36. Chapter 36
thirty-six
“Grammy! I rode Midnight!” Bowie tells Mom at breakfast.
“Midnight?” Dad asks, walking in.
“Yes! Pop-Pop! We rode a horsie! A big, black horsie!” He shakes his head, curls flying, and lets out a fierce, “Neeh-NEHH!”
“Boy!” Chuckling, Dad rubs his head then slices me a look sharp enough to slice bread as he asks Bowie, “Where was that?”
“Calder’s.”
“Mm-hmm.” Pouring his coffee, he gives me a doubting chin tuck. “You sure about what you’re doing?”
“Yes.” Our gazes hold a beat—direct.
“Your divorce isn’t final.”
“It will be.”
He aims his mug at me. “I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret, Laurel.”
I lower my voice. “The only thing I regret is going to Rice. I could’ve gotten a teaching degree at Tarleton.”
He takes a heavy breath, cutting his eyes at Mom. “Okay.”
“Here’s your oatmeal and toast.” Mom slides the bowl and saucer in front of him and he grumbles.
“I don’t like oatmeal.”
“Okay, then cereal.”
“Callie, if I liked cereal, I’d have been eating it for the past fifty-five years. I want my bacon and eggs.”
“I’ll buy turkey bacon.”
“Dam—” He stops himself before Bowie looks up—and Mom tips her head back and lets go a throaty laugh.
“Bowie, your fines are doing the job.”
Bowie doesn’t notice. He’s too busy galloping his plastic pony, making his horse noises, while he shoves Fruity Pebbles into his mouth.
But Dad growls, pouring sugar on his oatmeal.
My cellphone rings.
“Hello?”
“Laurel? It’s Mona at LISD. You’re cleared to start work.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “When?”
“You can start tomorrow. Why don’t you come by today and meet with Mrs. Simms to go over her lesson plan. You’ll shadow her the rest of this week and be on your own next week. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.” I give Mom a thumbs up. “What time should I stop by?”
“I think Mrs. Simms’ conference hour is at 11.”
“I’ll be there early to do any paperwork.” Getting off the phone, turning to the family, I squeal. “I start tomorrow!”
Bowie blinks once—twice—and tears spill out of his eyes, his lip quivering. “I don’t want you to go.”
And my heart… shatters.
“Oh, Baby.” I pull him into my arms. “Grammy will be here. And I’ll run home on my lunch hour every day. I’ll be here, I promise. Okay?”
He sniffs and nods. “Okay.”
That suffocating guilt washes over me. I wanted this job. I wanted to work.
Now, it feels like an elephant stepped on my chest. I can’t bear seeing him crying like this. What kind of monster am I? If I’d stayed with Grant, I wouldn’t have to leave him.
But Grant didn’t give him the love and attention he gets here, with Mom and Dad. With Calder, Mercy and Tanner. Not even me, really—the version of me I am now.
I’ve felt younger, lighter, freer than I ever have. Except for seeing my son’s heart breaking.
“Tell you what,” Dad says. “I’ll start coming home for lunch. We’ll have man time when I do.”
“Laurel,” Mom whispers. “Come with me.”
Mom opens the patio door and we step outside.
“You can’t feel guilty about working,” she says.
“Oh, Mom. I can’t stand to break his heart.”
She gives me a look—steady, thoughtful. “Laurel, do you think your father felt guilty when he left for work every day? No. He was proud to provide. And Grant? Did he ever hesitate to walk out the door?”
I shake my head.
“For some reason,” she says softly, “that guilt lands on women. We’re the ones who worry we’re doing it wrong, even when we’re doing everything right. And I won’t let you carry that weight.”
“But you stayed home with me.”
“Because I wanted to,” she says. “Not because I was supposed to. There’s a difference. And there’s nothing wrong with a woman who wants to work, either.”
I swallow hard. “I did want to stay home with him. That’s why I quit teaching.”
“He starts pre-school next year. I’m with him every day. You’ll see him at lunch. He’s surrounded by people who love him. He’ll be fine, Laurel. Kids are more durable than people realize. You’re not abandoning him. You’re building a life for both of you.”
She gets a tight squeeze. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I needed that.”
Stepping inside, I ask Bowie, “Hey. Would you like to find a school of your own, where you can make new friends? Say one or two days a week, for a couple of hours?
He nods, his tears gone after Dad’s man time talk. “That’s a deal. We’ll find you some new friends to play with.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah, friends.”
His eyes flick between me and Mom. “Like Calder and Tanner?”
“Yeah. Only friends your size, who like to play tractors and stuff.”
“Okay.”
Mom swipes him from my arms. “Now come on. I need a helper.”
Dad tugs at him. “Hey. I’ll see you at lunch. You and me. We’ll have man time.”
“Man time!” My precious son has a smile back on his face.
Mrs. Simms is waiting when I step into her classroom, a thick folder already in her hands.
“These will get you through the next few weeks,” she says, offering them with a small, proud smile.
“I’ve marked what absolutely has to be covered and what you can adjust if you need to.
You’ll find your rhythm faster than you think. ”
I take the folder, the weight of it settling into my palms like something real, something earned, exciting. “Thank you,” I breathe. “They’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss them. But it’s that time in life for me. I’ll probably still substitute when I get settled.” She pats my arm. “You’re going to be fine, Laurel. The kids will love you.”
“Any kids I need to know about coming in?” I ask, because there are always a few—the mischief-seekers, the quiet geniuses, the ones who test you without meaning to.
Mrs. Simms smiles like she’s been waiting for that question.
“You’ll have a handful who like to see how far they can push a new face.
They’ll show themselves soon enough. Nothing mean-spirited—just energy with nowhere to go.
And you’ve got a couple who are quietly brilliant.
They won’t raise their hands, but they’ll hand you essays that make you blink twice. I’ll mark their names for you.”
“I can’t wait to meet them. Tomorrow then?”
“The bell rings at 8 a.m. First period is Junior English. Tomorrow’s lesson is in your packet.”
Making my way to the parking lot, I call Mom. “You want lunch out?”
“He’s fine, dear. He’s watching Blippi and naptime after that. Eat lunch with your friends. It’ll be your last day. After that, you promised lunch to Bowie.”
“I won’t break that promise. I think I’ll bring him home a treat.”
I call Mercy. “I just left school. I start tomorrow.”
“Yay!”
“I’m going to run by the hardware store and get Bowie a new toy. Want to meet me?”
“And face the Wicked Witch? I’ve got better ways to spend my time. Say. There’s a new Mexican food place that just opened up. Want to try it out?”
“Mexican. I love it. Give me half an hour and I’ll swing by to get you. I think I want to get him a tricycle. I saw one there the other day.”
“Good luck with that.”
Parking, locking my car, I inhale slowly. I’m not going to let her get under my skin. I’m not even going to ask for Calder. I’m here to get my son a tricycle, pay, and meet Mercy. I overheard them last night. He needs Darla to keep his books. I won’t take that away from him.
Several customers are lined up at checkout when I get inside, so I head straight for the toy section.
Hum. Several kinds of trikes.
A red Radio Flyer, but I wonder, are his legs long enough to reach the pedals?
A green John Deere. Same question.
A blue plastic tractor he can push-peddle. Push peddles. No fun.
I’m trying to make up my mind when a voice whispers behind me like a snake hissing. “You know he used to fuck me so hard I couldn’t walk.”
I spin on my heels, my pulse pounding, fire climbing up my throat as I take her in. My height. Blonde hair. Heavy on the makeup.
I lean into her space. “Used to. Not now.”
Her eyes drag over me, slow and mean, her upper lip curling. “We were doin’ just fine without you.”
“Congratulations. You should be proud of the work you’ve done. I’m not here to take anything from you.” I step closer. “Give it up. He hasn’t been with you in years.”
She snorts. “Is that what he told you?” She leans in with fire in her eyes—I swear we’re close enough to yank each other’s hair.
“What if I tell you I know everything there is to know about Calder Boone?”
I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, and tilt my head. “Really? What side of the bed is his alarm clock on? Where does he keep the coffee in the kitchen?”
She blinks—stunned—and snarls. “You need to get the hell out of Ladera and go back to your husband in Nashville.”
“See? Now, that’s how little you know.” My voice stays calm and steady. “My ex isn’t in Nashville. And the answer to my question is, the coffee’s to the right of the refrigerator. And the clock’s on the left side of the bed—if you’re in it.”
“Oh, damn!” Mercy squeals and stomps her feet under the table at Dos Senoritas. It’s brand new and shiny, on the Llano Highway. “Man, I couldn’t have put her in her place any better than that. You go girl!”
She wags her head, drinking her soda. “And I can’t believe she said that to you in the first place. What. A. Hussy. I can’t wait to tell Tanner. That woman’s got more nerve than sense.”
“No. Don’t. Let this be just between us girls. I’ll fight my own battles.”
“You’re delusional if you think I’m not telling Tanner Briggs all about this. She works for him, too, you know.” She pulls out her cellphone.
“Dammit, Mercy, don’t. I don’t want to be a tattletale. I want to deal with Darla on my own.”
“Well, dammit.” She taps her phone down on the table. “You take all the fun out of it.” She dips her chip into salsa, chomping on it voraciously. “Mmm. This stuff is good. Hot.”
“It is, isn’t it.” I take a dip of my own. “Not that I don’t like the Red Wagon but it’s nice to have another choice.”
Sirens interrupt our lunch and we both crane our necks at the big front window.
“Fire,” we say together.
Mercy and I head for the front in time to see one, two, three—four fire trucks blaring by.
My breath catches in my chest—like the words aren’t willing to come out. “Calder and Tanner.”
“Yep,” Mercy says. “Always does me the same way. Sends a chill up my spine. You know they lost a firetruck last summer. Damned near got trapped when the wind kicked the fire up behind them. They’re not playing games out there. And it’s been dry as hell.”