The Winding Road Home Page 3

He winced. “Do I want to know?”

  “Sure. Knowledge is always a good thing. They call you Adonis.”

  The wince deepened. He was decidedly uncomfortable with the label. If not for his olive skin tone, he probably would have been blushing.

  “On second thought, maybe I won’t go into teaching full time.”

  “Look at the bright side. At least fifty percent of the student population will pay attention to you.”

  He rolled his eyes and touched her elbow, nudging her to follow the hostess now waiting to seat them. They crossed the main dining area, a no-frills open room of tables covered with red-checked vinyl. Every chair was occupied and the drone of conversation hummed. The woman led them to a small alcove of tables lined against a row of windows over-looking a nighttime Route 18. They sat across from each other, shrugging off their coats.

  Kate said, “What do you recommend? This is my first time here.”

  “I like their special.” He pointed to a description on her menu. “Ribs, French fries, coleslaw, and lemonade. You can get a half rack.”

  “I can eat a full one.”

  “They’re huge servings.”

  “I hope so.”

  He grinned. “You can’t eat a full one.”

  “I bet you the check I can.”

  “I was going to pay anyway. I invited you.”

  “Please don’t go Sir Galahad on me. It’s Dutch treat or nothing.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay.”

  “Unless I eat a full rack.”

  “You’re on.”

  A middle-aged waitress set water glasses before them, quickly took their order, and left.

  “Tanner, I should buy your dinner. I owe you for the photos. They’re good, clear shots.”

  “And poignant?”

  Smiling, she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, and poignant. I’m sure Rusty will use one.”

  “Do I get my name in fine print beneath it?”

  “Of course. But what am I to do with a kissing principal and teacher article? On the front page?”

  “Who, what, when, where, why, and how. Just the facts, ma’am.”

  She glared at him over her water glass. “Now you sound like Rusty.”

  “Thank you. That’s a compliment. Crusty Rusty is one of my favorite people.”

  Kate choked down a mouthful of water, laughing and coughing.

  He handed her a napkin. “It’s my pet name for her. She loves it.”

  “It’s—” She coughed again. “Appropriate. Why is it you have a pet name for her?” Kate couldn’t stop grinning.

  “She always quotes me.”

  “About?”

  “Ah, Kate. Your next assignment in learning the secrets of the Magic Kingdom is to read a minimum of six months’ back issues of the Times. If you had, you’d know that I’m the freshmen girls basketball coach and sometimes varsity assistant. That’s why I originally came to Valley Oaks two years ago. And then I started subbing.”

  “You teach and coach, but you don’t know what you want to do with your life?”

  “Well, those are like…” He whirled a hand in the air as if searching for a word. “Hobbies. I have a degree in business, but I don’t have a teacher’s certificate, though I’m working toward one. I’m a pilot too, for private charters. Of course, that’s also kind of a hobby. And I enjoy photography.”

  “As a hobby.”

  He smiled. “Why settle for one hobby and call it a career? Now, what brings you to Valley Oaks? I thought Rusty pretty much handled the paper on her own, except for the publisher and part-time receptionist.”

  “The short version is I don’t have a degree yet. I’m going for journalism from Iowa. I’ll graduate as soon as I finish an internship. Nothing was available in New York or Los Angeles.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Nothing in Chicago or Springfield either. My professor is an old colleague of Rusty’s. So here I am. Last stop before Washington, DC.”

  “Why don’t you have a degree yet? You were probably number one or two in our class.”

  She held up three fingers. “I never could beat Beth Anderson and Tracy Lyndon.” She sighed dramatically. “Remember them?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nerds, every last one of us. Anyway, things got complicated after high school. I took a few detours along the way. You said my next assignment was to read the old Times. What was the first one?”

  “The first one is on its way even as we speak.”

  The waitress set two oversized dinner plates before them, each piled high with barbecued ribs and fries.

  “Eat up.” He winked. “This is the most delicious inside scoop of Valley Oaks.”

  Tanner watched Kate with amusement as she devoured her dinner, keeping pace with him bite for bite, elbows on the table, a rib held between two hands. He was going to lose the bet.

  In between bites she asked, “But seriously, Tanner, how do I write this story?”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s a tad hard to take you too seriously.” He pointed to his own cheek, indicating where she had sauce smeared on hers.

  She laughed and wiped a napkin across her face. Her laugh was infectious and suited her quirky appearance. With a forefinger, she pushed the rectangular tortoiseshell glasses up her perky little nose and asked, “Is that better?”

  “Much. Okay, seriously, it’s a human interest story.”

  “Exactly. I know how to write those, but not for page 1, above-the-fold articles.”

  “Kate, you’ve got to throw out everything you’ve learned in class and follow Rusty’s lead. She has been around the block once or twice, you know.”

  “I know. Are you going to eat your coleslaw?”

  “Hey, the bet was only for you to finish your own plate.”

  “I just didn’t want it to go to waste.”

  “I’m a strange eater. I always save the salad for last, but if you’re still hungry…” He laughed.

  She joined in. “This stuff is heavenly. Have I said that already?”

  “Six or seven times.” He wondered where she was putting it all. Perhaps it fueled her spark plug of a personality. “Seriously, our Times is not a big-city paper. Unless there’s a car accident or a fire or the village board discusses money, most of the news is human interest. For Valley Oaks, it works. That’s all we need.”

  “It’d never fly in DC.”

  “No, it wouldn’t, but this isn’t DC. What’s with DC anyway?”

  “My next stop. I hope. I want to be the Helen Thomas of the twenty-first century. Follow the president around like his shadow. Ask him the tough questions at news conferences. Make an impact by writing, keeping the lines open between the public and the White House.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a big dream. Did you know this in high school?”

  She nodded, stuffing a fry into her mouth.

  They may have graduated together, but she definitely walked on a different planet than he did, then and now.

  She tilted her head, looking him in the face. “What was your big dream in high school?”

  He blew out a puff of air. “To get through it.”

  “I see. Well, you sound fairly content here. As if hobby-ing in Valley Oaks is a fit.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t live here. I have an apartment in Rockville. How about you?”

  “Haven’t been able to afford one of those yet. I’m living with Adele and Chelsea Chandler.”

  “I’ve had Chelsea in class. Interesting girl. What’s her mother like? Chelsea looks like something from the sixties. A free-spirited hippie artist.”

  “They’re two peas in a pod. Adele makes pottery in her spare time, but her day job is director out at the county nursing home. They’re free-spirited all right, but dedicated Christians.”

  That was news to him. Not that he knew the Chandlers personally, but they sure didn’t resemble Britte Olafsson or Anne Sutton, the basketball coaches who occasionally referred to J
esus in a decidedly noncursing manner.

  Kate continued, “They’re great roomies. Except they have an aversion to cooking meat.” She grinned and bit into another rib.

  He was missing something. What could Britte, Anne, Chelsea, and Adele have in common? He looked at the funny young woman across the table. In spite of the red hair sticking out in every direction from a plastic clip at the back, there was a fresh, healthy glow about her. An innocence in the freckled nose and in the sauce where lipstick and cheek blush should have been. She was down-to-earth. Approachable. He figured that with Kate “what you see is what you get.”

  Like Britte. Like Anne. Like what he’d seen of Chelsea.

  Kate tilted her head again, putting herself in his line of vision. “What?”

  “You’re one too. A Christian.” It sounded like an accusation. “What I mean is—”

  “Does that negate the bet?”

  “Huh?”

  “Does my being a Christian mean you won’t buy my dinner?” She shoved her plate toward him.

  Except for the pile of bones, it was as clean as if it’d just been pulled from the dishwasher.

  He laughed. “No.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much. Being with Kate was like being with the guys. Almost. He didn’t know any guys this short. “As a matter of fact, I think we should do it again.”

  “Pizza Parlor?”

  “You’re on.”

  Tanner looked at her eyes. They were a translucent green. Not Christmas green, but combined with the red hair and colorful clothing, they added to the notion she was one heck of a surprise Santa could have left under the tree.

  Kate fired up the slow beast of a computer at the newspaper office. After that delicious meal with Tanner and his lesson on what constituted news in Valley Oaks, she was ready to write the kissing principal article before heading home.

  Things were looking up. She now had four friends in town: Rusty, Adele, Chelsea, and Tanner. Surprisingly, he was the easiest one to relate to despite their dissimilar backgrounds and approach to life. Hanging out with him was like hanging out with Beth, her best friend since high school. Almost. Beth had a husband and two little kids.

  While the computer continued to grind away, its screen still dark, Kate picked up the telephone and dialed the familiar number.

  “Hello,” Beth Anderson Greenly answered.

  “Hey. Got a minute?”

  “Kate! How’s it going out there in Hicksville?”

  “Puh-lease. This is my home.”

  “For the duration.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, you’ll never guess who I had dinner with tonight. Tanner Carlucci from high school.”

  Her friend hooted. “That jerk?”

  “Come on, Beth. You didn’t even know him.”

  “Did so. He was in my brother’s group during Todd’s nightmare period. They used to—”

  “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know what he did over twelve years ago. We had a great time. He seems like a nice guy, just like your brother is now.”

  “Is he still drop-dead gorgeous?”

  Kate ignored the question. “And he paid.”

  “I guess that means, as usual, Miss Journalist didn’t notice.” Beth sighed loudly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Well, that was kind of him to pay. I think he grew up wealthy. His dad’s a doctor. Didn’t he do your mom’s surgery? Sidney Carlucci.”

  Kate thought back nearly eight years ago. “I don’t know. She had so many doctors.”

  “I’m almost sure he did. He’s a surgeon.”

  “He’s the one we liked so much?”

  “Yeah. So how did you hook up with Tanner?”

  Kate relayed the details, and then she asked about the girls. Beth described her baby’s latest teething bout and her two-year-old’s newest favorite phrase. When at last the computer was ready, they said their goodbyes.

  Kate stared at the blank screen for an inordinate amount of time. Maybe Tanner’s idea was worth a try.

  She went to the old newspapers piled on the floor in a corner, moved a stack of them to the table, and began skimming. Two hours later she stretched.

  “As Rusty would say, ‘Well, kid, it ain’t DC.’” With hands on her hips and eyes closed, she twisted the kinks out of her neck and her attitude. “Thank You, Lord. It is a first step on the way there.” She opened her eyes, surveyed the untidy room, and inhaled the stale smoke. “Though not the one I would have chosen!”

  Four

  Adele leaned over the wheelchair and gently squeezed the occupant’s veined hand. “Dinner will be ready soon, Edith. Your hair looks especially nice today.”

  A spark of recognition flashed in the woman’s watery eyes. “My granddaughter came to see me. Do you want to hear my song?”

  “Maybe later, hon.”

  Ordinarily Adele would have lingered and listened once again to the 83-year-old’s warbling rendition of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” but it was 3:55. She had five minutes to spare before her appointment, and she needed every second of those five minutes to recharge.

  She hurried down the hall into her office. As director of Fox Meadow Care Center, the county nursing home, she rated a space to call her own. Though cramped and windowless, it beat huddling outside in a cold minivan that took a lot longer than five minutes to warm up.

  She maintained an open-door policy and so left the door ajar six inches. It was an understood signal that while she was available, if at all possible she’d rather be unavailable for just a few moments.

  Turning sideways in order to fit, she stepped around the desk and slid onto her chair. Two framed five-by-seven photos caught her eye.

  Maybe she should have gone to the car.

  She took a couple of deep breaths. It had been an emotionally crowded day with the elderly folks. They had lost Mr. Lerner at 6:08 this morning. Why on Valentine’s Day, Lord? Even if he has no family and is in a better place? She had been called immediately and arrived by seven, shaving five minutes off the 20-minute drive. Maybe that’s why she had the five minutes to spare now.

  She propped her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her hands. Still, the photos loomed in her mind’s eye. One was of Chelsea, 16 and a half. It was this year’s school photo, her daughter’s junior year, taken in the fall. She had painted orange highlights in her normally dark blonde hair. She said it was her celebration of autumn’s falling leaves.

  Adele could live with the hair colorings. It was the incessant, independent pulling away that gnawed at her.

  The other photo was of Will…William Harrison Epstein III, wearing casual—a red sweater and khakis, sitting in front of her Christmas tree. Three hours from now he was taking her out for a special Valentine’s dinner. She looked forward to sharing her day with him and crying on his shoulder about Mr. Lerner. Maybe even about Chelsea. If only I can stay awake!

  “Excuse me?”

  Adele jerked her hands away from her face and opened her eyes to see a stranger peeking around her door.

  “Sorry. I knocked, but you must not have heard. I was told you were expecting me.”

  She stood, welcoming him with a smile. “Please, come in. I was just lost in thought. You must be Graham Logan.”

  He entered and shook her hand. “And you’re Ms. Chandler.”

  “Adele. Nice to meet you. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” He sat on the only chair, dwarfing the old ladder-back with its overly small cushion.

  “I thought we could talk a bit, and then I’ll give you the grand tour.” She blinked, trying to refocus her tired eyes. The guy had extraordinarily nice hair. He appeared older than she, though not by much, and yet his hair was a magnificent pewter gray color. Parted on the side. Curly in the back where it hung just below his ears.

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “Oh, you won’t. I’m here for you. Would you like coffee or…or something?” Her mind was drawing a blank. W
hat else did they serve in the kitchen?

  He smiled. “No thank you.”

  “Chocolate?” She picked up a ceramic bowl of chocolate after-dinner mints and held it toward him.

  He smiled again and his eyes twinkled. Piercing, steel blue eyes.

  Adele reached for her coffee mug and knocked it over, spilling the contents. She grabbed a handful of tissues and began sopping it up. “Whoops.”

  The man stood and moved papers out of the way. “Are you all right?”

  “No, not really.” She held one of the framed photos toward him. “Teenager.”

  He raised his brows.

  She glanced at the picture. It was of Will. “Oh, not that one. Here, this one.”

  “Ahh. I see.”

  “Mm-hmm.” They both sat back down. “I think I have your file here somewhere.” She lifted her desk blotter and peered underneath it.

  “Look, we can postpone—”

  “And Mr. Lerner passed away early this morning.” She grabbed another tissue and dabbed her eyes. “He was such a sweetheart. I know I shouldn’t get attached to the residents, but I do. I always do.”

  “Was he ill?”

  “No, he was ninety-eight. He wanted to break the record of one hundred and seven, but I guess his heart just wasn’t up for it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s kind of you to say. But it does mean we have a free bed. For your…?”

  “Friend. He’s been a second father to me and has no family.”

  “For your friend. Well.” Get a grip! She took a deep breath and clutched her hands tightly on her lap, out of the way. “Why don’t you just tell me about him.”

  He settled back in the chair and crossed his legs, propping ankle against knee. He wore brown corduroys, white socks, rugged brown shoes, and a bulky multi-colored sweater. No coat.

  “All right,” he said. “He’s seventy-six and has cancer. At the most, he has only a few months to live.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. We’re getting…used to the idea. I’m beginning a year-long sabbatical from teaching in order to spend more time with him—”

  “Sabbatical. Are you a professor?”

  “Chicago area. At Northwestern. American history. Rand doesn’t want to be in the city. He prefers to be out in the country, and he wants to give me the time and space to continue working. I’m researching for a book about Swedish settlers in Illinois. With this area’s history, we thought it would be the ideal place.”