One prim woman dressed in a red skirt, white shirt, and blue over-blouse seemed ready to accost him. Even her sandals had the patriotic theme down, straps of red, white, and blue surrounding her feet. However instead of confronting him, she gave him an icy glare reserved for the likes of a pedophile, then climbed into her green Honda and roared off. She was adjusting the earbud of her cell phone, ready to make a call. Bentz figured she might be dialing 9-1-1 and the police might show up to question or arrest him at any second.

Have at, he thought watching a scrap of paper kick up in her wake.

Before the cavalry arrived, though, Bentz noticed Tally White emerge through the glass doors. She was walking alongside another teacher and they were engrossed in their conversation. Tally was tall, nearly five-ten, and had put on a few pounds over the years. She’d always been a little too thin, runner-lean, but now curves were evident beneath her peach slacks and matching shell. Her brown hair showed bits of gray and was cut into one of those wedge hairdos, where the back is shorter than the sides.

Her friend was a good five inches shorter than she, a square-bodied black woman whose oversized sunglasses hid half her face. Wild corkscrew curls were untamed by the headband that forced them away from her forehead. The two teachers were laughing and talking, lugging book bags and heading toward cars parked a few spaces from him.

“Showtime,” he told himself as he stepped out of the car and said, “Hi, Tally.”

She looked away from her companion, and upon spying Bentz, nearly tripped.

“Oh, God. Rick?” She wasn’t sure and squinted, as if she needed glasses. “Rick Bentz?”

“Good to see you.”

“But why are you…? I mean I know you called and I should have phoned you back, but I didn’t know you were here, in California.” She glanced nervously around the parking lot, as if looking for an escape route, or that she was afraid someone might see her speaking with him. She visibly squared her shoulders as if ready to take on the world. Or at least Bentz’s part of it. “Wow. I…I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “About Jennifer.”

Beneath her tan she seemed to pale and she glanced around the emptying parking lot. A minivan with two men in the front seat slid out the gate. “Here?”

“I’d buy you a cup of coffee. Or a glass of wine?”

“Uh, no…” She suddenly remembered her coworker. “Oh. Sherilou,” Tally said, motioning toward Rick with the fingers of the hand holding onto the book bag. “This is Rick Bentz, an old…the husband of one of my friends. Rick—Sherilou. She and I both teach English.”