The Mommy Quest

by Lori Handeland

  “Yep.”

  “Detention?”

  “We’ll discuss it.”

  “How about a suspension?”

  Stella slid her gaze toward Dean, and he smirked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Why not?”

  “You think I’m going to give you more days off? That seems like a reward to me.”

  “Rats,” he muttered, glancing at Dean suspiciously.

  Dean started the truck and didn’t comment.

  “What about the social lady?”

  “What about her?” Stella asked.

  His lower lip trembled. “Is she comin’ to take me away?”

  Stella and Dean exchanged another glance. “Is that what you thought?”

  Tim nodded, eyes shimmering with tears.

  Stella put her arm around him. He leaned into her as far as his seat belt would allow.

  “I’d never let anyone who wasn’t family take you away, Tim. What kind of principal would I be?”

  “A bad one?”

  “Exactly. I might be new at this particular brand of principal-ing, but I don’t think I’m bad at it.”

  “No. You’re gettin’ pretty good.”

  A warm glow began in Stella’s stomach, right below the blotch of something brown that she really, really hoped was mud. Tim snuggled close to her side, and the glow got even stronger as Dean pointed the pickup toward home.

  Stella frowned. Dean’s home. Not hers.

  Just because the three of them were all cozy in the truck—Tim getting heavier and heavier against Stella’s hip as he dozed—didn’t mean she should start dreaming that they were a family. She couldn’t.

  Dean turned into the lane that led to his parents’ house, just as the sky opened and the rain tumbled down.

  “I’ll drop Tim off with my parents,” Dean said, “then take you back to your car.”

  Stella had forgotten she’d come with him from work, and while she hadn’t driven her still-rented vehicle the few blocks to school, she had left her purse, complete with the keys to her apartment, in her office. She nodded and hugged Tim closer when Dean wasn’t looking.

  “Mommy,” he murmured, and her heart stuttered.

  Because the idea of being Tim’s mommy was far too appealing to a woman who had never had such an idea before.

  Dean stopped the truck in front of the farmhouse. Before he even opened his door, his parents appeared on the porch. Dean leaned back in, unhooking Tim’s seat belt and pulling the boy into his arms.

  Tim mumbled again, but this time the words weren’t coherent. As Dean backed out of the cab, their eyes met and she knew he’d heard Tim call her “Mommy,” she just wasn’t sure what he thought about it.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, then kicked the door shut.

  Mrs. Luchetti cried out at the sight of Tim in Dean’s arms and rushed into the rain, her husband right behind her. Dean jerked his head, indicating they should go into the house.

  The three of them disappeared inside, and Stella was left alone. The night had been cool before the rain, now it was downright uncomfortable. The mud—or whatever—that had been ground into her suit, her legs, her feet had dried and begun to flake all over Dean’s previously pristine cab. She was miserable.

  A door slammed. Stella glanced up as Dean raced from the house to the truck.

  The rain had plastered his T-shirt to his upper body, outlining the bulge of his biceps, the ridges of his abdomen. His hair shone in a single flash of lightning, the strands darkened nearly to black by the torrent.

  When he opened the door and jumped inside, he brought the scent of rain, sulfur, of night, and suddenly Stella wasn’t miserable anymore.

  Rivulets ran down his cheeks, and she almost reached out to wipe the drops away. Her hand even lifted from her lap, but she willed it back, forcing herself to remain still.

  “Is Tim all right?”

  “He’s crashed.” Dean shook his head and started the engine again. “Causes an entire day of parental terror, then just closes his eyes and falls away.”

  “I think that’s the definition of kid. I saw it in the dictionary.” Dean snorted and she smiled. “He had a busy day.”

  “We all did.” He backed up and swung the truck onto the gravel lane that led to the highway. “Do you mind if I stop at my place and check the dogs? My parents could do it, but I want them to stay with Tim.”

  “No problem.”

  He turned into the driveway that led to the cottage. “Aren’t the dogs outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what needs checking?”

  “Thunder can make dogs nuts. I don’t want them to hurt themselves trying to get out from behind the fence, and I’m not sure how Cubby will react. Could make him gun-shy if he can’t escape the sound. They should all be inside the barn.”

  Dean parked right next to the porch steps. “You want a drink?”

  “Definitely.”

  His lips quirked. “Come on in and I’ll set you up, then take care of the animals.”

  Stella threw open the door, and rain speckled her face. Bracing herself, she hopped out, and moments later was seated at Dean’s kitchen table, her hands curled around a coffee mug half filled with brandy.

  Dean tossed back a shot in one swallow. At her raised eyebrows he shrugged. “I don’t drink much, but he scared the hell out of me.”

  “Me, too.”

  One of the dogs gave a tentative yelp.

  “I’d better take care of them,” he said. “Why don’t you sit in the living room until I get back?”

  “I’m flaking mud all over your floor. I better stay here.”

  Dean opened his mouth as if to say something else, then snapped it shut and left.

  Stella sipped the brandy. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until the liquid warmed her belly and began to spread outward. She also hadn’t realized how empty her stomach was until two slugs made her light-headed. A few more swallows, and her chills fled in the face of too much heat. She stood and wobbled on her heels. They were encrusted in mud, so she kicked them off, then scowled at the huge runs that marred both legs of her panty hose. She sat and stripped the ruined hose free, tossing them into the trash. The air felt lovely on her heated skin.

  Stella took another sip of brandy, then removed her jacket. Her silvery-blue camisole shimmered, cooling the sweat that had sprung up between her breasts. She lifted the window over the sink, and the rain-scented breeze blew in, coating her face in a dewy mist.

  The back door opened, and she spun around. A little tipsy, a little dizzy, half dressed and completely, totally still in love with him, she smiled at the sight of Dean.

  She meant to tell him…she wasn’t sure what. Something nice, she was certain. Something adult, nonchalant and unrelated to the turmoil that had been raging inside of her since he’d walked back into her life. But what came out of her mouth instead was: “My father told me he threatened you.”

  Dean’s only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes before he slammed the door behind him. He crossed the short distance to the table and poured himself another shot, but instead of drinking it, he stared into the depths of the mug.

  His once-white T-shirt was streaked with dirt,

  sodden and molded to his body. His hair was damp and slicked back from his face; his chin was darkened with stubble. Marlon Brando and James Dean all rolled into one.

  Stella moved across the room and took another healthy slug of brandy. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “What I can’t figure out is why you didn’t tell me.”

  DEAN MADE AN IMPATIENT sound and stalked over to shut the window above the sink. Rain was streaming in. Not that it mattered, since the water just slid down the drain. But he needed something to do with his hands—other than run them along every inch of Stella’s skin or perhaps clasp them around her father’s throat.

  “None of that matters anymore.” He leaned against the counter, afraid to look at her, afr
aid she’d know how very much it did matter.

  Then. Now. Always. “You should have told me. We would have worked it out.”

  “Me in prison. You wherever. How would we have worked that out?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Besides…” He took a deep breath and decided to tell her the truth. Maybe that one truth would keep her from discovering any other. “I didn’t break up with you because of your dad’s asinine threat.”

  “No?” She didn’t sound convinced. “Stella, he made it the day after he caught us together in your kitchen.”

  He watched understanding spread over her pretty face. “That was before school was even out. All summer we—”

  “Exactly. We must have done it a hundred times a hundred different ways by the time I told you I didn’t love you.”

  She flinched, and he felt like an asshole all over again, probably because he was.

  “I couldn’t have cared less about his threat.”

  All I cared about was you.

  The words drifted through Dean’s mind, but he ignored them. What purpose would be served by telling her such a thing?

  “That’s why we snuck around,” she murmured.

  “That, and it was exciting. Didn’t you think so?”

  Her gaze flicked to his. “I thought everything about you was exciting.”

  Heat flared between them, and Dean had to grasp the countertop until his hands ached to keep from reaching for her. She’d always made him feel ten feet tall. In Stella’s eyes he’d never been a loser. But over the years her opinion would have changed, which was why he’d had to make her leave.

  He had to make her leave again—before they both did or said something they’d regret.

  “You thought dating a moron was exciting?” he murmured.

  Her lips tightened. “We didn’t date, and who called you a moron?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Me.”

  Silence followed her quiet statement. Dean had nothing to say.

  “You weren’t stupid, Dean. Not then and not now. You had trouble paying attention and there was a reason for it. One you couldn’t help. You’re probably brighter than three-quarters of this town.”

  He knew that now, but the scars of childhood remained. He tried not to reveal they were there; he wanted to set a good example for Tim. But deep down, where such things were hard if not impossible to change, Dean often felt stupid.

  “I am who I am,” he said, “and I’m doing exactly what I always wanted to. I have no complaints.”

  Except in the lonely darkness of every single night.

  Stella stared at Dean, and he didn’t like the expression in her eyes. She was thinking, and she was very good at it.

  “I’ll drive you home,” he said quickly. “You’re kind of a mess.”

  Mud streaked her all over the place, making him want to explore further, maybe give her a sponge bath. Her bare legs disappeared beneath her dirt-encrusted skirt, giving him ideas he hadn’t had since he was a teenager. And the silvery, silky tank, which only emphasized the roundness of her breasts, the thrust of her nipples, wasn’t helping.

  “You said all that to make me leave,” she murmured softly, slowly, her voice seeming to awaken, even as her thoughts did. “You wanted me to go to college, to live my dream.”

  Dean stared at her warily. She seemed kind of pissed.

  “That wasn’t your choice to make. Maybe I’d have been happier here with you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You said you didn’t love me, Dean!” She threw up her hands and began to pace the small confines of the room. “Do you know what that does to a girl? I gave you everything, and you tossed it back in my face.”

  “I did it for your own good.”

  “Oh, well that’s okay, then.” She stopped pacing and whirled toward him. “Was it your idea or my father’s?”

  “What?”

  “Did my father tell you to dump me? That the only way to make me leave was to break my heart?”

  “I never spoke to your father again after the night he threatened me. There was no reason to.”

  “So you lied to me all by yourself. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”

  “Stella—” Dean took a step forward.

  “You stay over there.” She pointed to the sink. “I can’t think when you’re close to me.”

  Which only made two of them. Dean leaned against the counter once more.

  “I cried for months,” she whispered. “I wanted to die.”

  “I wasn’t worth it.”

  “Shut up,” she said, the calm of her voice a contrast to the storm in her eyes. “You were to me.”

  “It was for the best. Look what you did.”

  “You talk like I cured cancer. Or ran for president. I became an educator.”

  “In my book, that’s everything. You teach kids, Stella. You help people. What’s more important than that?” He shook his head. “You say your dad’s a fool, but subconsciously you believe everything he says.”

  “I never believed you were worthless.”

  “But I did.”

  “Aren’t we a pair?” Stella asked. “Both haunted by a past we really need to get over.”

  “What haunts you, Stella?”

  Her gaze met his. “I told you—or maybe you told me. Can’t seem to stop wanting Daddy’s approval, even though I know it’ll never come.”

  Dean took a step closer. He’d been patient; he’d waited for her to tell him the truth, but his patience was at an end. Her eyes still held shadows; he wanted them gone, or at least he wanted to know what had put them there.

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said softly.

  “I know.” Her voice was equally quiet. She sat at the kitchen table and stared into her mug of brandy. “I’m not sure if I can do this.”

  “Of course you can.” Dean took a seat on the other side of the table, then he held his breath, waiting, hoping, praying that Stella would trust him at last.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I’VE NEVER TOLD ANYONE,” she said. “Not everything.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “Maybe.”

  Having Dean here, so warm and big and strong, made her feel safe. For the first time since “the incident” she wanted to talk about what had happened, and maybe Dean was right; maybe part of her problem had been that she hadn’t.

  “Last spring I stayed late at school,” Stella began, “which I did a lot. The high school I was in charge of had three thousand students.”

  Dean’s eyes widened. “Gainsville has about three thousand people.”

  “Who all behave much better than high school students in L.A.”

  “I bet,” he mumbled.

  “A big part of my job was paperwork. The other part was discipline. The buck stopped with me. From my office, problem children were sent directly to jail.”

  “I take it most offenses went beyond cutting classes and starting food fights.”

  “More like cutting people and starting riots. Most students didn’t take an expulsion personally. They didn’t really want to be there, anyway.”

  “Most of them,” Dean repeated. “What about the others?”

  “A lot of kids did want to be in school, but they couldn’t control their impulses.”

  “What kind of impulses?”

  “Drugs, sex, pathological violence.”

  Dean took her hand, and she let him. “Why did you do it?”

  “I was good at my job, and I loved it.”

  “How could you?”

  “Some of those kids had a chance. I gave them a place they could learn. For some, school was the only safe haven they’d ever had, and I wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Kids deserve a safe school.”

  Dean’s fingers tightened on hers. This was nice, talking in the night as the rain brushed the window-panes, holding hands. They’d never done it before. And why not?<
br />
  Because they’d been teenagers and unable to think past getting naked.

  “So…” Dean said, and the collar of his shirt shifted, revealing the long, brown line of his throat.

  He swallowed and desire made her dizzy. She flashed on the memory of kissing that throat, tasting his skin as he moved inside of her.

  Maybe neither one of them had changed as much as they’d thought in the past fourteen years.

  “Which little prick hurt you,” Dean continued, “and is he dead yet?”

  Every speck of desire fled, and Stella yanked her hand from his. “He was sixteen.”

  “Old enough to know better.”

  “Maybe,” Stella said. In Frank’s case she still wasn’t sure.

  “Hurting a woman is wrong,” Dean insisted, “and every male knows it from the day he knows his name.”

  He sounded so certain, she sighed. In his world, that was true, but in hers, not so much.

  “You know some men enjoy hurting women.”

  “Those aren’t men, Stella.”

  She missed his hand, but she wasn’t going to take it back.

  “You were working late one night…” he said encouragingly.

  “Yes. I didn’t realize how late. I was the last one there.”

  “No security? No janitor?”

  “Frank killed the janitor. A nice old man named Mr. Benito. I don’t think Frank meant to kill him. He hit him too hard.”

  “And the security guard?”

  “Frank hit him, but not too hard.”

  Thank God, or Frank Watson would have succeeded in killing her.

  “I—” Stella’s voice cracked, and she had to swallow a few times before she could go on. Dean said nothing, did nothing, just patiently waited for her to regain control.

  Which was nice. It had been a long time since anyone had thought she’d be fine without help.

  “I gathered my stuff,” she continued, “and I headed for the door to the teachers’ parking lot. I had a walkie-talkie, and I tried to raise the security guard. I always had him watch me until I was in the car and on my way. In the end, it didn’t help. Frank was already in the building.”

  “What happened to your security system?”

  “Frank was a computer genius.”

  “The little shit bypassed the alarm?”