pushed inside. Over the din, Carmen said, “There’s your dad.”
Sophie glanced up. Amid the gangly teens, a graying man in white dress shirt and yellow cartoon tie grinned at something one of his students said.
“Oh, good. I was hoping he’d stop for lunch today.” Her dad taught science in the high school. Many days he ate at his desk while tutoring kids. She raised a hand, flagged him over to join them.
As his gray plastic tray scraped onto the table across from her and he greeted the other teachers with an easy smile, the familiar pang of fierce love stirred in Sophie’s chest. Mark Bartholomew had aged more than the five years since his divorce from Sophie’s mother, a divorce he’d never wanted. Worse, Meg Bartholomew had remarried almost immediately. The implication of an affair still stung, a bitter, unexpected betrayal. Sophie could only imagine how humiliated and hurt her father must have felt.
“Hi, Dad. How’s your day?”
“Better now that I see your smiling face. How is yours?” He spread a narrow paper napkin on his lap and tucked in his “mad scientist” tie.
“Something crazy happened this morning.”
Expression comical, he tilted his head, prematurely graying hair glossy beneath the fluorescent lights. “Crazier than usual? This is a school, remember? The holiday season always stirs up the troops.”
Sophie and her father shared this love of teaching and the special hum of energy several hundred kids brought into a building. At Christmas, the energy skyrocketed.
“We found a lost boy in the municipal Dumpster.”
Her father lowered his fork, frowning, as she repeated the morning’s events. When she finished, he said, “That’s tragic, honey. Anything I can do?”
“Pray for him. Pray for Chief Rainmaker to find his family.” She shrugged. “Just pray.”
He patted the back of her hand. “You got it. Don’t get your heart broken.”
“Dad,” she said gently.
“I know you. You’ll get involved up to your ears. Sometimes your heart’s too big.”
“I take after my dad.”
The statement pleased him. He dug into the mystery casserole. “What is this?”
Sophie giggled as she and Carmen exchanged glances. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
He chewed, swallowed. “Better than an old bachelor’s cooking.”
He said the words naturally, without rancor, but Sophie ached for him just the same. Dad alone in their family home without Mom unbalanced the world. Even though Sophie had offered to give up her own place and move in with him, her father had resisted, claiming he wanted his “bachelor pad” all to himself. Sophie knew better. He’d refused for her sake, worried she’d focus on his life instead of hers.
Carmen dug an elbow into Sophie’s side. “Mr. Gruber just came in.”
“Principals eat, too.”
Carmen rolled her eyes. “He’s headed this direction.”
Sophie’s father looked from one woman to the other. “Have I missed something?”
“Nothing, Dad. Pay no mind to Carmen. She’s having pre-Christmas fantasies.”
“Mr. Gruber is interested in your daughter.”
“Carmen! Please. He is not.” She didn’t want him to be. A picture of the quietly intense face of Kade McKendrick flashed in her head. This morning’s encounter had stirred more than her concern for a lost child.
“Gruber’s a good man,” her dad said. He stopped a moment to turn to the side and point at a pimply boy for throwing a napkin wad. The kid grinned sheepishly, retrieved the wad and sat down. The high schoolers were convinced Mr. Bartholomew had eyes in the back of his head.
“Dad, do not encourage rumors.”
Her father lifted both hands in surrender as the principal arrived at their table. Biff Gruber nodded to those gathered, then leaned low next to Sophie’s ear. His blue tie sailed dangerously close to the mystery casserole. Sophie suppressed a giggle.
“I need to see you in my office, please. During your plan time is fine.”
Without another word, he walked away.
“So much for your romantic theories,” Sophie told a wide-eyed Carmen. “That did not sound like an interested man.”
“No kidding. Wonder what he wants,” Carmen said, watching the principal exit the room. “An ultimatum like that can’t be good.”
Sophie put aside her fork. “Sure it can. Maybe he wants to order ten-dozen cookies.”
Carmen looked toward the ceiling with a sigh. “You’d put a positive spin on it if he fired you.”
Well, she’d try. But she couldn’t help wondering why her principal had been so abrupt.
She found out two hours later, seated in his tidy, narrow office. The space smelled of men’s cologne and the new leather chair behind the unusually neat, polished mahogany desk. It was a smell, she knew, that struck terror in the hearts of sixth-grade boys. A plaque hung on the wall above Biff Gruber’s head as warning to all who entered: Attitudes Adjusted While You Wait.
“I understand you’re doing the cookie project again this year,” he said without preliminary.
Sophie brightened. Maybe he did want to place an order. She folded her hands in her lap, relaxed and confident. This was Biff and she was not a sixth-grade rowdy. “I turned in the lesson plan last week. We’re off to a promising start already and I hope to raise even more money this year.”
Biff positioned his elbows on the desk and bounced his fingertips together. The cuffs of his crisply ironed shirt bobbed up and down against his pale-haired wrists. The light above winked on a silver watch. His expression, usually open and friendly, remained tight and professional. Sophie’s hope for a cookie sale dissipated.
“We’ve had some complaints from parents,” he said.
Sophie straightened, the news a complete surprise. No one had ever complained. “About the project? What kind of complaints? Students look forward to this event from the time they’re in second and third grade.”
In fact, kids begged to participate. Other classes loitered in her doorway, volunteered and occasionally even took orders for her. This project was beloved by all. Wasn’t it?
“How many years have you been doing this, Sophie?” The principal’s tone was stiff, professional and uneasy.
Suddenly, she felt like one of the students called into the principal’s office for making a bad judgment. At the risk of sounding defensive, she said, “This is year five. Last year we donated the proceeds, a very nice amount, I might add, to the local women’s shelter. Afterward, Cheyenne Bowman spoke to our class and even volunteered to teach a self-protection
