by Laura Abbot
Pam embraced her closest faculty friend. “Long time no see. How was Canada?” Connie and her husband Jim, the Keystone headmaster, had been married only a short time, and the trans-Canada rail trip had been their first true vacation.
Ginny chuckled. “Don’t ask if you don’t really want to know. She’ll give you an hour’s worth of travel information.”
“Listen to the woman.” Connie affected sternness. “You’re just jealous, Ginny, that you were stuck here in simmering Texas all summer.”
“That makes two of us,” Pam said.
“How was your summer session at U.T., by the way?” Connie asked.
You’d be surprised. Really surprised. “Okay. I had a so-so seminar in literary criticism, but a dynamite course in post–World War II American fiction.”
Just then the caterer appeared at Ginny’s elbow. “Excuse me,” Ginny said. “I’m needed in the kitchen. Help yourself to the wine.”
Darn. Pam had hoped she’d sidestepped the issue of drinking. Her TGIF buddies Connie and Ginny would be the first to suspect something when she turned down chardonnay. She poured herself a glass of ice water.
“No wine? You must be sick.” Connie made a show of laying her palm on Pam’s forehead.
“Maybe later. I’m really thirsty from my rush to arrive more or less on time.”
“Well, now that you’re here, let me introduce you to our new faculty members.” She leaned closer. “Is it my imagination, or do they get younger every year?”
Pam raised her eyebrows in mock horror. “Surely it couldn’t be that we’re getting older?”
Grateful to be led away from the wine and the potential for discovery, Pam circulated through the crowd. Without fail, several colleagues asked her the standard question: “Are you ready for school?” Ready? It would be miraculous if she could overcome her morning sickness each day before her first-period class.
By the time the food was served, Pam had no trouble downing the curried chicken salad, fresh fruit compote and three of the lemony poppy-seed muffins. She refused to feel guilty about her gluttony—she was eating for two, after all. Thankfully no one noticed that water remained her beverage of choice.
Jack Liddy’s very pregnant wife, Darla, sat at Pam’s table, reveling in talk of babies. “The only problem is that Jack’ll be in the middle of football season when Junior makes his appearance. Let’s hope I don’t deliver on game night.”
“Not the best planning, huh?” Carolee Simmons, the French teacher said.
Darla winked mischievously. “You have to do something in the off-season, you know.”
“Will you be teaching until the baby comes?” Pam asked, as much for herself as because of her interest in Darla.
“I’m trying to make it to the end of the first quarter, then a substitute will take over until I can return at the semester.”
Carolee, single herself, leaned forward. “Won’t it be hard to leave the baby to come back to work?”
Darla shrugged. “It’ll be awful. But what choice do I have? We’ll need the money.”
Pam pursed her lips. “Occupational hazard of educators.” She, too, would have no option but to work. Otherwise, how could she afford her condo, car, insurance and day care?
“Anyway,” Darla continued, “my doctor says I should be fine by January.”
Pam’s mouth felt dry. “Who is your doctor?”
“Belinda Ellis. She’s wonderful!”
Pam stored the name in her memory. Initially she would have to find a doctor in another part of town, one with no connections to the school—if that was possible. So Dr. Ellis was out. At least for now. Despite the Texas sun, her hands had turned to ice.
When the party broke up, Connie fell in beside Pam as they walked to their cars. “Inquiring minds want to know. Did you meet any interesting men in Austin?”
Pam knew Connie and Ginny worried about her. Each had tried sporadic matchmaking attempts, with disappointing results. Finally she had met someone—a man she could happily have followed to the ends of the earth. And she couldn’t say one word. Even to her best friend. “Interesting? They were all interesting, sexy, and, naturally, hot for li’l ole me.”
“Give me a break,” Connie said, calling her bluff. “No one?”
Pam opted for a half-truth. “There was one.”
“And?”
“He’s gone home, I’ve come home, and that’s that.”
“No letters? No scheduled visits?”
Pam shrugged. “Nope. The cookie has crumbled, as they say.”
Connie laid a comforting hand on Pam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Someday your prince will come. I just know it.”
Well, he’d better hurry the hell up. Pam mustered a laugh. “Hope springs eternal. See you at the opening faculty meeting?”
“Sure thing. I’ve told Jim to make the headmaster’s address short and sweet.”
“Gee, you have that kind of influence?”
“It’s amazing what the love of a good woman can accomplish.”
Pam hugged Connie, then climbed into her hatch-back. Connie was, indeed, a good woman. Before she married Jim, she’d been single for many years, supporting her mother and daughter Erin. If Connie could do it, Pam reasoned, so could she. But Connie hadn’t had to give up a job she loved.
With a sinking heart, Pam acknowledged that she herself faced exactly that eventuality.
GRANT PAUSED in the doorway of his sterile classroom, looking at the blank, freshly painted walls, the student desks shoved into the corner, the newly carpeted floor. He crossed to the windows, raised the blinds, then stood, hands on his hips, studying the boxes and rolled posters piled along one wall. Time to tackle decorating his room, if you could dignify what he did by that term.
Tearing open the top box, he began stacking supplementary geometry texts in the built-in bookshelf. Next week teachers’ meetings started and he didn’t want to wait until the last minute to bring order to his space. Besides, he needed to be organized if Andy came. But that continued to be a big “if.” So far, responses to his ads had been discouraging. Few applicants wanted to live-in, and, of those, they either demanded exorbitant wages or had personalities that never in his wildest dreams would be considered adolescent-friendly.
Savagely he attacked the next box. Shelley was pressuring him for an answer, and if he didn’t find someone from the ad running this weekend… Surely she wouldn’t follow through on her threat to send Andy to boarding school. Maybe, since it wasn’t basketball season yet, she’d let Andy come whether or not a housekeeper was in place. Doubtless, in a matter of weeks, he could locate a suitable person.
By the time he arranged his texts between the book-ends on his desk and finished tacking up the exhibit of geometric forms on his bulletin board, his stomach was growling. Taking one last glance at the transformed classroom, he stepped into the eerily quiet hall and locked the door behind him.
He ran down the stairs and passed the first-floor office before becoming aware of music emanating from Pam Carver’s room. He’d thought he was alone in the building, but apparently not. He’d stop by, say hello, find out about her summer. Pam was one of his favorite co-workers—devoted to her students, realistic about school politics, often the voice of reason amid the cacophony of rumor and complaint and, besides that, fun to be around. Who else could have talked him into making a fool of himself annually in the faculty pep skit?
Outside her classroom Grant paused, hearing above the soft strains of classical music the muffled sounds of weeping. Her door was ajar. Slowly he eased it open. Pam sat hunched over her desk, head cradled in her arms, shoulders shaking. Sure, she taught drama, but this was way too convincing to be an act. He took a tentative step forward. “Pam, are you all right?”
Her head shot up, revealing a tear-streaked face. “G-Grant?” She grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and hastily blotted her eyes. “I didn’t know anyone else was in the building today.” Her voice, usually warm and vibrant, sound
ed thin, and he had a sudden urge to protect her.
“I wanted to get my room set up.”
“Me, too.” She hiccuped, then flung an arm in the direction of the books and boxes piled haphazardly along the far wall. “The summer painting project is wreaking havoc, though. It’s been years since I’ve had to box up my stuff.”
“Is that what’s upset you?”
She glanced away briefly, before turning back, a watery smile in place. “Stupid, isn’t it, to let something so minor throw me.”
He watched her mask of bravado slip back into place. He’d bet it would take a whole lot more than a little mess to shake Pam Carver. “I’m willing to help.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine you draping my bookcases with Indian shawls or putting together a montage for my bulletin board.”
He pointed to a stack of cardboard leaning against a file cabinet. “Maybe not, but I can certainly assemble your Globe Theatre replica.”
“You’ve just made me an offer I can’t refuse. I never was any good at inserting tab A into slot B.”
They worked quietly side by side for half an hour. Every now and then she’d stifle a sigh. Her shoulders, usually held back confidently, sagged periodically, as if she bore a huge weight. He didn’t want to pry, but something was going on with her.
She finished with the bulletin board about the same time he put the flag atop the Globe. He stood and faced her. “Feeling better?”
Her eyes were too bright, her smile too brittle. “Much. I needed a little nudge, that’s all.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “Sorry if I upset you.”
He put an arm around her and snugged her close. “What are colleagues for, anyway? Remember, our school motto is Caring, Character, Curiosity. This was the caring part.” Then, struck by a new idea, he laughed. “And curiosity, too, I guess. Pam Carver reduced to tears? I couldn’t picture it.”
“If you live long enough, you see everything.”
Although her tone was light, he had the disturbing sense she was making a joke of something very serious. Then he became aware he still had his arm around her waist, his hand on her hip.
She moved away at the same time he dropped his arm. “Thank you, Grant. I’m fine now. Really.”
“Take care, then. See you at Tuesday’s meeting?”
“Sure thing.” She extended her arms, more like the old Pam, and said, “Let the games begin.”
He chuckled at her final remark as he left the school. But gradually his smile faded, replaced by a sadness he couldn’t identify. He had always been fond of Pam. Heck, tell the truth. He was attracted to her. But she was like a tropical bird—colorful, flamboyant, dramatic. He’d always figured she’d never go for a plodding, meticulous math teacher who just happened to be tied up several months a year with a high school basketball team.
Driving home, he couldn’t shake the feeling that her brave front had been just that. A front. He didn’t think she was fine. Not at all.
And he didn’t like that. He wanted her to be fine.
PAM BANGED AROUND the small kitchen of her condo, fixing a salad and warming leftover corn bread for dinner. What kind of idiot Grant must think she was! All afternoon she’d replayed the scene in her mind. Why there? Why then? To fall to pieces like some fragile Melanie Wilkes. Unthinkable.
It was the notes that had done it. She’d been rummaging in her desk drawer for the key to her filing cabinet when she’d come across them. She made a habit of saving complimentary correspondence from students and parents. Then on bad days she’d pull them out and read them to remind herself why she loved being a teacher. She’d been okay until she came to Cissy Philbin’s scrawled message. Poor Cissy, who struggled to make B’s and had been devastated by the death of a sibling and later by her parents’ divorce.
“Dear Ms. Carver,
I couldn’t have made it through high school without you. You always believed in me and demanded my best. You knew what I was going through and willed me through bad time after bad time. You wouldn’t let me quit. Or be a crybaby. You made me believe that like the saying says, there can’t be a rainbow without the storm. You are my rainbow. Thank you.”
Now, recalling the words, Pam felt a flood of emotion similar to what she’d experienced at school. It wasn’t just hormones, although they were certainly doing a number on her. When she’d read Cissy’s words, she’d felt a painful void. If she had to quit teaching because of the baby, she wouldn’t be there for the Cissys of the world, nor would they be there to infuse her life with purpose and meaning.
Picking up her plate, she moved to the living room couch and turned on the evening news. But she scarcely heard the newscaster. Grant, of all people. They’d worked on faculty committees together. She admired his no-nonsense approach to problems and his well-deserved popularity with the students. Several years ago she’d toyed with the idea of exploring a relationship with him. But they were very different. He was quiet; she was not. He was steady; she was mercurial. Finally she’d concluded it would be foolish to risk a valued friendship in the unlikely search for romance.
Any other time she might have found it comical to watch him sitting on the floor of her classroom, his rangy six-foot-four body hunched over the myriad components of the Globe replica. But today she had studied him intently out of the corner of her eye, noticing how his big hands worked dexterously with the tiny tabs, grateful for his understanding and concern.
After supper she settled on the couch with the book she’d stopped to purchase on her way home. What to Expect from Your Pregnancy. She’d had no idea it would be so thick, so full of information. As she read, she found herself almost unconsciously rubbing her palm back and forth across her still-flat stomach and humming along with the Phantom of the Opera CD playing in the background.
She was intently studying diagrams of the stages of fetal development when the doorbell rang. She jumped up, curious. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She ran a hand through her hair, then stuffed the book under a pillow. At the door she peered through the peephole. Grant?
She undid the chain and unlocked the dead bolt before easing the door open. He loomed above her, his eyes twinkling, his mouth quirked in a grin. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, right?”
She held the door open wider, by way of welcome. “It had crossed my mind. I would think you’d had enough of me for one day.”
“Apparently not. May I come in?”
“Of course.” She ushered him inside, then pointed at the only easy chair in the room. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? A soda? Iced tea? Sorry, but I’m out of beer.” And will be for nine months.
“A soda would be fine.” When he followed her into the kitchen, the room seemed to shrink.
She took her time at the refrigerator, bewildered. Grant Gilbert had never been to her home. Why was he here tonight? When she turned back, he was leaning over the counter, his chin propped in his hands, studying her. Maybe it was because they were at eye level, but she’d never noticed before what gentle blue eyes he had. Or how his short, wavy brown hair was silvering just a bit above his ears. Flustered, she handed him a Sprite and watched him pour it over the ice. Then with the grace of a born athlete, he moved back to the living room and eased into the armchair.
She sat back down on the sofa, then decided to get to the heart of the matter. “About this morning—”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “I’m glad I could help with the theater. Were you able to get your room finished?”
Had he deliberately misinterpreted to help her save face? “Finished? You know better than that. My room is a constant work in progress.”
“Speaking of works in progress, I’d like your advice about one of my own. That’s one reason I came over.”
One reason? Were there others? “How can I help?”
As he talked, he slowly rotated the glass between his palms, every now and then pausing to see if she was following him. The need in his eyes was apparent as he explained how much h
e wanted to have his son with him for the year. Pam had had no idea his ex-wife was such a bitch, nor that she had made it so difficult for Grant to be with his son. “…so I’m desperate. I’m asking everyone I know if they can recommend somebody. Anybody.”
She smiled. “Not just anybody, I hope.”
He shrugged, then grinned ruefully.
She thought for a moment. “Have you contacted area colleges? There might be an older woman going back to school who would need some extra income.”
He brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. It’s worth a try. Finding a qualified person within my budget will be a problem.”
Like having a baby within my budget. “I can imagine.” Although he had obviously accomplished what he came to do, he didn’t seem inclined to leave. In truth, she found his presence welcome.
They sat quietly for a few moments. “Nice music,” he said. “What show is that?”
She told him.
“I like show tunes, but I’m more of a jazz buff myself. Vintage Erroll Garner is about as good as it gets.”
The longer they talked, the more she relaxed, even enjoyed herself. Usually all colleagues wanted to talk about was school, but Keystone hadn’t been mentioned since the beginning of their conversation. She was delighted to discover he enjoyed movies as much as she did and was something of an expert on Jack Nicholson. They disagreed on whether Anthony Hopkins should make a third Hannibal Lecter appearance, but both thought Schindler’s List was a work of genius.
“And all along, you probably assumed I was just a dumb jock,” Grant joshed.
“No telling what you think of me. An artsy, impulsive broad, maybe?”
“Don’t put words into my mouth.” He stood and placed his empty glass on the kitchen divider. Then, to her surprise, he sat down next to her. Not too close, but definitely not at the other end of the sofa. “Pam, I had another reason for dropping by.”
