A Soldier's Promise. Cynthia Thomason
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to get back to the garage, Diana,” Brenna said.
“I do,” he said. And as quickly as he’d come into the lot, he left it.
“What was all that?” Brenna said. “You made that man uncomfortable. I can’t imagine that he enjoys being treated like Mount Union’s catch of the day.”
“Well, he could be a catch...for you.”
“I already told you—don’t get any ideas.”
“You didn’t find him the least bit attractive?”
“I didn’t find him anything but rude and condescending.” That wasn’t exactly true. Brenna usually drew conclusions about every man she met, and she’d done so with this guy. Mike had a sort of earthy appeal that some women might find attractive. But earthy appeal wasn’t at the top of Brenna’s priorities. Not even close. “Parasitic drain,” she muttered.
“Well, I think he’s very good-looking,” Diana said. “He’s rugged and well built. And I could practically smell the woodsmoke coming from those eyes of his.”
So Diana had noticed that feature, too. Still, Brenna wasn’t going to get into this discussion. “Shouldn’t you go home and fix supper or something?”
Diana smiled. “Don’t be mad at me, Bren. I just want you to be as happy as I am.”
Brenna stared at the angelic face that was so typical of Diana. “How do you know I’m not? What makes you happy isn’t the same for all women.”
Diana considered the statement. “Point taken.”
“You go home to your son and your husband, and I’ll put on my cowgirl boots and kick up my heels at the Riverview. I’ll bet we both go to sleep happy.”
“Maybe so. But one person won’t be so happy tonight.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mike. He didn’t get a tip and he didn’t get your phone number.”
“You’re impossible,” Brenna said. “He obviously didn’t want my phone number, and he didn’t deserve a tip.”
* * *
WHEN SHE PULLED into her driveway, Brenna was thinking about which pair of jeans she’d wear out that night. She parked her car and walked to the front porch of the 1930s-era three-bedroom Craftsman-style cottage she’d bought four years ago and renovated with light earth-toned paint and sage-green trim. Her friends called the place “darling” and “charming.” Brenna was just grateful every day that she called it home.
She’d only taken a few steps along the brick walkway leading to her front door when she noticed a girl sitting on her wicker love seat. Brenna stopped, stared at the girl and realized she was familiar.
The girl raised her hand. “Hi, Miss Sullivan.”
Oh, no. The girl called her Miss Sullivan. Had to be a student. “Ah...hello.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Brenna searched the crannies of a mind that had already mutated from school to weekend mode. “I think you’re in one of my classes. Is that right?”
“Yeah. I’m in your third-period cooking class. My name’s Carrie Langston.”
Brenna remembered calling the name off her roster, but she hadn’t yet had time to put a face to each student’s name. “Sure,” she said. “Carrie.” She walked the rest of the way to the porch. “What are you doing here, Carrie? How do you know where I live?”
“It wasn’t hard to find out. I just said I’ll bet you have a nice house, and one of the other kids in class told me you lived here on the river.” She looked at the colorful stained-glass panel centered in Brenna’s front door. “I was right. This is a cool place.”
Mount Union was a small town. Brenna figured lots of her students knew where she lived. But none of them had ever come calling before. Brenna made a point to avoid sending that kind of welcoming attitude. To keep her school life separate from her personal one, she didn’t go to games or chat with students in the hallways about their problems. There were counselors for that job—and teachers like Diana Montgomery. If her past had taught Brenna one thing, it was that she should maintain a noninvolvement policy.
“I don’t know why you’re here, Carrie, but if you came to talk to me about school, you could have waited until Monday...”
The girl’s voice dropped to a chastised tone. “I didn’t come to talk about school.”
“Oh.” That was even worse. “I can’t imagine anything else that couldn’t wait. This is the weekend, and...”
“I’m sorry, Miss Sullivan. I just needed someplace to go, and, well, you seem so nice in class.”
Intrigued in spite of herself, Brenna leaned against a porch column. “Why do you need a place to go? What’s wrong with your home?”
“It’s not nice like this is.”
Since Brenna hadn’t seen this girl before this year, she assumed she was new to the school system. “So where do you live exactly?”
“Outside of town.”
“How far outside?” Brenna wondered if she would have to drive the girl home. If so, there was a liability issue with having a student in her car. And she’d be late meeting her friends. Precisely why she didn’t get involved.
“I live beyond that old mill, the one on White Deer Trail. Do you know where it is?”
Brenna did know. Diana and her family lived close to that location. So did other families who preferred the rustic, remote neighborhood. But Brenna hadn’t known another house existed beyond the long-defunct gristmill.
“Why aren’t you there now?” she asked. “Do you need a ride? I’m sure you missed the bus.”
“I did, but I can call someone. I thought I could just hang out here for a while.”
“That’s not really such a good idea.” In desperation Brenna quoted school board policy. “We have a strict nonfraternization policy here. The school board frowns upon high school students visiting teachers’ homes.”
The girl hung her head. Long, dark waves of hair hid her face, but Brenna thought she heard a sniffle. Oh, dear. What would she do if this girl suddenly burst into tears? What was she so upset about? She was obviously clean and well cared for, like just about all the kids in Mount Union. Her clothes were stylish. She wasn’t anything like the students Brenna had had her first two years of teaching.
Carrie scrubbed her face with both hands and looked up. She seemed in control. “It was dumb of me to come here. I was just hoping you’d let me stay awhile. But I can go somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Someplace. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Brenna sat on the wicker chair next to the love seat. Something was going on with this girl, something Brenna might not be equipped to deal with. Remembering the hard-learned instincts to remain distant—the ones that had stayed with her since her first teaching position—she put her hand on the girl’s arm. Even that slight bit of familiarity made Brenna uncomfortable.
“What aren’t you telling me, Carrie?” She studied the girl’s face, her bare arms, looking for bruises and hoping she wouldn’t see any. All she saw was clear, pale skin. Yet something wasn’t right.
“Do you have problems at home?” Brenna asked.
The girl didn’t say anything. She just twisted her fingers in her lap.
“Carrie? Do your parents know where you are?”
“It’s just my dad, and I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Give