12, Granbury, TX 76048.
The Facts of Life According to Brandy Conner, Age Six
I know not everybody can have a mom. And I’m real lucky, ‘cause I’ve got the world’s best dad. But he’s so grumpy sometimes—’specially when Maggie Wells comes over. She’s my grown-up friend from the community center. She is so neat.
One of my friends says that boys act dumb sometimes when they like you. So I was thinking, what if Daddy likes Maggie? It would be so great if Maggie could live with us, like a real mom. Daddy says it’s “complicated”—which means I should stop asking questions. But now Maggie is acting grumpy. Do you think this is a good sign?
“What happened to his wife?”
The social worker, Mrs. Fletcher, shifted in her cushioned swivel chair as she stared across her cluttered desk at Maggie Wells. She looked unsure of the answer she should give. The busy shuffle of activity in the community center filtered in through the open door of her cramped office.
“Does she live around here?” Maggie continued, her curiosity piqued. She watched as Mrs. Fletcher ran thick fingers through her short metallic-gray hair and sighed heavily.
“Actually,” Mrs. Fletcher began in a tired tone, “we don’t know that much about Mr. Conner’s former wife. He’s a very private person.”
“Oh.” Maggie thought for a moment. “But you got so much information about my background before allowing me to enter the outreach program. I guess I just assumed you knew as much about the children and their families.”
The women’s outreach program, organized by the Charleston community center, matched adult volunteers with young girls to provide friendship and role modeling. It was especially geared toward girls who’d lost their mothers, through death or divorce.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” Maggie said hurriedly when Mrs. Fletcher didn’t respond. “I just wondered. I mean, to help Brandy as much as possible, I thought it would be best if I knew something about her besides the fact that she likes dolls and roller skating.”
“Yes,” the social worker agreed. “I understand your interest, of course.” She sat silently for a few seconds. Maggie leaned forward encouragingly and Mrs. Fletcher began to speak again. “It’s simply not necessary for us to make such inquiries into personal affairs. The facts behind Mr. Conner’s divorce are not our business. All we need to know is that he wishes to place his daughter in the program.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, straightening up in her chair, suddenly feeling as if she’d been caught trying to peep into someone’s back window. “I understand entirely.”
“Well, he’ll be here any minute and you can meet him for yourself,” Mrs. Fletcher said, breaking off and staring at the doorway of her office. Maggie turned quickly, following the social worker’s gaze.
A young girl scampered eagerly into the office, a large doll clutched to her chest. But Maggie’s attention was seized immediately by the dark presence that followed her, overpowering the small office with his height and brooding appearance. Her eyes moved up his torso to broad shoulders topped by a strongly angular face that held, even in January, the hint of summer’s heat. Carelessly combed chestnut waves contrasted with his stern visage.
The rich luster of his hair and the smoothness of his skin, only lightly crinkled around brilliant sapphire eyes, suggested a man of no more than thirty years. But the cool glint in those blue depths intimated at a hardness inside that his age belied.
Maggie opened her mouth to greet him, but found nothing coming out.
This is so embarrassing, she thought quickly. He’ll think I’m a fool.
Piercing blue eyes met hers for a long second, then dismissed her and passed on to Mrs. Fletcher.
Mrs. Fletcher rose and reached across her desk to extend a pudgy hand to the man who strode with an effortless assurance across the small office. Maggie, pulling herself together at last, rose also. She was graced with a cursory handshake that, despite its lack of warmth, left her hand feeling weak and crushed.
“Ryan Conner, Brandy, this is Maggie Wells,” Mrs. Fletcher introduced in a businesslike monotone. Ryan Conner sat down in the chair across from Maggie, as directed by Mrs. Fletcher. His daughter perched on his knee and smiled.brightly at Maggie.
“We here at the center are hoping Maggie and Brandy will be an excellent match,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “You’ve read the materials I sent you, I assume.” She looked narrowly at Ryan Conner, then went on without waiting for a response. “So you know all about Ms. Wells. She has agreed to commit to the program for at least a year, spending time with Brandy at least twice a month.”
Maggie looked at Ryan, noting that he seemed impatient with the social worker’s explanations. She caught his eye and smiled sympathetically, then frowned as he looked quickly away.
Mrs. Fletcher stopped, and Maggie turned her attention gladly to the child on Ryan’s lap.
“Hi, Brandy,” Maggie said. The six-year-old was an elflike miniature of her father in girlish form. Brown braids in the same shade as her father’s hair swung against her blue woolen coat. Loose white lace tights wrinkled about her ankles as she kicked her feet against the legs of the chair.
“Hi,” Brandy returned. She fidgeted on her father’s knee. He put a restraining arm around her, but she pushed him back and jumped down instead. She walked over to Maggie and reached a hesitant finger out to touch an auburn curl that nestled softly against Maggie’s shoulder.
“You have red hair!” she said, and giggled. Maggie laughed with her, enchanted with the little girl’s honest spontaneity.
She glanced at the child’s father and found him watching with a disapproving frown.
“Don’t be rude, Brandy,” he scolded, his voice softly Southern yet still commanding. Brandy backed away from Maggie, grinning mischievously.
“Oh, that’s okay. But I do prefer to call it auburn,” Maggie said to Brandy, ignoring Ryan Conner’s cool expression.
But she couldn’t resist looking at him again a moment later and smiling. His face remained impassive.
Really, Maggie thought, what is his problem? We’ve just met! He can’t dislike me already.
“Mr. Conner—” she began.
“Ryan,” he corrected. “Only my students call me Mr. Conner.”
“Okay, if you’ll call me Maggie,” she agreed cheerfully. “You’re a teacher?” she prompted, smiling at him encouragingly.
“High school English,” he responded briefly.
Maggie raised an expectant brow, hoping he would elaborate yet knowing somehow that he wouldn’t.
The ice has to break soon, she
