Foul Play at the PTA

paperback, I pulled the phone out of my purse and looked at the number. Richard.

“Beth, is Jenna there?”

“Somewhere. Where are you? You’re late.”

“I’m in Atlanta.”

That didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Though maybe there was an Atlanta, Wisconsin. I knew there was an Atlanta in Michigan; maybe there were Atlantas scattered across the country. “Georgia?” I asked.

“Of course Georgia. What other Atlanta is there? I got a call on Thursday to come down for an interview on Monday, but when they found out that I golf, I was invited to their company tournament. That was today,” he said pointlessly. “The banquet starts in ten minutes.”

“A job interview? That’s . . . great.” The implications were too much to process, so I stuck firmly to the one thing I could grasp.

“It came up quickly. Tell Jenna I’m sorry and—”

I closed my eyes and thought calming thoughts. “You need to tell her yourself.”

“Beth, I’m late for—”

“You could have called Thursday,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “You could have called Friday, or even today up until an hour ago. But you forgot, and your daughter is wearing a dress—a dress—bought especially for tonight. You’re her date, Richard, and you’re standing her up.”

“It’s only a grade school dance.”

“This is the first dance she’s ever attended.”

He paused, then repeated, “It’s only a grade school dance.” This time, however, his voice was weak. He’d done his daughter wrong, and he knew it.

Marina had detected the impending doom and fetched Jenna. “Is that Dad?” She looked around as if he’d materialize any second. “Where is he?”

In the doghouse, I wanted to say. “Here’s Jenna,” I said into the phone, then handed it over. “It’s your father.” In those three words I wanted to communicate love, understanding, and empathy. But I’m pretty sure the only thing she heard was “It’s your father.”

She took the phone eagerly. “Dad? How far are you? You won’t believe what they did to the gym. There’s a —” With a suddenness that was heartbreaking, her animation disappeared. “Where’s Atlanta?” Her face was still as a stone. “You mean you’re not going to be here at all?”

I wanted to turn away from her pain, but I wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave her alone.

“No!” she shouted into the phone. “I don’t want to see you on Wednesday. Or next weekend. Or ever. I hate you!” She hurled the phone onto a bale of straw and ran from the room.

I started after her, but Marina held me back. “Let her cry a minute,” she said.

“But—”

She shook her head. “It’s a hard thing, but let her cry. She won’t always have Mom around to dry her tears.”

I wanted to disagree with her—of course I’d always be there to comfort Jenna, I’d always have a handkerchief and a magical kiss, I’d always have a way to fix whatever was wrong—but part of me knew Marina was right. Somewhere along the line, children have to learn that pain happens and that there’s not always anything we can do about it.

Well, except for the option of revenge, but that wasn’t behavior I wanted my children to emulate. There was, however, one thing I could do.

I retrieved the phone, blew off the straw dust, and dialed.

Half an hour later I’d explained the ugly facts of job hunting to Jenna (“It’s not as if your dad wanted to go to Atlanta, honey”), washed off her tears, and led her out of the restroom to which she’d fled. We’d arrived early to help schlep the goody bags, and, as we approached the gym, we saw a long line of men and girls snaking out into the hallway. The girls were hopping from one foot to another in their dance dresses; the men, dressed in everything from jeans and T-shirts to suits and ties, were talking and joking with each other while they looked in their wallets.

“They all have their dads with them,” Jenna muttered.

Normally I tried to squash her sarcastic comments, but I let this one go. She had a right to be angry.

Summer materialized at my side. “Hi, Beth.”

“Looks like a great turnout,” I said. “We should make a lot of money for Sam’s fund.”

A light hand touched my elbow. “Beth?”

I looked around. And up. “Evan, you look great!”

The kind, thoughtful man had interpreted my panicky phone call as the emergency it was. Not only had he turned off the college football game he’d been watching, but he’d tossed aside the bowl of popcorn he’d just popped, and changed out of the sweatpants and sweatshirt he’d been wearing.

“Wow.” Summer looked at him from the perfectly formed knot in his bow tie to the pleats in his tuxedo shirt to the sharp creases in his black trousers to his shiny shoes. “I mean, wow!” She gave me a wide grin and slipped away.

My dejected daughter had wandered, slump-shouldered, up the line to talk to a friend. I called her back. “Jenna, I have a surprise for you.”

She turned, and her eyes went wide. “Mr. Garrett? Are you going to a wedding?”

He moved swiftly to her side. “I heard of your distress and have come to offer my aid.” He went down on one knee and took both of her hands in his. “Jenna, will you be my date for the dance tonight?”

My daughter—my athlete, my tomboy, my nothing-bothers-me kid—actually giggled. “You’re silly.”

He held one of her hands to his chest. “Please, mademoiselle, say yes.”

Red-faced, shy, and stammering, she said the only thing possible. “Y-yes.”

“With that one word you have made my evening an unforgettable one.” Evan kissed the back of her hand, and, in one smoothly elegant motion, rose to his feet and twirled her in a circle. “Come, let us dance the night away!”

The line parted to make way for Evan and Jenna, dancing together as if they’d been practicing for weeks. Just before they spun out of the doorway and into the gym, Evan looked back at me, smiled, and winked.

It was a magical moment, a scene I knew I’d play over and over again in my memory. I wanted to laugh with joy and to cry with happiness. My mouth hurt from smiling so wide, and the warmth in my heart felt as if it would last forever.

Another light hand touched my elbow. “Beth?”

“Pete! What are you doing here? I didn’t know you had a—” My next word should have been “daughter,” but the letters forming on my lips were about to sound more like “wife.”

Pete Peterson, stocky and balding, nice guy extraordinaire, was the owner of Cleaner-Than-Pete’s, a cleaning service out of Madison that took care of everything from vandalism to murder scenes.

“Beth, I’d like you to meet my niece, Alison.” Pete put his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “She and her mother just moved to Rynwood. Alison, this is Mrs. Kennedy.”

Niece. No wonder he’d never mentioned a daughter. I smiled and held out my hand. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

Alison, who was already showing her uncle’s trend to stockiness, also had his merry eyes. Her curly locks might have come from that side of the family, too, but it was hard to tell from what little remained of Pete’s hair. She shook my hand. “Are you Jenna’s mom? She’s nice. She’s not in my grade, but she helped me pick up the books I dropped once.”

Pride in my daughter swelled my smile a little wider. After we exchanged a few more pleasantries, she saw a friend and, after asking Uncle Pete’s permission, ran after her.

“Nice girl,” I said.

“My sister’s kid.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled khaki pants.

I wanted to ask about her father—and if Pete had been a woman, I would have—but I kept my questions to myself. Cross-gender friendships have more rules than the official 112-page NFL rule book.

“That your boyfriend?” he asked, looking in the direction Evan and Jenna had taken.