They could never have a future together.
A woman like Raye, with a gift like that, should have a passel of kids. Not only did she deserve them, but the as-yet-to-be-born children deserved her. What they didn’t deserve, what she didn’t, was to be saddled with a man who’d squandered the gift of his own child and was so weakened by the sight of any others that he could barely function.
Right now the joyous sound of their voices, the scent of peanut butter and juice, the whirl of their little bodies made Bobby want to run as fast and as far away as he could. Instead he remained pressed against the wall just inside the door until one little girl saw him and stopped.
Her face lit up. “Hi!”
Bobby’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The kid didn’t mind.
“Whose daddy are you?” she asked.
He ran like the coward he was.
In the hall the cacophony became louder and his ears rang. Several kids bumped into him as he made his way toward the nearest exit and burst outside. He had the sense to check the door, make sure it locked behind him. Then he walked around the entire school and did the same with every single door that he found. He had to say the security was excellent, which made him feel better about wandering to the empty playground and taking a seat on a bench that faced the school.
Bobby was breathing faster than if he’d sprinted five miles. He tried to calm himself, but he didn’t have much luck. He could still see the tops of little heads through the windows. He wanted to close his eyes, turn away, but he had promised to keep Raye safe.
He already had the death of one person he loved on his conscience; he didn’t need two. So he forced his gaze forward, even though his stomach continued to roil and his eyes began to ache. He should probably blink a few times—maybe throw up.
He did the first, managed to avoid the second. The wind kicked up and tumbled leaves over his shoes. Strangely it smelled like rain despite the lack of a single cloud in the sky. He sniffed again, and his skin prickled.
Who was making cinnamon toast?
For an instant the world shimmered behind a veil of tears. Then, oddly, the chill that had washed over him fled. He could still smell rain and cinnamon and sunshine, but his stomach settled, his breathing evened out, and as his gaze touched Raye, who stood at the window of her class, an odd sense of peace came over him.
*
As always, after a weekend apart, the children surrounded me and began to share what they had done. I listened, commented, let them ramble until I heard Carrie’s voice.
Whose daddy are you?
By the time I turned, Bobby was gone.
I went back to what I’d been doing. I didn’t have much choice. I knew better than to leave the kids alone. Even without Stafford—though where he was this morning, I had no idea—there’d be trouble if I went in search of Bobby.
I should have known he wouldn’t go far. Something might be wrong—and I had a pretty good idea what—but nothing could be wrong enough for him to break his promise to keep me safe. Within minutes I saw him sitting alone on the playground. He appeared so wan and sad I wanted to ply him with ginger ale and kisses.
Then he lifted his head. The breeze stirred his hair, and Genevieve appeared on the bench at his side. He drew in a deep breath; his forehead crinkled. For an instant I thought he might cry. Then she leaned her head on his shoulder; his breath rushed out and some of his color returned.
He might say he didn’t believe in ghosts, but he felt them. Or at least he felt her.
“You’re going to have to tell him.”
Both my own and Henry’s reflection appeared in the glass.
Out of the corner of my eye, I checked on the kids. Everyone was doing as I’d asked—writing and/or drawing the story of their weekend to share with one another. I had a few minutes, maybe less.
“Tell him what?” There was so much Bobby didn’t know.
“Her presence has soothed him, and he doesn’t know she’s there. If he did, it might help.”
“Him or her?”
“Both. Maybe if he knew she was all right, he’d be all right too.”
“Then she could move on.”
Henry’s black-clad shoulder lifted and lowered. “She doesn’t belong here.”
“Neither do you.”
“We aren’t talking about me.”
“We will.”
“You aren’t gonna take her away from me.”
Stafford stood on my other side. From his expression he’d heard the whole exchange—or at least enough of it to worry.
I jabbed my finger in his direction. “You will not pull the fire alarm, young man.”
His expression went canny. “You promise not to send Genevieve away?”
I hesitated, but in the end I couldn’t lie to the child, though I probably should have. “I can’t do that.”
Stafford disappeared. I waited for the alarm to shrill. Instead, one of the windows shattered.
The kids started screaming.