“I really can’t accept these from you, Karen.”
The pout deepened. “Why not?”
Oh God, now she’s whining. “I don’t want you to think I owe you anything.” He met her gaze with reluctance, and immediately regretted it because he saw moisture gathering in her eyes.
“You think strings are attached or something?” She sounded weepy. Preston inwardly kicked himself for answering the door.
“Fine.” She snatched the plate out of his hands and sauntered toward the door, her hips swaying in an exaggerated manner. Then she turned, a single tear streaking down her cheek. “Of the five other neighbors I’ve offered brownies, you’re the only one who has flatly refused them. I guess the first impression I got of you was totally wrong.”
Preston was not about to take the bait. How he wished he could honestly tell her he was involved with someone else. Leaning against the kitchen counter, his only response was to slightly lift a shoulder. Let her think he was a colossal jerk.
She turned her head toward the door again, glared at it, then with her eyes shot daggers in his direction. “Well?” She canted her head toward the door.
With tightened jaw, Preston shoved himself forward and moved with clipped steps to the door. He opened it, hating that he liked whatever perfume she had on, hating that her full red lips now turned upward in a wily smile.
“See now, it’s not so bad to get close to me, is it?”
Preston ignored the sudden change in her tone that was clearly meant to give him pause and make him regret his decision. He had no regrets. None whatsoever. “Good night, Karen.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, her smile growing. Finally, she reached her free hand out and caressed his cheek. “It won’t be as good as it could have been.”
Preston backed away from her touch and shut the door. Bolted it. Then practically jogged back to his computer before he could give into temptation.
No matter how annoying his young neighbor was, she sure knew how to get his heart going.
Chapter Seven
Cynthia must have been out of her mind. She needed to get her web design business back up and running. Where was she going to find time to organize parent demonstrations? More to the point, where was she going to find the nerve to face the first little group she was supposed to address today?
“Cynthia Redman, this is Erin Halley, one of our second-grade teachers. This is Cynthia’s daughter, Melissa.” Lucy stood next to Cynthia and Melissa at the classroom door, gesturing toward the slim, plainly-dressed teacher coming toward them.
Erin stuck out her hand. “Great to meet you.” Then she bent down toward Melissa. “I remember your daughter. How are you feeling?” Her voice was gentle and full of concern.
Melissa smiled up at her. Not too far up, since her height was creeping near the five-foot mark and Erin was not that much taller. “A lot better, Miss Halley, thank you.”
Melissa went to a desk in a corner and sat down, where she pulled out a math book from her backpack. Erin glanced at Lucy. “You told her we were being illegal, right?”
Lucy nodded with a chuckle, but Cynthia didn’t like the sound of that. “Um, illegal?”
Erin laughed. “Sorry. That’s the drama queen in me coming out.” She moved away and led Cynthia and Lucy toward a grouping of chairs at the front of the room. “If someone, even a teacher, wants to use a classroom for reasons not directly related to school use, they’re supposed to apply to the district and get permission.” She glanced around the room, then toward the door. As she continued, she lowered her voice. “But I believe in what you guys are doing. Been a health nut myself for the past decade or so. And Thursdays are faculty meeting days – we’ll be there for at least an hour, and the custodian doesn’t get to my room until four-thirty.” She turned to Cynthia, her eyes pleading. “Thirty minutes. Please make sure everyone understands. If you need to chat longer, you’re going to have to take it outside the building.”
Cynthia shifted uncomfortably as she watched the teacher walk out the door with Lucy, who didn’t dare give up her post in the office for more than five minutes. The last thing Cynthia wanted was to risk a teacher getting into trouble, and she wondered at Lucy for having done so. But she had no time to confront her about it. As soon as Erin and Lucy walked out, three women and a man walked in. Within five minutes, twenty-five parents were seated around the room, more than twice the turnout Cynthia had expected considering she had only passed out flyers two days ago. Fifty eyes fixed curious and interested gazes on her, and her hands grew sweaty.
Melissa looked up from the back of the room and gave her a thumbs-up and a big smile. Cynthia smiled back, relaxing a little.
Still, uncertainty suddenly hung over her like a snow cloud. She had prepared a little speech for the occasion, had the basic outline on a notecard on the table in front of her, but now she wished she’d never spoken to anybody about her idea. They would think she was going to extremes. Maybe even a little crazy. Besides, she was no expert on health and nutrition. If anybody should be leading this show, it was Lucy.
Lord, help me say the right things. She took a deep breath, and began. Twenty minutes later, she was surprised when every single person there expressed agreement with her strategy, agreement that if something was going to change in the St. Peter cafeterias, it was going to be up to them, the parents of the students.
Cynthia sent three parents out at a time in two-minute intervals so as not to arouse suspicion from anybody in the front office. So a few more than thirty minutes had passed by the time the room had emptied, but none of the faculty and staff seemed to be around.
Cynthia sank into the rocking chair at the front of the room with a sigh. Melissa came up to her and gave her a hug.
“You did great, Mom.”
“Thanks.” She should have been relieved. But now that the meeting was over with, her mind flew back to what Erin had said, about them not having permission to use the room. It would only take one irate parent showing up at the principal’s office to get her into trouble.
No, not her. After all, she was only a parent. But what about Erin? Could she lose her job over this? Lucy?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She would have said it aloud if Melissa hadn’t been right there. She looked up at her daughter and forced a smile. “Finish your homework?”
She grimaced. “No. Half of math, and I still have language arts.”
Cynthia rocked herself to her feet. “I suppose we better get going.” She had her own homework to do; namely, preparing another flyer that would alert parents about the first demonstration. And she needed to find out exactly where the St. Peter schools obtained their food, get some phone numbers and e-mails. If there was some sort of grand conspiracy taking place, none of this would probably make any difference. If not, her voice – along with the voices of other concerned parents – might actually lead to changes.
**********
“Are you crazy? You gonna lose your job!” Mario glared at Lucy from across the dinner table.
Lucy set her fork down. She had expected her husband to react like this, so she could give him a genuine, placid smile. “All I did was start Cynthia on her way. I don’t plan to be in any of the demonstrations.”
“But if word gets around – “
“Baby, rumors are constantly flying through the school hallways.” She picked up her fork and waved it around. “How many teachers do you suppose have been fired ‘cause of them? None, in my eight years working in the schools, anyhow.” She forked up some pepper chicken and put it in her mouth.
“You ain’t a teacher.” But Mario’s voice had mellowed somewhat.
“I think it’s cool,” Emma said from her place on Lucy’s left. “I’m sick of other kids making fun of me because I won’t eat chips and sandwiches and those disgusting Twinkie things. If word gets around that there’s a bunch of parents preaching against fake food, everybody’ll lay off me.” She poked at her salad with her fork, and
filled her mouth. “This salad dressing is great.”
Mario shot her a look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Lucy couldn’t help but smile. It was a habit they’d both been trying to get their daughter out of ever since she was a toddler. “Olive oil, cilantro, lime. And a pinch of salt. Made it up myself.”
“It is tasty, Luce. Just don’t go overboard on the limes.”
Despite the smile accompanying Mario’s words, Lucy tensed. The money thing again. Several months ago, Mario had balked at the price of organic limes, which is why Lucy hadn’t tried the recipe earlier. “Then I just won’t make it again.” She stabbed her fork into a piece of steamed sweet potato with inappropriate force for such a soft food, rendering it into little pieces. She didn’t care. She thrust her fork underneath them, then carried them to her mouth.
She might as well have been eating cardboard. Cynthia Redman didn’t know how lucky she was, being able to transition into a healthy diet without having to convince an unbelieving spouse. More than a decade, and hers still wasn’t convinced that a strictly whole foods, strictly organic diet made enough of an impact on their bodies to matter.
She stared down at her plate, but at the corner of her eye caught Emma shifting her gaze from one of her parents to the other. In a small voice, more like one that belonged to a scared seven-year-old than the confident teenager she was, she asked, “Has – has one of you lost their job, or something?”
Lucy shot Mario a see-what-you-did-now glare, then softened her expression as she turned to her daughter. “No, deary, we would tell you something that important.”
“My fault, Emma. I just worry too much about our budget.”
While Emma appeared relieved, the words fell flat against Lucy’s eardrums. She was usually more patient with him when he hinted at her not needing to spend so much on food. Was she, too, concerned about being implicated in the parent demonstrations Cynthia was planning to organize? Or maybe she was just feeling the sting a bit more this evening because she’d finally met someone who really seemed to want to make a change when it came to food.
And she was hurt that it wasn’t her own husband.
She swallowed the sweet potato along with a retort that she never spent more than the food budget allowed – except, of course, during the holidays. She got up and picked up her plate.
Emma gave her father a look of reproach. “You made her mad. She can’t finish eating.” Lucy always finished every bite on her plate. Unless she was upset.
Lucy jumped when something pounded on the table, rattling the dishes. She turned to see both of Mario’s palms flat on the table, his features twisted in consternation. He said nothing, only huffed out a breath, went to their bedroom and shut the door.
She glared at her daughter. “Chica, how many times I got to tell you that you don’t get into mama and papa’s business?”
She looked down at her plate. “Sorry.” The air grew thick with tension, then she jumped up and ran to her own room, slamming the door in teenage fury.
Tears burned behind Lucy’s eyelids as she leaned against the counter. When was she going to learn to just be quiet?
Her own bedroom occupied by a person she would rather not see for a while, she stayed in the kitchen, cleaning up, then reading the latest legal thriller. But she comprehended nothing until, three pages into her reading session, she made a decision: Mario would hear nothing more about Cynthia Redman or parents fighting for healthy cafeteria food. Not from her, anyway.
Chapter Eight
“Dr. Munger, I think you need to see this.”
Barry had been sitting at his desk with his office door closed, trying to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him, when his receptionist, Shelly, poked her head in the door.
Strange. Routine procedure dictated that she call him before entering his office, and she was the type to always follow procedure. Plus he had told her before never to open his office door without asking first. If he had the authority to fire her, he might, based on this slip alone.
But at the moment, his curiosity was stronger than his irritation. Shelly wouldn’t have done what she just did without good reason.
The leather chair creaked as he arose. He stretched, scratched his head, and yawned before stepping to the door. He attributed his sleepiness this early in the morning – it was only nine-thirty – to the overcast skies that were predicted to bring more snow by one p.m. He was ready for spring. Summer.
No, he was ready to move to a much warmer place. But unsure that he’d be able to find a job elsewhere at his age, that wasn’t going to happen unless he made a lot of money fairly quickly.
Which would probably be happening within the next several months, if all went according to plan.
Not that anything was going to plan. He hadn’t planned for anyone to die.
As soon as he opened his office door, he heard muffled voices outside the building. He walked to the reception area, turned toward the entrance doors, and stared. Standing just outside, nearly blocking the doors, was a group of men and women – mostly women – holding signs and chanting.
He stepped closer to the doors, both to hear what they were saying and to read the signs – although it was not really necessary. He had a feeling he already knew what it was about.
“Ban bad food! Ban bad food!” came the chant. One sign said, “School food should be safe.” Another: “Don’t kill my kid with your lunches.” A third sign said, “No more fake foods – whole foods rule.”
“Are you going to go out there?”
Barry jerked his head around. He didn’t realize Shelly had come up behind him. “What’s the point?”
“Media’ll be here soon. Looks like there’s already a couple of bystanders taking a video with their phones.” Barry scanned the crowd and saw at least one of them. “I would think you’d want to get out there and try to sweet-talk them before this gets all over the Internet.”
Barry’s jaw clenched. She was right; except, it was going to be all over the Internet whether he went out or not. And with the ease with which digital videos could be edited, anything he said, no matter how positive, could be put into a very bad light.
His head began to pound behind his temples. He had not counted on a parent revolution. “Have you called the police?”
The receptionist sighed from behind him. “They’re not – “
“Call the police.”
“Fine.”
He turned his head slightly to make sure Shelly was headed for the phone. She was, her face stony and back stiff. He didn’t care if these parents were within their rights; he was at least not going to make this little demonstration easy for them. Maybe the sight of a cop car pulling up would be enough to cause them to disperse.
He turned back to the door to see the very vehicle he didn’t want to see pull into the parking lot. It was the van belonging to the local television station.
Great. He combed his fingers through his scant hair, grabbing it as they reached his earlobes. Now he was going to have to go out there, make some sort of comment.
Steeling himself, he opened the door, shivering from the gust that met him. The first thing he needed to do was to find out who the leader was. If he could talk some sense into him – or her – then this whole thing would just go away.
“Excuse me, who’s leading this?” he asked the first woman he saw, a large black woman whose head was nearly swallowed up by the large hood and scarf protecting her from the cold.
She didn’t even look at him, just went on chanting and waving her sign. He got the same response from the next two people. He had to hurry; the reporter was headed right toward them, a large camera on his heels.
Taking several more steps to his right, he fought against the burning rage rising up from his gut.
Then he froze. There she was. It had to be her, the mother who had visited him in his office just a week ago.
Mrs. Redman.
**********
&
nbsp; Cynthia thought she’d been thrilled by the turnout of thirty other parents. When she saw the T.V. station van drive in, she nearly went into ecstasies. They would have a voice. They would be heard.
Then she turned and saw Dr. Munger standing a few feet away, glaring. Let him glare. She hadn’t done anything wrong. The only thing that might make her a little bit nervous was if the police showed up. She had prepared the other parents for such an event, counseling them, based on what she’d read online, to follow any instructions an officer might give, not to resist either verbally or physically.
“My daughter wants to see me after school today,” she’d told the group, “and I’m sure your kids feel the same way about you.” She could only hope there weren’t any fanatics in the group who would put their need to voice their opinion above their children’s need for their parents.
So she met Dr. Munger’s hard eyes with her own narrowed gaze, chanting more loudly and waving her arm a little harder. He moved toward her, but the reporter whom she recognized from the rare occasions she watched the local evening news, approached her first.
After she explained what they were doing and why, the reporter caught sight of Dr. Munger and walked briskly toward him. Cynthia stepped aside to let the cameraman by, feeling a grim satisfaction that the overweight school district official was about to do some serious sweating, despite the below-freezing temperature.
As she turned, she stopped short, her stomach balling up into a knot. Not one, but two police cars were slowly driving up to the small crowd.
**********
When he was a kid, Preston lived in a modest house on one acre on the edge of a small town. There, his mother dabbled in flower gardening. Half of the front yard was filled every summer with flowers of all shapes and sizes, the smallest ones, like the honey-scented white and purple alyssums, in the front, and the tallest, such as the multi-colored zinnias and hollyhocks, in the back.
Preston was less fascinated by the showy array of flowers than by the large black and yellow garden spiders that called it home. He remembered dropping flies, crickets, and any other insects he could catch into the spiders’ webs and watching, mesmerized, as the creatures caught, killed, and ate their prey.
Today, Preston wondered if it was payback time for all the innocent victims he had tossed into the webs. He felt like he was the helpless insect being dropped into a large, hungry spider’s sticky tangle of a home.