Shaddyr's Eclectic Collection > Pretender Fanfiction > Liz Shelbourne > Brick by Brick
Brick by Brick
It was already dark at 4:30 when Jarod walked up to the last of the potential complexes he had circled in the rent section of the newspaper. After he had left the Coneely building yesterday, he had searched for eight hours, then started again this morning, looking at a variety of possible locations. While in the past his surroundings had been only a matter of security and convenience, an abandoned warehouse had been as good as a luxury penthouse, he felt that it was important this time to have a place which would reflect the position he now held at Coneely; it might be essential to part of his plan later on. However, two days of searching were beginning to take its toll on his patience. He desperately wanted to return to work.
The last apartment he approached was on a quiet cul-du-sac off of a busier street. Larger buildings were interspersed with condos and duplexes. The area looked securely white collar, a collection of professional people unlikely to venture out of their homes often during the cold winter months.
The mailboxes in the lobby announced that the manager could be found in #101. He pushed the buzzer to announce himself and waited near the speaker.
The voice coming over the tinny microphone was understandable if electronic sounding. "Yes, may I help you?"
Jarod pushed the speaker button. "I was wondering if I might see the apartment you have for rent." The door buzzed harshly and he pulled it open. Number 101 was at the near end of a long hall lit intermittently with globe lights. He knocked and waited as a muffled voice called out "Just a minute."
The door opened to a woman looking down at a handful of keys. She started talking before she looked up. "I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I have the right key ring-" She stopped suddenly as she lifted her head and saw whom she was talking to. Jarod stepped back as he recognized Hannah Braun.
There was an awkward moment. Finally Hannah spoke. "I’m sorry, you startled me. I didn’t expect to see someone I knew." She looked around nervously, as if trying to find words on the walls, then finally blurted out: "Listen, before I show you the place, why don’t you come in? I think there’s something I need to say to you."
Jarod stepped tentatively through the doorway into the apartment. It was cheerfully lit, a living and dining area to one side, a moderately sized kitchen on the other. In front of him, a short hallway led back to three closed doors.
Hannah walked anxiously toward the kitchen to grab another key ring that rested on the counter. Jarod watched her, standing just inside the doorway, waiting for her to return. She looked very different from how she had at the office. Her dark hair was pulled up off of her neck in a large clip, her face almost devoid of makeup. She wore a loose peach v-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, with faded jeans and hiking boots. Once again, the clothes were more functional than fashionable, but this time the casualness and color seemed completely natural.
When she returned to stand in front of him, her eyes were bright, but not wary as he had seen them before. Obviously embarrassed, she would not look at his face, instead concentrating on the ring of keys in her hands. They seemed to jingle with each phrase as she burst out in frenetic regret. "I want to apologize for how I acted to you yesterday. I was completely out of control. I was having a really, really bad day, but I had no right to take my problems out on you. I just wanted you to know that.
"Okay, now that I’ve said that, and you know that I would be your neighbor," she looked up at him a bit sheepishly, "do you still want to look at the place?"
None of this was what Jarod had been expecting, not seeing her here at this apartment, certainly not being forcibly apologized to. It took a moment for him to respond, he nodded but confusion was still evident on his face.
"Great. Okay, I’ll be right back." She turned away scurried down the short hallway off the kitchen, poked her head into one of the closed off rooms and quickly returned. Together they went out into the corridor. Three doors down on the opposite side, she pushed a key into the lock of number 106.
"All of the apartments come somewhat furnished, that’s not real common these days. You can add anything you like, but any major changes like painting have to be okayed beforehand." She turned on the light inside the door and Jarod was able to see a room like the one he had just been in, but without the homey feel. The neutral colored couch and chairs had been covered with bright throws in the other apartment, and a variety of rugs had lain scattered on the hardwood floor. The walls here looked barren without the bookcase and pictures that Hannah had in her place, as did the clean but featureless kitchen.
Going through the apartment, Jarod only half listened to the details of the lease as he watched her flick on lights and point out features. It was amazing that this was the same woman who had been so insecure, so venomous at the office just the day before. Finally she came back to the eating area with its wood and chrome table where she had left the keys. "Well, what do you think?"
"I’d like to take it." He was not about to pass up a coincidence like this.
"I’ve got all the papers and stuff back at my place." She waited in the doorway as he had a last look around.
Back in her apartment, Jarod sat at the kitchen counter to fill out the forms while Hannah moved over to the stove to stir a large simmering pot. "How did you end up being manager here?" he asked.
She moved the spoon slowly in the spicy bubbling mixture. Her voice was introspective. "I found myself in the situation where I had one income, no savings, and desperately needing a decent place to live. Here they give me a break on the rent if I deal with people like you and the occasional backed up toilet. It works out well for all of us. For the most part, the neighbors are nice, not real nosy, but willing to help out if you get in a jam. The guy in 204 helped me with a stubborn oil filter in my car last month, saved me twenty bucks."
Recovering the pot, she walked around and sat on the stool next to him. She watched as he looked over the form. "Usually the owners want the name of your bank and the like. For a reference check."
"I don’t really have a bank in town yet, and my previous address . . ." He trailed off as he looked at the other blanks that were left unfilled.
"Oh, that’s right, you just came back from Europe. Well, I guess that’s okay. I know you have a job, and, well, to be honest, I know what you’re getting paid. I’ll vouch for you." She picked up the half empty form and set it off to the side, then pulled one of the keys off the ring. "Welcome to the neighborhood. I don’t know where you’re staying now, but if you’d like, you can move in any time, they’ll pro-rate the rent."
"Thank you," he said, taking the key. "I might just bring my things over tomorrow evening, if that’s all right."
"Oh, that’s fine. Listen, would you like some coffee or cocoa or something? I’ve got hot water already made."
Jarod glanced at his watch, then stood up. "Thanks, but I’ve got to get going. I’m helping out at a high school downtown and it will take me a little while to get there."
Hopeful eyes caught his. "Do you have just a minute? I wanted to talk about what happened at work."
"You already apologized."
"I know, not that it doesn’t deserve another one." She paused. "No, I think you deserve an explanation to go along with that apology, especially if we’re going to be neighbors."
Jarod waited silently as she walked over to the bookcase and picked up a gold picture frame. "Yesterday would have been my anniversary. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, to say the least, for that, and, well - I wasn’t exactly the nicest person to be around, and I know it. Arthur, Mr. Coneely that is, did the right thing sending me home. I came back here, had my cry, and tried to deal with how I felt." She looked at him sheepishly again. "It took me a little longer than I expected, that’s why I wasn’t at work today either. I didn’t think it was fair to put everyone through that scene again. I just want you to know how sorry I am for the way I acted toward you."
Jarod looked at the woman before him, so different from the one he had met the day before, so different from the woman he had thought Hannah Braun would be. He smiled. "Apology accepted. Again."
That evening Jarod once again went to St. Bonaventure for his role as "conditioning coach." Having given the other boys a series of drills to work on, he sat down beside the lone figure sitting in the first row of the stands. Jarod could once again see the resemblance between father and son, but while Jack Dawson had been a wiry, compact man, his son was tall and muscular. He wore jeans and a heavy weight shirt, and expensive court shoes that looked as if they had never been run in.
For a moment, they sat together watching the other boys raced back and forth across the court. "I think you’re going to kill Dominic Parrish with this one." The younger man pointed across the court to one of the smaller boys who was obviously struggling to keep up with the others. "He was always more of a brain than a jock. He shouldn’t be out there."
Jarod watched the object of their conversation for a moment. "Maybe, but Coach D’amico says the team needs an extra forward. If nothing else, Dominic’s got a lot of heart. The team can use that too."
The teenager scoffed. "What good will that do when he’s on the floor dyin’? Look at him, he has absolutely no idea how to move. He needs more than conditioning, he needs a body transplant."
Jarod heard an edge of cruelty in John Dawson’s voice. He could not help but to throw down the challenge. "Do you think you could do better?"
The younger man stared out at the other players on the court. "Man, I could take them all on, it just ain’t worth my time. Look at them, the idiots are killing themselves for a stupid game, like playing hoops is really going to get you anything. I don’t see any shoe companies here, do you?" He picked up the leather team jacket that lay beside him on the bench and strolled off.
Arthur Coneely was true to his word, and the next day started with a meeting with Brock, two of the other architects, and Hannah Braun. While Arthur discussed the project, bringing him up to speed and introducing a few new items, Jarod noticed that Hannah took copious notes, while the other people present made just a few jottings. After the meeting, she disappeared into Arthur’s office and was not seen again until after lunchtime.
Just before he was about to leave, Jarod heard a soft knocking outside the door to his office. He opened to door to find Hannah standing before him.
"Hi," she said quietly. "Can I come in?"
Jarod noticed that although he held the door open for her, and she had asked to enter, she did so tentatively, her eyes scanning the room.
"Is everything okay in here? Any problems with the computer?" She asked, still looking around.
"Everything seems to be fine."
"Good, good. Sometimes this monitor can play games with you, you’ll probably see what I mean soon enough." She walked over to the blueprinter. "You haven’t had a chance to use this plotter yet, but when you do, you’ll notice that it puts a pale line down the bottom of the paper, every time. We’ve had service people in to fix it, but they couldn’t figure out why it does that. It isn’t that major, you learn to live with it."
That announced, she stood gazing out the window for a long moment, an unreadable expression on her face. Jarod felt intuitively that it held sadness, and something more. He reached out to gently touch her forearm, to bring her back to the present. "Is there something wrong?"
She looked down at his hand on her sleeve then up again, no longer lost but instead surprised at his caring. Her face melted into a quiet smile. "No, nothing. I was just making sure you’re okay in here." She turned and walked toward the doorway. "I won’t be around tonight, so if you need help moving in, you may want to ask Dan in #103." She smiled again, then walked down the hallway.
Once again Jarod found himself watching after her, wondering.
Wednesday afternoon was quiet around Coneely & Associates. Brockton had explained on his way to the elevator that many of the employees were taking off early in anticipation of Thanksgiving the next day, and that he should do the same. Jarod, however, was at his computer when Arthur Coneely rapped lightly on his door.
"Are you trying to make a good impression as the new employee, or simply show up the others who have left early?" Arthur’s voice had a tone of happy sarcasm that matched his smile.
"No, no, I‘m not,’ Jarod stumbled, "well, yes, I am trying to make a good impression, but I’m not-"
Arthur waived his words away. "Don’t worry so much, son. I’m glad to see you working so hard, but I’m not going to chain you to your desk if you have family to go to. I know you’ll make up the time later."
A wistful look crossed Jarod’s face. "Actually, I don’t have any plans to be with my family. I don’t know where they are right now."
"I’m sorry to hear that." There was a silent pause as both gentlemen reflected on the situation, then suddenly Arthur brightened. "Well, then, it’s settled. You’ll come and have Thanksgiving with my family and me tomorrow. We always have more than enough food, and it will give me a chance to get to know you better, outside the office. Then I can congratulate myself what a good choice I made in hiring you." Jarod began to protest but he would have none of it. He grabbed a notepad and pen from the desk and began to write. "Here’s the address, you might as well come about 4:30. Dress isn’t real fancy, but my wife usually insists that I wear a suit." He handed the paper across the desk. "We’ll see you tomorrow then, and remember to bring your appetite, or Mrs. Coneely will be disappointed."
Jarod rang the doorbell and looked around the outside of the Coneely home as he waited for a response. The house was not overly large, but made almost entirely of lannonstone. It had a massiveness that was only matched by the size of the lot it stood on. Mature oaks had lost all but a few of their leaves in the front yard, while towering pines stood on either side of the house. The door itself was solid wood, and creaked deeply as it was opened.
A diminutive woman in a modest dress, covered in a paisley apron, stood on the other side of the threshold. An engaging smile lit up a face pink from working in the kitchen, framed in the same brilliant white hair as her husband. She leaned forward and put out a small hand to welcome the much taller man inside. "I’m so glad you came, Jarod," she said earnestly. "I’m Fiona, Arthur’s wife. I was just thrilled when he told me that he had invited you. We like to think of everyone at the firm as our family. Come in, come in."
She took his coat and guided him through the marble-floored foyer to the living room. "I think you’ll know everyone here except my nephew, Father Byer. Father, this is Jarod Johnson." Fiona gestured toward a middle-aged man sitting on the rose colored sofa. He rose to greet the new guest, as did the woman who was sitting next to him, Hannah Braun.
The priest offered his hand in a firm grip, insisted on being called "Paul", then offered to get Jarod a drink, as their host was "otherwise indisposed." Jarod declined the drink, but took the Queen Anne style chair across the coffee table.
Hannah was wearing a cream colored dress that accentuated the deeper tones of her hair, now down and softly curving around her face. She had on just a little more makeup than she wore at the office, and Jarod was pleased to see that he had been correct when it came to the sparkle in her eyes. She seemed relaxed and happy, half curling her body into the soft cushions on the sofa.
Hannah took it upon herself to explain things as Fiona went back into the kitchen. "Arthur is in the playroom with Caitlin. He has a train set there that must take up two tables. Caitlin is absolutely enraptured."
She turned toward the man on the couch next to her. "Jarod just started with the firm this week. It turns out he’s also renting one of the apartments in my building." She reached over and touched the priest’s arm. "I have to thank you again for helping me find that place. I don’t know what I would have done without it."
Paul shook his head and smiled. "You thank me every time I see you. I told you before, I was helping out another parishioner who needed a manager for his building. You simply proved yourself capable of the job."
"Well, I’m going to continue to thank you. Now, however, I’m going to see what Grampa and Caitlin are up to." She stood up and walked toward the stairway.
Jarod glanced over to the man on the couch. "Grampa?"
"Arthur," he replied, but the confusion on Jarod’s face did not diminish. "Didn’t anyone tell you their relationship? Arthur is Hannah’s father-in-law."
"Then Caitlin is Hannah’s daughter? I didn’t know that she had any children."
"Yes. Caitlin’s father was Arthur’s only son, so Caitlin is his only grandchild. He’s absolutely devoted to that little girl."
Jarod leaned forward in the chair. "Where is Caitlin’s father?"
The priest paused for a moment. "Scott was a police officer. He was killed in the line of duty just over two years ago."
"I had no idea." Jarod sat back in his chair, stunned by what he had just heard. "When Hannah was introduced to me, it was as Hannah Braun, and when she talked about her husband, well, I assumed that they were divorced."
"Hannah is that way. She can be very proud, very concerned about making it on her own, without any pity or special favors. I’m sure that’s why she didn’t say anything to you." The priest hesitated, taking a sip of the drink he held in his hand. "I don’t think that she’d mind if I told you, her story is pretty much common knowledge around the firm.
"Hannah met Scott through Arthur, oh, she must have been working at the firm for at least a year when that happened. Arthur was very impressed with the girl, had her on the fast track toward taking over his work or starting a group of her own. She loved her job and had worked hard to establish her own reputation in the professional world. When she and Scott decided to get married, I think she wanted to keep her maiden name and the credibility that went along with it, at least in professional circles. I know that she certainly didn’t want people to think that she was getting ahead just because she had married a Coneely. After Caitlin was born, she continued to work a couple days a week to keep her name in front of people.
"Then, when Scott died, and all her troubles began, she had to go back to work full time. She didn’t have to, you understand, she could have moved in with Arthur, he would have given her anything, but that independent streak of hers is awfully strong. I have to admire her for it, what she’s been through would break many a woman. Still, I try to help out when I can, on her terms of course."
Their discussion was cut short by the arrival of Arthur, Hannah, and a young child jumping down the steps between them. The little girl was dressed in burgundy velvet, with an ivory lace collar, and matching shoes. Jarod thought she could not have been more than three years old. Her wavy hair, cut around her face, was the same deep brown as her mother, but her skin had the pale pink color and scattering of freckles that belied her grandfather’s Irish heritage.
She stopped jumping as she reached the landing, then ran over to the priest and climbed into his arms with an exuberant "Father Paul!"
Disentangling her from her happy victim, her mother set the giggling child back down on the floor and turned her around toward the other guest. "There’s someone else you should meet, Caitlin. This is Jarod. He works with Grampa and your mommy."
Caitlin walked seriously around to the other side of the table and thrust out her tiny hand. "Pleased to meet you," she stated with all of the gravity of a state occasion.
Jarod took her hand just as seriously. "The honor is mine."
"Jarod is going to be living in our building now."
Caitlin’s eyes grew wide. "Can you come and help make cookies? Mommy says we need all the hands we can get."
"I’d be happy to help, if you show me how," Jarod responded with a wink.
Suddenly, Caitlin could hold her excitement no longer. "Have you guys seen my Grampa’s trains," she squealed, then spread her arms as wide as they could go. "They’re this big! Grampa even let me push one of the buttons. I have to go tell Gramma!" In a swirl of burgundy and clatter of party shoes, she raced off toward the kitchen.
Dinner was served at a beautiful table with Irish linens and Waterford crystal. Even Caitlin had a little wineglass filled with milk. The formality of the table did not, however, put damper on the conversation. Arthur had stories to tell, as did Father Paul. Hannah recounted some of her daughter’s recent antics to the delight of everyone. Jarod watched the family with interest and a little melancholy. Even though Caitlin had lost her father, she had a devoted mother and two grandparents who adored her. He longed silently for his own memories of Thanksgivings past.
Coach D’amico had his hands full over the next three days. The annual "Turkey Tourney" was to be held Saturday and Sunday at St. Bonaventure. As the hosting team, he and the players spent all of Friday practicing plays and developing strategy, hoping to at least avoid being forced out in the first round. Jarod helped out where he could, sitting on the bench and offering moral support when his aid was not needed. Once again, John Dawson was to be found sitting in the bleachers, watching, analyzing, groaning when a play did not come off well but rarely cheering when one did.
Sunday night, after the final game, which did not include St. Bonaventure’s team, after the screaming girlfriends and families, bouncing cheerleaders and exhausted players had all gone home, Jarod remained in his shared office. He had seriously studied the other teams, the way they were coached, coaxed or cajoled, and he was making some notes to use next week. In the back of his mind, he realized that there was a sound coming from what should have been an empty gym. It took a moment for recognition to set in, then he went out to investigate.
Two pools of light could be seen on the hardwood court, each illuminating the rim and the key beneath it. At the far end, Jarod saw a figure gracefully throwing a series of balls at the hoop, making almost every shot, rebounding the few that missed and putting them up once again. The fact that he was dressed in jeans and pushed up long sleeves did not seem to limit his ability. Jarod observed for a few minutes before he picked up a ball himself and dribbled it slowly toward the other end of the court.
John Dawson looked back when he heard the sound of the other ball but turned his attention back to his shooting almost immediately.
The younger man watched as Jarod sent the ball flying from the top of the key, bouncing off the backboard and through the net. For a moment he saw a pleasantly surprised expression steal across Jarod’s features. "You look like you never made a basket before."
Catching the pass that came with the comment, Jarod set himself up for another shot from a different area. "Theoretically, it should be a simple matter of geometry, " he started, then watched as his shot bounced of the backboard and off to the left, "but there’s more to it that that."
John grabbed the loose ball once again and sank a perfect long shot from the side. He picked up another ball and passed it back without looking. "My dad said that you had to have a sixth sense, a feel for the ball. You either have it, or you don’t, just like art. Some people will be great at art, some of them will do it just because they enjoy it."
"You look like you’ve got that sixth sense."
Two more shots went through the hoop before the younger man replied. "Maybe."
"Coach says that you played up until last year, that you really made a difference on the team."
The only sound was the bouncing of the ball and an occasional swish of the net.
"They could use you this year, too. If you had been playing, the school certainly would have gotten further in the tournament."
A ball glanced off the rim and through, then bounced off toward the bleachers. Neither man walked after it, instead, the youth’s hostile eyes met Jarod’s, their cynicism matched in his voice. "And why should I care? I don’t need to play so that some other kid can say he won a stupid game." He walked off the court, grabbing his leather jacket from the bleachers as he headed toward the door.
Monday morning brought Hal Brockton and one of his ever-present cigars to Jarod’s office. He closed the door behind him and settled into the chair opposite the desk, immediately lighting up.
"I heard you had dinner with the old man on Thursday." He inhaled repeatedly to keep the cigar lit. "You must be doing somethin’ right to get an invitation like that so soon."
"Actually," Jarod looked up with a smile from the pleasant memory, "I wasn’t doing anything, that’s what got me the invitation."
"I imagine ‘Ms. Braun’" he said the name with venom, "was there. It’s amazing that after all she did to this firm, she still has the old man tied around her little finger. Granted, I feel sorry for her, her husband getting killed and all, but realistically, its not like she’s real family to him. Look what he’s already done, keeping her on after the lawsuit, creating that so called secretarial job for her just to keep her around, I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think there was some hanky-panky going on, you know what I mean." He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially.
Jarod leaned forward over his desk, ignoring the implied meaning. Something in Brock’s words had caught his attention. "Are you saying that she’s just a secretary, she isn’t an architect?"
Brockton sat back in his chair and waved his cigar through the air. "See what I mean, there she goes again, always puttin’ on airs. She didn’t bother to tell you that she’s the old man’s secretary, no, she’d rather go on pretending she’s still the heir to the throne. That conniving witch drives me nuts!" He straightened up again and lowered his voice. "Listen, buddy, since no one else seems to have told you the scoop, let me tell you just what happened.
"The court found her negligent in the accidental death of a construction worker, they said that her design was inherently but not obviously flawed. The firm’s insurance company had to pay up big time. The judge demanded that she stop practicing as part of the settlement, so old soft heart Coneely invents a job to keep her around, probably pays her the same as when she was half an asset instead of the drain she is now. This place was two steps from corporate death, but Ms. Braun had to have her cushy job, didn’t she? At least she can’t take over the place when the old man dies, the court saw to that."
Jarod shook his head. "I had no idea." He thought about Hannah’s about her circumstances, her small apartment, the manager’s position, her slightly out-of-date wardrobe. Suddenly things began to make sense and he was sure that Brock was wrong. From his short association with her, Jarod knew that there was no way she would have accepted her architects pay from Arthur, her pride and her sense of fairness would not allow it. She had obviously taken drastic pay cut to continue to work in the office, but as an architect no longer able to practice, had she had any choice?
"Oh, it was strictly hush-hush," Brock continued. "It’s not like we wanted the papers to know she was still on the payroll. Clients were already nervous; knowing she was still around probably would have been the final straw. She did manage to keep to the background for a while, made herself conspicuously absent when people stopped by." He stood and walked toward the door. "You know, I’ve been working for one guy or another for over twenty-five years and I thought I had seen everything, but I’d never seen special treatment like that. As far as I’m concerned, the only good thing that has happened here in the last eighteen months is a regular guy like you coming along and taking her old office. That’s gotta get her right in her overblown ego." He walked out the door chuckling to himself, trailing cigar smoke and contempt.
Jarod was just walking in the front door of the apartment building when he saw Hannah and Caitlin retrieving their mail from the tiny silver boxes along the wall. Hannah looked up from the pile of envelopes with a look of pleasant surprise. "I didn’t expect to see you here. I was beginning to wonder why you rented the place at all, you never seem to be home."
"The team I help coach didn’t have practice tonight," Jarod explained. "They had a tough weekend and the head coach gave them a night off."
"Oh, that’s nice." She paused just longer than was comfortable, and then Caitlin blurted out "We made turkey soup. Do you want some?"
Hannah hushed the little girl. "I’m sure Jarod has something a little more interesting planned for his night off, sweetie."
"Actually, I don’t have any dinner plans." He crouched down in front of Caitlin. "I’d love to try your turkey soup."
Instantly, a tiny hand grabbed Jarod’s and began to tow him down the hall. "I think you’ll really like it," she started to explain. "We put carrots and peas and really big noodles in it."
Half an hour later, they were sitting around the chrome and wood table that was a staple in all of the units. Hannah had added colorful woven placemats to the tabletop and bright cushions to the rather utilitarian chairs. Caitlin sat on a booster seat, securely strapped in.
Hannah ladled steaming hot soup into each of their bowls, admonishing her daughter to wait until it was cool, then picked up a basket with thick slices of bread. "Thank you for sharing dinner with us tonight," she added, as she passed the basket to Jarod.
"I should be thanking you. It’s been a while since I had homemade soup."
Hannah buttered a piece of bread and handed it to Caitlin. "Well, I want you to know that I appreciate it. Not every man cares to sit down to dinner with a three year old."
Jarod glanced at the little girl, who was very seriously blowing on a spoonful of the thick soup. "I don’t think I could turn down an invitation from her."
A look of pride grew on Hannah’s face as she watched her daughter. "She is pretty cute, isn’t she?" she beamed.
As they ate, Jarod glanced around the apartment. There were preschool drawings and projects taped to the refrigerator or scattered around on walls and doors that he had missed seeing the day before. Caitlin was obviously a prolific artist. There were also a number of photographs on shelves and on the desk, mostly of the previous years of the little girl’s life.
Next to desk, under a cast-off sweater, Jarod could see the slanted top of a drafting table. He nodded his head toward it. "That’s a good idea. I should get one of those in my apartment to work on things at night."
Hannah glanced up to see what he was referring to, then looked back down at the spoon in her hand. There was a longer pause than he expected while she finished the soup she had spooned up. When she spoke, her voice strained to sound nonchalant. "You can use that one if you like. I can help you move it."
"No," Jarod protested, his appraising eyes never leaving her downcast face. "That’s not necessary. Besides, where would you work?"
Hannah continued to concentrate on her dinner for a moment as she steeled herself. She looked up, forcibly cheery. "I’m sorry, I guess no one told you. I’m Arthur’s assistant, I’m not an architect." The unspoken "anymore" hung in the air.
"Well, thanks for the offer. We’ll wait and see if I need to do that much work at home."
"Mommy said that we’re going to play ‘Go Fish’ after supper," Caitlin burst out, thankfully breaking the awkward moment.
"’Go Fish.’" Jarod repeated. "You’re going fishing after dinner?"
The little girl giggled. "No, silly, with cards!"
"Caitlin’s quite the little card shark, Jarod. I suggest you think about it before you decide to get into a game with her."
Jarod regarded the two. Hannah had a half-grin and a teasing twinkle in her eyes, her daughter’s face was filled with innocent pride and wide-eyed hopefulness.
"I’m not sure I know how to play."
"I can teach you while Mommy cleans up supper!" The little girl bounced in her seat until her mother placed a pacifying hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, thanks, sweetheart," Hannah responded with gentle sarcasm.
Tuesday evening, John Dawson was in his usual place. Even after his hostile encounter with Jarod two days before, he chose to sit on the bleachers, this time actually closer to the bench than usual. Jarod nodded a silent acknowledgement at him.
After watching the other teams over the weekend, Jarod had come up with what he thought was a fairly comprehensive training regime designed to increase the teams overall stamina and give them an edge over some of the teams with more raw talent. He wasn’t sure whether he would be around to see the fruits of his, or rather, their labor, but he was sure that if they followed his advice, by the end of the season and hopefully the play-offs, they would be ready to play a full four quarters with any of the other high school teams. The drill was easy to master; it was the repetitions that would make the difference. Having started all of the players (and Coach D’amico) on the exercises, he retired to the office.
From his black bag he took out the tools he would need, this time quite different from the whistle and rope he had originally brought to the school. As he pulled on his dark leather jacket, he pushed the electronic skeleton key into one pocket, the wire cutters into another.
The late afternoon was already dark, that much better for the task he had in mind. The school parking lot was scattered with a variety of vehicles ranging from the mini-vans of some of the teachers to the customized cars of a few of the students. In the corner of the lot, a late-model black sports car sat low on its tires, its windows tinted dark. Jarod strode casually up to the driver’s side, placing the small electronic box along side the digital lock. Within seconds, he heard a satisfying pop as the door unlocked. Taking a last look around, he opened the door and slid inside.
The car was well appointed with stereo, CD player, even a car phone. Jarod doubted that any of the other cars in the lot were worth as much as this one. He leaned under the steering wheel and reached below the dash to pull down a cluster of wires. Searching through the multicolored bundle, he found the wire he was searching for and deftly cut it near the firewall, then tucked the cluster back under the dash. He closed the car door, re-locking it, and walked swiftly back toward his office. The whole episode had taken less than three minutes.
Back in the gym, the boys on the court were halfway through the reps that their conditioning coach had assigned, and looking ready for relief. Bored with the exercises, John Dawson leaned back on the bleachers and thumbed through a sports magazine. Jarod allowed himself a private moment of satisfaction.
After Coach D’amico’s basketball drills, most of the boys were too exhausted to do anything but shower and find a way home. Jarod waited patiently in his office until everyone was finished, then donned his jacket, grabbed his bag and headed for the parking lot.
Four boys clustered around John Dawson’s black sports car, the hood raised as one of them tried in vain to start it. Jarod drove his own car toward them, pulled up nearby and stepped out.
"Looks like you’re having problems. Anything I can help with?"
Three of the boys mumbled under the hood while John jumped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the car door. "It won’t start. It’s a piece of-"
His expletive was cut off by the horn of the school bus that pulled into the lot. Apologizing, the other three boys ran off to catch it.
Jarod leaned over the engine compartment and checked the battery connection. "It’s not the battery, is it getting gas?"
The younger man leaned against the side of the car sullenly. "I don’t know. It’s a new car, it’s supposed to run." He glanced over to the bus, now pulling out of the driveway and cursed. "Now I have to call my mom to get me. This totally sucks."
"Well, I can give you a lift if it’ll help out."
John looked over the German sedan, sighed and sulked over to the passenger’s side. Once inside, he told Jarod which direction to head as they left the school.
"You’ve got a nice car." Jarod said.
"When it runs."
"How’d you get it? I mean, most of the other kids here can’t afford that kind of car."
John stared out the side window. "My dad was killed in a accident. We got a load of money off of the insurance company."
There was silence for a mile until the younger man pointed the way onto a highway, then the silence returned. They turned again into a growing subdivision and pulled into the driveway of a modest but obviously new house. A motion sensor turned on the lights outside the garage.
"Hey, thanks for the ride. I appreciate it."
"No problem." Jarod watched as the teen fidgeted in the passenger’s seat, but did not open the door. He waited quietly.
"Listen," John said, his eyes avoiding the older man’s. "I’m sorry about how I acted to you on Sunday. I just don’t like being hassled about playing ball."
Jarod waved his apology away. "Is that your mom?"
A middle-aged woman walked out of the front door as the two men climbed out of the car. She wrapped a sweater around herself as she walked out to the driveway.
"John," she called. "Where’s your car? Is everything all right?"
"I’m fine, Mom. My car wouldn’t start at school so Coach Johnson gave me a lift home. I didn’t want to make you come and get me."
"Oh, okay." She turned toward Jarod and he could see her face in the light of the garage light. She looked like a woman who had been doing too much worrying about her son over the last few years. "Thank you Mr. Johnson."
"Please, call me Jarod."
"Well, Jarod, can I invite you in for something to drink, to show our appreciation?"
Jarod accepted and was shown into the kitchen. There he was seated at the table with a requested glass of water while John left the room to call a car repair shop.
"I’m so glad you were there to give John a lift," his mother explained. "I had a woman come in for a perm just before closing and I didn’t want to turn her away. I wouldn’t have been home when John called."
Her son came back into the room and caught the last part of her sentence. "I don’t know why you do that, Mom. Make one of the other girls stay, hell, you own the place."
"John, watch your language! And that’s precisely why I stayed, because I do own the place. The customer’s are my responsibility, besides, I enjoy my work, and she was a perfectly delightful woman."
John rolled his eyes and left with the phone book.
His mother shook her head. "I worry about him. I’ve tried to bring him up with the right values, but for so long we just scraped by. Now that we can afford things, it’s hard to say no. Still, I wish he appreciated things a little more."
"It’s hard at that age, without a father." Jarod’s voice held the wisdom of experience. "Anyway, thanks for the water. I should be going now."
She led him to the door and thanked him once again. "I’m sure John appreciates it, too."