“Okay.” He grinned as he spread the tarp on the grass and dug in.
Riddled with an image of Mike making the twenty-minute drive to the school to deal with another incident, her curiosity wouldn’t rest. “What do you do for a living, Mike?”
“I’m a supervisor at Oscoda Plastics a few miles south on U.S. 23.”
“You’re a boss?”
He gave her a sad grin. “I am there.”
His plight with the girls caused her lungs to empty. His vulnerability made him not only likable but appealing. Yet beneath his grin, Mike’s confidence sometimes buckled. Even though he tried to hide it, his dauntless effort failed. She was first drawn by his good looks, but today his kindness and gentle ways prickled up her arms. If she ever married one day, she would want a man like Mike—playful, sincere and with more patience than she could credit herself.
“You’re quiet.”
His voice jarred her thoughts and generated guilt, knowing she’d been thinking of him. “Preoccupied, I guess.” She managed a grin and dug into the leaves. “I was thinking about the girls.”
Mike’s head lowered and he combed his fingers through his hair. “I figured you’d be concerned about having them in class.”
“No, that’s not it.” His troubled expression made her wish she hadn’t introduced the topic. “I know you feel compelled to follow the principal’s suggestion to separate them, but …” She stopped raking and leaned her weight against the handle. “I suspect the girls might be worse for it. Not better.”
He slowed the rake and rested his weight against it. “I had the same thought. I picture them at recess and here at home making up for the time separated.” His look grew intense. “But I thought you’d be relieved having only one to deal with.”
“Me?” She pressed her hand against her chest. “No, not yet anyway.” She hoped to lighten the serious mood. Their conversation had drawn his lips into a straight line and stole the sparkle from his eyes. “I watched them with Grams today, and they were respectful to her and each other. I want to figure out what it is that works. I worry if they were in separate classrooms, they wouldn’t learn how to get along or how to show love instead of disrespect to each other. I’d really like a chance to work with them. At least to try.”
His eyes searched hers. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She cared about them. “I don’t think Mrs. Fredericks will insist on separating them. I believe she’ll leave the decision up to you.” A new thought fell into her mind. “If I can’t handle them, maybe then she’d put pressure on you to make a decision, but not now.”
His tense shoulders dropped. “If you’re positive.”
Amy wasn’t positive she could make a difference, but she was positive she wanted to try. “Yes, I am.” But Mike’s concern had been for her, and although it touched her, she preferred his focus to be what was best for the girls. Rather than stir up any more tension, she let her thought fade.
He nodded as his rake hit the leaves again.
After making a pile, Mike dragged the bundle to the backyard. Three trips with the tarp made quick work of the leaves, and soon he left the tarp behind and instead dragged the leaves directly to the pile. She longed to sit and talk about a lot of things; his wife’s death, the girls’ reactions then and how they handled it now. Instead she gave another yank of the rake.
When the girls’ squeals vibrated from behind them, she and Mike stopped raking and spun around. The twins darted toward them, but they didn’t stop. Instead they barreled past, aiming for the leaf pile.
Anticipating another disaster, Amy held her breath. But this time, they dived into different sides of the mound and came up laughing. The sight trapped her in memories. The leaves drifted into the air and scattered while her heart followed. Childhood recollections drove her limbs forward, and as she sprang toward the tempting heap, Mike flew past, scooped up leaves and pitched them at her. She grabbed a handful and dashed toward him, but as she’d swung her arm to toss the colorful ammunition, she stumbled.
Mike dived forward and grabbed for her, but he missed. Both of them tumbled into the pile while the girls giggled and tossed leaves their way.
Dazed at her antics, Amy eyed Mike lying beside her, his tousled hair tangled in burnished rubble. Her heart rose to her throat.
Mike bounded to his feet and leaned down to give her his hand. She grasped his and bolted upward into his chest. Standing nose to nose, her heart tumbling to her stomach as she gazed into his eyes.
He gave her a squeeze. “Are you okay?”
His warm breath trembled across her neck. “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. The closeness sent chills racing down her back. She managed a chuckle, trying to ignore the sensation as she brushed the debris from her jacket.
The girls darted from the pile, laughing at their disheveled appearance while pointing at the leaves caught in their dad’s hair.
Mike shook his head, color in his cheeks alerting her of his embarrassment. “Leaves seem to bring out the child in me.”
She gazed down at her jeans and jacket. “Me, too, it appears.” She evaded his eyes and looked at his leaf-entangled hair. She raised her hand and pulled some out, relishing the feel of his thick mane against her fingers.
“Thanks.” His flush subsided as he strode toward Holly. “Let’s get you cleaned off before you drag it inside.”
Amy shifted to Ivy, wanting something to distract her wavering emotions. She pulled leaves from the child’s jacket and plucked them from her ponytails. When she finished, she looked at the girls, their names ringing in her mind. “Ivy and Holly.” The girls turned and looked at her with question. “Where did you get those names?”
“From our mommy and daddy.” Ivy grinned.
“They’re Christmas names.”
Holly slipped between Ivy and Amy, a leaf still caught in her hair. “Our birthday’s on December 24.”
Amy heart clutched. “That makes sense.” She plucked the last leaf from Holly’s hair, then rested her hands on their shoulders. “Did you know there’s a song about holly and ivy?”
Holly shook her head. “Sing it.”
Instead Mike opened his mouth and the music flowed out. “The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.”
His rich baritone voice enthralled her. “Mike, you have—” “Why does holly wear a crown?” Ivy slammed her fists into her sides.
“It’s the song, Ivy. I didn’t make up the words.” He gestured to Amy. “And apologize to Miss Carroll. She was talking and you interrupted.”
“But—”
“Apologize.”
Ivy stared at her shoes. “Sorry.”
Mike ignored Ivy’s lack of sincerity with her apology. “What were you saying?”
“You have an astounding voice.”
He flushed. “It’s been years. I don’t sing anymore.”
“But you should.”
His expression darkened for a moment before he found a grin. “Did you ever try to sing with two seven-year-olds under foot?”
Holly shook her head. “We’re not under your feet.”
He chuckled. “No, but you talk a lot.”
Ivy gave Amy’s jacket a tug. “Daddy plays the guitar, too.”
Amy’s senses twinged again. “Really?”