The 39-Year-Old Virgin Read online

  Releasing her mother’s hands, she grabbed her purse and the small briefcase she’d packed and repacked twice last night. In it was the lesson plan she’d come up with as well as the curriculum the principal had given her after her interview had ended. At the time, he’d told her that there was no need for him to continue conducting his search for a replacement. As far as he was concerned, he’d found the person he was looking for.

  Being hired on the spot did wonders for her self-esteem, which at that point was in danger of wavering, moving about like a flag in the wind.

  Claire paused to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Nancy’s going to look in on you today,” she informed her. “And be sure you have something to eat,” she added.

  Margaret looked listless, as if she’d lost the reason to live. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Not now, later.”

  “I won’t be hungry later.”

  Nope, this wasn’t going to be easy at all. How could she have forgotten how stubborn her mother could be? “Okay, I’ll tell Nancy to force-feed you.”

  “So I can be struck down on a full stomach,” Margaret murmured as she stood by the door.

  “All the best people usually are,” Claire agreed cheerfully, hoping to joke her mother out of the dour mood she’d descended into. “And tonight, when I come home, you and I are going to the movies.” Whatever work she had to do to prepare for tomorrow, she could do after her mother fell asleep.

  Her words garnered her a half smile from her mother.

  Some way, somehow, Claire promised herself as she closed the front door and raced to the vintage vehicle in the driveway, she was going to find a way to make her mother accept her decision and come around.

  Her first week went by far more smoothly than she’d anticipated. Though it had been a while since she’d taught, her last assignment taking full advantage of her nursing skills rather than her teaching abilities, the joy of working with young minds came flooding back.

  Admittedly, the children she’d been assigned were quietly feeling her out. They didn’t challenge her so much as they explored her boundaries, seeing if she was going to be very strict, the way Mrs. Butterfield had been, or a pushover, like their last substitute had turned out to be.

  Claire was determined to fall somewhere in between the two.

  Her experience, both with unruly students and with eager ones, had more than prepared her for her job. Right from the start, she made it clear that she was going to care about them, not as a class, but as individuals. She’d learned their names within the first half hour. She wanted to get to know each and every one of them, their likes, their dislikes, what they wanted to learn and what they had trouble learning.

  In exchange for this information, she told them that it was only fair for them to get to know her. So just before recess on the first day, she threw open the floor and told them that they could ask her questions about herself.

  Instantly, a sea of hands shot up. She pointed to the one farthest in the back. “Colin, go ahead.”

  The dark-haired boy grinned, obviously pleased that she’d remembered his name. “What did you do before you came here?”

  Oh boy, the toughest one first, she thought. Might as well get it out of the way. She knew that she didn’t have to be complete in her answer. She could say that she was a teacher and a nurse without bringing in the fact that she’d been part of a Catholic order while doing it. But inevitably, one of the children would find out and tell the others and keeping this from them would somehow make her seem dishonest.

  “I was a Dominican Sister.” The low level of noise, always present to some degree in a class that size and that age, disappeared as thirty-four sets of eyes looked at her in surprise. “I taught children in Africa. I also helped nurse them when they were sick. I have two degrees, one in nursing, one in teaching.”

  “Do you have a nun degree, too?” one of the children asked.

  She smiled. “You need to raise your hand.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, the hand shot up. “Debbie?”

  “Do you have a nun degree, too?”

  Explaining the differences to them between nuns and sisters might have been a wee bit too much for them right now, so she refrained from delving into the subject and simply accepted the term Debbie had used.

  “You don’t need to get a degree to be a nun,” she told the girl. “You just join the order.”

  “But you don’t want to join anymore? I mean—” Another little girl’s hand shot up.

  Amused, she nodded at the second girl who spoke out of turn. “Janice?”

  “You don’t want to be a nun anymore?”

  Again, Claire went with the simplest answer. “My mother got sick and I wanted to be close by in case she needed me, so I left the order and found this wonderful job, teaching fourth-grade students. And here I am.” She nodded at the boy on the side. “Billy?”

  “Your mother still sick?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she is. But she’s a little bit better now than she was and she has a lot of nice doctors taking care of her. She listens to what they tell her to do.” Thank God for that, Claire added silently.

  The bell rang just then, signaling her reprieve. “Okay, kids, recess. File out in an orderly manner. I’ll see you back in forty-five minutes.”

  They didn’t have to be told twice.

  From that morning on, the children in Classroom 104 became her children and the groundwork for a warm rapport had been laid. By the time the principal looked in on her the afternoon of the second day, he seemed more than a little impressed with the way he found her conducting the class.

  Despite the fact that he slipped out as quietly as he had come in, Claire was keenly aware of his visit. She noted with relief that he was nodding his head as he left.

  Dropping by her classroom that Friday to officially ask her how her week had gone, Simon Walcott confided, “I had a good feeling about you when you came in, Ms. Santaniello. I’m glad I followed my instincts and hired you.” He watched her pack up her briefcase. “Although I have to admit that I did have one reservation.”

  Claire stopped snapping the locks on her briefcase and looked up. “And that was?”

  He crossed his arms before him. “That you might find the students too difficult to handle and decide that you’d made a mistake by leaving the shelter of the Church.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “You might recall that on my resume, I mentioned that the Church sent me to Africa to teach and to treat the native population. That is far from being sheltered.”

  He looked a little embarrassed. “Yes, of course,” he murmured stiffly. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

  She began to think that it would take other people more time to figure out how to act around her now that she was no longer Sister Michael than it would for her to figure out how to act as a layperson.

  “You didn’t offend me, Mr. Walcott,” she told him with a hint of amusement. “I just wanted to be sure that the record was straight.”

  “Consider it straightened,” he told her with a smile. “And please, call me Simon.” He walked her out of her classroom. “I want you to know that my door is always open if you have anything you need to discuss. Anything,” he emphasized.

  “I appreciate that. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get home to my mother.” She’d told him when she’d interviewed for the job about her mother and the fact that sometime in the future, there might be days that she would need to take off, or even be forced to take a leave of absence. She’d done it to be completely up-front with him. To her relief, her honesty had served as a plus.

  Like a man suddenly remembering a dance step that had eluded him, Walcott stepped out of her way. “Yes, of course, your mother. Tell her I hope she’s doing well,” he called after her.

  “Thank you, I will.”

  And she would, too, Claire thought. She wanted her mother to know that there were a lot of people, even strangers, interested in her progress. It might make h
er mother feel not quite so alone.

  The second week found Claire drawing yard duty during lunch. The secretary in charge of such assignments apologized, saying they were shorthanded and that it would have been Mrs. Butterfield’s turn. Claire didn’t mind. She liked watching the children in unstructured play. It gave her insight into who they really were.

  She moved along the grounds, making sure that there were no temper tantrums thrown, no squabbles escalating into shoving matches. For the most part, everything went smoothly.

  Just before recess was over, she was talking to several little girls who had approached her seemingly with a question but in reality just wanting to hang around her, culling her favor. As she played along, Claire’s attention was drawn to a handful of fourth-grade boys—some of them from her class—standing around a short, slight boy with hair the color of midnight.

  The other boys were taunting him. She could tell from the body language before she ever heard a word.

  “Excuse me, girls.” She separated herself from her new admirers and hurried over to the circle of boys. The object of their taunts had his back to her so she didn’t get a good look at him until she was almost on top of the group.

  As if sensing the presence of someone there to help, the boy turned his head toward her at the last moment.

  For a second, Claire was caught completely off guard. Time didn’t stand still, it receded from her, going backward. Back some twenty-six years. Although the boy who was being taunted had black hair, something about him made her remember Caleb. He had the same slight build, the same soulful, penetrating blue eyes, she realized.

  Claire forced herself to focus. She looked from one boy’s face to another. The moment she’d appeared, they’d fallen silent and were now studying the tips of their footwear.

  “What’s going on, boys?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Miss Santaniello,” Luke, one of the boys from her class, murmured, struggling to wrap his tongue around her last name.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, slowly walking around the perimeter of the circle, looking at each boy one at a time. “I was afraid it might be ‘something.’ From where I was standing, it looked as if you boys were ganging up on—”

  She paused for a moment, looking at the boy who, except for his hair color, could have been Caleb’s doppelgänger if the past and the present could exist side by side. It was clear that she was waiting for him to fill in his name.

  “Danny,” he answered very quietly. “Danny McClain.”

  McClain. Same as Caleb. Caleb had said he had a son going to this school, but until a couple of minutes ago, she’d forgotten. It really was a small world, she thought.

  “Hello, Danny McClain, I’m Miss Santaniello.” She turned to the rest of the boys and continued, “It looked as if you boys were ganging up on Danny here. But I knew my boys wouldn’t do something cowardly like that, would they?”

  “No, Miss Santaniello,” several of the other boys chorused, their voices awkwardly cutting into one another.

  She nodded knowingly. “I didn’t think so. You know, maybe you boys can help me out. I was just wondering how I was going to take all those big, heavy textbooks out of the supply closet. I could really use some big, strong guys to help.” Her sweeping gaze included all five of the boys in her class, as well as Danny and the two others who’d made up the rest of the circle. “Think you could do that for me?”

  Small chests puffed up and heads bobbed as a cacophony of assertive sounds rose in the affirmative.

  She smiled broadly at them. “Terrific. Come this way.” Claire began to lead the boys into the building, then realized that not all of them were following. Danny was hanging behind like a child accustomed to being excluded. “You, too, Danny.”

  The boy seemed surprised to be included, despite the fact that he had voiced a willingness to help. The other boys were all fourth-graders, while he belonged in third.

  He blinked. “Me?”

  “That’s what I said.” Putting an arm around his shoulders, she ushered him over toward the others, who looked a little annoyed at having this interloper thrust upon them. This, she promised herself, was going to change. “I want you boys to work together, all right?”

  “Yes, Miss Santaniello.”

  The response, composed of mingling voices, was far from enthusiastic. But it was a start.

  Chapter Five

  She saw him through her window.

  It was quite by accident. Working ahead, Claire was just trying to think of something exciting to add to her lesson plan for next week when she glanced up and saw him. Danny, walking by slowly in the schoolyard.

  The small shoulders were slumped, as if he had the weight of the world on them. There’d been a sadness in his eyes earlier. She’d noticed it almost immediately when she’d looked at him during recess. The same sort of sadness she’d seen half a world away, in the eyes of the children living in a war-torn village where hope had been the first casualty.

  It wasn’t the way an eight-year-old was supposed to appear.

  It took her less than a minute to make up her mind. The lesson plan could wait. Closing the large, black, bound book, she quickly stuffed it into her worn briefcase. She snapped the locks shut as she rose from the desk. Picking up the briefcase and her purse, she slung the latter over her shoulder and sailed out of the room, heading down the hallway. She set a new record getting to the front door.

  Hurrying down the steps, Claire turned right and was just in time to intersect Danny’s path out of the schoolyard.

  Preoccupied, he walked right into her. The startled, uneasy look faded instantly as he glanced up to see who he’d bumped into.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Santaniello,” he apologized.

  “No harm done.” The boy was small for his age, just like his father had been. “Looked like you were somewhere else far away,” she commented. The thin shoulders beneath the blue-and-white striped T-shirt shrugged in response.

  Claire scanned the area. In the distance, parents were parked, waiting for their children to find them so they could take off. A few of the older students were heading toward the bike racks where a small squadron of bicycles were chained, waiting to be released.

  She looked back at the boy before her. “Is anyone picking you up from school?”

  “No, ma’am.” He shifted his sagging backpack, raising it a little higher. “I walk home.”

  “I see.” Something about the boy spoke to her. Something that told her he needed someone to listen, to open up to. “Would you like a ride?” she asked impulsively.

  That was when she realized that he’d been glancing over toward a group of boys, some of whom were in her class. He had to pass them in order to walk out the front gate.

  Raising his eyes to hers, Danny seemed somewhat relieved.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” She smiled to herself. She didn’t remember Caleb being this polite. Danny’s mother had done a good job raising the boy. He fell into step with her as they headed toward the rear of the school and the parking lot. “My dad says I’m not supposed to get in a car with anybody but him or Mrs. Collins, but you’re a teacher. You’re okay.” And then he looked just a tad hesitant as well as hopeful. “Right?”

  “Well, your dad’s right about not getting into a stranger’s car.” She couldn’t stress this enough and had already talked to her class about it at the tail end of the first day. “But I’m more than okay,” she assured him cheerfully. “And,” she added as the deal maker, “I know your dad.”

  Her hand on his shoulder, she gently steered him toward the left side of the parking lot where she’d left her mother’s car.

  She was going to have to see about getting one of her own, she thought. At least a used one. She didn’t like the idea of leaving her mother without transportation, even if Nancy had said she was more than willing to drive her mother anywhere she wanted to go. In addition, she and her mother did things like grocery shopping in the afternoon, after she got home
from school. Still, she knew that the car was part of her mother’s independence. She needed to look into getting a used car as soon as possible.

  Danny was looking up at her in surprise. “You do? You know my dad?”

  Reaching the Mustang, she unlocked the passenger-side door, then held it open for him. As Danny turned his back to her, she helped him off with his backpack. Again, he seemed surprised. She had a feeling that he was used to doing things on his own.

  Claire dropped the backpack into the backseat. “Your dad’s Caleb McClain, right?”

  Danny climbed in and immediately reached for the seat belt to buckle up. Definitely well trained, she thought.

  “Yes, that’s my dad,” Danny answered, nodding his head.

  Rounding the hood, Claire got in on the driver’s side. She grinned at the small boy. “Well, I used to babysit him.”

  There was no response from the passenger side. Danny stared at her for a long moment, his eyes opened so wide, he seemed in danger of having them fall out of his head. He sucked in his breath as she put her key in the ignition. Turning it, the cherry-red car rumbled and bucked to life.

  “No way,” Danny finally said, wonder pulsing from every letter.

  “Way,” Claire answered with a grin. She glanced behind her to make sure the path was clear. The lot was empty and she moved out.

  “You don’t look that old,” Danny blurted out, still staring at her.

  “Thank you for that.” Glancing both ways, she pulled out onto the street, then turned her attention to something practical and pressing. “What’s your address, Danny?” He rattled it off for her quickly. It turned out that he lived less than a mile away, in one of the developments that had been built during the time that she’d been gone from Bedford. “You’re going to have to be my guide,” she told him. They were on Jeffrey Road and she vaguely knew that the street was south of the development he lived in. “I’m not that familiar with that area.”

  “Okay,” he answered, sitting up a little straighter. He obviously took his assignment seriously. “You go down this long block and then turn right by the Chicken Shack.”