by Donna Fasano
The Single Daddy Club:
Derrick
by
Donna Fasano
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-939000-18-7
Copyright © 2013 by Donna Fasano. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
For my courageous friend
Karen Richmond Smith
with much love
Meet Donna Fasano
Donna Fasano is proud to be a recipient of three HOLT Medallions, an award honoring outstanding literary talent. And seeing her books appear on the Kindle and Nook Top 100 Lists has given her a great deal of joy and satisfaction.
Find Donna online at www.DonnaFasano.com
Facebook: www.Facebook.com/DonnaFasanoAuthor
bookmark:The Single Daddy Club Declaration
The Single Daddy Club Declaration
We do solemnly swear to uphold the standards of the Single Daddy Club. We shall be loving, nurturing parents—proud of our single status. Although female companionship would be nice, we shall never be convinced to enter into the state of matrimony solely for the sake of our children. (We shall, however, be happy to settle down with the woman of our dreams... if she ever shows up.)
Fatherhood forever!
Derrick Richmond
Jason Devlin
Reece Newton
Chapter 1
Derrick turned off the engine of his car and glanced at his watch. He had exactly four minutes before his parent-teacher conference, so he unlatched his seat belt and took the note from his inside jacket pocket. He studied the fluid, elegant handwriting once again.
Behavior problem. The words seemed to jump right out at him. The very idea had Derrick frowning with bewilderment. Timmy was such a quiet, unassuming child. Derrick found it hard to imagine that his five-year-old godson could have a behavior problem.
But then, Timmy had only been living with him for the past ten months, and Derrick had been preoccupied with the red tape involved in resigning his commission in the Navy, and then the task of opening his own accounting business had kept him busy.
Guilt crept across Derrick's skin with the unsettling touch of a horde of frantic spiders. He should be spending more time with Timmy, he knew that deep down in his heart. But the tough decision of letting his military career go, the difficulty in convincing his superiors that resigning his commission was the right move for him and the many hours he'd spent beating the pavement as a civilian to build a firm foundation for his new business were all necessary steps toward giving Timmy the kind of stable home Derrick was determined the child should have. The kind of stable home he certainly hadn't had during the first five years of his life.
Knowing the erratic existence his godson had experienced, Derrick realized that he probably should have met with Timmy's kindergarten teacher prior to the opening of school; he probably should have explained the boy's unusual situation to the woman. But he'd been so damned busy. He'd barely gotten Timmy enrolled in the school by the deadline, and before Derrick had realized it, the big, yellow bus had been honking outside the house.
For a rare instant he felt his mind drifting as he wondered what type of teacher this Miss Maxwell was. He hoped she wasn't as flighty in person as she'd sounded on the phone when he'd called to make an appointment to see her. As he drew in a deep sigh, Derrick's eyes were once again drawn to the notepaper that was shaped like a huge apple.
Referral to School Instructional Team for support services. The well-formed penmanship shaped the phrase into delicate curls, but that didn't stop the words from causing an icy shudder to course the length of Derrick's spine. She could try to spin it into a fancy phrase if she wanted, but he knew where she was going. He knew what she was alluding to.
Special Education. At least, that's what it had been called years ago.
In his youth, Derrick had attended a crowded public school. And he knew the Special Ed. class could be a dumping ground for some misbehaving misfits, students who refused to follow rules and regulations. Teachers didn't want these malcontents in their classrooms, so semester to semester, year to year, the kids were never assimilated back into the normal system. They were pigeonholed. Stymied by a label.
He remembered befriending a few of those kids who had been relegated to Special Ed. Once those boys had that dreaded mark on their records, they lived with it for the remainder of their school days. Hell, some of them lived with it for the rest of their lives.
Derrick would never permit that to happen to Timmy. Not after the chaotic life he'd had, not after the heartache he'd experienced from losing his father. Derrick refused to stand by and let anyone—including this Miss Maxwell—do anything to hurt Timmy.
The repeated beep, beep of his wristwatch alarm alerted Derrick that it was time for his meeting with Timmy's teacher. Automatically he pushed the tiny button that reset the alarm, then he neatly folded the note and replaced it in his jacket pocket. As he opened the car door, he couldn't help the worried frown that planted itself deep in his brow. This father business was so very new to him, he really didn't know what to expect. He strode across the parking lot toward the entrance of the school, trying to push his concern aside. But the anxiety he felt refused to be conquered by sheer force of will.
Look, he silently lectured himself as he grasped the handle of the heavy door, all you need to do is keep Timmy's best interests at heart.
* * *
The office was dark and empty, and Derrick looked up and down the hallway as he jingled the loose change in his trouser pocket. He was certain he'd arranged to meet Timmy's teacher right here. His sigh was ragged with irritation. There was nothing for him to do but wait for the woman.
Five slow, tedious minutes passed. Then six. Seven. Eight.
Derrick felt his irritation rev into second gear. If there was one thing he hated, it was wasting time waiting for people. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
He followed the short hallway into the school until he came to a Y in the corridor. Although there had been several cars in the parking lot, the building seemed completely deserted. He took the hallway to the left, hoping it would lead to the kindergarten classrooms.
The first room he came to was dark and vacant. He was pleased to see a nameplate stating Grade One—Classroom One, however, the pleasure he felt was like a tiny spritz of cool mist that instantly evaporated when it came into contact with the annoyance that glowed inside him like hot embers.
As he moved further on down the corridor, he ran agitated fingers through his dark hair. He'd just talked to the woman yesterday afternoon. How could she possibly have forgotten their appointment?
> Then he saw light and the soft, muffled sounds of movement coming from the room farthest down the hall.
"Bingo," he whispered.
He stopped in the doorway and blinked. The room seemed alive with a profusion of color and movement. It was in direct contrast with the drab gray paint of the walls of the hallway. Large, tempera-painted leaves dangled from the ceiling, twirling slowly on their string tethers. More larger-than-life autumn leaves were plastered to the windows. These were made of tissue paper causing the late-afternoon sunlight to glint in vibrant rainbow hues.
One corner of the room was obviously a play area, and Derrick was surprised at how the books, games and blocks were in such disarray.
"Mr. Richmond."
Derrick swiveled his attention and his gaze in the direction of the soft, feminine voice that called his name.
The slim, petite woman was standing in front of the bulletin board on a small, child-sized chair. The stapler clutched in her slender hand was folded open, and she was evidently using it to secure bold, blue cutout letters to the board. But what Derrick noticed above all else was the fact that her clothing was as colorful, maybe even more so, than the classroom itself.
The filmy, sheer material of her turquoise skirt was very full and hung nearly to her ankles. His brain registered an underskirt of some dense, dark fabric. The sash gathered around her trim waist was purple, her simple cotton pullover was bright red. A draping of purple glass beads hung from her neck and her small, dainty ears. And when her arm dropped to her side, Derrick heard the tinkle of numerous colorfully enameled bangle bracelets as they slid to her wrist.
He'd taken so long simply gazing at her in silence that when he finally did lift his eyes to her face he felt... embarrassed. But he immediately forgot his chagrin as he became lost in her eyes. They were a piercing green. And interesting. Filled with merriment. Her full mouth was drawn into a small smile. She reached up with her empty hand and plunged her fingers into the mass of her full, multilayered hair that was so black and shiny it gleamed blue in the overhead light.
"Please come in."
Hearing her soft, pleasant voice for the second time seemed to knock him out of his stuporous trance.
She stepped down from the chair, placed the stapler on her desk, and walked toward him.
"You are Timmy Richmond's father?" she asked. "I'm Miss Maxwell."
"Actually... I'm... um..." He let the words trail. Why couldn't he find his tongue? Or collect his thoughts? He reached out instinctively, took her hand and shook it. Her skin was warm and silky smooth.
Miss Maxwell's laughter was light, like the tinkling of far-off bells. It seemed to echo inside his head, making him feel strange, as though he were grinning like a fool, yet he knew for a fact there was no smile on his face.
"It's okay," she said. "There's no need to be disconcerted. Your reaction is quite normal. My appearance can be somewhat... overwhelming to some people. Most people, actually."
Again he heard that tinkling laughter.
"Mr. Styes, our principal," she continued, "hates the way I dress. But as the great Katy Perry says, 'Baby, I was born this way.'"
Her brow furrowed with the most adorable frown. "Or was that Lady Gaga?"
What the hell is the woman talking about? his hazy brain questioned. More importantly, what the hell is the matter with me?
He was normally competent, precise, articulate. But standing there in front of Timmy's kindergarten teacher, Derrick was finding his thoughts flying in utter confusion, his tongue tied up in knots. He felt an overwhelming need to offer an excuse for this strange, yet wholly perplexing fog he found himself smothered in. But how could he offer anything? Especially when he could come up with no justifiable reason for his lame behavior for himself, let alone for her.
After what felt like an eon of awkward silence, he found himself murmuring, "Sorry."
"Oh—" she airily waved aside his apology "—don't feel bad about being late."
Derrick watched her turn and walk to her desk. Her filmy turquoise skirt clung to the slight swell of her hips as they dipped and swayed from side to side. His eyes were glued to the woman's cute derriere, and the sight threatened to suck him even deeper into the whirling vortex of stupefaction that was spinning around and around him. But something about what she'd said tugged violently at his subconscious, the words she'd spoken parted the clouds in his brain.
"I used the time wisely," she told him, "to put up a new bulletin board."
"What did you say?" he asked.
She was facing him once again, and with the sight of her shapely rear end removed from his view, sanity returned more quickly.
"I said I put the time to good use," she repeated for him. "I put up a bulletin—"
"No, no," he said, his tone short. "Before that."
She hesitated a moment, that cute little frown furrowing her brow again.
"Well, I don't remember my exact words," she said. "But I think I told you not to worry about being late for our meeting."
"That's what I thought you said." Derrick nodded as his mental acuity returned. He felt more clearheaded than he had since walking into this place, which seemed more suited for a garish Saturday morning cartoon than it did a classroom. Along with the restoration of crystal coherence came the strong annoyance he'd been feeling toward this woman—an annoyance that was fast building into full-fledged indignation.
"Miss Maxwell, I certainly do beg your pardon—" he placed sarcastic emphasis on the last three words "—but I was not late."
Delicate, dark eyelashes fluttered up and down as she blinked several times.
"And," he added, "not only did I arrive on time, but I also arrived at our appointed meeting place. The school office."
Instinctively she looked up at the large-faced clock on her classroom wall. Then her green gaze darted back to his face.
"Are you certain we arranged to meet at the office?"
"Absolutely," he said with great satisfaction.
"Oh."
That one tiny word came out all breathy, and her lips formed around it in a soft, luscious circle. He felt his palms grow moist and he fought the urge to tug at his shirt collar.
Derrick's inhalation was sharp as he averted his gaze to the floor. What in the world was wrong with him? He was furious now. But for the life of him, he couldn't say whether he was more irritated at Miss Maxwell... or himself.
"Is that all you have to say?" He could feel his face flushing with heated annoyance.
Her head tilted to one side. "You're angry," she observed softly.
Derrick felt the tremendous momentum of his emotions skid to a halt, or at least to a slow crawl. He'd expected an apology from her, or at least an explanation of some kind. He hadn't expected her to confront him with what he was feeling. The fact that she had done so made him feel... almost silly. Like he should never have become upset with the situation in the first place.
She gave the clock another glance. "We're only ten minutes late," she said. "Let's sit down and talk about Timmy."
Her buoyant tone of voice irritated the hell out of him all over again. It was as though she thought he was blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Yet at the same time he felt an overwhelming urge to apologize for feeling irritated in the first place. This woman had his feelings as twisted as a braided rope.
Still, he dug in his heels. She was the one who was late, and not only that, she hadn't even come to the arranged meeting place. Ten minutes, indeed.
"It's been twelve minutes," he found himself saying. "Nearly thirteen. And do you have any idea what a person can accomplish in thirteen minutes?"
Anna Maxwell took a moment to gather her thoughts. This was one uptight man standing in front of her. He seemed determined to argue about something she felt didn't need arguing.
The look in his eye. The set of his jaw. The tight pitch of his voice. He was obviously angry that she hadn't met him at the office. She really didn't remember arranging to meet him there
—although that wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Sometimes little details such as that seemed to get away from her. That's why she made lists. Lots and lots of lists....
She smiled, hoping to dispel some of the tension that enveloped the two of them. Why was he so hung up on a measly thirteen minutes?
"Well..." She hesitated. "I nearly finished my bulletin board while I waited here for you."
Her words only seemed to ruffle him further.
"But the whole point is," he stressed, "you shouldn't have been waiting for me here."
Her brows rose slightly. "I understand your point, Mr. Richmond. And I am sorry."
His reaction to her apology was astonishing to her. He looked as though he couldn't decide whether to be smug that he'd proven his point, or chagrined because he'd pushed the issue too far. The indecision on his face almost made her chuckle, but she thought it wise not to.
"Please," she said softly, "let's sit down."
She kept an extra adult-sized, straight-backed chair in the room, and she offered it to him. Many parents didn't feel comfortable sitting on the tiny, wooden chairs that the children used, and she sensed Timmy's father would have a hard time fitting his tall frame onto one.
"As I said in my note," she began, "Timmy is having some behavior problems."
"I read your note. But I must let you know right up front that I'll never allow you to place Timmy in a Special Education class."
Anna frowned. "Timmy needs some extra support if he's to be successful in the classroom. Don't you want him to get the special attention he needs?"
"Special attention?"
The sarcasm in his tone and the skepticism on his face bewildered Anna.
"Yes," she said. "I think your son needs some extra attention—"
He interrupted her with his upraised hand. "Tim isn't my son," he told her quietly.
