A Path Less Traveled (13 page)

“Ah, c’mon, they
can’t be that bad. They’re little kids.”

She turned and
made her way down the sidewalk. “Take my word for it.” She kept walking, but
called back over her shoulder. “And if you think they’re bad, wait until you
meet their parents.”

* *
* * *

The following
Monday afternoon, Trish attempted to corral a squirming mass of wild boys. The
little guys’ laughter and excited chatter ricocheted off the concrete floor,
sweat already pouring from them in the afternoon heat. She waved a hand in
front of her face to stir up a slight breeze in the midst of writhing boy
bodies and blew out a breath that fluttered her bangs. Why had she volunteered
to help with the team?

Andy entered the
dugout, his hair curling up around the edge of his Texas Rangers baseball cap.
“Hey, guys, pipe down!” His firm, but kind tone caught their attention, and
they quieted, except one.

The Clark boy—the one responsible for Bo’s trouble at school—continued to prattle away. Trish
pressed her lips together and made a move toward the kid to silence him.

“Hey, young man,
what’s your name?” Andy’s voice rang out behind her, and she shifted so she
could view them both.

The kid wore a
cocky smirk. “Brody. Why?”

“’Cause I asked
you to get quiet, and you didn’t.” Andy pinned the boy with a dominating gaze,
and the silence in the dugout grew more oppressive than the humid heat.
Finally, he turned his focus back to the group. “That’s more like it. Everyone
have a seat and listen up.” He squatted in front of them, rotating his head as
he spoke, looking each boy in the eyes. “Guys, the main thing we’re here to do
is have a good time, but I also want to teach you a few things about baseball.
We’re gonna work hard on hitting and catching and running.”

“Running? Man, I
hate running.” Brody Clark’s tone dripped disdain.

To his credit,
Andy ignored the comment, as if it weren’t worth his time to respond. “First,
I’m gonna hit a few balls to you, and I want you to field them and throw them
in.” He demonstrated how to hold the tip of their gloves to the ground, then
turned them loose, their hoots and hollers sounding like Indian braves on the
war path.

Trish looped her
fingers through the chain-link fence in the dugout and relished the southerly breeze
blowing through her sweat-dampened hair.

Andy tapped balls
toward the boys like he’d coached his entire life, his easygoing gait and
attitude the perfect line-up for a team-full of rowdies. In a matter of minutes
he’d won them over, and judging by the smiling faces of the parents in the old
wooden bleachers, they were also pleased.

Bo focused on
every word Andy spoke, his face jubilant as Andy hit him another grounder.
Lord,
let this help him get past the accident and move on with his life.

“Great job, Bo!”
Andy cupped his mouth to yell the words then gave him a thumbs’ up.

The joy on her
son’s face merged with unadulterated admiration, and Trish’s breath clung to
the inside of her throat. What if he got too attached? The anxious thoughts
curdled her empty stomach. Good grief, didn’t she already have enough to fret
over? Why add more? The unsettled feeling continued to nag.

Next Andy had the
boys take turns at bat. “Line the bat up with the top of the T, then pull back
and hit the ball, keeping your arms and the bat straight.”

Trish’s heart
ached as Joey Peterson—a child with a terrible home life, as evidenced by his
ragged clothing and unkempt hair—tentatively tiptoed to the batter’s box. With
his bony, bird-like frame, she doubted he could even lift a bat, much less
swing it. After listening to Andy’s instruction, Joey nodded, hoisted the bat
to his shoulder, and swung, but only managed to smack the rubber part of the T.
The ball landed in the dirt with a thud.

“Way to swing
that bat, buddy. I can tell you’re gonna be a real slugger.” Andy patted his
shoulder, then scooped up the ball and repositioned it. “Now you just have to
make contact. Don’t take your eye off the ball when you swing, and let your
arms come all the way around.” Andy pretended to hold a bat to demonstrate.

Joey tried again.
Crack! The bat made contact, and the ball sailed in between first and second
base. “I hit it!” Hollering at the top of his lungs, Joey bounced like a pogo
stick, while the rest of the team scrambled to recover the ball.

“Atta boy, Joey!”
Andy resembled a kid himself, his face crinkled in a broad grin. “Gimme five,
dude.”

They slapped
hands, and Joey, a new-found confidence in his step, swaggered to the field to
let another boy have a turn. When Andy faced her, she quickly erased the
admiration from her eyes and replaced it with cool disinterest. He already had
several fans, and she had no plans to join the club.

Practice ended a
half hour later. Andy huddled the team together to remind them of the next
practice, then sent them on a run. “Three times around the bases before you go
home.”

All the boys
dashed off as fast as their pint-sized legs would carry them, except Brody, who
headed for the dugout.

“Brody,” Andy
called after him. “Where you going?”

“I don’t wanna run.”
He turned his back and resumed his leisurely trek.

Andy broke into a
lope and beat him to the entrance by a couple of steps. He bent forward, hands
on his knees, to make eye contact. “Sorry, bud, but if you’re on this team, you
do what I say.”

The fence
rattled. “It’s time for me to get Brody home for supper.” Carla’s deep voice
sounded behind her.

Trish turned.

Carla’s
expression mirrored the same disrespect as Brody’s. “Surprised to see you here,
Trish.”

“Why?” She tried
to maintain a calm, even tone.

Carla glanced
slyly toward Andy, then shifted her electric-blue eyelids to Trish. “Already in
the market for a new man, huh?”

Trish’s flesh
flushed ice-cold, and her fingers furled into fists.

Andy stepped up
between them. “Hi, I’m Andy Tyler. You Brody’s mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice to meet
you.” He cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “I’m sure you realize how
important it is for Brody to follow the same rules as the rest of the team.”

Carla didn’t bat
an eye, just chomped her bubble gum. “Sure, but not tonight. I already told
you. I gotta get him home.”

Andy held her
gaze a minute more. “Okay, but if he’s not able to run the bases by the first
game, he’ll sit on the bench.”

A string of cuss
words missiled out of Carla’s thickset lips as she gripped Brody’s hand and
yanked him toward the parking lot.

Andy stood for a
long moment, his long-lashed eyes narrowed and lips protruded. Then he clamped
his mouth in a firm line and turned to face her. “She always like that?”

“Mmm-hmm. She
used to cause trouble when we were in school together, and now her son has
taken her place.” She swallowed her discomfort. This had to be said. “Sorry you
overheard her comment about us. I assure you that’s not the case.”

Andy grabbed the
metal bats and slung them into an army-green duffel bag where they clanged
against each other. “Don’t worry about it. I know her type.”

“Be careful. She
can stir up quite a hornet’s nest when provoked.”

He returned his
focus to the parking lot as Carla spun out in her old Ford pickup and sent
gravel spewing. “Thanks for the warning.”

“You did a great
job with the kids.” Trish blurted the words then hesitated, unsure how to
continue. How could she express her gratitude without playing into Carla’s
insinuation? “I’m not sure Bo would’ve played this year if not for you.”

Andy grinned,
causing her heart to pound faster. “Thanks. I’m not sure I would’ve coached if
not for him.”

One by one, the
kids completed their laps and trotted out the gate to waiting parents. Trish
checked her watch. Good. She had just enough time to get to Dad’s, fix them all
some supper, then get Bo home for homework, a bath, and bed. After that, she’d
work on locating the building plans Andy had requested. Little Bo galloped up,
his face flushed with sweat and excitement. “That was so much fun.”

Before she could
respond her cell phone buzzed. She flipped it open and moved it to her ear.
“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, honey.
Listen, don’t worry about fixing supper for me tonight. I’m eating in
Morganville.”

Morganville?
Trish furrowed her eyebrows. What was he doing in Morganville? He ended the
call before she had a chance to ask, and left her staring at the phone,
puzzled.

“Something
wrong?” Andy stood nearby, in his usual hands-on-hips pose.

“No, just a
little weird. Bo and I usually eat with Dad, but he just called to say he’s
eating in Morganville tonight.” What would they eat? More crackers and grilled
cheese sandwiches?

“Well, I know a
poor starving bachelor that would love to have you cook for him. I’ve had a
hankering for steak all day.”

Her eyebrows
twitched with a brief frown.

He must have
noticed it, because his smile was quickly replaced with a questioning look. Did
he already regret the offer?

She pressed her
lips together. “Sorry, but I’m fresh out of steak.”

“Well, I can
remedy that.” Without allowing her time to protest, he sauntered to the parking
lot, bat bags in tow, Little Bo on his heels like a lovesick puppy following
his master.

But Bo was
her
puppy. A sigh ripped from her throat, and she trudged after them. How was
she supposed to deal with this?

Later Trish
forked the meaty rib-eyes from the pot-bellied grill, the heat from the
charcoal blasting her face. The aroma of fire-licked beef wafted from the
plate, her salivary glands quick to respond. Not surprising considering she
hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Andy peered up
from his perch in the breakfast nook when she entered, his arm at rest on the
chair behind her son. Bo slumped over an assortment of papers. The scene
twisted her insides into a knot—a knot she’d never untangle. At least homework
would be done, and one less thing for her to do later. But with Bo so content
and agreeable when Andy was around, how would he ever recover if and when Andy
was no longer there? No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, the troubling
thought niggled at her.

Bo shoved a paper
under Andy’s nose.

His blue-green
eyes awash in merriment, Andy snatched it away and held it up to examine it.
“This is the best handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

Her son chuckled,
his face a-glow. “Nuh-uh. You’re just saying that.”

Andy leaned down
close. “If I had writing like this when I was in kindergarten, they probably
would’ve moved me to second grade.”

Trish set the
barn-red plates on the table. “Y’all ready for supper?”

“I thought you’d
never ask.” Andy jumped up to help. “That smell is driving me crazy.”

Bo cleared away
the stack of papers. When she pushed a plate of food his way, he raised both
fists in the air. “Yay! No grilled cheese sandwich!” He stabbed a bite-sized
piece of steak she’d carved for him and stuffed it in his mouth.

Trish’s cheeks
heated, and Andy winked. “Well now, I happen to love grilled cheese sandwiches.
In fact, that’s what I’m going to ask for next time.”

Her heart
lurched. Next time? Could she take any more? Already her heart could burst
under the pressure. Somehow she had to let Andy know this would
not
be a
regular occurrence.

Bo shook his
head, still chewing with chubby chipmunk cheeks. “You wouldn’t like ‘em if you
had to eat ‘em all the time.”

Andy must’ve read
the embarrassment on her face, because he rapidly changed the subject. “We
ready to bless the food?”

Trish nodded.
“Would you mind saying the blessing?”

They all joined
hands—
joined hands!
—as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As
if they were a family.

When the prayer
ended, Andy gave her fingers a squeeze, and her pulse catapulted into
overdrive. Okay, after Bo was in bed, she had to make sure he knew where she
stood. That is, if she could figure it out.

As the meal wore
on, her shoulder muscles unknotted, and she enjoyed the time more than she’d
first thought possible. The tender steak melted in her mouth and left her
rejuvenated. Conversation flowed with frequent rounds of laughter. They
finished the meal, and Trish turned to Bo, battle-ready. “Time for a bath, and
then bed.”

“Oh, Mom, do I
have to?”

Andy gave him a
look of mock surprise. “Of course you have to. Anyone who plays on my team has
to be clean and asleep by nine o’clock.”

Bo grinned, and
in a surprise move, rose from his chair and headed to the bathroom without a
fuss.

Trish forced her
mouth shut. “How’d you do that, and how much would you charge to do it every
night?”

Andy shrugged, a
cocky, lopsided grin sprawled across his handsome face. “You just gotta have
the magic touch.”

“Well, you have
it all right.” But was that a good thing? She stood to clear the table.

He joined in
without a word, humming a cheery tune as he scraped dishes, loaded the
dishwasher, and wiped down the table and counters.

A flurry of
unease skidded along her spine. What if this—whatever this was—was only setting
all of them up for major disappointment and heartbreak?

They’d just
finished cleaning up when Bo plodded in wearing his Veggie Tales pajamas, Larry
the Cucumber prominently displayed on his chest, and a book tucked under one
arm.

Just like
before Doc died.
A painful lump lodged in her throat and brought a blinding
sting to her eyes.

Andy’s humming
halted in mid-stream, his widened eyes perusing her face. “You okay?”