you if you tell me what you’d like,” Glen said as they were led to the nicest of the small restaurant’s tables. “You get vastly better service if you order in French. Unless, of course, you can order in French yourself. Or Lebanese.”

“Not a prayer,” Lucy admitted as he pulled out her chair for her. “Except for Spanish, which I can carry off pretty well, I only know enough other foreign languages to teach my students the days of the week, the numbers from one to ten, ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ That’s about it.”

“That’s more than sufficient for kindergarten, I would guess,” Glen said, taking his own seat. “Your students are lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” said Lucy once again. “Which ones are you planning to ‘snag’ tomorrow?”

Glen opened his menu. “Hmmm. Let’s see; Grace Fuller, Sarah Windsor, Corinne Byrnes, Sloane Wallace. Oh—and Elisa Santiago—she has a lovely singing voice when she can be coaxed into using it.”

“None of the boys?”

“Not this year, no. I’ve worked with a few of them in class to learn a Mother’s Day rap, which is hilarious, so they will have their moments in the spotlight. The young gentlemen in this class need some time to mature a little before we can teach them harmony and solos like the girls. But that’s OK—they get to sing all the other songs, and their moms will be really proud.”

“Good. Is one of them Garrett Burlingame?”

“Yes, why?”

Lucy sighed. “I just hope his mom remembers to come this year.”

Glen exhaled deeply. “Oh, right. I remember what happened with Devin. I hope so, too.”

The waitress approached, looking sourly at Lucy, then turned to Glen, her face morphing into a more pleasant expression.

“Ready to order, sir?” she asked in accented English.

“Oui, merci,” Glen replied. He proceeded to order
mezza,
an array of little colorful dishes similar to
tapas
, with flat bread to dip in hummus and baba ghanouj, white cheeses, sliced melon, artichokes, yogurt with cucumbers and garlic, grilled meats and fried fish, marinated skewers of chicken, stuffed grape leaves and Kalamata olives, kibbeh and tabbouleh salads in French for them both, per Lucy’s request. Then he asked the waitress, Lucy thought, about the availability of baklava and a special type of flaky pie he had mentioned on their way into the restaurant.

The waitress replied in French, then took their menus and left the dining room.

“What did she say?” Lucy asked.

“They have plenty of baklava, but the pie is gone, except for a piece she was saving for her father.”

“Oh well.”

“No, she says he can do without it, he’s apparently ‘too fat to fit into his belt,’ whatever
that
means. We can split it.”

Lucy laughed. “All right.”

“And they always bring a roasted onion at the end of the meal. I haven’t figured that out yet,” Glen said, opening his napkin.

The rest of the dinner went off without a hitch. Glen Daniels had a low-key sense of humor that had her giggling in a way she found almost embarrassing, though harmless, throughout the meal, which was over far too soon.

The waitress brought out a small, bald, roasted onion which she set near Lucy, then gave Glen a magnificently plated piece of pie on a ribbon of chocolate with a single fork. She placed it before him, and looked pointedly at Lucy before she left the table, causing them both to laugh out loud once she was gone.

“Nah sveetz fah youh,” Glen said in an intentionally bad accent as he pushed the pie plate in front of her, chuckling. “Voman getz zee onion—zat’s it—no chocolate fah youh.”

Lucy almost choked, laughing.

“I’m glad I
hung on to my fork,” she whispered to him as they left the restaurant later. “That pie was phenomenal. Thanks for sharing. I’m not sure the waitress would forgive you if she knew you let me have some.”

Glen just smiled.

The rain had stopped, at least momentarily, as they made their way to the street parking at the bottom of Tree Hill, the town park in which Obergrande, the enormous historic Northern Red Oak tree stood, spreading its vast limbs protectively above the little village.

“I hope your meeting goes well,” Glen Daniels said as he approached his car. “You should have plenty of time to make it to the Town Hall, even if you walk.”

“Why aren’t you attending the hearing?” Lucy asked curiously. “I thought everyone in town was itching to be there tonight.”

“Maybe, but I don’t live in town,” Glen replied. “I come over from Schroon Lake.”

“Ah. Well, the rain has paused. I think I’ll climb the hill and say goodnight to Obergrande. I’m very fond of that tree. It’s a tradition I’ve tried to observe since I moved here.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll go with you, then,” said Glen. “I have the same tradition.”

“Really?” Lucy commented as they started up the hill in the fading light. Dusk was setting in below the heavy gray clouds, making the sky even darker than it normally would be.

“Yes.” Glen lapsed into silence until they had reached the summit of the hill where the magnificent tree stood.

“Did you know this tree is registered as a national landmark?” he asked.

“Really?”

“Yes; it’s certified to be over four hundred years old. There are documents formalizing treaties signed beneath it between the Iroquois Nation and the French, British, and Dutch settlers that were living around here at the time. This tree was a meeting place, a place of negotiation and the signing of peace treaties, a place of judgment. A very historic place.”

Lucy nodded. “It was also a place where lovers traditionally met. I’ve heard a lot of weddings were and are performed here—I see them all the time in the summer. Every class that graduates from the high school gets its picture taken around and beneath the tree, and a lot of families take photos of their kids in its branches, or used to. I’d be nervous to do that—the first limb is pretty far off the ground.”

Glen nodded in agreement. “This whole place was a very important region in the French and Indian War, I hear. Lots of interesting stories from that time.”

“Why do you know about the French and Indian War? You’re a kids’ music teacher.”

“Probably the same way you, a kindergarten teacher, know about music.”