Sliding Home (11 page)

Her eyes went wide, her
blush hot.

He ducked his head,
embarrassed by the flagpole in his pants.

He mumbled an apology.

She bit her lip, eyes
downcast.

All conversation died as
they descended in the elevator and stepped into the parking lot. Four vehicles
remained: a silver BMW, a black Porsche Cayenne, a green Land Rover, and a dark
blue Ford pickup, jacked-up with oversize tires.

Her gaze hit his, direct
and assessing, and rilled with humor as she picked out his vehicle. “Has to be
the monster truck.”

“Not monster, but an
off-road racer.”

“Do you compete?” she asked
curiously.

“Not professionally, but I
like the challenge of dirt tracks and mountain trails.”

She strolled toward the
truck. “Looks like you.”

Beat up, rusty, muddy, with
a broken headlight. Rhaden wasn't certain her assessment of him was all that
complimentary. He did, however, like the way she ran her hands along the
suspension. The way she admired the enormous tires.

He followed her to the
passenger side. “Let me give you a hand,” he offered as she stretched to open
the passenger door.

She went up on tiptoe to
climb into the cab.

He curved his hands about
her hips.

Revelle was all tight
calves and hiked skirt. He caught the lace on her thigh-high stockings as he
lifted her up. The bounce of her bottom nearly undid him.

He slowly made his way
around the hood, sucking air and talking his dick down, with little success. He
was one hard, sorry bastard.

Inside the cab, she gave
him directions to Collage. Fascinated by the height and vibration of the
pickup, Revelle chose conversation over the radio and shot him a dozen
questions. She'd never driven off-road and wanted details.

Traffic moved quickly.
Green held at every streetlight.

He parked two blocks south
of Jacy's Java, a coffee shop owned by Risk Kincaid's wife and frequented by
the Rogues. He assisted Revelle from the cab. He'd have loved to slide her down
his body. Yet a simple touch and his south would rise again. He held her at
arm's length, played the gentleman.

The one-room schoolhouse
was situated on the old town square. The building took Rhaden back to the days
of hand-sawed and hand-planed timbers. Square nails held the boards together.

Inside, pointers, maps,
yardsticks, and ten antique desks were set up for class. Framed behind the
teacher's desk, black-and-white photographs depicted early Richmond.

An antique potbelly stove
stood in one corner. The stove had once provided both warmth and a hot meal for
students. Rhaden could hear the long-ago echo of the school bell as the
children walked a short distance from home or arrived by horse-drawn hacks.

Rules were posted on the chalkboard.
Discipline had called for a ruler rapped across a student's knuckles or a face
turned toward the wall. The dunce cap looked well worn.

Revelle introduced him to
the curator, Anne Malone, a woman who looked as old as the schoolhouse. In
period costume, her vintage calico dress hung loosely; the toes of her sensible
brown shoes peaked from beneath the hemline.

“Mrs. Potter's second-grade
class will arrive in thirty minutes,” Anne informed them. “I'll set up a table
for juice and cookies while you review the artwork.”

“Let me help you,” Rhaden
volunteered. Anne looked brittle. He didn't want the curator lifting anything
heavier than a teacup.

He dragged a table from the
back closet, secured the wobbly legs. Then he arranged the apple juice boxes
and plates of pink-frosted sugar cookies. Anne laid out the napkins.

Rhaden next turned to the
drawings, displayed in vivid color on the side wall near the stove. Twenty-two
pictures total. He took his time judging the exhibit.

“Your favorites?” Revelle
came to stand beside him.

“They're all great,” he
said. “I like
Me and My Shadow.”
Done with black and white crayons.
“My Classroom Turtle
has possibilities.” A work in Magic Markers. The
turtle had to be a snapper with all those teeth.

“Mom's Fourth Wedding has
merit.” He counted four stick men in the picture,
drawn in black ink—no doubt the three past husbands and the present groom. A
dozen stick kids gathered around the bride, her dress designed in silver glitter.
“Huge extended family.”

“My Lunch
is creative.” Revelle traced her finger along the
crust of a half-eaten sandwich spread with peanut butter and stacked with
mini-marshmallows and potato chips.

He tapped his finger on a
blank piece of paper. “
My Friend Jack
appears to be invisible—probably an imaginary
friend. The artist shows ingenuity or laziness.”

She read the student's
name. “Christopher Blake. We'll watch for him when the class arrives.”

They'd yet to reach a
decision on the artwork when the second-grade class clambered through the door.
Most of the students were fresh-faced and innocent; a few boys stuck out, lanky
and scruffy. Twenty-one kids clustered around Revelle, their excitement high.
One boy lagged near the door.

Chris Blake, Rhaden
discovered from the teacher, was small and somber until he turned and started
talking to thin air. He spoke loud enough for the room to hear his exchange
with “Jack.” The two of them wanted to get back on the bus. They hated art and
field trips.

Rhaden took the initiative.
He crossed to the boy, introduced himself. “I'm Rhaden Dunn.”

The kid was slow to
respond. “Chris.”

“Who's your friend?” Rhaden
nodded to the space to the left of Chris's shoulder.

“Don't humor me, man.”
Chris went all adult on Rhaden. “Jack's on my right and he's flipping you off.”

“That's not very friendly.”

“Jack doesn't take to
strangers.”

“I'm a guest judge for the
art contest,” Rhaden explained. “I'm here with Miss Sullivan.”

“She's hot.”

From the mouth of babes.

“Jack recognized you. He
says you play ball.”

Rhaden nodded. “I'm with
the Rogues.”

“Jack says your stats suck.”

Insulted by an invisible
friend.
Rhaden wasn't the best
player on the team, but he was a solid hitter and very good fielder. “Everyone
has room for improvement. New season, clean slate,” he diplomatically replied. “Do
you like sports?”

Chris screwed up his face. “I'm
the smallest kid in the class. I get knocked down in kickball and trampled in
soccer. If it wasn't for Jack, I'd be sod.”

“Jack's a big guy?”

“Taller than Tommy
Dennison.” Chris pointed to a boy who stood several inches above his
classmates. “Jack protects me.”

Rhaden understood. He'd
also started out small, had grown into his hands and feet. He'd been a clumsy
kid until he'd hit his teens. Until baseball became his life.

Having an imaginary friend
kept Chris from being bullied. No doubt the kids in his class thought him
crazy. Yet Chris outsmarted them all. With Jack at his side, he was safe.

“You and Jack can stand by
me,” Rhaden offered. “If Jack doesn't mind hanging with a ballplayer with bad
stats.”

“We'll think about it,”
said Chris.

Rhaden returned to Revelle.
She'd been chatting with the kids, discussing their artwork, making each feel
special. Soon Chris joined him. Rhaden ruffled his blond head, then attempted
to pat Jack's invisible head too.

Several students in the
class eyed Rhaden with suspicion. Rhaden just smiled. And Chris stood taller.

There was nothing wrong
with having an imaginary friend. Rhaden might create one himself. A friend to
help him raise his stats.

He heard Revelle address
the children. “The judging has been difficult. The drawings are amazing. You're
all so talented.”

“Who placed first?” asked
the tall kid, Tommy Dennison. His picture,
Sunset in the Desert,
had camels, pyramids, and a fiery sky. The boy drew
with the detail of a sixth-grader or he'd had help from his parents.

Revelle looked at Rhaden,
but he deferred to her. She paused to heighten the tension. The kids went
wide-eyed and held their breath. “The blue ribbon goes to
My Friend Jack by
Christopher Blake.”

“The paper's blank,” said a
disappointed Tommy.

“Blank to some, visible to
others,” Revelle said kindly as she placed the ribbon on the sheet of white
construction paper.

“I like Jack,” a chubby
girl with big brown eyes said. “He's never called me fat.”

“Jack lets me cut ahead of
him in the lunch line,” a boy with a buzz cut added. “He and Chris share their
French fries.”

“Jack has the best voice in
chorus,” stated another little girl with a frizzy red pony tail. “I bet he'll
grow up to be a rock star.”

Imaginations were running
wild. Rhaden nudged Revelle to move the awards along. She did so. “I have red
superstar ribbons for all remaining artists.”

In that moment, Rhaden's
respect for the woman grew. She'd stopped with first place, allowing Chris to
shine as he showcased Jack. With the award of a simple blue ribbon, the small
boy turned from an outcast to the center of attention. He was the star for the
day.

Revelle pointed toward the
table. “Enjoy the juice and cookies.”

“Get a juice box for Jack,”
the girl from chorus said, encouraging Chris. “I'd eat his cookie if he's full
from lunch.”

Rhaden and Revelle moved
off to the side and watched the kids enjoy their snacks. Chris had collected a
handful of cookies for Jack. Even Tommy Dennison checked out the empty space
beside Chris in an attempt to visualize Jack.

“Does Jack have black hair?”
Tommy asked.

“No, he's blond like me,”
Chris replied.

“Jack and Chris both have
blue eyes,” said the boy with the buzz cut. “But Jack's a lot taller.”

Again, Tommy Dennison
squinted into thin air.

“Can I sit by Jack on the
bus?” the chubby girl asked Chris as the class moved toward the door. “He can
be by the window.”

Chris lent Jack to the girl
for the ride back to school. He had a dozen offers from other second-graders to
sit by one of them. When his teacher suggested he share the front seat with
her, Chris jumped at her offer.

Soon the classroom stood
quiet. The curator cleared the table and left it standing for Rhaden to put
away. He returned it to the closet.

“What will you judge next
month?” he asked Revelle.

“Sixth-grade photography,”
she informed him. “Sonya Garrett from Highland Heights petitioned for an
exhibit.”

“Tough neighborhood,” said
Rhaden.

“I've been warned the
classes are huge and diversified. The principal is lucky to have a teacher last
a year, two at best.” She raised a brow. “Are you game?”

It was a guaranteed date to
see her again, and he quickly agreed. “I'm in—” short pause. “Are we done for
the day?”

“Pretty much so.” She
leaned against the teacher's desk, a ruler in hand, which she soon set aside
for the pointer. Nerves had her next reaching for the dunce cap.

She had long fingers,
perfectly manicured nails, and pale hands. He could watch her fidget for hours.
He hated to close out their day.

“Can I catch a ride home?”
she finally asked. “I don't live far. You'd be rid of me in twenty minutes.”

Maybe he could work it into
thirty if he drove slow. “My turn to pick the radio station,” he told her. “Hope
you like country.”