Carl is probably just lonely, Katarina told herself, possibly a little rusty when it comes to social interaction.
Carl winked again.
Forget rusty. Katarina pretended she didn’t see the gesture and shifted her attention to a woman on Carl’s left. She was well into her seventies, but talk about denial. Multiple hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes and her short, spiky hair had phosphorescent purple highlights. This could only be Wanda Garrity, no question about it.
Wanda was a member of her grandmother’s Thursday tennis doubles group. Babička had told her that Wanda always brought her Boston terrier, Tiger, to the tennis courts even though dogs were strictly forbidden. In fact, recreation department authorities had even posted a sign to that effect, expressly with Tiger in mind. Wanda had taken absolutely no notice, obviously considering herself a higher authority.
The rec department hadn’t dared to argue.
Katarina couldn’t help noticing the enormous tote taking up most of Wanda’s desk. Katarina didn’t need X-ray vision to hazard a guess as to what was inside. That the bag jiggled at random intervals confirmed her suspicions.
The door closed softly behind her and Katarina turned.
“Sorry I’m late,” came a gravelly voice. “I don’t move as swiftly as I used to.”
Katarina immediately recognized Rufus Treadway, moving slowly with the aid of a walker. As one of the vocal leaders of the black community, Rufus was an institution in Grantham. He also owned the Nighttime Bar whose decidedly downscale, painted cinder block exterior defied the gentrification of Grantham with a confident sense of reverse snobbery. The Nighttime Bar had been serving Rolling Rock on tap for more than sixty years, ever since Rufus’s late father decided to change his gas station into a watering hole. The dark wood stools with cracked faux leather seat covers had supported the weight of countless patrons. Everyone from governors residing in the local mansion, to garbage men sharing rooms in boardinghouses. They all came, drawn by the beer, camaraderie and quality of the live jazz.
Katarina smiled and held her hand out to an empty chair in the front. “The hip replacement still acting up? Lena told me you had had an operation not too long ago,” she said. She rested against the front of the teacher’s desk to take the weight off her own sore leg.
Rufus nodded. “Don’t you know it? The doctors tell you it only takes three months to recover, but they don’t tell you that those three months will be hell.”
“If you knew ahead of time, you’d never go through with it,” Katarina said. She knew only too well from personal experience. “Still, I know that my grandmother is expecting you to be out there for the summer seniors’ basketball league, so you’ve got to keep up with your rehab.” She reached around for her briefcase and pulled out the class list.
“For those of you who don’t know me—or my grandmother—” Carl chuckled a little too loudly “—my name’s Katarina Zemanova, and I’m your instructor for ‘Fundamentals of Personal Investing’. By way of an introduction, I recently moved back to Grantham from California where I was the financial officer for a major household products company. So, not only can I teach investing, but I also know more than most people about bleach.”
She saw Wanda rummage around in her enormous bag and lift what looked to be a white tennis skirt. Katarina cleared her throat. Wanda let it slide back in.
“Anyhow, why don’t I take the roll so I can put some names to faces for those of you I don’t already know?” As she worked through the list of about fifteen students, Katarina made small talk, putting people at ease. Finally she reached the last name on the list. “Worthington. Matthew Worthington.” She looked up. “Matthew Worthington?”
A pale hand rose from a back corner of the room. “Just Matt,” came the reed-thin voice.
Katarina slanted a few degrees to get a better view. She slanted a few more. “Just Matt” was maybe all of sixteen. The spray of pimples across his forehead confirmed that his adolescent hormones were making their presence felt. Unfortunately pimples weren’t the problem. His age was, at least as far as the rules were concerned.
Katarina worried her bottom lip before saying something to that effect.
“I know that…ah…this class is supposed to be for adults,” he said as if sensing her ambivalence. His voice cracked as painfully as chalk on the blackboard, and he halted in midstream, visibly gulping for air. “I thought that, though…you know…that maybe you might make an exception since what I want to do is…ah…maybe find out about saving for college? You know?”
“I do know,” Katarina said. “I went to college on a scholarship and worked jobs the whole time.” Zemanova women did not shrink from responsibilities or “Cry in their mlieko” as Babička was want to say.
“So, far be it from me to discourage your desire. Still, given the structure of the Adult School and the fact that you probably already have homework from earlier today, wouldn’t it be better if your mother or father attends the class instead?”
“That might be kind of hard. My mom’s dead.”
Katarina felt a little piece of her heart crack off. She rested her palm on the desk and gripped the corner hard with her fingers. “I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling inadequate with her clichéd response, even if the sentiment was genuine. “Not only for your loss but the fact that you’ll shouldering more responsibility than most young people your age.” She paused, groping for a solution.
“What about your father? Would that be possible?” she asked.
The boy cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. “It’s not like we talk all that much.”
The door opened behind her, but Katarina didn’t turn around. She was trying to stay focused on the teenager. “I know how parents can be busy, especially single parents. Still…” She waited, trying to coax a reply.
Matt tucked his chin into his concave chest. The writing on his T-Shirt, Pirates Are Way Cooler Than Ninjas, cupped his jawbone like a cotton nest. She saw his lips move, but couldn’t hear his words. “What’s that? I didn’t quite get what you said.”
“What he said was that he doesn’t like to bother me, which may explain why he failed to let me know where he went this evening.” The voice, a deep baritone, came from behind.
Katarina watched as all the students shifted their eyes, and collectively held their breath. And for a fraction of a second, given the mean age of her students, she had this crazy hope that the Adult School kept a defibrillator on the premises. She glanced down at her watch. Not even fifteen minutes into her first class and already she was facing a crisis.
“Mr. Worthington, I presume?” she said, giving a pretty good imitation of an offended schoolteacher. She slowly turned around while heartily congratulating herself on being a better actress than she would have imag—
Holy mother of…
The darkness of night hadn’t done justice to the way his shoulders filled out the jacket. Nor had it allowed an onlooker to see how the angles of his face came together in a combination that wasn’t so much handsome as arresting. And now, without the helmet, Katarina could see how his inky-black hair tumbled over his brow and curled around the collar of his leather jacket. Lines fanned out from his dark green eyes, lines that didn’t seem to go with anything remotely resembling smiling. The grim line of his full lips and the determined set of his jaw confirmed that judgment.
Forget offended. Before her stood a smoldering Brontë hero. Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester. No, definitely Heathcliff.
“Actually it’s Mr. Brown,” he said, but he didn’t bother to shift his gaze from the back of the room.
Katarina