Suddenly Married (3 page)

“Yes. Leukemia,” Angie agreed. “Father says we should try not to think about it, but when we do, we should never be sad because Mother is with Jesus in heaven, where she’ll never hurt ever again.”

It had been nearly a decade since Dara had taken the psychology courses that helped round out her education major, but Dara recognized repression when she saw—and heard—it. And though she’d been a full-grown adult when her own mother died two years earlier and lost her father just months ago, she understood the importance of mourning openly and honestly. Dara didn’t know how or why a loving father would talk his children out of grieving for their mother.

And she understood it on a completely different level: hadn’t she repressed her fears that her father might have stolen Pinnacle’s money?

She wouldn’t even suspect it, if it hadn’t been for Noah Lucas! It wasn’t hard to believe he could do such a coldhearted thing. Dara’s eyes and lips narrowed with
anger toward the man who, without ever having met her father, had chosen to believe the row of numbers that said Jake was a thief rather than the daughter who believed in his innocence. That same harsh and judgmental behavior had his own flesh and blood moving through life like windup toys.

Dara had prayed before class began that the Lord would show her what to do, tell her what to say, to help her teach these children His word. These two, especially, needed to hear about His loving mercy now.

Dara slid an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, leaning her forehead against Angie’s, “of course your mommy is in heaven with God and all His angels.” She pressed a soft kiss to the child’s temple. “But it’s okay to miss her sometimes.…”

Angie looked up from her picture and stared deep into Dara’s eyes. For a second there, Angie was every bit a seven-year-old girl as her lower lip trembled slightly and a flicker of sadness gleamed in her big dark eyes. Dara felt the fragile shoulders relax, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from them.

But then Angie blinked.

And just that fast, the frosty restraint was back, and she became a pint-size version of a full-grown adult again. It was more than a little frightening to have witnessed the transformation, and Dara shivered involuntarily, because she doubted if she could name one adult who was so self-contained.

Well, that wasn’t true. She could name
one.
…

“Can I get a drink of water?” Tina asked.

“Sure,” Dara said, smiling gently.

“Would you like to see the card I made for Mrs.
King?” Pete wanted to know. “I drew baby Sarah on it.”

“I’ll be right there.” Reluctantly, Dara drew away from Angie. If the child noticed, she gave no clue.
God bless her,
Dara prayed.

Something told her that in the months ahead, she’d be petitioning the Lord often on behalf of the Lucas children.

“Sorry, Dara,” the principal said. “I’ve pulled every string I could get my fat little fingers on. There’s just no money left in the budget for you.”

Budget cuts, or had someone on the board heard that her father had been accused of embezzlement and decided it wasn’t good press to have a teacher like that working for the Howard County school system?

She took a deep breath. Stop assuming the worst, Dara, she scolded herself. It’s your own fault, after all, for asking to be assigned a job in your own district. If she’d taken the teaching job at Wilde Lake instead of Centennial High, she wouldn’t be low man on the totem pole now.

“It isn’t your fault, John,” she said, smiling halfheartedly.

“Who’d-a thunk seniority could be an ugly thing?”

“Better watch it,” she warned, wagging a finger under his nose. “If the kids hear you breaking the rules of grammar that way, they’ll—”

“They’ll what?” he teased. “Most of ‘em have been abusing the King’s English since right after they learned to say ‘Dada’!”

Dara and her boss laughed for a moment, until the seriousness of the situation shrouded his cramped, crowded office.

“So when do I have to clear out my desk?”

Wincing, the principal sighed. “Not till the semester ends in February. That’ll give you plenty of time to send your résumé around.”

It gave her four months, give or take a week. Dara sighed, staring out the window, where Old Glory popped and snapped in the brisk winter wind. She’d sat right here as a Centennial student when she’d served as an office aide to Mr. John Westfall, and again nearly nine years ago when he’d interviewed her to fill the open math teacher slot. There were other teaching positions available here in Howard County, and more than likely, she’d accept one. But it wouldn’t be the same, because those schools wouldn’t feel like
home.

“Should I put in a good word for you over at River Hill?” Westfall asked, standing. “I hear there’s going to be an opening there.”

“Sure,” Dara said, getting to her feet. “That’d be great.”

“I hate to lose you, Dara. And so will the kids.”

He extended his hand; she clasped it gratefully.

“It’s gonna be like sending one of my own daughters off into—”

“Hush,” she said, smiling sadly, “or you’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t want to start up any waterworks, now do we?”

Dara focused on their hands. He’d been jerking her arm up and down like a pump handle. “I’ve heard of trying to get blood from a turnip,” she teased, “but I don’t think this is the way you go about it.”

Chuckling, Westfall let go of her hand, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything I can
do,” he said softly, “
anything,
you just ask, you hear?”

“Thanks,” she said, heading for the door. “I will.”

“You’ll come see me once in a while, won’t you? Let me know how you’re doing?”

Another nod, one hand on the doorknob. “Now, let me leave before I start blubbering all over this gorgeous green-and-orange carpet of yours!”

She closed his office door. Could things get any worse? she wondered. The second anniversary of her mother’s death was just around the corner; in a week, her father would have been gone six months. Then there was the news about his so-called embezzlement. And now she was out of a job. If you had any sense, she said to herself, you’d make reservations and take that cruise you’ve been saving up for.

Immediately, she shook her head. No telling what Noah Lucas might do on Kurt Turner’s behalf while you’re off in the sunny Caribbean worrying yourself silly.

The janitor flung open the door, rolled his oversize metal trash can inside. As he banged and clanged down the hall, a huge gust of wind whipped in behind him, blowing the papers from Dara’s hands and scattering them across the floor. Some fluttered out the door; others skidded under lockers. “That cruise is gone with the wind, too,” she muttered as she gathered the papers that hadn’t escaped.

Look at the bright side, she told herself. Now you have two projects to distract you from the Pinnacle mess—Sunday school and job hunting!

As she headed for her cubicle in the teachers’ lounge, something told her neither would be a very good diversion.…

* * *

The weather bureau was predicting snow. Lots of it. But it wasn’t supposed to start until late afternoon, which meant Sunday services and Dara’s class would take place as scheduled. If TV meteorologist Norm Lewis was right, there’d be no school tomorrow, and if her students had heard his report, they’d be too busy looking out the windows to learn much of anything this morning.

It was a good chance to put Naomi King’s advice to the test: “You can’t teach the little ones with ordinary lessons. If you follow the teacher’s manual, they’ll be bored and restless.” The art project had worked quite well last week. Why not incorporate more of the same into this Sunday’s lesson?

She’d purchased five jars of peanut butter, a bottle of vanilla, ten boxes of confectioners’ sugar, two rolls of waxed paper, a monumental stack of foam bowls, three rolls of paper towels and a huge can of crushed peanuts at the grocery store yesterday. Dara could hear in their puzzled voices that she’d piqued her students’ curiosity when she called each last evening and asked that they bring one of their fathers’ old shirts to class, but it was nothing compared with the inquisitive looks on their faces when they marched into the room and saw the supplies, standing in a tidy row on her desk.

“I’ll answer all your questions as soon as we’ve said our opening prayer,” she promised. “Who’d like to do the honor?”

At first, Dara thought she might have to do it herself, as she had last week. Then one tiny hand slid hesitantly into the air.

“Thank you for volunteering, Bobby,” she told him. “Now, let’s all close our eyes and bow our heads.”

The children immediately complied.

“Go ahead, Bobby.”

“Dear Lord,” he began in a sweet, angelic voice, “we thank You for getting us here safely. God bless Miss Mackenzie for being our teacher…” He hesitated for a moment before concluding. “And for bringing all the ingredients to make peanut butter balls. Amen.”

“Peanut butter balls. What’re peanut butter balls?”

The question echoed around the room a dozen times before Angie said, “They’re a no-bake dessert that’s very high in fat and—”

“But they’re fun to make and dee-licious!” Bobby tacked on.

“How do you know ‘bout peanut butter balls?” Pete asked.

“Our mother taught us to make them,” was Angie’s straightforward reply.

Dara clapped her hands. “All right, class, let’s get our hands washed so we can dig in.”

In a matter of minutes, they were back in their seats, draped in their fathers’ baggy, cast-off shirts. “We’re going to learn something about creation today,” she said, going from desk to desk, rolling up sleeves. And handing each student a sheet of waxed paper, she added, “God took special ingredients, mixed them and made the world.”

As Dara gave the children their own disposable bowls, she began quoting Genesis in words these first graders would understand. To emphasize the lesson, she doled out peanut butter and sugar, a drop of vanilla, and invited the kids to mix them thoroughly…with their bare hands. When they’d made dough of the mixture, she instructed them to form gumdrop-size balls
from it, then instructed them to roll their peanut butter balls in the crushed nuts.

Lisa licked the mixture off her fingers. “Mmm,” she said. “
That
was good work.”

“And messy work,” Tina agreed.

“But now we can enjoy—and share—what we’ve made,” Dara told them.

“Oh, I get it!” Pete shouted. “Like God enjoyed the world, and shared it with Adam and Eve once he got done makin’ it!”

“Once he had finished it,” Angie corrected, sighing deeply.

“Is God gonna eat the world?” Donny teased, popping a peanut butter ball into his mouth.

“‘Course not, stupid. It’s too big to fit in His mouth,” Pete said around a mouthful of his own sticky treat.

“It isn’t polite to call people ‘stupid,’” Angie scolded.

Dara had spent only two weeks with the class, but her students had spent three months with Angie. They rolled their eyes at her admonition.

Angie could pretend to be older and wiser than the rest of the kids in class, but Dara had seen her eyes light up at the prospect of digging her fingers into the gooey mess that would become the peanut butter balls. And despite her best attempts to appear above it all, her “cookies” were just as lopsided as everyone else’s.

The children left class, chattering happily—around mouthfuls of the treat they’d made with their own two hands—about what they’d do once the snow started. Dara went about the business of cleaning up what Donny had referred to as “Our Genesis Mess.”

Humming, she dropped sticky bowls and wrinkled
sheets of waxed paper into the wastebasket, then began packing up the leftover ingredients and paper products. Dara had but one regret about teaching this class: not one of the students was
her
son or daughter. She loved everything about children—from cradle to cap and gown—their effervescent exuberance to their brighteyed view of the world was contagious. Someday, she hoped, the Lord would see fit to answer her prayer and send a good Christian man into her life.

One like Dad, she thought, gritting her teeth with grim determination. She would prove he hadn’t committed that awful crime if it was the last thing she ever did!

He’d earned her faith in him, her loyalty, because he’d been a wonderful father, a wonderful husband! Dara recalled how well he’d always taken care of her mother, how much more devoted and compassionate he became when she got sick. Dara wanted a love like that, a man like that, with whom she could build a home, a family, a future—

“May I have a word with you, Miss Mackenzie?”

The suddenness of the deep baritone startled her, and Dara dropped the paper bag she’d been holding.

“Sorry,” he said, a crooked smile slanting his tawny mustache, “didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She stooped to retrieve the paper towels and foam bowls that had rolled under her desk. “No problem. I just didn’t see you there, that’s all.” Dara jammed the articles back into the bag, stood it near the door. “Now then,” she said, dusting her hands in front of her, “what can I do for you, Mr. Lucas?”

He didn’t answer right away, a fact that gave Dara an overall uneasy feeling. She was about to ask what
he was looking at when he said, “I’d like to thank you.”

“Thank me?” His intense scrutiny had unnerved her, and a jittery giggle popped from her lips. “Whatever for?”

“For attempting to comfort my daughter last week. Bobby told me what you said…and did.”

Dara frowned, trying to remember specifically what he might be referring to. The hug? That little peck on the temple? She shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“I’m the one who’s afraid, Miss Mackenzie,” he interrupted. “Since my wife passed away, the children haven’t had much in the way of female nurturing. I try,” he added, shoulders up and palms extended, “but I make a better dad than a mom.”

Dara took note of his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, the big fingers that repeatedly combed through his shining blond hair. I’ll say, she thought, grinning inwardly. “Well, no one expects you to be a superhero,” she said, “least of all, Bobby and Angie.”