Surrendered Page 5

  Janice Harding is in a cramped office on the second floor. Or at least her name is on the door, but the room is empty. Did she forget our appointment? Or maybe I have the wrong time. I’ve been so scattered. I turn to leave the office and almost bump into a woman entering.

  “Ms. O’Shay?”

  “Yes, I’m Tess.”

  She offers her hand. “Janice Harding.”

  I wipe my hand on my pants before offering it, but it still feels cold and clammy in her warm, dry grasp. “Sorry about that. I guess I’m nervous.”

  “Oh, well, no need to be. Come on in and have a seat.” She rounds her desk, which appears too large for the cramped space, and takes her seat behind it.

  I sit on the edge of the chair, hands clutching the envelope, and wait while she boots up her computer. Ms. Harding has short salt-and-pepper hair, a quick smile, and kind eyes. I bet she wouldn’t force me to go to school.

  “So, you want to enroll in the Teacher Credentialing Program.”

  “Looking into it, yes.”

  “For fall semester?”

  “Possibly.”

  “It’s a little late to be blasé about whether you’d like to enroll or not. Classes start in three short months. First thing we need to do is order transcripts.”

  I slide the envelope of information onto her desk. “I brought copies of all my transcripts. They’re in here.”

  Reaching across, she plucks the envelope up. “You said your major was psychology. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” My heart thumps so hard in my chest, she must see it. “But I’ve been taking additional online courses through an accredited college as well. Mostly literature and English.”

  Shuffling through the copies of my transcripts, she pauses every now and then, hemming and hawing. Is that good or bad?

  “Tess, you’ve taken more than a few courses.” Her eyes meet mine, sharp and clear. As if she’s seeing much more than I’ve already told her.

  I look down at the clutched hands in my lap. “I don’t know how many of them are transferable.”

  Sliding a drawer open, she retrieves a calculator and, going through the transcripts again, plugs in numbers. Head shaking, she looks up with a smile when she’s done. “You were working on a double major.”

  “No. Just trying to stay busy.” Losing myself in something that takes more brain work than greeting patrons and taking dinner orders.

  “Give me a few minutes here. I want to search this course work and see what’s what.” She slides the transcripts next to her keyboard and goes to work.

  Wiping my hands down my thighs, I take a deep breath and wait. Wasting her time is what I’m doing. She must have a million better things to do than run numbers and courses for someone who has no intention of following through.

  “Are you thinking multiple subject or single?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Multiple subject would qualify you to teach kindergarten through eighth grade. Single subject would qualify you for both middle school and high school if you earn it in English.”

  My brain is having difficulty computing—like watching a Charlie Brown movie where a grownup is talking, but all I hear is, “Wah wah wah wah.”

  “It’s really a matter of preference,” Janice continues.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tess, you have earned almost enough transferable credits over the years for a bachelor’s in English. Surely this was your intention.”

  “No. I mean, I didn’t give it any thought.” How is it possible that years of taking classes just for the sake of learning could lead to this?

  “This couldn’t have been random.”

  And for no reason I can name, a soothing warmth fills me, and I’m almost—dare I say—giddy at the thought of this success.

  “So, we need to get to work here. First off, we’ll need to order official transcripts for our records. You’ll have to fill out a FAFSA if you need financial aid. If your goal is a single subject, you’ll have to take one more English class this summer, so keep that in mind. And then there’s the requisite enrollment forms and such.”

  Janice Harding doesn’t look like she’s going to take no for an answer.

  * * *

  Whatever happened to commute traffic starting at five o’clock? Don’t people work a full day anymore? I’m already running late, and the drive up Highway 50 is a snail’s pace. Okay, maybe more like recalcitrant toddler bent on his own time frame. Either way, I won’t have time to stop by the house and change before heading to the restaurant. And of course, Katie will jump on it. How many times have I lectured her about sticking to the uniform—black top, black pants? Maybe she won’t notice.

  I glance at the packet lying in the passenger seat and could swear it’s gloating. It was supposed to be an appeasement appointment. My hope was that my degree was too old to qualify me for the credential program. Or that I didn’t have the grades necessary. But no. Ms. Harding lit up like a child on Christmas morning while she complimented me on my success. “And you didn’t even have someone guiding you through the process?” she asked, as if she couldn’t believe it. I’d like to think it was dumb luck, but I know better. Dad was a great believer in divine intervention, and I suppose I absorbed his philosophy—or is it religion?—through osmosis.

  I jump off the highway as soon as I pass Shingle Springs, but the back roads aren’t much better. Retired folk in no hurry, kids on skateboards or in groups playing kickball…now I’m moving at a snail’s pace. When I reach Bella Cucina, I count about ten vehicles in the parking lot. A quick calculation—cars minus employees equals five tables of patrons—and I know there’ll be backlash. Sheesh. So much for being the boss. Oh, no, I suppose that’s Jake’s position these days.

  Sneaking in the back door, I snatch a black restaurant apron from a hook and slip it on. Maybe it’ll be enough to cover up the khaki slacks and green t-shirt.

  “Where have you been?” Katie stands in the kitchen door, balancing four salads and glaring at me like I’m a kid caught sneaking in past curfew.

  It’s just a little too twisted. “Out. What are you, my mother?”

  “If I walked in a half hour late”—she looks me up and down—“dressed inappropriately for my shift, you’d have my head.”

  Scowling, I push past her. “The difference is, I’m an adult. You want to stand around and argue about it or let me get to work, Mom?” With Katie, the best defense is an insult. It’ll keep her busy thinking up a good comeback.

  I pass the kitchen and throw Maris a quick greeting, then head down the hall toward the dining room. Pasting on my best greeter smile, I push through the swinging door and smack into a body. A very hard, male body. Strong hands latch onto my shoulders to steady me, and amused eyes meet mine.

  “Nice of you to join us.” Jake’s smirk penetrates my daze. “You okay?”

  Wriggling out of his grasp, I step away. “Just peachy.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize for being late, but I swallow it down. He’s wearing the requisite black slacks and white shirt. And…what’s this? “What’s with the tie?”

  He adjusts it at the neck, then smooths it down. “Adds a little class to the joint, don’t you think?”

  “Dad hated ties.” I step past him and cross the room to the reception podium near the front door. That was rude of me, but what do I care? Isn’t my goal to get rid of Jake? Even if he does look good in a tie. Rumor has it, Ted Bundy was good looking too.

  “Hey, Tess.” Jeanine is a welcome interruption to my mental tirade. “Everything okay?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re never late.” Her eyes narrow. “What are you wearing?”

  “I’m fine, J. Just ran late and didn’t have time to change.”

  A party of four steps into the restaurant and brings a welcome end to the conversation. Every spare moment I have after that is spent tamping down the rising panic that started when I accepted the enrollment packet from Janice Harding. I
t doesn’t mean anything, really. Except…for the first time in years, it’s got me thinking about teaching again. If Dad were here, he’d try to convince me that it’s God. I’m thinking it’s a combination of a lack of purpose and ego.

  As the evening wears down, so does my brain. The last patrons leave, and I lock the front door with a sigh of relief. Totally unfocused tonight, it’s a wonder I didn’t offer the lasagna special with a side of credential courses.

  “Earth to Tess.” Katie waves her hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry. Lost in thought. What’s up?”

  “I’m clocking out. Gotta study for a final tomorrow before going to bed.”

  I check my watch. Ten o’clock. How Katie’s kept up with school while working twenty hours a week is beyond me. And if I go through with this crazy notion, I’ll have a boatload of course work…along with the commute down to Sacramento.

  “So, I’ll see you at home?” Katie’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You okay?”

  Why does everyone keep asking me that? “Don’t stay up too late. I’ll be there in an hour or so.” It’ll take at least that long to shut things down. Candles to put out, tables to clear.

  Jake steps into the dining room and I react—like Pavlov’s dogs, only instead of salivating, my spine stiffens. “You have a minute to talk?”

  “I’m really tired, Jake. Can it wait?” I tuck a bread basket under my arm and reach for a smoldering candle.

  He leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “Just curious if you’ve changed your mind. You know, about school?”

  This, I don’t need right now. I gird myself with a sarcastic tone. “When I do, you’ll be the first to know.” I move to the next table and make a point of not looking at him.

  “You had an appointment at Sac State today, didn’t you?”

  Of all the nerve. “What makes you think that?” Has he been spying on me?

  “There’s a packet from the college on the seat of your car.”

  Anger shoots through me like a heat missile. “Who do you think you are, snooping in my car?”

  Pushing away from the wall, he grins—actually grins—at me. “This, coming from the woman I caught going through my personal belongings?”

  His logic hits its mark.

  “And I wasn’t snooping, as you so eloquently put it. I went to take something out to my car, and it was sitting there on your seat, plain as day.”

  How could I, even for a split second, think Jake is good looking? He’s smug, arrogant, self-righteous…and a million other things I can’t think of right now. Snatching up another bread basket, I push past him. “It’s really none of your business what I do.”

  “You know, Tess”—his tone has my steps faltering—“you need to find a new line. ‘It’s none of your business’ is getting old.”

  Hand on the swinging door, I turn to him. “You get your own life, and I’ll get a new line. How’s that for compromise?”

  Chapter 7

  Jake

  Mid-morning’s quiet at the Hangtown Cafe. A couple talking in a corner booth, an old man chatting with Eileen, the waitress, and Kent Richardson sitting at the counter working on an iPad and a mug of something—coffee’s my guess. The smell of bacon and coffee is welcoming—reminds me of home. Slipping off my ball cap, I tuck it in my back pocket before approaching the pastor. Old habits die hard.

  “Hey, Kent.” I slide onto the red-vinyl stool next to him.

  He turns to greet me, a broad smile on his round face. “Morning, Jake. Good to see you.”

  “Appreciate you meeting me here.”

  Eileen approaches the backside of the counter, coffee carafe in hand. “Hi Jake. Coffee?”

  “Is it good and strong?”

  “Just the way you like it.” She places a mug on a coaster. “I’ll get you some cream.”

  “Thanks.”

  Steam rises from the dark brew as she pours. “Can I get you a refill, Pastor?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” He flips the cover of his iPad closed and pushes it aside. “Looks like you just rolled out of bed.”

  “Long night.” I accept the small pitcher of cream from Eileen as she passes and add it to my coffee. “Didn’t get in until after one, then couldn’t sleep.”

  “By any chance, does this have to do with why you asked to meet me?”

  I take a sip and consider my approach. Utensils clicking and the murmur of conversation from the other few patrons accompany my thoughts. “How well do you know Tess O’Shay?”

  “Ah, well, there’s no easy answer to that one. She, Katie, and Sean were members of my church before I was. She’s always been a little…aloof, I suppose.”

  I wrap my hands around the coffee mug and rest my elbows on the counter. “Did you know her mother?”

  He shakes his head. “Sadly, no. She died a couple years before I came here.”

  “She’s a very frustrating woman.”

  Kent chuckles. “I assume you’re referring to Tess and not her mother.”

  “Sean had his quirks, but Tess? It’s like she sees every conversation as a battle of wills—and God forbid she lose.”

  “Ever since you’ve known her, or just since Sean died?”

  “Never really spent much time with her before. We worked together, but she’s always been…well, like you said, aloof. Won’t let anyone too close. Funny thing is, I think Sean had it in his mind that we’d get together. Laughable.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sean was a good judge of character and had a very keen mind.”

  I snort. “Tess would rather eat nails than spend time with me. And now that Sean’s little plan’s in place, I’d be smart to watch my back.”

  Kent chuckles. “Don’t know a woman, young or old, who likes to be manipulated.”

  I glance at him. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. This plan of Sean’s. It seems to me it’s serving no purpose other than to hurt Tess.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “Did Sean ever tell you why she didn’t go back to school after her mom died?”

  “Don’t think he knew himself.”

  “Then why this push to force her back? Maybe she lost interest or decided the restaurant was her legacy.”

  “Could be. But I have a feeling Sean knew his daughter better than that. So, what’s the real reason you wanted to meet me? Absolution?”

  If only it were that easy. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Does Tess have any idea what brought you here in the first place?”

  “Like that would go over well. You can bet she’d twist it around somehow until she was convinced I forced Sean into this. We’d all be better off if I wash my hands of this whole mess.” And then where would I go?

  “Look. I know you’re in a tough spot. Sean set you up to be the bad guy. But he had his reasons. Sometimes we just have to play the hand we’re dealt.”

  “You a gambling man, Pastor?”

  “No. But if I was, I’d put my money on Sean O’Shay. I have a feeling he knew what he was doing. He believed in you, Jake. Now you need to believe in him. There’s more to this than we can see. Hang tough. And maybe you can get the O’Shay girls back in church. Haven’t seen them since his service.”

  “I have about as much influence as a gnat, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Hey, Jake.” I recognize Marty just as he slaps me on the back. “What’re the chances I’d run into you here?”

  “Hey, Marty. Do you know Kent Richardson?”

  Kent slips off his stool and Marty sticks out his hand. “How’s it hanging?”

  Inward groan. “Pastor Kent Richardson, this is Marty Reynolds.”

  “Good to meet you, Marty.”

  “Pastor, huh? How’d you end up in that line of work?”

  “The Spirit moved me,” Kent says with a smile.

  Marty nods like he gets it. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

 
Kent pulls a couple bills from his pocket and tosses them on the counter. “Not at all. I need to get going, anyway. See you on Sunday, Jake?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Marty slides onto Kent’s now empty stool and watches him as he leaves. “I thought about being a pastor once.”

  I look at Marty and shake my head. “Get real.”

  “No. Seriously. I did for, like, a day or two. Too many restrictions.”

  “Unlike being a CPA?”

  “Hey, what can I say? I like numbers better than people.”

  “I don’t buy you as an accountant any more than I can a pastor. I’ve never actually seen you work.”

  “I set my own hours.”

  “Speaking of which, how was the windsurfing?”

  He pushes his mop of hair back and grins. “You missed a perfect day. But hey, you’d rather be chained to that restaurant.”

  “Yeah. It’s my dream job.”

  “Speaking of the restaurant. We went to Harrah’s for breakfast before hitting the lake, and guess who we saw gambling like it was some serious business?”

  “No clue.”

  “Dude.” He smacks my shoulder with the back of his hand. “I just gave you a clue. Has to do with the restaurant and it’s a chick.”

  Only one name comes to mind. “Tess?” Can’t be.

  “No. The cook. What’s her name? Big gal.”

  “Maris?” Weird. “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Are you kidding me? Kind of hard to mistake her for someone else.”

  Eileen appears with the coffee carafe and refills my mug. “Can I get you two anything? We have a great Denver omelet or maybe some French toast?”

  “Great,” Marty says. “I’m starved. How ’bout French toast, a side of link sausages, coffee, of course…and what kind of juice do you have?”

  I tune out Marty’s heart-clogging order. What’s up with Maris’s trip to Tahoe? Could be an occasional splurge, but what if it isn’t? Had an uncle once who had the bug. Turned out there was no end of ways he’d find to get money to support his habit. Doubling up on food orders wouldn’t be the most likely way, but you never know. Maybe a closer look at the books is warranted.