Jane Perrine - The Path To Love

“Thank you.” She blinked in surprise at his suggestion. Mr. Gentry would never have thought of that. “That’s a wonderful idea. They could give me some direction.”

“I appreciate your gratitude, but it’s nothing. Gentry should have done this months ago.”

“It’s something I could certainly use.”

“Miss Calhoun,” he began but his voice seemed to go all funny, alternating between friendly interest and that chilling note. She wondered why. If she hadn’t known better, she’d think maybe he did find her attractive and was trying to ignore it, but that was crazy. She was, she reminded herself, an ex-con. He was, after all, her parole officer.

Did he have to keep reminding himself, too? She wondered for a moment before stuffing that thought back in the far depths of her brain. Of course not. He was her parole officer and would never find a woman with her criminal tendencies interesting.

“Miss Calhoun,” he said after clearing his throat, “how many hours do you have in college?”

“Oh, only fifteen so far. Nine when I was incarcerated and six since—but I’ll have twenty-one when I get my credit for this course and the intro to psych course I’m taking. I wish it could go faster but it’s hard to work and go to school. I work breakfast, from five-thirty to nine or so, and lunch. Julie lets me work in a morning class between nine and ten when I need to, and in the fall, I’ll take two in the afternoon. And, of course, the cost—”

“Have you checked into scholarship help or grants?”

“What?” She considered for a moment. “No, I haven’t. Would I be eligible? I didn’t think people like me—”

“There are some government funds that are closed to anyone with a record, but I believe there are others you could apply for. I’ll write a note to get in touch with your school. What school are you attending?”

“Texas Community College, the downtown branch.”

He nodded again. “I know someone in the financial aid office. I’ll give her a call.”

“You are the nicest man.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his.

He quickly moved his hand to pick up his coffee cup. She probably shouldn’t have touched him.

“I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, she sat back in her chair. “It’s just that no one has ever made an effort to help me like this. Thank you.”

“Gentry should have.” The chill clung to his voice. “I guess that’s all, Miss Calhoun.”

Brandon kept his eyes on his pen. Not that there was anything interesting in the silver tube, but he refused to look at Miss Calhoun’s face. Her blue eyes probably showed confusion and hurt over his attempts at aloofness and his hot-and-cold behavior. That couldn’t concern him at this moment. The point was to be professional because right now he didn’t feel at all professional. Not a bit.

He was attracted to her probably because he didn’t meet all that many women in this job. After a second, he had to admit that was not an acceptable explanation. It wasn’t an explanation at all.

Then he had to remind himself he was not interested in Miss Calhoun. He could not possibly be attracted to a felon. He was only interested in her as a man would be interested in any pretty young woman.

He could not possibly be attracted to Miss Calhoun. She was medium height and thin. With all that curly black hair, she wasn’t really pretty. The freckles dotted across her fair skin made her cute, but not pretty. He’d never been drawn to cute women.

But there was such a sparkle about her. She was so full of life and joy. Hope glowed in her eyes. Why would a woman with such a background feel optimistic about her life?

There certainly was little future in a relationship between the two of them. After all, Miss Calhoun was certainly not the type of woman he could bring home to meet his mother.

Where in the world had that idea come from? He jerked his attention back to his client and looked at the calendar. “Two weeks, Miss Calhoun? Same time?”

“Perhaps a few minutes later, ten-thirty? My class is from nine to nine-fifty. If I can catch the bus right away ten o’clock is usually fine, but today it was hard to get here on time because—”

He cut her off before she could complete the sentence and shooed her away with his hand. “Ten-thirty is fine.” He jotted a note in her file and slid it into the cabinet. He needed businesslike gestures to remind himself who she was and who he was.

But he couldn’t keep himself from watching her walk away from his desk. When she got to the door, she turned. Her eyes met his and she smiled unevenly at him.

Callously, he dropped his glance to his desk, but he could not wipe out the memory of her face and the charm of her smile, so genuine and full of delight and interest, as if she cared about him and his reaction, as if she hoped he shared her happiness.

Mixed with that picture was the memory of her un-cooperative black curls and those wide and oddly innocent eyes that could also sparkle with humor or pain, the hurt she tried so carefully to hide. In their depths, he glimpsed anger which she also tried to disguise, attempting to make a good impression on him, he guessed. What she didn’t realize was that she already had. Too good an impression. He was even starting to believe her. Not wise to believe a parolee.

Other than her incredible smile—which he was sure she’d used to con countless others—and many physical attributes, why did he care about Miss Calhoun? She was no different from the other ex-cons he worked with, not a bit.

Not a single bit, he repeated to himself. He didn’t know yet, but he guessed she was as untruthful and manipulative as many of them. Then, why was he so concerned about this one, about her?

This was not at all the emotion he should be experiencing when talking to a parolee. Being interested in a client, he lectured himself, was incredibly unprofessional. If he acted on it, if she even guessed he was attracted to her, he could get in a great deal of legal trouble. In addition, he didn’t want to make Miss Calhoun uncomfortable, didn’t want her to think he was harassing her in any way. She needed to believe his interest in her was completely professional.

Oh, he always helped the parolees he worked with. There was nothing new about that. He’d always thought that was his duty as a Christian. He helped them find work, financial aid, housing, even food, but never with the need, almost a compulsion, he felt to help Miss Calhoun.

But there was something odd about her, something that nagged him. He flipped the folder open and scanned her record. Several arrests, two convictions on scams but no time served. Then this robbery. Strange she would turn from being a con artist to a robber. It happened, of course, people changed, but she didn’t look like a violent person.

He slammed the folder shut. What did he know? She was a convicted felon and his client, only that.

Then he looked up into the scarred, beefy face of Butch Conway who stood in front of his desk. Butch had returned to society after a ten-year stay in Huntsville for assault with time off for good behavior.

All thoughts of the attractive-but-felonious Francie Calhoun fled to the back of his brain as he began his work to mold Butch into a model citizen.

“So, how’s this hunk of a parole officer of yours?” Julie Sullivan, owner of the diner, put two cups of coffee and a slice of apple pie on the table and joined Francie in the booth where she was reading for her English lit class.

Francie looked up at Julie and shook her head, attempting to return from Shakespeare’s flower-scented bower in the Forest of Avon to the smell of bacon and syrup left over from breakfast in Julie’s tiny diner.

It was a nice, neat little place with a black-and-white checkerboard floor. The table tops were beige with chairs and booths upholstered in red. The windows looking out on the busy street were covered with beige curtains with red piping. Against the walls were six booths—empty now except for Francie and Julie—with eight square tables in the open space.