“These two need to be in school. The sooner, the better.”
Gabriel knew that. He didn’t need to be told. Didn’t need to be sitting at his father’s table, feeling a lot more like he was seventeen and lacking in judgment than thirty-four and a father himself. Maybe he should have taken one of those positions he’d considered in Atlanta or New York City. Problem was the only housing he would have been able to afford in either place wasn’t fit for the cockroaches, let alone his sons.
“You talked to Daniel recently?” Walter asked, changing the subject, as if he’d settled the whole school issue.
“No.” Gabriel replied cautiously to this loaded question. “How’s he doing?”
“Coming up on his twenty years.” His older brother was career army. “But I don’t see him retiring. Dangerous as his job can be, he loves it. Plus, we need men like him.”
Jab.
Gabriel had done his own time in the service. The Coast Guard, on Lake Erie, much to Walter’s dismay. An even bigger disappointment was that Gabriel had been assigned to the mess and had discovered he loved cooking, even under military circumstances. After his discharge, he’d entered culinary school. Women’s work and a waste, in Walter’s mind.
“Daniel going to be stateside for the holidays?” Gabriel asked, as if the jab hadn’t found its mark. “The more people around, the more I like cooking.”
“What makes you think you’re cooking?”
“It’s the least I can do, if you’re putting a roof over our heads.” Temporarily. Only temporarily, until the job he was set to start on Monday earned him enough for the deposit on an apartment. Temporarily, while he built up his savings again and looked around for the right town, the right city to start his own restaurant. Again. “I’ll shop tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner. After I register the twins.”
“It’s not going to be highfalutin French stuff, is it? Or worse yet, Cajun. That spicy junk gives me heartburn. I like my Thanksgiving dinner traditional.”
“Turkey. Chestnut stuffing. Cranberry sauce. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans. Pumpkin pie. Traditional enough for you?”
Walter looked suspicious. “If you make real whipped cream for the pumpkin pie, I guess. Daniel won’t be home, though.”
“You have any friends or neighbors you want to invite?” Now there was a rhetorical question. Walter, a retired union steward, had always been a curmudgeon, set in his ways and absolutely sure of his opinions. Marjorie had made and kept friends—never any she brought home—but Gabriel would be surprised if his father was still on speaking terms with his drinking buddies down at the VFW.
Walter didn’t answer as he got up and headed for the stove. “You boys want seconds?”
“I do,” said Justin. “You’re a good cook, Grampa.”
The look Walter shot Gabriel was one of pure triumph.
MINUTES AFTER THE LAST of her students had been dismissed, Olivia Marshall surveyed the disaster that was her kindergarten classroom. Hastily, she put away costumes that had spilled out of the dress-up box. Construction paper scraps littered the floor beneath the low tables. And the wastebasket beside the paint-smeared sink overflowed with used paper towels. She absolutely could not, would not leave this mess for the custodial staff.
“Ms. Marshall!” Five-year-old Eric Sedley, on the verge of tears, dashed back into the room. “I forgot my turkey! I can’t go home without my turkey!”
Stepping quickly to his desk, Olivia retrieved the pinecone-and-pipe-cleaner bird, covered with glitter, that had been the last project of the shortened day. “Now scoot, before you miss your bus!”
“The driver said she’d wait for me.” Eric clutched his handiwork to his chest. Tears averted, smile in place, he ran from the room. “Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Marshall!” echoed in the corridor.
It would be pointless to remind him to walk.
Early dismissal before a major holiday guaranteed pandemonium. Because—unlike most of the faculty—Olivia didn’t have to rush home to get ready for tomorrow’s feast, she’d spend the afternoon tidying her classroom.
“Ms. Marshall.” The voice of Kelly Corona, the school clerk, crackled over the intercom. “I’m sending a Mr. Brant your way. I’ve just enrolled his twins, and they’d like to meet you and see their classroom before Monday.”
Great. She surveyed her image in the stainless-steel towel dispenser mounted over the sink. If the disorder in the classroom didn’t scare them off, her appearance might.
Pulling the elastic band from her hair, she quickly retamed her ponytail. Mr. Brant? The only Mr. Brant living in Hennings was Walter…Unless…With a quickening heartbeat, she shrugged out of the paste-covered smock she had on, shook glitter from her trousers and smoothed her top. Although there was nothing she could do about the smiley face “tattoo” Fiona Dunne had drawn with marker on the back of her wrist, she managed a quick hand wash and cursory cleaning of her fingernails, which always seemed to have crayon embedded under them. Before she could dry her hands, her three visitors were standing in the doorway.
Olivia couldn’t determine who looked more uncomfortable—the boys or the man who stood protectively beside them. She might have passed him on the street without recognizing him, but face-to-face, how could she ever fail to remember those piercing blue eyes? They could only belong to Gabriel. A good six inches taller than she was and solidly built, the adult version of her childhood friend would have struck her as more than handsome if his features hadn’t been shadowed by a scowl that seemed indelibly etched.
“Come in.” She hastily dried her hands. “Please, don’t be put off by the mess. I assure you it’s creative chaos. I’m Olivia Marshall.”
He held out his hand. “Gabriel Brant,” he said, as if she were a complete stranger. Her own moment of recognition was muddled by his faint Southern inflection. The Gabriel Brant she’d known years ago had been a scrappy blue-collar Hennings through and through. “These are my boys, Justin and Jared.”
Oh, my. Identical twins. Same ill-trimmed mops of tawny hair. Same intense blue eyes. Same wary stance. She’d have her work cut out for her, keeping them straight. At least they weren’t dressed the same. In fact, their outfits looked as if they’d been chosen haphazardly from some yard sale.
She knelt before the boys. “So who’s Justin and who’s Jared?”
One of the twins raised his hand. “I’m Justin. He’s Jared.”
“Well, I’m Ms. Marshall, and I’m going to be your teacher.”
The boys didn’t seem to know what to think.
“Would you like to play with our BRIO town, while I talk with your dad?”
“What’s a BRIO town?” Justin asked.
She led the boys to a carpeted corner where interlocking BRIO train tracks surrounded a town that changed every day, depending on her students’ imagination. Because of the Thanksgiving skit and the turkey craft project, the miniature village
