Emmie listened, astonished by her son’s enthusiasm. He’d never said a word to her about baseball. If he had, she would have acted on his interest—taken him to a game at Fenway, maybe, or if that had been too expensive to some of the Little League games right in town. Several of her students played in the younger levels of Little League. She’d bet Jeffrey would love to watch a game in which the teams were composed of children only a few years older than him.
Why hadn’t she known he was a baseball nut? Had he kept this from her because she was his mother and he didn’t want to discuss baseball with a woman? Or because she’d never picked up on any subtle signals from him?
She would have felt miserable about having failed her son in some way, except that she was too fascinated by the interplay between him and Michael. Michael didn’t exactly look relaxed. He answered Jeffrey’s questions but didn’t appear to know how to pose questions in return. If it weren’t for Jeffrey’s natural ebullience, the conversation would have petered out.
“Who do you like better?” Jeffrey was asking. “Sammy Sosa or Mark McGwire?”
“They’re both good guys,” Michael said.
“They hit homers. I wanna hit homers, too. Will you teach me how to hit homers?”
“When you’re older,” Michael promised, then shot a glance in Emmie’s direction. His eyes seemed to ask, Can I teach him how to hit homers when he’s older? Will I still be in his life? Will you allow it?
Instinctively she nodded. She might fear having her world overturned by Michael’s presence, but her first concern was Jeffrey. Jeffrey, she acknowledged, needed a man in his life, someone who would teach him how to make a pocket with his glove and who would analyze with him the relative merits of assorted home-run sluggers.
She ate her meal, watching Michael dutifully answer Jeffrey’s endless questions, and she wondered whether perhaps she needed a man in her life, too.
She had loved him once—and she’d loved no one since. She’d made a good life for herself and her son, gotten a rewarding job, proved she could do everything on her own. No, she didn’t need a man. But it was nice having Michael at her table. The room felt more complete with him in it.
She cautioned herself not to think along those lines. She’d barely decided to let him get to know Jeffrey. She couldn’t complicate matters even more by letting herself get to know Michael all over again.
“I have fruit and cookies for dessert,” she announced, realizing that Michael and Jeffrey had polished off just about all the food she’d served. “I’m afraid it isn’t fancy, but—”
“I can’t believe you threw this meal together after a whole day at work,” Michael said, pushing back his chair. “When I’ve had a long day at work, I always wind up eating takeout or microwaving something.”
“We do that more often than I’d like to admit,” she said with a grin, recalling that just last night she’d been prepared to serve Jeffrey cereal and bagels for dinner.
“Well, I’ll skip dessert. I’m full,” Michael told her, rising and gathering some of the dishes to carry to the sink.
“Not me,” Jeffrey piped up. “I gotta keep eating so I can grow as big as Mo Vaughn. Besides, dessert is cookies,” he emphasized, as if he couldn’t believe that Michael would turn down such a treat.
“And fruit,” Emmie reminded him. “If you want to grow up to be as big and strong as Mo Vaughn, you’ve got to eat a healthy, well-balanced diet.”
Jeffrey rolled his eyes and glanced at Michael for support. Michael appeared to be struggling against a smile. “You’d better have some fruit,” he said.
All three of them cleared the table together. Almost like a family, Emmie thought, then shoved the notion away. It was too tempting—and too soon—to think of them that way. Just because she wanted to trust Michael didn’t mean she could.
He refilled his wineglass and hers as she filled the sink with soapy water and left the dishes to soak. While Jeffrey gobbled up cookies and lingered over a banana, the adults sipped their wine and listened to him babble. “I wanna be a pitcher when I grow up. Is Mo Vaughn a pitcher? I don’t think so. I wanna pitch like Babe Ruth, only I don’t know if he was a pitcher, either. Will you teach me how to throw like Babe Ruth, Michael?”
“I’ll teach you how to throw like Jeffrey Kenyon,” Michael said.
Not Jeffrey Molina, Emmie noted. Michael was being careful, respecting her wishes and not declaring his paternity. She sent him a private smile to let him know she appreciated it.
He smiled back.
It occurred to her that perhaps this didn’t have to be hard. If they clicked as a family, if Michael was willing to fit himself into the Kenyon world, why not? Why not trust her instincts the way she’d trusted them five years ago?
She knew the answer to that question. She mustn’t confuse what she wanted with what was. Take it slow, she warned herself, even if her gaze kept drifting to his fingers cupped around the bowl of his goblet, to his long, athletic legs, to the broad, sturdy shoulders that had supported her yesterday when she’d wept.
“Can we go outside and play some catch?” Jef frey asked, his banana finally consumed. “It’s not dark out yet, Mommy—”
“It’s getting dark, and it’s getting late,” she said. “You’ve still got to take a bath, and then we’re going to read a little.”
“And I gotta brush my teeth, too,” Jeffrey said with a long-suffering sigh. He rolled his eyes at Michael, who suppressed another smile. “I bet your mommy doesn’t make you brush your teeth,” he muttered.
“When I was your age, she did,” Michael told him.
“I’m going to do the dishes,” Emmie announced, pushing to her feet, “and then it’s bath time. If you two want to play catch for a few minutes, I guess it would be all right.”
“No,” Michael said abruptly. “I’m going to help you with the dishes.”
She chewed that one over for a minute. She thought he was trying to build a relationship with Jeffrey—and what man would rather wash dishes than play catch?
A man who wanted to build a relationship with Jeffrey’s mother. “All right,” she said. “You can help with the dishes.”
“I wanna play catch!” Jeffrey whined.
“Your mom needs some help right now,” Michael insisted.
Jeffrey gave him a querulous stare, as if appalled that his former ally had turned on him. Michael remained unmoved. Sulking, Jeffrey trudged out of the kitchen.
“You could have played with him,” Emmie said in a soft voice.
“I didn’t want to. I’m not...” He paused, searching for the right words. “I’m not used to dealing with children. I’m sort of maxed out on him at the moment.”
Well, that was honest. “All right,” she said. “I’ll wash. You dry.”
They carried their half-empty wineglasses to the sink to sip while they worked. Emmie handed Michael a towel, then plunged her hands into the hot suds.
“Have you ever thought about buying a dishwasher?” he asked.
She made a face. “Why would I buy a dishwasher for a house I never dreamed of owning?” She scrubbed one of the plates. “Even if I owned the house—”
“You will,” Michael reminded her. “You practically do already.”
“Dishwashers are expensive. I live on a tight budget. And no—” she cut him off before he could speak “—I won’t have you buying me a dishwasher.”
“Why not?”
“I’m already in too much debt to you.”
He took the rinsed plate from her and wiped it dry. “I’m in too much debt to you,” he argued. At her quizzical look, he explained, “You raised my son. I owe you so much for that.”
His heartfelt words seeped into her, as warm as the water in the sink, as glistening as the rainbow-flecked bubbles. She groped for a knife at the bottom of the pile and rubbed it with the dishcloth, all the while trying to locate the source of her resistance to him. She knew it was in her somewhere, but she couldn’t seem to find it
.
“I’m sorry,” she said, scrubbing the knife until it shone like a mirror. “I’m sorry things happened the way they did five years ago. I’m sorry everything got botched so badly.”
“I’m sorrier than you.”
She handed him the knife to dry. “I’m not sorry we met, though,” she admitted. “I’m not sorry we made Jeffrey.”
“He’s a good kid,” said Michael.
“He’s a demanding chatterbox and sometimes a brat.” She set to work on another plate and grinned. “He’s also the best kid in the world.”
“Emmie...” He took the plate she handed to him, but instead of drying it, he put it on the counter and turned to face her. “I want this to work.” He sounded earnest, the words rising from him as if they’d been born deep in his soul.
Two days ago, even a day ago, she hadn’t been sure she wanted it to work. But today she did. Not because of the baseball glove, but because Michael was trying so hard, and because when she looked at him, she felt a warm, rippling sensation in her gut, a rainbow-glistening, sweetly scented, cleansing heat
“It’s going to take time,” she said, her voice muted to contain the emotions churning inside her. “I don’t want to rush into anything.” That was a lie. She did want to rush into something with Michael, just as she had in San Pablo. But she was older now, and she hoped wiser. She had responsibilities. She couldn’t take chances with her heart the way she could back then, when she was young and on her own and the world lay open and inviting before her.
“Then we won’t rush,” Michael promised. “I just want you to know where I’m going with this. I hired that detective at Finders, Keepers for a reason, Emmie. I wanted to make things right with you. I was thinking only of the past. It never occurred to me that I might belong in your life today. But I do. There’s a very specific place for me here. So don’t count on me leaving you.”
She turned away, feeling tears burn in her eyes. She didn’t want to dissolve into sobs again. One big cry every five years was enough.
In any case, these tears weren’t like the ones she’d shed last night. Those had been tears of distress and fear. These were tears of hope—hope that Michael could live up to his promises, hope that after so many years her life could be made whole again. Hope that Michael could be the one to make it whole.
HE KEPT HIMSELF OCCUPIED while she gave Jeffrey his bath. She didn’t know where he was-in the living room, thumbing through a magazine, or snooping in her bureau drawers, or perhaps outdoors on the patio, savoring a final glass of wine. If she didn’t trust him, she’d be distracted, worrying about where he might be and what he might be up to. But she wasn’t distracted or worried.
She supposed that meant she trusted him.
Jeffrey wouldn’t stop talking about baseball. Seated in the center of the tub, the outlines of his legs wavering beneath the water as he created eddies and small tides with his plastic tugboat, he babbled on about his new obsession. “Adam says the Red Sox are the best team in the world, and they’re cursed, too.”
“Cursed?”
“It’s the curse of the banana or something.”
“The curse of the Bambino.” She had heard her colleagues joke about that in the faculty lounge at school. “People say the Red Sox will never win the World Series because they traded Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees. Ever since then, the team has played under a curse. At least, that’s what people say.”
“What does bananas have to do with it?”
“Bambino. That was Babe Ruth’s nickname—the Bambino.”
“His name was Babe and they called him ‘Bambino’?” Jeffrey found this hilarious. He laughed uproariously, capsized his tugboat and scooped a double-handful of water out of the tub, letting it spill onto his head. Once the water had run off, leaving his hair plastered to his scalp, he gazed up at Emmie in wonder. “How do you know that?”
“I know a few things,” she said.
“About baseball?”
“Yes.” She knew very few things about baseball, but apparently what little she knew was enough to impress her son. His eyes were bright with awe. Taking advantage of his reverent regard, she grabbed the washcloth and swiped under his chin, scrubbing away the rings of dirt that settled into the creases of his neck.
He squealed. “Don’t do that! It tickles!”
“Well, you’re clean. And if you stay in there much longer, you just might turn into a pickle.” Usually she liked him to soak in the tub for as long as possible, but not tonight. Not when she knew Michael was somewhere in her house, waiting for her.
She wrapped Jeffrey in a fleecy towel as soon as he climbed out of the tub, turning the act of drying him off into an excuse to hug him. “So, you had fun playing ball today, didn’t you?” she said, kneeling in front of him and pulling her arms around him to dry his back.
“Yup! I’m gonna be a baseball player when I grow up, Mommy. I want to be in Fenway Park, and nobody better call me ‘Babe.’”
“Sounds like a plan.” She handed him his pajamas, then released the stopper in the tub and sponged down the sides.
Emerging from the steamy bathroom, she spotted Michael down the hall in the living room, staring out the window at the front yard. He seemed lost in his thoughts, so she didn’t interrupt him. She longed to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Was he sure he wanted to stick around and make this thing work, or was he wondering if he’d gotten in over his head and promised more than he could deliver? Was he thinking that contributing the down payment to the purchase of her house had been enough and he should cut out before he got sucked in?
Or was he deciding that he was truly over his past, that the nightmare he’d lived five years ago no longer cast a shadow into his future? That he was healed and ready to move forward-and that moving forward would bring him back to Emmie?
Jeffrey broke into Emmie’s musings. “Will you make Eeyore’s voice?”
“Of course. I always make Eeyore’s voice.” She followed him into his bedroom, leaving Michael to gaze out the window into the dim dusk light.
She read to Jeffrey, monitored him while he brushed his teeth, then tucked him into bed. It occurred to her, as she nuzzled her son’s clean, soft cheek with a kiss, that Michael could never take Jeffrey away from her. He could only enhance her closeness with him and make it even more precious.
She turned off the lamp, switched on the night-light and left Jeffrey’s room. Michael was where she’d last seen him, in the living room, assessing the view from the window. “I’m sorry that took so long,” she apologized, realizing her evening rituals with Jeffrey had consumed nearly an hour.
Michael turned and smiled. His eyes were somber, reflecting the depth of his thoughts. “No apology necessary.”
“There’s a lot of work involved in raising a young boy,” she said, almost as a warning. She couldn’t have faith in Michael’s commitment unless she was positive he knew what he was committing himself to.
He seemed to understand what she was saying. “I’m flexible. And I’m a good learner.” He crossed the room to her, his enigmatic smile still in place. “This is a good house. I’m glad you’ll get to stay here.”
“I’m glad, too. Thank you for making it possible.”
He laughed. “What’s going on, Emmie? First you’re apologizing, then you’re saying thank you. Is this the etiquette hour?”
She would have laughed, also, except that her emotions were too tangled for laughter. “I’m trying to learn how to be with you again,” she said. “My mother always told me courtesy was the best way to deal with a situation.”
“You’re still a daughter of the South,” he joked, but there was a serious undertone to his voice. He closed the space between them and planted his hands on her shoulders. “We don’t have a situation, Emmie.”
“We don’t?” He was so close to her, not the way he’d been close to her yesterday when she’d bawled like a baby in his arms, but close as a man to a woman, close in a way that felt
like a very dangerous, intriguing situation indeed. “What do we have?” she asked, peering up at him.
“Each other,” he answered, then lowered his mouth to hers.
She tried to remember the first time he’d kissed her in San Pablo, in that alcove near the plaza at the center of town. She tried to remember if his kiss had inundated her with sensation the way this one did, if the persuasion and possession of it had sent currents of heat and need spinning through her entire body, making her ache, making her feel weak and powerful all at once.
It didn’t matter what that first kiss had been like. They’d been different people five years ago, younger, wilder, freer to take chances and seize opportunities. Yet she felt just as free now, just as willing to take a chance.
She parted her lips to welcome him. He accepted her invitation, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, conquering it with deep, greedy strokes. He moved his hands around her shoulders to her back and pulled her tightly to himself. She felt his palms flat against her shoulder blades, then sliding down to her waist, to her hips and up again, roaming all over her back, exploring, claiming.
She hadn’t been touched like this in such a long time. She’d met a few men, dated a few, but none had made her feel this way, delicate and strong and womanly all at once. None of those men had been Michael.
His hands continued their journey, rounding her bottom and pressing her to him, then gliding to the outer surfaces of her thighs, up past her hips to her waist, higher under her arms so his thumbs could brush the swells of her breasts. She wanted to pull away so he could caress more of her, but she wanted the closeness of him, too, the sleek warmth of his chest against hers, the solidity of his shoulders, the hardness of his arousal evident through his jeans and her skirt as he pressed into her.
She wanted him. She wanted his body, his love. She wanted his promises. She wanted to feel whole. Jeffrey wasn’t enough to make her life complete, she acknowledged with a wistful resignation. She hadn’t felt complete in five years. But now she had Michael.
I don’t want to rush into anything. Her words echoed in her mind, haunting, nagging. She wanted so much—but she didn’t want to be a fool. She didn’t want to get hurt. She didn’t want to jeopardize what she had, even if it wasn’t complete.
Found: One Son Page 19