Gavin was the black sheep of the Danvers’ family. While his brother Adam Danvers ran the family vineyard, Gavin had moved away with his wife and daughter years ago. But now Gavin was back, newly divorced, his young daughter with him.
Kat wondered if Gavin had ever asked a woman out for drinks, or if he just smoldered in their general direction and they came running. Then again, he’d been married at a young age. He might not have a lot of dating experience.
By the time it was time for Kat to teach an hour later, she’d gotten her brain in order, as well as her lesson plans. Kat had been able to stop thinking about Gavin Danvers—until Kat saw his young daughter Emma was one of the kids in her class. Of course she is, Kat thought to herself.
Considering that the elementary school in Heron’s Landing had all of one class per grade, it was pretty much guaranteed that Kat would be teaching Emma Danvers at some point today or tomorrow.
Today, Emma had her hair in lopsided braids, wearing purple leggings under an orange dress. At eight, the girl picked out her own clothes, but their lack of coordination, as well as the hair that was messy and probably completely tangled, bespoke a father who was distracted, to say the least. Kat rather wished she could come to their place and braid the girl’s hair herself.
Emma didn’t look much like her father, but sometimes her mannerisms would mirror his. She tended to narrow her eyes like Gavin would when annoyed. Both father and daughter also preferred to observe first and speak later. Kat had a feeling that Emma’s was more due to shyness, whereas her father’s was more because he found small talk annoying.
Emma said no more than five words the entire class, never raising her hand when Kat asked a question. Kat never cold-called on students—humiliation never worked as a learning tool—but she tried to get as many of her students involved as possible. It was too easy for some to disappear in the crowd, though. Kat knew she needed to find a way to get the shyer students to interact along with the more extroverted ones.
While the kids did work on their own, Kat stopped by each student to encourage them or correct their finger placement on the keyboard. When Kat got to Emma, she watched as the girl typed the sentence on the screen perfectly and as quickly as any adult.
“Where did you learn to type like that?” said Kat, impressed.
Emma jumped, her fingers smashing into the keyboard. Her eyes were wide as she looked up at Kat.
Kat touched Emma’s shoulder. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”
Where most kids would shrug or laugh, Emma just shook her head and seemed to turn further into herself. She tipped her chin down and said in a low voice, “My mom.”
Kat squatted down next to Emma. “Your mom?”
“She showed me how to type.”
“Oh, well, she did a great job. I couldn’t type that fast when I was your age.”
“She used to be a secretary.”
Kat was tempted to keep asking questions about Gavin’s ex-wife and Emma’s mother, but she bit her tongue. It was none of her business, even though she was dying to know why they’d divorced and why Gavin had gotten custody of Emma. Didn’t mothers usually get custody?
Curiosity killed the cat, Kat reminded herself.
Kat watched Emma for the rest of the class. She seemed especially jumpy even toward the end of class. When one of her classmates accidentally kicked over a thankfully empty metal trashcan, the sound resounding through the room, Emma practically ran out of the room.
Did Gavin know about this behavior? Kat wondered as the day progressed onward, unsure if it was her place to say anything when it wasn’t as if Emma had done anything wrong.
By the time Kat arrived home close to five o’clock, she was exhausted. She was tempted to take a nap, but she knew if she gave in to the indulgence, she’d never sleep later that night.
The house still seemed eerily empty without her grandmother, Lillian Jacobs, and as Kat made dinner, she had to stop herself from making enough food for two. But it was just her now, wasn’t it? Suddenly too tired to finish making the soup she’d started, she pulled out a frozen dinner and popped it into the microwave. Staring at the meal as it circled around, she wondered if this was a metaphor for her life: circling and circling but never getting anywhere.
Lillian had passed only a month ago at the age of eighty-five. She’d been as spirited upon her deathbed as she had been in life, telling Kat that she didn’t want her to cry after her death because she was going to a better place, and besides, she was old. Old people died. She’d patted Kat’s hand, and after that, she’d returned to that strange place in her mind that had been overtaken by dementia, not recognizing her granddaughter at the very end.
Kat had inherited her grandmother’s house and some money from her life insurance policy, and now that it was almost fall, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to sell the house or not. She’d considered it. She had no use for a house older than she was, filled with cat figurines and unfinished knitting projects and a pantry brimming with canned goods that were as old as the house. But every time she returned to the house—no, her house, Kat supposed—she didn’t have the heart to go through with a sale.
A few days ago, she’d stood in Lillian’s pink kitchen with its retro appliances, flipping through old cookbooks. The pages had been sticky with use, and
