Dad in Training (5 page)

Retired? Her newfound hope sank. If he were no longer the company president, then maybe Brent had been given the position. Molly stopped herself. She was speculating. She moved the cursor to the search window and then stopped when another hyperlink caught her eye. Funeral of Randall Runyan, son of Morris Runyan, owner of…Molly’s head lurched backward. Randall? Randy? Could this be the boy that she’d taught in elementary school? Her fingers trembled as she clicked on the link. An obituary. Randall, age thirty-seven. Husband to Patricia and father to eight-year-old Randall Junior. That had been almost four years ago.

The newspaper write-up answered her question. Randy Jr. was the student she’d had in special education. He would be Brent’s nephew. Curious about Randall’s death, Molly typed
his name into the search window and perused the links. A newspaper article from November 2005 answered her question. A hunting accident. He’d been shot. Could that be the dark look she witnessed in Brent’s eyes? Death of a brother would be difficult, but four years had passed, and why would he still be—

Stop. She shook her head, angry at herself for trying to relate to a sibling’s death. She’d never experienced a tragedy like his. She knew from her psychology classes that each person grieved in their own way. Brent had a right to take as long as he needed.

But was that the problem?

Uplifted by her research success, Molly closed the program, gathered her notes and strode outside, eager to get busy. A quick call to the Realtor could give her information on a pending sale of the Runyan building, and then, onto her most important contact. She wanted to know more about Morris Runyan, and her best source would be Rob Dyson.

Brent tried to sink lower into the overstuffed chair in his father’s home office. His dad peered at him over bushy eyebrows, a look Brent had grown to recognize as dissatisfaction, and he could only assume it regarded the unsold building. Molly. She exasperated him, but her idea wasn’t bad. He could just give up and offer her the use of the building. They weren’t selling it anyway. Perhaps he should tell his father about the idea. Though unorthodox, his father might think the possibility creative. At least he’d get a little credit for thinking of something original. Brent’s pride flared, knowing everything else at the company had been running with the precision of a well-calibrated machine.

His father shifted a stack of papers from the middle of his desk to the side, folded his hands together and leaned forward, his expression never changing. “Let’s get down to business.”

Brent drew in a breath. “If it’s the empty building, I’ve
been thinking of innovative ideas. I had a talk with Frank and—”

“That’s another matter, Brent.” His forehead knitted tighter. “This is family business.”

“Family business?” Brent regretted the surprise in his voice. “Is something wrong? You’re not ill, are you?”

“Do I look ill?”

Brent flinched. Morris Runyan looked as staunch as his name. “No. I just asked.”

“It’s Randy. He needs more than I can give him.”

Randy
. Air spewed from Brent’s lungs. He licked his lips, searching for a response. What could he offer the boy? But then what could his father? His dad was seventy, and though he had the energy of a man many years younger, his age separated him dramatically from his eleven-year-old grandson.

His father leaned closer. “Did you hear me?”

Brent pulled his scattered thoughts together. “Randy needs more than I can give him, too.”

“So we throw him out in the cold? He’s your nephew.”

“He’s your—I know he’s my nephew, Dad, but what do you suggest? Military school?”

His father’s hand hit the desk with a bang. “Military school? The boy’s eleven. He’s withdrawing more every day, and if you spent more time with him, you’d see that. He’s not the disruptive little boy he used to be when Randall died and the child’s mother abandoned him. He needs attention.”

Brent envisioned his long hours at work and his professional commitments. Where could he find more time for Randy than he already gave him? “I take him on weekends. I’ve taken him camping.” Brent’s shoulders sank. “I hate camping. I’ve tried to involve him in the Boy’s Club. He doesn’t socialize. I try—”

His father rose and strode across the room and back, as if pacing revved his motor. He stopped and gave Brent a dark look. “Your mother’s gone, Brent. I’m alone here, missing her
and struggling to be a father and mother to the boy. Your mother had maternal instincts, but I don’t know how to relate to him.” His eyes pierced Brent’s. “You’re much closer in age than I am. I don’t know what to tell you, but Randy needs to spend more time with you.”

“You have a housekeeper here when you’re not home. What happens when Randy’s sick and has to leave school? I’m working.”

“He can come here then. Don’t look for trouble. I just think he can relate to you more. He needs diversions—something fun for kids. I can’t play basketball. You can put up a hoop.” He bounced an imaginary ball and looped it into the air.

A grin stretched Brent’s taunt expression. “Not bad, Dad. You made a basket.”

A faint smile flashed on his father’s face before his serious look returned. He headed back toward Brent and rested his hand on the back of the chair. “Son, I know Randy’s been our concern since the tragedy happened. Neither one of us is at fault, but the problem fell in our laps, and with your mom gone, I’m just asking you to give it a try. Randy needs loving care, and I don’t know how to give an eleven-year-old what he needs.”

Brent’s stomach knotted.
Neither one of us is at fault
. If only that were true, and despite trying to convince himself otherwise, Brent believed he had jinxed his brother. God answered the prayer he’d spoken as a boy, and Brent believed his prayer had caused mayhem.

He gripped the chair arm. “I have no idea how to be a father to Randy.”

“You learn. That’s what all parents do. They learn.”

“How, Dad? How do you learn to be a parent?”

“You make mistakes and try to do better next time. People train to be whatever they set their minds to. You can learn to be a dad to Randy.”

Learn to be a dad
. Brent monitored his voice. “I’ll do what I can. Maybe if Randy stays with me more, maybe…” He faltered and glanced toward the foyer. “Where is he?”

“Where he always is. In his room. He lives there. He even eats meals there half the time. That’s why I’m asking for your help. He’s withdrawing more every day, and he seems so depressed.”

His father’s voice wavered, and Brent’s worry rose. “It’s going on four years. I’d hoped he would have adjusted.”

“We both did, but it’s not happening.” His father sank into a chair.

Brent shifted and rose. “I’ll go upstairs and talk with him.”

“Please do. The boy needs to know he’s loved…even if it’s by two men who aren’t very good at it.”

Brent nodded, accepting the truth. Molly’s words wrapped around him. Everyone needed to feel loved.

Brent headed up the stairs, asking himself where God was—this loving Father who seemed to pick and choose who to bless. Jesus said let the children come to me, but not this time. Randy had gotten the short end of the stick.

Molly slipped the telephone receiver into the cradle and wiped the perspiration from her palms. She’d done it, and on Memorial Day. She’d taken a chance, using every ounce of courage she had, but her mission had been accomplished. She’d called Morris Runyan, and for some crazy reason, he had agreed to see her. He had no plans for the day, either.

Standing for a moment to grasp what she’d done, Molly reviewed their conversation. She’d said little, only that she had an interest in their unoccupied building.

“You’ll have to talk with our Realtor,” he’d said, his tone cautious.

“But this is a different kind of proposition, Mr. Runyan. I’d like to explain it to you in person.”

“Who are you again?”

She’d wished she had some fancy title that would have impressed him, but she wouldn’t lie. “My name is Molly Manning. I’m a special-education teacher at Montgomery Middle School.”

Silence filled the line for a minute, and Molly’s heart twisted.

“My grandson went to school in that district a few years ago. Randall Runyan.”

“I remember him. He was a puzzle. You know what I mean?” Molly wanted to kick herself for being so blunt.

“How do you mean?”

She swallowed, grasping a second to form the right words. “He was in special education, but I never felt he belonged there. He had discipline problems, but he seemed bright to me.”

Morris Runyan made a sound almost like an exasperated chuckle. “I agree, Miss Manning. He needed something that special education couldn’t offer.”

She started to ask what he meant, then stopped. No more careless comments or questions.

“Would you like to come by this evening?” he’d asked.

She muffled her cheer of joy. “I’ll be there,” she’d said. And now she stood in her kitchen, wondering how to dress. Should she dress like a professional or go as she was—a woman who loved dogs and kids and had a dream that Morris Runyan could help her reach.

Molly settled for a pair of beige slacks and a coral-colored knit top. She slung her shoulder bag over her arm and headed to the door, reeling with anticipation.

On the highway, she rehearsed what she would say, changing it every half mile when she thought of something more impressive or something that she suspected Mr. Runyan would find more important. She wanted to stress the tax write-off, but then she thought maybe she should first approach his charitable nature. Finally she sent up a prayer and decided to
put it in God’s hands because hers often made a mess of things. How could someone who prided herself on quality end up making so many mistakes? Brent’s face dropped into her thoughts. She’d certainly failed there.

When she pulled in front of his house on Lake Angelus, she paused a moment, eyeing the impressive home and garnering her courage.
Be yourself, Molly. Speak from your heart
. She wasn’t sure where the advice came from, but she knew what she’d heard had wisdom. She turned the steering wheel and rolled up the driveway, her heart in her throat.

The Greek Revival entrance intimidated her. She felt out of place with its formal appearance, white Doric columns and sloping cornice above the loggia. Could the man inside be as cold and reserved? Her gaze swept over the surroundings again, particularly the appealing landscaping that added a bit of color to the grounds. She could only hope Morris Runyan had the same charm.

Molly strode up the two steps to the front door and pushed the bell. She anticipated a butler or housekeeper opening the door, but her expectation ended when she looked into the same midnight-blue eyes of Brent Runyan, camouflaged by bushy eyebrows.

“Miss Manning?”

His strong voice surprised her. “Yes. Mr. Runyan?”

He nodded.

“Thank you for seeing me tonight. I hadn’t expected you to be so kind.”

“Why not?” he said, pushing back the door for her to enter.

His brusque response echoed Brent’s terse responses. Genetic, she feared. She didn’t know how to respond, so she tossed out the first thing that entered her mind. “It’s a holiday.”

The foyer extended to the back of the house, where she caught the glimpse of a fireplace, and to her left, the living room spread beyond the broad archway, flanked by a stair
case to the second floor. Morris motioned her into the living room, and when she entered, the elegant decor centered on another massive fireplace.

“Please have a seat.” He motioned toward an easy chair beside the hearth.

Molly sank into the chair as tension caught up with her. She folded her hands in her lap to control the tremble that had appeared without warning. “Your home is lovely, Mr. Runyan.”

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes searching her face.

Her mouth had dried to sawdust.

Morris folded his hands in his lap. “So, talk to me, Miss Manning.”

“Please call me Molly.” She unknotted her fingers and spread them apart, aching to relax. “It’s a long story, but first I’ll give you some basic information.” She drew in a breath and told him how she’d begun the Teacher’s Pet program and her dream of being a veterinarian.

“So what stopped you? Finances?”

The question caught her off guard, and for a moment horrible memories flooded her mind. Her lying and cheating. The drinking, the—She pushed her head above the torrent. She’d told the acceptable short version of her story often. “My biggest problem was the college tests. Universities that offer veterinary medicine education are limited in the U.S. and so they only take the top students—4.0 GPA with the highest college-entry test scores. I did well in school, but I couldn’t compete with my test scores.”

A deep frown settled on his face. “I see.” He shifted his hands and tapped his index finger on the chair arm, making a soft rhythmic thud. “Veterinary assistant? That wouldn’t be quite so demanding.”

She lowered her head, thinking of her promise to God to be the best she could be. “I don’t settle for second-rate. I still have dreams. They’ve changed, but I want to run a dog shelter.
I don’t suppose you’re aware of the large number of abandoned and abused dogs struggling to survive, but they can be trained to be excellent—”