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Maybe there was something she could do for him? Give him a step up to a job that would pay more than the minimum wage a crossing guard made. She knew a lot of people and—
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Brian didn’t make the team.”
KIRK CHANDLER WAS the crossing guard’s name. She’d read it on the paper Blake had brought for her to sign the night before.
He was a nice guy. It was obvious he had a real affection for kids. She’d go see Mr. Chandler, explain the situation and he’d let Brian on the team. Valerie was so certain of that she sent Blake to school with the signed form in his book bag. And told both boys to show up for practice that afternoon. Everything would be fine.
She’d promised them.
The school’s lunchroom was cavernous without the cacophony of sound and movement created by hundreds of young people with half an hour of freedom in the middle of the day. She’d only been there once before, when Blake had forgotten a science report that counted for fifty per cent of his grade, and she’d had to run home between calendars, get the report and meet him during his lunch break to give it to him.
Though there were still several people milling about—a few lingering kids, a janitorial crew pulling large trash cans on wheels from table to table, some cafeteria workers—she spotted Kirk Chandler right away. Dressed in blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he was over in a far corner of the room, engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation.
With Abraham Billings.
Not wanting the boy to see her, she backed up and waited until he’d left the room before approaching her sons’ basketball coach.
“Mr. Chandler?”
He turned immediately.
“Mrs. Simms.”
Completely out of character, Valerie hesitated for the briefest moment to take the hand he held out, but that moment was long enough to make her feel self-consciously foolish. His skin was warm, the size of his palm making her feel small, fragile. His grip was firm.
“Ms. Simms,” she said. “I’m Ms., not Mrs.”
Great, Val, any other imbecile remarks you’d like to throw out there?
“Blake and Brian went back to class half an hour ago. Were you looking for someone?” he asked, his eyes alight with appreciation. Probably because of the figure-enhancing black pantsuit she was wearing.
“Yes. You.” She walked beside him to the door of the cafeteria. “I wanted to speak with you before basketball practice this afternoon.”
“I’m on playground duty next door at the elementary school in a couple of minutes,” he said, starting slowly down the hall. “We can talk there.”
His voice was…calming. Masculine, but
not too deep. Smooth without being smarmy.
“What does playground duty entail?” She could easily see him out there shooting baskets with the boys. Or refereeing a game of Red Rover.
The clacking of her heels seemed inordinately loud against the tile floor.
“A lot of standing, mostly,” he said, sending her a sideways grin as they walked.
The halls were deserted, quiet, as they passed one classroom door after another, all of them closed. Still, with the low ceilings and colorful banners placed every few feet on the walls, the air felt a bit close.
“You don’t organize activities?”
“Not for recess. The kids aren’t out long enough. We’re just there to make sure no one leaves. And that they don’t kill each other.”
Sounded like a boring job for someone with so much intelligence shining from his eyes.
And yet she was drawn to the way this man who had apparently dedicated his life to serving children.
