Just to See You Smile (13 page)

“Goodbye!” Anne smiled as her customer walked out the door, purchases in hand.

There was a lull in what had been an extremely busy morning, five days before Christmas. Her coworker Natalie, a local college student, was helping the lone remaining customer. Anne took the opportunity to poke her head into the tiny office where her boss sat at the desk.

“Charlie, do you mind if I leave 30 minutes early?”

“Not at all.” He smiled his slow smile. Today's flannel shirt was a red plaid. “You've got a game tonight, right?”

“Right. Something has come up, and I need to talk with the head coach beforehand.”

Charlie set down his pen and leaned back in the chair. “How's the juggling act going?”

Anne glanced away. The way the man saw things sometimes startled her. She met his clear blue eyes. “You probably wouldn't believe it if I answered fine?”

“Probably not. This has got to be tough for you.”

“It is, but I'm learning.” She pointed upward, imagining the issues she juggled as if they were indeed merely balls. “Alec and the kids can fend better for themselves than I gave them credit for. The team is in place. I don't need to expend much energy on the girls except when I'm with them. And then there are the cookies. Do we really need a zillion different kinds baked in my kitchen? I don't think so.” She could go on…Britte…Val…PTA…parents…in-laws…Christmas… “By the way, what are you doing Christmas Eve? My family
would like to meet you. We're having friends over for dinner.”

“Thank you for the invitation, dear lady, but I'm going to Chicago. Our son and his family live there. It's the first since Ellen…” His voice faded for a moment. “My wife. She died last spring.”

“Oh, Charlie. I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you. There won't be a zillion different kinds of cookies in our house this year either.”

Her struggle with priorities shriveled in light of his situation. At least all of her family would be together.

Charlie mimed a juggler tossing balls in the air. “And where does your new job fit in?”

“Ah, the job.” She smiled. “You know what it's like to visit a place you used to love living in? And suddenly you remember, you
feel
bits and pieces of yourself that made you who you were then? You wonder how you lost them along the way. That's what this job is to me.”

He smiled, stroking his beard. “Anne, when was the last time you held a paint brush?”

“Good heavens. I have no—” A memory rushed at her. “Yes, I do. Amy was two months old. Drew was three. I had my little corner in our bedroom where I kept an easel and supplies. One day I was painting. All of a sudden I heard a crash and both kids screaming. Drew had heard Amy wake up from her nap. He lifted her out of the crib, carried her into the kitchen, and tried to put her in the infant seat, which was on top of the counter. The seat flew off onto the floor. Fortunately Amy landed on the counter. I cleared away my things within the hour. Drew held the trash bag.”

Charlie studied her for a long moment. “In January our classes start up again. You could join, no charge, and paint once a week.”

The bell on the gallery's front door jingled.

Charlie stood, came around the desk, and put a hand on her shoulder. “It's a way to find those lost bits and pieces.”

Wednesday afternoon Anne walked through the deserted high school hallway. The industrial mint green walls had finally been painted an off-white a few years ago. Heavyduty carpet had replaced the shiny black tile. She could still remember dress-up days when her pumps clicked smartly on that old hard floor.

High up the walls, above the lockers, hung large, framed photo collections of graduating classes. She stopped, as she always did, in front of Alec's class. He was by far the cutest among the 80-some other faces. He looked so young, so full of promise.
Oh, Lord, what's happening to him? Please, take him back to this…this hope. Remind him that in You he can do anything.

Anne knocked on Britte's open door. She was at her desk. “Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

Anne shut the door. “Wow, I just had this sense of déjà vu. Remember Mr. Robbins?”

“The cadaver? Fortunately he retired before I took Algebra II.”

“This was his room. He made me stay after school one day for giggling during his class. He scared the willies out of me.” Anne slid into a student desk. “Unlike you, he was totally noncommunicative.”

Britte smiled. “Did you get off from work early?”

“There was a break in the action, and I told Mr. Manning the head coach needed to talk to me about being overly communicative.”

Britte winced.

Anne shook her head. “You called him ‘
General
'?”

“Among other things. By the way, I'm sorry for snapping at you at practice yesterday.”

“Calling me ‘Mom' is not on the same level as calling your boss that horrible nickname.”

“I've been trying to apologize to him all day. He was out of the building two of the six times I went to the office. The other times, Lynnie didn't know where he was.”

“He's probably avoiding you.”

“Probably. Not that I blame him. Annie, he forgot to bring up the girls' trip to State after I asked him to three times. So I called him on it. Then I accused him of not taking the girls' activities seriously, of not attending our games like he does the boys'. He admitted to being politically incorrect.”

“He
agreed
with you?”

She nodded. “You know, although I was angry, at least I cleared the air about a few things.”

“But ‘
General'
?”

“All right. I totally blew it with that remark. I will apologize. Okay?”

Anne studied her face for a moment. Britte wasn't herself. True, they did go through times like this during every season. Britte would become strung out and overdone, and Anne would have to remind her that basketball, in spite of what the T-shirts pronounced, really was not life. Something else was going on here, but she couldn't put her finger on it. “Okay. Are you all set for tonight?”

“No. I need to go sit in the gym and gear up. Ethan's home sick today. Want to sit with me?”

“Sure.”

“I think we can win.”

As they gathered her things, closed up the room, and walked down to the gym, they talked game strategies.

Britte said, “I'm considering pulling up Erin.”

Anne stared at her. Erin was her star sophomore player. “Britte, you said you'd never pull up the younger ones. Why this year? You've got more talent than you've ever had.”

“Cassie, our
center
,got hurt. What if she doesn't recover?”

“Since when do you start thinking in terms of ‘what if'? That's a spirit of fear, and you know better!”

“I just said I'm considering it.”

Anne shuddered. That sense of déjà vu settled on her again. Had old Mr. Robbins started out like Britte? Like Alec? Young and passionate, full of potential? Only to cave in to fears along the way?

Like herself? An image came to mind of how she had snapped at the children that morning and practically shoved them out the door so that
she
wouldn't be late to work. She hadn't even hugged Amy.

Lord, why don't You post danger signs?

Maybe He had. Maybe they'd all just been too busy to read them.

Britte locked the door to the girls' locker room and walked down the dimly lit, vacant hallway. She had stayed later than usual after the game, dissecting plays and lineups.

They'd lost again, but only by three points. The girls had played well. She was certain they felt better about themselves, knowing that Cassie alone did not make the team. They could function without her. It had been a good lesson for all of them.

Some players saw much less playing time, a couple saw none. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but she knew it was how they would win. There was no explaining that to Mr. Hughes. She had successfully dodged him after the game.

So where was her escort? Anne had pointedly drawn her attention to the fact that Mr. Kingsley stayed for the entire game and that he was wearing his royal blue shirt and yellow gold tie.

How about that? The man had responded. Britte didn't know how she felt about that either. Maybe he was mocking her.

His green-flecked hazel eyes came to mind.

She walked outside now, double checking that the door locked behind her, even though she thought the custodian was still around somewhere in the building. The parking lot was dark. There must be a spotlight out somewhere. No problem. She pointed her key chain toward the car and pressed the unlock button as she hurried through the cold. The car's interior lights flicked on.

All right. He probably wasn't mocking her. She would apologize, even if she had to leave her first-hour class again and track him down when it was most likely to find him—

Something slammed violently between her shoulder blades, viciously shoving her, forcing her body forward until she sprawled flat against the rough asphalt, her knees, palms, and forehead bearing the brunt of the harsh impact. A disembodied voice snarled hateful names.

And then, as instantly as the silence had been ripped apart, it thrust itself against her ears. She lay beside her Jeep, shaking, her heart pounding, her breath in ragged gasps. She braced herself and partially sat up. Pain shot through her right arm.

“Britte!”

Again, unseen hands took hold of her. She struggled against them, flailing her arms and screaming, “No!”

“Britte! It's me.”

Mr. Kingsley! Her muscles turned to jelly and her screams subsided into whimpers.

“Can you stand?”

She held onto his arms and let him help her up. “Ow!” Pain exploded everywhere.

“What happened?”

With his steadying hands still on her arms, she leaned against the car. “Somebody pushed me.”

“Pushed you!” He scanned the parking lot.

“I'm sure they're gone. Will you hand me my bag, please?” She pointed to the ground. “The keys are somewhere…”

He found the keys, picked up the bag, and opened the driver's door. The interior lights spilled out.

Britte moved to enter the car, but he kept hold of her elbow and held her back, tossing the bag into the car.

“You're not going anywhere. Your face—”

“I'll be fine. I want to go home.” She heard the tears in her voice before they sprang to her eyes. “Give me my keys.”

“You're shaking and probably in shock.” He pulled her toward himself, pocketed the keys, hit the automatic lock and shut the door. “Let's go inside and see how hurt you are.”

“I'm all right!”

“You're not all right, and you're going to listen to me this time.” He slipped his arm around her waist and began walking.

Britte's knee gave way, and she stumbled. “I'm all right.”

“Well, I'm not all right. It's freezing out here, and I'm not wearing a coat. Let's get inside.” He draped her left arm up over his shoulders and tightened his grip around her waist, leaving her with no choice but to lean into him as he half-carried her across the parking lot. “Do you think if you keep repeating you're all right, it'll make it true?”

She bit her lip, willing the tears not to fall. Her entire body hurt!

“You're not all right. For one thing, you were insubordinate to your superior yesterday. If there was any decent protocol in place, you'd be on probation by now, Miss Olafsson.”

One of the school doors was propped open. They went through it now, and he pulled it shut behind them.

“For another thing,” he went on, “you disobeyed orders. I distinctly remember telling you I would escort you outside late at night when the parking lot was empty. Telling you is the same thing as an order. That's another case of insubordination. I don't know what a general is supposed to do around here.”

In spite of the pain shooting through her body, Britte felt a tiny smile tug at her mouth. She quickly wiped at her eye, deflecting the tear before it fell.

They went into the main office, down a short hallway, past his and other offices. At the nurse's room he loosened his hold of her and turned on the light. “Let me take your coat.”

To her dismay, she couldn't keep her fingers on the buttons.

“Here.” With deft fingers, he unbuttoned her coat. “You tell me to delegate, but see what happens when I try to
delegate
the simplest task? I have to do it myself. There.” Slipping the coat from her shoulders, he steered her to a high, molded plastic stool. “Sit.”

Every muscle ached as she lifted herself onto the seat. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” He took hold of her chin, gently turning her face back and forth, inspecting it.

“For being insubordinate.” A tear trickled down her cheek.

He brushed it away with his little finger. His face very near hers, he looked her in the eye. “Hey, if somebody doesn't have the nerve to set the General straight, he could become a real pain in the neck. Where do you hurt?” He held her hands and turned them over. Bloody, bright red scrapes covered both palms.

“
But I'm sorry!
”

“I'm sure you are.” His eyes focused on hers again. “Trust me, Miss O, it's all right. Apology accepted. I'm sorry for letting you down.” He waited a beat. “Accept my apology?”

She nodded.

“Okay.” He knelt and lifted her right leg. “It looks like you fell on your knees.” A hole was torn at the knee of her black slacks.

She noticed his shirt, where she had held onto his shoulders. “There's blood on your shirt.” That nice royal blue shirt. He'd worn school colors…just for the girls game.

“It's washable.” He went to the cupboard and pulled out antiseptic and bandages.

“I have Band-Aids at home. I can—” Nausea churned in her stomach. “I think I'm going to be sick.” Stiffly, she rose from the stool, went into the tiny adjacent bathroom, and shut the door.

Bending over the sink, she turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. It stung her palms and cheeks, but at least the sick feeling subsided. She dampened a paper towel, pressed it to the back of her neck, and straightened. The reflection in the mirror startled her.

A purplish bruise puffed her left cheek. Blood seeped from scrapes along her forehead, nose, and chin. Bits of asphalt clung here and there. Her hair stuck out in every direction. Her eyes looked sunken.

Her right arm felt as if it had been jammed into her back. Pain shot the length of it and into her shoulder blade. Her right knee throbbed. Her wrists felt disconnected. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. Her head was throbbing. There was blood on the white blouse she wore under the short blue wool jacket.

She removed a paper cup from the dispenser, filled it, and choked down the water. Her breathing was shallow, almost a gasping sound. Another wave of nausea engulfed her. She inhaled several times, forcing air deep into her lungs until it passed.

After gulping another cupful, she opened the door and shuffled back out into the nurse's room. It was vacant. That nighttime quiet of the large building hummed in a way she had never before heard it. Eerily.

“Joel…” There was no reply. She raised her voice, “Joel.” Suddenly she heard footfalls thumping and screamed in panic, “Joel!”

He rounded the corner of the doorway, catching hold of the jamb to stop himself. “What?”

Her whole body was shaking again. Tears ran down her face, stinging the cuts. “I… I…”

He folded her into his arms and held her close.

He realized it was the first time she had called him “Joel.”
Probably a good thing if this is going to be my response.
He stroked her hair and told her everything was all right, that inane phrase she kept repeating. No other words sufficiently conveyed his strong desire to comfort her.

After a time, her body stopped shaking. While her sobs lessened, his rage was shooting off the charts. Who had
dared
do this to her?

There was a pounding on the front door. Britte jumped and looked up at him with terrified eyes.

“It's Cal. I called him. Sit down. I have to open the door.” He steered her onto the stool and reluctantly let go of her arms. He rushed out and through the main office. In the commons he could see Cal outside the double set of front, glassed doors, arm poised to bang again. The sight of the big sheriff in his uniform relieved Joel. He let him inside.

“Is she all right?”

“She's bruised and probably in shock.” He led them through the office and ushered Cal into the nurse's room. “Oh, dear God,” Cal breathed his reaction to her appearance into a prayer.

“I'm all right. You didn't have to come.”

Cal took off his large-brimmed hat and touched her shoulder. “Britte, this is my job and you're not all right. You were attacked.”

Her face crumpled at the word “attacked.”

Cal turned to Joel. “We should call Doc Thompson.”

Britte snapped, “Why don't we have a happy fizzies party? Come on, guys! It's just some scratches. Nothing's broken.”

Joel exchanged a smile with Cal and said, “I think she's feeling better.” He opened the small refrigerator and pulled out an ice pack. “If we're not calling the doctor, then you'll have to put up with me. Hold this on your left cheek. Here.” He positioned her hand. “That's where it's swelling.”

Cal unzipped his leather jacket, pulled out a notebook, and sat on the cot, his cop gear creaking and clanking. “Britte, tell me what happened.”

While Joel cleansed her cuts, she told the sheriff about being pushed to the ground. “Ouch!”

“Sorry,” Joel said. “There's still some asphalt clinging to your forehead.” He looked from the wound to her eyes. She had the most intriguing eyes. They drew him in like a magnet. Until tonight, he had resisted meeting them.

“There's blood on your shirt and tie.”

He shrugged.

Cal said, “Britte, you weren't just
pushed
. Tell me what happened.”

“I already did.”

“Tell me exactly what happened this time.”

Her face went rigid, revealing nothing, but fear shone in her eyes and made her voice unnaturally high-pitched. She told them how a heavy force had slammed into her. Strong hands not letting go. Shoving, shoving, crashing her into the pavement.

Joel looked at Cal. The cop's expression reflected what he felt: fury.

“Britte,” Cal said, “did you see anyone? Hear anything?” She looked down. “They—he called me a name. That was all.”

“So it was a male voice.”

She nodded.

“Young? Old?”

She shrugged.

Joel took her right hand and picked up an antiseptic pad. He dabbed at the scrape. “What did he say?”

She told him.

He clenched his jaw.

“Joel,” Cal asked, “what time do you think all this happened? When did you find her?”

“I got out there right afterward. I was waiting for her to leave. By the way, I had told her I'd escort her out whenever she stayed late like tonight. That she shouldn't go alone to the parking lot.”

“Good idea.”

“If she would have listened.” He set down the antiseptic and leaned against the counter. “I was at my desk when I heard the door shut and noticed it was just after ten. I went through the office, across the commons and out to the back parking lot. Her interior car lights were on, but I couldn't see her. I went out and found her getting up from the ground. I thought maybe she had tripped.” He blew out a breath. “She said she'd been pushed, so I looked around. I think whoever did it was long gone, but there's a broken spotlight. It was too dark to see clearly.”

“Britte, who's holding a grudge?”

Again, she shrugged, an almost imperceptible lifting of her shoulders, as if the movement hurt.

“Whatever you say stays in this room. You're not accusing anyone.”

“Cal, it depends on what day it is. Did I give someone a wrong grade? Did I snub someone? Did I not listen long enough to someone? Was the test too difficult? Did I not help someone enough to catch up on their work? Was I too hard
on someone at practice? Who didn't get to play…” She glanced at Joel. “There's always someone mad at me, Cal.”