The Winding Road Home (2 page)

Seventeen years later

No dictionary contained the precise word to describe the scene unfolding before Kate Kilpatrick.

Oh, there were plenty of words all right. Peculiar. Sweet. Bizarre. Touching. Unreal. Heartwarming. Hokey. Sensational.

But not one of them fit, not exactly.

Worse yet, there was no way on earth she knew how to incorporate the indescribable, personal scene into a
news
article. Her notepad and pen dangled at her side in a mitten-covered hand. The camera, its strap slung over her shoulder, rested against her hip, adding dead weight to the already heavy jacket. Like steam in a kettle curling toward its whistling hole, pressure mounted in her chest. With a loud puff that jiggled her lips and fanned her bangs, she released it.
Welcome to the big time, Kilpatrick
, she thought ruefully
.

Kate stood inside the Valley Oaks High School in an area which just that morning she learned was referred to as the commons. The term was new to her. Though the place was large and airy, the dominant odor was distinctly school, as if its walls were made of books and paper and pencils and cafeteria food and gym shoes. Evidently all doorways led to the commons. On her way in she had glimpsed a ring of entrances: hallways, gym, glassed-in office, back parking lot. The location also appeared to be the gathering place for unusual events.

Unusual. Poignant. Quaint. Singular events.

An expert in the fine art of elbow-prodding, Kate had pressed her way through a sea of bodies and now stood at its center. The sea was comprised predominantly of adolescents. Quiet adolescents, standing on tiptoes, their faces expectant with O-shaped mouths and raised brows. That in itself would be curious enough, but that wasn't the main event. The students' attention was riveted on two adults in the center, surrounded by the crowd. Those two were the main event.

She knew the man was Joel Kingsley, principal of the high school, because he had been the one who called the office. He said that at precisely 8:37 a.m. he would be centrally located in the commons and that he fully expected a newsworthy event to unfold there at that time. It wasn't only his voice, trim body, and nearly buzzed black hair that hinted at military. A soldierly aura emanated from him even as he smiled during an intense, hushed exchange of what must have been personal words. The aura remained now as he planted a knee into the linoleum.

He held the hand of a woman Kate recognized as Britte Olafsson, girls basketball coach. She looked as if she'd just stepped off the plane from Scandinavia, from her height to her blonde hair to the slightly shell-shocked appearance about her eyes that anyone would exhibit after a ten-hour flight. Kate suspected her dazed expression wasn't due to jet lag. The man had just proclaimed in a voice for all to hear, “Miss O, I'd like your permission to court you.”

The red-faced coach glanced about, maybe in search of a hole to climb into. At last she cried out, “All right! Yes, you have my permission!”

The crowd of quiet adolescents burst apart at the seams, whooping and hollering. If Kate closed her eyes, she would believe herself inside a gym at a sporting event. But she wasn't. She wished she were because
that
she would know how to describe. But
this
… This was a public display of pure
romance
. Tender, but incomprehensible on an early Monday morning in a rural high school two days before Valentine's Day.

The man stood now, clutching the woman's hands between his against his chest.

Kate felt a nudge against her arm and turned. A guy, more mature-looking than the students, pointed at her camera. The cheering drowned out his voice. She read his lips asking, “Take a picture?”

She could not realign her face into anything other than a blank stare. What did he think? They were witnessing
news
?

He held his hand out, palm up, toward her shoulder. In a glance she took in his expensive, ecru cable-stitched sweater, likely hand-knit in Ireland. He had the build of a husky fisherman, but his olive skin tone, dark eyes, and wavy black hair grazing the top of the sweater's neckline declared his ancestors didn't fish off the coast of Ireland. More plausibly it would have been in the Mediterranean.

Kate shrugged the camera strap off into his waiting hand and thought,
Go for it, buddy
.

She turned back to the main attraction, where an intense but inaudible conversation flowed between the couple. Kate predicted the scene had to end in a kiss because two people could not look at each other in that way without giving physical expression to their love. Even if they
were
being watched by roughly 400 pairs of eyes.

Tanner Carlucci removed the camera's lens cap and grinned to himself. Britte, the fire-breathing varsity coach and no-nonsense math teacher, was blushing. Joel, the ex-Marine and by-the-book high school principal, had knelt on bended knee. It was a priceless moment, and the woman with the camera had stood stock-still and missed it! Well, he'd snap a shot of the kiss that no doubt was coming to seal whatever it was they were discussing now about courtship.

He aimed the camera, noting with approval that it was a manual focus. The woman had nice taste.

She was a stranger to the school. Though Tanner was only a substitute teacher and freshmen girls basketball coach, he would have noticed her before now. She was by far the quirkiest character he had ever seen in real life.

First off was her red hair. Not flaming, not orangey, not purplish nor dark. Just a nice shade of shiny copper penny red that resembled a mop head caught up in a clip, its ends sticking out every which way. She was small, but she had easily hustled her way through a rampart of hearty teenage boys and whispering girls. She wore rectangular, tortoiseshell glasses; a bulky, deep green jacket three sizes too large; a long skirt; clunky boots; and one mitten.

He had no idea what she was doing there, but she carried a camera that he felt could be put to better use than to decorate her shoulder. He clicked a shot now of the principal and coach, their heads close together, hands clasped, their expressions absorbed in each other. He clicked another shot, catching their emerging smiles.

Joel called for attention, though his eyes never left Britte's face. The noise abated some, and in that commanding voice of his he said, “What you are about to witness is inappropriate behavior for students in the halls.”

Tanner had the camera ready. The kiss was gentle, brief. He captured it only once.

The kids erupted again, but Tanner knew that with Joel Kingsley in charge things were under control. He turned to the redhead. There was a pained expression on her face as if she couldn't process what she was witnessing. He understood the feeling. She must be new to Valley Oaks.

He looked again at Joel, who was now raising his arms and directing everyone back to class, his broad grin not in the least diminishing his effectiveness. Tanner couldn't help but chuckle at Britte. Always-in-control Miss O looked dazed and confused. He took one last snapshot and turned.

The redhead was gone. Tanner peered between the blabbering students as they slowly departed from the center of the commons. He saw her through the glass doors of the entryway. She was already climbing into an old model, light blue Volkswagen parked at the curb.

He shrugged. She would remember her camera eventually.

Kate parked her Bug on Second Avenue outside the tiny
Valley Oaks Weekly Times
office. Despite the fact that the Pizza Parlor next door was closed on Mondays, the aroma of garlic hovered. It always hovered, defying the physics of old brick walls, concrete sidewalks, and arctic breezes. It was the best advertising going. Why did the owners bother to take out an ad in the weekly? She'd been in town 17 days and eaten there a total of 13 times. And that wasn't counting coffee breaks. Her stomach rumbled.

A cowbell clanked above her head as she opened the
Times'
front door. She lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, allowing a cloud of cigarette smoke to escape. The office consisted of one room that was just large enough for a counter, two desks, and a worktable. A faint glimmer of winter sunlight filtered through dirty venetian blinds covering the lone window.

At the far back corner desk, the managing editor pecked away at an electric typewriter, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. Kate knew the woman was finishing up an in-depth study of the sewer system for tomorrow's deadline and hadn't even heard the cowbell. Still, they needed to talk. “Rusty?”

No response.

Kate hung her coat on one of the wooden pegs attached to the front wall. She walked around the counter to her desk, rolled her creaky wooden chair over near the other desk, and plopped into it. “Rusty?”

“Yeah, kid?” It was the older woman's way. Sixty-two with short, straight, iron gray hair, she resembled a news reporter from the original black-and-white
Superman
television series. Clark Kent's boss, not Lois Lane. She had the personality down flat. She only needed a 1950s-style man's hat, gray suit coat, and narrow tie.

“Rusty, you have got to be kidding.”

The woman's chuckle was a gravelly rumble that more often than not deteriorated into a cough. It did so now as she swiveled away from the typewriter to face Kate, removing the unfiltered cigarette from her mouth. She nearly managed to get it to the ashtray before the ash fell onto the floor.

Kate sighed inwardly. She prayed daily for the woman's health as well as her own.

Rusty found her voice, as low and gravelly as the chuckle. “What's that Marine up to now?”

Marine. That validated her hunch about the principal. “He just—in front of the entire school population—asked Britte Olafsson for permission to
court
her.”

Rusty roared like a lion with bronchitis.

“It's not news.”

“Welcome to Valley Oaks, kid.”

“It's not news!”

Still chuckling, Rusty took a drag on her cigarette. “Then make it news, kid. It's what's happening in town this week. It's a big deal. Joel Kingsley has turned that high school on its ear with a slew of policy changes. And he's got the hutzpah to enforce them. A lot of folks don't like it. This could be one more nail in his coffin. Was Bruce Waverly there?”

Kate blinked.

“School superintendent. Dapper little guy.”

“I don't know.”

“Track him down. Find out what he thinks. Of course, you'll want to ask Kingsley what he's up to. Get some parents' opinions. Interview a couple of students, two or three school board members.” She dug through a pile of papers on her desk. “Here's a list of them. Be sure you talk to Norton Pinsky. He always goes against the grain. We want to get all sides quoted.”

Kate took the paper from her and stood. “Okay.”

“What was Olafsson's answer?”

“She said yes.”

Rusty smiled. “Good for her. We need to get this in Thursday's edition. It's timely, related to Valentine's Day.”

“We can do a follow-up article next week.” Kate rolled her chair out of the way and shuffled toward the door. “What they did on their first date. What they wore. Did they go Dutch treat? Did they double with another couple?”

“Katy-girl.”

She unhooked her coat from its peg and turned.

“Lesson number one. You gotta pay your dues. Nobody makes it to DC without 'em.” Rusty swiveled back to her typewriter. “Did you get a photo?”

Photo!
Oh, fiddlesticks!
The camera! “Uh, I think so. At least, the camera clicked. See you later.”

Outdoors on the sidewalk Kate stood a moment and inhaled the garlic-scented frigid air.
I'm sorry, Lord. Was that a lie? It felt like one.
She'd better hustle over to the school and find the Sweater. Hopefully the guy knew how to take a decent picture.

Kate entered the high school's main office, a humming beehive of activity. Several students and teachers milled about, talking and laughing. According to her school experience, the scene wasn't believable. Either the morning's public display of romance had set an abnormally merry tone or else her glasses had taken on a rosy tint, skewing her vision.

The room was divided in half by a counter. Behind that stood a short, 40-something woman. From her crisp white blouse tucked into a gray skirt to her kind, brisk manner of directing traffic, Kate knew she was in charge.

Kate stepped to the counter. “Hi. I'm Kate Kilpatrick from the
Times
.”

Smiling, the woman reached over and firmly shook Kate's outstretched hand. “Well, hello. I heard we had a new reporter. Nice to meet you. I'm Lynnie Powell, secretary. Hey!” She directed her commanding voice over Kate's shoulder, “Quiet down!” The hubbub lessened a degree. “How may I help you?”

“I was here earlier, in the commons—”

“He didn't!”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Kingsley. He called you, didn't he? I do not believe it.” She chuckled and raised her hands in a helpless gesture, as if the man were an endearing, precocious child.

“Yes, well, anyway, I loaned my camera to a guy, and I forgot to get it back from him. He was wearing this sweater—”

“Tanner. One of our subs. He's in Room 12 today.” Lynnie slid a clipboard over the counter toward her. “Just put your John Henry right there. We need to keep track of who's in the building. Thank you. Room 12 is down the first hallway on your left.”

“Thanks. I need to talk to Mr. Kingsley also. Do you think he'd have a few minutes this morning?”

She chuckled again. “Oh, I think it'd be a safe bet to say yes. I'll track him down. See you in a bit.”

Kate crossed the commons and entered a hallway lined with brown-gray lockers. Above them hung large, framed photo collections. She paused to study one. It was a collage of roughly 60 pictures of students, all classic high school senior poses: fresh-faced girls in fuzzy sweaters smiling over their shoulders; boys in white, button-down collar shirts and ties. In the center was a sketch of a bearded Viking and the words “Valley Oaks High School, Class of 1962.”

Kate quietly sighed. Such a simple thing shouldn't trigger strong reactions, but it did. It reminded her yet again that this town of 1,947 located just 20 miles southwest of where she had grown up was unfathomable. In no way, shape, or form could she relate to it.
Lord, I sure wish You'd let me in on why it is You've brought me here!

At Room 12 she stopped in the open doorway. The Sweater lounged against the teacher's desk, half sitting on a corner of it. He was speaking to the class, not looking at the textbook in his hand.

“Psst.”

He glanced her direction and immediately smiled in recognition.

Kate held out her arms in an apologetic shrug.

“Class, excuse me for a moment. Go ahead and start on the assignment.” He walked around the desk and pulled her camera from a drawer.

She backed into the hall as he neared, out of earshot of the students. “I'm sorry for interrupting, but I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

“No problem, Camera Lady. Here you go.”

She accepted the camera from him and slung it over her shoulder. “Thank you. Do you think you got a picture? My editor seems to think the event is news.”

“Oh, it is. The moment was priceless. You must be a newcomer to the newspaper.”

She held out her hand. “Kate Kilpatrick, 17 days with the
Times
.”

Smiling, he shook her hand. “Is that the
Los Angeles
or
New York Times?”

“You've found me out. I'm delusional.”

“Aren't we all? I'm a history professor here at the academy.”

She laughed, instantly liking his open face. “Well, it's nice to meet you, whoever you are.”

“My name's Tanner Carlucci.”

“Carlucci. That sounds familiar—” She snapped her fingers. “I remember! We graduated the same year from Rockville High. You played guard when Tommy Kennedy played center.”

“Now you're being delusional about me. I spent most of every basketball season sitting on the bench. I'm sorry, I don't remember you.”

“You wouldn't. You were the jock who made news. I was the geek who wrote the news. Our paths didn't cross, but your name came up once or twice.” She shrugged. “And besides, we had eight hundred and seventy-three classmates.”

“High school. The ultimate delusional state.” His sparkly brown-black eyes clouded. “It had nothing to do with real life. Here we are, twelve years later. I'm an athletic has-been with long hair, wondering what to do with the rest of my life. You're out there, gifts already honed, living your dream as journalist for either the
Los Angeles
or
New York Times.
You haven't said which yet.”

“But you're teaching.”

“Long story. Maybe we could meet for coffee, catch up on old times.”

She grinned. “We didn't share any old times.”

“Oh, that's right. Well…” He glanced furtively over one shoulder and then the other. As if about to share a secret, he hunched toward her and said in a low voice, “I could give you the inside scoop on the Magic Kingdom here, if you're interested.”

“Magic Kingdom?”

“I know. Most people refer to it as Valley Oaks. But you'll find out if you hang around for a while,” he waggled his brows, “that there is something magical about the place.”

“I know there's something elusive about it. I haven't the foggiest how to relate to it.”

“Then we should definitely talk.” He straightened, and his voice returned to normal. “Are you living in town?”

“Yes, I'm renting a room from a woman. It's easier to reach me at the
Times
office. That's the
Valley Oaks Times.”

“I see.
Los Angeles
or
New York
has loaned you out.” He grinned. “I'd better get back in there. Nice meeting you, Kate.”

“Thanks again for taking a picture.”

“My pleasure. I hope it works for you.” He rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb and went inside the room.

Life certainly was strange. Who would have guessed a Rockville classmate would turn up as a source? And in Valley Oaks, of all places.

Kate settled into a chair across the desk from the principal, not bothering to remove her coat. She didn't plan on being there long. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Please, call me Joel. And thank you for seeing
me.”
A small, contented smile eased what would otherwise have been a perfectly daunting face. One look at his piercing gaze and chiseled features would hustle any adolescent down the straight and narrow. Kate felt herself sitting up a bit taller.

He continued, “Knowing Rusty, I figured she'd want details.”

“You hit that nail on the head.” She poised her pen above the stenographer notebook. “Why did you do it?”

“I love Britte Olafsson.” No hesitation.

Kate blinked, shoving aside the fact that the interview was the most ridiculous she'd ever conducted. “Mr.—Joel, what I mean is, why did you stage this public display of an extremely personal moment?”

“I feel that as teacher and principal, Britte and I are public servants. Most of what we do is open to public scrutiny, as it should be to a certain extent, especially in front of the students. What help are we if we preach one way and live another? I want them to see how adults handle a relationship. If the community is gossiping about a romance, things get blown out of proportion.” He held out his hands, palms up. “I wanted to be up front about where I stand with Miss O.”

“How do you hope the community will respond?”

He thought for a moment. “Like everything I do for the school, I hope they'll accept it and give it some time until the results indicate whether or not it was the best course of action for the majority of the students.”

Good heavens. The man had just tied together romance with hoping for a fair assessment of his performance as principal. What had Rusty said? Something about another nail in his coffin. Was his job in jeopardy?

“Did you get all that?” he asked.

“Um,” Kate started writing again, “I think so.” She skimmed over what she had written in her own version of shorthand. “But I don't understand what dating a woman has to do with keeping your job.”

He chuckled. “I didn't either until recently. Welcome to Valley Oaks, Kate Kilpatrick.”

Kate parked on Cherry Street in front of Adele Chandler's house and climbed out. Dusk had fallen and winter still nipped the air, keeping the six inches of snow firmly intact with no hint of a melting.

The afternoon's interviews tumbled about in her mind. She had managed to find the superintendent, two school board members, a handful of students and parents. Everyone had an opinion on the Kingsley-Olafsson development, but she still couldn't imagine coordinating the disconnected jangle into a news article. She needed a break.

Walking up the front sidewalk, she studied the white, twostory clapboard built in the 1920s. It was large, too large, according to Adele, for just herself and her 16-year-old daughter, Chelsea. Through the years she had often rented out the two rooms Kate now lived in on the first floor. Adele was a friend of a friend of Kate's mother's, a connection for which she was grateful. It saved her from commuting from Rockville or signing a lease. The rent was low, and the easygoing Chandlers were ideal roommates.

Just inside the small entryway, she slipped off her coat and heavy hiking boots. Voices came from the kitchen, and she crossed the dining room to enter it. Mother and daughter stood at the counter, chopping vegetables.

“Hi, honeys, I'm home!”

“Kate!” Chelsea cried, spinning around to face her. “Was that the wildest thing you've ever witnessed in your entire life or what?”

“I assume you're referring to the scene in the commons?”

“Yeah! I saw you come in.”

“I didn't notice you, but then last night your hair was white blonde.”

“That was my winter look.” She patted her mass of long, bright red natural curls, “Now it's Valentine's Day and time for red.”

“Lucky me, I'm all set.” Kate exchanged a smile with Adele. Though the slightly older woman wore her natural, dark blonde waves in a shorter, bouncy style, the Chandlers resembled each other. They both had large, gray-blue eyes, medium builds, and a distinct artistic fluidity about their dress and personalities. Even their lilting voices were similar.

Adele dried her hands on a towel. “So what do you think, Kate?”

“I think it was charming and bizarre, but my opinion doesn't count when it comes to reporting. Tell me what you two think. On the record.”

“Oh, Kate,” Adele laughed, “I hope you're not going to quote me often. Even after seventeen years I'm still a major oddball to three-fourths of Valley Oaks. I'm not seen as a typical community member.”

“Why is that?”

“I'm a single mom with a pottery studio in my basement and I dress funny.”

“What's funny about colorful, flowing skirts?” She glanced down at her own African-print skirt and crocheted gold sweater over a forest green shirt. “At least you don't wear combat boots and your brother's winter jacket.”

Laughing, Chelsea added, “And only one mitten.”

“I wear two mittens.” She watched the almost imperceptible raise of their brows. “Don't I?”

Adele grinned. “We've only seen one.”

Kate sat at the table and pulled her notepad from her oversized shoulder bag. “Anyway, you're not an oddball in this matter. You're a parent. What do you think?”

“I like Joel Kingsley's honesty. He's devoted to the school and to the students. Based on his track record, I trust his judgment. If he wants to take the opportunity to present a life lesson using his own personal experience, it's all right by me. All the better that the kids see him walk his talk.”