Elissa Ambrose – A Mother's Reflection (страница 3)

“Just ignore him,” Doreen said, dismissing him with a wave. “He always gets delusional when he’s irritated. The truth is, my Roger could whip this boy thirty years ago, and he still can today.” She laughed when Rachel threw her a confused glance. “My husband and I were friends with Adam’s parents,” she explained. “These days, I’m kind of a second mother to him.”

Doreen seemed like a genuinely warm person, and Rachel felt herself relaxing. “He’s lucky to have two mothers,” she bantered back. “A man needs all the sound advice he can get.”

A silence fell as quickly as a late-summer fog, and Adam’s face paled.

What did I say? Rachel thought. She looked at the older woman for guidance, but Doreen’s unsmiling face was as sober as Adam’s.

“I’ll let you two get down to business,” Doreen said quietly. Then, just as quickly as it had faded, her smile reappeared, as welcoming as the sun breaking through a cloud. “Good luck, dear. I’m rooting for you.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Rachel said after Doreen had shut the door behind her. “How long has she been gone?”

“My mother is not gone. And she’s not going anywhere, now or for a long time to come.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wessler,” Rachel apologized again. “I just assumed—”

“Adam,” he corrected. “Call me Adam. I, for one, would like to go back to the time when employees addressed their superiors as Mr. or Mrs. Unfortunately those days are gone.”

He was pompous, all right. If his ego were any more bloated, he could run for king. And what was this thing about his mother? Evidently the well-composed Adam Wessler had issues. Issues the P.I. had overlooked. Which was odd, she thought, considering how detailed the P.I. had made his report. Several pages described Megan’s life—school, hobbies, friends—right down to her favorite flavor of soda. More pages contained similar information about Adam, although, Rachel conceded, his favorite flavor of soda was more than she wanted or needed to know.

“Ms.,” she said curtly.

“Excuse me?”

“The appropriate term is Ms. There’s no legal basis for an employer to know a prospective employee’s marital status.” She knew she was treading close to the line—he had the power to make or break her future—but, oh, he was so infuriating!

“Ms. Hartwell, let me assure you I don’t give a hoot about your marital status. I was merely trying to point out that it is perfectly fine for you to address me by my first name. In fact, it’s preferred. One of the center’s main goals is to reflect the community, and that includes its values. You know what I mean—apple pie, babies in strollers, Boy Scouts helping elderly women cross the street. One big happy family. It’s the kind of Pollyanna image we’re trying to promote.”

“I take it you don’t agree with this philosophy?”

He looked vexed. “It’s of no importance whether or not I agree. Now, shall we get started, Ms. Hartwell?”

“Rachel,” she corrected. “One big happy family, remember?”

He looked at her sternly for one hard moment, and then an unexpected grin washed across his face, catching her off guard.

She drew in a sharp breath. His whole austere demeanor had vanished, just like that. How could something as simple as a smile, just two lips curling up at the corners, completely transform a face?

And it was such a charming smile. He looked almost boyish, completely unlike the photographs back in her room at the inn.

This time he was the one to extend a hand. “What do you say we start again? I’m Adam Wessler, the arrogant, obnoxious director of this wonderful new establishment.”

“Rachel Hartwell,” she answered back, returning his handshake. She’d once read that a handshake told a lot about a person’s character. His was warm…protective…

She realized she had been holding on too tightly, and feeling the color rise in her face, tore her hand away. “You’re not that obnoxious,” she joked in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

He let out a hearty roar. “Finally we’re agreed on something. Have a seat, Rachel Hartwell, and we’ll get down to business. Sorry about the folding chairs. As you can see, not all the furniture has arrived yet.” He sat down beside her. “Why don’t you start by telling me a little about yourself?”

“You don’t have my résumé? I have extras. Here, let me—”

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “I have your résumé. I know what it says. I want you to tell me something I don’t know. Something about the kind of person you are. It’s not such an unreasonable request.”

What could she tell him that wasn’t on her résumé? After years of working and studying she’d finally earned her degree, and since then she’d been teaching at a private school in Hartford. Her résumé also described her active involvement in musical and children’s theater. Wasn’t she what a community-based job required? A well-rounded, involved person? What else did he need to know? “I don’t understand,” she said with trepidation.

No longer smiling, he said, “I’ll give you a hint. You can start by telling me why you want to teach here.”

“I’ve always loved kids,” she began slowly. “And musical theater. So it was only natural that I would want to pursue a career that involved both.” When he didn’t respond, she felt her panic rising. What could she say that wouldn’t give away her secret? She had to think of something. She had to land this job. And then she remembered the winter scene hanging on the wall in the corridor. The painting wasn’t only about the joys of childhood; it was about the joys of small-town living. “There’s something else.”

“And that is…?”

“I’m tired of the city. I find it too large, too impersonal. I want to live in a small, old-fashioned community. Like you said earlier, apple pie, that sort of thing. You know what I mean, where everyone knows everyone’s business.” As long as no one finds out mine, she thought.

“You seem to have developed a few notions,” he said testily. “It’s true that we’re a close-knit group, but we’re not a bunch of hicks. We nurture the same interest in the arts as do the larger cities, and we don’t take well to being patronized.”

“You don’t understand. I wasn’t—”

“Tell me what makes Rachel Hartwell tick.”

What was he getting at? What could she say that would persuade him to hire her? Then it dawned on her. He was talking about character. “I sent you a list of references. Didn’t you receive it with my résumé?”

None of the people on the list knew anything about her past. Equally important, the school where she taught was closed for the summer. She didn’t want anyone there to know she might not be returning. At this point it wouldn’t be wise to burn her bridges behind her. Eventually Adam would want to speak to someone regarding her most recent employment, but verification would have to wait until fall. By then, if everything went as planned, it wouldn’t matter.

But if her plan failed, she would return to Hartford. She couldn’t remain in Middlewood, knowing that Megan was so close yet so out of reach. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life looking around every corner, down every street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her daughter, living solely for those moments.

“You still don’t get it,” Adam said, his gaze boring into her. “I want you to tell me why I should give you this job. Give me one good, concrete reason.”

She tried to think of a reply that would please him yet be true to her ideals. “I know what it’s like to have a dream,” she said finally. “I also know what it’s like to have no one to help you nurture that dream. Some children want to be doctors, some firefighters. I wanted to be a skater—but competition was out of the question. Everyone knows how expensive that route is, and now, of course, I’m too old to compete. But if I can make a difference in someone’s life, if I can help a child realize his or her dream, then I’ll feel as if I’ve succeeded.”

The words she spoke were true. All her life she’d had a need to nurture. When she was small, she’d brought home every stray cat in the neighborhood, and when she was older, she’d gone out of her way to take the side of the underdog. Her mother used to chide her endlessly. “Lie down with dogs and you’ll get up with fleas,” she used to say.

“You realize that working here would mean a decrease in salary,” Adam said, glancing at her résumé. “This is a community center, not a private school.”

“I want to work in a more liberal environment,” she said honestly. She wasn’t thrilled about taking a cut in pay—paying rent on two apartments would be expensive and the months ahead would be lean—but she was looking forward to working in a more relaxed environment. She was tired of the senseless customs, the strict dress code, the arbitrary rules imposed by the school where she taught. “Besides,” she added, “there are benefits. For example, the arena. I still love skating, even though it’s no longer my life dream. And it’s not as rushed here in Middlewood as it is in the city.” This time she was careful not to use the term old-fashioned. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The interview wasn’t going as she expected. He was supposed to ask her a few perfunctory questions and get on with it, but the closed look on his face told her he didn’t buy what she was saying. Anyone with half a mind could see that she was perfect for the job. What was he getting at?