know that…ah…this class is supposed to be for adults,” he said as if sensing her ambivalence. His voice cracked as painfully as chalk on the blackboard, and he halted in midstream, visibly gulping for air. “I thought that, though…you know…that maybe you might make an exception since what I want to do is…ah…maybe find out about saving for college? You know?”
“I do know,” Katarina said. “I went to college on a scholarship and worked jobs the whole time.” Zemanova women did not shrink from responsibilities or “Cry in their mlieko” as Babička was want to say.
“So, far be it from me to discourage your desire. Still, given the structure of the Adult School and the fact that you probably already have homework from earlier today, wouldn’t it be better if your mother or father attends the class instead?”
“That might be kind of hard. My mom’s dead.”
Katarina felt a little piece of her heart crack off. She rested her palm on the desk and gripped the corner hard with her fingers. “I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling inadequate with her clichéd response, even if the sentiment was genuine. “Not only for your loss but the fact that you’ll shouldering more responsibility than most young people your age.” She paused, groping for a solution.
“What about your father? Would that be possible?” she asked.
The boy cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. “It’s not like we talk all that much.”
The door opened behind her, but Katarina didn’t turn around. She was trying to stay focused on the teenager. “I know how parents can be busy, especially single parents. Still…” She waited, trying to coax a reply.
Matt tucked his chin into his concave chest. The writing on his T-Shirt, Pirates Are Way Cooler Than Ninjas, cupped his jawbone like a cotton nest. She saw his lips move, but couldn’t hear his words. “What’s that? I didn’t quite get what you said.”
“What he said was that he doesn’t like to bother me, which may explain why he failed to let me know where he went this evening.” The voice, a deep baritone, came from behind.
Katarina watched as all the students shifted their eyes, and collectively held their breath. And for a fraction of a second, given the mean age of her students, she had this crazy hope that the Adult School kept a defibrillator on the premises. She glanced down at her watch. Not even fifteen minutes into her first class and already she was facing a crisis.
“Mr. Worthington, I presume?” she said, giving a pretty good imitation of an offended schoolteacher. She slowly turned around while heartily congratulating herself on being a better actress than she would have imag—
Holy mother of…
The darkness of night hadn’t done justice to the way his shoulders filled out the jacket. Nor had it allowed an onlooker to see how the angles of his face came together in a combination that wasn’t so much handsome as arresting. And now, without the helmet, Katarina could see how his inky-black hair tumbled over his brow and curled around the collar of his leather jacket. Lines fanned out from his dark green eyes, lines that didn’t seem to go with anything remotely resembling smiling. The grim line of his full lips and the determined set of his jaw confirmed that judgment.
Forget offended. Before her stood a smoldering Brontë hero. Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester. No, definitely Heathcliff.
“Actually it’s Mr. Brown,” he said, but he didn’t bother to shift his gaze from the back of the room.
Katarina pushed away from the desk, wincing with the sudden pressure on her bad leg. “Sorry. Mr. Brown. I just assumed that you and Matt had the same last name. My mistake.” She held out her hand. “I’m Katarina Zemanova, the teacher for this class, and even though these may not be the best of circumstances, I am delighted to welcome you here.” She might not feel brave inside, but Katarina could at least make a good show of it on the surface.
The man glanced down at her hand as if not quite sure what to make of her gesture. There certainly was no immediate reply, and just when she thought she would have to rescind her invitation, he abruptly thrust out a hand.
The brief contact should have passed without fanfare, except for the annoying little voice in her head that kept pointing out how big his hand was, and how the pads of his fingers were rough with calluses. How his skin was cold to the touch but somehow warm, very warm within. Maybe, just maybe, that little voice had read too many of her grandmother’s romances?
Katarina ended the handshake after one firm up-and-down motion; then she reflexively tried to wipe away a lingering tingling sensation. “Won’t you have a seat then?” she offered.
He stood still and silent.
It was like pulling teeth. “I know how anxious you must have been, but now that you’ve found your son, you can relax.”
“There’s no relaxing when you have a teenager,” Rufus said from his seat in the front. That raised a nervous twitter from several students.
Katarina looked around the classroom. All eyes were on her to do something. Except two green ones that stayed focused on Matt. The cords in his neck strained like the stretched lines on a skiff heeling hard against the wind. His nostrils narrowed as he breathed in deeply.
Katarina rubbed the side of her nose. She could do this. What was dealing with a little father/son strife when she’d faced down a bullet? She could do this, right? Right?
“Perhaps I could be of service?” Carl said, starting to rise. “I’m the father of two grown sons.”
Katarina cleared her throat.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Carl,” she said, smiling, buying a few moments as she figured out what she was going to do. “You see, ah…I was thinking that rather than hold up the class any further, perhaps it would be better if I…ah…if I chatted with Mr. Brown and Matt at the break? Yes, the break. That way, we could get on with the lesson and not hold everyone up.” She glanced around the classroom, looking for a response.
There arose an audible sigh of agreement, as well as the buzz from someone’s hearing aid. Marginally more confident, she turned back to the new arrival. “So, Mr. Brown, if you’d just take a seat…” She pointed to a chair next to his son in the back. And was greeted by an even larger frown…
THE TEACHER COULD HAVE been indicating the path of Halley’s comet for all Ben was aware because the plain truth was that he wasn’t listening. All his attention, all the mounting stress that had constricted his airway and frazzled his nerves to the point he couldn’t even feel the tips of his fingers, had been focused on finding Matt—his son.
His son. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that he had a son. If someone had ever suggested that he’d be one of those men who nervously patrolled the sidelines of their child’s soccer game or attended piano recitals, listening proudly to halting renditions of “Für Elise,” he would have scoffed, poured two fingers of the finest single malt scotch and gone on about his business of making money for him and a bunch of people who already had too much money for their own good.
Well, scoff away. He had become one. A father. An instant father to be exact. And no matter what critical words had been said about George Benjamin Brown—and there were maybe too many—he had never been accused of shirking his responsibilities. Even when it came to something as uncomfortable as fatherhood.
