by JoAnn Ross
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” Claire said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
“Of course,” Charity said without hesitation.
“I have a showing in Portland next week and will have to stay overnight. Matt insists he’s old enough to be left alone, but—”
“Of course he should stay with us,” Charity said without hesitation. “Johnny would love it.”
Relief swept over Claire. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s no problem at all, and, as I said, Johnny really likes Matt. I suspect they share that fish-out-of-water feeling, although Johnny’s fit into school much better than I thought he would.”
“That’s probably something he learned being moved from foster home to foster home,” Kara suggested.
“Probably so. I never liked moving, but I got so I could deal with all the schools and all my mother’s marriages,” Charity agreed.
“You make me feel a bit guilty,” Mary said. “I lived in the same house I was born in, attended the same school, then went off to university. Then came here and met J.T. My life, compared to so many others, has been very blessed.”
“You lost your mother when you were just a girl,” Charity pointed out. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. But I was fortunate to have my gram and my older sister.”
The bond between the women was obviously very strong. But, just as when they’d shown up at the cottage, there was nothing cliquish about them. They welcomed Claire into their group as if she’d always been part of the fabric of their lives, and if they did bring up Dillon a few more times during the conversation leading up to dinner, she understood that it was only because he was a friend as well. And they wanted him to be as happy as they all appeared to be.
* * *
The dining room, which was about twice the size of Claire’s cottage, was packed with people. The table groaned with platters of surprisingly moist deep-fried turkey with giblet gravy and an andouille sausage and corn bread stuffing; baked ham with a sugarcane-bourbon glaze, because, as Leon informed her, no Cajun holiday dinner was complete without two meat main courses; corn maque choux Lucien had made by braising corn and vegetables until the corn became creamy, then adding bits of crispy bacon; shrimp and crab gumbo, again, made by Lucien, with shrimp peeled by J.T.; fried oyster patties and crab cakes; a sweet potato casserole utilizing the potatoes Dillon had been peeling when she’d arrived; green beans with bacon and onions; spicy corn bread; and dirty rice.
Conversation flowed like wine, back and forth across the table, as they shared old stories and teased one another in ways she sensed were family jokes. She also learned that the house had originally belonged to Sax’s grandparents, who’d inherited it from a wealthy lumber baron’s widow. When it became too much for the elderly couple to take care of, they’d moved into town to live with their children, passing the house on to their middle grandson.
After dinner, Angel danced, Lucien played a clarinet and Sax his guitar, accompanying Maureen, who entertained with her still strong voice. The house was redolent with spicy scents and flavors, laughter, and lots and lots of love.
Which had Claire thinking back on Thanksgiving with her mother, who’d thought that roasting an entire turkey for three people was a waste of time and effort. So they’d always dressed up and gone out, where stuffy waiters delivered expensive meals and wouldn’t have thought of breaking into song or telling a joke.
“You look as if you’re having a good time,” Dillon said as they stood side by side on the porch after a sinfully rich pumpkin bread pudding, watching the sun sink into the ocean in a dazzling display of gold, ruby, and bronze.
“I am.” She turned toward him and smiled. “Enough that I’m not even going to be upset that they sprung you on me.”
“What makes you think you weren’t sprung on me?”
She looked up at him and saw the answer in his eyes but asked anyway. “Was I?”
“No. Kara’s newly married. She’s in love. So it’s not so surprising she wants everyone else she knows to experience the same thing.”
“Love isn’t contagious. It’s not like the flu.”
“I used to think that. Especially watching everyone I knew get divorced. But here we are in a house filled with people who definitely offer contrary evidence.”
“That’s not very scientific.”
“Sometimes you just have to go with your gut and figure out the science later,” he countered easily. “You sure are a picture today, Claire.”
She’d noticed that his Texas accent and syntax came and went with his moods. Like now, it surfaced when he was relaxed and enjoying himself. Or when he was yelling at the team on the sideline. Or when he went into seduction mode, which she braced herself for now.
“I’m overdressed.” Her blouse was cream silk, her slacks a black lightweight wool. Kara had told her that dress was casual, but certain that she didn’t mean Claire’s usual jeans and T-shirts, Claire had delved deep inside her closet and pulled out something that she knew her mother would approve of.
When Cole Douchett had opened the door wearing worn jeans and a faded WHO’S YOUR CRAWDADDY T-shirt, she realized Kara had, indeed, meant casual.
“Maybe just a bit, for this company,” he allowed. “But I can help you out with that.”
“How?” she asked, knowing that she was walking into a verbal trap.
“This is a big house. I figure we can find ourselves a little corner somewhere and I’ll mess you up a bit.”
As if to demonstrate, he cupped the back of her neck, beneath her hair, and brushed his mouth against hers. His lips were warm, the air cool, his kiss tender and undemanding.
“That’s a start,” he decided, smiling against her lips.
Then kissed her again.
A third time.
Each time, his lips lingered a bit longer. His thumb brushed a gentle pressure against her chin, inviting her lips to part.
Which she’d just done, when she heard an all too familiar voice calling her name.
“Mom?”
She jumped back, feeling as guilty as if she’d been caught stealing dollars from the church poor box.
“I’m out here, Matt,” she called back.
“Johnny’s got to go feed the dogs at the shelter. I told him I’d come with him.”
“Fine.” She was all too aware that she was still out here all alone with the man she’d sworn to stay away from, and her voice wasn’t nearly as steady as she’d have liked it to have been.
“And we thought we might go to a show afterward. The Orcas is having an X-Men marathon.”
“Just be home by eleven,” she said. “You know the team curfew.”
“And your coach just heard you,” Dillon called out. “Wouldn’t want me calling and checking up on you boys later, now, would you?”
“No, sir.” Claire heard a faint disappointment in his tone. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good time.”
She heard a door close. A minute later, the Escape pulled away from the house with both boys in it.
“Now he knows we were alone.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?”
“I’m a single mother of a teenage son. It comes with the territory.”
“I understand that. But here’s a little life lesson I picked up one dicey day in Kandahar. If it doesn’t blow you up, in the great scheme of things, it isn’t all that important.”
Before she could respond to that, he skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. “You’ll dream of me tonight,” he predicted.
“Arrogant ass,” she muttered.
But about this, Claire knew he was right.
41
Dillon had decided early on that if the Dolphins couldn’t beat the other teams on shooting and defense—which they couldn’t, at least at the beginning of the season—he was going to make sure they could outrun them.
Which was why, over the p
ast weeks of preseason practice, he’d been ruthless in his conditioning program, making the kids run up and down the bleachers and do laps around the gym and, as a change of pace, on the school’s cinder track on those rare days when the rain didn’t threaten to drown them.
Everyone complained in the beginning, but by the first game of the season, when they opened on the road, he felt confident that there wasn’t a team in the league whose legs were as strong.
“We’re going to wear them down,” he said, walking up and down the aisle of the team bus as they headed up the coast to play the Agate Beach Pirates, who, Ken had informed Dillon, had been the Stoners back when they’d been established after World War II. Over time, as the name brought to mind something less inspiring than the rocks that scattered over the sand at low tide, the administration had decided to change mascots.
“They’re going to see us come out on the floor and think we’re the same team they’re used to wiping their floor with. But we’re going to be like sharks in a fish tank. We’ll sniff out the weak ones, never let up, and wear them down. Which will lead to what?” He put his hand to his ear.
“Turnovers!” the players roared as they did every time he asked the question.
“Right. And what is the one sure thing about turnovers?”
“The team with the fewest turnovers wins!”
“And what does Coach Wooden say about finishing a game?”
Along with running the players ragged since their first practice, Dillon had been determined to teach them the history of this game they were playing. To hammer into their minds the knowledge they needed to win when all the odds were against them.
“It’s not who starts a game. But who finishes!”
“And who’s that going to be today?”
“The Dolphins!”
What they might lack in skills and talent, they definitely made up for in enthusiasm.
“You bet your asses,” he said with a grin.
He returned to the front of the bus and sat down next to Don Daniels. “Sometimes I really freaking love this job,” he told the assistant coach.
Agate Bay was a division powerhouse and it showed—from the state championship banners hanging from the rafters to the trophy case in the lobby that overflowed with only a fraction of the shiny hardware the teams had collected over the years. And then there was the packed house of very vocal fans.
Having been told by Ken that they also introduced the team players NBA-style, Dillon had the AV guys at school set up a loudspeaker in the gym so the kids would get used to it. But it wasn’t the same as the real thing. As the roars rocked the roof and searchlights flashed each time a Pirate ran out onto the floor, Dillon could feel his Dolphin players’ spirits deflating.
He could give them all the X’s and O’s. He could quote John Wooden, Phil Jackson, and Pat Riley until he was blue in the face. They weren’t perfect. Hell, most days Dillon wasn’t even sure that—with the exception of Templeton—they were any good.
“Just go out there, run their tails off, and remember the basics,” he told the players, who were gathered around him on the sideline after the over-the-top, bells-and-whistles introduction meant to intimidate visiting teams. “And most of all, have fun.”
In the beginning, nerves showing, they forced shots, trying for three-pointers and dunks they couldn’t even make in practice.
“You’re trying too hard,” he told Dirk Martin after pulling him from the floor and putting his best friend, Cooper, in to replace him after he’d forced yet another shot to the rim. “Last year you might as well have been out there on your own. This year you’ve got Templeton. Whatever problems are between the two of you, keep them in the locker room. Don’t take them out onto the floor. And use him.”
At the end of the first quarter, the Dolphins were behind by only six points, which Dillon considered a miracle, right up there with the bread and fishes and water to wine. They might not be making any shots, but their legs were getting ahead of the Pirates, keeping them from making a lot of the attempts.
By halftime, they’d slipped six more, putting them twelve points behind. And when Martin threw away a ball instead of passing to Templeton, who’d been open, Dillon realized that the antagonism between the boys had returned. And, dammit, it probably would, every time they were under pressure. Which, given the team’s skill level, and the toughness of the season’s schedule, meant they’d be fighting each other during every damn game if he didn’t do something.
Now.
“Okay,” he said in the locker room, “we’ve got them right where we want them. Now it’s time to get serious and shut that crowd up. And we’re going to do that by making sure our captains get the ball as often as possible.”
“Captains?” Templeton asked.
“As in two?” Martin scowled at that idea and shot Claire’s kid a dark look.
“Two,” Dillon confirmed. “Guys, you’re looking at your new team captains.”
“Jeez, Coach,” the cocaptains both groaned at once. Revealing, Dillon thought optimistically, that his two best players finally had something in common. They both hated his brilliant idea.
“I don’t care how you two hotshot ball hogs get along off the court,” he said, “but when you’re playing, you’re going to not only cooperate; you’re going to lead. Is that straight?”
“Yes, sir,” they both mumbled. Which wasn’t exactly the level of enthusiasm Dillon needed from the boys.
He lifted his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir!” Now, that was better.
“Good. Now go and show them that the Dolphins may get down, but they’re never out. And by the way, there’s a dead spot on the floor you can use to your advantage.”
“A dead spot?” Templeton asked.
“I didn’t see any dead spot,” Martin said.
“It’s three feet from the sidelines opposite their bench. Stay away from dribbling there, and if you can get them to fast break in that direction, you should be able to steal a dribble when the ball slows down.
“Now, before we go back out there, what’s our motto?”
“The only easy day was yesterday!”
“Hoorah,” Dillon said.
* * *
The conditioning had paid off. Although the locker room had radiated with antagonism, his two best players did somehow manage to put their antipathy aside as they put on the Templeton and Martin show.
The first half, each had been concerned with his own scoring, but suddenly, they were passing the ball, creating opportunities for their other teammates, and defending like dual demons.
They’d also managed to do what Ken had assured Dillon never happened. They silenced the home crowd. The gym, infamous in high school hoops for its deafening noise, became as quiet as a church on Monday morning. During the third quarter, there was only the sound of the leather ball bouncing, the squeaking of soles on the polished wooden floor, and the labored breathing of the Pirates as they were taken by surprise and outhustled.
Then, as the Dolphin fans realized that the momentum was actually changing, something they definitely weren’t used to seeing, they began to wildly cheer their team on.
With five minutes to go in the game, they’d not only made up the difference; they were two points ahead. Then Templeton, instead of taking an easy layup, decided to dunk it.
The ball clanked like a brick off the back rim, high into the air, but fortunately Martin grabbed it and scored with a layup.
Frustrated by the showboating, Dillon yanked Claire’s son off the court. “What’s the freaking first commandment?”
“The team always comes first.”
“And the second?”
“Thou shalt not miss a dunk.”
“Remember that next time. For now, put your butt on the bench. If I need you, I’ll call.”
The Pirates’ legs were gone. The Dolphins had spent the final quarter controlling the clock, keeping the ball from their opponent, running them
up and down the court, essentially putting on a basketball clinic.
“I hate to tempt fate,” Don said as Templeton, now back in the game, shot, making three points, “but it’s going to be really hard for them to lose now.”
“I know.”
Dillon was not exactly thrilled to find his team on the winning side of a blowout. His initial concern, going into the game, was that they hadn’t known how to win. Now he worried that they’d foolishly, mistakenly think the rest of the season was going to go the same way, and slack off.
As yet more proof of their inexperience, when the buzzer rang, his ebullient team went wild, jumping around at the center of the floor, throwing high fives as if they’d just won the NBA finals.
Which earned them an admittedly deserved foul for excessive celebration, but the Pirates, now totally off their usual brilliance, missed the free throws, officially ending the game.
Only then did Dillon look up into the stands to the visitors’ section, where he’d known, from the moment she’d walked in, that Claire was sitting with the entire Douchett clan, along with Charity, Gabe, and Angel, who’d swapped out the ubiquitous tutu for a miniature blue-and-white Dolphins cheerleader outfit.
The woman who’d infiltrated his dreams and banished his nightmares, the single mother whose love and unyielding sense of duty to her son were the only things keeping them apart, had begun jumping up and down like a teenager, waving plastic blue-and-white pom-poms and hugging everyone around her.
Their eyes met. When she flashed him a dazzlingly brilliant smile, the first he’d been treated to, Dillon’s breath clogged in his lungs and his mouth went as dry as the Iraqi sandbox.
The earth teetered on its axis, tectonic plates shifted, volcanoes erupted, and if a wave train of a tsunami had suddenly washed over the gym, he wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.
Because the well-ordered, comfortable, postwar world he’d created for himself in Shelter Bay had just exploded.
And, on the verge of exploding himself, Dillon knew that neither it nor he would ever be the same.