ALENE AND HER PRINCIPAL came out of the beautiful old redbrick hotel with carved stonework onto the street a block east of Union Station in downtown Denver. This was in the following winter now. They had seen each other for a year whenever they could. It was late in the afternoon, almost evening, the light beginning to change along the street, darkening, a soft winter twilight. People were walking along the sidewalk, going home or heading to the taverns for a drink. She walked with her arm in his arm, a tall thin young woman still, pretty, still dark haired. Snow was piled up at the curbs but it didn’t feel cold out. They crossed the street and walked down to the middle of the next block and stopped in front of the restaurant. It was all brightly lit inside.
You’re sure about this, he said.
I want her to meet you.
She’s not going to like it. You know that. How could she?
Yes, but I want her to know that I’m not alone.
If that’s what you want.
He opened the door and they stepped into the warm café. The headwaiter met them at the front. Two? he said.
We’re meeting someone, Alene said. She may be here already.
Yes, she said you would be coming. She’s back here. Will you follow me?
He led them through the big room of dining tables that were set with clear water glasses and shining silverware and white napkins on the white tablecloths. They followed him into the next room to the table where Willa was seated near the wall. She looked well dressed and sure of herself, a woman in her early fifties then, iron gray hair and the eyeglasses that were not bifocals yet. The waiter led them to her table. Here you are, madam.
She looked up at them. The waiter left.
Mother, this is John Kelly. This is my mother, Willa Johnson.
How do you do.
The principal held the chair for Alene and she sat down beside her mother and he sat across from her.
I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, he said.
No. Not very long.
The waiter, a different one, came to the table with menus and asked if they wanted to order drinks. Willa ordered white wine and Alene and the principal each asked for red wine. The waiter wrote in a little pad and went away.
I believe I’ve been told that you’re a high school administrator, Willa said.
Yes. That’s right.
Where is the school?
North of here. In a little town along the Front Range.
I notice you don’t say the name.
I could tell you, he said. But it won’t matter.
To me or to you?
I was thinking it wouldn’t matter to you and might only cause problems for me.
Because you’re married.
He looked at Alene then at her mother. Yes, he said. That’s right. Because I’m married.
At least you don’t hide it anyway, Willa said.
Do you mean from your daughter?
From her. Or from me.
I don’t think I would do that. I might do other things. But I wouldn’t keep that from Alene. There are enough secrets already.
Your wife doesn’t know, of course.
No. She doesn’t. I wouldn’t be here if she knew.
Do you have children?
Yes. Two girls.
How old are they?
They’re ten and eight.
Just young girls.
Yes. Innocent young girls, if that’s what you mean.
Do you love them?
What do you think?
The waiter came with their drinks on a tray and a plate of bread and butter and set them out on the table and took their dinner orders.
I was a teacher myself, Willa said. A long time ago, before I married Alene’s father.
What did you teach?
This was out in a country school in South Dakota. I had five grades all at the same time, all subjects. Then I fell in love and after I got married I found out that my husband didn’t want me to work outside the home. He wanted me there with him. I hadn’t understood that before I married him. People didn’t divorce then, so I gave up my career. I never went back.
I’d guess you were a good teacher.
Yes, I was. I was very good.