Page 33 of The Single Dad

“Well, without further ado, let’s get started!” Miss Richards paces over to the piano and sits on the bench. She glances over at the kids, who are all watching her for their cue. “Everyone ready? Three, two—”

As the kids lift their voices for the first song—a jaunty remix of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” that doesn’t feel much like the original—I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, somewhere in the back of the room.

I look over my shoulder and am surprised to see Mr. Sullivan standing against the back wall like a shadow, smiling lightly as he listens to the kids’ off-key singing. He must have slipped in right before the concert began.

I turn to face forward in my seat, shaking my head in wonder. Busy as he is, Mr. Sullivan still somehow managed to find time for Archie.

I’m not the only one who noticed Mr. Sullivan’s late entrance. Farther down in my row, one of the women, a blonde, leans forward to whisper in the ear of the mother seated in front of her, a young woman wearing a string of pearls. Both of them look back at Mr. Sullivan.

“God, he’s gorgeous,” the blonde says in a carrying whisper.

“Cole Sullivan?” The woman next to her, a tall brunette in a cashmere sweater, joins in on the conversation, twisting in her chair. “Tell me about it. I thought I was the only one.”

Pearl-necklace chimes in. “Oh, honey, of course you’re not.”

“We’ve all had crushes on him since the moment he enrolled his kid here,” says the blonde woman.

My fingers close on the program. I tell myself that my irritation has nothing to do with their topic of conversation, but merely their rudeness. What if their kids look to them in the audience, only to find that they aren’t even watching?

I make eye contact with Archie, whose voice is audible even amongst the cacophony of singing children, and give him a thumbs up. But it’s impossible not to overhear the three women talking.

“That body.”

“If I wasn’t married—”

“Hell, I’ve been married, and I would’ve left that bastard sooner if I thought it meant I’d have a chance with a man like that.” Pearl-necklace leans over the back of her chair, her gaze glued to Mr. Sullivan. I shoot him a quick glance; he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“Well, who says you don’t?” says Cashmere-sweater.

Both of the other two laugh, as if she just told a hilarious joke.

“What’s so funny?”

The blonde shakes her head with a sigh. “Oh, I forgot you were new. He’s damaged goods, unfortunately. Good luck trying to get close with a history like that.”

“Like what?” asks Cashmere-sweater.

Despite my disdain for their gossiping, I can’t help but lean a little closer, hungry for whatever information I can glean from them. I know so little about my employer that I’ll take any chance I can get to learn something.

“Something happened with the sister,” says the blonde, and I grit my teeth in annoyance at her flippant tone. “Some kind of tragic accident—I don’t know all the details. All I know is that she died, and it really wrecked him.”

“He’s raising her kid,” Pearl-necklace adds, flipping a lock of hair over her shoulder. “And he was really struggling in the beginning, too.”

“Oh.” Cashmere-sweater gives Mr. Sullivan another long, appraising look, then turns forward in her seat and mutters, “God, what I wouldn’t give to have been his shoulder to cry on.”

“Tell me about it,” the blonde woman agrees with a soft laugh. “I’d have been happy to comfort him.”

A pit of rage forms in my stomach, white-hot. This man lost his sister, his family—and all they can do is joke about what must have been the worst tragedy of his life. I think about what it would be like to lose Noah; the idea makes me almost nauseous.

I had assumed that Archie’s mother died of some kind of illness. The idea that it was a tragic accident… that explains a lot. Namely, it explains why Mr. Sullivan is so reluctant to talk about it.

I have half a mind to turn on these wealthy women and tell them off, but I bite my tongue. This is the last place I want to start something. These women all have status that they can wield against me, and besides, this concert is about the kids.

If I get into an argument with the other parents, I’m almost certain to be fired. So I force myself to face forward, ignoring their quiet chuckles and whispers.

The kids sing a few more short songs, led by the competent piano-playing of their teacher. When they’re finished, the audience claps, and a few exuberant, extra-supportive parents rise to their feet in a standing ovation.

The children are beaming. Some of them seem proud of their performance, but many others are just happy to be leaving the stage.

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