Читать книгу The Path To Love - Jane Perrine Myers - Страница 10

“Would you look at the hunk that just came in?” Julie said to Francie as they served the lunch crowd the next week. “I’d trade Manny for him any day.”

“In case you didn’t realize it, you don’t have Manny to trade,” the cook shouted.

“Manny has to have the best ears in the world,” Julie whispered. “Funny, when we were engaged, he never heard a word I said.”

Francie grinned at Julie before turning to look at the man Julie had noticed. She promptly dropped the pitcher of iced tea she held. “Oh, my gosh. That’s Mr. Fairchild.”

“You know him? Who is he?” Julie grabbed a mop and started to clean up the puddle and broken glass.

“My parole officer.” Francie knelt and began to pick up glass and ice cubes.

“Whoo-hoo! No wonder you called him a hunk! The man is gorgeous. And would you look at the suit? Handsome and tailored. My, my, my.” She waved Francie away. “You go ahead and wait on him. I’ll finish this. You want to show him how well you do your job.”

“Oh, sure. Dropping that pitcher had to really impress him.” She washed her hands and wiped them on her apron as she moved toward the booth where he sat. “May I take your order, Mr. Fairchild?”

“Do you have a menu?”

He looked completely out of place here. As Julie had said, his suit was beautiful. And yet he wore it casually, tossing the jacket over the back of the booth. He’d also unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his tie.

Francie didn’t think she’d ever seen a suit in here except the time Manny had worn one after his father’s funeral, but Manny’s suit was nothing like the one that covered Mr. Fairchild’s broad shoulders.

Now, stop it, she lectured herself. A parolee should not be noticing how broad her parole officer’s shoulders were, and, for goodness sake, she should not be drooling over someone so far out of her reach.

“A menu, please, Miss Calhoun?” he repeated.

“Oh, sure. Just a minute.” She went to the cashier’s booth, grabbed one and took it back to him. “Today’s special is tuna salad sandwich with soup.”

“That sounds nice. What’s the soup?”

She went blank for a second. Why was she so nervous? She’d been a waitress for months, and remembering the specials didn’t tax her intelligence all that often.

“Vegetable beef and chicken noodle,” Julie shouted.

“And they aren’t canned,” Francie added. “Our cook makes them fresh every day.”

“All right.” He put down the menu. “I’ll have a tuna sandwich with vegetable soup and a glass of tea.”

Now if she could just bring him his food without dropping anything, most especially not Manny’s hot vegetable soup on Mr. Fairchild’s beautiful tan slacks.

When the order was up, she almost asked Julie to take it but reminded herself she could do this. She’d been waiting tables for almost six months, and he’d come to see her on the job.

With the bowl and plate in one hand and the glass of tea in the other and walking really slowly, she reached the booth, placed the food there, and didn’t even spill a drop.

Standing back proudly, she said, “Will there be anything more?”

Brandon watched her from the moment he came in. She seemed nervous—dropping the pitcher was a sure sign—but he was used to his clients being anxious when he visited their work sites.

No, what he noticed was the fresh yellow uniform and ruffled white apron she wore, still with her old athletic shoes. She looked neat and bright and fresh, but it was her presence and smile that brought a little sunshine into the place, a bit of radiance that had nothing to do with the color of her uniform or the brilliance of the apron.

The customers liked her. She went from table to table, refilling glasses and taking orders, joking with some and listening to others. One of the men had tried to grab her. Quickly and unreasonably angry, Brandon had started out of the booth, but she had the situation in hand. She slipped away from the man with what looked like a practiced move and exchanged her smile for a glare—for just a second—to warn him. Very nicely done.

Why had he felt it was necessary to intervene when that man had tried to touch her? Well, she was his client and he should protect her, but he knew that wasn’t the only reason. In fact, he refused to examine the thought any further and started to eat.

The food was surprisingly good; the soup hot, savory and full of meat and potatoes. The apple pie he ordered for dessert was delicious, juicy and sweet with a light, flaky crust. One of the best lunches he’d had in a long time.

He’d just taken his last bite of pie when the other waitress put two cups of coffee on the table and slid onto the bench opposite him.

“No, thank you, I don’t need coffee,” he started before she interrupted him.

“I’m Julie Sullivan. I own this place.” She reached her hand out and shook his with a firm grip.

“Brandon Fairchild.” He tried to stand in the narrow space but Julie put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the seat.

“I know who you are. When you came in, Francie told me your name and that you’re her parole officer.”

He opened his mouth to say he couldn’t confirm that, but she continued.

“I know you can’t tell me anything about Francie because that’s all confidential.”

He nodded and started to answer, but Julie swept on.

“But that doesn’t stop me from telling you that she’s a terrific kid. Conscientious, always at work on time, never misses a day and wants to improve herself. Did you know she’s going to school?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, you’d have that information. She’s determined to do better than her family, not that that would take a lot of work. She wants to make something of herself and be a good example to her cousins.”

“Her cousins?” Did he have any information about her cousins? He started to ask about them, but Julie started talking again and he’d already learned not to interrupt her.

“She loves those boys, has always tried to help with them. She’s kept an eye on them all their lives, even when they were in foster homes after Tessie was caught.” She fixed Brandon with a firm stare. “Francie’s had a tough life but has never let it get her down although sometimes that’s a struggle. You be nice to her,” she warned.

“Thank you, Ms. Sullivan. It’s good to know Miss Calhoun has such a good friend.”

“You can’t say a word about her, can you? It wouldn’t be professional or ethical. You can’t even say you’ll be nice to her because that would show that you have a relationship, like being her parole officer, but that’s okay. I just wanted you to know that, yes, Francie does have good friends.” She moved her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Manny would do anything for her and so would I.

“Well, nice to meet you.” She nodded and stood before reaching her hand out and shaking his again. “The meal’s on the house.”

“It was nice to meet you, also. And thank you, but I can’t accept the meal.” He took out his wallet and put a bill on the table.

“Oh, yeah.” She picked up the money. “That’d be like a bribe, huh? Okay, I’ll get you a receipt.”

“What in the world did you say to him?” he heard Francie ask her boss.

“Don’t you worry about it. Just take his change back to him and the receipt. Give him a big smile and maybe you’ll get a good tip.”

Miss Calhoun rolled her eyes but took the change and receipt, brought them to the table and put them down in front of him.

“Thank you. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

“It was very good. I’ll recommend the diner to my friends.”

“Yeah, Manny’s a great cook.”

For a moment, she just stood there, shifting from foot to foot before she said, “I’ll see you next week.” She picked up his dishes and smiled at him.

Her smile began with a slight hesitation before it turned into that high-voltage one she’d given him in his office. This time, he didn’t turn away immediately or drop his eyes. This time, he watched her and basked—just for a moment wouldn’t hurt anything—in the joy her expression brought him. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to soak in the warmth and happiness of her personality.

Then he reminded himself sternly that she was an ex-con and he was her parole officer and getting all sentimental because she had a wonderful smile was a really dumb and incredibly unethical thing to do.

But he grinned back at her before she turned and dumped the dirty dishes in a big plastic tub which very effectively destroyed the tenuous connection between them.

“Well,” Julie said as she and Francie watched Mr. Fairchild leave, “you got yourself a great parole officer. He seems nice and professional.”

“Ah,” came Manny’s voice from the kitchen. “You don’t care if he’s professional. All you care about is that he’s good-looking.”

“If I’d cared about men being good-looking, I never would have been engaged to you.” She picked up a rag and started toward the empty tables.

“Then why were you engaged to me?” Manny put a plate on the dividing counter.

“I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

Julie wiped the tables down with so much energy Francie was sure she’d throw her bad shoulder out, but she knew better than to interrupt a quarrel between her boss and the cook. Once she had. They’d both turned on her.

They were nice people, both of them, although Manny tried to act tough. Really nice people who had given her a job when she needed one. They’d never reminded her about her mistakes, about being an ex-con, just encouraged her and allowed her to work her schedule to get to classes.

They’d broken their engagement only days after she started work. Both had pretended that it didn’t bother them, that they hadn’t been hurt or angry, but there was sure a lot of unresolved emotion hanging around.

That sounded like something she had picked up in psych class, didn’t it?

Usually they didn’t argue. Knowing how uncomfortable some of the customers would be with raised voices and fighting, Julie stayed in the diner and Manny in the kitchen. Both did their own tasks and pretended the other wasn’t around. But every now and then their tempers exploded or a word was said and the other had to retaliate which made Francie feel as if she’d wandered onto a firing range.

Other times they were silent and glared at each other but the emotion was still there. It almost made the air crackle.

The whole thing upset her. It also reminded her that one fruit of the spirit was peace. She’d need to remember that, try to bring peace here, but she’d need a lot of help. Julie and Manny certainly weren’t cooperating. They probably didn’t want a ceasefire, much less a peace agreement.

“So, what are you doing this weekend?” Julie continued to clear and wipe tables while Francie completed the last few orders.

“What do I usually do? Go to class, study and sleep. But I’m excited about Sunday. I saw a church the other day when I was walking home from the bus stop.”

“It just appeared, huh? Sort of a miracle?”

“No.” Francie grinned at Julie’s joke. “I’m sure it was always there but I just noticed it. It’s a nice white building, not too big. It has a little steeple with a cross on top. It looks, well, like a church should look. Warm and welcoming. I thought I’d try it.” She turned to look at Julie. “Want to come with me?”

“Hey, don’t try this conversion thing with me. If you’re happy, fine, but I haven’t been to church for years and enjoy sleeping late Sunday morning.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind—”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell you.” Julie snorted.

Brandon glanced up from his paperwork at ten-thirty but didn’t see Miss Calhoun in the reception area. Well, she wasn’t late yet.

A few minutes later, Brandon looked at his watch again. She was four minutes late. Unusual, he thought. Not that he really knew. Nothing about her punctuality or lack of it had been written in her file, but her boss had mentioned it. In addition, he believed she wanted to impress him, to assure him she had changed.

After another minute, Brandon began to wonder again why he was so concerned about this one, about her. His other parolees could come an hour late, and he took advantage of the time by finishing up notes or making calls or seeing another client. Why did he care about Miss Calhoun? She was no different from the others, not a bit. Not one single bit, he repeated to himself.

Then she threw the door open and came into the office area. With one hand she closed the door. With the other she tried to tame her unruly curls. Unsuccessful at that, she dropped into a chair in the waiting area. Her remorse was so obvious he had to struggle not to smile.

He looked back at her file where he’d taken a few notes, questions he needed to ask her but the image of her, all the energy she radiated and those wild curls, stayed with him.

Brandon glanced up again. “Miss Calhoun?” he called.

Francie—Miss Calhoun, he corrected himself—stood and walked toward him. She wore jeans and a trim blue shirt with a button-down collar. A less buttoned-down person he’d never seen.

Did she have an extra spring in her step? Who in the world still used the phrase “spring in her step?” But she did seem to have a little more energy than when he’d seen her last.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I don’t know what happened to the time.”

“That’s fine. You’re only a few minutes late.”

Standing, Brandon reached out his hand and shook hers. “Please sit down,” he said as he did the same. For a moment, he shuffled the papers before he asked, “How has your week been?”

“Really terrific. I went to church last Sunday and think I found the right place.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, as I told you before, I don’t have a lot of clothes, especially not nice things to wear to church, but they didn’t mind. Everyone greeted me and was so friendly. They even asked me to stay for their monthly dinner after the service. It was really great. They had me take home a plate of food for dinner.” She paused for a moment. “And they take up an offering to help the hungry and homeless. Everyone brings canned food and beans and stuff.”

“So they have a strong evangelism program and mission outreach.”

She considered the words. “Yes, I guess that’s what you’d call it, but it felt a lot friendlier.”

“What about the minister?”

“He was really nice. It was a good sermon. I mean, if I could stay awake after school and work to listen, it had to be interesting.”

“How was his theology?” What a dumb question. He was her parole officer. He was supposed to get her back on track, not act like a seminary professor. Or was he trying to put some space between them? Maybe even put her down to remind himself he knew more about church and religion than she did? Whatever the reason for the question, it wasn’t at all necessary.

“Well, I have to tell you, I don’t know. I liked what he said. He challenged me in some places, too—to be a better person.”

Brandon looked down at his list of questions. “I need to set up a visit to your apartment.”

“Oh?”

Because her voice sounded so horrified, he looked up at Miss Calhoun. Her eyes were wide and she was biting her lip.

“My apartment? Couldn’t we meet someplace else?” she asked.

“No, Miss Calhoun. I have to make visits to the apartments of all my parolees.” He motioned toward his list. “It’s one of the requirements.” He guessed she’d say Gentry hadn’t done that so he repeated, “It is required.”

She leaned forward. “It’s just that I really don’t want you—” she stopped and bit her lip again “or anyone to see my apartment.”

“Is there a problem?” He started to write a note in her file.

“It’s just not a really—” she paused as if she were searching for a word “—plush place,” she finished. “It’s little and not in a particularly nice area of town.”

“Miss Calhoun, the people I work with don’t come out of prison with a lot of money. I realize you can’t afford much yet and that doesn’t bother me. This is a purely professional visit.”

“Oh, I know that. I’m really proud of how I’ve changed, except for the apartment.”

“Miss Calhoun, most parolees don’t want me to see where they live. They’re embarrassed that where they live now is not as nice as they’d like. I know that, but I have to see that you do have a place to live.”

After a long pause, she said, “Okay.” Then she added, “You have my address. Do you know how to get there?”

He looked at her file. “Yes, I’ve had clients in that area before. Probably in that building. Do I remember that there’s no elevator?”

She nodded. “My apartment’s on the fourth floor. It isn’t a bad climb.”

“When is a good time?”

“That’s harder to say. I work the breakfast and lunch shift, have classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and afternoons. The psych class is every afternoon.”

“You don’t work Saturdays?”

“No, we’re only open during the week. We really serve people who work in the area. Some come for breakfast; a few stick around and work late. They drop in for dinner, but our big crowd is for lunch.”

“You tell me. What day and time are best for you? I can change appointments around if I need to.”

“Sometime between eight and ten Tuesday or Thursday?”

“Are you sure? I can work almost anything into my calendar.”

“You certainly are flexible. Thanks, because my schedule can be so crazy.” She thought for a moment. “What about Tuesday?” That would give her the weekend to clean up. Not much to clean or make an improvement, but she’d try. “I don’t have a class and can tell Julie I have to leave after breakfast. But I’ve got to be back at the diner by eleven.”

“Eight-thirty? That way, I can come to your apartment first, before I come to the office. We’ll both have plenty of time to get to work.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

He wrote the appointment on his calendar. “Do you need a card?”

“No, I’ll remember.”

“I need to get some information about your life and some dates, Miss Calhoun. The only one I have is the date of your birth.”

“Go ahead.”

“Parents’ names?”

“Sam and Maisy Calhoun.” She squirmed a little. “I don’t like talking about my parents.”

“Mother’s maiden name?” he asked without a pause. She was like any other parolee, he reminded himself again. He couldn’t ignore things she didn’t like talking about—but he hated to see her so uncomfortable.

“Busby.”

“Place of birth?”

“Me or them?”

“Yours, Miss Calhoun.”

“I was born in Austin.”

“Where are your parents now?”

“My father has been in Huntsville for—” she stopped to count “—for sixteen years. He should be out in a few years. As I told you earlier, I don’t know anything about my mother since she left, and I don’t remember much of her before she walked out.”

“And you haven’t heard from her?” He continued to take notes and fill in blanks on the information sheet.

“Not a word since she left.” She looked down at her hands. “I’ll never understand that. I’ve always wondered how a woman could walk out on a child without making arrangements for her care.”

He wished he could say something reassuring but thought she’d probably feel uncomfortable if he did. Besides, this was all purely professional. “Then you went to live with your uncle, Louis Calhoun?”

“Yes, and after he was incarcerated for grand theft auto, I lived with my aunt Tessie, Tessie Fuller.”

“Your boss mentioned you have two cousins. Are they Mrs. Fuller’s children?”

Francie nodded.

“What are their names?”

She shifted in her seat. “Why do you need to know that?”

“Gentry kept no information on any of his clients. I could pull up the prison records but they’re not always complete. Are you uncomfortable with this? Do you mind helping me complete this information?” He glanced up at her.

“No, but my cousins aren’t involved in the family business—you know, crime—and I don’t like to include them in this. I’m sort of protective of them. Can’t you leave their names out?”

“Miss Calhoun, this is purely informational, for my files.”

She took a deep breath and sat back in the chair. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “My nephews are Mike—he’s twenty-one—and Tim. He’s sixteen and lives with a foster family. Mike did, too, until he was seventeen. Mike will graduate from college this spring. He’s going to be a doctor.” She smiled. “They’re great young men.”

“Very impressive.” He wrote a few more notes before looking at her. “What’s your phone number?”

“I don’t have a phone but the woman down the hall will take messages.” She gave him that number and those of her cousins.

“Any other relatives?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t know if my mother had family.” She bit her lip and looked away. “I mean after she left us.”

“Thank you. That should fill in everything.” He studied the form again. “Oh, one more thing. How’s your health?”

“Fine. No problems.”

He closed the folder and handed her a card. “Here’s the name of the financial aid officer at your school. I talked to her. She said for you to come in. She believes they can help you with tuition and books.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” She looked as if he’d given her a wonderful gift. “Even a little bit would make so much difference. I wouldn’t have to feel like I’m always broke.” She rubbed her hand across her jeans. “I could buy some new shoes and maybe a dress to wear to church.” They were such small things, but she glowed with pleasure at the idea.

“I hope it works out.”

“And thank you.” She scooted forward in the chair. “Thank you for doing this. I wish you’d been my parole officer from the beginning.”

Then she directed her smile toward him. He felt warm inside, a sensation a truly professional parole officer should not feel—and he never had before—when one of his clients smiled.

Today he’d made an effort to be warmer, in a professional way. When he’d erected the front of cold indifference previously he’d felt as if he’d hurt her deeply. His inability to be objective, his tendency to see her as an attractive woman, not a parolee, were his fault, not hers. No, he couldn’t be her good buddy.

How much longer he could continue to work with Miss Calhoun?

What an odd thought. He pushed it away. Structure and firmness were the best way to keep a relationship with a parolee proper and professional, he reminded himself.

“Thank you, Miss Calhoun. If there isn’t anything more?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” She stood.

“I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Yes, thank you. Tuesday.” She smiled at him, that smile that warmed him, before she left the cubicle.

Then Mitzi Matthews—a seasoned criminal of fifty with the hard expression of a woman who’d been in trouble all her life—took Miss Calhoun’s place.

If he had anything to do with it, Miss Calhoun would never end up like Mitzi Matthews.