Love Worth Finding

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “Forget it. I’m not the church type.”

  “You don’t have to be a member of the church to play. We have a couple other players who don’t attend services. No pressure—it’s just for fun and fellowship.”

  “Fun, yes—but the fellowship part sounds touchy-feely.”

  “Nope. It’s more like a prayer at the outset then grilled hot dogs before a game or ice cream afterward. Real low-key. Why don’t you come tomorrow evening and give it a try? If you don’t like it, or if your shoulder bothers you, you can walk away with no commitment, no questions asked.”

  “One time. No strings.”

  ❧

  “Supper’s on!” Della thumped the biggest pot in the house onto the table and glanced over her shoulder.

  Footsteps sounded on the porch; then the screen door banged shut. “I’m coming. Whatever it is, give me doubles. I’m starving.” Daddy sniffled loudly. “It smells like lasagna.”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “Triples.”

  “Me, too.” Justin plopped into a chair. “And no skimping on the meatballs!”

  Shoving a pitcher of iced tea into Gabe’s hands, Della scoffed, “Since when have you guys gone hungry?”

  Daddy brushed a kiss on her cheek. “We’re still making up for all the years when you didn’t know how to cook.” He grabbed the basket of garlic bread and headed for the table.

  Della looked at her family and felt an odd twang. Her brothers had moved into an apartment four years ago, but they still came home for supper Monday through Thursday. Weekends, they dated or fended for themselves. She’d love to have a place of her own, too—but Daddy would be so lonesome by himself in the house. She’d taken a big loan to start her business, so it made sense for her to stay at home.

  I’m tired of being sensible.

  “You’d better get over here, Sis.” Sauce-laden noodles slithered across the tabletop as Gabe served himself. “Justin’s going to eat the rest if you don’t dive in.”

  “Go ahead, Justin.” Della slipped into her chair. “Here. Have more garlic bread, too.”

  Justin stopped mid-bite and gave her a horrified look. “Oh, no. No. Not a chance.”

  “You don’t want more garlic bread?” she asked oh-so-innocently.

  “I’m wise to you. You can’t pull that stunt on me twice. I said it once, and I’ll say it ’til my dying day, no. Got that? I’m not going to put on one of those fancy monkey suits you rent out and get saddled into another show.”

  “Oh, Justin.” Della gave him a disappointed look. “Why not? You look outstanding in a tux.”

  “Yeah, and three of the models gave you their telephone numbers,” Gabe teased.

  “That’s just the problem.” Justin made a disgusted sound. “Every last one of them thought just because we met at a bridal show that the date was supposed to get them back into one of those gowns again—and I’m not talking about getting another job modeling. Ten minutes into a date, and every one of them started talking about marriage.”

  “What’s wrong with marriage?” Thoroughly disgruntled, Della glowered at him.

  “Nothing—as long as it’s someone else’s,” Gabe said. He took a long gulp of his tea. “And count me in with Justin—I’m not gonna play model groom for you, either.”

  Her dad drummed his fingers on the table. “When’s the show, Princess?”

  “Monday, the eighteenth. It’s a luncheon in San Diego.”

  He nodded. “Power Electric is happy to supply you with men.” He shot his sons a telling look. “Two of them.”

  Justin muttered, “Spare us the family-sticks-together speech, Dad. I should have known you’d pull rank on us.”

  “Talk about rank—” Gabe popped a whole meatball into his mouth and kept speaking. “Could you believe that skunk at the Java and Jelly? Whew!”

  The conversation zipped all over the place, and Della didn’t say much. She’d be interrogated to the nth degree if she confessed the scent she remembered from her day of work was left by a hunky young military man who bought gloves. He’d worn some kind of aftershave that lingered in the shop and left her inhaling deeply for the next hour.

  “Earth to Della.” Justin’s voice registered.

  “Oh—huh?” She shook herself.

  “I said, since I’m going to have to strut around in that penguin suit for you, you have to help me with my billings tomorrow night. I’m behind.”

  Della shook her head. “I’ve got a game tomorrow night.”

  “When are you going to stop that and start dating?” Her father shook more Parmesan cheese on his plate. “I want my daughter walking down the aisle, not walking with crutches.”

  “If I get married,” she stabbed at an olive in her salad. It rolled away. “You won’t have anyone here to cook for you.”

  “I can eat at a restaurant or hire a cook. I can’t buy grandchildren.”

  “And I can’t buy a groom.” She finally speared the olive. “Besides, Justin and Gabe are older. Look to them for your first grandchildren.”

  Her father snorted. “Those boys gotta be roped into pretending to play married for your fashion shows. No way they’re gonna tromp down the aisle for a long time yet. You—well, a woman’s got to pay mind to her clock.”

  Just then, the grandfather clock in the living room chimed.

  “That is the only clock I’m minding.”

  Daddy could have given lessons to a pit bull. Once he got hold of something, he wouldn’t let go. He knocked his knuckles on the table. “Boys, you need to help your sister.”

  “We are, Dad. You’re making us do that show for her.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s high time you dug up a nice young man to ask her out.”

  “Actually, we do know this one guy. . . .”

  The way Gabe perked up made Della’s blood run cold. “And you know me even better. If you dare try to pair me up with someone, I’ll return the favor and double it.”

  Daddy slapped the table. “Good! You know someone for each of your brothers?”

  Della pasted on the smile she knew gave her brothers the willies. “Oh, I know a couple of girls for each of them, Daddy. I’d want them to have a choice, you know.” She turned to her father. “In fact, a bride came in the other day with her mother. Her mama’s a widow, Daddy—just perfect for you. I—”

  “You’re at the table,” he groused. “You should eat and not talk so much.”

  Three

  “Okay. You’ve got the stance right. Now choke up on the bat a little more.”

  Della wrestled with the bat as she listened to Vanessa’s instructions. Vanessa managed to drag her to church about three times a year, and the second time Della attended, she’d seen the announcement in the bulletin that they wanted more players on the softball team. “I’m on the team. You could join up,” Vanessa urged.

  “I’m not going to become a member of a church just to play ball.”

  “You don’t have to. No strings attached.”

  Della confessed, “I’m miserable at sports. I’ve never hit a ball. They won’t want me.”

  Vanessa proved her wrong. For two years now, Della suited up in a hideous orange and white baseball uniform and consistently played worse than anyone else in the whole league. Still, everyone wanted her to come back for more. She loved it.

  But she’d only connected with the ball once. Kip called it the law of averages—sooner or later, it had to happen by mistake. He pretended to do the math and announced she ought to connect once every three seasons. From the looks of it, he was probably right, too.

  “Della.” Vanessa giggled. “I said choke up on the bat—don’t strangle the poor thing! What did it ever do to you?”

  She loosened her grip. “How’s this?”

  “Much better. Now keep your eye on the ball.” Vanessa pitched, and the ball came whizzing past. “That was in the strike zone. You were supposed to swing.”

  “Give me another one.”

  Vanessa nodded, pu
lled another neon pink tennis ball from the pail, and pitched.

  “Aaand she swings and misses!” Jeff sang out from behind her. “Mom, can we get them now?”

  Della looked at Vanessa’s nine-year-old stepson and waggled the end of the bat at him and the sleek black lab that pranced at his side. “You hang on a second. I have three more to miss before you and Lick gather them.”

  “Okay, but hurry. He’s been waiting a long time.”

  “It’s a good obedience exercise,” Vanessa called back. “Get ready, Della. One, two, three. . .”

  She swung the bat.

  “One more to go,” Jeff told his dog.

  “One more?”

  Della turned as she heard Vanessa’s husband’s voice. “Nathan, are you making fun—” her voice died out. He wasn’t alone. Walking alongside him was the gray-eyed hunk who bought the gloves at the shop yesterday.

  “She still hasn’t hit another one, Dad.”

  Della wanted to crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment.

  Nathan rumpled Jeff’s hair. “Someday, she will. Della, this is Brandon Stevens. Brandon, Della Valentine.”

  “Ma’am.” Brandon nodded.

  “She’s not a ma’am; she’s a miss.” Jeff let out a boyish bark of laughter. “And she misses the ball every time!”

  “Having trouble?” Mr. Make-your-heart-go-pitty-pat asked.

  “Well. . .” Della knew she had to be as pink as could be.

  “Here.” He slipped behind her, wrapped his long, long arms around and molded his callused hands over hers. “What’s your thumb doing up here?”

  “That’s how my brothers hold their golf clubs.”

  “Different sport, different grip.” To his credit, he didn’t laugh. Instead, he eased her thumb around the bat. “Here. Good. Now lift your left elbow.”

  She followed his instructions.

  “You’re gonna smack this one halfway across the park.” Confidence rang in his voice. “Okay, Vanessa, let her rip.”

  Vanessa picked up the last ball. “Here goes nothing.”

  Thwop. The pink tennis ball arced through the air and sailed toward a vacant picnic table. Della stood frozen in place as she watched it.

  “That was a beaut. Do it again.”

  “It was the last ball,” Vanessa called. “Jeff, give Lick his command.”

  Jeff gleefully shouted, “Fetch!”

  While they gathered up two-dozen balls, the guy behind Della didn’t release her. “Practice your swing. Keep your grip. Yeah. That’s it. Now the elbow. . .” He led her through a couple of swings, then let go and waved his arm in an arc. “Practice makes perfect.”

  She chewed on her lower lip, struck her stance, and copied the moves a few times.

  “Good. Now make sure you follow through. When you stop the swing partway because you connect, you lose all the power.”

  Della laughed. “As if I’ll actually connect.”

  His face darkened. “With that attitude, you won’t.”

  “Della, think like the Little Red Engine,” Jeff said as he handed his mother the bucket of tennis balls. “I think I can; I think I can.”

  “Not good enough,” Brandon said curtly. “I know I can. I know I can.”

  Vanessa smiled. “Brandon was a SEAL, Della. Watch out, or he’ll have you doing push ups, too.”

  “I’m good at those,” she said.

  The corner of Brandon’s mouth twitched. “Girls’ push ups?”

  “No, standard. I’m not half bad at chin ups and pull ups, either.”

  “So if you can do those things, you have the upper body strength to swing a bat. It’s just a matter of hand-eye coordination and practice.”

  “Yeah, well, once you get her batting up to snuff, you can teach her how to run.” Nathan chuckled.

  “Oh, you don’t, do you?” Brandon gave Della a pained look.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Run like a girl.”

  “News flash. I am a girl!”

  “A girly girl,” Vanessa called out merrily. “Here you go, Della. Slug this one out of the park and show them you have it in you.”

  “Here goes nothing,” Della muttered as she took her stance.

  “And there went nothin’,” Jeff said from behind her a few seconds later.

  “But your form was good. Tell you what: Tie a tennis ball on a length of twine in your garage. When you have a few minutes, bat at it. It’ll take care of your hand-eye coordination. By next week, you’ll connect.”

  “I wish the back room at the store were bigger. I spend most of my time there.”

  “In the back room?”

  She laughed. “At the store. Maybe I could hang the ball from—no, I’d hit the wall with the bat.”

  “Hey you guys,” someone hollered at them from the baseball diamond. “Are we gonna play ball, or are you planning to stand there and yak all night?”

  Nathan picked up the bucket of tennis balls and wrapped his arm around Van’s waist. “We’re coming.”

  Della watched their casual affection and smiled. Jeff and Lick dashed up to join them.

  “Looks like a commercial for domestic bliss,” Brandon said from beside her.

  “If it’s for sale, just tell me where and how much.”

  Brandon crooked a brow. “You don’t know?” He took the bat from her and propped it over his shoulder. “You’re ideally set up for reconnaissance and information gathering.”

  Della burst out laughing. “It’s love, not warfare.”

  “Hey, all’s fair in love and war, so the tools of the trade apply in both instances. Never waste an opportunity.”

  Della scooped her mitt from the grass. “It’s too late by the time they reach me. The battle is fought, and they’re ready to sign the peace treaty.”

  Brandon chuckled. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d think in those terms. You sound more like a warrior than a wedding planner.”

  She tossed the mitt into the air and caught it. “The secret lies in knowing when to put on the gloves and when to take them off.”

  ❧

  “Hey.” Brandon slid one leg over the bench and straddled it in the dugout. “Great strategy.”

  “Strategy?” Della wrinkled her cute little nose as a blush stole over her cheeks. “That wasn’t strategy; it was shock.”

  She’d been up to bat when he was on second base. He’d seen her strike twice. The third time, she bunted—not intentionally, but because the ball was inside and didn’t warrant a swing. Stunned, she stood there and watched it roll toward the pitcher as Brandon sped toward third.

  “Aw, c’mon, Della. Stop being so modest. You bunted and sacrificed yourself so I’d be set up for to make a run for home.”

  “If only that were true. I can’t take credit. I just froze.”

  “You’ve got a lot to learn,” Brandon agreed. And I wouldn’t mind coaching you. The thought slipped into his mind, and it felt right. Brandon lived by his hunches. They’d saved his life on more than one occasion. “Why don’t we meet and I’ll—”

  “Whip me into shape?”

  He winked. “Your shape is just fine, ma’am. It’s your talent that needs refining.”

  Easy laughter bubbled out of her. “I’ll have to remember that line. My brothers would love it!”

  “Just how many brothers do you have?”

  “Two.”

  He squinted. “And you didn’t learn how to bat?”

  “Only her lashes.” Vanessa yanked her ponytail through her cap. “Della’s dad and brothers got caught in a time warp. They think a woman should be home, serving up food on a plate, not out running across home plate.”

  “They all love me,” Della tacked on.

  Her loyalty to her family counted for a lot in Brandon’s book. He gave her an assessing look. “Love made them protect you.”

  She nodded.

  “As if baseball is dangerous,” Vanessa scoffed.

  “My brother broke his leg sliding into home.�
��

  Twice, a member of his SEAL team broke a leg when they were out on a mission. Ugly, painful injuries. From the way her face paled, he figured she’d seen her brother suffer his injury. Brandon resisted the urge to smooth back a few of her errant curls. She’d been babied a lot. Judging by her presence here, she wanted to venture ahead. Anyone who had guts enough to try something deserved a chance in his book. “He’s over it and running around now, right?”

  Her face brightened. “Nothing slows him down.”

  Crack! Brandon automatically turned at the sound and whistled in appreciation as Kip hit a homer.

  “Wow, I want to do that someday.”

  He smiled at Della. Never one to miss a golden opportunity, Brandon plowed right into the opening. “Fine. I’ll take you to the batting cages. When are you free this week?”

  Her pupils dilated—whether with pleasure or surprise, he couldn’t say.

  “Her shop is closed on Sundays and Mondays,” Vanessa volunteered. She gave Della’s leg a playful pat. “Go for it. Do it for the team.”

  Della looked up at him with her dark, shiny eyes and took his measure.

  She’s cautious. Smart, too. What’s stronger—her loyalty to the team or her reticence?

  A slow smile tilted her mouth. “For the team.”

  ❧

  Della locked the door, turned over the Closed sign, and dashed to the back room. Brandon would be here in ten minutes, and she couldn’t very well go to the batting cage in a silk dress. Hastily changing into neatly pressed brown slacks and a cotton blouse the color of peach sorbet, she tried to decide what to do with her hair. Tying it back would be smart, but I look like I’m twelve when I do that.

  She twisted her foot into an athletic shoe and reached for the other when someone rattled the back door with a single, solid thump of a knock. It’s him! She snatched the left shoe then groaned at the sight of the knotted lace.

  “Hey! You okay in there?”

  “Yes.” She giggled as she hobbled toward the steel door. Out of habit, she still looked through the peephole. Even distorted by the fisheye lens, Brandon looked too good to be true in a dark blue T-shirt and jeans.

  As if he knew she was spying on him, he ducked down a little closer and gave an exaggerated wink. “The password’s ‘Team’,” he said in a grave tone, but his smile could have melted the door.