She was absolutely stunning in a black designer maternity dress and heels that likely cost more than my entire wardrobe. She slid past the biker, giving him a look that made all sorts of indecent promises.
Must be newlyweds.
I extended my hand. “Hello. Mrs. and Mr. Wilson, I presume?”
“Julia, please.” She shook my hand and beamed another smile back at her husband. “And this is Havoc.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I said, also greeting him. “Mercedes Foster, the director of Bold Beginnings Preschool. And please call me Mercy.”
Inviting them to sit in the mismatched chairs in front of my desk, I retook my seat. Like most things around the school, my office furniture was second-hand but comfortable.
Havoc sat, but Julia did a lap around my office first, taking in my certification plaques before turning her attention to the colorful student pictures and projects.
When I first started as the preschool director, my walls had been tastefully decorated with framed motivational posters. I never asked the children for their artwork. In fact, I’d rather they took it home and displayed it for their families, reminding themselves and their loved ones of their capacity to create beauty. But not all our students had a home they felt comfortable displaying themselves—much less their work—in, so corkboard displays had replaced my motivational posters.
The colorful chaos that only a group of three- to five-year-olds could create was an upgrade, really. This was the most beautiful space I’d ever occupied.
Julia smiled at the work before turning her attention to the decorations. “It’s very festive in here.”
My childhood hadn’t exactly been a place of twinkling lights and Christmas trees. Mom did what she could, but growing up, we’d been dirt poor, giving me a complicated relationship with the holiday. Christmas had been all about her obvious stress and my bottled disappointment.
Now I had a preschool of low-income children to educate, several of whom were growing up in the same subsidized housing where I’d been raised.
“These kids can use a little magic in their lives, so I regularly raid post-holiday clearance sales.”
The result was a colorful mishmash of holiday themes. A stormtrooper wearing a Santa hat and draped in a string of M&M lights stood in one corner, across from a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, its only decoration a Grinch ornament. An oversized Abominable Snowman snow globe held court on my desk, and a string of Nightmare Before Christmas lights circled my exterior window. The rest of the school looked much the same.
“It’s absolute chaos, but they love it,” I said.
They say pregnant women glow. That probably didn’t hold true for all of them, but Julia’s smile was radiant. “So do I. And I’m glad we found your preschool. Are you familiar with the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club?”
A trickle of nervous dread pooled in my gut, but I held my calm and friendly expression. In this neighborhood, you judge first, ask questions later, but I couldn’t afford to do that right now. “No. Should I be?” I asked.
Before she could answer, there was a rap on my office door frame, and a silver-haired, petite woman poked her head in. “Excuse me, Mercy, I heard you had guests, and I just pulled cookies out of the oven.”
The smell of chocolaty goodness wafted in as she entered, extending a plate to our guests.
Elizabeth Welch was a widow whose only child had enlisted in the military shortly after her husband’s death. She’d been lonely, bored, and looking for someone to nurture when I met her. Her phenomenal kitchen skills, paired with her kind demeanor and warm smile, made her the perfect fit for the school. She lived in the neighborhood, and though she was old enough to be my mom, we’d become close friends over the past few years.
“Thank you, Beth.” Addressing the Wilsons, I added, “Beth is our cook, and everything she makes is incredible.”
She flashed me a sweet, motherly smile before eyeing the patch on Havoc’s vest and surprising me. “You’re with the Dead Presidents. I’m familiar with the club.”
“You are?” I asked, surprised.
“Yep. Those bikers do the Lord’s work.”
Havoc bit into his cookie with a groan of appreciation. “These are delicious. Thank you.”
Julia agreed, reaching for another.
Beth smiled. “My pleasure. My son’s in the Army. He’s a combat medic.”
The pride in her tone was tempered with heartache. I knew little more than Landon’s name, since she changed the subject whenever he came up, but there was clearly a story there.
To me, Beth added, “The club helps vets. And the community. They’ve been featured in the paper several times, and it’s all been positive. Well, all except Havoc’s attempted murder charge, but that was justified.”
Wondering how attempted murder could be justified, I looked to Havoc as my eyebrows tried to climb their way up into my hairline, but he popped the rest of his cookie into his mouth.
