The Best Mistake

by Nora Roberts

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  “Human, I think.”

  “Come on.”

  “A boy,” Coop said absently. “This high.” He held a hand, palm down, about three feet from the ground.

  “She may have a kid, but she’s also got legs. This high.” Ben waved a hand in front of his own throat. “You got a charmed life, Coop. My landlord’s got arms like cinder blocks, and a tattoo of a lizard. You got one who looks like a centerfold.”

  “She’s a mother,” Coop said under his breath.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind coming home to her for milk and cookies. See you at the sweatshop.”

  “Sure.” Coop stood where he was, frowning at the quiet street. Mothers weren’t supposed to look like that, he thought again. They were supposed to look . . . motherly. Safe. Comfortable. He blew out a breath, willed away the knot in his stomach.

  She wasn’t his mother, he reminded himself.

  * * *

  By midnight, Zoe’s feet were screaming. Her back ached, and her arms felt as though she’d been hauling boulders rather than drink trays. She’d deflected six propositions, two of them good-hearted enough to amuse, one of them insulting enough to earn the gentleman in question a bruised instep, courtesy of one of her stiletto heels. The others had been the usual and easily ignored.

  It went with the territory, and it didn’t bother her overmuch.

  The lounge earned its name from the shadowy effect of neon and all the dim corners. The decor was fifties tacky, and the waitresses were dolled up like old-fashioned mindless floozies to match.

  But the tips were excellent, and the clientele, for the most part, harmless.

  “Two house wines, white, a Black Russian and a coffee, light.” After calling out her order to the bartender, Zoe took a moment to roll her shoulders.

  She hoped Beth had gotten Keenan to bed without any fuss. He’d been cranky all day—which meant he was nearly over his sniffles. He’d put up quite a fuss that morning, Zoe remembered, when she’d nixed the idea of him going to school.

  Didn’t get that from me, she thought. She’d never fussed about not going to school. Now, at twenty-five, she deeply regretted letting her education slide. If she’d applied herself, tried for college, she could have developed a skill, had a career.

  Instead, she had a high school diploma she’d barely earned, and was qualified for little more than serving drinks to men whose eyes tried to crawl down her cleavage.

  But she wasn’t one for regrets. She’d done what she’d done, and she had the greatest prize of all. Keenan. In a couple of years, she figured, she’d have saved enough that she could turn in her bustier and take a night course. Once she had a few business courses under her belt, she could open her own flower shop. And she wouldn’t have to leave Keenan with sitters at night.

  She served her drinks, took an order from another table and thanked God her break was coming up in five minutes.

  When she saw Coop walk in, her first thought was Keenan. But the sick alarm passed almost as quickly as it had come. Coop was relaxed, obviously scoping the place out. When his eyes met hers, he nodded easily and made his way through the scattered tables.

  “I thought I’d stop in for a drink.”

  “This is the place for it. Do you want to sit at the bar, or do you want a table?”

  “A table. Got a minute?”

  “At quarter after I’ve got fifteen of them. Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Okay. What can I get you?”

  “Coffee, black.”

  “Coffee, black. Have a seat.”

  He watched her head toward the bar and tried not to dwell on how attractive she looked walking away. He hadn’t come in because he wanted a drink, but because she seemed like a nice woman in a tight skirt—spot, he corrected. A tight spot.

  Get hold of yourself, Coop, he warned himself. He knew better than to let a pair of long legs cloud his judgment. He’d only come in to ask a few questions, get the full story. That was what he did, and he was good at it. Just as he was good at dissecting a game, any game, and finding those small triumphs and small mistakes that influenced the outcome.

  “We’ve been busy tonight.” Zoe set two coffees on the table before sliding onto a chair across from Coop. She let out a long, heartfelt sigh, then smiled. “This is the first time I’ve been off my feet in four hours.”

  “I thought you worked in a flower shop.”

  “I do, three days a week.” She slid her cramped feet out of her shoes. “Around Mother’s Day, Christmas, Easter—you know, the big flower days, I can squeeze in more.” She sipped the coffee she’d loaded with sugar and let it pump into her system. “It’s just a small shop, and Fred—that’s the owner—only keeps on a couple of part-timers. That way he doesn’t have to pay any of the bennies, like hospitalization, sick leave.”

  “That’s lousy.”

  “Hey, it’s a job. I like it. It’s just Fred and Martha—she’s his wife. They’ve taught me a lot about flowers and plants.”

  Someone pumped quarters into the juke. The room heated up with music. Coop leaned over the table so that she could hear him. For a moment he lost the thread somewhere in her big brown eyes.

  “Have I met you somewhere before?” he asked her.

  “In the apartment.”

  “No, I mean . . .” He shook his head, let it go. “Uh, why here?”

  “Why here what?”

  “Why do you work here?”

  She blinked, those long lashes fluttering down, then up. “For a paycheck.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you should be working in a bar.”

  “Excuse me?” Zoe wasn’t sure if she should be amused or insulted. She chose the former simply because it was her nature. “Do you have a problem with cocktail waitresses?”

  “No, no. It’s just that, you’re a mother.”

  “Yes, I am. I have a son to prove it.” She laughed and leaned her chin on her fist. “Are you thinking it would be more appropriate for me to be home baking cookies or knitting a scarf?”

  “No.” Though it embarrassed him that he did. “It’s that outfit,” he blurted out. “And the way all these men look at you.”

  “If a woman’s going to wear something like this, men are going to look. Looking’s all they do,” she added. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t dress like this for PTA meetings.”

  He was feeling more ridiculous every second. “Look, it’s none of my business. I just have a habit of asking questions. Seems to me you could do better than this. I mean, you’ve got the flower job, and the rent—”

  “And I have a mortgage, a son who seems to outgrow his clothes and shoes every other week, a car payment, grocery bills, doctor bills.”

  “Doctor? Is the kid sick?”

  Zoe rolled her eyes. Just when she was starting to get irritated, he deflated her. “No. Kids Keenan’s age are always bringing some germ or other home from school. He needs regular checkups with his pediatrician, with the dentist. Those things aren’t free.”

  “No, but there are programs. Assistance.” He stopped, because those big brown eyes had turned fierce.

  “I’m perfectly capable of earning a living, and of taking care of my child.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Maybe I don’t have a college degree or any fancy skills, but I can pay my own way, and my son doesn’t lack for anything.” She jammed her feet into the back-breaking heels and stood. “We’ve been doing just fine on our own, and I don’t need some nosy jock reporter coming in here and telling me how to be a mother. Coffee’s on the house, you jerk.”

  He winced as she stormed away from the table, then let out a long breath. Handled that one real well, Coop.

  He wondered if there would be an eviction notice on his door in the morning.

  Chapter 4

  She didn’t kick him out. She had thought of it, but had decided the satisfaction she’d gain didn’t quite equal the rental in
come. Besides, she’d heard it all before.

  One of the reasons she’d moved from New York was that she’d grown impossibly weary of friends and family telling her how to run her life. How to raise her son.

  Baltimore had been a clean slate.

  She’d had enough money put aside to afford a nice two-bedroom apartment and invest the rest. And because she was willing to work at any job, and work hard, she’d rarely been unemployed. It had been difficult for her to put Keenan in day care. But he’d thrived. He had his mother’s knack for making friends.

  Now, two years after the move, she had a house, and a yard, in the kind of neighborhood she wanted for her son. And she’d paid for every bit of it on her own.

  Too many people had told her she was crazy, that she was too young, that she was throwing her life and her chances away. With a grunt, Zoe shoved the lawn mower around and began to cut another strip of grass. Her grass, she thought with clenched teeth.

  She’d proved them wrong. She’d had her baby, kept her baby, and she was making a decent life for him. She and Keenan weren’t statistics. They were a family.

  They didn’t need anyone to feel sorry for them, or to offer handouts. She was taking care of everything, one step at a time. And she had plans. Good, solid plans.

  The tap on her shoulder made her jump. When she whipped her head around and looked at Coop, her hands tightened on the mower. “What?”

  “I want to apologize,” he shouted. When she only continued to glare at him, he reached down and shut off the engine. “I want to apologize,” he repeated. “I was out of line last night.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sort of addicted to poking into other people’s business.”

  “Maybe you should go cold turkey.” She reached down to grab the pull cord. His hand closed over hers. She stared at it a moment. He had big hands, rough-palmed. She remembered the impression she’d gotten of strength and energy. Now the hand was gentle and hard to resist.

  She hadn’t felt a man’s hands—hadn’t wanted to feel a man’s hands—in a very long time.

  “Sometimes I push the wrong buttons,” Coop continued. He was staring at their hands, as well, thinking how small hers felt under his. How soft. “It’s earned me a fist in the face a time or two.” He tried a smile when her gaze slid up to his.

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  She didn’t smile back, but he sensed a softening. The roar of the mower had awakened him. When he’d looked out and seen her marching along behind it in baggy shorts, a T-shirt and a ridiculous straw hat, he’d wanted to go back to bed. But he’d been compelled to seek her out.

  It was only a flag of truce, he told himself. After all, he had to live with her. More or less.

  “I didn’t mean to be critical. I was curious about you. And the kid,” he added quickly. “And maybe seeing you in that outfit last night pushed a few of my buttons.”

  She lifted a brow. That was honest enough, she thought. “All right. No permanent damage.”

  It had been easier than he’d expected. Coop decided to press his luck. “Listen, I’ve got to cover the game this afternoon. Maybe you’d like to come along. It’s a nice day for baseball.”

  She supposed it was. It was warm and sunny, with a nice, freshening breeze. There were worse ways to spend the day than in a ballpark with an attractive man who was doing his best to pry his foot out of his mouth.

  “It sounds like fun—if I didn’t have to work. But Keenan would love it.” She watched his jaw drop, and smothered a smile.

  “Keenan? You want me to take him?”

  “I can’t think of anything he’d rather do. Some of the kids play in their yards, and they let him chase the ball. But he’s never seen the real thing, except on TV.” She smiled now, guilelessly, and held back a hoot of laughter. She could all but see Coop’s mind working.

  “I don’t know too much about kids,” he said, backpedaling cautiously.

  “But you know about sports. It’ll be great for Keenan to experience his first real game with an expert. When are you leaving?”

  “Ah . . . a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s ready. This is awfully nice of you.” While he stood staring, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. After one hard tug, she had the mower roaring again.

  Coop stood planted like a tree when she strolled away. What the hell was he supposed to do with a kid all afternoon?

  * * *

  He bought popcorn, hot dogs and enormous cups of soft drinks. Coop figured food would keep the kid quiet. Keenan had bounced on the seat of the car throughout the drive to Camden Yards, and since they had arrived he’d goggled at everything.

  Coop had heard “What’s that?” and “How come?” too many times to count. Nervous as a cat, he settled into the press box with his laptop.

  “You can watch through the window here,” he instructed Keenan. “And you can’t bother anybody, because they’re working.”

  “Okay.” Almost bursting with excitement, Keenan clutched his hot dog.

  There were lots of people in the press box, some with neat computers, like Coop, others with headphones. A few of them had smiled at him, and all of them had said hello to Coop. Keenan knew Coop was important. As his mother had instructed, he kept close and didn’t ask for any presents. Even though there had been really neat stuff at the stands. His mother had given him five whole dollars and told him he could buy a souvenir. But there’d been so many he didn’t know which to pick. And Coop had walked so fast he’d hardly been able to look.

  But it didn’t matter, because he was at a real ball game.

  Wide-eyed, he stared down at the field. It was bigger than anything he’d imagined. He knew where the pitcher would stand, and he recognized home plate, but he wasn’t sure of anything else.

  The big scoreboard exploded with pictures, and words he couldn’t read. Circling it all were the stands, filled with more people than he’d ever seen.

  When they announced the lineup, he looked down at the players with naked admiration. The national anthem began, and, recognizing it, Keenan stood up, as he’d been taught.

  Coop glanced over and saw the boy standing with a hot dog in one hand and a big, dazzling grin on his face. Suddenly he remembered his first time at a ballpark. His eager hand gripping his father’s, his eyes trying to see everything at once and his heart so full of the excitement of the game, of just being a boy.

  As the players took the field, Coop reached over and tugged on Keenan’s bright hair. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “It’s the best ever. Those are our guys, right?”

  “Those are our guys. They’re gonna kick butt.”

  Keenan giggled and leaned closer to the glass to watch the first pitch. “Kick butt,” he said with relish.

  He didn’t, as Coop had expected, fidget, whine or make a general nuisance of himself. Because he was accustomed to working under noisy and confusing conditions, Keenan’s constant questions didn’t annoy him overmuch. At least, he thought, the kid had the good sense to ask.

  Between innings, Keenan peered over Coop’s shoulder and sounded out the words that were popping up on the computer screen, and he did transfer some mustard from his hands onto Coop’s sleeve. But it wasn’t the disaster Coop had envisioned.

  Coop even felt a quick tug of pride when the play-by-play announcer called Keenan over and let the boy sit in his lap for an inning.

  Most kids would’ve been running around the booth begging for more candy. But this one, Coop thought, had come for the game.

  “How come he didn’t run all the way? How come he didn’t?” Keenan shifted from foot to foot. His bladder was past full, but he couldn’t bear to miss a minute.

  “The throw went to second, so he was forced out,” Coop explained. “See, the second baseman caught the ball and stepped on the bag to retire the side.”

  “Retire the side,” Keenan repeated reverently. “But we’re still winning?”

  “Th
e O’s are up by one going into the top of the ninth. Looking at the batting order, I’d say they’ll put in a southpaw.”

  “Southpaw,” Keenan repeated, as if it were gospel.

  “A left-handed reliever. Probably Scully.” He glanced over and noted that Keenan was holding his crotch. “Uh, got a problem?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Let’s hit the John—the bathroom.” He took Keenan’s hand and hoped it wasn’t too late. As they passed through the door, Scully was announced as the relief.

  “Just like you said.” Keenan looked up at Coop with dazzling admiration. “You’re smarter than anybody.”

  Coop felt a grin break out over his face. “Let’s just say I know the game.”

  * * *

  When they arrived home, Keenan was wearing a new Orioles jersey and carrying an autographed baseball in a pint-sized baseball glove. He waved a pennant in his other hand as he scrambled up the steps.

  “Look! Look what Coop got me!” He barreled into his mother who’d barely walked in the door herself. “We went into the locker room with the real Orioles, and they signed the baseball for me. To keep.”

  “Let’s see.” She took the ball and examined it. “This is really special, Keenan.”

  “I’m gonna keep it forever. And I got this shirt, too, like they wear. And a glove. It even fits.”

  Emotion backed up in her throat. “It certainly does. Looks like you’re all ready to play ball.”

  “I’m gonna play third base, ’cause it’s the . . . the . . .”

  “Hot corner,” Coop supplied.

  “Yeah. Can I go show Mr. Finkleman? Can I show him my baseball?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s gonna be surprised.” He turned and threw his arms around Coop’s legs. “Thanks, thanks for taking me. I liked it best of anything. Can we go again, and take Mama?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure.” Feeling awkward again, he patted Keenan’s head.

  “Okay!” Giving Coop one last squeeze, Keenan raced out the door to show off his treasures.

  “You didn’t have to buy him all that stuff,” Zoe began. “Taking him was enough.”