The Last Letter (Page 22)

The morning he’d shown up with Colt as a surprise—about three days after the surgery—I’d just about melted into a puddle of goo. He seemed to know exactly what I needed—what Maisie needed—and provided it before I could even ask for it.

“Yes, in two weeks, but it’s not romantic.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not! He’s here because Ryan asked him to be. That’s it. Nothing more.” At least that’s what I told myself whenever I found those green eyes watching me or me watching him.

“And you don’t find him attractive or anything, right?”

“I…” Dark green eyes the color of pine, thick hair and thicker arms, washboard abs that trailed down to—get a grip. “Of course I do. I’ve seen the man.” And felt him.

I’d felt the protective way he’d held me—tight, but not oppressive, as if he’d simply known that I needed to be held together in that moment. Felt the gentleness of his hands when he’d wiped away my tears after sobbing out everything I’d held in. Felt the joy he was capable of when Colt had climbed into bed next to Maisie and held his sister. Felt the overwhelming capacity for love that he had even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Yeah, I felt entirely too much when it came to Beckett.

“Well, yeah. You’d have to be dead not to notice. Because he’s hot, Ella. And not in a passingly nice kind of way. He’s hot in a take-me-on-the-kitchen-counter-and-let-me-bear-your-children kind of way. Plus, he’s starting to speak in more than one-word answers, which shows definite potential in the moving-past-broody department.”

A flash of something hot and ugly hit my stomach and was gone as quickly as it came. Jealousy. There was no reason to be jealous of Hailey. Sure, she was beautiful, and available, and didn’t have so much baggage attached to her that there was a giant Samsonite tag on her forehead, but the minute we’d come home from Denver, she’d completely stopped seeking out Beckett. And it wasn’t because she wouldn’t be interested. I’d heard the gossip getting coffee yesterday—half of Telluride was interested in the newest Search and Rescue member.

It was because Hailey thought maybe I was interested.

“He has always spoken in more than one-word answers, and I already have children, remember? Besides, speaking of children, if I don’t walk out right now, I’m going to be late for this meeting.”

“Okay. Go. Run. But that man lives next door, and from what I’ve seen, you’re going to have to deal with all that”—she motioned to my red face—“pent-up frustration somehow.”

A guest walked in, the bell ringing with the light tinkling sound that had taken me hours to decide on.

“Saved by the bell,” Hailey whispered before turning to our new guest. “Welcome to Solitude! You must be Mr. Henderson. Your cabin is all ready for you and your wife.” Her smile was wide and mirrored by the hipster-looking twentysomething.

Summer hiking season was almost upon us.

I took my opportunity, and the binder, and escaped out the front door.

It was 10:31 when I pulled in, but I parked in the elementary school’s designated spots like a good parent and took the extra minute hit to my already tardy arrival.

“Ella!” Jennifer smiled out at me through the glass. “They’re all set up for you.”

“Hey, Jennifer.” I signed in on the clipboard and opened the door when the buzzer sounded.

“How is Maisie feeling?” she asked as she walked me into the offices that sat just behind the reception desk.

“She’s good, thank you. Surgery went well, and she’s ready to return to school on Monday.”

“Really? Already? That’s amazing!”

“You’d be shocked to see how quickly kids bounce back, and as long as her levels are good, she’s safe here.”

“I just can’t believe she beat it that quickly!”

Oh, no. I saw that look in her eyes, and I hated to be the one to dash it. “No, Jen. She had the tumor removed, and they got it all, but she’s Stage Four. Her bone marrow is still overwhelmingly cancerous. She just made it through the first step.”

Her face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t understand.”

I offered her a smile. “Don’t worry. Not many people do, and I hope you never have to. She’s fighting.”

Her lips pressed together in a flat line before she nodded her head. “Of course.” She opened the door to the conference room, and I squeezed her hand as I passed, reassuring her that she hadn’t said anything worthy of embarrassment.

“Ah, Ms. MacKenzie, I’m so glad you could make it,” Principal Halsen said from the head of the table. His tie was as straight as his face.

Apparently we were all business today.

“Ms. May.” I smiled at Maisie and Colt’s teacher. She was in her late twenties, and Colt had only the best things to say about her. A pang of guilt smacked me square in the chest at how absent I’d been from school activities this year.

Yeah, I definitely wasn’t winning PTA Mom of the Year over here. Not even Okayest Mom. I was pretty much the Nonexistent Mom.

“And this is Mr. Jonas, who is our district superintendent and will be joining us today.” Principal Halsen motioned toward the older gentleman at his left. The man nodded at me with pursed lips that morphed into a forced smile.

“Mr. Jonas.”

I took the seat at the end of the conference table, leaving two empty seats between me and what felt like the army that had gathered against me, or rather Maisie. The loud sound of the binder’s zipper opening was almost obscene in the silence.

“So, Ms. MacKenzie—”

“Ella,” I reminded him.

“Ella,” he agreed with a nod. “We needed to meet today because of Maisie’s attendance record. As you know, she needs to be present for a minimum of nine hundred hours to complete kindergarten. Right now, between her absences and times she’s needed to leave early, or come late, she’s at about seven hundred and ten.”

“Okay?” I flipped through the binder to her school section, where I kept record of her days, hours, and documentation.

“We feel at this point, we need to discuss her options,” Principal Halsen said, pushing his glasses up his nose and opening the manila folder in front of him.

“Options,” I repeated, trying to understand.

“She hasn’t met the legal requirement,” Mr. Jonas said, his voice soft, but his eyes telling me that the issue was cut and dried in his opinion.

“Right.” I flipped to the letter I’d kept in a page protector and took it out of the binder. “I absolutely agree that she hasn’t met the requirement, but the district assured us in this letter dated in November that you wouldn’t hold her to it. That rule is waivable in the regulations by the district due to catastrophic illness, and that’s what you agreed to.”

I slid the letter down the table. Ms. May caught it and passed it along, sending me a sympathetic smile.

“We did. And we’re not here to throw ultimatums at you, Ella,” Principal Halsen assured me. “We’re here to discuss what’s best for Maisie. We made this agreement without looking at her long-term future.”

Because they hadn’t thought she’d make it this long.

“What’s best for Maisie…” I repeated softly. “You mean, like not having Stage Four neuroblastoma? Because I definitely agree—that’s not in her best interest.”

Mr. Jonas cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his wrinkled, folded hands on the table. “We absolutely sympathize, Ms. MacKenzie. What your daughter has been through is tragic.”

And there went my hackles, rising as my spine straightened. “It’s not tragic, Mr. Jonas. She’s not dead.”

“Of course not, my dear. We’re not saying that any of this is fair, but the truth is that Maisie might not be ready for first grade.”

My dear. Like I was a little girl in bloomers asking for a pretty new doll. To hell with that.

“We’ve done everything you’ve asked. Ms. May has been quite accommodating, and I assure you that she’s ready.”

“She is.” Ms. May nodded.

Principal Halsen sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning an imaginary spot. “Let’s look at this from a different angle. Can you tell us where she’s at in her treatments? What we can expect in the coming months?”

I flipped back to the sheet where I kept the estimated treatment plan, realizing we’d gotten to a point where I wasn’t sure. We were at a crossroads.

“She just completed a major surgery two weeks ago. She’s healing wonderfully and is ready to come back to school on Monday. Then the week after, we’ll be in for another round of chemo, which as you know means she’s gone a solid school week. We’re hoping her levels will remain stable enough to come back for the end of school, but there’s no telling. Then we’re into summer. I’ll know more when we go in for chemo and I can meet with her oncologist.”

The administrators shared a look that made me feel like I wasn’t on the other side of the table but the other side of the battlefield. I felt that change come over me—the one that had appeared the moment they’d placed the twins in my arms—like pieces of armor clicking into place as I prepared to defend my child.

“Have you thought about having her repeat kindergarten? If she’s in a better situation to be fully present next school year, then it wouldn’t harm her. We wouldn’t force it, of course, but it’s worth a thought. In fact, a lot of our parents hold back their children at the kindergarten stage for various reasons. Certainly this procedure qualifies—”

I snapped.

“With all due respect, it wasn’t a procedure. It was a twelve-hour, life-threatening surgery in which they removed a tumor the size of a softball from my daughter’s adrenal gland. This isn’t an inconvenience; this is cancer. And no, next year won’t be better. She’s fighting for her life, so excuse me if I don’t share your worries that she may have missed the critical day of kindergarten when you covered the life cycle of the butterfly. Statistically she might not even…” My throat closed, my body rebelling against the words I hadn’t spoken since the day they’d given me her odds. “Next year will not be better.”