Now all she had to do was find a way to keep this news from Rafe as long as she could. Not only would he laugh at the idea of her coaching baseball, but he’d know she didn’t ask him to do it because she wanted to keep him from Gabe. He’d give her that hurt/angry look he always gave her when she refused to let him do something with Gabe. The one that made her feel so guilty.
Rafe would jump at the chance to coach the team. She knew he would. Gabe was more important to him than Southern Yesteryears.
But the last thing she needed was something else to magnify Rafe in her son’s eyes. Gabe already thought he was a superhero. The next step up was...Dad.
Chapter Seven
“No, that’s not what I want you to do.”
Rafe lifted his head from the article he was editing to where Emma worked on the computer. “Pardon me?”
She looked over her shoulder sheepishly. “Sorry. I tend to talk to computers. Especially when they do what I tell them to do instead of what I want them to do.”
He chuckled. “If I did that there would be a constant conversation.”
“Are you still having trouble? I made it as easy as I could for you to get on and write your articles.”
“I know. I’m sure one of these days I’ll learn enough so it’s not always beeping at me.” He lifted a shoulder. “But sometimes I wish I had my dad’s old typewriter.”
“Is that how you’ve been writing?” she asked, clearly horrified.
“Yep.”
She shook her head as if it was the saddest thing she’d ever heard. “You have been living in the Dark Ages.”
Rafe rose from the desk where he’d been working and stretched. “What are you working on now?”
“I’m redoing the cover title.”
He stepped over to stand behind her chair so he could see the screen. “I liked what you showed me yesterday.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve liked everything I’ve shown you.”
“It’s all good. You’re good.”
“The magazine that comes with our clip art service at work had a technique I want to try. Look.” She clicked on a window in the background which popped forward. It contained the two words of the magazine’s name. Yesteryear was fat and wide in outline type. Southern was in smaller letters spread out on top. “I rummaged through the file of old photographs you have. I’m scanning them in, colorizing them, then I’m going to paste them inside the letters.”
When he looked at the screen blankly, she chuckled. “Just wait. I think you’ll like it even better than what I showed you yesterday.”
She clicked on the window she’d been working on, pressed some keys and the trees in the photograph that had been red turned to black and white. She clicked the mouse and pressed more keys, and a minute later the trees were green. She worked so fast she made him dizzy.
“You’re coloring old black-and-white photographs? Like Ted Turner does to old movies? Why?”
“To add color to the logo. You don’t want a black-and-white cover title. That’s dull as dirt Watch. I’m going to take this picture of a Civil War battlefield and paste it into the Y of Yesteryears .”
She clicked and pressed more keys, then suddenly the Y was filled with the photograph. Somehow she maneuvered the picture around inside the letter until the best part showed through.
“There,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I think I definitely hired the right graphic artist. You’re amazing.”
She shrugged. “It’s not hard. It just takes a while to learn. But what do you think about the concept?”
“It’s perfect. You’re going to fill all the letters of Yestervears with historical photographs, right?”
She picked up a folder and opened it. “Right. Let me show you the ones I’m planning on using.”
Rafe pulled the chair from his desk and took the photographs from her as she handed them to him. “These are all historical. Battles and generals and famous people.”
She frowned. “It’s a history magazine, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but...” He glanced up in surprise. “I guess we really haven’t talked much about the concept, have we?”
She shook her head.
“I had some market research done before I made the final decision to start this venture. Surveys, focus groups, that kind of thing. I found out that women are the main purchasers of magazines. And if we want Southern Yesteryears to appeal to women, we’ve got to give them something they’re interested in reading about.”
“Which isn’t war and generals,” Emma said thoughtfully. “You mean everyday type stories. Gardening. Cooking. Decorating.”
“Right. All of those things have their own unique history. If we want Southern Yesteryears to be as popular as Southern Living , we need to make it look like Southern Living—which is your job—and read like Southern Living—which is mine. We’re going to have old-fashioned gardening tips. What flowers Southerners planted a hundred years ago. What they cooked. How they cooked. What kind of furniture they made and bought. And relate it to how people do those things today.”
Emma leaned back in her chair. “This magazine is going to sell like beer at baseball games.”
He smiled. Her prediction meant more to him than all the reports the marketing research company had supplied. “Let’s hope so.”
“You’re brilliant.”
She looked at him as if he’d just discovered a cure for aging. Suddenly he felt two stories tall. “Like I said, I did market research.”
“But you had the idea.”
He shrugged.
“So I need to find different kinds of pictures like an old garden gate, a cooking hearth, antiques.” A faraway look glazed her eyes. “Yes. I’m going to like this even better.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
He reached across and took her hand. Because he was expecting them, the memories weren’t such a shock. The ones that came now were of her helping him with story ideas, insights on stories he was working on, possible sources. “We made a good team.” He studied her lovely face, which regarded him warily. “We still do.”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t what?”
She drew her hand from his. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like...like...” Crimson stained her cheeks. “Like you want to kiss me.”
“I do.”
She stood abruptly. “You agreed to keep our relationship strictly business.”
“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I can’t help looking at you like I want you, because I do.”
“Rafe, I—”
“I know.” He pushed his chair back toward his desk. “I’m supposed to let you touch me. I forgot for a minute. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you said before.”
His face tightened. “Is my touch so abhorrent?”
She opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips together. After a moment she looked away.
The look on her face told him she couldn’t say yes and wouldn’t say no. “Emma—”
“No!” She backed away from him. “I can’t work this way, Rafe. I can’t come up here every night knowing you’re going to try to break down my defenses.”
Defenses. The word implied having to fight against something. One part of Rafe hoped it was desire for him. Another part feared the same thing.
What was he doing? He’d promised both her and himself that he would keep their relationship strictly business.
Yet...he wanted her so damn much: He craved her touch like a drowning man craves air.
So what would he do if she touched him back? How far would his desire let her go? He’d seen her reaction at the pool when she glimpsed the scars on his arms. If she saw the rest of him...
Desolation threatened to choke him. He was twice damned—hungering for something that was already his and not being able to ev
en touch it.
“You’re right.” He sat down hard in his chair. “I’m sorry. I swear I won’t touch you again. From now on, I’ll wait for you to touch me.”
Her expression, though still guarded, relaxed somewhat. “You mean for your memories.”
“Of course.”
As she hesitantly sat down at the computer again, he swung back to the article on his desk and stared blindly at the typed words. He felt the connection he’d been searching for ever since he’d wakened with no memories—the connection he’d thought he’d found after all these years—drifting farther and farther out of reach.
And he didn’t know what the hell to do about it.
Rafe parked on the curb next door since his usual parking place in front of the house was occupied by several large trucks. Emma and Sylvia stood in the front yard, deep in conversation with a burly man dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. Gabe and Randy were running up the steps and jumping off the porch.
Rafe glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen. What was Emma doing home so early on a Friday afternoon?
He climbed out of his truck and saw the sign on the side of one of the trucks. River City Roofing Company. About time they showed up. They’d been promising to come all week. Emma must’ve taken off early to deal with them.
As he made his way up the drive, Rafe noticed the confusion on Sylvia’s face, the roofer’s crafty amusement and the wariness on Emma’s. She stood with her arms crossed over her stomach.
When he got closer, he understood why: The roofer was explaining the procedure, using all kinds of technical jargon, but in a tone as if he were talking to a child.
Where did Emma find this guy?
Sylvia was the first to see him. Her features cleared with obvious relief. “Oh, thank goodness, there’s Rafe. He’s the one paying for the roof. He’ll understand.”
He understood all right. The man was a jerk who’d probably take advantage of these two women given half a chance. Rafe extended his hand as Emma introduced the roofer as Dennis Ford, vowing not to let the guy have the chance.
Vapid blue eyes turned to size him up as the roofer gave Rafe a bruising handshake.
“Mr. Ford was just going over a few things concerning the roof.”
Rafe caught the stiffness in Emma’s voice and turned to meet her gaze. He knew instantly that she understood exactly what the roofer was doing. What’s more, she clearly expected Rafe to take over last-minute negotiations with the man—and already resented him for it.
“I’m sure glad you’re here, Mr. Johnson,” the man told him. “Maybe you’ll understand what I’m trying to tell the little lady. We’re gonna have to—”
“You’ve got the wrong impression, Mr. Ford,” Rafe told him. “I’m just a boarder. These ladies own the house. Emma’s the one you need to haggle with.”
“But, Rafe.” Sylvia placed a hand on his arm. “You men understand these things so much better.”
Rafe lifted a brow. As sweet as Sylvia was, sometimes he could see why Emma got so frustrated with her mother. He patted her hand. “Emma’s an intelligent woman, Sylvia. She can understand what Mr. Ford’s talking about.” He turned to stab the roofer with his stare. “As long as the man speaks English. If she can’t, I guess you’ll just have to hire another roofer.”
Mr. Ford’s eyes narrowed.
“It is your money, Rafe,” Emma said grudgingly.
He shook his head. “It’s rent money. Remember? A roof over your head for a roof over mine.”
Emma regarded him as if she wasn’t quite certain what species he came from.
His attitude clearly surprised and confused her. Good.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to play ball with my—” He broke off, realizing he was about to say son. “With my little friends here. If you need my help, call me. Otherwise, we’ll be in the backyard.”
As he walked toward the porch, he felt Emma’s green gaze burning into him every inch of the way.
The natives were getting restless.
Emma glanced around at thirteen boys and girls who should be looking to her for instructions. Instead, their five- and six-year-old attention spans were wandering away. Three girls were giggling together at the edge of the small crowd. A couple of boys were playing simultaneous pitch with their gloves. One boy was turned completely around, watching a dog chasing a bird across the outfield. Even Gabe and Randy were whispering together.
If she didn’t think of something to occupy them in the next thirty seconds, she was going to lose control over the entire situation.
The T-Ball Tigers had already covered everything on the list the coach had given her. They’d completed their warm-up drills. Each boy and girl had taken their turn at bat. They’d tossed the ball back and forth to one another. She’d even had them run the bases several times.
Not that she’d ever had what one might call control. Keeping the attention of this many kids this age was a definite challenge, one she wasn’t sure she could keep up week after week. She was exhausted. Surely the time allotted for practice was almost over.
She glanced at her watch and had to hold back a panicked moan. Thirty more minutes before the parents were due to pick them up.
To make matters even worse, Rafe had shown up at the field just after practice started. Dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a baseball cap, he leaned against the fence just ten yards away. She wished she’d watched the team practice all these weeks instead of using the time to run errands like the other parents did. Maybe she would know what to do now.
“Um, anything y’all think we need to work on to get ready for Saturday’s game?”
A hand immediately went up. Arthur. The smartest kid but the worst player on the team. He’d probably be a rocket scientist one day.
“Yes, Arthur?”
“How about pitching to us?”
“Pitch?” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice below a squeak. On the plus side, Arthur’s suggestion had reclaimed the attention of the entire team. “You mean throw the ball so you can hit it?”
They all nodded.
She shook her head. “This is T-ball. You hit the ball off the T, remember?”
“The coach is supposed to pitch to his team the last couple of weeks of the season.” Arthur pushed his glasses up his nose. “That’s just two weeks away.”
One of the girls pushed Arthur’s arm. “Her team, dummy.”
Arthur started to push back, but Emma quickly stepped between them. “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
The two nodded reluctantly.
“Are y’all sure about this pitching thing? Coach didn’t mention it.”
They all started talking at once. From the gist of what she could understand, they all knew about the pitching at the end of the season.
Great. Emma had never pitched a baseball in her life. When she’d played, way back when, she’d been an outfielder who had to throw the ball with more strength than finesse.
But she’d try anything to keep the kids occupied for another thirty minutes. How hard could it be?
“Okay, then. Y’all take your places on the field.”
Aware the whole time of Rafe’s eyes on her, Emma picked up the ball and walked out to the mound. Randy was the first batter.
“You ready?” she called.
He nodded and posed himself with the bat the way she’d seen players do on television.
Taking a deep breath, Emma pitched the ball.
The entire team erupted in protests as the ball sailed several feet over Randy’s head.
“Not underhand, Mom,” Gabe called from first base. “That’s for girls.”
The girls within hearing distance glared at Gabe.
Emma lifted her arms helplessly. “How, then?”
Gabe ran over to the pitcher’s mound. He took the ball and without releasing it, showed her how to pitch.
Emma swallowed hard. Overhand looked even harder than underhand. “Did Coach teach you that?
”
Gabe shook his head. “Rafe did.”
“Rafe knows how to pitch?” She glanced to where he leaned against the fence. He hadn’t said a word the whole time, hadn’t even cracked a smile, though he had to be laughing at her total lack of coaching ability.
Gabe looked at him, too. “Maybe Rafe could pitch for us.”
She frowned. “I thought you said the coach had to do it.”
Her son didn’t say anything, but his thoughts were clear as he regarded her solemnly.
Emma took a deep breath. Turning the coaching job over to Rafe would probably be the best thing she could do for the kids. She certainly wasn’t any good at it. She wasn’t doing much more than baby-sitting the team so they could play out the season. Rafe could probably help them become better players.
Could he handle the job, physically? Probably. The running back and forth she’d done was mostly because she didn’t have a clue as to what she was doing.
But was she ready to see Gabe’s growing affection for Rafe increase even more? They already spent more time together than she liked. Rafe was home all day. Though he worked on the magazine, he made time to spend with his son—with her mother’s help and blessing, she suspected. At least Randy was there during the day, so they weren’t alone.
On the other .hand, could she disappoint the whole team just to keep her son’s love all to herself? Rafe was Gabe’s father. She was going to have to tell her son—soon. She had to learn to handle Gabe’s love for his father sooner or later. She might as well start getting used to it.
Turning to the team, she called, “Five-minute break.” Then she walked over to Rafe.
He pulled off his sunglasses and watched her approach.
She stopped several feet short of the fence. “They’ve taken a vote. They want you to coach. Do you want the job?”
He adjusted the baseball cap on his head. “I got the feeling this past week you didn’t trust me to be Gabe’s coach.”
Her eyes dropped to his shirt-clad arms crossed on top of the fence. She should’ve known he’d pick up on her misgivings. He was proving damnably good at reading her, just like he used to be.
“Have you changed your mind?”
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