Kindergarten Baby: A Novel Read online

  KINDERGARTEN BABY

  A SCHOOL DAYS-GRIMM NIGHTS NOVEL

  Book 1

  by

  Cricket Rohman

  Published by Cricket Rohman

  Visit Cricket Rohman’s official website at

  www.cricketrohman.com/

  for the latest news, book details, and other information

  Copyright © Cricket Rohman, 2013

  Cover design by Doug Aghassi

  e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is dedicated:

  To my mom, MaryLee Rohmann,

  who read to me often.

  In memory of my dad, Edward J. Rohmann,

  who taught me the value of hard work.

  To caring, creative, and talented teachers everywhere.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank:

  My very first reader, Sharon Erb, and the feedback readers Adrienne Magee, Beth Pearson, Wendy Parks, and Colleen Roh who read every single word before 15,000 words were cut from the manuscript.

  My talented and delightful editor, Genevieve Graham, who kept me laughing through most of the editing process.

  My creative webmaster and front cover designer, Doug Aghassi.

  Guido Henkel for his speed and patience (with me) in formatting the ebook versions.

  My three sons, Doug, Jeff, and Justin for providing inspiration—each in their own way.

  Jerry Gallegos for his everlasting love, unwavering moral support, and genuine encouragement.

  My readers, my friends… you give me motivation and purpose. Thank you.

  Also by Cricket Rohman

  SCHOOL DAYS-GRIMM NIGHTS NOVELS

  KINDERGARTEN BABY

  Book 1

  A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS

  Book 2

  ONCE UPON A TIME…

  A lonely little girl sat on the shore and stared vacantly at the advancing waves, waiting for a miracle.

  “Come on. Time to go,” a woman’s voice called. “Your new foster family is expecting you.”

  The little girl sighed, her small shoulders slumping with resignation. No miracle today. But she would survive, safe inside a world she’d created in her mind. She’d cope with the loneliness and endure the fears that reached beyond the realm of her understanding by cultivating a powerful belief in myths‌—‌fairy tales and happily ever afters. And, for her own protection, she’d learn to bury her sorrows between the pages of Snow White, Rapunzel, and Briar Rose.

  FALL

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lindsey Sommerfield smiled into the wide-open faces of her kindergarten students, all of whom waited impatiently for her next word. She had begun their day‌—‌as she always did‌—‌with a story. A fairy tale.

  “She gently washed the cinders from her face, then dressed in the most beautiful, shimmering gown in all the kingdom, for she was about to marry the brave and charming prince,” she declared, her voice ringing with the magical tone of a true storyteller.

  Lindsey no longer read from the pages of the books she loved. She embellished the sometimes lackluster text with more description and enticing enchantment, and threw in an occasional kindergarten vocabulary word, using the book’s illustrations to assist her young students’ imaginations.

  A small hand went up, waving wildly.

  “Yes, Harley?”

  “What are those things? The…‌the…‌sidders she washed?” he asked.

  “They are cinders,” Emma told him. She was the brainiest girl in the class.

  “I know. I know,” interrupted Willy, chest puffed with pride. “They’re people that do bad, bad things.”

  Lindsey smiled at each child. “I’m glad you are all paying attention. Good question, Harley. Willy, you were very close, but I think you were thinking of ‘sinners.’ Sinners are people who do bad things. Emma, you are right. Cinders are leftover coals or dirt from a fireplace or wood stove,” she explained as she flipped back to an illustration of Cinderella sweeping up around the fireplace.

  “Shall I go on?” she asked. She continued after unanimous agreement from the group. “Kind as always, Cinderella invited her stepmother and stepsisters to live in the palace after the royal wedding. They didn’t stay long, though. They couldn’t be their grumpy old selves among all the joyful noises that could be heard throughout the cheerful kingdom. So, Cinderella and the Prince really did get to live happily ever after.”

  “Hurray! Read it again,” the children pleaded.

  Lindsey Sommerfield was a lucky woman. She loved her job almost as much as she loved her husband, who she absolutely adored. She usually arrived at the school early and left late, not so much out of duty or contract time, but out of true dedication and love for her students and their successes. She thrived in this environment, finding joy in the complex challenges she and other teachers faced on a daily basis.

  Today, however, Lindsey had fallen prey to one of the numerous, marauding germs in her classroom. They took hold like an ornery pitbull and wouldn’t let go. Before long, the agonizing headache, the more-than-scratchy throat, and her total lack of energy became increasingly difficult to ignore. It was only when she nearly passed out in the middle of snack time that she surrendered to the infection and went home early.

  Lindsey hesitated at her front door, though she wasn’t overly concerned when she heard muffled noises coming from inside. Her first thought was that either she or her husband, Anthony, had accidentally left the television on. It wasn’t until she stepped into the echoing, terra-cotta tiled hallway that a tingling sensation of apprehension swept through her weakened body. Something wasn’t right.

  The noise seemed to trickle down from upstairs, which was strange, because there was no television up there. She had seen to that, insisting that upstairs was for love, rest, and rejuvenation. That was their private nest, their soothing refuge from the outside world. It was also the place where they kept heirloom jewelry, Anthony’s designer clothing, state-of-the-art computers storing years of personal and work-related data, and their combined collection of rare books. Add to that the priceless, original artwork painted by her mother, and it amounted to a treasure trove for a thief.

  Thieves. Panic shot through her. Fight or flight? Dabbing at the fever-induced perspiration beading across her forehead, she wondered vaguely why the air conditioning wasn’t blowing full-force on this hot September afternoon. Then she realized it was.

  She cocked her head, hearing the muffled sounds again. A voice? Voices? She bristled. How dare any intruders enter their home? She’d transformed the tiny old house into a charming, cozy, southwest home, and she loved it. Without another thought, she grabbed the banister and ascended the wooden stairs, meaning to confront the intruders.

  The noises were coming from her bedroom. The thickening congestion in her head brought new pain with each weary step, and her fever soared. When she touched the door handle, she wished she could just lie down between the cool crisp sheets and breathe in the subtle scent of her husband, still lingering from their romantic night before. Oh, to sip some chamomile tea and drift off into a fuzzy, numbing sleep. Soon, she promised herself. Soon.

  The curtains were drawn; the bedroom was dark. The sounds tha
t had lured her quieted to an eerie, sudden silence, as if someone had flipped the master switch on the fuse box.

  “Lindsey? What are you doing home?”

  She’d been expecting intruders. Nothing could have prepared her for this.

  “I…‌I live here,” she managed. “And…‌and I’m sick. Oh, God. I am so sick,” she groaned, then stumbled to the bathroom.

  She reached the toilet just in time to vomit far more than her lunch. Her dream come true life, her happily ever after, and everything about her steadfast world spewed from her throat, leaving her empty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three Years Earlier

  Lindsey Lark met Anthony Sommerfield literally by accident. She’d reached up for the crate of percussion instruments, lost her balance, and pulled the entire heavy wooden bookshelf‌—‌including all its contents‌—‌down on her head. There she lay next to the rectangular-shaped rug resembling a small town, surrounded by tambourines, shakers, and Dr. Seuss, Cinderella, Franklin the Turtle, and Clifford the Big Red Dog picture books.

  In a helpless daze, a dancing collage of fanciful, classroom apparitions appeared before her like a weird, disconnected cartoon.

  I’ll make breakfast for the prince, giggled Cinderella, yes, green eggs and ham would be nice, no…‌no ham, just eggs, green eggs, green eggs and…‌yams, and I’ll give some to that dog, the big red dog, but there won’t be enough for a dog that big, why is that dog so darned large, something must have gone wrong, but the turtle will fix that, he’s a very nice turtle and Franklin wants a pet, I know he does, but it’s …‌Get a grip, Lindsey, came a voice from within. This is your life, not some fractured fairy tale.

  “Lily, go get the principal,” she managed to say as the swirling room and the distorted sounds around her faded to black‌—‌just like in the movies.

  When she awoke in the hospital, Anthony was the gorgeous white-coated doctor taking her pulse.

  “Your vital signs are stable,” he told her, “and you don’t appear to have broken or sprained anything. Your head and your knee are going to be sore for a while, though. If you promise to go straight home and take it easy for two or three days, I think Dr. Hapner will release you,” he said. She’d thought it odd that he deferred to another doctor, but what did she know of hospital procedures? “Can we call your husband to come pick you up?” he asked.

  She blinked, momentarily mute. “Oh, uh, I’m not married,” she stammered, mortified at the blush that burned her cheeks. “I…‌I don’t mean that I’d never get married, but I’m not just yet. I mean, uh…‌what I mean is…‌I’m not married now‌—‌not that I’ve been married before. I’m just…‌well…” She shrugged, feeling idiotic. “I’m single.”

  The doctor leaned in to examine her pupils, then expertly re-examined her delicate jaw and neck. Mmmm. He smelled good. Lindsey was thankful he wasn’t checking her heart rate right then, or he’d have a different comment to make about her vital signs. He might have even whisked her away to the cardiac wing.

  “Perhaps, Miss Lark, it is too soon to release you after all,” he said with a wink and a smile. That was the moment in which Lindsey, the no-nonsense, career-minded teacher, fell head over heels in love.

  Anthony spent almost every weekend at her place. She loved the attention and companionship, and tried to overlook the fact that his presence kept her from getting routine things like laundry, cleaning, and shopping done. She simply added those tasks to her already busy weekdays. When he asked for her assistance in making arrangements for the opening of his first office, she was flattered. She began to type letters for him, write advertisements, and fill out loan papers till she was utterly exhausted. She was a little confused when she discovered he was a chiropractor, as opposed to a medical doctor, but the fact that he’d kept that from her seemed inconsequential after a while. Maybe he hadn’t meant to deceive her at all. It just hadn’t crossed his mind to tell her that little detail.

  Lindsey was aware that her best friend Laura viewed all this as a warning. Laura didn’t trust Anthony one bit. But Lindsey cherished every moment with him and dreamed of the day when he would officially become her family, filling the emptiness she’d lived with for so many years.

  Their courtship was brief, their passion fiery. Anthony radiated a vitality that drew her to him like a magnet, and he seemed both intrigued and challenged by her innocence and delicate beauty. Within a matter of weeks, their physical bond was driving them both crazy, and they decided they couldn’t wait. So, a mere three months after they’d met, she and Anthony started to plan their wedding.

  She’d done it. She’d met Prince Charming, and now she was being swept away in waves of Happily Ever After.

  That was then. This is now.

  Moving in slow motion, Lindsey grabbed a pillow and a spare blanket, then she stumbled downstairs and collapsed on the sofa. She wasn’t about to lie down in their bed. Couldn’t even look at it. Not now, not ever. How could he do this? Had their marriage vows meant nothing to him? They’d had a good marriage‌—‌or at least she’d thought so. Maybe it hadn’t been perfect, but it was good. Even better than good at times. Her mind swirled, trying to make sense of it all. She wanted to run away, but she had no strength. She wanted to scream at him with blistering anger, but her voice was raspy from being sick.

  Most of all, she wanted everything to be the way it was‌—‌or at least the way she thought it had been when she’d headed out to work that morning. She let the fever carry her away, let herself melt into foggy memories of that morning, when he’d brought her breakfast in bed, complete with her favorite crunchy wheat toast, sweet cantaloupe, a tall, hot latte‌—‌even a red chrysanthemum from their garden, standing in a bud vase. He’d smothered her with cool, tickling kisses and told her to have a wonderful day in kinderland. It had all seemed so romantic…‌and so unreal. Could all the extra attention he’d given her lately merely have been a cover up? Had he hoped just to keep her happy so she wouldn’t suspect him of this destructive, sordid affair?

  She was startled when a wet nose nuzzled her fevered cheek. “Oh, hello, Wendell,” she said sadly. “You’ve been a good boy today, right?”

  He sat by her side, cocking his head as if he were trying to understand her mood.

  “You don’t want to know, Wendell. Believe me, you really don’t.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the clinic,” Anthony announced, sweeping into the room. His voice carried about as much warmth as a corpse.

  “Really?” she croaked, giving him a taste of her own bitter coolness. “It wasn’t so important to be there earlier today, was it?”

  He sat on the coffee table in front of her, propped his elbows on his knees, and met her eyes. “Look, Lindsey, I know you’re upset. We need to talk.”

  We need to talk? “It seems a little late for that,” she said dryly.

  The combination of illness and shock blanketed her with an oddly numb, empty sensation, but she knew it was only a matter of time before her intense pain and justifiable anger arrived.

  “I never meant for you to see that.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, that’s probably true. That’s probably the only truth I’ve had from you in quite a while.” She made an attempt at a shrug. “Of course you wouldn’t want me to see that. It’s much more difficult to pull off an affair when the wife knows about it.”

  He stared at her, his strong jaw set, and she thought she’d never seen such cold, distant eyes before. “We’ll talk,” he told her. “I’ve got to go.”

  Without another word, without any attempt to comfort his ill and traumatized wife, he left.

  Wendell kept vigil by her side as she stared at the ceiling, detaching herself to the best of her ability from the unfathomable situation at hand. So this was her new reality, she mused, waiting for the Nyquil to take affect. Why did they always seem to call things a “reality” when the outcome looked dreadful or dim? All she’d wanted was a little happiness, a little love.
>
  The clock on the mantel ticked, and Wendell’s warm, damp, rhythmic breathing puffed on her face as he waited for an explanation.

  I was a good wife, she thought, just before her eyes closed. I was.

  When she awoke, the clock still ticked, but darkness had crept over the interior of their tiny home. Lindsey rose from the sofa like a feeble old woman, searching for Wendell, Anthony, and something cool to drink. The drink was easy to find. The fridge was full of not-so-healthy soda, fruit and vegetable juices, and sparkling water. She chose a soda and drank it straight out of the can, enjoying the cool shock of the bubbles against her rough throat. Locating Wendell took a bit more effort. He wasn’t in his well-worn, jumbo-sized, dog bed, and he wasn’t in the backyard, which was his favorite place to be when left to his own devices. When she finally found him, he was sitting stiffly by the front door, as if on guard. Then she noticed the clock. Not the sound, but the time‌—‌3:45 a.m.

  Wearily, she climbed upstairs, expecting to find her sleeping husband. She would forgive him, she decided. They would start over. She toyed with the idea that the whole ugly scene had been a hallucination, just a figment of her fevered imagination. Deep down, though, she knew that wasn’t the case. Still…‌there might be a reasonable explanation‌—‌or perhaps not reasonable, but at least an explanation of some kind. No matter what, she would save her marriage. Anthony was everything to her. He was her only family.

  She poked her head into their bedroom. “Honey? Anthony?” she called in her softest, sweetest voice.

  He wasn’t there. He hadn’t come home. She walked to the side of the bed, stroked her fingers over his pillow. Then she pulled her hand away and examined the long strands of hair that had attached themselves to her fingers. The other woman was a redhead.