“Your name please?” the woman interrupted.
Was she going to send Bunny to detention or something? “Bergen. Bunny Bergen. I’m Charlie—”
Again, interrupted. “Ms. Bergen,” the teacher said with stinging condescension. She placed her hands together as if praying and paused again for the effect. “It was each student’s responsibility to supply me with at least one parent email address. And each day, even though it goes against my beliefs, I reminded them to get me that email address. Ms. Bergen—of the fifty-six students in the cast and crew of the spring production of Kiss Me, Kate, one,” she held up her index finger in case Bunny was too doltish to understand. “Only one did not give me a parent email address.”
Another dramatic pause.
Bunny’s heart thumped hard and fast.
“Ms. Bergen,” Morticia the Witch continued, “the person to whom you should be speaking is your son.” The woman had icy blue eyes that matched her heart, and she locked them onto Bunny’s. “But, Ms. Bergen, since you seem preoccupied with these emails, don’t keep me on pins and needles. Tell me your concern.”
Bunny cleared her throat, aware of the many eyes on her. “Volunteering. I just wanted to offer myself as a volunteer.” Her voice quavered horribly, and she prayed for the moment this would all be over.
“All emails or phone inquiries regarding parent volunteer opportunities were forwarded to my volunteer coordinator who should be arriving momentarily. I imagine if you exercise patience, Ms. Bergen, she will contact you in due time. Now, is that all?”
Bunny began to nod but found herself jolted by another metal door slamming, followed by more clicking heels on the floor.
A woman, who was shorter than Ms. Steffler, strode confidently toward the teacher, full of smiles. For the first time since starting her dictatorial lecture, the teacher allowed a broad smile to cross her own face.
Bunny wasn’t smiling. Bunny was fuming.
“Parents!” the teacher said in a grand and happy tone, raising one arm to greet the other woman. “Please meet our parent volunteer coordinator. I’m also pleased to call her friend. Mrs. Hildie Page.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NOT ONE FOR SOCIALIZING, TATE had purposely arrived at the school auditorium five minutes after seven. Immediately put off by Ms. Steffler’s manner, he ignored her order to move toward the bow of her slave ship.
Instead, he remained firmly attached to the wall on which he leaned near the rear double doors. The location gave him both a good view and a quick get-away.
It took him less than ten seconds to locate the back of Bunny’s head. She sat alone, one seat in from the aisle, three rows back from the stage. He could easily have done as the teacher commanded and slipped into the empty seat beside Bunny. The proximity would have been a pleasant one. But he stayed put. Felt safer that way.
The morbidly dark woman with the superior attitude droned on while Tate scanned the handout that contained detailed lists of dates for rehearsals, set production schedules, costume production schedules, and showtimes.
He had no idea a play required so many different types of rehearsals—book rehearsal, song rehearsal, choreography rehearsals, and orchestra rehearsals. Book rehearsal meant nothing to him. Nor did the term “dark,” which he saw listed on two different nights on the showtime schedule.
He flipped through the many stapled pages, scanning for a glossary of terms when Bunny’s voice caused him to look up.
“I didn’t get that email,” she said.
It didn’t take Tate long to realize that she was addressing Steffler, whose tone rose to heightened levels of domination when Bunny questioned her accessibility. Steffler was the alpha-dog, and she intended for Bunny to submit.
Tate was torn between the desire to urge her to fight back and throwing a heavy punch to the teacher’s kisser himself. He watched other parents whisper to each other while Steffler stared Bunny down.
He had taken two steps forward when a pair of doors opened to the side of the stage. Who should enter but Hildie Page, waving her manicured hands and flashing her bleached white smile. Those teeth were so big she looked like she belonged on the Kennedy family tree.
Tate rolled his eyes. His forward motion stopped. He had planned to take that seat next to Bunny as a show of moral support, but the arrival of Hildie Page changed his mind.
Now he ran escape scenarios through his head, hoping she hadn’t zoned in on him yet. He could slip into the seat to his right and slump down. Or back slowly toward the doors in the rear.
A late arrival made a significant amount of noise opening and closing those rear doors that had once seemed so appealing to Tate. The commotion captured Hildie’s attention, and when she lifted her surgically enhanced eyes, she spotted Tate.
Tate gulped. His getaway plan was foiled, and he knew it.
“Tate Kilbourn!” she gushed, raising her arm to announce him to the room. “Tate Kilbourn, come down here!”
He saw Bunny spin around at the mention of his name. He shrugged at her, then rebuffed Hildie’s request, waving his hands and shaking his head. “No, no,” was all he managed to say. He wanted to say more but being a gentleman, decided to leave it at “No,” and took two steps backward.
“Parents,” Hildie shouted to the room. “Help me thank Mr. Kilbourn for offering to head-up the set production of Kiss Me, Kate! Give him a hand!”
All eyes were on Tate, but all he really saw was Bunny.
She watched him, clapping with less enthusiasm than the other parents, most of whom were turned in their seats. applauding.
Why were they clapping anyway? Because he finally relented after endless phone calls and two uninvited trips to his house from Hildie Page?
Offered? No. Tate hadn’t offered. He’d been railroaded by Rustic Woods’ expert on facelifts and spray tans. She’d done everything but hump his leg when she “ran into him” at the Java Hut two days earlier.
To avoid further harassment, he’d agreed to be the parent volunteer in charge of set building. And he’d regretted that promise every second of every minute since. Not that he didn’t like the idea of helping the kids out. He did. He actually looked forward to that part of his duty. But the thought of dealing with Hildie Page for the next six weeks made him sympathize with young men who scrambled across the borders to Canada to avoid the draft.
By agreeing, he’d hoped to get Hildie off his back. But when the phone calls increased in number and the emails began filling his inbox at exponentially increasing rates, he realized that the horror had only begun.
Tate took his time getting to his pick-up truck, hoping to spot Bunny.
The student parking lot at Rustic Woods High was large and filled nearly to capacity. While passing the gym on his way out after the parent meeting, the reason became clear. A well-attended basketball game was still going strong. Through the sea of cars, he’d never spot Bunny’s vehicle, especially in the dark.
Once beside his faithful blue Ford, he slipped the key slowly into the lock while keeping one eye out for Bunny and the other peeled for hormone-heavy Hildie. He’d have fled long ago, but he felt a strong tug toward Bunny. He wanted to talk to her and see how she’d weathered the gale force of Steffler’s attack. Maybe he could offer to take her for a drink at Roger’s Grill in the Muir Lake Center. Just a drink between friends, he’d make it clear, to toast her bravery.
But if Bunny was out there, he wasn’t locating her, and each passing moment increased the risk of being zoned in on by Hildie. He climbed into the truck, closed the door, put the key in the ignition, and pumped the gas pedal twice. As he was about to start the motor, he caught sight of a tall woman through his windshield. She wore a long coat that looked like the one he’d seen hanging on the back of Bunny’s chair.
He hesitated. When the woman walked under a streetlight, he knew—it was Bunny. His heart beat faster. The thought of talking to her here, outside of work, had seemed easy enough when it was just an idea. Actually making the
move—that was harder.
Twice, he reached for the door handle only to pull his hand back. She was opening her own car door. It was now or never.
Tate yanked the key from the ignition and pushed his door open in one swift move. She was twenty, maybe twenty-five feet away. With one foot on the ground and one still poised in his truck, he called across the cars. “Bunny!”
She turned. There was no backing out now. He’d started this party, time to keep it moving. He pulled his other foot to the ground, slammed the door shut, and headed toward her.
She didn’t come to meet him halfway, but remained standing under the light next to her car. Her hair framed her face, and the light fell in such a way that her innocent beauty shone brighter than usual. She didn’t smile. She almost looked afraid.
“Hi!” Tate’s breath fogged the cold air as he spoke.
“You didn’t tell me you were a parent volunteer,” Bunny said. He couldn’t tell if it was an accusation or just a statement of fact.
He shrugged. “I didn’t exactly apply for the job, let’s put it that way.” Instead of allowing an awkward lull, he steamrolled through. “That Steffler is a piece of work, isn’t she?”
“That’s one way to describe her, I suppose. I can think of other words, but I try not to use them in public.”
Tate laughed, but Bunny didn’t join him. And she still wasn’t smiling. He flailed, wondering what to say next. He could mention that his daughter had a crush on Charlie. Then, of course, he’d have to face the wrath of a teenage girl day in and day out. Scratch that.
He could tell her how well she’d withstood Steffler’s veiled attack, but every way he considered phrasing it sounded patronizing. Scratch that.
He could tell her that he’d thought of nothing but her since he last saw her sitting at her desk with the phone to her ear, brushing the hair away from her eyes, looking like the sexiest damn receptionist he’d ever seen. Definitely scratch that.
The drink at Roger’s Grill seemed like the best option by far.
“Hey,” he said, revving up some courage to spit out the invitation. “Would you, uh, I mean—”
Even before Tate said the word “you” he could tell from Bunny’s expression that something was wrong.
“Tate Kilbourn!” Hildie’s voice echoed across the parking lot. His eyes shut on a wince. When he opened them again, Bunny was halfway into her car.
Tate heard the clacking of Hildie’s heels on the macadam as Bunny slammed her door shut and turned her engine over. He stepped back and looked into her window, hoping to get some sort of take on what had just happened.
Bunny threw him a little wave and whoosh, she was gone, her old car chugging out of the lot.
He had the feeling she would have taken that thing out at hyper-speed if she could have.
He braced himself as the clicking heels drew nearer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BUNNY ENTERED HER HOUSE FROM the garage, slamming the door hard. Still fuming from the public humiliation incurred at the hands of Ms. Steffler, Theater Teacher from Hell, she marched upstairs and knocked twice on Charlie’s bedroom door before letting herself in.
He was in bed, propped by pillows against the headboard, reading a book.
“Why didn’t you give Ms. Steffler my email address?”
“What?”
“My email address. She asked for it several times, and you didn’t give it to her. And don’t tell me that you don’t know her name by now.”
He shrugged. “I thought I did.” He smiled. “Take your coat off and stay a while.”
“It’s not funny, Charlie. The woman embarrassed me in front of all of those parents.”
“She’s pretty harsh.”
“Harsh? She’s Elvira with whips and chains.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” She tore her coat off. “Harsh. She’s harsh. Cruel. Inhuman. That’s what she is. Inhuman.”
“Mom. Settle down. I have to deal with her, you don’t.”
“All I wanted to do was volunteer.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they have plenty of volunteers.”
“Who do you know with the last name Page?”
“You mean Nina Page?”
“What is she? Cast or crew?”
“She’s, uh, the lead.” He gave Bunny a look like she should know this. “She always gets the female lead.”
That didn’t surprise Bunny. Mommy probably saw to it. “What grade is she in?”
“Senior.”
“Is she nice?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t really know her that well. She’s popular. Why?”
Bunny sighed. She didn’t want to lay the Broom Hildie saga on him. She always tried to keep her problems just that: her problems, not her kids’. “What’s that?” She indicated the book he was reading.
“The play—I’m memorizing my lines. Trying anyway.”
Bunny folded her coat over her arm. “I’ll leave you alone, then.”
She closed the door behind her, then knocked on Michael’s door and opened it only to find a dark room. “Charlie!” she hollered, “do you know where Michael is?”
“Dad picked him up a little while ago. He said he texted you, and you said it was okay.”
She pushed Charlie’s door open again, not believing what he had just said. “Who? Who texted me?”
“Michael.”
Trying to restrain her anger, Bunny pulled the door closed, stomped downstairs, marched to her phone and dialed.
A woman’s voice picked up after three rings. “Hello?”
“I need a drink and an ear.”
“My house is a disaster. How about I pick you up and we go to that new place—Roger’s Grill.”
“That’s perfect.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Barb.”
Bunny and her friend with an ear, Barbara Marr, sat at a booth sipping very dry pinot grigio from tall wine glasses. They were awaiting their ordered desserts—Double Chocolate Sin for Barb and Peach Crisp a la Mode for Bunny. Bunny was looking forward to the crisp, but was desperate for the a la mode.
“I’ve seen Hildie Page’s name on PTA emails,” Barb said, “but I’ve never met her. I took the girls to see last year’s school musical, though. Her daughter is talented, I have to say. She’s a natural.”
“Her mother doesn’t look very natural.” Bunny drummed her fingers on the table.
“What does she look like?”
“Big teeth.”
Barb’s eyes widened, and she tilted her head back. “Okay. Yeah, she was there the night we saw the play. Big hair? Looks like she lives at the plastic surgeon?”
“That’s her.”
“So Ms. Steffler and Hildie Page are friends? That seems an unlikely match. Steffler’s...” Barb tipped her head while looking for the right word.
“Creepy?”
“Sure. That’s a nice word. Callie took the theater class her freshman year and dropped it after day one. The woman gave her nightmares. In fact, she’s the only woman I know who might actually be able to intimidate my mother.”
Bunny laughed. Barb’s mother was even taller than Bunny and possessed the intensity that could make a marine colonel shake in his boots.
Bunny raised her eyebrows as the waiter appeared, a dish in each hand. He placed her a la mode delight on the table. She dug in while Barb unwrapped her fork from the napkin sleeve.
“I have an interesting tidbit to share,” Barb said, giving Bunny a sly smile before diving into her Double Chocolate Sin.
“Only share if it’s good news. I can’t handle any more bad news right now.”
“It’s good news, alright.”
“Then please, share.”
“A certain person that you know happened to be talking to Colt the other day, and that certain person asked about you.”
Bunny put her fork down. Her stomach churned, and she was sure the a la mode wasn’t to blame. “Tate
?”
“Mr. Sexy Naturalist Guy himself.”
“When?”
“Not sure. Colt mentioned it today, but I kind of got the idea it was a few days ago. Probably after we all saw each other at Fiorenza’s, I’m guessing?”
“What was he asking?”
“Remember, this is Colt we’re talking about. Take it with a grain of salt, but basically he said it sounded like Tate was fishing. Like he might be interested.”
Bunny shook her head. “I’m not so sure.”
“Of course he is. You’re sweet, and you’re gorgeous. And he, by the way, is as sinfully sexy as this dessert. I don’t know what he’s doing at the Nature Center. That man should be making action movies. Half-naked.”
“Hildie Page is after him. Looks like the feeling is mutual.”
“She’s married!”
Bunny shrugged. “Affairs happen.”
“You got this from the meeting tonight?”
“Oh yeah, she was all, ‘Tate Kilbourn is our knight in shining armor, isn’t he wonderful, give him a hand for helping our kids build the sets and stuff. Ooh, ah.’”
Barb was trying to keep her latest forkful of chocolate sin from spewing out of her mouth as she laughed at Bunny’s imitation.
“Then she followed him out to the parking lot. Probably wanted to offer him a...” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “a hand of her own, if you know what I mean.” Bunny’s face flushed. She didn’t usually talk dirty like that.
Barb laughed out loud, having successfully swallowed. “Bunny, you’re too funny. Are you going to finish that peach crisp?”
Bunny shook her head and pushed the plate to her friend.
“Colt and Tate are friends,” Barb said around a mouthful of peach crisp. “Colt has been helping him with some stuff, so I’ll just have him dig a little more. Casually, you know.”
Kiss Me, Tate (Love in Rustic Woods) Page 8
