Cynthia Thomason - A Soldier's Promise

“Usually the best way to be.”

“I’m concerned about Carrie.”

“So you said Friday night.”

Brenna folded her arms on top of the table and leaned slightly forward. “I want to know why she missed school today.”

“Is the school board having teachers double as truant officers now, Brenna?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she said in a teacher voice that made Mike remember all the knuckle raps he’d gotten in Catholic school.

“You should be thankful someone cares enough to ask about Carrie,” she added.

He would be if he wasn’t so certain that Miss Sullivan had her own devious theory about why Carrie was absent, and he was looking like the Evil Mr. Langston. He glanced at his watch, knowing he was still on the clock. How much more time was he going to devote to this witch hunt? Despite the view across the table, which was pretty darned attractive, he knew he’d be better off cutting it short. “She’s not feeling well,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“You really want me to tell you?”

She sat stone-still and waited.

Should he reveal a private detail of his daughter’s life to this stranger? Oh, well, at least she was a woman, which made the delicate subject easier to broach. He released a long breath. “Okay, here’s the story. About one day every month Carrie misses school and stays in bed with a heating pad on her stomach. This started when she was about eleven. If you can’t figure out why that is, I suggest you go to the local library and take out a book on the subject of puberty.”

Her face flushed. She cleared her throat. Mike got a perverse sort of pleasure out of seeing her discomfort.

“I see,” she said. “That is an acceptable reason.” She straightened her spine and said, “Was telling me that so hard?”

Well, yeah, it was. He’d only recently learned about this part of Carrie’s life, and the day she’d talked about it with him he’d felt about as capable of handling the discussion as he would have been teaching a quilting class. To answer Brenna’s question, he merely shrugged.

“I don’t think we need to be on opposing sides here,” she said.

“I’m on my daughter’s side,” he snapped. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’d like to help Carrie,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “She seems lost and lonely. I’m sure you’ve noticed that.”

“We’re doing fine.” Maybe if he kept saying that, it would eventually be true.

“I’m glad to hear that, but I’d still like to make myself available to Carrie if she needs to talk.”

They were going down this road again. Why did every woman he’d ever met think they had to repeat everything? Did they believe all men were born with poor hearing?

“I already told you that talking to Carrie is okay with me. Just don’t push. Let her initiate these conversations. I don’t want anyone pressuring her.”

She honestly appeared shocked. “I would never. We have rules in the school system that we have to follow.”

“And I have rules as a father that I intend to follow. No taking my kid to places I don’t know about. No digging for information, and no making her uncomfortable.” He should have stopped there, but something inside him made him blurt out the very thing he shouldn’t have said. “And no trying to be a substitute mother.”

She stood, her can of soda still unopened. “I assure you, Mike, I have no interest in being anyone’s mother. I’ve said what I came to say...”

“And found out what you came to find out?”

“Yes. I’m going to take your word for the reason for Carrie’s absence.”

“Swell.”

She walked out the door and got into her perfectly running silver Mazda. As she pulled out of the parking lot, he was still thinking about how she looked marching to that car. Determined, offended and, he smiled, cute.

* * *

“YOU KNOW BETTER, Brenna. This is your own stupid fault.”

She consciously eased off the accelerator. She didn’t need to get a ticket on top of everything else. But she didn’t stop scolding herself.

“This is why, since Jefferson Middle School, you’ve kept a strict nonintervention policy with regard to your students. You learned the hard way to let the Dianas of the world provide their shoulders to cry on while you just did your job and concentrated on your own problems.” She grimaced. “Of which there are enough, I might remind you.”

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and tried to think of anything but the past fifteen minutes with Mike Langston. No use. “What is going on with that family, anyway?” she said. “Did Carrie’s mother die? Did she leave them? Is she still in their lives but only on a temporary basis?” Brenna was familiar with divorcing parents who used their children as pawns in a power struggle. She hoped that wasn’t the case with the Langstons.

Truly that scenario didn’t seem likely. Mike had said on Friday that he wasn’t married. And Mike and Carrie had recently moved to Mount Union and definitely seemed to be struggling to adjust to each other and their new home. And another thing...why would Mike choose a place so far out of town to live in? Was he hiding something? Was he purposely trying to keep his daughter out of the mainstream? She was just a kid. She needed contacts, friends.

“That’s easy enough to figure out,” Brenna said. “Diana knows the history of every person and building in this town. She’ll know about property by the old mill.”

An image of Mike’s face appeared in the back of Brenna’s mind and provided some details of his character. Strong lines curved around his mouth and eyes. Eyes like his had usually seen life at its most basic levels and experienced tragedy. And Mike’s was an obstinate face. Ruddy from weather and wind and so serious that the man almost appeared as if he was afraid to laugh. His features weren’t classically handsome, but Diana was right. He was interesting in a bold, daring way that made a person want to delve deeper, to learn more.

Brenna nodded to herself. Strange. A tall, fit man like Mike afraid to laugh. Why? Well, maybe because in her dealings with him, she’d given him precious little to smile about.

“Why should you care so much?” she asked aloud. A few minutes ago she’d been so angry she’d walked out on him. Now she was wondering if she might be the one who could crack that granite exterior and get to the man underneath. For the sake of his daughter, of course. “But, girl, you have enough to deal with without having these two—”

Brenna’s cell phone vibrated on the seat beside her. She glanced down. Great. Speaking of dealing... She pushed the button to her car speaker. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Hello, darlin’. I was just thinking about you.”

Her mother’s thick Southern drawl seemed to permeate the air-conditioned cool of Brenna’s car like warm maple syrup. Brenna took in a deep breath. She wasn’t particularly fond of maple syrup.

“How are you, sweetie?” Alma Sullivan asked.

“I’m fine, Mom.” Brenna’s pat response. She never answered any other way. “Is everything all right at home?” She knew it wouldn’t be.

“Your daddy and I are doing good, honey. My ironing jobs have dwindled down some, but that’s okay. I don’t much like ironing in the heat of the summer anyway.”

“Mom, don’t you have the air conditioner on in the trailer?”

“Not right now. It’s not too bad. Tonight if your dad can’t sleep, I’ll turn it on.”

Brenna wanted to ask what her parents were doing with the two hundred dollars a month she sent them in the summers so they could run the AC in their single-wide trailer, but she refrained. Her mother would just list the other necessities the money had gone toward, and Brenna would only feel worse than she did now.