Stef Ann Holm (7 page)

“So what do you think?”

Lucy snapped out of her decadent thoughts, turned to Susan and blurted, “About what?”

“About Red Duck.”

Wayward fantasies about Drew kissing her evaporated—thank goodness. They had no place in her mind. Why she even contemplated how his mouth would feel over hers distressed her. She was far too sensible to fall for a man with Drew’s shameless charms. “I like it, so far. It seems like a nice place to bring up kids.”

“It is. I’ve lived here all my life. My father bought property back in the seventies. It’s the only way Dave and I could afford to build.”

Lucy had wondered. “What does your husband do?”

“He’s in landscaping. He’s quite busy.”

“I’d imagine so with the resort and golf course expanding.”

Whistles blew from the field as the boys were taken into groups for practice. Lucy tried to keep her gaze equally on each of her sons, but found her eyes straying toward Drew.

Sitting up on a bleacher and having a full view of him almost felt wicked. She could watch him for hours. Lucy hated to admit she was just as infatuated with him as the entire town. What was it about the man that got so many people to smile? She took a harder look at him.

He walked with a masculine stride she couldn’t help but notice—relaxed and void of arrogance. He stood out in a crowd because of his height, which was perhaps about six feet four. But what was it? What was it beyond the superficial? She couldn’t peg it, not at this moment. But it was on the tip of her tongue, like a thought or a memory one went after that hung around the edges, illusive and niggling. So Lucy stopped trying to figure it out and settled in to watch the tryouts.

But a long moment later, the answer hit her. The reason Drew caught her attention was that he wasn’t looking for it. He was secure enough in himself that he didn’t try to get women’s attention. Women went out of their way to get his.

And, she realized, she was no different. She wanted it, too.

The covered dugout smelled like paint; the plywood bench was cluttered with athletic bags and discarded tennis shoes. Bats and mitts were strewn on the concrete floor. The boys suited up in gear and wore turf shoes with rubber darts. Water jugs with last names printed in marker were thrown into the mess. Getting kids up this early was almost like having them play hungover. They wanted to be in the game, loved it, but more than likely, most had been up half the night playing video games.

Drew gave them a little intro speech, then told them to hit the field and warm up.

He tucked a clipboard underneath his arm, assessed the kids who were returning and those who were new. This year, he hoped the seniors would make it to the play-offs. He had his eye on Jason.

The kid wore attitude like it was a shirt—untucked. Nothing seemed to get him excited or interested, and he wasn’t taking practice swings like the other boys.

Walking over to him, Drew stopped just shy of getting in his face. “Do you want to be here or not?”

Jason looked up through slitted eyes, the bill of his cap making his hair seem longer across his forehead.

“Not really.”

“Then walk your butt off my field and don’t waste my time.”

His upper lip curled. “I wish I could, but my mom’s making me.”

Drew glanced up at the bleachers, noticed Lucy sitting next to Nutter’s parents. He allowed himself scant seconds to watch the sunlight picking up red in the brunette strands of her hair. He couldn’t ignore the pull he felt toward her. He hadn’t been able to pinpoint why, he just felt it. Had from the moment he first saw her, even with Jacquie right next to him.

Staring back at Jason, Drew growled, “Well, then you better do your best not to make my team. Swing and miss, run like you’ve got rocks in your shoes. Make it good, because if you’re going to be a loser, you better act like one.”

Then Drew focused on the other players, turning his back on Jason Carpenter. Drew felt his blood pressure throb in his head. He didn’t like getting in a kid’s face, but looking at Jason reminded him of himself at that age, when he’d thought life had shit on him, too. A part of him wanted to take the boy by the shoulders and shake him. To tell him that baseball could make him lose the chip on his shoulder.

Playing ball was a good outlet to get a lot of steam out of their system when they were filled with resentment. That boy had more self-imposed injustice in him than Drew had seen in a long time. Maybe he had a right to; Drew didn’t know the whole story. But somewhere along the way, that boy had been victimized by a bad parental call, or a bad parent. Period. And seeing how he’d already met Lucy, Drew didn’t think it was her. It was a dad. And God knew how Drew could relate to having a dad who didn’t give a good rip.

The tryouts got underway. A batting cage had been built on the far corner; the pitching machine was plugged in. Boys went into the cage, chased after some balls and took swings. Drew had his group of boys hit five pitches from an Iron Mike in the cage.

When Jason was up, he took a halfhearted swing, the ball catching the tip of the bat and fouling. But there was something in his stance, an act of defiance, as if he hadn’t fully reconciled to failing on purpose.

“Put some mustard on it, Jason. Come on!” Drew shouted, as he cheered the boy on, encouraging him.

The machine spat out a ball and Jason held back, then swung and missed intentionally. Drew didn’t let up, clapped and told him to try again.

“It’s easy to miss the good ones, harder to hit the bad ones. I think you can go after one. Your choice.”

Then another ball spewed from the machine. This time, Jason grabbed wood and hit the thing so hard the ball slammed into one of the cage’s metal poles with a metallic ring before bouncing back and rolling on the ground.

Drew met Jason’s gaze. The boy had poker eyes—expressionless and unreadable—but his body language spoke volumes. Cocky and sure. There was a confidence in his stride when he turned to leave his place on the diamond.

“If that’s how you hit when you want to hit like a loser, then we are going to the state series when you give me your best,” Drew said.

Jason looked down, then gave him a half smirk and a snort.

The other boys rallied during their turns, having to catch three pop flies. Then Drew had them hit grounders so the outfield could get some practice in throwing to the bags.

Last year, Ryan Hall had been a cherry pie, but his parents sent him to a winter baseball camp, and damned if the kid wasn’t hitting the ball with the meat of the bat and with a lot more confidence. Cal “Brownie” Brown’s fielding was a little loose, but his throws to first were pretty good. Even Nutter had improved. His real name was Vince Lawrence, but he’d taken a few nut balls that dropped him to his knees, and had ended up with a nickname that stuck.

“Don’t let that ball find some leather, Nutter.”

“Yeah, Coach. I’m trying not to.”

“You’re doing good. Much better than last year. Great job.”

Drew had them slice a few dewdrops, slow balls that the boys could connect with. Then he gathered the kids around. “All right, any of you who want to try to pitch, we’re having a pitching tryout. Line up.”

Drew kept his gaze on Jason, wondering if that was the boy’s position. He had a hunch. And that hunch played out. Jason got in line to pitch, and when he was on the bump, he threw a high, hard one that about took the hat right off of Ryan.

After Jason delivered his sixth consecutive strike, Drew walked out to the bump. “What have you been doing with that pitching arm?”

Toeing the rubber, gazing down and then up, Jason shrugged. “Throwin’ rocks at tin cans.”

“Think you can throw a slider?”

“Yeah.”

“Give it to me.”

Jason threw a slider that was smooth as glass, and Drew knew he had himself a team-winning pitcher this year.

Stuffing his fingertips into his waistband, Jason looked over his shoulder to watch Matt fielding grounders. He ran so fast and hard, his cheeks got red.

His younger brother struggled with playing good baseball, but he wanted it really bad. It didn’t seem fair that it came so easy to Jason, when Mattie was the one who really wanted to be on a team.

Jason glanced at Drew, wanting to hate him, but not quite being able to. He’d razzed him on the field, told him to play for shit, but something in Jason wouldn’t let him.

He knew he’d made the team. He was an ace pitcher, had been on the Senior League in Boise last year, and they’d dusted the competition in the playoffs. The experience of winning had been a rush, but going to the games and knowing his dad wasn’t watching had sucked.

He’d wind up, look over his shoulder, catch a brief glimpse of the stands, and damn if he didn’t hope to see his dad sitting next to his mom each time.

But it never happened.

Digging the toe of his tennis shoe into the grass, Jason wished he was eighteen so he could do what he wanted. As soon as he was of age, he was moving out.

Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Some little kids were just about wetting themselves trying to throw pitches. Peewees. A bunch of wannabe Little Leaguers. You could tell this was their first year. Jason had watched them when he was in the batting cage. The peewees’ mouths dropped open as the Iron Mike spat out balls, and it seemed like an effing new tricycle to them.

He noticed the majors were pretty good. Mattie might be in for a shot. Some of those guys were throwing the ball pretty hard. Maybe too hard.

Jason ducked as a ball sailed toward him. “Hey, shit-head,” he said as a boy ran over to pick it up.

“Sorry!” he mumbled, and ran back to the group.

Shifting his stance, Jason tucked his hands in his armpits and slouched.

Come on, let’s go. I wanna get outta here.

“All right,” Drew said, pulling Jason from his thoughts. “Tryouts are over. Pick ’em up.”

Jason sniffed, rubbed his nose, then took off his plastic helmet and bent over to pick up the baseballs on the field and collect them in his hat.

I hate it here and I’ll never like this bass-awkward town. Rednecks and losers with shit for brains. Brian’s probably at a party tonight. I wonder who’s there. Probably got a bag of—

Those were his last conscious thoughts as something slammed him—
hard
—in the base of his skull, dropping him to his knees. And then the world went black.

J
acquie stubbed out her cigarette and ordered another gin and tonic. Drew wasn’t here and she hated drinking alone.

Indigo’s was dimly illuminated by a back light above the glass shelves containing bottles of alcohol. Oil candles on the mahogany bar flickered.

She was all dressed up for her birthday, but the sexy picture she made was ruined by a frown on her carefully lined lips.

Drew wasn’t coming.

Anger boiled within Jacquie. Every curse known to man welled inside her, potent and strong, begging to be released. Her thoughts were jagged and painful. Hurt and disappointment clashed within her heart, and she couldn’t begin to sort out which one she felt the most.

When she gazed at her reflection in the backbar’s mirror, she saw a woman who looked older, stressed out. Tired.

How dare he stand her up on her fortieth birthday?

He’d called from St. Joseph’s Hospital’s emergency room. One of the boys he coached had taken a skull ball—or that’s what Drew had called it. The idiot kid had been hit on the head by a baseball, knocked out cold. And now Drew had to stay there and make sure he came around. He’d said he’d have to miss dinner, but he’d call her when he was leaving the hospital.

Damn him!

Damn him and baseball and kids.

On a day like this, she was glad she was unable to have kids of her own. She’d had a hysterectomy at age thirty-two, and at the time it had devastated her. Over the years, she’d talked to a therapist about it and was pretty much reconciled that it was for the best. She really didn’t have a good mothering instinct, although there had been a boyfriend she’d had at thirty-four who made her regret being unable to conceive a child. After six months, he’d broken up with her based on the fact she was “broken” in that department.

With Drew, having kids was never an issue. He didn’t want any more. He had a daughter he was trying to establish a relationship with, but frankly, if Jacquie were Mackenzie, she wouldn’t have anything to do with Drew, either.

When it suited her, Jacquie did have a moral thread in her composition, and knocking up a woman, then denying paternity, was a crappy thing for a man to do. And Drew had done it.

Jacquie had always looked the other way. She preferred to see Drew the way she wanted, not how he was.

She drank her gin and tonic, sulked and gazed about the room. Couples made up most of the dining crowd, a sore reminder that she was by herself. If it hadn’t been her birthday, she wouldn’t be so upset. She still would be clenching her teeth, but not with such a bad taste in her mouth.

My God. A woman didn’t turn forty every day. And Jacquie was having a hard enough time with it. She’d picked up the phone today and called a plastic surgeon’s office for a boob job consult, but then promptly hung up without making the appointment. This getting older thing sucked. She felt as if she was looking tired. Like maybe she needed a mini-everything. Face, chin, neck—lift it all up.

Running her freshly lacquered fingernails down the column of her throat, she thought the skin still felt smooth. But for how much longer? She knew smoking was killing her, but she had to have one vice. She lived a pressure-filled life, thrived on it, and nicotine was like high octane in her blood. It just kept her going and going, as if she were that energizer bunny.

Fingering a filtered cigarette from her soft pack, Jacquie stuck it between her lips. She was reaching for her lighter when a butane flame flickered to life in front of her face.

She lifted her chin and caught a view of her reflection and the tall man standing behind her. His extended hand held a lighter, its orange-blue flame wavering as she breathed, slowly in, slowly out.

Jacquie leaned forward, brought the tip of her cigarette to the offered light. “Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything in return.

She blinked a moment, brought him into focus. He wore a red-plaid flannel shirt and, without her turning around to check, what appeared to be snug-fit Wranglers. His short hair was barber-buzzed, sandy blond and clipped tightly against the sides of his head. He had a ruggedly square jaw, wide mouth. Green eyes, as far as she could tell in the bad lighting.

“I’ve seen you,” he said, his voice a deep baritone.

She swiveled on the bar stool, looked directly into his eyes. She had been right. Green, a very deep shade. “Really?” she remarked blandly. He wasn’t her type, and this sort of thing happened. Men were drawn to her, especially when she had on heels and showed off her legs.

“At that house up on Shore Lodge in Timberline.”

“The Kent Estate.”

“Yeah. I was there doing the electrical.”

So, he was a construction worker. Any interest she might have had was no longer piqued.

“Hmm,” she responded noncommittally.

“Are you here alone?”

“Yes, um, no. Well…” She momentarily lost her verve. “Yes, I’m alone.”

It was pretty obvious, as no one else had joined her as she sipped her gin and tonic at the bar. She’d almost finished her second one and, on an empty stomach, they were making her light-headed, messing with her perception.

It would serve Drew right if she left with another man. He’d stood her up. And on her fricking fortieth birthday.

She didn’t want to be alone.

When she’d started dating Drew, she’d alienated herself from the handful of girlfriends she had, choosing to spend time with her boyfriend instead. That was a big mistake women often made when entering into relationships. They threw all their energies into a man, then lost sight of what was around them.

For Jacquie, work as a Realtor was number one—she flourished on the deals and the big commission checks. Drew and their relationship had fallen into the number two position. Time for herself had been relegated to number three. Bad move on her part.

“I’m Max Beck,” the man said, slipping onto the seat next to hers. The scent surrounding him was unlike any cologne she recognized. It was a masculine scent. Pure male. Nothing from a bottle.

Her nostrils flared, and she felt hot even if he was a construction worker.

Jacquie sat straighter, thrusting out her breasts, hoping to emphasize curves that were barely there. “Jacquie Santini, Realty Professionals.”

“I knew who you were. I asked around.”

She arched her brows. “Should I be flattered?”

“Sweetheart, you should be glad I came over here and sat next to you. A woman who looks—” he leaned closer “—and smells like you shouldn’t have to sit by herself.”

Tingles rose across her bare arms, the plunging vee in her dress allowing cool air to caress her cleavage. She shouldn’t have had that second drink without eating. Her nipples grew to hard points; her legs began to ache.

The alcohol was flowing through her body, making her languid and careless. She threw her head back and laughed, a throaty sound that she knew drove men crazy.

“Well, I wouldn’t have been alone for long.”

“That’s why I came over.” Max rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Vodka on the rocks,” he ordered.

Casting all caution to the wind, throwing out all reason and succumbing to the anger toward Drew that lingered around the edges of her mind, she put a hand over Max’s. Their eyes met and held. “No. Don’t order a drink here. I know of a place where we can go dancing.”

He didn’t move, but his hooded gaze lowered to the bare skin at the base of her throat. “I don’t dance.”

She rose to her feet, a little unstable. She put her hand on the bar to steady herself. Squaring her shoulders, she felt more like herself now that the blood was moving through her body. “You do now. It’s my fortieth birthday,” she laughed, “and I feel like celebrating.”

Max flashed her a grin. “Well, then hell, just call me Fred Astaire.”

“We got the CAT scan report back and it looks good.” Dr. Berg stood before Lucy and Drew, giving them the news.

Relief pooled through Lucy, making her labored breathing ease to a more steady rhythm. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it ever since she saw Jason lying unconscious on the field. Everything had happened so fast. She’d been talking to Susan, had looked away for a moment, then saw Jason, and Drew running toward him.

After taking a look at Jason, Drew had reacted quickly. He’d called 911, and an ambulance was on its way before Lucy had time to think. She had no idea where the nearest hospital was, nor the quickest method to get her son there. Drew had taken care of everything, alleviating a portion of her stress by driving Matt to the hospital while she rode in the ambulance with Jason.

When Jason was brought in, he was still out cold. This wasn’t the first time one of her sons had been injured playing sports, and it would likely not be the last. But each time, Lucy was paralyzed with fear that the damage would be severe or permanent. Matt had broken both arms—and he wasn’t even a teenager yet. Jason had had two concussions prior to this one.

The team of doctors had checked him out, taken him for an image, and Lucy paced in the waiting room with Matt and Drew.

It seemed like it took forever.

Dr. Berg was reassuring, his tone soothing. “Your son will be all right. He woke up in radiology.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Lucy exhaled in relief.

“He’s going to have a bad headache, but I don’t see any serious problems. He’s lucky.”

The younger doctor wore his white coat well, and Lucy noticed he was smiling sympathetically at her…almost too much so, as if he knew something more. But he didn’t elaborate.

“Is there something else, Doctor?” she asked, almost unable to utter the question.

He paused, then said, “If I could talk to you alone.”

Tension wound tight within her, making her unable to move. Drew put his arm on her shoulder. “G’ahead. I’ll stay with Matt.”

Lucy walked behind the doctor, a knot working its way around her heart, squeezing, with unanswered questions plaguing her every step of the way. It was worse than the doctor was letting on. Jason was going to have some damage. Her son was going to be…damaged.

Oh, God…

Dr. Berg led her to a small alcove where two upholstered chairs faced one another.

“Mrs. Carpenter, take a seat.”

“It’s Miss.” Why she made the correction, she had no idea. It was an automatic response. Knitting her fingers together, she worried her thumbs. “It’s bad, isn’t it? You couldn’t tell me in front of my youngest son. What’s wrong with Jason—really?”

“Nothing but a concussion, Miss Carpenter.” His eyes were kind, a soft brown that made her feel comfortable. But the stress was still wrapping her in its taut cocoon.

“Then?”

The word echoed between them, suspended, as the doctor’s expression became regretful.

He reached into his lab coat pocket, then opened his palm. “When we took off your son’s clothes, I found this in his uniform pants’ pocket. Do you know what it is?”

Lucy wished she could have been shocked and said she had no idea what the thing was. But she knew. All too well.

“It’s for pot,” she said in a monotone.

Dr. Berg nodded, “A roach clip.”

“I thought so.”

He gave it to her and she held on to the metal clip as if it were poison. Biting her lip, she looked away.

How could Jason have disappointed her so? She had had a long talk with him about this the last time, and he’d promised her he’d stay out of trouble. They’d been through this in Boise. Things were supposed to be different here. How could he?

How dare he?

“I’m not going to report this because I didn’t find any drugs on him.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“I’m sorry, Miss Carpenter.” The doctor rose to his feet, and Lucy followed suit. “I’ve got to see my other patients. I’ll be back to check on Jason shortly. He’s resting right now. You’ll be able to take him home tonight, but I’m not sure when.”

“Thank you.” The words sounded wooden, hollow.

Lucy didn’t immediately return to the waiting area. She held back, fought the tears that threatened to fall.

Apparently there was no safe place for her children. She knew Jason had no pocket money, so he must have met up with some boys in town who shared hits from their joint or offered him something as a trade or…something. She shuddered, the unknown raising gooseflesh on her arms.

At this point, all she had was speculation, but the roach clip was enough evidence that her son had broken his promise.

How had she failed so miserably?

Everything she had done, everything she had planned for in Red Duck, now seemed misguided. A waste of time and energy.

Walking in the opposite direction from where she’d come, Lucy followed the signs to the chapel, found the small room with its faux stained glass and took a seat.

The pews were cushioned and soft, and she wondered how many people before her had come to pray about loved ones who were on the cusp of dying. Tragedy struck lives, took lives. And here she was… Her son would recover, but would she? Could she emotionally handle this?

She damned Gary. Then felt badly for doing so in the church.

But if he’d been around, she’d have help. She had no doubts they would have divorced, and at this point, she couldn’t care less if he was with Diane. She
did
care that he was hundreds of miles away, as if he didn’t have a responsibility in the world. The raising of their sons fell exclusively on her shoulders, and she needed help.

God help me….

The tears began to fall.

I need help.

Lucy quietly cried, lowering her face into her hands and letting out the sorrow of many months. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually let it all out. Probably too long.

When she was done, she dug through her purse, found a tissue and blew her nose.

A hand settled on her shoulder, startling her. She turned, only to see Drew Tolman in the pew behind her. His big hand remained on her, warm and comforting, as if she allowed those intimate feelings to surface. The rapid thud of her pulse sounded in her ears. Her gaze left his, lowered to where he touched her. As soon as she did that, he let her go.