A Time To Forgive. Darlene Gardner

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Blue Moon Elementary School was in Silver Spring, one of the priciest communities in prosperous Montgomery County. A fair number of well-to-do families sent their children through the excellent public-school system, but almost all of them drove sensible vehicles.

      A Porsche 911 Turbo was not sensible, but then in her estimation neither was its driver.

      She waited impatiently while he unfolded his long length from the car and walked unhurriedly to the bus with a limp so slight she wondered if she imagined it. Probably. He was so perfectly put together, he could have been plucked straight from an ad in a magazine aimed at the young, affluent professional.

      She couldn’t recognize brand names but his dove-gray suit was expertly cut to flatter his tall, leanly muscular frame. His burgundy tie—silk, of course—perfectly complemented his dark gray shirt. His leather shoes were a tasteful cordovan.

      The wind gently gusted through the parking lot, rustling his coffee-brown hair. It was skillfully cut, not too long, not too short. It looked just right, like the rest of him.

      His handsome face—with the requisite square jaw, dark eyes spaced the perfect distance apart and sculpted cheekbones—split into a smile when he spotted her. As he got closer, it surprised her that his grin was slightly crooked and that his nose wasn’t entirely straight. She wasn’t about to give him points for his physical imperfections, though. Especially when they only served to make him more attractive.

      “You’re late,” she said.

      His smile disappeared, and a crease appeared between his brows. He looked down at his watch, which was probably a Rolex.

      “It’s exactly nine-thirty,” he said as he reached her. She expected him to reek of expensive cologne but she smelled soap and warm male skin. “That’s right on time.”

      “I told you the bus was leaving at nine-thirty,” she said. “Chaperones were supposed to arrive fifteen minutes ago.”

      He shrugged. “As long as I’m not holding anybody up, I don’t see the problem.”

      “Are we ready now, Miss Reed?” the bus driver called, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin. His name was Mr. Greeley, and he was a retiree who’d been married for thirty-five years. During the wait, he’d confided that his wife had urged him to apply to drive a bus three months into his retirement because she was tired of him following her around the house.

      Abby swallowed the urge to argue with Connor Smith. Although she had a fiery temper, she could usually keep it under control, but this man had gotten under her skin and burrowed.

      “We’re ready, Mr. Greeley,” she said.

      Connor indicated the school-bus stairs with a sweep of his hand. “After you.”

      She trudged up the stairs before he could do some other faux-gallant thing, like offer her a boost. The murmuring on the bus died down and the children, all of them fourth-and fifth-graders, gazed at her expectantly. She smiled at the sight of their eager young faces, her mood instantly brightening.

      “Are you ready for some symphony?” she shouted, and at least half of them cheered. “Then let’s go.”

      The bus driver chuckled as she settled into the seat behind him. “That was priceless, Miss Reed. You make going to the symphony sound as much fun as a football game.”

      “That’s because it is,” she told him, then became aware of Connor hovering over her.

      “Mind if I sit down? Jaye’s back there, but she didn’t save a place for me, and I don’t see any other spots.”

      Before she could answer, he slid into the seat beside her. She scooted over, the side of her body slamming uncomfortably against the wall of the bus.

      “I don’t know about the symphony beating out a good football game,” Mr. Greeley said conversationally, “especially if you drink a couple of beers while you’re watching.”

      The bus pulled out of the parking lot onto the highway, and the children resumed their happy chatter. Abby preferred to believe they were in high spirits because they looked forward to the symphony, but realistically knew they’d celebrate any reason to get out of school.

      The soft strains of Bach’s Fifth Sonata filled the bus. She’d asked Mr. Greeley to tune the radio to a classical music station before they left, but Bach didn’t have his usual calming effect on Abby. Not with Connor Smith sitting so close that their shoulders almost touched.

      “I’m a football-and-beer guy myself,” he announced in a voice loud enough for both her and Mr. Greeley to hear.

      She gazed at him, thinking she’d never seen a man who looked less like a beer drinker in her life. “Oh, yeah. Which brand?”

      “I usually drink whatever’s on tap,” he said.

      “Really? And here I would have guessed you drank a specialty brand from some microbrewery.”

      “I’d guess that you drink milk.”

      She frowned at him, and he smiled as though he’d gifted her with a compliment. She had a sneaking suspicion, though, that it had been backhanded.

      She straightened her spine, annoyed at herself for letting Connor Smith get to her. Normally she’d be eagerly anticipating the performance. She’d attended the symphony countless times, but every time was a treat.

      Music had been a major part of her life since her childhood when she’d found her grandmother’s violin and fallen in love hard and fast. Her cash-strapped mother, who was too sentimental to hock the instrument, couldn’t afford to get her private lessons.

      So Abby had taught herself to play, filling the hours with music while her mother had worked two jobs and Drew had been off getting into mischief.

      Abby’s love of music had turned out to be a godsend, getting her through her darkest days. There’d been a lot of them, none darker than when Drew had been accused of murder and subsequently convicted.

      Abby supposed she should take the milk-drinker comment as a compliment, after all. Connor might not have issued it if he knew about her family.

      “I like milk,” she said, hating the defensiveness that crept into her voice.

      “And chaperones who arrive early.”

      “Arriving fifteen minutes before the bus is scheduled to leave is not early. It’s on time.”

      “You ever heard the one about time being money? Those fifteen minutes, which I spent getting a floor broker on the New York Stock Exchange to dump some shares, made my client a lot of it.”

      “And yourself a healthy commission, I’m sure.”

      He shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that. It’s how I make my living.”

      “Hey, you a stockbroker?” Mr. Greeley asked without taking his attention from the road.

      “Sure am.”

      “You any good?”

      “Yes, СКАЧАТЬ