Samantha's Gift (2 page)

“Allow me,” Sean said, gallantly opening the office door for her and stepping back with a bow.

Rachel took a deep breath and held it. She sidled through the open door without looking up or glancing back at Sean. Principal Vanbruger wasn't the main reason for her nervousness anymore. Sean Bates was.

Not only were her original butterflies still having a riotous party in her stomach, but the moment Sean had accidentally touched her hand, they'd invited all their friends—and a few hundred moths, to boot!

 

Rachel's bumfuzzled state of mind became of secondary importance the moment she entered the principal's office and saw who, and what, was waiting for her.

Her gaze lingered a moment on the two adults, then went to a withdrawn-looking little girl sitting on a chair in the corner, lower legs and feet dangling.

The child's shorts and T-shirt were faded and much too big for her, but that wasn't the saddest part. Everything, from her posture to her placement in the room, screamed
lonely,
immediately capturing Rachel's heart.

Principal Vanbruger rose from behind his desk. “Ah, good. Ms. Woodward, I believe you know Ms.
Heatherington, from Health and Human Services in Little Rock.”

Rachel nodded. “Yes.” She shook the social worker's hand formally. “We've met.”

He gestured toward the child. “And this is Samantha Smith. Samantha, this is your new teacher, Ms. Woodward.”

“Please, call me Miss Rachel,” she told the shy little waif. “All the other children do.” Wide, pale blue eyes stared up at her from a cherubic face surrounded by unkempt blond curls.

Approaching slowly and pausing in front of the child, Rachel said, “I see we're all out of my favorite kind of chair. Can I share yours? I'm pretty little. There should be room for both of us.”

Samantha's only answer was to scoot to one side. Rachel perched on the edge of the seat at an angle and laid her arm across the chair's low, curved back. That not only helped her balance, it formed a pose of guardianship, offering unspoken protection in a world of staid, intimidating adults.

“Samantha's parents died,” the social worker said. “She's in foster care right now. I'm working on getting her placed with relatives in Colorado, so I doubt you'll have to bother with her for long. She hasn't been behaving very well, I'm afraid. Just try to keep her out of trouble and make the best of it till the paperwork comes through and we can send her out of state.”

Tactful, as always.
Rachel wanted to jump up and scream,
How dare you be so matter-of-fact? Can't you see how frightened the poor thing is?

Instead, Rachel settled back into the chair, lowered her arm and pulled the little girl against her as if they were already fast friends. The glare of animosity she sent across the room belied her casual posture.

“I can read all the details in the files later, Ms. Heatherington. There's no need to discuss any of it now.”

Without waiting for a reply, Rachel leaned down and whispered in Samantha's ear, then stood, holding out her hand. “If you'll excuse us—we're going to see my classroom.”

The social worker opened her mouth to object and was silenced by the righteous anger in Rachel's backward glance.

“I'm going to show Samantha the playground, too. Then she'll know where everything is when she gets here tomorrow.”

Wisely, Principal Vanbruger shooed them on their way with a wave of his hand and a firm “Fine. Go. I'll take care of things here.”

Rachel was thankful he had interceded. If she'd been forced to stay in that woman's presence much longer she was afraid she might have expressed a very un-Christian opinion. That wouldn't do. It was bad enough to be thinking it in the first place.

P
roceeding down the sidewalk to the double doors that would take them to the interior halls of one of the low, nondescript buildings, Rachel kept up a friendly banter.

“It's not far to my room. Here we are. Look. First you go in these glass doors by the big letter
A.
” Pointing, she led the way. “Then you find the room with a green door. It's right here. See the
K
on it? That stands for
Kindergarten.
I put a smiley face in the window, too, so all the kids can be sure this is the right place. Can you see that?”

The five-year-old nodded solemnly.

“I like to smile big like that. It makes my whole face happy,” Rachel said as she reached for the doorknob. “Let's go inside and see where your seat is going to be. I have new crayons and pencils for you,
too.” She felt the child's grip on her hand tighten. “Do you like to draw and color?”

Another nod.

“Good. Me, too.”

Rachel swung the door open and ushered her new student into the colorfully decorated classroom. One whole wall was plastered with letters of the alphabet, arranged amid the flowers and vegetables of a cartoon-like garden. In the foreground, a bunny made of the letter
B
was nibbling on a carrot that was bent to resemble a
C.
On the opposite side of the room there was a sink, bookcase and bright blue cabinet with banks of cubbyholes. Red, blue and yellow plastic chairs surrounded four low, round work tables and echoed the same vivid colors.

Above the chalkboard, Rachel had fastened gigantic numbers, one through ten, and a more sedate version of the
ABC
s. No flat, vertical surface remained undecorated. It had taken days to pin the pictures and cutout letters to the bulletin boards. Judging by the look of amazement and awe on the child's face, the effort had been well worth it.

“Did you go to preschool?” Rachel asked.

“Uh-uh.”

She talked!
Thank You, God!
Rachel felt like cheering. Instead, she kept her tone deliberately casual. “That's okay. We'll learn our letters and numbers here in my class, together.”

“I'm five,” Samantha said softly.

“I'm a little older than that,” Rachel countered with a grin.

“Teachers are supposed to be old.”

“That's right. You're very smart.”

The child beamed. “I know.”

At least she hasn't lost her sense of self-worth, Rachel mused. That was a big plus. Obviously, someone in Samantha Smith's past had done a wonderful job of making her feel worthwhile. That confidence would help her adjust to whatever troubles came her way, the loss of her parents being the worst one imaginable. It was hard enough growing up
with
parents, let alone coping without them.

Except maybe in the case of my own mother.
The thought popped into Rachel's head before she had time to censor it. There were some people who could give advice in a way that made the recipient glad to follow it. Then there was Rachel's mother, Martha. When Martha Woodward spoke, she acted as if everyone should be thrilled to profit from her superior wisdom. To disagree with her opinions was to invite condemnation. Rachel was, unfortunately, very good at doing that.

As she reflected on the strange twists and turns her private life had taken lately, she stood aside and watched the curious child explore the classroom. The sight brought a smile and a sigh of contentment. Teaching was Rachel's God-given gift and she relished every moment of it. Moreover, when she got a
chance to help an emotionally needy child like Samantha, even for a short time, the blessing was magnified.

Rachel hoped that someday, if she was patient enough, Martha would finally accept the fact that her only daughter was single by choice. That her happiness came from loving other people's children as if they were her own.

If that happened, it would be a direct answer to prayer. And if not? Well, that would be an answer of another kind, wouldn't it?

 

The playground was deserted when Rachel finally took Samantha outside to the play equipment. It was grouped according to size. That which was assigned to the youngest children was naturally the smallest. The stiff, canvaslike seats of those swings were so tiny that even a person as diminutive as Rachel couldn't fit into them safely. Knowing that, she led the way to the next larger size.

Samantha strained on tiptoe to make herself tall enough to scoot back into one of the higher swings.

Rachel sat next to her and pushed off with her feet, swinging slowly, as if they were simply two friends sharing a recess. “I like to do this, don't you?”

“Uh-huh.” Because she could no longer reach the ground, the little girl wiggled and kicked her feet in the air, managing to coax very little back and forth motion out of the swing. “Will you push me?”

“Okay. But first, watch how I move my legs. See? I pull them in when I go backward, then lean back and stick them out to go forward.”

The child made a feeble try, failed, and pulled a face. “It doesn't work.”

“It will. You just need to practice. Watch again. See?”

Instead of listening, Samantha jumped down and stalked away, kicking sand and muttering to herself, “Dumb old swing. I hate swings.”

So much for the buddy system,
Rachel thought. It served her right. She'd taken one look at Samantha Smith, sensed her loneliness, identified with her, and promptly broken her own rule against blurring the line between teacher and pupil.

“Okay. Fun's over,” she said. “Time for you to go back to the office so Ms. Heatherington can drive you home.”

Samantha whirled. “No!”

“Yes.” Rachel cocked her head to one side, raised an eyebrow and held out her hand. “Come on.”

Tears blurred the little girl's wide, blue eyes. “I wanna stay here. With you.”

“When you come back tomorrow morning you'll be in my class all day.”

“No!” The child spun around and took off at a run.

Surprise made Rachel hesitate. Samantha was al
ready disappearing down an exterior hallway when she came to her senses and started in pursuit.

She didn't dare shout. If Heatherington happened to look out the window and see what was happening she might decide to move Samantha to another class for the short time she had left before being sent out of state. That was the last thing Rachel wanted.

At the corner where the sidewalk made a T, Rachel skidded to a stop. Which way? Left? Right? The hall was deserted.

Breathless, she prayed, “Where is she? Help me? Please, Lord?”

A commotion to the right caught her attention. Though the sounds were muffled, Rachel was certain she heard a childish squeal, followed by a definitely masculine “Oof.”

She dashed toward the noise, rounded a blind corner and nearly slammed into the doubled-over figure of Sean Bates! This time, he wasn't laughing.

“Which way?” Rachel demanded.

Breathless, Sean pointed. “What's going on?”

“Tell you later.”

“You'd better believe it.”

He straightened slowly, painfully, watching Rachel race down the hall in pursuit of the little blond monster that had plowed into him. It had been moving so fast that he wasn't even sure whether it was a girl or a boy. When he saw Rachel returning, holding the
child in front of her with its arms and legs thrashing, he still wasn't sure. Not that it mattered.

“Want some help?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I'll just hang on like this until she gets tired. Or until she kills me.”

“You don't have to be sarcastic. I said I'd help.”

“Sorry. It's been a rough day.”

“Tell me about it.”

He eyed the red-faced child. Rachel had grabbed her from behind, rendering her kicks useless. If he approached from the front, however, he was liable to be very, very sorry—again.

“I just did tell you,” Rachel said. “This is Samantha Smith. She's going to be in my class. I think.”

“You sure you want that?” Eyebrows cocked, Sean gave her a lopsided grin.

“Of course I do. Samantha and I just have to come to an understanding first.” Rachel raised her voice, speaking slowly, plainly. “If she doesn't decide to settle down and behave pretty soon, I may have to ask Ms. Heatherington to take her to another school. I really don't want to do that.”

The little girl gasped, froze in midmotion and stared past Sean's shoulder in the direction of the office. Then she wilted like a plucked blossom on a hot summer day.

Relieved, Rachel relaxed and eased her to the ground so she could stand. “Whew. That's better.”

Sean was braced for another escape attempt. It didn't come.

Instead, the girl gazed up at her teacher with new respect. “I— I'm sorry. You won't tell, will you?”

“Not unless I have to. It's my job to keep you safe and teach you how to get along with others. That means you have to listen to me and do as I say. Will you do that from now on?”

The child peered off into the distance one more time, then looked back up at Rachel and nodded solemnly. “Uh-huh.”

“Okay. We have a deal.”

Rachel held out her hand and Samantha took it. Together, they started to walk back toward the office.

Sean watched them go. He had to admit he'd been wrong to judge the pretty, diminutive teacher on appearance alone. Rachel Woodward was definitely special. One of a kind. Not only was she physically stronger than she looked, she had an indomitable will and a tender, empathetic heart that were impossible to deny.

He smiled to himself. With “credentials” like that, it was no wonder her unconventional form of child psychology had worked so well.

 

Driving home that evening, Rachel couldn't get memories of Sean Bates out of her mind, so she forced herself to concentrate on her newest student instead. Thinking about Samantha kept her from re
living her recent close encounters with Sean, at least temporarily. She was getting pretty disgusted with herself about that. There was certainly no good reason for her to get the shivers every time she pictured his smile and sparkling eyes.

Rachel was glad she'd paused to examine her innermost thoughts regarding Samantha, because they revealed a truly deep concern. As long as that little girl remained in her class, Rachel knew she'd have to be careful to avoid showing favoritism. All students deserved equal treatment, as much as it was within a teacher's ability to provide it, and getting emotionally attached to one or two individuals made impartiality that much harder.

Rachel pulled into the driveway of her modest, white-painted house. Boy, was she glad to be home. She'd bought the house on Old Sturkie Road at auction and had fixed it up to suit her eclectic taste. Now that she was well settled in, she couldn't imagine ever wanting to move. The place had everything: quaint heritage charm, combined with all the modern conveniences such as running water, indoor plumbing, electricity and telephone. In the winter, Rachel could even supplement her regular heating system by lighting the woodstove that still sat by the chimney in her living room.

In the summer, however, there was nothing she'd rather do than relax in the shade of the covered front porch overlooking her peaceful neighborhood.

The phone was already ringing when she flung open the back door and grabbed the receiver. Between her delay at work and the fact that she'd stopped at the market on the way home to pick up a few things for supper, she was running late. Which meant she had a very good idea who was calling.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How'd you know it was me?”

“Lucky guess.”

“You didn't call,” Martha chided.

“I just walked in the door.”

“Hard day?”

“The first ones always are. You know how it is.”

“It took you a long time to get home tonight. I've been trying to reach you for over an hour.”

Rachel chuckled cynically. “Well, unless you expect Schatzy or Muffin to answer, you'll have to give me time to get here.”

Hearing his name, the little black-and-tan dachshund danced at Rachel's feet, circled a couple of times, then ran over to give the lazy, gray angora cat a lick across its face. Muffin showed her displeasure by hissing.

“Stop that,” Rachel said.

Confused, Martha asked, “Who? Me?”

“No, not you, Mom. The cat.”

“Oh. I never could abide animals in the house, myself. Too messy. All that hair!”

“I keep them brushed. Anyway, Schatzy hardly
sheds.” Rachel surveyed her homey living room with a contented smile.

“You and your animals.”

Here it comes,
Rachel thought. She tensed, waiting for her mother to seize the opportunity to point up the difference between keeping pets and raising children.

Instead, Martha said, “I had my hair done today. Mercy Cosgrove was in the beauty shop the same time I was. She says her granddaughter, Emily, is getting married.”

“I know.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I only found out today. She's marrying Jack Foster.”

“Hard to believe, isn't it? I mean, there was a time when she could have had a doctor for a husband. Sam Barryman was ripe for the picking.”

“So you've reminded me. Often,” Rachel drawled. “Didn't he finally run off and marry Sheila Something-or-other?”

“That's old news,” Martha said. “They're getting a divorce.”

“Too bad. But it doesn't surprise me. My one date with good old Dr. Sam was enough to cure me—pun intended.”

“What about the new guy at your school? I understand he's single. And cute, too.”

“News travels fast.”

Rachel knew better than to offer additional information about Sean. All she'd have to do was give her mother a hint that she might be interested in him and Martha's wild imagination would take off. Pretty soon, she'd have convinced herself that Rachel was practically engaged to the poor guy, when nothing could be further from the truth.