The Unexpected Affair. Monica Richardson
who had been his college roommate and his teammate on the football field. Melvin knew him better than anyone—had been with him through all of the highs and lows of his life: his marriage to Helena, his divorce from Helena, the death of his brother. He’d been his rock, and often his sounding board. Melvin was family. They’d grown up in Saint Louis together. And after Lane had moved to Texas and gotten settled, Melvin soon followed. Slept on his couch for a few months until he’d finally landed a job and his own place.
Lane described his day to Melvin—told him about the woman crashing into his cement truck. “She was concerned about filing a claim with her insurance,” said Lane.
“Was it a bad dent?”
“Not too bad. Nothing you can’t handle.”
In addition to owning his own accounting firm, Melvin also tinkered with old cars. He owned a body shop in South Dallas where he transformed old cars into new ones. He also worked with insurance companies to repair damaged cars.
“Have her bring it over to the shop, and I’ll knock it out for her.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” said Melvin. “Why are you so concerned about it, anyway?”
“She was a nice lady. Just trying to help her out.”
“Mmm-hmm. I see,” said Melvin. “She cute?”
“She’s not bad on the eyes.”
Melvin had been slouching in the chair. He sat straight up. “You like her.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I don’t even know her, bro. I’m just trying to help her out.”
“Right,” said Melvin as he made his way to the kitchen to fix himself a plate. “You can do something for me, too.”
“What?”
“Tyler needs a job,” said Melvin. “You know my nephew Tyler. He’s moving in with me for a few months. Needs a new start. Getting into all kinds of trouble in Saint Louis. His daddy thinks he’ll do much better here in Texas. Maybe you can get him on down there at the plant.”
“Does he have any experience?”
“Fast food. But he’s smart. He’ll catch on fast.”
“I don’t know, man,” said Lane. He’d been burned too many times before trying to help people out. Situations like this ruined relationships. “Youngsters aren’t dependable.”
“He’ll be dependable. I’ll make sure of it.”
Lane shook his head. He didn’t like the idea of putting his job on the line for people, but he knew Tyler. And he knew how it was growing up in Saint Louis and running with the wrong crowd. “Have him come down and see me on Monday. I’ll see what I can do.”
“He’ll do good, man. I promise.”
“He’d better.”
Lane disappeared into his bedroom for privacy, shut the door. Pulled the folded piece of paper from the pocket of his work pants, unfolded it and searched for Whitney’s phone number. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Hey,” he said nervously. “It’s Lane Martin. You know, from the accident today.”
“Oh, hello.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. But...” he paused “...I just wanted to tell you, I have a friend who owes me a favor and can knock that dent right out of your bumper. You can take your car over there tomorrow. That way you won’t have to report it to your insurance company.”
“Really?” she asked. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m a nice guy,” he said with a smile in his voice. “And my best friend owns a body shop.”
“Okay,” she said cheerfully. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“Text me the address of the shop.”
“Okay, I will. As soon as we hang up.”
“Cavs up by two!” Melvin yelled from the other room. “Lane, get your ass in here!”
Whitney giggled. “Sounds like you need to go.”
“Sounds like I do.”
“Thank you again,” said Whitney.
“No problem. Have a good night,” said Lane. “And I’ll text the information right away.”
“Great.”
She hung up.
He sat there on the edge of the bed for a moment, a subtle smile in the corner of his mouth. He typed the address to Melvin’s shop into a text message, hit the send key and then made his way back to the game.
Whitney glanced at the text message. She was grateful for the gesture, Lane arranging to have her car repaired. She shut her phone case and walked over to the baby grand piano that rested in her living room. She loved her piano, though it crowded her space, which was another reason she was having a house built. She needed the extra space for her baby.
She’d played the piano since the age of twelve and had mastered it. Music was her lifeline. She was from a musical family—her grandfather and father were both musicians. So her love for music made sense. In addition to playing, she wrote songs. She’d written a few pieces and sold them. Songwriting had brought about a nice supplement to her teaching income. She’d even entertained the thought that if she wrote full-time, she could probably make her current teaching salary or more. But the fear of not having a secure income always trumped her love for writing.
Whitney started a bubble bath and lit a candle. She’d gone to the gym, and a bath after a workout always soothed her aching muscles. She sipped on a glass of red wine to wash down the chicken breast and brown rice that she’d prepared for dinner. She peeled sweaty clothes from her body, pulled her hair up into a bun and stepped into the bathtub. She needed to steal a few moments to pamper herself before settling in for the night.
When she slipped into bed, sleep came quickly. She’d fallen asleep long before nine thirty and with the television blaring with Don Lemon’s commentary on CNN. It seemed that morning always came abruptly.
* * *
Whitney moseyed over to the door, opened it. The bell rang and fifteen kindergartners rushed from their chairs and headed toward the door.
“Excuse me!” exclaimed Whitney. “I don’t remember dismissing anyone.”
The children slowly made their way back to their respective seats, waited patiently for their teacher to give them permission to move.
“Now you may form a single-file line in front of me. Bus riders first.”
The children formed a line in front of the door, and Whitney escorted them out of the classroom, through the hallway of their elementary school, past the office and out the side door where the buses waited for them to get on board. She ushered all of the children to the correct school buses or to their parents’ cars. After seeing that all the children made it to their modes of transportation, Whitney made her way back to her classroom.
She sat at her desk and graded a few papers, turned on her laptop and checked her email. This was her quiet time. She loved her children but looked forward to those quiet moments when they all went home. After responding to emails from parents and shutting down her computer, she tidied the classroom a bit. Placed crayons and bottles of glue into cubbyholes and threw trash away.
She checked her watch. She had just enough time to make her