“I asked Roddy to come in at four-thirty instead of seven. He said that just this once, he can handle inventory by himself.” Which meant that instead of sleeping in tomorrow, Mark would have to double-check the numbers in the morning, but it seemed like a fair trade-off in order to spend an extra evening reassuring his kid. “Is it okay with you that I’m here already?”
Nodding enthusiastically, she hugged him. But then she pulled away, biting her lower lip and glancing back toward Mrs. Norris. “We were gonna order a pizza for dinner.”
“Sounds good to me.” He extricated himself from his daughter enough to set his laptop case on the kitchen counter, then handed Mrs. Norris the envelope with her weekly paycheck. “Everything going okay here?”
“Vicki was no trouble whatsoever. We made cutout gelatin shapes for afternoon snack and read a chapter book together.” The elderly woman grinned, her cloudy blue eyes suddenly flashing with an impishness that made her look far younger. “But your phone’s been ringing a lot today. Took some mighty interesting messages for you.”
Mark groaned. Were people calling to complain about Vicki’s email…or to answer it? Surely the women of Braeden had more sense than that. Her letter had been a child’s act of desperate whimsy, not a legitimate solicitation in the Braeden Bugle personal ads!
After Mrs. Norris had wished them both a great weekend and headed home, Mark sat in one of the kitchen chairs, studying his daughter. “Any hard homework tonight?”
She shook her head. “Not on Fridays. Just a word search on tall tales and legends. But I can’t find Paul Bunyan.”
“Really? That’s strange. Isn’t he like ten feet tall?”
After looking at him blankly for a second, she giggled. “The word, Daddy. I can’t find the word Paul Bunyan.”
“Ah.” He set up his laptop as she continued her search, wondering if he still got credit for coming home early to be with his daughter even if he planned to work tonight.
A few minutes later, she triumphantly declared, “Finished!”
“Way to go.” He waited until she’d put the sheet back into her red Return to School folder. “Part of the reason I came home early is because we need to talk about some stuff, Vicki-bug.”
Her face fell. “Am I still in trouble?”
“Well, we need to work on that apology you promised Principal Morgan, and—”
“She’s pretty,” Vicki interrupted.
Mark frowned, not sure if was just a random observation—which he’d discovered were not uncommon from six-year-olds—or if she had a specific purpose for saying so. “Yeah, I guess she is.”
“I thought principals were scary. And mean, like in that cartoon Bobby watches. Our principal is a lot more better.”
They’d had the “cartoons are not accurate” discussion a year and a half ago when Vicki tried to color a tunnel on the wall with black marker. “I’m sure Ms. Morgan likes you and the other kids. Why else would she get a job at a school?”
“I like her, too. Did you like her, Daddy?”
Not particularly. But that was a knee-jerk reaction to her criticism, not the whole truth. The woman was undeniably attractive, but beyond that, he’d been touched by the empathy in her voice when she asked about his wife and he’d admired the way Shay had handled Vicki. She’d addressed the situation with the exact right combination of kind understanding and sternness.
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