Two hours had elapsed since Luisa Alvarez had left Donald’s office. A thin folder of neatly completed paperwork sat before him, filled with Christian’s health and educational records. He’d only skimmed them. It didn’t take much to see the boy’s grades were excellent.
A tutor had been hired to accompany Christian throughout the day and provide English instruction. It wasn’t easy to find a qualified teacher on such short notice, but Donald’s mortification had been a powerful motivator. And when Luisa had suggested that it would be a good gesture for the school district to pick up the tab for the special tutor, he couldn’t help agreeing.
There were almost four months of the school year left. That was almost three thousand dollars of tutoring he had to pay for, three thousand dollars that were nowhere in his budget.
Donald Altari was not a happy man.
“Shirley?” he said, barking into his intercom. “I want Glenn in here. Yesterday.”
A few minutes later, Glenn entered his office. “Don, I—”
“Just stop.” Donald cut him off. “I really don’t want to hear it.” He picked up his pen, sprawled on the notepad in front of him. “Just tell me what you were thinking.”
“How was I supposed to know she spoke English?” Glenn exploded. “You bring me in here, tell me her kid no habla anglais. What the hell was I supposed to think?”
“I’m not sure where I led you to believe it was the time to make inappropriate racist comments.” Don’s eyes screamed asshole! But too many years of dealing with the teachers union kept his mouth from following suit.
“So, once again, some athlete moves up here from some banana republic, and we’re supposed to jump through hoops providing services for their family?”
“Well, Glenn, we are not only jumping through hoops. Because of your smooth talking, we’re paying to provide tutoring for Christian. Full-time, five days a week, for the rest of the school year.”
Glenn sputtered.
“Do you know how much that costs, Glenn?” Don glared at his subordinate. “Three grand. Do you know how much it costs to insure the hockey team, Glenn? Three grand. That’s a telling coincidence. Don’t you think?”
Glenn’s face turned purple. He coached the hockey team, the same team his son had played on, that his grandson played on now.
“You…you can’t—”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” Don roared, planting both hands on his desk and jumping to his feet. “You’re in no position to do that.”
He clenched his teeth together. When his tongue finally stopped dancing against his incisors, he spoke.
“I haven’t made any decisions, yet. But you should know I’m not happy. Not happy at all. Is that understood?”
Glenn’s shoulders collapsed into his collarbone. “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
The Candyman Chocolate Shop was not on Donald’s way home, not by any stretch of the imagination. Yet he found himself there anyway, picking out a box of mixed truffles.
“!Mamá!” the dark-haired sprite yelled from the doorway, staring suspiciously up into Donald’s eyes. “!Mamá!”
“¿Qué?” Luisa came from the back of the apartment. “Oh! Mr. Altari.” She murmured something to Christian, who took off running. “This is a surprise.”
“I wanted to apologize for earlier.” He looked around the empty apartment, and noticed the skate bag lying on the couch. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
She smiled. “No, no, this is fine. Won’t you please come in?” She led the way to the kitchen. “I’ve just now got the dinner on, but maybe you would like some coffee?”
“Coffee would be fine.”
There were three chairs at the kitchen table. Donald sat down and deposited the chocolates carefully onto the table. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Glenn Rabideau.”
Luisa set a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. “You are not the one who needs to be sorry, Mr. Altari—”
“Donald.”
She smiled. “You’re not the one who needs to be sorry, Donald. It is Glenn Rabideau who needs to be sorry.”