“Jack sent you flowers?” Grace cried as though outraged. “Why, that low-down, dirty rat.”
“I called to thank him.”
“A mistake for sure,” Grace said. She enjoyed seeing her friend so obviously in love with Jack—and so confused by him—although she wished Olivia could sort out her feelings. Naturally Stan was eager to distract her, eager to have her back, and feeling as unsettled as she did, Olivia might weaken and return to him.
Grace would say one thing for Olivia’s ex-husband: his timing was impeccable. The minute Olivia got involved in another relationship—up popped a repentant Stan, hoping to lure her back.
“You won’t believe what he said to me.”
“Jack or Stan?” Grace was losing track.
“Both of them,” Olivia cried.
“Start with Stan.” If Olivia was ready to have Jack arrested for sending her flowers, Grace could only imagine what her ex-husband had done.
“Stan phoned and wanted to take me to dinner.”
“He didn’t,” Grace said, feigning a gasp. “Lock him up and throw away the key!”
Olivia glared at her, eyes glittering with irritation. “You’re making fun of me, Grace Sherman.”
Grace laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “No one’s sending me flowers and asking me to dinner these days. There’s got to be some other reason you’re so annoyed. Are they trying to outdo each other?” That made sense—but on the other hand, it seemed to be what Olivia wanted, judging by her earlier complaints.
Olivia unfolded her arms and stroked Buttercup’s silky head. “Actually, Stan started it. He wants me to have dinner with him in Seattle on Friday night.”
Grace arched her eyebrows. “Why Seattle?”
“He’s got a corporate dinner he’s required to attend and he didn’t want to go alone. He has a hotel room and—”
“One room?”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “He seems to think I’m too naive to know what he’s got in mind. Oh, sure, the room will have two beds, but I wasn’t born yesterday and I know Stanley Lockhart. He has plans.”
“What about Jack?”
“The flowers arrived,” she said dreamily. “Grace, after all these weeks, I have to tell you I was so pleased to get them.”
Grace was equally thrilled. Although it had taken Jack long enough…. “What did the card say?”
Olivia dropped her gaze. “He signed his name. That’s all.”
Smart man. “In other words, he made the first move and the rest is up to you?”
“Exactly.”
“You phoned him?”
She nodded. “I did, and he answered on the first ring—almost as if he’d been sitting there waiting for me to call. It felt wonderful to talk to him again. We were getting along famously until—” Her eyes narrowed and she heaved a deep sigh.
“Until what?”
“He asked me to dinner on Friday night, and I made the mistake of saying there must be something in the air because I was getting dinner invitations right and left.”
Not the most brilliant comment, Grace agreed, but Olivia already knew that.
“It took Jack about two seconds to realize the other invitation came from Stan. Then he got all weird on me and said he was busy on Friday, after all. He wished me a lovely evening with Stan, and before I could say another word, he made some excuse and was off the phone.”
Grace wanted to groan out loud.
Olivia’s shoulders sank. “Now you know why I’m upset.”
“You aren’t going to dinner with Stan, are you?” Grace asked, just to be sure.
“Not hardly,” Olivia muttered.
“I’m free Friday night. Want to go to the movies?”
Olivia laughed. “You’re on, my friend. Who needs men, anyway?”
Maybe, Grace decided, she’d find a way to get Jack Griffin to the theater on Friday evening. Apparently there were times when romance could use a helping hand.
Rosie finished writing out the words her second-graders had to copy. She set the worn chalk down on the blackboard ledge and brushed the dust from her hands.
The bell rang, indicating class was dismissed for the day. “Don’t forget to remind your parents that Open House is tonight,” she told the students. Open House introduced the teacher to the parents, and it usually occurred in the third week of September.
The children leapt up from their desks, grabbed their bags and backpacks, then dashed out. All except Jolene Peyton. The little girl with the long dark pigtails wore a forlorn look as she walked, head bowed, to the front of the room.
“Can I help you, Jolene?” Rosie asked gently.
The little girl kept her eyes lowered. “Only my daddy can come tonight.”
“That’s wonderful. I look forward to meeting him.”
Jolene slowly raised her head until her eyes met Rosie’s. “My mommy died in a car accident.”
“I know, sweetheart, and I’m so sorry.” Rosie’s heart went out to the motherless little girl.
“Every week Daddy and I put flowers by the road where she died.”
Rosie knew that, too. The flowers and balloons often caught her eye at the busy intersection.
“Well, I’m glad your father’s coming to the Open House,” Rosie said.
Jolene nodded. “He said it was one of those things Mommy would do if she was still here.”
Rosie tucked her arm around the seven-year-old’s shoulder. It was apparent even now, almost two years after the accident, that Jolene missed her mother.
“I told my daddy that I need a mommy, and he said he’d think about it.” She sighed deeply. “He says that a lot.”
So did she, Rosie thought with a grin. “I’ll think about it” was in every mother’s repertoire.
That evening as the classroom started to fill with parents, Rosie made it a point to seek out Jolene’s father. The little girl led him into the classroom, then rushed to bring him juice and cookies from the table set up at the front.
While he waited for his daughter, Bruce Peyton stood in the background, not mingling with the other parents. He was nice-looking, but he had a somber air about him, a remoteness, which was perfectly understandable. School events such as this evening’s must be a painful reminder that he was alone. He was of average height and on the thin side. His clothes hung loose on him. Rosie could only assume this was due to a recent weight loss. His eyes were an intense blue, compelling her to steal glances in his direction.
It’d been many years—decades—since Rosie had really looked at another man. Her flirting skills had rusted from lack of use, although she was confident Janice Lamond could teach her a thing or two.
When Rosie was free she made her way toward Bruce. She smiled and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Rosie Cox, Jolene’s teacher. I just want to say I’m very sorry about your wife.”
“Thank you.” The widower’s smile was fleeting and he clasped her hand for only a few seconds. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Mrs. Cox is a good teacher, but she’s not my real teacher,” Jolene told him earnestly.
“I’m