Life on the Porcelain Edge Page 2

  Ryland was about to see Tessa Tarrington for a second time in one day. Her response to him for round two most likely would not be improved.

  3

  The shrill of the bell announced the end of the school day and Tessa’s eighth period Modern American Literature class.

  “OK ladies and gentlemen, we’ll pick up tomorrow where you left off with Mrs. Monahan. We’ll be reviewing the potential titles to use for your papers on dystopian literature in the modern era. Have a wonderful evening.”

  The mix of juniors and seniors trickled into the hallway. The din of their conversations followed in their wake.

  Her eyes flittered shut, the blessing of silence encapsulating her. Every muscle in her body felt as if she had run back-to-back marathons. Even her fingernails hurt. How does one actually have pain in the fingernail? With a long sigh, she pushed from her chair to wipe the giant white board behind her.

  “I kind of miss chalkboards.”

  As if she wasn’t already in enough pain. She plastered a long-practiced sorority smile on her lips and turned to find Ryland Jessup holding up the door frame of her classroom. “Coach Jessup, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, Miss T., it’s not what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you.”

  She gritted her teeth, but her smile never wavered. She had perfected the smile after three years of Rush, encountering hundreds of girls, and several sisters, who were less than genuine. Delta Alpha Psi, her chosen sisterhood, was not one of the crazy, partying kind of sororities that ended up on the news with black slashes hiding the identity of underage girls. Her sisterhood was more subdued—filled with girls majoring in English, Elementary Education, or something with the arts. They had movie nights featuring the latest British film, and book clubs discussing the finer points of Austen’s heroines. She’d found her people. Bookworms in pearls.

  Not that she liked all of her sisters—life in families never worked that simply. Bobbi Ann Risdy and Joanie Lee Wilston didn’t make her post-college Christmas card list. But, within the sanctity of her sorority, Tessa found her most cherished friends. For an only child, small town loner, Lily Mae Benton and Ella Donavon were the water Tessa’s parched soul desperately needed. And for Lily and Ella, she’d learned to plaster a smile and give a ‘God bless her soul’ to her less-than-beloved sisters.

  Her sorority days taught her hundreds of lessons. Everything from what table service to use when hosting a seven course dinner, to dealing diplomatically with individuals whose presence was similar to the scraping of nails down a blackboard. She learned to be surface sweet even to the vilest of people. Ryland Jessup was nearly as low on her list as Bobbi Ann Risdy. But as with her sisterhood nemesis, her smile never wavered while Ryland swallowed up the doorway to her room.

  Despite returning the errant Jackson Murray to class and forcing him to apologize in front of all of his peers, Ryland remained at the center of all of her childhood pain. Tessa wished she had some petroleum jelly handy for her teeth when her lips dried from faking the grin too long. “Coach Jessup I don’t believe there’s anything I need, but thank you for asking.”

  He shoved away from the doorframe. With two steps into her classroom, Tessa’s breathing went shallow. The man’s mere presence sucked all the oxygen from the room. He was well over a foot taller than she was, with shoulders every linebacker in America envied. His hair was military short, likely to avoid the curl he’d hated as a child. His gray eyes twinkled with a smile, but she knew the devil was ready to pounce through those full lips.

  “Well, Miss T., I think there is.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Miss T.?”

  “Yes, I buried that nickname under the fifty yard line when I was seventeen years old.”

  “What nickname? I’ve heard students all day referring to the new substitute Miss T. I think one of my football players told me that’s what the ‘cool lady sub whose letting us read regular stuff’ asked to be called.”

  “Oh…” Her cheeks warmed, probably straight to fire engine red. She had told the students they could call her Miss Tarrington or Miss T. “I guess I did, but that was for the students. Not for the teachers.”

  “Well, what are the teachers supposed to call you?”

  “Tessa…”

  “Naw….that’s no fun. You need a nickname. Everyone likes a nickname.”

  She lifted her dilapidated cross-body saddlebag from the floor and shoved overflowing folders inside. “Not everyone likes nicknames. Trust me.”

  He thrust a beefy hand through his cropped hair. “I’m sorry Tessa. I was trying to be nice. I seemed to have messed up again.”

  “Again?” She hoisted the near bursting bag on her left shoulder.

  He yanked her coat and hat from the hook behind her, brushing her shoulder with his arm. “Yep. I’ve hurt your feelings more often than a rookie quarterback gets sacked.”

  “That many, huh?” She couldn’t help the tug at the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am. It all started with a little boy who was head over heels for the prettiest, smartest girl he’d ever seen but he couldn’t seem to ever get things right. And instead of making that little girl love him, he hurt her so bad, now she hates him.”

  Her heart warmed with the tender gloss of his gaze. Not a little devil in sight. “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “Aww, but I think she does. And I need to start making it up to her.”

  She tried to slip on her wool jacket, but struggled with the balance of the saddlebag shifting sides. With his forefinger he lifted the bag, and shrugged her into her woolen coat, hooking her bag efficiently over her shoulder. Gently, he tugged the soft toboggan over her ears, scrunching her ponytail to her head.

  She swallowed against the rising thickness in her throat. “How’re you gonna do that?”

  “Maybe we could have a coffee or something. And it’s ‘going to’. Just because you are from Ohio doesn’t mean you should end your sentences with a preposition.”

  BAAM! He did it again! Ryland Jessup made her feel like an idiot. Prettiest, smartest girl he’d ever seen. Bah! She stepped back, sidling around him to the door. “Coach Jessup, I don’t think there’s anything we have to say to one another. Good-bye.” She zoomed through the door and was halfway down the back hallway leading to the associate parking lot, when the weight of five meaty fingers clamp onto her shoulder.

  “What’s your problem, T.T.? I’m trying to be nice. I wanted to properly welcome you back to Gibson’s Run.”

  Pivoting to face him, she laced her arms across her chest. “And does mauling a co-worker on her way to the parking lot fall into the category of ‘nice’ or ‘welcoming’?”

  “When did you become so touchy?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was being humiliated when I was six years old in front of my entire kindergarten class—who all graduated high school with me because this town is the size of a cereal puff. Or maybe it was the years between junior and senior high when Pee-Pee Tee-Tee was shortened just to T.T. but you and Marshall Smith felt the need to remind everyone of the origins of the nickname. Or maybe it was during the praise band concert when you started shouting ‘go T.T. like it’s your birthday’ from the back pew of church. Or maybe it was one of the hundreds of other days in the miserable thirteen years I spent in this town. Take your pick. But I can’t imagine what someone as cool and awesome as Ryland Jessup has to say to someone as “touchy” as little old T.T. Tarrington. Good evening, Coach.”

  She spun out of his grip like a wide receiver avoiding a tackle, and for the second time in one day, Tessa Tarrington ran like an old toilet—noisy and erratic.

  4

  “Daddy,” Tessa hollered as she stumbled through the front door of her father’s parsonage. “I’m home. What do you want for dinner?” She dropped her bag and coat near the front door coat rack. Kicking off her shoes, she padded sock-footed to the paneled library-study her father used as his home office.
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br />   Since his heart attack four weeks ago while giving the third Sunday in Advent sermon on the shepherds being called to literally ‘go and tell it on the mountain,’ Thomas Tarrington had retreated to his private sanctuary every morning.

  When Tessa was a child, her father’s office was a place of reverence and peace. If the door was shut, her mother would say, “Tessa you always need to knock before you barge. More than likely the good Lord is in for a sit-down with Daddy. You wouldn’t want to disturb them, now, would you?”

  Until Tessa was sixteen, she was afraid to walk in too soon after her father opened the door for fear she would come face to face with The Lord. Not that she didn’t love and cherish Him—she did—she was just trying to avoid a repeat of her sixth birthday party. Once a piddler…

  “Daddy…” The door was cracked and she could hear the woeful tunes of the new country band she recommended filling the tiny space.

  “Come on in, sweetie.” Her father’s voice, though no longer quite the interesting mix of booming volume and subtle tones, was still the greatest sound of comfort in her life.

  Pushing the door, the vision of her father’s mad-scientist hair, well-worn cardigan and holey socks, made her wince. “Daddy, have you left the office today?”

  “I was reading some Lewis and lost track of time.” He slipped his reading glasses from the bridge of his nose. “You know how that can be.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow.

  She slid onto the overstuffed leather ottoman beside her father’s propped feet. “All too well. A dorm fire nearly took me because I was rereading Pride and Prejudice. I was desperately trying to correlate Austen’s work to a modern romance novel I’d been assigned. I was so engrossed in Elizabeth’s first view of Pemberley it took a firefighter tapping me on my shoulder to put the novel down.”

  Her father rubbed his forehead. “Tessa, you’ve always been an over-sharer. That was not a story this old heart needed to hear.” His words reprimanded but his voice held a smile. He patted her hand. “How was the first day back at your alma mater?”

  “How about we discuss what you’d like to have for dinner? We can’t have grilled cheese and tomato soup again.” She also knew how to make mac & cheese and scrambled eggs, but she’d exhausted both in the first two weeks. She didn’t think her father was up to the Cajun cooking she’d learned in New Orleans, regardless of how mild she tended to make her etouffee.

  “Why don’t we take a walk and get a sandwich at Only the Basics? Maggie added soups and sandwiches with the New Year. Being a Monday night she’s likely pretty quiet.”

  Tessa had met Maggie McKitrick at the small café her second day back in town. Maggie was the holder of the coffee. The coffee was what kept Tessa standing, upright and audible. Maggie also appeared to be a favorite of her father’s parishioners. Bonus.

  “Are you sure you can make it that far?” The coffee shop was on Main Street about a half of a mile from the parsonage.

  “The doctor said I needed to walk a little every day. It’s particularly nice for January in Ohio. We can’t be wasting one of God’s precious gifts because my heart isn’t as strong as it was three years ago.”

  Three years ago…Mother.

  Her father’s spirit never fully recovered from her mother’s untimely death.

  Julie Tarrington contracted a summer cold she thought she’d shake with a little over the counter medicine and rest. By the end of August the doctor told her she had a rare form of lung cancer and less than six months to live. She made it to the Apple Festival in October before her eyes closed in prayer for the last time.

  Pastor Tom pulled the celebration of his wife’s life together while he was crumbling on the inside. He never took a break—not one Sunday—after her death. He just kept pushing until his broken heart cracked four weeks ago and nearly left Tessa an orphan.

  “You’re right. The weather is almost balmy for January in Ohio. Let me get your boots and coat. We’ll leave right now. We don’t want to run the risk of Maggie closing early due to a slow Monday.”

  ~*~

  Tessa snagged the one empty table in the middle of the bustling café. After settling her dad, she went to the counter to place their orders. She tapped her foot to the rhythm of the Christian Rock mix humming through the sound system.

  The little café—formerly called Taylor’s—was the same spot where she’d folded herself into empty-tabled corners when her mother shooed her out of the house. She’d sipped on coffee, nibbled cookies, and escaped to worlds as diverse as a raft on the Mississippi and a cold train bound for certain death. But of all the storied worlds of escape, her favorites were always the love stories. Tragic to joyful, love stories held the mystery of the universe for Tessa. Within their crumpled, worn pages, she became the heroine. The lead in fiction even if she was an edited character in real life. She’d prayed some of her more desperate prayers while sitting at the two person window table. Taylor’s was the nearest place to a sanctuary outside of her father’s church, and Mrs. Lorraine Taylor had been her priest.

  Mrs. Taylor seemed to know when to talk and when to listen. Tessa’s mother had been the most wonderful person in her life, but Tessa never wanted to reveal the true extent of her miserable alone-ness to former homecoming queen Julie Tarrington. Mrs. Taylor was a neutral party with zero expectations. And she baked the best chocolate chip cookies on the planet. Tessa missed Mrs. Taylor nearly as much as her own mother. A little café and bakery in the shop was a nice tribute to the woman Tessa still dearly loved.

  “May I help you?”

  The question tugged Tessa back to the present. She narrowed her attention on the petite shop owner, Maggie.

  “Hi, Tessa, what brings you in tonight? How’s your dad?”

  Tessa pointed over her shoulder toward her father who was talking with another patron. “He wanted to go for a walk. Suggested we head over here. I think the walk was good for him, but he’ll feel it tomorrow.”

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you both come in.” She said with a wave toward Tessa’s father. “We’ve been slammed since we added some savory dishes to the menu a few weeks ago. It’s a wonderful problem, but unfortunately the extra business makes me a less hospitable host.” She took Tessa’s order with a smile. “I promise I’ll stop by your table as soon as this wave dies down.”

  Tessa stuffed her change back in her wallet. Turning toward the coffee carafes, she slammed into a wall of solid muscle. Drawing her gaze from the size fourteen shoes and past the broad chest, she braced for the steely gray eyes and a glance at the devil. “Excuse me.” She mumbled. She tried to edge past Ryland, but her path to the coffee was blocked by four juniors from her third period composition class. She bit her lip and glanced at her father to see if he was a viable pathway to caffeine.

  “Let me do it.” Ryland snatched the cup from her hand and plowed through the gaggle of teens who giggled as he passed.

  He filled her cup with steamy goodness and she struggled to match him with the rude bully she’d known nearly her whole life. A tug on her pant leg drew her attention, and she dropped her gaze to the curly-headed face staring up at her.

  “Do y’know my daddy?”

  Daddy? Was Ryland Jessup a father? Was he married? Had the married Ryland Jessup almost attempted to ask her out today? Of course he was married. Scum.

  “Yes, I do know your father. I’ve known him since…how old are you?”

  Her fingers fanned to reveal four chubby digits. “This manys.”

  “This many.” Her father corrected.

  “Well, I’ve known your father since I was only a little older. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my own father.” She lifted the cup from Ryland’s hand. “Thank you for my coffee.” Leaning up on her tip-toes, she whispered, “I can’t believe you were asking me out today when you’re married. You’re…hmphf!” She dropped to her heels and spun toward her dad.

  Their sandwiches waited in little woven baskets on the table. Presumably delivered by Maggie,
who sat in one of the three empty chairs chatting with Dad.

  “It’s so good to have you back in the café, Pastor Tom.” Maggie said. “I’ve missed seeing you for Make-Up Mondays.”

  “What are Make-Up Mondays?” Tessa asked, sliding onto a chair opposite her father.

  “Make-Up Mondays are the tradition I started with Emma.” Ryland answered. “When I missed church due to a Sunday game. We invited Pastor Tom to join us when we noticed him by himself on Monday’s a few months back.”

  A wave of embarrassment coupled with a fresh shower of disgust, and mixed with a touch of dread, washed over Tessa.

  Emma climbed on the seat next to Dad. Stretching her toddler arms around his neck, she squeezed as if she was hugging a favorite teddy bear. “I missed you Pastor Tom. Make-Up Mondays have been real borings without you.”

  “Emma, we should leave Pastor Tom and his daughter to their dinner.” Ryland tried to extricate his four year-old from her life sized toy.

  “No!” Emma twisted in Tessa’s father’s lap and crossed her arms.

  “Young lady, I’ll not tolerate an attitude.”

  “But I wanna have a real Make-Up Monday. If we don’t have hot chocolate with Pastor Tom, it ain’t no real Make-Up.”

  “Isn’t—do not let your grandmother hear you ever say the word ain’t, or I might get my first switch to my backside.” He held out her coat. “Now let’s go. You can pick the movie tonight.”

  Emma scooted down and dropped to the floor.

  Tessa glanced at her father. Sadness shadowed his eyes as Ryland help Emma with her coat. Guilt needled her. The love between a four year-old, her father, and her arch-nemesis was tangible.

  “Ryland?” she whispered, with a soft touch to his shoulder.

  He whipped around as if he’d been shot. His gaze locked with hers.

  A long, quiet butterfly fluttered its wings within Tessa’s belly. “My dad and I’d really like it if you and Emma would join us.”