“No,” Linda interrupted, her voice emphatic. “If you think about it you won’t do it. There’s paper here, and I’ve got an envelope and stamp in the office. Go for it.”
Cathy’s hand hovered over the paper while Linda left for her office. She chewed on the end of the pen and shifted her chin from the palm of one hand to the palm of the other. Finally she scribbled, Interested in soaring. Heights negotiable. She signed it Snoopy and gave the post office box where she collected her mail. She’d read the six-word message ten times and was ready to throw it away when Linda returned, snapped it from her hand, and placed it inside the envelope.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Cathy mumbled. “There must be something basically wrong with me.”
“There is,” Linda confirmed. “You’re lonely.”
Cathy’s responding smile was weak. It was a lot more than lonely, but she didn’t explain.
Having made arrangements with the teachers earlier in the week, Cathy was able to leave the school before twelve. She was determined to speak to Grady Jones one way or another. Following the directions Linda had given her, Cathy arrived at the airfield promptly at noon.
Her car door slammed with the force of the September wind, shutting it for her. Another gust whipped her hair about her face and stimulated her cheeks until they were a rosy hue. She stopped to examine the buildings. A large hangar took up one side of the open field to the right of the runway. Directly beside the hangar was a smaller building she assumed must be the office. A large overhead sign read ALASKA CARGO COMPANY.
Checking her wristwatch, Cathy noted it was thirteen minutes after noon. Right on time. Her watch naturally ran thirteen minutes fast, which suited her since she hated being late. If Grady Jones hadn’t arrived, she was prepared to wait. With her black leather purse tucked under her arm, she approached the smaller structure. As she neared the office a man dressed in grease-smeared overalls and a matching cap emerged from one of the hangars.
“Can I help you?” he questioned, his eyes surveying her with interest.
“I’m here to see Mr. Jones,” she replied in a crisp business tone.
Something indecipherable flickered across the weathered face, but Cathy couldn’t read him. She wondered if this was the man who’d answered her persistent calls. Had he recognized her voice?
“Grady’s inside,” the man replied, and wiped his hands on a rag that hung from his hip pocket. “I’ll take you to his office. Follow me.” He led the way, yanking open the office door. He was halfway through the entrance when he stopped as if suddenly remembering his manners and hurriedly stepped aside, allowing Cathy to enter ahead of him.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, and indicated two worn chairs just inside the door. He disappeared behind another door around the counter. The office appeared to be divided into two areas. The outer room contained a long counter that was littered with papers, graphs, and charts. Behind it, the walls were papered by several maps. The two chairs were covered with old newspapers and dog-eared magazines. Cathy decided to stand.
When the mechanic returned, his eyes glanced over her appreciatively. “Grady will see you now.” He held the door open as Cathy moved behind the counter.
Her heels clicked against the faded linoleum floor, and the sound seemed to echo all around her. Unconsciously, she held her breath and clenched her purse, as if to steel herself for the encounter.
Grady Jones was standing when she entered the room, and her eyes were instantly drawn to the lean, dark features of the strikingly handsome man. Curly chestnut-colored hair grew with rakish disregard across his wide forehead. His eyes were surprisingly blue, the same color as an Arctic blue fox’s. They glinted round and intelligent. His full, almost bushy eyebrows were quirked expectantly, and Cathy realized she was staring. Nervously, she cleared her throat.
“Grady Jones?” she questioned briskly, disguising her shattered composure.
“Yes.” His mouth twitched with humor.
This man was well aware of the power of his attraction, Cathy mused, disliking him all the more. If he thought he could disarm her with one devastating smile, then he was wrong. Leaning forward slightly, Cathy extended her hand over the cluttered desk.
“I’m pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Jones,” she said with a trace of contempt. “I’m Cathy Thompson, Angela’s basic skills instructor.”
Grady accepted her hand, capturing it between two massive ones and holding it longer than she liked. Their eyes dueled, hers cool and distrusting, his deepening as they narrowed.
He dropped her hand, and it fell limply at her side. “Yes, I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Miss Thompson.”
“You’ve heard quite a lot from me, too,” she emphasized. “However, you’ve chosen to ignore my messages and phone calls.”
“Listen, Miss Thompson, I’m a busy man. I’ve got a business to run. I can’t—”
“Let me assure you, I’m just as busy,” she interrupted curtly. “But I believe Angela is important enough for us both to spare a few minutes.”
“All right, I’ll admit Angela’s got problems.”
Cathy had to restrain herself from saying that she thought most of the girl’s difficulties stemmed from an uncaring father. “Angela’s a sweet, sensitive six-year-old child with social and academic deficiencies,” Cathy began. “But it’s my guess that most of her academic difficulties are a result of dyslexia. I’d like your permission to have her tested.”
“Dyslexia?” Concern furrowed the tanned brow.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Cathy was quick to assure him. “It’s a neurological disorder that affects one’s ability to read, spell, and sometimes speak correctly. It’s not uncommon for a girl to be dyslexic, but almost three times as many boys are as girls.”
“Dyslexic.” He repeated the word and slumped into a large rollback chair.
“Angela’s in the first grade and has problems reading at the first-grade level, or printing her letters correctly.”
“She’s a lot like I was at her age,” Grady murmured. “Only back then they called it word blindness.”
“They have a name for it now,” she said softly.
Grady looked up, and for the first time seemed to notice that he was sitting, while she was standing. “Sit down, Miss Thompson, please.”
Cathy obliged. “Dyslexia affects three areas of learning. Audio, visual, and kinetic, which is the sense of touch or feel. Angela is affected in each area, but to what extent won’t be known until she’s been tested.”
He drew in a deep breath. “You say there’s a name for it now. Is there a cure?”
“No,” she explained bluntly. “But there is help. Once my suspicions have been confirmed. Angela is going to need a tutor.”
“It’s done. Send me a bill.”
Anger gripped Cathy. This man seemed to think everything could be solved with a signature at the bottom of a check.
“It’s not quite that simple, Mr. Jones,” she said, keeping a tight rein on her feelings. “It’s not my responsibility to find a tutor for your daughter. I’ll be happy to give you a list of those recommended by the school district. But finding the one who would work best with Angela is up to you.” She spoke in a stiff, professional manner. “I’m also of the opinion that your lack of interest may be the cause of the emotional problems Angela has …” She stopped, clenching her hands tightly. Stating her feelings on the way Grady Jones chose to raise his daughter wasn’t part of her job.
“That may be.” The blue eyes became chips of glacial ice. “But I’m only interested in your academic impressions. I could care less if you think I rate a Father’s Day card or not.”
“I’m sure.” Abruptly, she rose to her feet. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” She couldn’t prevent the waspish tone. “After all, time is money.”
“That’s right, and you’ve taken up fifteen minutes already
.”
Fists balled at her sides with building outrage, she stalked from the office. He followed her out, opening the front door as if he couldn’t be rid of her fast enough.
“I’ll mail you the list of tutors,” she said, in a way that conveyed the message she would rather have communicated with him by means of the post office.
“You do that,” he shot back.
His eyes seemed to bore into her back as she moved across the parking lot. Hating that he was watching her, she opened the passenger side of her car and climbed inside, scooting across the narrow enclosure. She couldn’t leave the airfield fast enough, her tires spinning as she rounded the corner and merged with the street traffic.
Her fingers were trembling by the time she pulled into the parking lot at the school. If the meeting had gone poorly, it was her fault. She should have left her opinions out of it. Everything had been fine until she’d impulsively overstepped the boundary.
Looking at Grady Jones was like looking at her father. Not that there was any striking physical resemblance. Her father had died when Cathy was sixteen, yet she hardly remembered his physical features. She had a vague image of a tall, lanky man who drifted in and out of her life at inconvenient intervals. Donald Thompson had been a workaholic. Her mother had recognized and accepted the fact long before his death. And in reality little had changed in their lives after he was gone. He was so seldom home for any lengthy period of time that life went on as it had in the past.
Grady Jones showed all the symptoms. He was never home when she phoned, no matter how late. He worked himself hard and probably expected as much from those he employed. The lines of fatigue had fanned out from his eyes as if it had been a long time since he’d seen a bed. If he continued as he was, he’d probably end up like her father. Dead at fifty-five. Why the fact should bother her, Cathy wasn’t sure. Personally, she didn’t care for the man. Striking good looks didn’t disguise the fact he was ambitious, selfish, and hard-nosed. She preferred a man who was kind, sincere, gentle. A man like— Her mind stopped before the name could form.
“You’re back already?” Linda greeted her as she stepped into the school. “That didn’t take long.”
“I didn’t imagine it would,” Cathy said, the inflection in her tone voicing her sentiment. “Grady Jones is a busy man.”
Linda nodded knowingly. “Relax a minute. There’s no need to hurry back, Tom’s taking over for you. I bet you didn’t eat lunch.”
“No,” Cathy admitted, “I haven’t.”
“I could use a break myself. I’ll come with you.” A smile formed in Linda’s large brown eyes. The two women had been instant friends. Although they’d met only two months before, it was as if they had known each other for years. The contrast between them was impressive. Linda was barely five feet tall, a cute, doe-eyed pixie. Her laughter was easy, her nature gentle. Linda had met her husband, Dan, through the personal column, naturally, and they had been happily married for seven years. The only gray cloud that hung over her friend’s head was that Linda desperately wanted children. The doctors had repeatedly assured them there was nothing wrong and that eventually Linda would become pregnant. Once Cathy had overheard someone ask Linda how many children she had. Without so much as blinking, Linda had looked up and replied three hundred. By all accounts she wasn’t wrong. As the school secretary, Linda did more mothering in one day than some mothers did all year.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Linda asked, as she sat at the table they had occupied that morning.
Cathy took the sandwich from the bag she’d brought with her that morning, examining its contents as if she had forgotten it was bologna and cheese. She knew that one look at her face and Linda knew everything had not gone as she’d wanted. “I blew it, plain and simple.”
“He agreed to the tests, didn’t he?”
Miserably, she nodded, shoving the bread back inside the brown paper sack. “He agreed to the tests, more or less, but I may have alienated him forever. I think it would be best if any future communication with Grady Jones were handled by mail.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. If he agreed to having Angela tested, you succeeded.” The bell rang and students began shuffling out of their classrooms, jerking Linda’s attention. “I better get back. Oh, by the way, I mailed your envelope.”
“Great.” Cathy’s reply lacked enthusiasm. What kind of man did she ever expect to find through the personals?
* * *
Cathy spent Monday afternoon with Angela Jones. The child invoked a protective response in her. She was small for her age, her blue eyes as large and trusting as a baby seal’s. She followed the directions carefully, doing everything that was asked of her.
“You were very good, Angela.” Cathy playfully tugged a long brown pigtail.
“Daddy said I should be,” she replied shyly, her eyes not meeting Cathy’s. “You’ll tell him I was, won’t you?”
Cathy didn’t have the heart to tell the little girl that she doubted she’d ever see her father again. “When I see your father, I’ll tell him you were one of the very best.”
Angela smiled, revealing that her two front teeth were missing. Cathy couldn’t remember ever having seen the child smile. It was the memory of that toothless grin that buoyed her spirits as Cathy stopped in at the grocery store for a few items Monday after school. The store was directly beside the post office, which made it convenient if she needed anything. She was sorting through her bills when the boldfaced handwriting stared up at her. She nearly missed a step as she stopped cold. The envelope was addressed to Snoopy.
Chapter Two
Cathy glanced at her watch as she slid across the red upholstered booth in the restaurant. Eight-fifteen. Because her watch was thirteen minutes fast she realized she was almost a half-hour early. The letter had said eight-thirty.
A waitress came with a glass of water and a menu. “I’m waiting for someone,” Cathy told her hesitantly. “I’ll just have coffee until my … my friend arrives.”
“Sure,” the woman said with a distracted smile.
Cathy had chosen to sit in the booth that was positioned so she could watch whoever entered the restaurant. At least that way she would recognize him the minute he walked in the door. His letter said he’d be wearing a red scarf. With unsteady fingers she opened the clasp of her purse and removed the letter. She must have read it thirty times, not sure what she expected to find. There didn’t seem to be any unspoken messages or sexual overtones. The whole idea of meeting a total stranger was absurd. At least he’d suggested a public place. If he hadn’t she wouldn’t have done it. She wasn’t quite sure what had prompted her coming as it was. It was more than curiosity.
Cathy had dated a couple times the first month she was in Fairbanks. It hadn’t worked out either time. She hadn’t been ready to deal with a new relationship. She wasn’t convinced now was the time, either, but she realized she had to try. Living the way she had been, with thoughts of Steve taunting her day and night, was intolerable.
Extracting the letter from the envelope, Cathy decided for the tenth time she liked the handwriting. It was large and bold, as if the man knew what he wanted and wouldn’t hesitate to go after it. The message was direct, without superfluous words to flower the letter. It read, “Snoopy: negotiations open. Meet me Friday 8:30 p.m., Captain Bartlett’s. I’ll wear a red neck scarf.” He hadn’t asked her to identify herself. Cathy appreciated that. If he walked in the restaurant and she didn’t like what she saw, she could leave. Somehow, she decided, it didn’t matter what he looked like. In an unexplainable way, she liked him already. Certainly she wasn’t expecting a handsome prince on a white stallion. Any man who would place an ad in the personals was probably unattractive, shy, and …
Her thoughts did a crazy tailspin as the restaurant door opened. Cathy saw the red scarf before she recognized the face. She swallowed in an attempt to ease the paralysis that gripped her throat. It was Grady Jones, Angela’s father.
Gr
ady’s unnerving blue eyes met hers across the distance. He knew. A smile of recognition flickered over his mouth as he came toward her. Cathy felt trapped, her eyes unable to leave the muscular frame. Darn it, he was good-looking. He wore a dark wool jacket over a blue turtleneck sweater. The sweater intensified the color of his eyes, making them almost indigo.
“Snoopy?” he queried evenly, resting the palms of his hands on the edge of the table.
Cathy gestured weakly, instantly conveying how unsettling this whole experience was to her. “Yes.” The one word sounded torn and ragged.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked, clearly struggling not to laugh.
She was glad he found the situation amusing. There didn’t seem to be any other way to look at it. “All right,” Cathy agreed, her voice somewhat steadier.
He slid into the booth, sitting across from her. The waitress came, and he turned over his coffee cup so she could fill it.
“Would you like a menu?”
“No,” Cathy answered quickly.
“Yes, we would,” Grady contradicted.
The waitress glanced from one to the other, unsure. “I’ll leave two. Let me know when you’re ready to order, but I have a feeling it’s going to be a while.”
Grady looked at Cathy. “Well, Miss Thompson, we meet again. I’ll admit I’m surprised. You don’t look like the type of woman who plays the personals.”
“I don’t … normally,” she qualified, feeling defensive.
“What made you this time?”
“I have this friend …” she began, and paused. She couldn’t blame Linda. She’d made the decision to go ahead with this idea herself. “I liked your ad,” she told him honestly.
The bushy eyebrows quirked upward. “I liked your response.”
“Did you get many?”
“A few.”
Silence.
“You don’t like me, do you?” There wasn’t any derision in his voice. It was a statement of fact more than a question.
“I don’t think I do. You’re a rotten father, and you work too hard.”
That Wintry Feeling (Debbie Macomber Classics) Page 2
