Drenched in Light (32 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” Justin replied, looking disappointed as he turned and followed his sister down the block toward school.

“That boy!” Granmae grumbled good-naturedly, but my attention was fixed on the van across the street. CITY LAND AND SURVEY, the side said in faded lettering. Watching the men as they set up their equipment, I wondered if Justin could be right—if the survey crew could be an undercover police unit. Peering through his lens, the surveyor used sign language to relay letters and numbers to his helper, who returned to the van to operate some sort of ten-key device. Standing up for a moment, the surveyor glanced down the street and refocused his scope, then looked through the lens again and signaled more numbers. I followed his line of vision to the taco stands.

Not the taco stands—the cars.

He signaled another set of numbers and letters: 423, followed by three letters.

License plate numbers
. Suddenly, it all made sense—the survey crew this morning, the men sitting outside in the dark pickup truck when I’d come by the cleaner’s before. Different disguises, but they were always watching the street. Police surveillance—like something in the movies, only real. This morning, the survey crew was taking down license plate numbers of customers at the taco stands. With the long lens, they could stay far enough away to remain unnoticed.

What if some of those license plates were traced to Harrington students?

My perfect day fell to my feet with a heavy thud.

When I looked up, Mim was walking along the sidewalk with her flower cart, the wheels making a slow
creak, creak, creak
that echoed off the buildings, growing louder as she approached the survey crew. The surveyor jerked away from his scope, surprised when Mim stopped her cart and handed him a single yellow rose. With a wave and a smile, she turned in our direction and proceeded to cross the street.

Sniffing the rose, the man tucked it in the pocket of his coveralls, shaking his head in dismay as Mim wrestled her cart over the drainage tile and into the dry cleaner’s parking lot.

“Mim, what’re you doin’ bothering them police officers?” Granmae asked.

Straightening the hump in her shoulders, Mim peered up at her and smiled as she met us on the stoop. “Oh, they’re no bother to me.”

Rolling her eyes, Granmae turned her attention to me. “Here’s our girl that asked about the weddin’ flowers.”

Mim squinted at me. I had a feeling she’d forgotten who I was, which didn’t bode well for the eventual delivery of Bett’s rehearsal bouquets. Finally, she shook a finger in the air, then turned back to her flowers. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” What could she possibly have for me? Hopefully not the bouquets, two weeks early. Even Mim’s flowers couldn’t last that long, although the three roses I’d given to my mother still looked amazingly fresh.

Mim sorted through her flowers, her knobby hands moving from bucket to bucket, parting the blooms, then letting them fall back together again. “I have hidden it somewhere, and now it’s so safe, I can’t find it.” She pushed stray hairs out of her face. “But if folks on the street saw it, they would want it, and it’s for you.” Finally, she lifted one of the buckets, shoved it into Granmae’s hands, and fished something from between two egg crates. “Well, here it is,” she said, coming out with a single perfect rose—perhaps the most beautiful I had ever seen, ivory, almost iridescent, with the slightest tinge of pink blushing the edges and tracing the intricate network of veins. “Ask your sister if she would like these in her bouquets. They would be heavenly for a spring bride.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, bringing the bloom to my face and taking in the scent. “Does it have a name?” As soon as I showed Bett this rose, she was going to want them in the bouquets from the floral shop, as well. It was, indeed, the perfect choice for the antique dress.

Mim gave a crafty smile, her pale blue eyes astute, as if she sensed that I might be cutting in on her market. “Oh, who can say?” she replied evasively. “It is from a very old plant. The old ones are not only beautiful, but they carry scent, as roses are meant to. Many of the new ones might as soon be plastic. They are all for show.”

I nodded in agreement as the air around me filled with fragrance, pushing away the smell of damp sidewalks, exhaust fumes, and tacos being served up down the road. “I can’t wait to give it to Bett.”

Mim patted my arm, then turned to Granmae. “Have you shown her the dress yet?”

“Not yet. I was just seeing the children off to school.”

Impatient with the answer, Mim circumvented us and tugged her cart up the wheelchair ramp. “Well, let’s go. I can’t wait for her to see.”

Holding open the door, Granmae waited for Mim, then ushered me inside and headed around the end of the counter. “We been puttin’ some serious time in on this old thing,” she said, but I was watching the survey crew across the street, wondering what they were going to do with those license plate numbers, and how I should react. The idea of Harrington kids being caught in a drug sting was unbearable. The scandal could destroy the school.

Yet, if a pervasive drug problem was being swept under the rug, then the school was neglecting the kids.

Which was worse?

I heard the wedding dress swish onto the counter before I saw it.

“Well,” Granmae said, “feast your eyes.”

“Of course it is far from finished,” Mim added. “We still have more to do on the details.”

Breath caught in my throat. There, suspended over the counter, in a spill of ivory satin, French lace, and seed pearls turned golden with age, was the dress from my mother’s wedding pictures. It was incredible. What Granmae and Mim had done with our tattered relic was nothing short of miraculous.

“Oh,” I whispered, stepping closer, touching the fabric, tracing a finger along the ivory lace, blinking back a mist of tears. “It’s perfect. You can’t imagine how happy this will make Bethany.” Looking up, I caught Granmae’s gaze, then Mim’s, wishing I could express my gratitude for every careful stitch. “It’s her dream.”

Mim smiled tenderly. “What a fine thing to be the answer to someone’s prayers.”

I sniffed and nodded, grateful that with all the ways I had failed Bethany as a sister, I would be able to do this one thing right. I could show her how much I loved her before she left, and our lives moved onto new paths.

Granmae responded to the release of emotion with a grunt. “It’s not finished yet. It’ll look better when it’s done.” Drawing the dress back across the counter, she hung it on a hook by the wall. “There’s still more work on the train, but we cleaned and despotted it, restitched the seams, did the alterations, matched up the lace that was missin’, and Mim is workin’ on the seed pearls and addin’ on some other antique ones that match. It’ll be ready to go by Friday. That way, you’ll have a week before th weddin’, like you wanted.”

“Thank you so much.” The words hardly seemed adequate. No matter what the bill was, it wouldn’t be enough.

The bell rang behind me, and a man stepped in with an armload of dirty laundry. Saying good-bye to the ladies, I left them and hurried on to work, my thoughts again returning to the question of a police stakeout and whether Harrington kids would be caught in it.

When I walked into the school, the first face I saw was Keiler’s. He was standing by the office door with a beaten-up backpack slung over one shoulder, charming Mrs. Jorgenson with the story of his broken leg. The rescued kid had grown to the size of a junior sumo wrestler—the story like something that would be on the cover of
The National Enquirer:
World’s Largest Eight-year-old Crashes Ski Lift, Injures Operator . . .

Mrs. Jorgenson was laughing hysterically and fanning her face. “So, then, where did the biker gang come into it?”

Keiler raised a finger astutely. “I thought you might ask that,” he said, and Mrs. Jorgenson laced her fingers, resting her chin on them, waiting for the rest of the story. I noticed that Keiler hadn’t gotten a haircut, but he had tried to comb it. “You see, that wasn’t until after the ski resort, when the green Hornet broke down at a truck stop somewhere in Texas. The foot wasn’t in such bad shape until the mechanic dropped part of a Harley on it. Nice guy, though. He felt so guilty, he traded me a used Harley for the green Hornet and every last dime I had left in the world. So, that, to answer your question, is how a perfectly sane—well, all right, mostly sane—biochemistry grad from NYU ends up here as a substitute algebra teacher.”

Mrs. Jorgenson tucked an application packet, undoubtedly Keiler’s, into a file, the laugh lines around her eyes deepening. “Thank you for clearing that up. I have to say, I was definitely confused when I saw your résumé.”

“It’s all right,” Keiler replied, taking a step backward into the hallway. “I have that effect on people, but, hey—better to confuse than to be confused, Confucius say. Unless you’re a teacher, which, come to think of it, right now I am.”

Setting the folder aside, Mrs. Jorgenson gave him a thumbs-up. “You’ll do fine,” she assured him. “They’ll love you.”

“That’s what Julia said.” Keiler motioned to me. “Well, actually, she said she’d pay any amount of money to get out of teaching algebra this week.” Catching my glance, he smiled.

I felt as if I’d just walked into an empty house and found an old friend waiting there to help me make the place a home.

Shaking her head, the secretary waved us off as she reached for another stack of papers. “You’ve brought in a live one here, Costell. Take him down and show him the classroom, will you? Mr. Beaman left lesson plans for the week on the computer. Just log in as Beaman, and they should come up.”

“Sure,” I said. “Come on, Limpy.”

Turning around in the doorway, Keiler waved farewell to the secretary. “I never get the respect I deserve,” he complained, then started down the hall without me.

Mrs. Jorgenson motioned covertly for me to come closer. “Where’d you find him?” she asked.

“Volunteering with an after-school arts program this weekend.” Leaning back, I glanced out the door. Keiler had reached the end of the entryway and was standing at the T, looking up and down the main hall. He’d just noticed the ladybugs.

“I hope he stays.” Jotting something on a sticky note, she stuck it to her phone. “He’ll loosen the laces around here a little.” Pulling the sticky note off the phone, she wadded it up, tossed it in the trash, and started writing another one. “Cute, too, in a rock-’n’-roll kind of way. Too young for me, though.” Tapping the pen on the desk, she blinked at me pointedly
. Not too young for you
. Mrs. Jorgenson was newly single at forty-six and always on the lookout for available men. She had a bad habit of giving me unsolicited dating advice.

I chose to ignore it, as usual. Instead, I glanced toward Stafford’s office door—still closed, no light underneath. “Where’s Mr. Stafford?” As soon as Keiler was settled in, I wanted to catch Stafford and tell him about the police stakeout. Maybe then he would take the drug issue seriously. The first step would be to reinstate the big, ugly stick-on Harrington parking decals, so that the kids would be recognized wherever they went. The second step was probably to call the drug prevention officers and set up some town hall meetings with parents. There was also the issue of bringing in the drug dog when the kids were present. . . .

“Out sick. The flu again.” Mrs. Jorgenson was busy with her sticky notes. “High school principal’s gone to the central office all week for budget meetings, and Mr. Fortier will be in and out. He’s chaperoning soloists at the district instrumental contest, so I guess we’re in charge around here.”

I waited for her to say,
“April fools,”
but she didn’t. “Will you let me know if Mr. Stafford calls or makes it in? I need to talk to him.”

“Sure thing,” she replied cheerfully. “Oh, your mom phoned a few minutes ago. She wants you to call her.”

Great,
I thought,
just great.
.

I caught up with Keiler, who was following a trail of ladybugs down the wrong hall. “This way,” I said, and we did an about-face.

“That’s amazing.” He gaped upward at the ladybug jamboree around the light fixture. “There must be thousands of those things.”

“Don’t mention that to the principal when you meet him,” I advised. “It’s a sore spot.” Keiler gave me a wry sideways grin, and I added, “No ladybug pun intended.”

We continued down the hall, taking a quick school tour and talking pleasantly about Jumpkids camp, the weekend, Harrington school, and how I ended up back as a counselor after having attended as a dancer. Making the story sound neater than it was, I quickly moved on to a description of the classes he would be teaching that week. “You’ll have all the algebra classes,” I said, “so, that’s the upper deck of eighth graders and a few high-scoring seventh graders. Those who are mathematically challenged, like I was, take prealgebra in the eighth grade.”

Keiler quirked a brow at me. “It’s hard to imagine you as mathematically challenged.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” I was flattered enough that I actually blushed. “You should have seen me trying to teach algebra last week. I can’t remember any of that stuff—actually, I’m not sure I ever knew it. All I wanted to do in high school was get through my classes so I could keep dancing.”

“Guess it worked,” he commented with obvious admiration, as we walked into Mr. Beaman’s algebra classroom. “Dell says you were with the KC Metro Ballet. That’s pretty impressive.”

The usual lump formed in my throat, then sat on my lungs like a weight. “It was good,” I said, and then a strange thing happened. The lump dissipated, and instead of feeling lost and out-of-body, I felt I was exactly where I was supposed to be. “But eventually you have to grow up and join the real world.”

Keiler flinched away from me, his lip curling in distaste. “Whose rule is that?”