Unsuitable (3 page)

It’s working, she thought. Johnny had proved to be an excellent hall monitor, performing his duties with solemn precision and making little notes on a spiral pad to augment his reports. He would stand in front of her, whip out his list and rattle off the pertinent information, offering commentary where he thought it was needed. Carrie could hardly keep a straight face during his recitals. But he was so determined to do a good job that she knew her levity would not have been appreciated. She bit her tongue and listened gravely, always thanking him for his efforts. He would nod seriously and wait to be dismissed. She almost felt like saluting him.

Carrie hummed a little tune under her breath as the driver turned into the lane for the McClain ranch. It was about eight miles outside of town on a narrow road running directly off Route 13. A shout went up from the class as they realized they were close to their goal. Carrie shook her head and caught the eye of Dolores Grasso, one of the class mothers. You’d think they had traveled five days to reach the Grand Canyon in Arizona.

The horse barns could be seen in the distance as the bus pulled into the clearing that fronted the house, a long, low ranch with a fieldstone facade. There were two paddocks, one empty and one containing a series of jumps set about at staggered intervals. As Carrie moved toward the door to supervise the children’s exit McClain came out onto the lawn, standing with his hands in his back pockets, his head tilted to one side as he watched the arrival of his son’s class. The bright sun turned his hair to molten gold. Carrie felt a tensing of her muscles as his eyes moved over the descending children and settled on her, still standing in the doorway of the bus. He moved forward and blocked the exit, extending his hand upward. Carrie, halfway down the stairs, hesitated. His eyes narrowed.

“Take my hand, Miss Maxwell,” he said quietly.

Carrie had no choice but to do so. She slipped her fingers into his palm and he assisted her to the ground. Once there she stepped back from him, but he held her fast.

“Welcome to my home,” he said.

Carrie was very conscious that all eyes were on their little tableau. Even the kids were watching: why was Miss Maxwell holding hands with Johnny McClain’s father?

McClain turned his head and seemed to realize the picture they were creating. He released Carrie and gestured at the surrounding grounds.

“Mi casa es su casa,”
he said with a smile. “I’ve asked my foreman and one of my top hands to help take the kids around the place. Is that all right with you?”

“Fine. I’ll divide them into three groups, and each of the class mothers will accompany one of the other two.”

Glad of something to do, Carrie split the class up and herded the kids into three separate huddles. When she looked up two other men were standing with McClain.

“Miss Maxwell, may I introduce my foreman, Bill Welch, and my best expert in the field of horseflesh, Jack Lawrence?”

The men, older than McClain and slightly uncomfortable with their tutorial role, shook hands with Carrie. It was obvious that McClain had drafted them. They shifted from one foot to the other as the boys and girls looked them over in awe: real live cowboys. Well, ranch hands, anyway.

Carrie studied McClain as he spoke to the two men, telling them where to take their groups. He was wearing a red and gray plaid work shirt with slim jeans and sturdy, well-worn boots. This attire showed his lean physique and long, muscular legs to advantage. He had been handsome in a suit but she liked him better in these clothes. Still showing the remnants of his summer tan, with his beautiful hair lifting in the breeze, he looked like a figure in a Frederick Remington painting. All he needed was a Stetson.

“And Bill, you take that group, and Miss Maxwell’s bunch will come with me,” McClain was saying. Carrie watched in amazement as the kids trotted off happily with his employees and he turned to face her.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, gesturing expansively toward the first barn.

“You seem to have everything all organized,” she commented dryly.

“You only have two hours. I didn’t think you wanted to waste any time,” he answered, shooting her a sidelong glance as he fell into step beside her. The children assembled behind them, following their teacher as Johnny came darting out of the house. He had disappeared into it as soon as they arrived.

“I got my trophy from the junior dressage,” he announced unnecessarily. He was carrying it by the cup, almost dragging it in the dirt.

“That’s fine, son,” McClain said affectionately, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you let me carry it? It may not survive the trip to the barn.”

The boy surrendered his prize, and McClain tucked it under one arm as he opened the doors of the first barn with his other hand. He had arranged the tour so that the other groups would visit it later.

“This is the tack room,” he announced, as he set the trophy on a rough wooden table and lifted a bridle from a hook on the wall. “This is where we keep the riding gear. Now I’ll show you all the pieces that go on a horse before you can ride him.”

The children listened with openmouthed absorption as he described the apparatus. Carrie, who was more interested in the lecturer than the lecture, tried not to stare. As a result her gaze was fixed on a rather nasty looking bit when McClain announced, “Now on to the horses.”

The kids squealed with glee as he opened an inner door and the strong smell of hay, saddle soap and live horses assaulted them. They were moving past a bulletin board decorated carelessly with an array of ribbons when Johnny piped up with, “Tell them about your ribbons, Dad.”

“I don’t think we have to go into all of that now, John,” McClain said quickly, darting a glance at Carrie.

“Oh, please,” Carrie said, unable to resist the temptation to tease him. “I’m sure the children would love to hear about them. Wouldn’t you, boys and girls?”

The kids responded with an enthusiastic chorus and, trapped, McClain favored her with an exasperated expression. She grinned back. He went on to describe, as briefly as possible, the first and second place prizes he had won in various tournaments. When one of the boys asked if he was still entering the “contests,” McClain looked at Carrie and answered that he didn’t compete anymore at all. He had suffered an injury to his hands, which made it difficult to control the horse in the delicate maneuvers competition required. With that, he led them on to the stalls.

McClain showed them all the horses and described the type and features of each, then took the group through the paddocks, pointing out the show jumps. He finished with the grooming shed, demonstrating how the horses were combed and primped prior to shows. He gestured for one of the stable boys to lead the filly he was tending out into the yard.

“How would you kids like to take a turn sitting in the saddle?” McClain asked rhetorically.

“Oh, Miss Maxwell, could we? Please, Miss Maxwell?” This burst as one voice from eight throats.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” Carrie asked in an undertone. She had gotten written permission from the parents but was still uncertain about the risk involved.

“Positive. She’s as gentle as a bunny. Cal, get the saddle.”

Cal saddled the horse and McClain gestured for Johnny to show the others how to proceed. Johnny proudly vaulted onto the animal’s back and held the reins gathered in one hand.

“See how you put your feet in the stirrups?” McClain said to the next candidate, a timid little girl who was clearly afraid but not to be outdone by her classmate.

“Go ahead, Jenny,” Carrie urged. “Mr. McClain won’t let you get hurt.”

McClain’s eyes met hers over the head of the child as she climbed aboard. After an adjustment period of several seconds, Jenny turned her knees inward to the horse’s flanks.

“Look, Miss Maxwell, this is how they do it in the movies,” Jenny called, smiling hugely.

McClain laughed. “And this is how we do it in Connecticut,” McClain said, lifting Jenny bodily and depositing her on the ground.

“It was nothing. Don’t be afraid,” Jenny confided to the next in line, her moment of glory already fading.

“
National Velvet
,” McClain said to Carrie, nodding to the child.

Carrie raised her eyes heavenward.

All the children took a turn and then McClain pointed to Carrie. “Next,” he said.

“Me?” she answered, startled.

“Of course. Everybody gets a chance.”

When Carrie hesitated the kids all started to heckle her. Surrendering to the inevitable, she took McClain’s hand and allowed him to assist her into the saddle.

“How do I look?” she asked, glancing nervously at the ground, which seemed very far away.

“Like Annie Oakley,” Johnny said with authority.

“Like a schoolteacher on a horse,” Carrie answered her own question. “I think I’d better get down. I’m afraid of heights.”

Grinning, McClain reached up and encircled her waist with his hands. As he lifted her down to the ground, she slipped through his arms until she was standing with her face almost pressed against his chest. He was very close. Carrie could smell the clean scent of his shirt, his skin, and felt one of his arms drop away as the other remained clasped around her middle.

Slowly, she tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. They held hers, his smile fading. She could see the faint afternoon shadow of his beard, the forelock of light brown hair that caressed his brow, the slight dew of perspiration that spangled his upper lip. They remained locked in the same position, frozen in time, until Johnny’s voice intruded upon them.

“Can we go inside for the cookies now, Dad?” he asked impatiently.

Carrie stiffened within McClain’s embrace and he let her go. “Cookies?” she asked breathlessly, hoping she didn’t sound as rattled as she felt.

“Rose said she would put out some juice and cookies for the kids,” McClain explained.

“Rose?” Carrie said stupidly, aware that she was beginning to resemble an echo.

“My housekeeper. The others should be along any minute; we might as well go into the house.”

Carrie followed him through the front door into a large foyer tiled in deep red terrazzo and scattered with bright wool rugs in warm earth tones. The living room and dining room ran off to the right, and the bedroom wing was to the left. The kitchen and its attached recreation room were directly in front of them at the back of the house. Sliding glass doors leading to a patio bisected the dining area of the kitchen and the den, which featured a full wall fireplace in red brick and a built-in bar. The children streamed around them, heading for the food which was displayed on the drop leaf maple table. Rose, a slim, attractive woman in her late forties, handed out the drinks and napkins as the kids helped themselves to the goodies. Johnny claimed his father’s attention and Carrie was standing aside, watching the kids to make sure they behaved, when Mrs. Grasso approached her. She was a thirtyish divorcee with a son in Carrie’s section, and Carrie had noticed her eyeing their host while the other class mother supervised the consumption of the peanut butter delights.

“Is there a Mrs. McClain?” Mrs. Grasso asked, having deduced that Rose was not the lady in question.

“Mr. McClain is a widower,” Carrie replied stiffly. “His wife died in an accident two years ago.”

“Oh, I see.” Hardly pausing to draw breath Mrs. Grasso excused herself and bolted for McClain, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. Stationed behind her glass of orange juice Carrie watched as Mrs. Grasso, a seasoned campaigner, zeroed in on her quarry. Although Carrie couldn’t hear the conversation it was clear that Mrs. Grasso was gushing madly, batting her eyelashes and fluttering her hands enough to create her own breeze. The juice turned to acid in Carrie’s mouth as she watched the woman flirt outrageously. She made a mental note to be more careful about her choice of class mothers in the future.

Carrie was distracted for a moment by one of her students, and when she looked back it was clear that Mrs. Grasso was getting nowhere. Carrie was ashamed of the perverse satisfaction it gave her to witness McClain’s polite disinterest. He nodded and answered questions briefly, his eyes roaming over the crowd. When his gaze settled on Carrie he said something to the deflated Mrs. Grasso and moved across the room.

“Refill on the O.J.?” he said, pointing to Carrie’s empty glass.

Carrie smiled and shook her head. “You know, I really have to thank you for all of this. The kids will be talking about it for weeks and Johnny is really blossoming.”

“I know,” McClain replied. “He just asked me if he could bring one of the boys home someday after school next week. To give him riding lessons.” McClain grinned.

“Which boy?”

“Mark something. A tall kid with curly black hair.”

Carrie coughed delicately. “You may not be so happy about this development after Mark gets here. He’s something of a legend at Grovedale. Last year he held the third grade record for the most detentions served. Those two together should be quite a team.”

McClain laughed. “And I thought Johnny was your worst behavioral problem.”

“Oh, Mark isn’t really a behavioral problem. He’s just gregarious and talks constantly. I recommend earplugs for the duration of his visit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”