players displayed the same imperviousness.
Everyone needed a shower, and by the time they left the house they were late. They arrived at church midway through the opening hymn, and Dean felt self-conscious as he walked down the side aisle, looking for space for the four of them. On the way in, he had noticed a sign-up sheet in the foyer that said, âSupport for the Renner Familyâ; beneath it was a list of the foods that had appeared on his doorstep over the past two months. He wanted to take it down but knew he should go through the proper channels, whatever they were. Church politics had always been Nicoleâs domain.
They filed into a pew in a hurry, without noticing who was sitting nearby. As the hymn ended and everyone got resettled, Dean tried to guess his neighbors by looking at the backs of their heads. The family in front of them was most definitely the Schaffers, and to the right of them, the Hochstedlers. To the left was the Ashbaugh family, the dead giveaway beingRoger Ashbaughâs moon-white bald spot, ordinarily covered by a baseball cap. He was a short, round-shouldered man, while his wife, Susie, was angular and tall, with aggressively permed hair. Dean and Nicole used to joke that she looked like a poodle, which was funny because Roger was a dog trainer.
A few rows ahead, a womanâs long neck caught his eye. Her hair was drawn up into a messy bun, and he could see the backs of her dangling silver earrings. His first thought was Laura, but that was impossible. Laura didnât go to church. He kept staring at the back of her neck, trying to convince himself that it wasnât her. But then she turned to whisper something to the man sitting next to her, and he saw her familiar profile: her long, almost pointed nose; her smooth brow; and that warm, wry half smile. It was Laura, all right. Ms. Lanning to the boys at school. Miss Laura to him, at first. Then, when they got to know each other better, when he could finally stop teasing her, could finally stop making up excuses to see her, when she was part of his routine, when she was his friend, she was just plain Laura. But not plain, never plain. What was she doing here? Was she dating the man next to her, the tall guy with a sunburned neck? Was this the inconstant Tim, the young man whose employment as an elementary-school teacher had somehow made him desirable instead of emasculatedâso desirable that heâd needed to take some time off from Laura to play the field ? (What field ?, Dean had wondered when Laura tearfully repeated the callow phrase to him during one of their morning chats. Did Mr. Timbo honestly think he was going to find anyone better than Laura in Willowboro?)
Dean glared at the back of Tim or whoeverâs head and tried to convince himself that he wasnât jealous. He had worked sohard to forget Laura. And now his memories were all tumbling out, not forgotten but merely stored behind a door. So much mental energy had been devoted to her. He could admit that now. Last fall, heâd organized his days around her comings and goings like a schoolboy. He had, in fact, first heard about her from the boys on his team. They were all wannabe Lotharios, boasting loudly of the girls theyâd like to claim. One day he heard them discussing a certain Ms. Lanning. At first he thought it must be an especially prissy girl, but then they began to guess her age. Thirty, one said. No way, said another. Twenty-five, tops . They began to discuss her body, which she apparently tried to disguise with modest clothing. But they were not fooled by her turtlenecks and blazers. She taught honors English and one of the typing electives. Most of Deanâs players knew her from typing.
Dean had felt the need to investigate. He searched for a Ms. Lanning in the staff directory and found none. Then he checked the database on the libraryâs computer, which was more up to date, and found her name, but not her photo, under the list
Everyone needed a shower, and by the time they left the house they were late. They arrived at church midway through the opening hymn, and Dean felt self-conscious as he walked down the side aisle, looking for space for the four of them. On the way in, he had noticed a sign-up sheet in the foyer that said, âSupport for the Renner Familyâ; beneath it was a list of the foods that had appeared on his doorstep over the past two months. He wanted to take it down but knew he should go through the proper channels, whatever they were. Church politics had always been Nicoleâs domain.
They filed into a pew in a hurry, without noticing who was sitting nearby. As the hymn ended and everyone got resettled, Dean tried to guess his neighbors by looking at the backs of their heads. The family in front of them was most definitely the Schaffers, and to the right of them, the Hochstedlers. To the left was the Ashbaugh family, the dead giveaway beingRoger Ashbaughâs moon-white bald spot, ordinarily covered by a baseball cap. He was a short, round-shouldered man, while his wife, Susie, was angular and tall, with aggressively permed hair. Dean and Nicole used to joke that she looked like a poodle, which was funny because Roger was a dog trainer.
A few rows ahead, a womanâs long neck caught his eye. Her hair was drawn up into a messy bun, and he could see the backs of her dangling silver earrings. His first thought was Laura, but that was impossible. Laura didnât go to church. He kept staring at the back of her neck, trying to convince himself that it wasnât her. But then she turned to whisper something to the man sitting next to her, and he saw her familiar profile: her long, almost pointed nose; her smooth brow; and that warm, wry half smile. It was Laura, all right. Ms. Lanning to the boys at school. Miss Laura to him, at first. Then, when they got to know each other better, when he could finally stop teasing her, could finally stop making up excuses to see her, when she was part of his routine, when she was his friend, she was just plain Laura. But not plain, never plain. What was she doing here? Was she dating the man next to her, the tall guy with a sunburned neck? Was this the inconstant Tim, the young man whose employment as an elementary-school teacher had somehow made him desirable instead of emasculatedâso desirable that heâd needed to take some time off from Laura to play the field ? (What field ?, Dean had wondered when Laura tearfully repeated the callow phrase to him during one of their morning chats. Did Mr. Timbo honestly think he was going to find anyone better than Laura in Willowboro?)
Dean glared at the back of Tim or whoeverâs head and tried to convince himself that he wasnât jealous. He had worked sohard to forget Laura. And now his memories were all tumbling out, not forgotten but merely stored behind a door. So much mental energy had been devoted to her. He could admit that now. Last fall, heâd organized his days around her comings and goings like a schoolboy. He had, in fact, first heard about her from the boys on his team. They were all wannabe Lotharios, boasting loudly of the girls theyâd like to claim. One day he heard them discussing a certain Ms. Lanning. At first he thought it must be an especially prissy girl, but then they began to guess her age. Thirty, one said. No way, said another. Twenty-five, tops . They began to discuss her body, which she apparently tried to disguise with modest clothing. But they were not fooled by her turtlenecks and blazers. She taught honors English and one of the typing electives. Most of Deanâs players knew her from typing.
Dean had felt the need to investigate. He searched for a Ms. Lanning in the staff directory and found none. Then he checked the database on the libraryâs computer, which was more up to date, and found her name, but not her photo, under the list
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