A Mother's Reflection. Elissa Ambrose
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suggested fairness and integrity, but was it a kind face? A compassionate face? For her daughter’s sake, she fervently hoped it was.
Megan was being raised without a mother.
Once again Rachel checked her watch. It was time to go. She returned the photographs to the envelope, then picked up her purse and briefcase and left the inn.
The weather forecast had called for rain. She’d planned on driving, but once outside she decided to walk. The sky was luminously blue, without a cloud as far as she could see.
It wasn’t the threat of rain that scared her.
One summer. She had almost three months to become an integral part of Megan’s life. Only after she’d achieved this would she reveal her identity—and what kind of man would turn his back on someone who’d become so important to his daughter?
But what if he did? What if, once her secret was known, Adam shut her out?
Another worry assailed her, this one more pressing. What if the interview went badly? What if he didn’t hire her?
Red and yellow tulips nodded at her in the light breeze, but she barely noticed. It was Adam’s face she saw, in her mind, as she headed down the inn’s stone pathway.
From a newspaper clipping attached to the P.I.’s report, she’d learned that Adam had recently left his job at the high school to manage the new community center. The clipping also reported that he was in the process of hiring. It was no coincidence that one of the job openings was for a drama teacher and that she was the perfect candidate. It was fate.
How could he not hire her?
A five-minute walk brought her to a large brick-and-glass structure. The complex stood before her like a fortress, daring her to try to infiltrate its walls. Apprehension swept through her. This was a small-town community center? She stood motionless on the front steps, debating whether to turn around. Turn around and run back home. But what kind of life did she have in Hartford? Without Megan it was a life without meaning. Nothing could fill the emptiness that engulfed her. It was like a well that year after year grew deeper and wider.
Hesitating before the tall glass doors, she looked over at the arena adjacent to the main building. The new community center was more than a hub for the arts; it also served as a home for recreational activities as diverse as yoga and ice-skating. Working in the community center would have its perks, she thought, trying to bolster her resolve. Having a rink close to where she worked would be an added bonus. She could skate with Megan. It could be a mother-daughter experience. A bonding activity.
Filled with fresh determination, she walked into the reception area of the main building. Bright and festive watercolors decorated the walls, and one in particular held her attention. Against a backdrop of buildings and street lamps, five children in coats and mittens were gathered in a public square, building a snowman. Spilling its rays onto the snow, the sun created a kaleidoscope of colors, bringing to life the magic of childhood.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind her. “It’s the work of one of Middlewood’s finest artists, Laura Matheson-Logan. Her husband, Jake Logan, built this complex. The painting hung in his office for years before he donated it to the center. He said it was time he shared it with others.”
“It’s lovely,” Rachel said, her gaze locked on the painting. “I’ve always been envious of artists. They have this amazing ability to capture something illusory and package it into something permanent.” She turned around to face the woman. “I do theater work,” she said amiably. “Once the play is over, the emotion is gone. All we have left is the memory of how we felt.”
“I know what you mean,” the woman said. “Nevertheless, I’ve always admired people who can create living emotion on the fly. The mood may be temporary, but isn’t life?” The woman smiled. “I’m Doreen Parker, Administrative Assistant to the Director. Actually, for now I’m the receptionist, secretary and, generally speaking, gopher. We just opened a few days ago when the schools let out, and as you can see—” she gestured at the crates along the walls “—we’re in the throes of chaos. How can I help you, Miss…?”
“Hartwell. Rachel Hartwell.” Even though Rachel had been single for two years, she still went by her married name. At least my marriage wasn’t a total waste, she thought wryly. It allowed me to change my identity. “I have an appointment with Mr. Wessler,” she said, quickly filing away the past. If she were to gain her future, she had to concentrate on the present. “I’m here about the drama teacher position.”
Doreen appeared to be about sixty, but she was by no means matronly. Her azure linen suit was simple yet chic, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into an elegant chignon. Rachel realized that Doreen was appraising her as well, and instinctively knew that nothing could escape the older woman’s keen, probing eyes.
“Forgive me for staring,” Doreen said. “It’s just that you look familiar. I don’t know you, do I?”
Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. Her mother had grown up in the nearby town of Ridgefield, and had moved to Hartford a month before Rachel was born. What if Doreen had known her? What if, years later, the gossip had made its way back to Middlewood? What if this woman had heard about Beth Cunningham’s wild and pregnant daughter?
Once again Rachel was grateful to her ex-husband for giving her his name. “I’m from Hartford,” she answered evasively. “A city girl through and through.”
“This isn’t the city, but I’m sure you’ll love it here. Come with me. I’ll show you to Adam’s office.”
Rachel followed Doreen down a long corridor. “Aren’t you worried about theft?” she asked, as they headed around a corner. All the windows in the reception area had been left open to dilute the smell of fresh paint. “Isn’t there any security?”
Doreen laughed. “You are a city girl.” Her face grew serious. “I have to admit, Middlewood does have its share of crime. Recently a few neighborhoods were hit with a rash of burglaries. Probably just kids, since all they took were CDs, DVDs, that sort of thing. But to answer your question, we activate an alarm system when the center is closed…. Ah, here we are.” She knocked on an unpainted panel door and opened it without waiting for a response.
The room appeared empty. “Damn pole won’t stay put,” a deep voice growled from inside the closet. “Where is that Farley? He promised he’d have this closet done by noon.”
A tall man in a well-tailored but rumpled suit emerged. “Really, Doreen,” he reprimanded, “I wish you’d wait for a response before entering.”
In the report the investigator had described Adam Wessler as “pompous and fastidious, a man who relishes his privacy.” An investigator with a large vocabulary, Rachel had thought, amused. Adam obviously liked his privacy, or he wouldn’t have barked at Doreen, and whether or not he was pompous remained to be seen—but fastidious? Standing there grumbling in his wrinkled and dusty suit, he was not what Rachel had expected. True, he was as handsome as in his picture, his nose straight and aquiline, his jaw square and proud, but his untidy appearance caught her by surprise. Holding a hammer in one hand, smoothing his dirt-smudged lapels with the other, he looked more like a gussied-up construction worker than the director of a community center.
There was also the matter of his hair. As in the photo it was thick and dark, but here in the office smoothness had given way to spiky disarray, as if he’d been running his fingers through his hair in frustration. He turned to place the hammer on his desk, and Rachel had to suppress a smile. In contrast to his gray suit, his tie was brightly colored with a cartoon of the Tasmanian devil. A gift from Megan? In any case, that he chose to wear it contradicted the P.I.’s report, which not only described Adam as pompous and fastidious but also as conventional.
Adam Wessler certainly appeared to be an interesting mix of traits.
He spun around and boldly looked her over. The word interesting hardly described him, she realized. All the pictures she had received were in black and white, but she doubted that