Masquerade (28 page)

Late Monday afternoon Celeste sat in a cubical staring  at  Charlotte  Donovan.   In the background voices

mingled with the clickety-clack of typewriter keys. Nothing fancy about the caseworker’s space. A few pictures pinned to the cloth-covered partition—some actual photographs, others drawn by children. A file cabinet hugged the desk and a coat tree held a white sweater.

“What can you tell me about Lily?” Maybe a question posed with a “what” rather than a “can” would yield results. Celeste straightened, trying to present an air of confidence and authority, although she felt neither.

Charlotte Donovan, dressed in a silk blouse and brown pleated skirt, folded her hands on the metal desk adorned with ink blotter, pen holder, stapler, and a few folders. “You’re a teacher, Mrs. Tatem. Surely you’re aware that I can’t give out information without a good reason to do so, and even then, I can only release to authorized school personnel for specific educational planning purposes. Forms must be filled out and signed.” The woman stuck her sharp chin in the air.

Celeste battled a sinking feeling, but pressed on. “Lily’s school records indicate she was born on July 7, 1976. No biological parents are named. I find that odd.”

Charlotte Donovan cleared her throat, smoothed one thumb over the other. “Why the sudden interest, Mrs. Tatem? You’ve had access to Lily’s cumulative file for some time now.” Horn-rimmed glasses and hair brushed back with a “c” curl on both sides of her forehead, along with bags under her eyes, gave the woman a fierce look. She appeared stuck in the 50s.

“Well, I
am
Lily’s teacher.   More information might

help me teach her better.” She wilted on the inside, fully aware she wasn’t going to chip away at this woman’s allegiance to her work ethics. 

Gazing at Celeste, Charlotte Donovan twisted her mouth. “I see.”

From the wary expression in the caseworker’s eyes, she didn’t.

“There’s no suspicion of abuse or neglect, is there?”

“No, nothing like that.” A suffocating sensation filled Celeste’s lungs. She was losing this round.

“Good. Glad to hear that.” She leveled her dark gaze at Celeste. If eyes could make her leave, Celeste would be gone.

“Mrs. Donovan?”

“Miss.”

“Oh, I’m sorry . . .”

“Don’t be.”

“Do you have any idea the name of the social worker who picked up Lily from Kinser General?”

“As I said, I’m not authorized to release any information to you.” Red splotches appeared on her neck and crept up her jaw line as she swiveled from her desk and stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’m sure you understand.” Miss Donovan scraped neatly-trimmed nails over the blotter.

Celeste would get nowhere with this woman. Time to move on in her search. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Gripping her purse, Celeste rose and offered her hand. “Thank you so much.”

Unraveling the mystery of Lily’s origin was going to be tough with what likely would be many closed doors along the way. Was she up to it? Part of her hoped Lily belonged to her. The other part wanted to run as far away from the thought as possible. Because if Lily was her child she had a lot of explaining to do to a lot of people. Most of all, to Lily.

###

Slack-jawed, Celeste eyed the check in her hand. Five-hundred dollars! Why on earth would Randall Laverty send her that kind of money? Or any money, for that matter? She blinked, read the letter in her other hand, then laid it on the kitchen table. Since he’d survived the fire and Joe didn’t, he wanted to help out. If there was anything else he could do, let him know. Slowly, but surely, he was pulling his life back together, trying to bring some purpose and meaning to the accident. Helping Celeste was one way he could do that.

She dropped into a chair, tried to make sense of this outpouring of generosity. Her thoughts spun off in several directions. Potentially, she could purchase a good used car with this money. Or stick it in her emergency savings fund. No, a car. She really needed a car. In spite of repairs, the Plymouth function was unpredictable. Joe would agree.

Wait a minute—she couldn’t keep this money. She tossed the check on the table as if it were stolen goods. A nagging  ache  stabbed  at  the  back  of her  right eye.  It’d

been a big day, and now this surprise check. Tea and bed, that’s what she needed. Like Scarlett in
Gone With the Wind,
she’d think about her troubles tomorrow. If you could call five-hundred dollars a problem.

###

Friday morning arrived and Celeste hadn’t deposited the check. It still lay on the kitchen table, anchored underneath one of her favorite mugs. Every time she passed the thing, she wondered what to do. She could send it back, or she could give it to Laverty in person. After all, he’d be at the center today volunteering in the preschool classroom. The thought of seeing him churned her stomach.

Meeting Randall Laverty—definitely not a connection she wanted to make. But it seemed the decent thing to do—thank him face-to-face—even though she did plan on returning the money. Facing him might further help her put the past to rest and move on. Still, her arms turned to Jell-O as dread washed over her.

That afternoon on the playground, she spotted a man she deemed to be Laverty. Unless two disfigured men volunteered at Brighton. With great effort, he tied a boy’s sneaker as the sun shone on his bald, scarred head. He rose and folded his arms as the little guy tottered off, ball in hand. She patted her pocket and took a deep breath. The spring air revealed a familiar mix of dust, sweat, and budding Forsythia bushes lined along the back of the building.  

When she started toward Randall, Lily stomped past her headed in the same direction. She stopped and cast a sardonic glance at Celeste. “My legs are always marching in the wong way.”

Celeste smiled and touched the child’s shoulder. “Your legs are doing exactly what they should be doing.”

Lily bounded toward Randall and tugged on his jacket. “You meet my Teacher Tater.” Broad grin sweeping her face, she looked at Laverty, then at Celeste.

Every impulse screamed, “Run,” yet Celeste stepped forward, offered her hand like a robot programmed to perform. When she squeezed his hand, he winced. She opened her mouth to apologize, but she couldn’t speak. Beneath her fingers his skin was rough, unnatural, and foreign. And yet the way he held her hand seemed so, what? Familiar?

For a second, their eyes met, then Randall looked away.

“He like Jesus, Teacher Tater.”

“Oh?” Celeste’s mouth quivered as she tried to form a smile.

“Yeah, scars.”

Mark plodded over. “That’s so bogus, Lily.”

Golden Girl buried her cheek in her shoulder.

Celeste frowned. “Mark, be nice or don’t say anything at all.”

Mark’s face turned as red as his hair. He peered over his thick glasses.

“Now, what do you need, Mark?”

A  ball  darted  toward Lily, and  Randall stopped it

with his foot. Mark lunged for the ball, but Randall grabbed it before the boy could take it. “Looking for this, eh?” His dark eyes, though bloodshot, twinkled as a slight grin deepened a scar around his mouth. “I’ve been watching you. Play fair, take turns, and you can have it back.” He spun the ball around in his hand out of Mark’s reach.

That had to hurt. Was he showing off for her benefit?

Mark slapped his thighs. “Okay, okay.”

“All right.” Randall tossed him the ball, and the boy lumbered off to rejoin Luke.

“Thank you. Guess I’m slipping on the job. Besides, time to get these kids corralled and back inside.” She scrutinized Lily. The child’s arm hugged Laverty’s leg. Lily held an odd attraction to this man. “Oh, but first”—she slipped her hand into her sweater pocket and retrieved the check—“This was unbelievably gracious of you, but I can’t accept it. Please understand.”

Randall stared at the folded check, then gently pushed her hand back. “Joe would want you to keep it.”

She shook her head. Joe had been a proud man. Would he want her to accept money from someone else?

“Trust me on that one . . . please,” Randall said.

Something about his tone carved away any uncertainty she harbored about the gift. Something deep and true and honorable. Something she hadn’t sensed in a man since Joe.

She inched the check back into her pocket and nodded. Lily now holding her hand, Celeste turned to call

her students.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Pizza and some TV? How ‘bout it?” Don’s voice teased over the phone line. “Great way to start the weekend.”

She could tell him her social calendar was full, but that’d be a lie. And a laugh. Clearly, Don was pursuing her. A thrill skipped up her spine.
Keep a level head, Celeste.

Maybe he could help her since he was a doctor. He’d know about release of records and all that, wouldn’t he?

“Okay, sounds good. You bring the pizza. I’ll add the salad and drinks.” Celeste stretched the phone cord to the refrigerator and peered inside. Head of lettuce, a couple tomatoes, and a few carrots. That would work.

“Great! I’ll be over within the hour.”

After they exchanged good-byes, Celeste rummaged through the fridge. Halfway through her preparations, she glanced at her clothing. A fresh change. That’s what she needed. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and dashed to the bedroom.

Hangers zipped across the closet rod as she examined slacks, skirts, and shirts. Something nice, but not   too   elegant   for a   stay-at-home  date.   Casual   and 

modest. She didn’t want him to think she was coming on to him. She finally settled on a pair of black khaki pants and a burgundy soft knit sweater with silk collar and a ribbon that tied at the throat. Just the right touch of femininity.

Dressed, with hair and make-up refreshed, she darted back to the kitchen. She glanced at the clock. He’d be here any minute. A flutter passed through her stomach. Grabbing the knife, she resumed her chopping, then tossed all the salad ingredients into a wooden bowl. A cinnamon candle flickered on the table.
Hope that’s not too much. Relax, Celeste, you want the house to smell nice. That’s all.
When she checked the freezer to make sure she had enough ice, a rush of cold air hit her in the face.

Her stomach flip-flopped when she heard a knock on the back door. She pressed a hand to her abdomen and mentally urged her nerves to calm down. The aroma of tomato sauce and cheese wafted into the house when she opened the door and greeted Don.

              He wore neatly-pressed slacks with a polo shirt and leather jacket, collar turned up. The jacket made a soft crinkle sound when he set the box on the table and opened the lid. “Hope you like peppers, onions, and mushrooms.”

              “Smells wonderful.” She always gave Joe the onions since they didn’t seem to settle too well in her stomach and he liked them so much. Tonight, she’d make herself eat them.

              “Okay then.” Bouncing on his heels, he seemed in a hurry. Probably debriefing from a week of work.

              “I have the TV trays set up in the living room.” She added the salad, plates, cups, and forks to the table. “Water or Coke?”

              “What, no wine?”

              “Sorry.”

              “You should have mentioned it when we were on the phone. I could have picked something up.” He smacked his hands together. “I’ll take Coke.”

              Not much verbal banter during supper. Mostly laughter at Boss Hog’s antics during an episode of
The Dukes of Hazzard
. It felt so good to laugh again with a man by her side. Later, during an argument between J.R. and Bobby on
Dallas,
Don slipped his arm around Celeste’s shoulders. She tensed, afraid to breathe. Was it right to crave the closeness? An occasional comment passed between them. Stuff about the sprawling South Fork ranch and the powerful Ewing family dynasty.

The show over, Celeste slipped from underneath Don’s arm and snapped off the television.

“I suppose it is getting late,” he said, rubbing his legs.

              “Don, do you remember . . . in college?” She faced him, not willing to sit and be close. Not sure she even should.