Guy had asked him to visit Barry Munger one more time, in an attempt to cool things off. The head honchos at the national level of Delico suspected Munger and other St. Peter school district officials of creating all the bad press for Delico Foods. And it was getting bad. During the past week, sales of a variety of Delico brands had dropped off while online social network gossip and health-related forum posts were more than hinting that Delico Foods was the culprit behind the sick school children of St. Peters.
Preston had argued against the idea. He told Guy that he and Munger hadn’t exactly parted on good terms last week. But Preston was known for his skill at peacemaking and disarming volatile situations, and Guy insisted that he was smart enough to turn the situation around if he set his mind to it.
But even though Preston was driving into the parking lot of the Special Services building, he still had no idea what he was going to say to the man. He hadn’t made an appointment this time; Guy didn’t want Munger to be able to come up with any kind of ammunition, such as having a lawyer in the office. And he’d told Preston that Munger might be friendlier if he didn’t have time to think about Preston’s return.
While Preston could concede the first point, he disagreed with the second. Especially when he saw what was going on in front of the building.
A group of people, dressed in heavy coats, gloves, scarves, and hats, walked in a slow circle, chanting and waving signs. Some organization or other was demonstrating against something the school district had done. And he had a sinking feeling he knew what it was.
If he was right, there was no way he was going to try to talk to Munger today. The man would be crazy with anger.
Preston’s hunch proved correct as he drew nearer the group, able to read their signs. “Ban bad food!” was the passionate chant that arose out of the small crowd that Preston guessed must have easily topped two dozen.
He heard another vehicle roar into the parking lot, and looked behind him. The local news.
No way. He was not going to let them make a fool out of him. He backed away to hide among the parked cars, thinking he should just get back to his own car and return to the office. But as the reporter and cameraman made their way to the demonstrators, he found himself nearly as fascinated as his eight-year-old self had been with garden spiders. If nothing else, he wanted to witness the media chew Munger up and spit him out. Talk about bad food.
Not five minutes later, two police cars drove in. He grinned. His somewhat monotonous job had become so stressful lately that even his six-figure salary couldn’t compensate, so he was definitely in the mood for some free entertainment.
***********
Cynthia immediately bowed out of the circular path that she and her fellow parents were marking in the slush and walked toward the first officer who emerged from his car. Having anticipated such an event, Cynthia had come up with a little speech. She practiced it as she approached the cop, as much to calm her nerves as to renew it in her mind.
“Good morning, officer.”
The man nodded. “Ma’am.”
“I am the lead organizer for this demonstration. We want to be peaceful and don’t mean any harm, so if we’re doing anything illegal it is completely inadvertent and we’d appreciate you advising us of anything we need to change in order to keep our demonstration within the confines of the law.”
She took a deep breath, satisfied she hadn’t confused any words, and a little dizzy from having regurgitated it all so quickly.
The officer she’d addressed smiled as the other officer walked up to them. “We appreciate you wanting to cooperate with the law.” Both officers headed toward the demonstrators at a leisurely pace. “Let’s head over there and see what things look like.”
After a minute of scrutiny and a brief conference together, the only request the police officers made was that they move back twenty feet farther from the entrance. Cynthia, relieved, ordered her group to do so as the officers went inside the building – to talk to Dr. Munger or whichever other school official had summoned them there.
Though she quickly found a place in the circle, she had to abandon it. A journalist for the city paper had pulled up while she was talking to the police, and was waving at her wildly. A second cameraman appeared from the television station van, and the other demonstrators continued with even more vigor, likely aware that their plight was being put on film.
After the reporter talked to her for about five minutes, he moved on to someone else, and Cynthia reinstated herself into the circle. As she did, she looked out over the parking lot. Her eyes met the gaze of a well-dressed man who seemed to be hiding among the parked cars. Did she know him? Was he one of the fathers she had met during the past week?
But he broke eye contact after a couple of seconds, and Cynthia hoisted her sign and joined in the march.
**********
About twenty minutes later, the T.V. people headed back Preston’s way, and he casually made his way through the row of cars in the other direction. When he saw the T.V. van leave, he turned back toward the building and began walking at a brisk pace, suddenly aware that he was cold, despite the leather coat covering his sports jacket, which covered a polyester striped button-down dress shirt. He was here; he might as well face the music. His job was in a precarious enough position as it was.
Besides, he had been suffering from curiosity ever since the cops showed up. He could swear the woman who talked to them, and to the reporters, was the mother of the latest victim of St. Peter school food. It was hard to tell through all the winter clothing covering her, and he hoped to get close enough just to confirm his suspicion, or not.
The protestors had continued their circling and chanting the entire time, although both their steps and voices had lost energy since Preston first arrived. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if Munger would have the gall to accuse him of setting the whole thing up. Too bad he couldn’t honestly say he had; it would have been a brilliant strike against how Preston had been treated last week.
**********
Cynthia was cold. Despite wearing a down-filled coat, acrylic hat, Thinsulate gloves, and wool pants, she was near to the point of shivering. Then, just as the T.V. crew left, occasional flurries began to drift down. Cynthia had promised the others that no one would have to drive home through snow, so she decided they’d have to cut their time thirty minutes short.
But before she could open her mouth to quiet the group, the man she’d seen among the cars earlier approached her. Meeting his gaze for a second time, she stepped outside of the circle once more. It was clear he wanted to speak to her. For some reason.
As he grew closer, she grew more confused as to what that reason was. She had never seen him before in her life. If she had, she would have remembered him. The man was blessed with movie star good looks, with dark hair and coffee-colored eyes. Several inches taller than she was, he looked to be quite fit, even under the bulky leather coat. When he stopped within three feet of her, she could easily see that his ears, cheeks and nose were tinged pink from the cold. How he could have spent the past twenty-five minutes outside without a hat or scarf was beyond her.
Just like Justin, she thought, and a twinge pinched her gut as a memory of Justin playing in the snow with a very young Melissa floated through her mind.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Then another idea struck her. “Are you another reporter?”
He grinned in a disarming way. “Yes to the first question, no to the second.”
“Good.” She twirled the sign around in her hands. “A parent? We’re about to go home, but next week – “
He shook his head, laughing. “Not a parent. Now, aren’t you going to help me?”
The sign in Cynthia’s hand slipped lower to the ground and she took a step back, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“You asked if you could help me.” His smile made him twice as handsome.
You did not just think that. Cynthia shook herself, then smiled back. Why d
id she feel more nervous now than when the reporter had shown up? “I did. Sorry.”
The man’s face sobered. “I – excuse me if I’m wrong, but I think I recognize you. As the mother of the girl who recently was hospitalized after…?”
His voice trailed off. Did he not remember why Melissa had been hospitalized? “You have a good memory.” Then she frowned. “Or, oh God, don’t tell me, my picture is all over Facebook.”
The man lifted a hand to negate her assumption. “Oh, no, no. I mean, not that I’ve seen. No, I watched the news that night. And since I saw you here, I wanted to, uh, let you know how sorry I was. Am.”
“Cynthia, this man bothering you?” She turned to see Faith Carver, a large black woman, behind her, glaring at the stranger.
“No, it’s okay. He just recognized me from the news clip when Melissa first got sick. Would you mind telling the others we’re going to wrap it up early, since it looks like more snow?”
“Sure thing.” Faith turned away, and Cynthia could hear her passing the news to the other parents.
She cut her eyes back to the man, smiling. “Thanks. She’s okay now, though.” And hopefully would be the last kid to get sick eating cafeteria food.
**********
Preston was genuinely relieved to hear it. But he hoped the fact wouldn’t make Munger more complacent. “Well, I guess I better be going. I have an appointment with,” he cleared his throat to give himself time to think up a lie, “the guy in charge of delivery trucks. For the school district.”
Cynthia nodded. “Thanks again. It was nice to meet you – well, I guess I didn’t get your name. I’m – “
“Cynthia Redman.” Until the black woman had provided her name, Preston had been at a loss. But somehow hearing just her first name brought her last name to mind, as well. “And I’m Preston Brenner.” He took her gloved hand in his bare ones. And didn’t let go for several seconds.
Then he realized that this woman was a mother, and therefore likely was married. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand. “I – I’m sorry. That was kind of inappropriate. Forgive me.” He rushed toward the building before she had time to respond, his cheeks warm despite the chill outside.
He needed to get a grip. He’d only meant to find out the state of her daughter, nothing more. But when he started talking to her, he’d found he hadn’t wanted to stop.
And found her, heavy hood and all, more beautiful than she’d appeared on the television screen. Then he’d almost done a really dumb thing, and handed her his business card.
If she was available, the last thing he wanted was for her to know that he worked for Delico Foods.
**********
That evening, Cynthia and Melissa sat down to a stew that had been simmering in the slow cooker all day. She served it with a tossed salad, and planned on offering apple slices dipped in an almond butter-honey sauce for dessert. She had been pleasantly surprised to find out how easy making meals from scratch could be, if she planned and organized well.
“Mmm, Mom, this is awesome!” Melissa had never been a particularly picky eater, but she wasn’t known for gushing over food, either.
Cynthia smiled. “Thanks.” She would add this recipe to the rotation, and make it at least twice a month during the cooler seasons.
Melissa ate several more bites of the stew, then some salad. When she had swallowed, she asked, “How did it go this morning?”
Cynthia gave her a summary, leaving out the part that she’d met a handsome stranger who had looked into her eyes and held her hand so long that her legs had begun to get weak. She had almost gone after him when he rushed into the building, but number one, she did not want to risk running into Dr. Munger again, and number two, she did not want to cause a scene. Or gossip. Lord only knew how much the rumor mill would grind her up just for speaking out about school food, let alone running after men.
When she started talking about the reporters’ visits, Melissa’s jaw dropped. “Really? You’re going to be on T.V.?” She shifted her eyes to the clock on the kitchen wall, and her eyes grew wide. “Mommy, it’s five till six! Hurry!”
Cynthia grimaced. The last thing she wanted was to watch herself on T.V. She should have waited a day or so before telling Melissa. But no, Melissa would have probably heard about it from someone else by then; either way, if she found out that her mother had been on the news after the fact, she would not have been happy.
Cynthia followed Melissa, who had jumped out of her chair so hard she had nearly knocked it over, into the living room. “They may not even use the story.”
Melissa picked up the remote and clicked on the T.V. “But if they do, we don’t want to miss it.”
Cynthia sighed. “I’m going back to finish my dinner – which you will too, young lady, as soon as the news is over. Call me when you see my pretty face.”
Left alone for a few minutes, Cynthia’s mind went back to another pretty face. What was his name? Prescott? Whoever he was, he made an impact on her that wasn’t quite welcome. She still loved Justin, had avoided dating since his death because she couldn’t see herself hitched to any other man.
But ever since leaving the school district premises that morning, his face had haunted her. And not just his face. A yearning that she hadn’t felt for a long time had been reawakened.
She snorted as she forked up some salad. It must be that time of the month; she and Melissa were doing just fine. Seeing a man as handsome as her deceased husband shouldn’t send her mind reeling – especially since the chances she’d ever see him again were slim to none.
Fifteen minutes later, the call came. Actually, it was more like a scream. If she hadn’t known any better, Cynthia would have thought the house was on fire, or Melissa had cut an artery. She plodded into the living room with wooden legs. Having heard horror stories about how news reporters twist words and edit video, she was afraid that the newscasters were going to make her look like some sort of nut.
The clip ended up being only two minutes long. She, Faith, and one of the dads made the cut. As far as Cynthia could tell, none of the quotes had been taken out of context, and made the parents look like competent, caring people who wanted to help prevent any more sudden illnesses or deaths via school cafeteria food. Dr. Munger was given a short bit of air time, as well. The same anger that had roiled inside her during her meeting with him – and that slimeball lawyer – last week rose up again, causing her to ball her fists involuntarily.
The reporter asked him whether parental demonstrations would bring about any changes in the school menus. “The St. Peter school district menus already have the stamp of approval from qualified dietitians and the government.” Dr. Munger spoke in a calm, professional manner with a smug smile that made Cynthia want to reach out and slap the glass screen. “We don’t mind peaceful demonstrations, but we at the school district want to assure everyone, parents, staff, and students, that we aim to continue providing high quality, safe food, the same as we have always done.”
She couldn’t help letting out a short, sardonic laugh at that point, earning a violent, “SHHH!” from her daughter, whose eyes remained riveted to the screen until the anchors had had their say on the piece, and announced that the weather would be coming up.
Then, Melissa turned to Cynthia. “Why did you laugh?”
Cynthia hadn’t told her about her run-in with the school district attorney and his attempt to bribe her last week, and didn’t intend to. But Melissa did know that Cynthia had gone to speak with him, and had left without having her questions answered to any level of satisfaction. So she replied, “That’s the man in charge of the school food that I talked to last week.”
Melissa gazed at her for a long moment. “Are you still mad at him?”
She was, but hadn’t known it until now. She stood up with a sigh. “I guess so. He just sounds like such a know-it-all, like your almost dying couldn’t have possibly had anything to do with what you ate that day.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm tha
t dripped off her tongue.
Melissa came over to her and gave her a hug. “But I’m okay now, Mom. Don’t be mad at him because of me.” She let go and looked up into Cynthia’s face. “You said yourself that staying mad at people only hurts the person who’s mad.”
Out of the mouths of babes. But something else Melissa didn’t know was that Cynthia had gotten the distinct impression from the meeting with Munger that he was hiding something. And that frustrated her more than anything.
“You’re right, honey. I’ll try to let it go.” She stepped back toward the kitchen. “Now you need to finish that stew. I put another dish over it to try to keep it warm, but no guarantees.”
**********
Erin Halley grimaced in Lucy’s direction as she walked out of the principal’s office. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Mr. Wade wants to see you now.”
Lucy arched her brow. “Me?”
But the teacher had already slunk out into the hallway with slouched shoulders.
Lucy took a deep, shaky breath. So. Somebody had told. She could only hope nobody was going to lose her job over it. Namely, her and Miss Halley. She wouldn’t have been at all worried about it, except that this was her second offense. And Mr. Wade had a good memory.
As she slowly got to her feet, Betty Dale, the gray-haired lady in charge of school records, burst through the main office doorway. “Mr. Wade just called me to keep an eye on things while he talks to you.”
Too numb to speak, all Lucy could do was nod.
Mr. Wade, usually professionally cheerful even in stressful circumstances, gave her a stern look when she entered his office. “Close the door, and have a seat.”
She obeyed meekly. The last thing she needed was to offend Mr. Wade by getting her gander up. Assuming traditional Hispanic etiquette, she looked down at her lap to show her respect.
But the principal would have none of it. “Mrs. Perez, look at me.”
She lifted her eyelids.
“I don’t suppose you happened to watch the news last night.”
She and Mario usually avoided watching the news, for their psychological health. But Cynthia had stopped by the office a few minutes before school was dismissed yesterday to let her know that the local T.V. news had shown for their first demonstration. Lucy wasn’t going to miss that for the world.