by Lyn Cote
“Hello—” Lucie began.
“No hablo inglés,” the woman announced with a dour expression.
“Yo hablo español,” Lucie said with a grin.
At this, the woman looked startled.
In Spanish, Lucie asked the woman about the dog.
Then, in a mix of Spanish and English, the woman asked what had happened to the dog. Lucie wondered why the woman had said she couldn’t speak English when she obviously did. Without betraying this, Lucie explained about injuring the dog and asked again if the woman knew who owned it.
The woman shook her head. “No.”
This puzzled Lucie. Something in the woman’s expression and manner had led her to believe the woman had recognized the dog. Lucie almost repeated the question, but turned away instead. What was going on here? Was it just that Lucie was a stranger? Or was there already a “history” of trouble between the residents of Shangri-La and the rest of Pleasant Prairie? Lucie almost assured the woman, “But I’m not from around here.”
Scattering children, Lucie walked back to her car.
Tanner met her at her car door. “No luck?”
Distracted, Lucie nodded, trying to think what to do next.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Sí, I mean, yes.” She looked at the children around her and asked them in Spanish if any of them knew who owned the dog. Again, she got only pensive stares and a few no’s. Maybe they’d been told not to talk to strangers? But what kid ever obeyed that?
Tanner was studying her again. “That’s very interesting.”
Huh? Lucie thought that was a very odd remark.
“What will you do now?” He leaned closer. “Is there any way I can be of help?”
“Thanks, but I can’t think of what more to do now.” She ignored the clean scent of his soap. “I promised to take the boys to the park, so I guess I might as well.”
He nodded. “I have to go back and get Sancho. When you drive out the entrance, just turn left. That will take you back to town.”
“Thanks. Bye.” Making sure she didn’t give the unnerving man a backward glance, she settled the boys and dog in the back seat and headed to town. As she drove, she tried to make sense of the Mexican presence in Shangri-La and wondered if this had been the reason for the vet’s odd tone when referring to the trailer court.
At the park on Main Street, the boys jumped out of the car and ran toward the big, old-fashioned metal swing set. This was one of those classic small-town parks, mature trees, green-painted benches, picnic tables and grills, with a baseball diamond at one end and a sanded playground at the other. On the opposite side of the street, near the ball diamond, sat St. Andrew’s Church, a brick church with a bright red door.
With the somnolent dog in her arms again, Lucie walked after the boys, admiring the leafy oak trees, spreading like a canopy overhead.
Lucie settled on one of the park benches and laid the dog on her lap. She let the mellow atmosphere soak in. The shade and a gentle breeze kept the flies moving. As she stroked his shaggy fur, the groggy dog licked her hand. Danny and Mikey jumped from their swings and headed for the old wooden seesaw.
“Be careful,” she called to them. “I don’t want anyone getting a bump on the head. Both of you have your toes on the ground and get off at the same time.”
“Okay, Lucie!” they chorused.
She nodded, then looked around. A few Mexican-looking children had gathered on the diamond with a ball and bat. Though lacking two full teams, they began a game of softball. Or they tried.
Most of them looked to be ten years old or less, and they were having trouble finding out which of them could throw the ball far enough to get it over home plate. Lucie watched them as well as Sophie’s boys. Before long, Mikey and Danny gravitated to the game.
Dog in her arms, Lucie followed them. “Hi!” she called to the Spanish-looking children. “Need a pitcher?”
They stared at her.
It reminded her of her earlier reception of Shangri-La. “I’m Lucie and this is Mikey and Danny, my cousins.” Still no response. She changed languages. She repeated her greeting and introduction in Spanish and then asked, “¿Necesitan un lanzador?”
“Sí,” the obvious leader, a boy around ten, stepped forward and replied. “Yes, we need a pitcher.”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Miguel.” He was stocky with a mop of coal-black hair.
“Okay, Miguel, I’ll help. Would one of you please sit and hold my dog while I pitch?” She glanced down at the drowsy dog. The littlest Mexican-American girl came over and took the hurt animal gently into her arms and walked away toward the shade of an oak. Lucie thanked her and then turned back to Miguel. “Let me have the ball. It’s been a while, but let’s see if I can still get it over the plate.”
“Okay, Señorita Lucie.” Miguel threw her the ball. His pitch fell short. Noting his chagrin over this, she made no comment.
At first, she practiced a few throws without releasing the ball. Her father’s instructions in throwing overhand came back to her. She grinned, remembering her years in softball in grade school. Finally, she drew the ball back overhand and let it go.
It sailed neatly over the plate and all the children cheered. “Yay for Señorita Lucie! Yay, Lucie!” the Mexican children and Sophie’s boys yelled.
Lucie grinned. “I guess I haven’t forgotten how to pitch. Okay, let’s get this game going!”
The children took their places again and Lucie noted that Mikey and Danny were immediately given spots—one on each team.
A glance over her shoulder reassured Lucie that from the little girl’s lap, the little dog was watching all of this with sleepy interest. He tried to give them a friendly bark. Lucie waved at him, then she threw her first serious pitch. She struck out the first two players, then a chubby girl hit a foul ball.
The sound of a car pulling in nearby caught her attention. She glanced over to see Tanner Bond with his little dog in hand, walking toward the door to the church’s basement. She waved politely. Tanner nodded back formally. Children’s voices called her back to the game.
The two boisterous teams battled back and forth with more noise than hits. Lucie remained on the pitcher’s mound for both teams, since neither team had anyone else who could get the ball over the plate. The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, and at the top of the sixth inning, Lucie let another ball fly.
At bat, Miguel swung and connected. Crack! The ball shot upward and out of the diamond. The kids on both teams yelled with excitement. It was the first ball that had made it beyond the infield! Lucie jumped high, screaming her encouragement to Miguel. “Run! Run!”
Miguel was halfway to first when the recorded church chimes began to strike the hour—eleven. Lucie took a step back. “Oh, no! I was supposed to get Zoë to work at the DQ by now!”
Miguel made it to second. The children around her clamored for the next pitch as her mind raced. She couldn’t let her errand spoil their fun. More importantly, she was making inroads with the people she needed to know to find the dog’s owner. Who could help her out here? Tanner Bond walking into church minutes ago popped into her mind. Yes!
“¡Un momento! Just a sec!” She jogged to the church and into the basement, urgency spurring her. “Hey! Bond! I need you! Hey!”
The man stuck his head out of a door marked Church Office. “Yes?”
“No time to talk! Come on! I need you!” With a hurry-up wave, she headed back outside.
Concern on his face, Tanner hurried out of the basement door after her.
Near the edge of the baseball diamond, she paused to catch her breath and let him catch up. Certainly, he could finish the game for her. She’d only be gone a few minutes. “Hey…kids,” she called to the teams, “this…is Tanner Bond, the pastor of that church. He’s going to pitch while I run a quick errand. Danny and Mikey, I have to take Zoë to work. Stay with Mr. Bond! I’ll be right back, guys!” She dropped the ball into his hands.
; Tanner caught it, unreality flooding him. Pitch? Me? What was she doing? “What? I—hey!”
Ignoring him, she ran to her car. Looking back, she yelled, almost taunting him, “You can pitch, can’t you?”
Tanner opened his mouth to insist she come back and explain. But she was already out of range—in her car and speeding out of the parking lot. He glanced down and found himself hip-deep in children, all looking up at him with hope on their faces.
Chapter Two
“So, mister, you gonna pitch or what?” a boy on first base asked with a belligerent twist to his tone.
That twist nearly made Tanner toss back the ball and head back to his quiet office. But he sensed he was needed here. All eyes were upon him. And…perhaps, that woman’s parting shot—“You can pitch, can’t you?”—stopped him from refusing. “Okay,” Tanner mumbled.
“Okay!” the kids shouted with glee.
“Hey, Mikey, you’re up!” the kid on base yelled.
But Tanner felt that all attention was on him, not Mikey. Trying to ignore this, he looked around, getting his bearings. Baseball—he hadn’t played baseball since…junior high. He gripped the dilapidated leather ball, getting used to the earthy feel of it. Pitching— I’m the pitcher. He headed to the pitcher’s mound. Then he turned to face Mikey at bat.
“Hey, Preacher,” Danny called from behind him, “you can do a few practice throws. Lucie did.”
Oh, Lucie had, had she? Tanner grimaced. He raised his right arm and threw the ball.
The ball whizzed past Mikey’s nose. Mikey jumped back. “Hey!”
Chagrined with himself for letting his irritation take over, Tanner called, “Sorry! Toss it back.”
The same mouthy kid on base called, “Hey! I’m Miguel. You should practice, okay?” Again, that slight twist of contempt crept into the final word. For a kid, Miguel was already working up a sizable chip on his shoulder.
Mikey threw back the ball or rather, dribbled it to a few feet in front of Tanner. He scooped it up and mentally measured the difference between where his ball had gone and where he wanted the next one to go.
“I’m ready,” Mikey called.
Tanner clenched his jaw, raised his arm again and let the ball fly. This time it curved away from the plate.
“You gonna call it?” Miguel demanded. “That señorita was calling the plays.”
“Ball one!” Tanner shouted through gritted teeth. He didn’t appreciate that señorita putting him in this awkward situation—completely without warning.
“You could just call that a practice throw!” Mikey offered graciously.
“The call stands!” Tanner said, not near ready to admit defeat. “Here it comes!” He wound up and threw the ball. It flew straight over home plate.
Mikey hit it. It nearly took Tanner’s head off. He ducked just in time. The children were yelling and screaming. Miguel and Mikey were running.
His own adrenaline rushing, Tanner spun around, yelling, “Get the ball! Throw me the ball!”
Chasing the rolling ball in the infield, Danny finally captured it and tossed it back toward the pitcher’s mound. It dribbled to a stop a few feet to the right of Tanner. Miguel made it home and Mikey halted on third. Tanner walked over and picked up the ball. He faced another player, a girl with dark braids, who was picking up the bat.
“Okay, padre!” the girl shouted.
For a moment, just a moment, Tanner thought longingly of the book lying open on his desk. But how could he let the kids down? And evidently, Lucie was off helping Sophie and Nate with Zoë. So if Lucie needed help with the boys, he was happy to oblige, even if it meant doing something he wasn’t comfortable with.
Still, Lucie’s mocking “You can pitch, can’t you?” stuck in his craw. He sucked in a breath and wound up for the next pitch. If she’d only given him some warning….
At the sound of a car door being slammed, Tanner looked over from his spot on the pitcher’s mound. Sophie’s cousin was back. Finally!
“Hey!” she called out, “how’s it going?”
“We’re having fun, Lucie!” Mikey yelled back.
“Hola, Señorita Lucie!” Miguel, along with many of the other children, greeted her.
“How many innings, Tanner?” she asked, pausing at the edge of the diamond.
“We’re starting the ninth.” You took long enough. But he didn’t voice this last phrase. And though he’d started enjoying the raucous, slap-dash game, he started to walk toward her.
“No.” She held up her hands. “You look like you’re doing fine. Go on and finish pitching.” She strolled over and sat down on the grass beside the little dog with the cast.
Trying not to notice the carefree swing in her walk, he turned away. He pitched twice more and struck out the batter. Then the recorded church chimes sounded noon.
The teams around him dissolved into kids—yelling to each other and running to bikes, which were propped against trees or lying on the ground.
Retrieving the bat and ball from Tanner and then running to his bike, Miguel called, “Thanks, Señorita Lucie and padre. We gotta go! Lunch!”
Within minutes, Tanner and Lucie were left alone with Sophie’s boys standing on either side of her and the dog in her arms. Tanner looked at her, irritation trying to rise to his throat but failing.
So she’d interrupted his preparations for his message on Sunday morning. So what? He had to admit his heart was pumping and he was grinning in spite of himself.
But most of all, how could he be aggravated with a woman who looked this good? Earlier, she’d made an impression on him and he still liked what he saw. Below the hem of her modest shorts were a sweet pair of legs, not tanned yet, still pale. Above an athletic-looking body, a round face with an interesting nose, kind of uptilted. Ivory skin already freckling in the sun. Blond curls clustered around her face and her eyes were a tropical blue, an unusual shade.
“So? How did it go?” she asked, obviously sizing him up, too.
“Fine.” He still gazed at her, trying to decide why he couldn’t look away—even though her offhand, almost brash style annoyed him. She wasn’t at all like the young women he usually met in his parish duties. They all treated him with kid gloves.
“Good,” she said in a take-charge voice. She looked down, breaking their connection. “Mikey and Danny, head for the car. We’re going to go to DQ for lunch, remember?”
“Yippee!” The boys raced each other toward her car.
She straightened herself as though preparing to let him have it.
He braced himself warily.
She looked up at him. “I have one question for you, Pastor.”
He didn’t like the way she emphasized his title. And why did she sound aggravated? He’d taken her to the mobile home court. He’d pitched in her place. I haven’t done anything to interrupt your morning, Señorita Lucie. But all he replied was a mild “Yes?”
“What’s going on here in Pleasant Prairie?”
That she would ask this hadn’t occurred to him. He gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean exactly?”
“I mean, why are people spray-painting Go Home Mexicans on signs, and what are you doing about it?”
Her unexpected accusation caught him up short. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve only been here three days and I already see that things have changed since my last visit. Changed a lot! When did Pleasant Prairie start becoming Hispanic? And what are you doing to make these newcomers welcome? I—”
“Hold it.” He broke into her monologue. “You’re right—you just got here.” He couldn’t stand people who sounded off before getting all the facts. “Don’t you think you’re making a lot of assumptions based on just one visit to the mobile home court?”
She folded her arms in front of her. “Of course, I’m making assumptions. I’m assuming that since you’re one of only two local ministers, you’re one person I should be talking to. Am I right? So tell me, what are you and your church doing to make t
hese newcomers welcome?”
He stared at her. He didn’t relish being put on the spot…but to be fair, no one ever enjoyed that. And her point was valid. “You’re right,” he admitted. She’d sized up the general situation accurately, but nothing was ever…simple. There was always so much to consider. Didn’t she realize that? He cleared his throat. “I am concerned and I do want to make the newcomers welcome in Pleasant Prairie.”
“Okay, so?” She looked up at him. It was an interesting pose. A historical biographer would have described her expression as “looking at him askance.”
He decided to give her a full answer. It was important that she didn’t think that he hadn’t done anything constructive. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading about American Hispanic culture and I’ve discussed with my church’s board the possibility of developing a community outreach with the newcomers in mind.”
She rewarded him with a look of total disbelief. “That’s all you’ve done?”
Her tone belittled his effort, making it sound pathetically inadequate. He clenched his jaw. “Yes.”
“And just how long,” she challenged him further, “have the newcomers been here?”
The impression that he really didn’t like Sophie’s cousin began to work its way through him—kind of a slow burn. “They started moving in just after Christmas—”
“So let me get this straight—” she cut him off “—in the nearly six months since strangers arrived in Pleasant Prairie, you’ve done some reading and discussing?” She arched one eyebrow at him.
The slow burn began roiling into a full boil. The eyebrow really got him—it reminded him of a professor he hadn’t liked in his undergraduate years. He stifled a rash response. As a pastor, he couldn’t very well tell her to mind her own business. He took a measured breath. “In situations like this, I like to gather information and then formulate a plan—”
“And everyone is just supposed to wait around while you’re gathering and formulating?” She raised her eyebrow a notch higher.
He felt his temperature rising higher. “I don’t like going off half-cocked and putting peoples’ backs up.” Who did she think she was? Who did she think he was? “And besides, I’m not the mayor. I’m just a local pastor. I can develop programs at the church, but I can’t make Pleasant Prairie or its people—”