Almost An Angel

by Judith Arnold

  ALMOST AN ANGEL

  The Daddy School

  Judith Arnold

  “Judith Arnold writes beautifully and poignantly. Highly recommended!” Romance Readers Anonymous

  Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Keiler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To learn more about the author, and to sign up for her newsletter, please visit her website.

  .

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the Author

  About the Daddy School

  Chapter One

  THE CALL CAME during a meeting, interrupting Conor in mid-sentence. Three engineers and his VP of marketing were seated around the table in GateKeepers’ conference room, and the technology officer of a West Coast software firm appeared on a monitor at one end of the table, courtesy of Skype. Conor had been elaborating on the features of GateKeepers’ network security software to the West Coast guy when the phone at his elbow dinged.

  He muttered an impatient “Excuse me,” and lifted the handset. “Yeah?”

  “Amy’s school is on the line,” Marion reported.

  His daughter’s school? Not good. He thanked Marion, then sent an apologetic look to his colleagues and the disembodied head on the screen at the opposite end of the table from him. “Sorry, people. I’ve got to take this.” He stood, asked his VP to explain more of the software’s selling points to the West Coast guy, and slipped out of the room, the phone’s cordless handset clenched in his fist.

  He shut the door before pressing the button to connect the call. Taking a steadying breath, he forced some optimism into his voice before saying, “Conor Malone here.”

  “Hello.” A woman’s voice, smooth as satin. “This is Eliza Powell, the school psychologist. I just had Amy in my office.”

  Conor didn’t recognize the woman’s name. Where was Rosalyn Hoffman, the wonderful school shrink who’d gotten Amy through so much trauma last year?

  No matter. Whoever this new shrink was, if Amy had been sent to her office, it was definitely not good. “What happened?”

  “It seems she punched another student.”

  “Punched?” he blurted out, then glanced around him. He had the hallway to himself, but the software team in the main room could have heard him if they’d wanted to. Most of them were so absorbed in their work, lobbing ideas back and forth like ping-pong balls, that they probably weren’t even aware of their boss standing just a few feet away, receiving unwelcome news. Even so, he lowered his voice when he said, “How could she punch someone? She’s a little girl.”

  “As I understand it, the boy she punched—”

  “She punched a boy?”

  “—is two inches taller than her and outweighs her by twenty-five pounds. He isn’t hurt. If he was, she would have been sent to the principal’s office for disciplinary action, not to me.”

  “I’m sorry—who are you again?”

  “Eliza Powell. The school psychologist.”

  “What happened to Dr. Hoffman?”

  “She retired.”

  Damn. He’d liked Dr. Hoffman. More important, Amy had liked her. And trusted her. Dr. Hoffman had helped Amy endure a trauma no third-grade girl should ever have had to experience.

  Amy was in fourth grade now. Apparently she still needed help. “My daughter punched a boy,” he muttered.

  “She said he was making fun of her.”

  Then the bastard deserved whatever Amy had done to him, Conor thought, his protective-dad reflexes kicking in. “Look, Ms.—Dr.—Pollack—”

  “Powell,” she corrected him.

  “I’m sorry. Dr. Powell. Amy’s been through a lot in the past year. If her classmates are making fun of her—”

  “According to Amy, the boy told her she was stupid for believing in Santa Claus. She said he called her an idiot, among other things.”

  “So she punched him.” Conor knew he ought to be angry with his daughter. He supposed he’d have to give her a stern lecture that evening. But hell—a boy had called her an idiot for believing in Santa. If Conor had been there, he might have been tempted to slug the kid himself.

  “Amy seems to believe,” Dr. Powell continued, “that her mother is Santa’s angel, and that Santa is going to bring her mother to her this year for Christmas. I’m new here at the Adams School, Mr. Malone, but I’ve read Amy’s file. I’m not sure where she got the idea that Santa was going to bring her mother back to her, but if she truly believes that, she’s going to be in for a huge disappointment Christmas morning.”

  Conor knew where she’d gotten the idea: from his parents last week at Thanksgiving. He and Amy had traveled to Maine for the holiday, and Amy had been anxious and weepy, worrying about how she was going to survive another Christmas without her mother. Last year had been a horror, Sheila’s death still so fresh in his and Amy’s hearts that they hadn’t celebrated Christmas at all. This year he was determined that his daughter would rediscover the joy of the holiday.

  But she’d been moody and fretful last week, bursting into tears at the slightest provocation, until her grandmother had come up with the bizarre idea of assuring Amy that Sheila was Santa’s special angel. When Amy had asked whether Santa would give her her mother for Christmas, Conor’s mother had said yes. When Amy had asked her grandfather for confirmation, he’d loyally backed up his wife.

  The lie had made for a much happier Thanksgiving. But now Conor was stuck dealing with the aftermath.

  “All right,” he said, remembering that he was supposed to be in the conference room, participating in an important meeting. “What happens next? Is the boy planning to press charges? Do I have to hire a lawyer?”

  “No. The boy was sent the principal’s office and treated to a discussion about exercising sensitivity toward others. Amy was sent to my office because…”

  “Because her mother died a year ago and the school is handling her with kid gloves,” Conor guessed.

  The school psychologist hesitated before saying, “I think she deserves kid-glove treatment, don’t you?”

  Yes and no. His daughter had suffered a loss no child should ever experience. But she couldn’t go around punching people just because they’d insulted her.

  “I think Amy would benefit from some more therapy,” the psychologist continued. “This is going to be a rough season for her, especially if she believes Santa is going to bring her mother down the chimney and leave her under the tree. I’d be happy to meet with her. If you’d rather she continue with Rosalyn Hoffman, I believe she’s working part-time in a private group practice. Your insurance might cover it.”

  “Right.” Damn. Insurance, therapy, shrinks… Conor believed he and Amy had made genuine progress over the past year. They were functioning. Their home was running smoothly. Amy was doing well in school—when she wasn’t punching her classmates—and she was flourishing in the after-school program he’d enrolled her in at the YMCA. He really, really didn’t want to go back to where they’d been in the first months after the accident.

  But she was his daughter. His motherless daughter. If she needed more therapy, she’d get it. With Dr. Hoffman or with this new school shrink: Potter, Powers…Powell. If Dr. Powell could make Amy happy—without spoon-feeding her troublesome lies—Conor would be grateful.


  “Where is Amy now?” he asked.

  “Back in her classroom. Linda Rodriguez says things are under control,” she added, naming Amy’s teacher.

  “Does the school want to meet with me?”

  “That’s your call. If you’d like to schedule a session with me—with or without Amy—we can do that. If you’d rather work with Rosalyn Hoffman, I’ll email you the phone number at her new practice. We have your email address on file.”

  They certainly did. Last year, when the pain of Sheila’s death had been so raw, the school had been in constant touch with Conor. They had his work, home and cell phone numbers, his work and personal email addresses and his postal address. If he’d had a special smoke-signal frequency, he was sure they’d have that on file, too.

  “If there are any more dust-ups, I’ll be in touch,” Dr. Powell promised. “You might want to sign Amy up for a taekwondo class. Not that I’m advocating violence, but she’s not exactly effective when it comes to punching.”

  Was that a joke? Was Conor actually grinning? “Thanks,” he said. For keeping an eye on my daughter. For not entering a discipline report into her file.

  For making me smile.

  *

  HE APPEARED in the open doorway of her office as she was packing her tote and waiting for her computer to shut down. She already had her coat on, a scarf looped carelessly around her neck. She hadn’t parked too far from the door, but she knew to bundle up before leaving the school building. The early December afternoon was gray and cold enough to make her muscles clench.

  The man looming on the threshold to her office was enough to make her muscles clench, too—but not from cold. His windblown hair was thick and dark and just long enough to place him on the far side of fashionable. The rest of him wasn’t terribly fashionable, either—snug blue jeans, a ribbed sweater over a striped shirt, scuffed loafers and a bomber jacket of well-worn leather.

  He could be anyone. A parent. A friend of a friend of a friend. A lost driver seeking directions. A crazed gunman.

  A ridiculously handsome crazed gunman.

  Her apprehension mounting, she swallowed to relax her throat so she wouldn’t sound frightened when she said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Eliza Powell.” He must have sensed her alarm, because he added, “I’m Conor Malone. Amy’s father.”

  “Oh.” She felt her body unwind…slightly. He was still ridiculously handsome. It had been a while since she’d allowed herself to notice any man’s sex appeal, and her reaction to Conor Malone unnerved her a bit. She certainly didn’t want to notice his sex appeal. He was the father of a student. “I’m sorry—you weren’t announced, and—”

  “No one was at the desk in the main office to sign me in,” he said. “There was a custodian there, though, and he recognized me. He told me he didn’t think you’d left for the day yet, and I should just knock on your door.” He gazed at her open door, then rapped it with his knuckles.

  “Oh. Well. Yes.” Which custodian had sent him to her office? Was that how things were done at this school? It seemed a bit too casual. Unsafe, actually. Just because this man said he was Mr. Malone didn’t mean—

  Once again, he seemed to read her thoughts. He pulled his wallet from the hip pocket of his jeans and handed her his driver’s license. The thumbnail photo on it looked like him, and the name on it read Conor Malone.

  Okay. She could stop being paranoid now.

  She handed the license back to him and smiled. “I was just about to leave.”

  “I should have phoned ahead. I was driving over to the Y to pick up Amy.” He eyed the clock on the wall behind Eliza, and she glanced at her watch. Four fifteen. “It’s a little early for me to be getting her,” he said, “but I figured she had a rough day. And I was having trouble concentrating at work, anyway.”

  Eliza offered another smile and wished he was just a bit less attractive. “This isn’t the Y.”

  “It’s on my way. I figured, what the hell, I’d swing by the school and see if I could catch you.” He returned her smile, although he looked wistful, his eyes churning with shadows. “Your call earlier today worried me.”

  “Amy is fine,” Eliza said.

  “She’s not going to be fine on Christmas morning, when her mother isn’t sitting in a pretty gift box under the tree.”

  “You’ve got a few weeks to set her straight about that,” Eliza pointed out. “If there’s anything I can do to make that easier for you, here I am.”

  His gaze swept over her. She detected more than sorrow in it, more than pain. As a child psychologist, she was adept at interpreting the unspoken messages children conveyed with their facial expressions, posture, word choices and energy level. But she didn’t trust herself when it came to deciphering the behavior of adults. Not after she’d so terribly misread a few of the adults in her own life.

  “Hitting a kid isn’t like her,” Conor Malone said. “She’s never been violent.”

  “I’m sure she was frustrated. He was mocking her and he was bigger than her, and he wouldn’t stop. She probably hit him just to get his attention. I suspect the boy hurt her more with his insults than she hurt him with her fist. But once physical aggression enters the picture, the school has to step in and follow procedure.”

  He looked skeptical. “It’s ‘procedure’ to send a kid who hit another kid to the school psychologist instead of the principal?”

  “The school takes special circumstances into account.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it even more. “I thought Amy and I were doing well,” he said, sounding weary.

  “You’re doing fine.” She had no way of knowing that, but he seemed desperate for reassurance.

  He sighed. “Well. Thanks for looking out for her. I shouldn’t keep you.”

  “Not a problem.” Her computer had finally shut down, and she lifted her tote. “Let me know if I can help in any way.”

  His eyes met hers, intense blue fringed with thick, short lashes. They were truly beautiful—and that was not an appropriate thought. She swiftly lowered her gaze.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  When she looked up again, he was gone.

  Chapter Two

  HE WAS THE WORST father in the world. First, because he’d failed to protect his daughter from the pain of losing her mother—not that he’d had the power to do that, but a father ought to protect his daughter, right? And he hadn’t.

  Second, because his daughter had hit a classmate. Only a crappy father would raise a daughter to go around clocking kids.

  Third, because his daughter was seated next to him in the car, yammering about her math test and her swap of an apple for a banana at lunch and the drawing of a sailboat on a lake she’d done during the after-school program at the Y, and all he could think about was Eliza Powell.

  Flurries swirled through the air, as light as dust. Downtown Arlington was already dressed in holiday finery, store windows decked out with wreaths and tinsel, arches beaded with red and green lights spanning the streets overhead, and a jovial-looking fellow in a Santa suit posted in front the Connecticut Bank and Trust building, clanging a bell and shouting Christmas greetings to passers-by who dropped money for charity into a kettle beside him. Conor doubted the light snow would stick, but with or without white stuff, the charming little city nestled into the hills of northwestern Connecticut appeared to be in the holiday spirit.

  He tried to focus on what Amy was saying, and on what he’d say to her about the punching episode. But every part of his attention that wasn’t devoted to the traffic and the weather clung insistently to the woman he’d met at the school.

  She was no Rosalyn Hoffman, that was for sure. The school psychologist who’d worked with Amy last year had been warm and grandmotherly, with a double chin and bushy salt-and-pepper hair. She’d worn nubby sweaters and smelled like vanilla, and whenever she’d seen Conor, she’d reassured him that everything was going to be okay.

  Eliza Powe
ll had offered reassurance, too. But there was nothing grandmotherly about her. She was tall and slim, with dark blond hair that fell in leisurely waves around a face of hazel eyes, angular cheekbones and soft, sweet lips. She’d already had her coat on when Conor had arrived at her office, but she hadn’t closed the coat yet, and he’d glimpsed the sleek curves of her body beneath a sweater that was smooth, not nubby, and tailored slacks that emphasized the length of her legs.

  He should not be thinking about her lips, sweet or otherwise. He should not be thinking about her mouth, her legs, her hair or any of her other features. He hadn’t thought about women in the context of attractiveness since Sheila had died. He’d loved Sheila, and she was gone, and now he had to concentrate all his energy on being a good father.

  Clearly, he was missing that mark by a wide margin.

  Next to him, Amy chattered happily. “Do you think we’ll get lots of snow? I want to build a snowman. Do we have any carrots? Ms. Rodriguez says if you make a snowman’s nose out of a carrot, the birds can eat it. Do birds eat carrots? I thought they just ate seeds and worms. Oh, and berries. Ethan Salvucci said birds fly south for the winter, but they don’t all fly south. I see birds here all year round. What are those red ones called, Daddy?”

  He shook his head to clear it. “Red what, Amy?”

  “Those red birds we saw in the holly bushes.”

  “Cardinals.”

  “Cardinals. We saw two this morning, remember?”

  A year ago, Amy wouldn’t have been babbling like this. She would have been hunkered down in her seat, brooding and withdrawn, staring at her hands clenched in her lap. She’d been so sad last year, alarmingly sad. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad father, if his daughter had finally emerged from the horrible depression that had wrapped around her like a smothering blanket after Sheila’s death.

  But he couldn’t really take credit for that. Dr. Hoffman had insisted that Amy was a healthy girl and in time she would regain her bearings. Conor’s job, according to Dr. Hoffman, was to love her, support her, listen to her and be honest with her. She would do the rest herself.