Back to the Good Fortune Diner (11 page)

She partly agreed with his view on education. But her dislike of the man and his implication that English wasn’t her first language put her on a wary defensive. She drew herself up. “I respect your position, but the reality is that the state has basic requirements in order for your grandson to earn his GED. He’ll need to excel in this course in order to raise his GPA and score well on his SATs if he wants to go to college.”

“He doesn’t need to go to college,” he declared. “A diploma or degree’s just a fancy, expensive piece of paper that people use to lord over others, pretend they’re smarter than everyone else. It don’t make a difference in the real world. Work is work, and there’s plenty of it here. Simon’ll learn everything he needs from me.”

Remembering Jane’s advice, she decided not to continue the argument. William was obviously set in his beliefs, and this was something he would have to discuss with Chris. “My only objective is to tutor Simon and get him through this summer class. How he conducts himself after that is up to him.”

William didn’t respond. Actually, he didn’t say anything as he made his way to the kitchen where he studiously read the paper and ignored her. So much for hospitality.

It was another twenty minutes before Simon finally came stumbling into the house. He looked worn out as he dropped his bag by the door. William came out of the kitchen frowning. “You’re late. Miss Chang’s meter’s been running.”

“It’s
Cheung,
” she corrected, though she didn’t bother to correct his lie. Considering what she was going through with him, she ought to be paid for the extra time.

“I couldn’t help it. The bus made a long detour to drop three other guys off.”

“You still have chores to do,” William reminded him. “Don’t leave ’em till it’s too dark.”

Simon slumped. “I have to go clean the stalls and stuff,” he explained to Tiffany in a low voice. She noticed he didn’t argue or sigh in disparagement around his grandfather.

“I’ll go with you,” she said, getting up. “You can tell me about your class today.”

The rich smells of farm life assaulted her as she followed Simon across the dirt and gravel in her ballet flats. Rocks bit through the flimsy soles of her shoes as she skirted what she was sure wasn’t just dirt. They passed a large fenced-in area that housed a coop. Brown-and-white chickens roamed freely within, pecking at the spare grass. Simon hastily grabbed a scoop, opened a big plastic bucket and dug in, scattering a measure of chicken feed across the ground, which the hens hurried to gobble up.

“Are they for the eggs or for meat?” Tiffany asked.

“Eggs, mostly. Dad does sell a few for meat sometimes, though.”

“Do you have to wake up at the crack of dawn to collect the eggs?”

He grimaced, eyeing the birds warily. “One of the hands usually comes by every day. Dad only makes me feed them.” She heard him mutter “Thank God” under his breath and suppressed a smile as he headed for the barn. She wasn’t sure she’d want to have to fight off a bunch of chickens for their eggs, either. The only place she wanted to see a chicken up close was in a grease-stained bucket.

“So, tell me about your first day.”

He lifted a shoulder. “My teacher’s a serious hard-ass. He jumped straight into
The Tempest.
We read the first scene in class and started the second. We have to finish scene two by tomorrow.”

“Did you have any problems understanding the text?”

Simon didn’t answer. His mouth firmed, and his eyes grew flinty, though they wouldn’t meet hers. Wordlessly, he grabbed a pitchfork and gloves and rolled the wheelbarrow out of the corner. “Simon?” He started shoveling, and Tiffany had to move out of his way. “If you didn’t understand something, you have to tell me.”

Still no response. Maybe he hadn’t heard her over the sound of the rustling straw. “Hello?”

“I heard you. I’m stupid, not deaf.”

Tiffany reeled back. “Whoa, okay, I didn’t say anything about you being stupid.”

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because I’m too stupid to pass English.” He stabbed the fork into the dirty straw. “English!”

Okay. So, he’d had a long, hard day, and now he was here, scooping poop. She’d be kind of cranky, too. His grandfather hadn’t even allowed him to take a breather, get a snack. The kid was probably suffering from low blood sugar or something. Gently, she said, “Look, Shakespeare is hard for everyone at first. People are still digging up new meanings to the text.”

He snorted. “I should have known you wouldn’t get it.” He turned his back on her.

He meant get how difficult high school was, she thought. Oh, if only he knew. She rested her fists against her hips. “Let’s start with what you do know. What can you tell me about the scene you read today?”

Simon went on shoveling, and Tiffany jumped back as droppings scattered from the fork at her feet.

She scowled. “Simon, I’m here to help you. Why are you acting like this?”

“If you don’t want to be here, get lost.”

“Is that any way to talk to a lady?” Chris’s deep voice boomed through the barn, startling them both. He crossed his forearms over his chest, leaning up against the door to the tack room. He must have been in there all this time. He caught and held his son’s belligerent look. “How was school?” An edge of warning vibrated beneath his question. He didn’t scold, didn’t make his son apologize for his behavior right off. Tiff watched in fascination as father and son did their dance of discipline.

Simon shrugged. Chris stared him down until his son replied, “Fine,
sir.
”

Chris nodded. “I thought I’d come by and say hi,” he said to Tiffany. He hitched a shoulder toward his son. “Is he giving you attitude?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, but instead she smiled. “Not at all. I was just about to offer to help out.” She met Simon’s bang-veiled glower, flashing her teeth at him.

Chris put his hands out in refusal. “Oh, no. I’m not paying you to clean horse stalls. This is Simon’s job. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to dirty your nice clothes.”

His approving gaze was like the lightest caress, and she became hot all over. “What, these? They’re my schlupping clothes.” She cringed—she sounded too much like a princess with her fancy outfit. Chris raised one eyebrow. “I can pitch in. It’ll make the work go faster.”

“No.” He crossed over to his son and held out a hand for the pitchfork. “I’ll take over just this once, Simon. You go in, clean up and work with Tiffany.”

“But—”

“Just this once.” Chris took the pitchfork from him. “She’s here for you. You need to take advantage of her while she’s around to help.”

“I don’t need help,” Simon blurted. “I need everyone to leave me alone!” He kicked up a cloud of straw and dust as he stormed from the barn.

“Simon—” Chris stopped at the barn door. He set the pitchfork aside and rubbed his jaw. “Sorry about that, Tiffany. I don’t know why he’s been acting like this.”

She knew why. And in some ways, she understood Simon’s frustration and anger. “He’s a teenager. It kind of comes with the territory.”

“His behavior is unacceptable,” Chris said. “If he knew what you did for me—” A forlorn look darkened his expression and he became still. With an intensity that practically vibrated off him, he stepped closer to her. “I never told you how much I appreciated all your help back in high school. I never said thank you.” He placed his big, strong hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sorry. This is fifteen years too late. Thank you, Tiffany, for everything you did for me.”

Her heart sped up, her pulse tripping through her veins. It had never occurred to her that she’d needed to hear a thank-you from him. He’d paid her, after all. But his appreciation was worth ten times what she’d earned.

He gazed at her as though she might try to deny his words. He searched her face with a probing look, and his eyes fell to her lips. Trembling, Tiffany held her breath wondering what he would do next, but whatever had gripped him for that heady, fervent moment dissipated. His hands fell away, leaving her wishing she could step closer and wrap her arms around him.

He turned toward the barn door where his son had escaped, steel in his eyes and voice. “Simon needs to show you more respect.”

“Respect’s something I’m going to have to earn myself,” she told him. This was more than simply teenage rebellion, and if she was going to have a shot at getting Simon to work with her, she had to break through to him on her own. Chris wrinkled his brow skeptically. “Seriously, if you want me to work with him, let me do this my way.”

He searched her face, his growing confusion clouding those gorgeous blue eyes. Then he nodded. “All right. But if he gives you any trouble...”

“He won’t.”

She left Chris in the barn, but couldn’t help but peek over her shoulder to watch as he hoisted a bale of straw above his head, muscles rippling across his back and shoulders. Something in her chest fluttered. She really had to stop ogling him like this. He was going to catch her at it one day and—

He looked up, grinned, then went back to work.

She hurried away, body tingling everywhere. Why was she still so afraid of her attraction to him? She wouldn’t be in Everville long. There wouldn’t be any consequences to indulging in a little man-ogling. She glanced over her shoulder again. Chris was using the front of his T-shirt to wipe his brow, exposing the delicious expanse of his washboard abs. Yowza.

Back in the dining room, Tiffany swept aside all unsettling thoughts about Chris and sat at the table. Simon came downstairs a few minutes later, hesitating on the staircase when he saw her.

“
The Tempest
starts with a storm,” she declared. “That’s what a tempest is. A big storm.”

He rolled his eyes as he descended that last few steps. “I
know
that.”

“I thought you said you were stupid,” she said, tilting her chin to one side coquettishly.

“The teacher told us about the play,” he griped, flinging himself into a chair across the table.

“Okay. So, what else did your teacher say?”

She waited while he glowered at a spot on the table, eyebrows knitted. He seemed to be debating what to tell her. “Hey, if you can’t remember, I’ll be happy to tell you about it all over again. That way you can repeat a day’s worth of lessons in two hours. Bet you’d love that. Or, if you prefer, we can sit here and stare until you want to chime in. I’m still getting paid either way.”

“That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I actually care enough to make you try your hardest so you don’t end up mad at everyone for something only you can fix.” She opened the book and started reading out loud. “‘If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them—’”

“I know how to read,” Simon said irritably.

She propped up her chin with one hand. “You probably do. But I’m going to do a translation, line by line. It goes like this—‘Yo, Daddy-O, stop with the magic storm, man. I saw a ship go down, and I felt bad for the dudes on board.’”

His color went from pale to purple, the look on his face something between horror and rage—as if he’d stepped on a piece of Lego but couldn’t scream. “I’m not an idiot,” he choked out.

“I don’t think you are, either. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re smarter than you let on. But you’ve been trying your hardest to prove otherwise. So, unless you start showing me what you know, I’m going to make baby talk at you and waste our time and your dad’s money. Now, are we going to work together on this or not?”

He gave her a defiant snort, crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. “Fine. I’m stupid. So, go ahead. Talk to me like I’m a baby.”

She leaned forward and lifted her lips in a predatory smile. “All right, then. Guess we’re going to have to work together every. Single. Day.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
IFFANY WASN’T KIDDING
when she promised to make Simon work. Every day after school, she’d follow him to the barn where she’d read through
The Tempest
using her terrible translations while he cleaned the stables. She wasn’t sure he was learning anything, though—he never had an answer for her when she asked leading questions. Then again, cleaning the stalls was such smelly work, she wouldn’t want to open her mouth while shoveling, either.

She found he was more responsive once he was back in the house at the table with a glass of chocolate milk and a couple of peanut butter sandwiches. But whenever they settled down to work, William would inevitably appear and listen in, making her self-conscious. From what she’d observed, he didn’t leave the house much, thumping his way between the kitchen for a cup of coffee to the office off the living room, but rarely venturing outside. He was pretty loud about it, too—she was certain he didn’t normally bang his dishes or cupboards.

“This play is idiotic,” William said at one point, overhearing one of her more awful translations. He clapped a hand against Simon’s thin shoulder. “Tell me the truth, Simon. Do you think you’re ever going to need to know this stuff in real life? Wouldn’t you rather be learning how to drive the tractor?”

Simon’s impassive answer was coupled with a pointed glance at his grandfather’s stump. “Dad says he won’t let me until I’m sixteen.”

William noticed the direction of his look and scoffed. “This was a stupid accident. I wasn’t paying attention. I know you wouldn’t make the same mistake.”

Tiffany cleared her throat. “Mr. Jamieson, if you don’t mind, I’m on a tight schedule with Simon.”

His eyes locked with hers, and he gave her a brittle smile. “I’m only trying to have a heart-to-heart conversation with my grandson, Miss Chang.”

“Cheung.”

He ignored her. “Simon, when you want to do some real man’s work, you come and find me. All this tutoring nonsense is costing your father a lot, you know. I personally think that’s money better spent on a car when you get your license, eh?” He went back into the office, leaving the door wide open and turning up the volume on the radio so it blared country music into the dining room.