Never Too Late Page 10

  “Dad, I walked out on my job. Quit in the middle of the day, four days into a one-year contract, and told the principal to sue me if she didn’t like it.”

  George lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. Clare stood awkwardly for a moment, then sat in one of the facing chairs. “Well, you must have had a good reason,” he said, but his expression was dubious.

  “I can’t do it, that’s all. I’m a horrible teacher!”

  “I don’t believe that,” he said.

  “Oh, believe it. If I’d been subbing, I would’ve stayed out the week, blamed the lack of control in my classroom on the substitution. But I had to get out of there. By the second day I was hating them all!”

  “Clare, you’ve had a lot of adjustments the past six months. You might be a little overwrought or something. Calm down. Maybe if you go talk to the principal later, after classes are out, you could negotiate—”

  “I was in the middle of a fight on the second day,” she said. “In my classes they were throwing things, cursing, muttering things about me that were less than complimentary….”

  “Teenagers are tough.”

  “It was a war zone.”

  “I’ve heard it’s gotten worse over the years, but—”

  “I walked out after someone launched an apple, hitting me square in the back of the head.”

  He half rose out of his chair. “What?” he asked angrily.

  She nodded. “It was very deliberate. The principal imparted that this was as much my fault, as I brought apples to the students.”

  He slowly sat again. “For the love of God,” he said.

  “So I quit. And I’m not going back, no matter what. The principal—young and pretty—is a viper. And she made it quite clear she hates me. Possibly she hates everyone. The women, at least.”

  “I just can’t believe all kids are that bad,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  “Well, they’re not,” she relented. “But the new teacher on the block doesn’t get any honors students who are actually interested in school. And in the remedial classes there are some real jerks with an ax to grind and the rest of the classroom isn’t safe from them. It’s easier for the others to go along with the disruption than to behave. It takes a special teacher to make that many silk purses. I’m just not the one.” She hung her head pathetically.

  “Don’t cry in your beer,” he said. “You made a decision—stick to it. You must have been passionate, walking out like that. I’ve been waiting a long time to see some of that.”

  When she lifted her eyes, she had tears in them. “Quitter, that’s what I am. You didn’t see Reenie quit—and she’s up against way more than I am.”

  “Reenie?”

  “This little bitty thing in the classroom next to mine—she looks fifteen. And the kids scare her to death. But does she cut and run?”

  George leaned forward, stretching across his desk. “Maybe she wants to teach,” he said.

  “What if I could’ve made a difference in just one kid’s life?”

  George drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, then stopped. “What if you can make a difference in your own?”

  “But I feel like such a failure at everything I try.”

  He grinned. “You make a damn fine bran muffin. Keeps me out of the Internist’s office, that’s for sure.”

  “This is no time to joke.”

  “Clare, I’m not joking. I’m sorry the job didn’t work out, but I’m tired of watching you stay with things that aren’t worth it. It’s time to stop punishing yourself and start working for yourself.”

  “Dad, I really didn’t think I was punishing myself. I have a degree in education.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily make a teacher, but never mind that. I was talking about a lot of things.”

  “Roger, yes. I know. But how am I going to get my independence without a job?”

  “You’ll need a job, of course. You can always work here until you figure things out. You know the store as well as I do.” He sucked on his teeth. “Never could figure out people who could work for other people. I couldn’t do it. This old store might not be so much, but I’m the boss.”

  “This is a great store. I’d give anything to have this store.”

  He grinned at her. “I don’t suppose it comes as any comfort that you and your sisters will inherit it?”

  “Not any time soon with you as healthy as you are. I’ll be too old to run it when that time comes.”

  “It’s imperative that I outlive Dotty at least,” he said. “I don’t want to have the biggest funeral in three counties.”

  She laughed at him.

  “There’s that smile. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but of my three daughters, you have the most beautiful smile. Most expensive, too, as I recall.”

  Just as he said that, of course it disappeared. “What am I going to do, Dad?”

  He stood up. “You’re going to think, Clare. Think of the kinds of things that make you happiest in life. What gives you satisfaction. What do those things have in common with making a living? How can you find the right job or create the right job—one that makes you want to get up in the morning.”

  “I really enjoyed being a homemaker. I guess I could clean houses….”

  “Try to use a little more imagination,” he suggested. “And for God’s sake, take your time. You need a little walking-around money?”

  She kissed his cheek. “I’m fine with money. You’re being awfully supportive. I half thought you’d go berserk—I know how you are about quitters. You never let us quit anything growing up. Eight years of piano lessons and I can still barely play ‘Chopsticks.’”

  “Ah, I don’t know if this is the same thing, Clare. Sounds like maybe you chose wrong rather than gave up. It’s at least fifteen years you’ve been subbing and I never once heard you say you were dying for a full-time position. You need a course correction.”

  She went home and took off the skirt and sweater, tossing it on the bed. What am I going to do with all the clothes? she asked herself. Most of them still had the tags on—they could go back. But the others were likely to gather dust. She pulled on a pair of jeans and lightweight sweatshirt. And she baked cookies.

  Clare was amazed by how unpredictable her own son could be. Not only was Jason not embarrassed by her abrupt departure from his school, he thought it was cool.

  “It totally rocks, how you just walked out like that and quit!” he said. “I wish I could do that.”

  “Well you can’t, so don’t even have fantasies about it. Besides, you don’t hate school. Do you?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I don’t hate it. But I don’t like it all that much.”

  “What don’t you like?” she asked him. “Besides homework, that’s a given.”

  The shrug again. “The kids, I guess. The jocks. Some of ’em are real assholes.”

  “Jason,” she warned. “I didn’t have as much trouble with the jocks.”

  “Because they’re suck-ups.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll have more success finding what you want to do in life. It turns out I had it all wrong.”

  “Why’d you do it then? Go to college for it and everything?”

  The truth was, she was waiting to get married. She was planning to be a wife and mother. An Air Force wife. “I knew I had to have a degree—that much is just common sense. You can’t get a good job without one. And while I was in college, the only thing that snagged my interest was literature. What are you going to do with a love of reading without a teaching degree?”

  “Dumb move,” he said. “I could’ve told you being in a school for the rest of your life would suck.”

  She laughed at him. “Too bad you weren’t around to warn me. We haven’t touched on this one in a while—any idea what you want to do?”

  Again the shrug. I guess at fifteen you’re not sure of anything, she mused. “I’m thinking, maybe, pilot.”

  She shuddered. “What’s your second choice
?”

  “I don’t even have a for-sure first choice. Maybe I could take some flying lessons? I’m old enough.”

  “Um, let’s think about that awhile,” she said. She might have to tell him someday, she thought. At least part of the story.

  Fortunately the phone rang. And it was Pete. She should have expected this, but it had never occurred to her.

  “I heard,” he said.

  “Wow. Word travels really fast.”

  “It’s a high school, Clare. By sixth period you were a legend. Now, is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You mean like convince the principal to give me my job back? I know you have big testosterone points with her, but no thanks.”

  “Can you at least tell me why? I mean, besides hating it? Because half the people in America hate their jobs, and they still have to have one.”

  She took a deep breath and leaned against her kitchen counter. “Ah, you know, Pete, if I’d found myself in that spot a year ago, I probably would have stuck it out a long, long time. If I ever did get up the nerve to leave, it would have been planned out, nice letter of resignation, different job in sight—something very rational. But that damn accident shook me up. All of a sudden I’m almost forty, got a big lesson in how short life can be, and I’m not going to waste any time. It caught me off guard, really.”

  “But you’re okay with the decision?”

  “I was worried about explaining it to Jason, my fifteen-year-old son. But it turns out I’m a hero. The only thing he’d like better is if he could walk out.”

  “I can relate. I used to feel that way.”

  “Yeah. And you ended up a teacher?”

  “If you remember, it was Mike who liked school, not me. I ended up a teacher because of sports and discovered I actually like it. Probably something about the difference between being in charge and being handcuffed to the desk. And I like the kids.”

  “Amazing,” she said.

  “There’s only one thing about this that worries me. You came to me to talk because you’d taken that job. We made our peace because we were going to be running into each other every day. I don’t want to go back to avoiding each other.”

  That made her smile. “Not a problem, Coach,” she said. “I think we’re in a good place.”

  “Great. So I won’t see you around campus, but I’ll give you a call one of these days. We should get together. Lotta lost time behind us.”

  “I’d like that. And thanks for the call. It’s nice that you were concerned.”

  When she hung up the phone and turned toward the kitchen table, she found Jason eyeballing her with a very grave expression on his face. “Who was that?” he asked very suspiciously.

  “Oh. That was Pete Rayburn. The Phys Ed teacher. Football coach.”

  “You know him already?” he asked.

  “I’ve known him for over twenty years. We went to school together, graduated together.”

  “Get out!”

  “Absolute truth. Why?”

  “Because, Mom! He totally rocks!”

  Six

  Maggie heard about Clare’s walkout from Lindsey; Clare was the talk of the school. “I can’t believe you did that,” she said.

  “You would if you’d been there. Here’s a little tidbit that’s not being passed around the hallowed halls. The new principal? I finally remembered why she looked so familiar. Last time I saw her was in my master bedroom, doing Roger.”

  “No!”

  “I’m not working for her. End of discussion.”

  “Well. I guess you’ll have to look for something else. I hope you can find a job that doesn’t come with the challenge of working with or for one of Roger’s bimbos.”

  Clare sighed. “He’s had so many, that might be harder than you think.”

  There was this favorite chair in her house that was perfect for reading—she had upholstered that chair and made the matching throw pillows. It was her love of books that drove her to study literature and she learned, too late, that teaching it was not exactly the same thing. So Clare was tasked with the job of discovering what she loved. That would be the taste of cookie dough, the smell of warm, clean laundry and freshly brewed coffee. She didn’t enjoy scrubbing the floor so much as seeing it shine. And decorating had been easy for her—she had a way with color and design, and her goal was always the same—to bring comfort and beauty to her surroundings.

  She was something of a perfectionist; things had to be just right. She had sanded and painted the doors in the house, replaced the baseboards and added crown molding to the living room, dining room and bedroom ceilings. George had taught her those things. There was a workshop in the garage and it wasn’t Roger’s. It was Clare’s. She had painted, papered and plastered walls. She was hell on wheels with a staple gun—she’d once made her own upholstered headboard and matching cornices for over the windows. Nothing invigorated her like the smells of sawdust and paint.

  She liked being a housewife, however antiquated the term. Maggie often said if she ever knew a true domestic engineer, it was Clare.

  So, she thought—maybe someone wants to hire me to be their housewife? But doing all those things for someone else to enjoy at the end of the day just didn’t sound like what she was looking for. And it was highly doubtful she could wring a paycheck out of the smell of cookies, sitting in her favorite chair to read, sniffing her clean towels and linens.

  Clare was stuck. She knew she didn’t have to come up with a life plan in three days, but she found herself wandering around her home, looking at all the improvements she’d made and realized that work had made her happy. Clare was skilled and talented enough to take a run-down house and turn it into a showplace. There were very few things she couldn’t do—George had even showed her how to replace the garbage disposal.

  Maybe, when the money from the accident came in, she could take some of it and buy a fixer-upper. Maybe her new career could be in remodeling and decorating to make a profit. And that wasn’t the only money she had in her future—when she got around to divorcing Roger, they’d have to split the home equity and their investments. Nevada was a community property state—everything was fifty-fifty. The accident money, however, wouldn’t go into the divorce settlement pot—they were already separated when that happened.

  And then it came to her. She tossed off her sweatshirt and put on a white polo shirt with her jeans and drove to the hardware store. She went right to the hook by the office door and grabbed one of the green McCarthy Hardware aprons. To her dad’s questioning look she said, “This. This is what I want to do. Until I can pull some money together and maybe buy a fixer-upper to sell at a profit, I’d like to work here. And if you like, I could give classes now and then—show people how to do their own crown molding or upholstering or tiling. Because I can do all those things—plus I’m a teacher.”

  George’s eyes danced. He smiled approvingly. “Welcome aboard, then.”

  Sam had a training cadet in the patrol car with him, a kid about twenty-two who had a little too much enthusiasm. He was a talker, too aggressive on calls, too slow on reports. It had been a long day, finally winding to a close.

  “What are the chances for a little overtime?” Jeffries asked.

  “Zilch. It’s quiet. We’re going in.”

  “Aw, damn. I need the hours, you know?”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve told me fifty times—you have your eye on this bike—a crotch rocket. Finish the report on that domestic. I need to stop at the hardware store.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, a little pouty.

  Sam parked in front of McCarthy’s and got out of the car. The fall air was fresh and clean and outside it was far quieter than in his patrol car. He stretched his back. Then went inside.

  He spotted her right away, up on a ladder, digging around in a box. Her chestnut hair fell forward, concealing her face, but there was no hiding the body, especially in jeans. She was slim with great legs, a tight fanny, narrow waist—all of which he’d lo
ve to get his hands on. Sam was a leg man. A leg man who didn’t overlook breasts, especially medium-size perky ones just like Clare’s.

  Sometimes he could summon up her image in his mind and get a little worked up. There hadn’t been too many women in his young life because he was the cautious type. He was a father. And he didn’t just mess around. Substance and permanence were very important.

  She looked so natural up there on the ladder. “What a view,” he called up to her.

  She looked down at him and unless he was totally crazy, her face lit up with pleasure at seeing him. “Hey, you! Run over another sprinkler head?”

  “Yeah. I better get a few. I know where they are since I put ’em in, and I’m just hell on ’em with the mower. And a fistful of number ten nails.”

  “Building something?” she asked on her way down.

  “Just some repairs,” he said, which was a lie. So were the sprinkler heads. “You look better all the time. You’re really having a good time here, aren’t you?”

  Her feet touched the floor and she faced him. “It’s great. I worked here during high school and college. I’m right at home.” She stuck her hands in the pockets of her apron. “How have you been? It’s been—gosh—two whole days since you needed hardware.”

  “I told you, I come here a lot. A lot more lately.” He grinned. “I have to admit, the scenery around here is getting better all the time.”

  She touched his arm and laughed. “You’re so obvious.”

  “Good. So, how’s that ‘to do’ list coming?”

  “Actually, it’s coming along very well.”

  “Need any more driving lessons?”

  Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks might’ve colored slightly. She shook her head. “No, I’m good. I’d ask you to help me pick out a car, but my dad would be devastated. Tell you what, when I settle on something, I’ll take you for a ride. Maybe let you drive.”

  “I’ll hold you to it. And how about that other matter?”

  “Huh?”

  He leaned close and whispered, “Divorce?”

  “Oh!” She almost jumped back. “That! No, I haven’t gotten to that. But you’ll be the first to know.”