Would the subject come up during this interview with his successor? That last bite of doughnut flip-flopped in her belly.
She stepped to the sink to wash her hands and rinse the taste of fried dough and sugar from her mouth. As she wiped her lips with a paper towel, she looked at her reflection in the mirror.
“When did I become such a wuss?” she murmured under her breath.
In college, her roomie called Kat “Dyno-Girl” because she’d declared a double major of business and medicine. But two years into that ambitious plan, Kat met Greg—a flashy young airman who made her laugh—something in short supply around Kat’s drama-filled house.
They got pregnant when their birth control failed. Greg stepped up at his father’s insistence. Without realizing it at the time, Kat fell into her mother’s life…and they both knew how that turned out.
She pivoted and shoved the damp wad of paper into the metal garbage can with more force than necessary. “No past. No future. All present.”
Her mother’s favorite mantra.
Kat checked her watch. Five more minutes before her allotted appointment. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold, opaque glass.
Mom had called herself “The Last Hippie Standing” with a certain amount of pride. Grace had made no bones about why she ran away from her strict Savannah home at seventeen. “I wanted to experience life, not put on a good show for the uptight neighbors.”
For a few years, she’d lived in a commune in New Mexico where she sold macramé plant holders to tourists. When that got old, she picked fruit in California before moving to L.A. where she played tambourine in a “pretty mediocre” hair band in the early 1980s.
“I had long blond hair and I never wore a bra. Nobody cared that I didn’t have any real sense of rhythm,” she once told a group of Kat’s friends.
Sadly, Mom was rarely that open with Kat. Kat never understood why. The reason for their disconnect was one of the many questions that haunted Kat. Questions that undoubtedly contributed to her decision to move to Montana. Would she ever know what happened to Mom in Marietta?
A soft, unguarded look would come across her mother’s face when someone asked about Montana. Grace called it “home”—even though she’d lived there less than a year. Was her fondness for the state because she’d left the true love of her life there when she returned to South Carolina, broke, pregnant and unmarried?
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math,” Kat’s stepfather once said to her. “Seven months after leaving Montana, Gracie gave birth to you. Seems to me, if you were looking to find your daddy, you oughta be looking in Montana.”
Was finding a daddy to replace her dead mother the underlying reason for Kat’s move to Marietta? She told herself, no. She’d watched two strong, vital women fall prey to a terrible disease that ravaged their memories, their cognizance, and the type of brain activity that made them unique. First, Kat’s maternal grandmother and then Kat’s mother. What were the chances Kat would be next? How could she know—and thereby prepare her son—without any genealogical information from the second set of genes that made her? What if her biological father came from a long line of septuagenarians who lived fruitful lives right up to the day they dropped dead?
But what hope did Kat have of finding the proverbial needle when her mother flatly refused to talk about that time in her life? Despite Kat’s constant pestering during her teen years, Mom never revealed the identity of Kat’s father, saying simply, “He wasn’t part of the picture.”
Once dementia took away every remnant of her mother’s connection to the present or past, Kat assumed any hope of learning her father’s name was gone, too. Until the day Kat went to the Alzheimer’s unit to box up Mom’s belongings.
Kat had arrived sad, angry and distracted. A part of her still struggled with the decision she’d been forced to make and the not-so-subtle arm-twisting from Mom’s ER doctors, who wanted Kat to override Mom’s standing Do-Not-Resuscitate order.
“Your mother is still relatively young and fairly healthy,” a twenty-something intern said. “If we intubate and give her some help breathing, we might be able to bring her back.”
“Bring her back?” Kat had choked through her tears. “Will you bring her humanity, her sense of humor, the wit and charm I remember from my childhood, too? If you can guarantee her soul will come back, fine,” she’d shouted in the hallway of the hospital. “But if you’re just going to bring her back so she can waste away another few years without knowing her own name, let alone mine, then damn you to Hell for even suggesting it.”
Kat made her decision, but the pain and grief and finality of watching her mother take her last breath never completely went away. The grief would ease over time, she knew from her stepfather’s death. And Brady would keep Kat too busy and distracted to wallow in depression. But how would she deal with the heartbreak of all the future memories her mother would never have—Brady’s prom, his first girlfriend and broken heart, college graduation, a wedding?
As tears rolled down her cheeks, Kat blindly piled books and clothing and half-empty candy bags into the box she’d brought. The last paperback—a James Clavell novel reputed to be Mom’s favorite—slipped from her fingers and landed spine down on the floor. Two things fell out. A yellowed newspaper clipping and a folded piece of paper that, at first glance, looked like a check.
Kat had sighed. Her mother had been notorious for hiding money—especially after Kat moved Mom to the care facility. She picked them up, only slightly curious, and her heart nearly stopped.
The clipping was from the Copper Mountain Courier in Marietta, Montana. The cutline under the photo heralded the efforts of a local hardware store for rewarding top students. Identified, left to right, the straight-A student, his parents, and, representing Big Z Hardware: Grace Adair and Bob Zabrinski, owner.
Mom.
Grace’s smile was one Kat hadn’t seen in many years, if ever.
She looks so happy.
Because of the man at her side? Kat wondered, mouthing the name. Bob Zabrinski. She’d never heard Mom mention him. Ever.
She set the clipping aside to examine the other item, which, did indeed turn out to be a check. A never cashed payroll check, which included a $100.00 bonus.
Why would a pregnant woman, alone and broke, pass up the chance to cash a check made out to her? Because it was signed by Robert Zabrinski—the man who most surely had been Grace’s boss and quite possibly could be Kat’s birth father? Why the extra money? A hundred bucks was a fair sum in those days. Did he hope Mom would use it to get an abortion?
She ran her finger over the neat printing in the memo line: “Sorry you got caught in the middle, Gracie. Good luck, R”
Robert?
But
possible
and
probable
were two very different animals Kat knew. She couldn’t turn a stranger’s life upside down on a hunch. But neither could she spend the rest of her life not knowing the truth.
So, within three months she’d put the bulk of their belongings into storage—including, God forgive her, her mother’s ashes because she didn’t know what else to do with the plain metal box that was delivered to her a few days before their intended departure date. She’d already rented her house and packed the car. She had a job lined up, her ex-husband’s blessings, and no expectations, she told anyone who would listen.
“I need a change of scenery. Mom was happy in Montana. Maybe Brady and I will be, too. If not, then we’ll be back.”
And, so far, her only regret was not raising a ruckus over her lame ass ex-boss. She’d pushed the Bob Zabrinski connection out of her mind—or as far away as possible given the prominence of the Zabrinski name in Marietta. Did it cross her mind once in awhile that she
might
be related? Maybe. But she had no intention of pursuing the matter unless some sort of irrefutable evidence dropped out of the blue.
For now, she had enough on her plate just taking care of Brady and dealing with a new boss.
She checked her watch.
Time.
If I can survive Ken Morrison as my boss, I can handle anything
. Shoulders set, courage firmly in place, she picked up the sheet of paper she’d filled in—front and back.
Did her hand shake slightly when she reached for the door handle? Maybe. She’d never worked for someone as handsome and hunky as Flynn Bensen. But Kat definitely wasn’t in the market for a relationship outside of work.
Think Brady. Just Brady.
She crossed the room to knock on the glass panel of Flynn Bensen’s door. He’d removed the opaque shelf-liner Ken had used to cover the glass. Through the opened louvered blinds in the adjacent window, she spotted Flynn at his desk.
“Come in.”
He lifted his head and used one hand to make a quick swipe through his crown of thick and wavy brown hair. For a guy sporting a clean cut image—razor cut sides and neckline, the whimsy of the waves made her think “rebel-at-heart.”
As she turned the knob, Kat happened to catch Janet staring with her miss-nothing eagle eyes. Kat gave a mock salute then stepped into the pint-size room, closing the door behind her as she’d seen the other team members do.
She stepped to the desk, which held five neat stacks of personnel folders, a towering pile of old SAR bulletins, and God-only-knew what else. “Wow. You have your work cut out for you.”
One corner of his nicely shaped mouth quirked upward to reveal a hint of dimple. A tingle her college roommate called the “loosy-goosies” blasted outward from her inner core to the tips of her fingers and toes.
“The intensity of LGs is directly correlated to a guy’s
YIW
rating,” Emily, the biology major, had hypothesized.
Y.I.W stood for “Yes, I Would” and originally included two more words, which Kat chose not to include. Less out of prudery, as Em believed, than fear of jinxing something magical.
“Playing catch-up comes with the territory,” he said, rising out of his seat with old-world manners to gesture toward the chair opposite the desk. He waited until she was seated to sit, too. “This probably makes me sound a bit anal, but I like organizing stuff. My Hot Shot team used to call me Mr. Clean.”
His deep, masculine chuckle touched off a new wave of LGs which would have blown up Emily’s chart.
“I don’t think they meant it as a compliment,” he added.
Kat’s throat went dry.
NIW…N,
she silently ordered.
No. I. Will. Not.
She faked a smile.
The serious tilt of his eyebrows told her he wasn’t fooled. He picked up her completed questionnaire, probably checking to see what he’d missed.
“Katherine Robinson,” he read aloud.
“Kat.”
He glanced up. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why Kat? You strike me as a Katherine.”
I do?
A voice she barely recognized silently crowed, “He got that in one.”
Oh, God, I am so screwed.
She couldn’t believe it when her mouth opened and she admitted, “I’d planned to be Dr. Katherine Hayward at one time. Ph.D., not M.D.”
“What happened?”
“Life,” she said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat and added, “Now, I go by Kat.”
To avoid the constant reminder of what could have been?
The silent question came from a voice that sounded a lot like her mother’s pre-Alzheimer’s voice. “It’s easier.”
He kept reading, but his broad shoulders gave a “so-what” shrug. Her son had already mastered the dismissive gesture. “Since when is life easy?”
She sensed the rhetorical question had come out as unplanned as her admission of disappointment and failure. She knew, because his meticulously shaved cheeks flushed a dull red. He picked up a pen and circled something she’d written.
“I like this idea of wilderness fire outreach at the elementary school level. What did you have in mind?”
She sat forward, grateful to move away from the awkward, personal stuff. “At my son’s last school they set up something called ‘Adopt A Forest.’ Each class researched different forest fires then voted which forest to adopt.”
“Interesting. Which one did they pick?”
“I can’t remember the name of the fire, but it was somewhere in Colorado.”
He nodded. “I worked the Black Forest fire. It was a tough one.”
She reached out and flipped over the page where she’d outlined her ideas. “Here’s a list of some of the fundraisers Brady’s school did. You can check out the posters each of the classes made. They were online. I’ll send you the link.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
“I brought up the idea with Brady’s teacher, but she didn’t see a way to make something like this fit with their current curriculum.” She shrugged. “In all fairness, an idea isn’t the same as a plan. You know how that goes.”
“I do. Definitely. In Tennessee, it took me two years to get an after school program in place that focused on emergency preparedness and survival skills. A few parents accused me of trying to recruit firefighters, but most of them appreciated what I was trying to do…keep their kids too busy to get in trouble.”
Kat sat on her hands to keep from looking overly eager to find a receptive audience for her pet project. “Getting kids connected to the planet should be one of our top priorities, in my opinion. Brady’s preschool had a huge learning garden. You should have seen the pride on the faces of these little kids when they served cut up carrots they helped grow.”
“I like that idea, too.”
His approval shouldn’t have pleased her as much as it did. “I suggested the idea of building a greenhouse at a school board meeting and my idea was summarily shot down.”
She’d been embarrassed by the outcome, but two good things had come from that fiasco—she’d met Bailey Jenkins-Zabrinski and Brady’s teacher realized Kat couldn’t be dissuaded by anyone’s lack of enthusiasm.
Flynn held up one hand and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. “It all comes down to money. I’m used to doing things on a shoestring. Plus, I found it helps to involve the community. Have you approached any local stores? I know the owner of Big Z’s Hardware. My brother’s engaged to Paul Zabrinski’s sister, Mia.”