Stef Ann Holm

by Lucy gets Her Life Back

  Dave leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

  For some reason unexplainable to Lucy, observing the affectionate couple made her feel hollow. Empty. There was no reason to remotely have that pang of loneliness. She’d been doing great on her own, keeping busy and making a life for herself after Gary left. But strangely, since coming to Red Duck, she’d had a few bouts of single-blues. Maybe it was because the town was so small and intimate and, as a stranger, she sometimes felt like an outsider. Who was to say? And it was silly to waste time dwelling on it.

  “There’s Drew!” Susan exclaimed. “He’s the best coach our sons have ever had. He’s doing seniors, and you’re just going to love him,” she repeated. “We all do.”

  Lucy had gathered that all the inhabitants of Red Duck could see no wrong, find no flaw, in Andrew Tolman.

  She still had his card in her purse, never having called him. She’d found out on her own when to sign Jason up for baseball at the high school, so she had no reason to contact Drew personally. Although that card had burned a hole through her wallet leather. She’d taken it out a few times, looked at the script and the phone number, then slid it back inside.

  As he strode onto the field, she couldn’t help admiring him. He was a very handsome man, one who drew her undivided attention. Tall and broad, he filled out a polo shirt and khaki pants like nobody’s business. He wore a newer, blue baseball cap, his eyes unreadable beneath the shade the bill provided. But his lips were in full sunlight, looking soft and wide. Made to capture and settle over a woman’s mouth. It thrilled her to think about what they’d feel like next to her own.

  “So what do you think?”

  Lucy snapped out of her decadent thoughts, turned to Susan and blurted, “About what?”

  “About Red Duck.”

  Wayward fantasies about Drew kissing her evaporated—thank goodness. They had no place in her mind. Why she even contemplated how his mouth would feel over hers distressed her. She was far too sensible to fall for a man with Drew’s shameless charms. “I like it, so far. It seems like a nice place to bring up kids.”

  “It is. I’ve lived here all my life. My father bought property back in the seventies. It’s the only way Dave and I could afford to build.”

  Lucy had wondered. “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s in landscaping. He’s quite busy.”

  “I’d imagine so with the resort and golf course expanding.”

  Whistles blew from the field as the boys were taken into groups for practice. Lucy tried to keep her gaze equally on each of her sons, but found her eyes straying toward Drew.

  Sitting up on a bleacher and having a full view of him almost felt wicked. She could watch him for hours. Lucy hated to admit she was just as infatuated with him as the entire town. What was it about the man that got so many people to smile? She took a harder look at him.

  He walked with a masculine stride she couldn’t help but notice—relaxed and void of arrogance. He stood out in a crowd because of his height, which was perhaps about six feet four. But what was it? What was it beyond the superficial? She couldn’t peg it, not at this moment. But it was on the tip of her tongue, like a thought or a memory one went after that hung around the edges, illusive and niggling. So Lucy stopped trying to figure it out and settled in to watch the tryouts.

  But a long moment later, the answer hit her. The reason Drew caught her attention was that he wasn’t looking for it. He was secure enough in himself that he didn’t try to get women’s attention. Women went out of their way to get his.

  And, she realized, she was no different. She wanted it, too.

  The covered dugout smelled like paint; the plywood bench was cluttered with athletic bags and discarded tennis shoes. Bats and mitts were strewn on the concrete floor. The boys suited up in gear and wore turf shoes with rubber darts. Water jugs with last names printed in marker were thrown into the mess. Getting kids up this early was almost like having them play hungover. They wanted to be in the game, loved it, but more than likely, most had been up half the night playing video games.

  Drew gave them a little intro speech, then told them to hit the field and warm up.

  He tucked a clipboard underneath his arm, assessed the kids who were returning and those who were new. This year, he hoped the seniors would make it to the play-offs. He had his eye on Jason.

  The kid wore attitude like it was a shirt—untucked. Nothing seemed to get him excited or interested, and he wasn’t taking practice swings like the other boys.

  Walking over to him, Drew stopped just shy of getting in his face. “Do you want to be here or not?”

  Jason looked up through slitted eyes, the bill of his cap making his hair seem longer across his forehead.

  “Not really.”

  “Then walk your butt off my field and don’t waste my time.”

  His upper lip curled. “I wish I could, but my mom’s making me.”

  Drew glanced up at the bleachers, noticed Lucy sitting next to Nutter’s parents. He allowed himself scant seconds to watch the sunlight picking up red in the brunette strands of her hair. He couldn’t ignore the pull he felt toward her. He hadn’t been able to pinpoint why, he just felt it. Had from the moment he first saw her, even with Jacquie right next to him.

  Staring back at Jason, Drew growled, “Well, then you better do your best not to make my team. Swing and miss, run like you’ve got rocks in your shoes. Make it good, because if you’re going to be a loser, you better act like one.”

  Then Drew focused on the other players, turning his back on Jason Carpenter. Drew felt his blood pressure throb in his head. He didn’t like getting in a kid’s face, but looking at Jason reminded him of himself at that age, when he’d thought life had shit on him, too. A part of him wanted to take the boy by the shoulders and shake him. To tell him that baseball could make him lose the chip on his shoulder.

  Playing ball was a good outlet to get a lot of steam out of their system when they were filled with resentment. That boy had more self-imposed injustice in him than Drew had seen in a long time. Maybe he had a right to; Drew didn’t know the whole story. But somewhere along the way, that boy had been victimized by a bad parental call, or a bad parent. Period. And seeing how he’d already met Lucy, Drew didn’t think it was her. It was a dad. And God knew how Drew could relate to having a dad who didn’t give a good rip.

  The tryouts got underway. A batting cage had been built on the far corner; the pitching machine was plugged in. Boys went into the cage, chased after some balls and took swings. Drew had his group of boys hit five pitches from an Iron Mike in the cage.

  When Jason was up, he took a halfhearted swing, the ball catching the tip of the bat and fouling. But there was something in his stance, an act of defiance, as if he hadn’t fully reconciled to failing on purpose.

  “Put some mustard on it, Jason. Come on!” Drew shouted, as he cheered the boy on, encouraging him.

  The machine spat out a ball and Jason held back, then swung and missed intentionally. Drew didn’t let up, clapped and told him to try again.

  “It’s easy to miss the good ones, harder to hit the bad ones. I think you can go after one. Your choice.”

  Then another ball spewed from the machine. This time, Jason grabbed wood and hit the thing so hard the ball slammed into one of the cage’s metal poles with a metallic ring before bouncing back and rolling on the ground.

  Drew met Jason’s gaze. The boy had poker eyes—expressionless and unreadable—but his body language spoke volumes. Cocky and sure. There was a confidence in his stride when he turned to leave his place on the diamond.

  “If that’s how you hit when you want to hit like a loser, then we are going to the state series when you give me your best,” Drew said.

  Jason looked down, then gave him a half smirk and a snort.

  The other boys rallied during their turns, having to catch three pop flies. Then Drew had them hit grounders so the outfield could get some
practice in throwing to the bags.

  Last year, Ryan Hall had been a cherry pie, but his parents sent him to a winter baseball camp, and damned if the kid wasn’t hitting the ball with the meat of the bat and with a lot more confidence. Cal “Brownie” Brown’s fielding was a little loose, but his throws to first were pretty good. Even Nutter had improved. His real name was Vince Lawrence, but he’d taken a few nut balls that dropped him to his knees, and had ended up with a nickname that stuck.

  “Don’t let that ball find some leather, Nutter.”

  “Yeah, Coach. I’m trying not to.”

  “You’re doing good. Much better than last year. Great job.”

  Drew had them slice a few dewdrops, slow balls that the boys could connect with. Then he gathered the kids around. “All right, any of you who want to try to pitch, we’re having a pitching tryout. Line up.”

  Drew kept his gaze on Jason, wondering if that was the boy’s position. He had a hunch. And that hunch played out. Jason got in line to pitch, and when he was on the bump, he threw a high, hard one that about took the hat right off of Ryan.

  After Jason delivered his sixth consecutive strike, Drew walked out to the bump. “What have you been doing with that pitching arm?”

  Toeing the rubber, gazing down and then up, Jason shrugged. “Throwin’ rocks at tin cans.”

  “Think you can throw a slider?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Jason threw a slider that was smooth as glass, and Drew knew he had himself a team-winning pitcher this year.

  Stuffing his fingertips into his waistband, Jason looked over his shoulder to watch Matt fielding grounders. He ran so fast and hard, his cheeks got red.

  His younger brother struggled with playing good baseball, but he wanted it really bad. It didn’t seem fair that it came so easy to Jason, when Mattie was the one who really wanted to be on a team.

  Jason glanced at Drew, wanting to hate him, but not quite being able to. He’d razzed him on the field, told him to play for shit, but something in Jason wouldn’t let him.

  He knew he’d made the team. He was an ace pitcher, had been on the Senior League in Boise last year, and they’d dusted the competition in the playoffs. The experience of winning had been a rush, but going to the games and knowing his dad wasn’t watching had sucked.

  He’d wind up, look over his shoulder, catch a brief glimpse of the stands, and damn if he didn’t hope to see his dad sitting next to his mom each time.

  But it never happened.

  Digging the toe of his tennis shoe into the grass, Jason wished he was eighteen so he could do what he wanted. As soon as he was of age, he was moving out.

  Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Some little kids were just about wetting themselves trying to throw pitches. Peewees. A bunch of wannabe Little Leaguers. You could tell this was their first year. Jason had watched them when he was in the batting cage. The peewees’ mouths dropped open as the Iron Mike spat out balls, and it seemed like an effing new tricycle to them.

  He noticed the majors were pretty good. Mattie might be in for a shot. Some of those guys were throwing the ball pretty hard. Maybe too hard.

  Jason ducked as a ball sailed toward him. “Hey, shit-head,” he said as a boy ran over to pick it up.

  “Sorry!” he mumbled, and ran back to the group.

  Shifting his stance, Jason tucked his hands in his armpits and slouched.

  Come on, let’s go. I wanna get outta here.

  “All right,” Drew said, pulling Jason from his thoughts. “Tryouts are over. Pick ’em up.”

  Jason sniffed, rubbed his nose, then took off his plastic helmet and bent over to pick up the baseballs on the field and collect them in his hat.

  I hate it here and I’ll never like this bass-awkward town. Rednecks and losers with shit for brains. Brian’s probably at a party tonight. I wonder who’s there. Probably got a bag of—

  Those were his last conscious thoughts as something slammed him—hard—in the base of his skull, dropping him to his knees. And then the world went black.

  Seven

  Jacquie stubbed out her cigarette and ordered another gin and tonic. Drew wasn’t here and she hated drinking alone.

  Indigo’s was dimly illuminated by a back light above the glass shelves containing bottles of alcohol. Oil candles on the mahogany bar flickered.

  She was all dressed up for her birthday, but the sexy picture she made was ruined by a frown on her carefully lined lips.

  Drew wasn’t coming.

  Anger boiled within Jacquie. Every curse known to man welled inside her, potent and strong, begging to be released. Her thoughts were jagged and painful. Hurt and disappointment clashed within her heart, and she couldn’t begin to sort out which one she felt the most.

  When she gazed at her reflection in the backbar’s mirror, she saw a woman who looked older, stressed out. Tired.

  How dare he stand her up on her fortieth birthday?

  He’d called from St. Joseph’s Hospital’s emergency room. One of the boys he coached had taken a skull ball—or that’s what Drew had called it. The idiot kid had been hit on the head by a baseball, knocked out cold. And now Drew had to stay there and make sure he came around. He’d said he’d have to miss dinner, but he’d call her when he was leaving the hospital.

  Damn him!

  Damn him and baseball and kids.

  On a day like this, she was glad she was unable to have kids of her own. She’d had a hysterectomy at age thirty-two, and at the time it had devastated her. Over the years, she’d talked to a therapist about it and was pretty much reconciled that it was for the best. She really didn’t have a good mothering instinct, although there had been a boyfriend she’d had at thirty-four who made her regret being unable to conceive a child. After six months, he’d broken up with her based on the fact she was “broken” in that department.

  With Drew, having kids was never an issue. He didn’t want any more. He had a daughter he was trying to establish a relationship with, but frankly, if Jacquie were Mackenzie, she wouldn’t have anything to do with Drew, either.

  When it suited her, Jacquie did have a moral thread in her composition, and knocking up a woman, then denying paternity, was a crappy thing for a man to do. And Drew had done it.

  Jacquie had always looked the other way. She preferred to see Drew the way she wanted, not how he was.

  She drank her gin and tonic, sulked and gazed about the room. Couples made up most of the dining crowd, a sore reminder that she was by herself. If it hadn’t been her birthday, she wouldn’t be so upset. She still would be clenching her teeth, but not with such a bad taste in her mouth.

  My God. A woman didn’t turn forty every day. And Jacquie was having a hard enough time with it. She’d picked up the phone today and called a plastic surgeon’s office for a boob job consult, but then promptly hung up without making the appointment. This getting older thing sucked. She felt as if she was looking tired. Like maybe she needed a mini-everything. Face, chin, neck—lift it all up.

  Running her freshly lacquered fingernails down the column of her throat, she thought the skin still felt smooth. But for how much longer? She knew smoking was killing her, but she had to have one vice. She lived a pressure-filled life, thrived on it, and nicotine was like high octane in her blood. It just kept her going and going, as if she were that energizer bunny.

  Fingering a filtered cigarette from her soft pack, Jacquie stuck it between her lips. She was reaching for her lighter when a butane flame flickered to life in front of her face.

  She lifted her chin and caught a view of her reflection and the tall man standing behind her. His extended hand held a lighter, its orange-blue flame wavering as she breathed, slowly in, slowly out.

  Jacquie leaned forward, brought the tip of her cigarette to the offered light. “Thanks.”

  He didn’t say anything in return.

  She blinked a moment, brought him into focus
. He wore a red-plaid flannel shirt and, without her turning around to check, what appeared to be snug-fit Wranglers. His short hair was barber-buzzed, sandy blond and clipped tightly against the sides of his head. He had a ruggedly square jaw, wide mouth. Green eyes, as far as she could tell in the bad lighting.

  “I’ve seen you,” he said, his voice a deep baritone.

  She swiveled on the bar stool, looked directly into his eyes. She had been right. Green, a very deep shade. “Really?” she remarked blandly. He wasn’t her type, and this sort of thing happened. Men were drawn to her, especially when she had on heels and showed off her legs.

  “At that house up on Shore Lodge in Timberline.”