Janice Macdonald - Return To Little Hills

“I don’t expect you to stay forever, Sophia. The girls know that, too.”

He stretched his legs out. His oldest daughter, Natalie, was pushing the twins on side-by-side swings. Natalie was eight; Abbie and Kate were four. Delphina, the seven year-old, sat off to one side, her expression wistful. A quiet and solitary child, she seemed always in the shadows of her sisters’ play. He worried about Delphina. He worried about them all. Natalie was saddled with too much responsibility for a child of her age; the twins still sucked their thumbs. Last night, Abbie had wet the bed—the third time in a week.

“Peter—” Sophia knocked on his temple “—are you in there somewhere?”

“Thinking,” he said.

“Not about a sudden sighting of the swallow-tailed thingamajig, I hope.”

“Painted swallowtail.” He grinned. “Actually it was rather unusual to spot one so far north this late in the year…but no, I was thinking about what you were saying. You’ve been an incredible help with the girls, but I do understand that you need to go home.”

“What will you do?”

“Look around for a live-in nanny, I suppose. I’d planned to do that after Deborah died…”

Sophia rubbed his arm.

“I’m fine.”

“Still miss her?”

“Of course.”

“Life goes on, though.”

“Please spare me the homilies, Sophia. I’ll work things out in my own way.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Deborah was always very pragmatic and unsentimental,” he said. “As soon as we knew how ill she was we discussed what would happen with the girls. She was convinced I’d be married within the year. Quite adamant really that I should be married, that it would be better for us all.”

“I always did admire Deborah’s intelligence,” Sophia said. “Pity that her husband is less gifted in that regard.”

Peter shot her a sideways glance.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Peter. Look at that Amelia woman you were so besotted with. The girls didn’t have the foggiest idea what to make of her. And she was obviously quite bewildered by them. Honestly, sometimes I want to grab your shoulders and shake you very, very hard. How could you not have seen that this woman was all wrong for you? It was apparent to me the moment you introduced her.”

“Perhaps you should have warned me.”

“I did.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “Perhaps I should have listened.”

“Why won’t you find a nice woman?”

“Amelia was nice.”

“Amelia was an actress.”

“Actresses can’t be nice?”

“I wouldn’t know firsthand, Peter, my life being considerably less exotic than yours, but Amelia struck me as…a tart.”

“Sophia,” Peter said, “Amelia wasn’t a tart. Perhaps not a candidate for marriage, but not a tart.”

“Well, that’s as may be,” Sophia said darkly. “But why are you drawn only to unsuitable women?”

“Because,” Peter said honestly, “as much as I’d like to meet a woman who could love the girls and create the sort of home Deborah and I had, I want more than a mother replacement. I want to be in love.”

“Of course you do,” Sophia said. “And?”

“And I’ve discovered that I’m not particularly attracted to nice women who want to settle down and have children.”

“Rubbish.” Sophia dismissed the comment with a flap of her hand. “You simply have to put your mind to it. What we need,” she said briskly, “is a plan. Now, wipe that stupid grin off your face and think very carefully. Not about the kind of woman to whom you’ve typically been attracted… We’re looking for wife material. Start naming names. We’re thinking sweet, potentially maternal and absolutely not flighty. Come on, there must be someone at school. Think hard.”

“Betty Jean Battaglio,” he said after five minutes of not very hard thinking.

“Good.” Sophia smiled. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s my secretary,” he said.

Sophia looked dubious. “Hmm. Not always advisable to dip the pen into the company inkwell, as it were, but if you’re discreet… What does she look like?”

“Dark hair, blue eyes. Pictures of cats all over her desk.”

“Loves animals.” Sophia nodded. “Sounds promising. What else?”

“Won a gold medal at the Little Hills fair for her cherry cobbler.”

“Enjoys cooking. Perfect,” Sophia said. “And she’s single?”

“Widowed.”

“Widowed?” Sophia arched an eyebrow. “How old is she?”

“Sixty-five,” Peter said. “We’re in the process of planning her retirement party.”

Sophia gave a snort of disgust. “You’re just not taking this seriously.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter said and, just to prove it, the following morning he called Edie Robinson to invite her to the theater.

“THE THEATER?” When the phone rang, Edie had braced herself for another sisterly self-improvement lecture. Now she sat on the floor in the hallway of her mother’s house talking to Peter Darling. “Let me guess. Madame Butterfly.”

Peter laughed. “No, unfortunately. I don’t think it’s playing anywhere. But will you join me, anyway?” he asked. “Saturday night.”

She shifted the phone to her other ear. Peter’s voice was almost inaudible. “You know what, Peter? I can hardly hear you. Are you whispering or something?”

“Just speaking softly. I’m over at the teen mother center and—”

“Is that where Beth works? Is she there?”

“She’s talking to a student.”

“Can she hear what you’re saying?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why of course not?”

“Because I don’t as a rule broadcast details of my private life. What does my asking you to the theater have to do with Beth, anyway?”

She’s in love with you, Edie thought. Besotted, infatuated, head over heels—at least according to my sister, who also thinks you’re gorgeous and could, of course, be doing a little projecting. God, it was so much easier to fly in and out of trouble spots. Perhaps she should drop a hint to Peter about Beth’s feelings for him. Maybe Beth wouldn’t appreciate it, though. She herself would definitely not appreciate someone intervening on her behalf, especially with a co-worker. Better to say nothing.

“Edie?” Peter said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, I was thinking.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

“No, I’m sorry, Peter. Thank you for asking, but I really can’t.”

“A jealous boyfriend in a safari suit?”

“Safari suit?” She laughed. “You’ve seen too many movies.”

“But a jealous boyfriend nevertheless?”

“Essentially.”

“Perhaps we could take your mother as a chaperon,” he said. “I’ll buy another ticket.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but no. Here’s an idea, though. Beth absolutely loves the theater.”

“Does she?” Peter asked with no discernible enthusiasm. “Hmm.”

Don’t tell me I’ve never done anything to make a difference in someone’s life, Edie thought as she replaced the receiver. And give me some credit for generous self-sacrifice. A night at the theater with Peter Darling has a whole lot of appeal. A whole lot of appeal.

PETER HAD JUST HUNG UP and was nursing his rejection, when Beth Herman dropped by his office with a picture of a butterfly. Beth wanted him to identify the butterfly before she hung the picture in her classroom.

“Hmm.” He lowered his head to peer closely. “It looks rather like Heliconius charithonius. Note the long narrow black-and-yellow stripes on the wing. Although, of course,” he added solemnly, “the charithonius is not exactly indigenous to the state of Missouri.”

“I just assumed they were painted ladies,” Beth said. “But then that’s pretty much the only butterfly I know of.” She turned and retrieved a paper-wrapped package from her tote bag. “A little gift for you.” Her face colored as she handed it to him. “Nothing much. I just saw it and thought of you.”

“How kind.” He smiled at her. Beth had curly brown hair flecked with gray and wore a long gauzy skirt and the sort of knobby woolen cardigan his aunt Beatrice used to knit. Actually, she rather reminded him of his aunt Beatrice—same gentle demeanor and low, patient voice. A thought hit him like a thwack to the side of the head. He took a closer look at Beth. Although not his type, which he supposed was the good news, Beth was really rather…sweetly attractive. He realized he was staring.

Beth, blushing wildly, smiled at him. “Open it,” she said.

He tore through several layers of paper and tissue. Shortly after he’d accepted the position at Luther, the school district had sent over a press-information person to interview him for the newsletter. Foolishly, he’d mentioned his avocation. Now a day didn’t go by in which someone didn’t present him with a butterfly knickknack. His classroom shelves were, embarrassingly, full of the sort of cups, plates and assorted trinkets that had once collected dust in his grandmother’s parlor. What he couldn’t bring himself to mention was that while he derived a great deal of pleasure from observing the insect in its natural habitat, he had no interest at all in painted depictions. Still, he felt quite certain that Sophia would approve of Beth.

As he removed yet another layer of paper, he glanced up briefly to see that Beth had been joined by a couple of other teachers, three students and the school security guard. All were grinning expectantly.

“Ah.” He removed a mug emblazoned with spring blooms and, of course, a dozen or so garishly colored butterflies, none of which bore the faintest resemblance to anything he’d ever seen in nature. “Ah,” he said again.

“What kind are they, Mr. Darling?” one of the students asked.

“Not absolutely certain.” He turned the mug this way and that and frowned as though in deep thought. “Possibly something indigenous to Hong Kong. Intriguing design. Thank you, Beth. You’re very kind.” Perhaps we should have dinner, he thought. With everyone milling around though, it struck him as a less-than-opportune moment to extend an invitation.

“Well…” She smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Absolutely.” He tried to picture Beth with the girls. Perhaps she would draw Delphina out of her shell. He thought she might. “Well,” he said. “Thank you. Again.”

She left then and he relegated his marriage quest to the far recesses of his brain. He spent an hour monitoring the performance of a newly hired English teacher, then headed back to administration. On the way, he encountered several people requiring his attention. A student who assured him she would literally die if she couldn’t get her schedule changed, a math teacher who wanted to explain the failing grade she’d been forced to give, a parent alleging her son was being unfairly singled out for discipline just because he’d dyed his hair blue. Peter listened and nodded and made assurances that he would look into the matter, even as part of his mind was formulating a program to completely redesign the school grounds and provide entry-level job training in landscape design and horticulture for a group of particularly hard-core senior boys.

Throwaways. That was the term often used to describe Luther students—children who, for one reason or another, failed to thrive in their regular high school and transferred to Luther to accrue the credits needed to graduate. The view of Luther High, more commonly known as Loser High, as little more than a way station on the road to a life of drug dealing, petty crime and welfare was surprisingly entrenched. He intended to change all that.