by Jane Porter
The principal, Dr. Fielding, is at the microphone, and the meeting begins. Every school meeting seems to be filled with the same good-intentioned people making the same good-intentioned speeches that all somehow manage to be achingly boring.
The Korean family next to me with three kids attempts to shush their youngest, a toddler, as she fusses. I look at the child with sympathy. I want to fuss, too.
People continue to arrive even though it’s now fifteen minutes past the hour. One man arrives and takes a position against the wall not far from me, and immediately heads turn and people murmur. The man looks quite nice, broad-shouldered, sturdy, a balding head, but otherwise ordinary, and I’m not sure who he is or why he’s suddenly attracting so much attention.
“Steve,” someone a row down from me whispers, “here, take my seat.”
“Steve, do you want to sit here?”
“Hey, Steve, I don’t mind standing if you want to sit.”
But Steve declines each offer, shaking his head and smiling. “No, no, I’m fine,” he answers.
I’m curious about this very popular Steve. He does look familiar, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve seen his picture somewhere or if it’s because he looks like the wholesome, hardworking midwestern farmer I used in an ad campaign last month.
Tuning out the third speaker, I glance around and spot faces from the Points Country Club pool. Lana. Taylor with her husband, Nathan—he is good-looking in a very scrubbed Ralph Lauren polo ad sort of way. Mary-Ann Lavick, who definitely didn’t enjoy my company at last week’s brunch.
I continue scanning the crowd, impressed by the number of dads who have shown up. It’s good to see so many men taking an interest in their kids’ education. I know my dad never attended any school meetings, not even the parent-teacher conferences. That was always my mom’s job. But then, anything to do with me seemed to be Mom’s job.
Maybe that’s why I had a baby on my own. If my mom could do it, why couldn’t I?
Then, as I finish scanning the gym, looking for anything remotely interesting, my heart falls and I go all hot and fizzy.
He’s here.
He’s here right now, standing at the back of the gym with dozens of others, yet he stands out. Head and shoulders far above everyone else.
I take a quick breath, jolted.
I thought he was huge when he passed me in the fog on 84th Street, thought he was imposing at the grocery store, but here, next to the other men, the other dads, he looks like a mountain.
As I sit there gawking, he turns his head and looks at me.
It’s the same cool, piercing gaze from before. It’s intense. Discomfiting.
Flustered, I look away, shift uncomfortably in my seat.
My eyes burn, and my pulse races. I feel breathless again, which is ridiculous because I’m not running, not even moving. I’m just sitting in a putty-colored metal chair listening to people talk about buying new math technology and fund-raising to afford more teacher aides. Yet I can’t breathe. I can’t get enough air.
Suddenly too warm, I take the program given to us and fan myself. Hot, I’m so hot, and I wish I hadn’t worn all black with this car coat on top.
But it’s not me making myself hot. It’s him. And I can’t let him do this to me, can’t respond like this. So ridiculous, so silly. I’m being silly.
Yet I turn my head and look again. I’m like a schoolgirl, completely infatuated and unable to stop myself.
He’s so . . . so . . . everything.
He has the coloring of great Scottish warlords, his short, thick hair shades of red and gold, and his features are strong, male, as though whittled by wind and weather and war. He reminds me of a time long ago, of battles and warriors, peasants and kings.
Makes me almost wish I believed in love.
Makes me wish—even if it’s just for a split second—that I had someone like him at my side. With me, to love me, maybe even protect me.
I never wish for things like that. I’m an independent woman, a fiercely self-sufficient woman, but lately . . . lately . . .
I blink, give my head an all but imperceptible shake. The romantic stuff has got to stop. I’m a mom at Back-to-School Night, and he’s not part of an ad campaign, he’s not part of some great sales scheme.
If he’s here tonight, he’s a dad. He’s someone’s father. And most likely someone’s husband.
But he hadn’t been wearing a ring last Thursday night at P. F. Chang’s, and neither was his date.
Which means he could be divorced or widowed.
He looks my way again, and our eyes lock, hold.
I’m glad I’m sitting. I don’t think I could stand right now.
I don’t believe in love at first sight. Haven’t wanted to feel anything for anyone in so long, but he, this complete stranger, does something to me. He makes me feel so much, it hurts.
I’m not prone to infatuation, but I’m overwhelmed at the moment. I need to get out of here, need to get home and out of these clothes and into my tattered jeans and my paint-splattered clogs and my big oversize men’s shirts I wear on fall weekends.
The principal wraps up his talk, and the moment he’s excused everyone, I’m on my feet, purse under my arm, racing for the door.
I’m literally fleeing the building, practically running for my truck, when I turn smack into a rather unmovable chest.
I know who it is. I can tell. I can feel the size and width and warmth, and every nerve ending in my body screams. I’m wound so tight, I stumble back a step and then another.
“You all right?” asks a deep voice, a voice that rumbles its vowels and consonants.
My chest constricts, growing tighter and tighter, and I still haven’t made eye contact. I’m afraid to, yet normally I’m fearless. “Yes.”
“We’ve never met,” he says, and thankfully he doesn’t extend a hand. I don’t think I could touch him. I don’t want to touch him.
“Luke Flynn,” he adds.
“Marta Zinsser,” I answer, finally lifting my gaze and looking up, all the way up. He towers over me. He’s taller than six feet six—I’d swear he’s at least six seven. I’ve never met anyone this big who was also so unbelievably gorgeous.
His gaze narrows as it rests on my face. “You have a daughter.”
I nod. “Eva. She’s in fourth grade.” My heart’s thumping so hard, I struggle to say the next words. “And you? How old are your kids?”
“Not married. No kids.” The edge of his mouth lifts ever so faintly, almost slyly.
He knows I’m interested in him. The heat in his eyes isn’t my imagination. He’s interested in me, too.
“You just miss your elementary school days?” My voice sounds breathy, unsteady.
“I’m a Big Brother to a little guy here. I come to his school events whenever his parents can’t.”
I’m speechless. It’s the last scenario I imagined.
Luke glances at the throngs of parents heading to classrooms now. “Better go. Don’t want to be late.”
I nod, and as I look at him, I feel the strangest thing, as though something in me, something fragile, is about to fall. “I need to go, too.” I force a smile. “Good-bye, Luke.”
“Good night, Marta.”
I join the parents moving like great herds of cattle to yet another holding pen and enter Mrs. Shipley’s classroom with the others. Lots of parents sit at the student desks, while a few moms and dads line the wall.
I’m about to take a place on the wall, but one of the moms from the room parent meeting gestures to me. “You’re supposed to sit at Eva’s desk.”
“Thanks.” I squeeze through the clusters of small chairs to reach Eva’s desk and sit in the small chair.
The classroom door opens and a man sticks his head inside, takes a look around, and then just as swiftly leaves. I recognize him from the gym. It’s the balding man, the one named Steve.
I turn to one of the dads at the small desk next to me. “Do you know who tha
t man was?” I ask, nodding at the door. “I think I overheard someone call him Steve.”
“Yeah, that’s Ballmer,” the dad answers. “Steve Ballmer. CEO of Microsoft. Gates’s right-hand man.”
Ah, right. No wonder he’s familiar. His face is only plastered over the Seattle papers’ business sections every other week. “He seems like a nice guy.”
The wife of the man I’ve been talking to leans forward and whispers, “His wife’s lovely, too. I like her a lot. And you wouldn’t know they’re . . . you know. They’re not flashy, not material. Not like a lot of people around here.”
Wow. Someone with an honest opinion. I like this lady, whoever she is. Smiling, I extend my hand. “Marta Zinsser, Eva’s mom.”
“Lori and Jake Hunter, Jill’s parents.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. And it is.
The next week I’m busier than ever between sales calls, business lunches, and then the rescheduled dinner on Tuesday with Frank and the Freedom Bike Group.
The dinner at Cutter’s, a seafood restaurant on Seattle’s waterfront, goes better than my wildest dreams. I like the men, all of them, even the guy with the long handlebar mustache who spoke only twice.
I remember what Frank said about this being just a relaxed, get-acquainted dinner, so I go as myself, dressing in wide-legged charcoal black slacks and a white blouse tucked and belted at the waist. I’ve pulled my hair in a loose knot at the back of my head and am wearing hoop earrings and a silver chain with a red polished stone.
I’m relaxed as Frank introduces me to the various partners and executives in the bar. We talk over drinks for an hour before we’re taken to a private dining room for dinner.
Seeing as it’s a bike group, I’m surprised at how many order fish entrées instead of beef. There are more drinks during dinner, but I stop at two, knowing I’ve got to drive, and no one presses any more on me.
Later, Frank walks me out as the valet attendant gets my truck. “What do you think?” he asks me bluntly. “People you can work with?”
“Yes. I like everyone. A lot.”
“They liked you, too.”
“So you haven’t told them about my Harley?”
Frank cocks his head, and his teeth flash despite the beard. “No. I think I’ll wait until you get the job.”
I can see my Ford truck approach. The valet driver is almost to us, and Frank checks out the truck, whistles. “Is that yours?”
“Yeah,” I answer, pride in my voice.
“You’re not like most women, are you?”
I laugh and tip the driver and prepare to climb behind the wheel. “You know what’s funny, Frank? My daughter tells me that all the time.”
“Does it bother you?”
I start the engine. “Only sometimes.”
Eva comes home from school Wednesday afternoon with something entirely new on her mind.
She announces that she’s putting my wedding plans on hold to focus on this year’s school walk-a-thon, which is just days away now, and it’s an idea I want to support, but it still involves my spending lots of money.
“Of course you’ll sponsor me,” she says, her sharpened pencil poised over the yellow pledge form. “Should I put you down for five dollars a lap?”
I’ve just made her a quick cheese quesadilla as a snack before I dash back to the studio to continue working. “How many laps are you planning on walking?”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty?” Like I’m going to cut a check to the school for two hundred and fifty dollars for a walking event when the damn phone-a-thon is less than a month away. And don’t think you can escape the phone calls, either. It’s for our kids. It’s for the future.
Well, the future’s stressing me out.
“Mom, they’re not quarter-mile laps. They’re smaller, around the baseball field.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Then how much? Two fifty a lap?”
“Two dollars and fifty cents?”
“Mom, it’s a fund-raiser.”
“Eva, I already pay the school.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, it’s called taxes.”
She makes a shrrmphing sound, blowing air out between her front teeth. “Everyone does that. You’re supposed to give more.”
“Says who?” She’s been going to way too many school fund-raiser assemblies.
“The school. The PTA. The Bellevue Unified School Foundation.”
She’s got her pencil poised again, hovering over the little pledge box. “So how much, Mom?”
“I don’t know.” I can’t commit just yet, can’t promise anything, not when I’m feeling railroaded into something I don’t want to do and am not entirely sure I can afford. One fund-raiser, yes. Two, maybe. Three, four, five? Come on. I’m a single mom, and I don’t work for Microsoft.
Eva’s reaching for the phone. “Fine. I’ll just call Grandma and Grandpa. And then Aunt Shey and Aunt Tiana. Oh, and Chris and Robert and Allie, too. Are they still here or have they gone already?”
Lucky bastards. They’ve gone. “They’ve headed home.”
“I’ll just call Grandma, then.”
My mom answers the phone at their house, and from what I can hear she’s in a chatty mood today. Mom and Eva discuss the weather and then Eva’s ideas for Halloween costumes and schoolwork, which provides Eva with the opening she needs to bring up the walk-a-thon.
My mom isn’t a hard sell, but then I didn’t expect her to be. When I was in grade school, my mom was president of the PTA.
Eva looks smugly at me as she asks my mom, “So will you want to make a flat donation, Grandma? Or would you like to pledge a certain amount for each lap?”
Eva suddenly gasps, her voice strangled. “A nickel a lap, Grandma? A nickel isn’t very much, Grandma. A nickel’s . . . well, like a penny.”
I’m not entirely sure what my mom says, but Eva’s now backpedaling as fast as she can.
“Not a penny, Grandma. No. You’re right, Grandma, a nickel is better than a penny.”
So my mom hasn’t completely lost her mind. She knows how to deal with a money-grubber.
Eva meanwhile turns to me. “Mom, will you please talk to her?”
“It’s your walk-a-thon.”
“It’s your mom.”
Touché. I take the phone. “Mom. Hi. It’s Marta, and it’s great that you’re helping Eva. Thank you so much.”
“I’m glad, dear,” she says. “I always used to help you, but you didn’t do walk-a-thons, though. You used to do swim-a-thons, for your swim team. Remember?”
“I do. That’s why I knew you’d want to sponsor Eva. And if you pledged fifty cents a lap, or a quarter a lap, you’d really help her.”
“A quarter? That’s a lot of money.”
“It sounds like it, Mom, but if Eva walks twenty laps, that’s only five dollars.”
“That’s not too much. All right, then, I’ll pledge a quarter, but tell her not to walk too many because I don’t want to spend too much money. Oh, I have to go now. My favorite show is on. Good-bye.” Before I can say anything, my mom has hung up.
Eva’s standing at the counter, watching me. “Mom, is she crazy?”
I think about my mom, who she was and the horrible disease taking her away from us, and sigh heavily. “Just a little bit.”
The much anticipated walk-a-thon arrives just days later, on the third Friday of September.
Eva has hit up my friends Shey and Tiana just as she promised, as well as cornering each of my office staff. Robert and Allie are always great about sponsoring her or donating to the latest school fund-raiser, but Chris hates these things.
As the walk-a-thon is held after school, I wait in the crush of moms as Eva registers and picks up her official lap card. It’s a beautiful day, not too warm and not too cold, and the blue sky overhead is a perfect foil for massive maple trees surrounding the school track. The leaves are just starting to turn red, and the nearby poplars are tur
ning yellow.
Tucking my fingers into my jeans pockets, I listen to Dr. Fielding announce that the walk-a-thon will kick off in five minutes.
Eva has her white walk-a-thon T-shirt pulled over her tank T-shirt and shorts, and her long dark ponytail hangs to the middle of her back. Like the other kids, she wears a lap card around her neck. Apparently, every fifth or tenth lap the kids earn a reward called a “yum,” which allows them to get something tasty from the snack stand.
The noise grows louder as kids crowd the start point, a mass of eager bodies in T-shirts, shorts, and jeans. Suddenly the music blares and the kids are off, bursting into a mad run that will soon slow to a more sedate walk as they continue to go round and round and round.
It’s hard to keep an eye on Eva with the hundred kids all racing the track in matching white T-shirts. It’s while I’m searching the crowd for Eva that I see him. Luke.
Luke’s here today, and he’s always taller than everybody, and he stands in such a way that his shoulders aren’t just broad, they look as if he’s got football gear on.
He’s noticed me, too, and he smiles faintly, the same half smile from Back-to-School Night, when everything seemed so hot and electric.
I feel hot and electric again, and it was one thing in my twenties to feel wildly passionate about someone, but I hadn’t expected this in my mid-thirties, much less after having a child.
Jamming my hands into my jeans jacket pockets, I try to ignore that adrenaline rush I get every time I see him.
Why does he do this to me?
Why do I do this to myself?
I gave up on love and romance a decade ago, and it’s not on my task list of things to do. I have important things on my task list. Things like career and kids and accomplishing my goals.
Suddenly it’s bedlam as the children swarm the moms, each one panting and holding up his or her lap card to be marked.
As the kids take off again, I find myself glancing once more in Luke’s direction, and he’s looking straight at me. He stares long and hard, as if I intrigue him or amuse him somehow.
