to the real world of education.
BRETT SAT DOWN at his computer and took a deep breath. The chores were done, and there was nothing pressing at the Ryker place. It was time. In fact, it was well past time.
Brett was going to college. Online. He just hoped no one found out—in case he failed.
During junior and senior high he’d been a poor student—not because he couldn’t do the work, but because he wouldn’t. His dad had made a career of comparing Brett’s achievements to Will’s, and Brett had invariably failed to measure up. Finally, he’d accepted the fact that in his dad’s eyes he was never going to be as good at anything as Will was, so he quit trying, telling himself he wasn’t really a loser, since he wasn’t playing the game.
But still, he had silently resented Will for being so damn good at everything, and resented their dad for constantly reminding him of it.
Brett had eventually gotten his petty revenge, though, and had done a pretty fair job of messing up a number of lives in the process. Not bad for an underachiever.
Okay. First lesson. Concentrate.
Brett started by reading the introduction. Then he reread the introduction, and wondered if maybe he should start with his humanities class instead of algebra.
There was a knock on the door and he literally jumped at the chance to put his education on hold again.
And then he looked out and saw who it was. Claire. With a bottle of wine, no less.
This could not be good.
He opened the door, but only because he had no other option.
“Yes, I know,” she said, as she walked in without waiting for an invitation. “We’re holding on to our personal space, but I need some help, and damn it, Bishop, you’re the only one who can give it to me.” She handed him the bottle and walked to the cupboards. “Where do you keep your glasses?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pushy?”
Claire smiled at him over her shoulder as she opened a cupboard. “All the time.”
“And it doesn’t slow you down?”
“Not in the least.”
Brett gave up. “Next to the fridge.”
Claire opened the cupboard he indicated, then frowned as she pulled out a smallish glass. “What’s this?”
“It’s a wineglass.”
“No. This is an overgrown shot glass. And where’s the stem?”
“It’s a poor man’s wineglass. I can’t afford stems. You’re lucky it’s not a jelly glass.”
She smiled again as she took out a second one. “All right. But it’s small, so we’ll have to fill them more often.”
“How long do you plan on staying?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re tactless?” she asked.
He smiled instead of answering.
“And that doesn’t slow you down?”
“Not in the least.”
Brett pulled a corkscrew out of the utensil drawer before Claire had a chance to tear the kitchen apart looking for it. He plunged it into the cork with a little more force than necessary.
“White wine?” he asked.
“Is that a problem?”
“I prefer red wine when I solve problems.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
“Actually, I can’t see us doing a lot of joint problem solving,” he said pointedly.
Claire settled herself on one of the mismatched kitchen chairs. “I know that Will asked you to help me when you could. And I may need a lot of help before this year is over.”
She accepted the glass he offered, took a bracing drink, then reached up with her free hand to ruffle the top of her hair in a gesture that clearly suggested exhaustion, or possibly frustration. “Are you renovating?” She looked down the hall to the living room, where he was in the process of tearing up the old floor so he could lay a new one.
“The place needs work, so I try to do a little every month. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like some information.”
“On…?”
“My kids. My students. I’ve survived day two, and I’m not ashamed to admit that these kids are close to getting the best of me. That means I have to plan a strategy.”
Brett was impressed, in spite of himself. He’d always admired proactive people, as long as they weren’t running roughshod over him—or trying to.
“I’ll tell you what I know, but you gotta realize I haven’t lived here that long.”
“But you’re a native of the area.”
“My grandfather and great-grandfather were natives. Granddad sold.”
“Well, you’ve got to know more than I do.” Claire reached down for her purse and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “I’m thinking that if I can just understand the lay of the land, who’s related to whom and who does what, maybe I can connect better with the kids. I don’t want any dirt or gossip. Just information that’s in the public domain.”
Brett lifted the wine to his lips, sipped. It really wasn’t that bad for white wine. “Don’t you have school records with that kind of information?”
“Allegedly, but they’re in pretty bad shape. The district is sending me copies of missing documents, but I want to know about families. Where they live. What they do.”
Brett shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Okay, first off, tell me about the Landaus.”
“They’re rich.” Claire waited, and he expanded. “They’re one of the few families here that are not land rich and cash poor. Landau’s a nice guy. Ashley is his stepdaughter. Only child. He married the mother about three years ago, I think.”
“How about Jesse Lane?”
Brett shook his head. “Don’t know any Lanes. They aren’t locals. It might be that new guy who has the trailer north of town.”
“Elena and Lexi Moreno.”
“They’re related to the Hernandezes.”
“Ramon and Lily?”
“Hardworking families. The Hernandezes work for the Landaus. The Morenos have their own place.”
“So
