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“Yes,” Abby said, “there is, but you’re in no mood to hear it. Just remember that things aren’t always as they appear.”
“Good-bye, Abby,” he responded. “And next time don’t bother calling me unless—”
Abby stalked across the room and threw open the door. “Next time I won’t,” she said with a cutting edge.
Reaction set in the minute the door slammed behind him. Abby was so angry that pacing the floor did little to relieve it. How could Logan say he loved her in one breath and turn around and storm out the next? Yet he’d done exactly that.
Once the anger dissipated, Abby began to tremble and she felt the tears burning for release. Pride demanded that she forestall them. She wouldn’t allow Logan to reduce her to that level. She shook her head and kept her chin raised. I won’t cry, I won’t cry, she repeated over and over as one tear after another slid down her cheeks.
—
“Who did you say was responsible for the literacy movement?” Tate asked, leafing respectfully through the first book.
“Dr. Frank Laubach. He was a missionary in the Philippines in the 1920s. At that time some of the island people didn’t have a written language. He invented one and later developed a method of teaching adults to read.”
“Sounds like he accomplished a lot.”
Abby nodded. “By the time he died in 1970, his work had spread to one hundred five countries and three hundred thirteen languages.”
Tate continued leafing through the pages of the primary workbook. Abby wanted to start him at the most fundamental skill level, knowing his progress would be rapid. At this point, Tate would need all the encouragement he could get, and the speed with which he completed the lower-level books was sure to help.
Abby hadn’t underestimated Tate’s enthusiasm. By the end of the first lesson he had relearned the alphabet and was reading simple phrases. He proudly took the book home with him.
“Can we meet again tomorrow?” he asked, standing near her apartment door.
“I’ve got my class tomorrow evening,” Abby explained, “but if you like, we could meet for a half-hour before—or after, if you prefer.”
“Before, I think.”
The following afternoon, Tate showed up an hour early, just after she got home from work, and seemed disappointed that Abby would be occupied with softball on Wednesday evening.
“We could get together afterward if you want,” she told him.
Affectionately, Tate kissed her on the cheek. “I want.”
Again she noted that his fondness for her was more like that of a brother—or a pupil for his teacher. She was grateful for that, at least. And he was wonderful to her. He brought over takeout meals and gave her small gifts as a way of showing his appreciation. The gifts weren’t necessary, but they salvaged Tate’s dignity, and that was something she was learning more about every day—male pride.
Abby was dressing for the game Wednesday evening when the phone rang. No longer did she expect or even hope it would be Logan. He’d made his position completely clear. Fortunately, caller ID told her it was her parents’ number.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Abby, I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m fine!” She forced some enthusiasm into her voice.
“Oh dear, it’s worse than I thought.”
“What’s worse?”
“Logan and you.”
“There is no more Logan and me,” she returned.
A strained silence followed. “But I thought—”
“Listen, Mom,” Abby cut in, unwilling to listen to her mother’s postmortem. “I’ve got a game tonight. Can I call you later?”
“Why don’t you come over for dinner?”
