“He wasn’t my type, anyhow,” she added, yanking a six-pack of diet soda from the fridge and pulling two cans off their plastic rings. Then she slammed the door shut with a nudge of one blue-jeaned hip. “Not that I’m actively searching for my type, mind you. But I digress.” She tossed him one can, and Nate reached out for it, the cold condensation suddenly shocking the nerve endings in his fingers. “I’d love to have a friend in this building. Besides, if you were a true psycho, you would have bonked me over the head and taken my two pieces of real jewelry and the six bucks in my wallet by now. Come on, stay. Watch the game.”
Nate was having trouble keeping up with her train of thought, being a little weary from the emotions that had surged through him in the last few minutes. He popped open his can and took a long swig, nearly choking when the woman exclaimed, “I’m not trying to flirt with you or get a date with you or anything like that. Don’t get me wrong, okay?” She took a small sip of her own soda. “I mean, nice chest and everything, but that’s not why I’m asking you. I value my single status. It’s just that you just seem so…nice.”
She squinted at Nate the way he imagined a psychiatrist would scrutinize a patient. He avoided psychiatrists, since he didn’t find it necessary to pay someone to remind him that his childhood had been messed up. But this woman’s searching stare was unnerving him. “You’re not a psychiatrist or psychologist or therapist of any kind, are you?” he asked.
“No, sorry, can’t help you there,” she said, then she laughed. “Watch the game. You can tell me your problems at the time-outs, if you want, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Her vivacity was infectious and it was tough not to smile back at her. “Do you think you can control yourself with another person in the room?” he asked. “I don’t want to duck flying furniture for the whole second half.”
She gave him a cocky grin. “No, of course not. Maybe with a guest here, I can try to keep a lid on it.” She extended her hand. He took it, and her skin felt cool and delicate but, at the same time, warm and immediately reassuring.
“I’m Josey.”
Chapter One
About a year and a half later
The Mother’s Day pageant was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
Twenty-seven third-graders ran amok backstage, darting around abandoned, faded backdrops, hiding behind black curtains and giggling as they tripped over their own baggy, assorted animal costumes and landed on the dusty wooden floorboards. Fifty-four little sneakered feet thundered back and forth in a frenzied pre-performance game of demented tag, no one knowing who was it, but everyone joining in, anyway, for the sheer joy of running in circles and screaming.
Josey squinted at her watch, straining in the dank backstage dimness to see the clock. Five minutes until curtain time. The best way to get a grip on this eight-year-old hysteria, she knew, was her piercing, unladylike taxi-hail whistle, the one she used when her pumped-up kids returned to the classroom from either recess or gym class, the one that made them cover their ears in mock terror and shriek, “Miss St. John! That’s so loud!” But she hated to use it here, aware of the mothers and handful of fathers currently seating themselves out front, and dreading what they would think of her archaic method of crowd control.
“Kids! Kids, settle down!” she hissed in—appropriately—a stage whisper, but no one heard or cared. Arms and legs flailing, they continued their chase around and around until finally, Josey felt forced to take her drastic measure. She put two fingers in her mouth and blew with all her might.
Small hands flew to heads. “Miss St. John! Ow!”
Josey winced, remembering the parents, but then she heard several amused titters and one outright laugh come from out front. She should have known they’d understand—and approve. Relieved, she turned to her class.
“Okay, everyone,” she said, widening her arms and allowing all the children to gather around her. She did a silent head count, did it again and was satisfied. “Just remember to do your best. If you forget your lines or a song, it’s okay. We’re just doing this to have fun, right?”
They all nodded, suddenly very serious in their fuzzy costumes and rainbow feathers and painted-on whiskers. My kids, Josey caught herself thinking, and smiled to herself.
“And,” she added with a wink, “I’ll be right in front of the stage like I showed you this morning, if you need help remembering anything. I’ll wave right at the beginning so you all can see me. Our rehearsal today was awesome, right?”
Enthusiastic nods.
“Your parents are going to be so proud. And if your parents couldn’t come today—” she focused on a few specific faces “—I’m especially proud of you for being good sports.”
Ally Berenson, the music teacher, poked her head through the curtain then. “Hi, Miss Berenson!” a chorus of voices called, and Ally waggled her fingers at them.
“Hi, gang. Are you ready to rock and roll?”
“Yes!” they all yelled happily, even though Josey was sure the expression went right over their heads. Ally was a kid favorite. With her wild mop of brassy hair tumbling around her face and her ability to make up a silly spontaneous song about any student, it was easy to understand why.
Ally flicked her gaze to Josey. “Are you ready?” she asked more quietly, grinning. “Full house out there. Somehow, when they dim the lights, I forget it’s a gymnasium with folding chairs.”
Josey smiled back. “Just soothing some opening-night—uh, make that opening-afternoon—jitters.”
“Your own or the kids’?”
“Well,” Josey admitted, “I am a little nervous.”
“Me, too,” Ally whispered. “And I have no excuse. I write songs for every class, kindergarten through sixth, for plays every year. I deserve a Tony by now. Maybe two.”
Josey turned back to her class. “Everyone get in your places!” she called. And as the third-grade zoo animals scrambled around the stage, she added in a low voice to Ally, “You’re terrific. I thought when I came up with this year’s Mother’s Day play idea you were going to kill me.”
“No, it’s great!” Ally said. “I had a lot of fun with them. The tiger song was tough, but hey, I’m a genius.”
“Anyway,” Josey pointed out, “this audience didn’t come here to see you and me.”
Ally chuckled. “True enough. Good luck! See you at the cast party. I hear Mel Gibson may show.” She laughed and ducked as Josey took a playful swat at her, then disappeared again behind the curtain.
Josey hustled a few children around, and when all seemed in order, she took a small lion named Jeremy by the hand and led him to where the curtain parted. She put Jeremy’s hand—now a golden paw—on the curtain in the right spot so he wouldn’t have to fumble, then knelt by him.
“Okay, Jeremy. All set?”
“Yeah,” the boy answered in a shaky but definitely determined voice.
“I’m going to go out front. You stay here and count to twenty-five slowly, then come on out.”
“Okay,
