She would swear she’d never set eyes on Trevor’s father before, but by some evil chance she kept seeing him now.
One Saturday she was pushing her cart filled with groceries out of the store and came nearly face-to-face with both father and son, striding across the parking lot toward her. Trevor looked sulky—gee, nothing new in that. His father looked sexy, in well-worn jeans and a faded T-shirt that clung to a powerful body. Oh, Lord, she thought, reacting to his loose-hipped, purely male walk.... One, she was disturbed to see, that his son shared.
The boy’s stride checked briefly.
“Trevor,” she said pleasantly, nodding. “Mr. Ward.”
“Ms. Callahan.”
Was she imagining the mocking emphasis on the Ms.? Molly’s eyes narrowed. She’d expect it from the son, but not the father. No wonder his kid was such a butt.
The heavily laden cart had taken on a life of its own and she couldn’t have paused even if she’d wanted to. “You need a hand?” said a reluctant voice behind her.
Father. Son hovered by the double doors, confusing them so that they slid open and closed, open and closed.
“Thank you, but no. I generally manage groceries on my own.”
A flash in his so-dark eyes told her he’d heard her antagonism. He nodded and turned away.
“Mr. Ward,” Molly called, ashamed of herself.
He paused and looked back, eyebrows up.
“Thank you. I mean it. It was kind of you to offer.”
She had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. He only bent his head again and joined his son. The two disappeared into the store. Molly realized she hadn’t seen them so much as glance at each other, never mind exchange a word.
She spotted him less than a week later behind the wheel of a moss-green cargo van that said Ward Electrical on the side. Molly had seen the vans before. In fact, hadn’t they done the electrical work on the new elementary school? He must own the company.
She had pulled into a parking spot on the main street of West Fork’s old-fashioned downtown. The Ward Electrical van had had to wait while she maneuvered. She turned her head as the van passed, and their eyes met. Inimical, she thought was the word. High school English teacher though she’d been, she had never until now put that particular word into real-world use. Mr. Ward did not care for her.
What ate at her was the knowledge that she deserved his dislike. He’d been a jerk, but she hadn’t behaved any better. In fact, she’d been a jerk first. She’d had a headache, Trevor had quite honestly scared her and because of Trevor she was losing all closeness with her daughter, her only family. She prided herself on being a professional, but she hadn’t been where either Ward was concerned.
Richard was in the bleachers on the evening in early October when the school held its first open house, mainly geared at freshman parents but open to all. Marta welcomed them, induced a few chuckles then introduced some of the staff, including Molly.
“Our vice principal, Molly Callahan,” she said, “spent her summer ensuring that students were placed in appropriate classes and that when they got there, each and every one would find a chair to sit in and a desk to write on. This busy lady is part of our curriculum committee, deals with behavioral issues, oversees building maintenance and support staff. You are much likelier to meet with Ms. Callahan this year than me, although—” she smiled broadly “—I sincerely hope it isn’t when your child gets in trouble.”
A laugh rippled through the assembled parents, all looking awkward crowded on the bleachers. Probably feeling a hint of déjà vu. Unfortunately, that was the moment when Richard Ward, seated halfway up on the end of the senior class bleacher, caught her eye. He was not laughing.
After the speeches, teachers settled at tables hurriedly placed around the gymnasium and out in the main corridor. Parents circulated to chat with their particular child’s teachers. Molly wandered around, greeting people she knew, pausing to talk longer with a few who had concerns. She kept seeing Richard, who was apparently determined to speak to every single one of Trevor’s teachers. Probably he wanted to put faces with the voices he’d already heard on the phone when they called to discuss his son’s shortcomings. Lucky man.
She slipped into the administrative offices to call Cait, who answered neither the home phone nor her mobile. Wonderful. Molly had a sudden image of all the unsupervised teenagers in town assembling at Terrace Park for some kind of bacchanalian party while their parents were all earnestly engaged in planning their futures. God.
A new headache nudged at her temple. She’d been getting a lot of them lately. Better drunken revelry, she decided, than Trevor and Caitlyn alone. She shook with sudden frustration and anger. What if they were in Cait’s bedroom right now? Listening to the phone ring? Laughing? She could hear Cait, in that new snotty voice, saying, “Ooh, Mommy’s checking up on me.”