The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy Page 17

  So Evan had appointed himself her cleanup man. How humiliating was that?

  By late afternoon, when someone came by and honked and Zaney flew out the door, Robin was restlessly stalking about her house, wondering why she had bought such a big residence when there was no one to go in it.

  It occurred to Robin that perhaps her mom was right—she did flit from one thing to another, never letting a moment go by that wasn’t sucked up in some frantic activity, and now that her life had been turned upside down, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. Her dad’s illness, her job, this general emptiness, was making her feel as though her life was slowly unraveling into one long nothing. All she had to show for thirty-four years of living was just a lot of things and more things, as if the quantity of possessions made up for the dearth of meaning in her life. She just kept moving faster and faster until everything was just a blur, running and running, searching for . . . what?

  There it was again, that question. And she did not like the clammy, almost sickly feeling it gave her, this realization that she had been searching for something all her life, but it was a feeling that would not leave her. By the time Sunday morning rolled around, she was crazed with determination to change things in her life. Toward what end, though, she had no clue. One thing was certain, however—it was a glorious day for a stroll through Hermann Park, where she heard a men’s baseball league played.

  At an exclusive resort in Newport Beach, California, Aaron and Bonnie sat side by side, cross-legged, on a tatami grass mat. New Age music played softly in the background, the smell of incense wafted through the air. Bonnie held her hands on her knees; her spine was straight, her eyes closed, and her face lifted upward, toward the soft blue light. Her lips moved with the murmuring of the chant, but she made no sound.

  Next to her, Aaron had forgotten the chant they were supposed to be repeating and was admiring Bonnie’s neck. He was trying to remember the last time he had kissed the smooth skin there, recalling with vivid clarity the taste and feel of it.

  Bonnie’s eyes fluttered open; she stole a glimpse of Aaron sidelong and smiled. “You aren’t practicing the chant,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he whispered back, and leaned over, so that his lips were just inches from her neck. “Why, Bonnie?” he breathed.

  His question startled her; she put a hand against his chest, looked at him with wide blue eyes. “Why what?”

  “Why are you with me? Why still? Why haven’t you gone back to your life? I was an ass to you, Bonnie. I don’t deserve this.”

  Bonnie looked stunned. Her gaze drifted from his face to her hand against his chest. Aaron covered her hand with his, pressed hers tighter against his heart.

  “You’re right,” she whispered, her gaze still on their hands. “You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  At the bottom of the seventh, Jake’s vision was so blurred he could hardly see the ball without squinting. He was getting old—he used to party all night and still be as good as new, but now, if he stayed up late doing nothing more exciting than cramming for a test, he was a wreck the next day. What really pissed him off was that he was the only one in this league who seemed to be suffering from age.

  “Strike!” the ump called, and with a sigh, Jake stepped out of the batter’s box, headed for the dugout, completely disgusted with himself. Tossing the batting helmet into the corner, he dropped heavily onto the bench, avoiding anyone’s gaze.

  “Hey, you did pretty good, considering that pitcher was throwing crap.”

  That voice shot through him like mercury rising; Jake jerked around, saw Robin standing at the fence on the end of the dugout, smiling prettily. She waved cheerfully, as if it was perfectly natural for her to be at his game. It wasn’t natural at all, and moreover, neither were those legs. Good God, he had never seen such long and shapely legs in his life. She was wearing a T-shirt that sported the American flag, a stretchy red miniskirt, and a different pair of funny-looking sunglasses than he had seen before.

  Beside him, the podiatrist Bob Richards squinted in Robin’s direction, giving her the once-over. “He’s throwing crap all right,” he agreed.

  Jake was instantly on his feet, but not fast enough.

  “You didn’t look like you were stepping into your swing. You know . . . like this.” She stepped back from the fence before Jake could reach her, demonstrating exactly how he might step into his swing.

  “That’s very interesting,” he said loud enough for the guys to hear, and, reaching the fence, added in a loud whisper, “What are you doing?” as he stole a glimpse of the others over his shoulder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? What are you doing here?”

  “I told you I might run by. Anyway, it looked like you had your weight on your back foot.”

  Unbelievable. It wasn’t enough that she should tell him how to do his job, but now she was going to trot down to the ball field and tell him how to bat? “Thanks, but I think I know how to swing a bat,” he said, frowning. “I thought you meant run by like in jogging shoes and spandex. How long have you been here, anyway?”

  “Long enough to see you swing at three perfect strikes,” she said, tossing her head pertly.

  Did she not understand that women did not advise men on sports? Of any kind? Ever? Especially and foremost in front of other guys? “Thanks for the batting lesson.”

  “Just trying to help,” she said cheerfully, stepping back from the fence.

  “Right…but remember our rule? Don’t help me.”

  She blinked big blue eyes at him. Then lifted her chin. “Fine,” she said. “Strike out if that’s what floats your boat.” She marched off in the direction of the bleachers.

  Jake paused for a moment to watch that very fine ass of hers march away, then turned around, saw the rest of the bench crowd staring at him. He glared back and stuffed himself up against the fence.

  When the inning was finally over (thank God), he trotted out to right field, and let his gaze wander to the bleachers while the pitcher warmed up. Yep, there she was, couldn’t miss her, and somehow, she had managed to park herself right next to the surliest person in the crowd, young Cole Manning. Slumped down, the kid was lost in denim pants with legs so wide they looked like one of those ballroom gowns, and a T-shirt that hung to his knees. In stark contrast, Robin was sitting on the edge of the bleacher.

  The first batter up hit a lazy fly to left field, an easy out. The second batter hit a sharp liner back through the box, which, had it been a mere six inches to the left, would have lodged itself in the pitcher’s forehead. The third batter hit a drive in the gap, between center field and right. The image of Robin sitting up, stretching her slender neck to see, suddenly flashed across Jake’s mind, and he realized he was running, feeling the stretch of scarred tendon in his ankle, knowing he should let the center fielder call it. But insanity gripped him; he dove through the air, caught the ball in the tip of his glove, then wrenched his arm clean from the socket throwing the ball to second. The stunning result, much to his amazement, was two outs and the end of the opposing team’s bat.

  He hadn’t done that in a hundred years. A thousand, maybe.

  As he jogged back to the dugout, still a little dazed, he forced himself to look at the bleachers.

  Clapping wildly, grinning broadly, Robin gave him a thumbs-up. The gesture made him, oddly, strangely, happy. Okay, maybe even a little delirious. She had seen him play, and play well, which, these days, didn’t happen as often as Jake liked. Acknowledging her thumbs-up with a subtle wave of his own, he disappeared into the dugout and smacked his glove down on the bench in the international male signal for I still got it. But as they called the lineup, and he was looking around for his batting helmet, he heard again, “Hey, Jake!”

  All right, this was just too much—she was back. He put his foot down, turned slowly toward the fence. “Yesss?” he drawled.

&nb
sp; “Honestly, if you got up on the balls of your feet, it would help you step into the swing.”

  In case he wasn’t certain what she meant, she demonstrated for him. Ruben Sanchez, a NASA software engineer, and an astounding zero for twenty-one in the league, watched her from the on-deck circle, then mimicked her technique a couple of times.

  “See?” she said to Ruben. “Balls of your feet.”

  “Yeah,” Ruben said, as if Barry Bonds himself had suggested it.

  “Robin?” Jake asked politely.

  “Yes?”

  “Go sit down. Over there. Way over there.”

  She frowned. “You are really stubborn.”

  “There you go again, attributing your own faults to me.”

  The first batter stroked a single; they both paused, watched him get to first.

  “All right, try this on for size,” she said. “Pigheaded. Pig. Head,” she repeated, using her hands to sketch a pig’s head in the air.

  “I think I might know a little bit more about baseball than you,” Jake continued, climbing the steps of the dugout to the on-deck circle as Ruben advanced to the batter’s box. He flashed a smile at her over his shoulder, and stepped onto the on-deck circle. To prove just how stupid it was for her to give him advice, he took a couple of hard swings that made his shoulder burn.

  Ruben, on the balls of his feet, slapped a single on the first pitch, stunning himself and the team. He could hardly run, but he was so elated that he actually rounded first and made it all the way to second when the left fielder bobbled the ball. Firmly on base, he beamed, panting, chest puffed, yelling at Jake to bring him home.

  “Oh yeah, what do I know?” Robin called out.

  Jake ignored her. At the bottom of the eighth, Ruben was the go-ahead run on second. All Jake had to do was get a single to pull the team ahead. Hey, no pressure there. He stepped up to home plate, assumed the position, and let the pitcher throw him a ball, then stepped back, knocked the dirt from his cleats with his bat. When he was good and ready, he very casually stepped into the batter’s box again, taking all the time he needed to position.

  The next pitch was a slider; he swung hard, wrenched his back again, and hopped out of the batter’s box on one foot as the ump called, “Steeee-rike!”

  “Jesus, what are you doing? Step into your swing!”

  This had to be his worst nightmare ever. He was going to step into it, all right, and take a swing that would knock her butt all the way into next week. He survived one ball, then another, and followed those two pitches up by stupidly swinging at a lousy curve ball in the dirt.

  “Ah jeez,” he heard Robin moan.

  “Got your batting coach here today?” the catcher asked, snickering.

  “I got your batting coach right here, pal,” Jake growled. With a full count, he crouched down, anticipating the payoff pitch. The pitcher wound up and uncorked a sinker. By some divine miracle, Jake managed to get under it; the ball went sailing high toward right field. He dropped the bat and raced toward first, rounded it like an old pro as he heard a cry go up from the crowd. The ball had sailed well over the right fielder’s head; the go-ahead run was rounding third and headed for home.

  As Jake hit second base and ran for third, Bob Richards looked like a contortionist, jumping up and down and waving him home. Jake did not break stride, rounded third without knowing where the ball was, and in the last few feet, hurled his entire body through the air, diving headfirst into home, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching the plate just ahead of the catcher’s tag.

  The small crowd went wild; the team rushed out to home plate to help him up. Every fiber in him burned, but he grit his teeth, spit the sand from his mouth, dusted off his pants, then laughed at his great luck with the team, high fives all around.

  As he turned toward the dugout, he saw Robin pressed up against the fence, her hands loosely tangled in the chain links above her head. She grinned at him with such admiration that Jake actually felt himself grow an inch or two. He grinned right back, sauntered toward her, his smile as wide as Texas.

  “Now that was a nice at bat,” she said as he neared the fence. “You finally got up on the balls of your feet.”

  Jake laughed. “So, are you going to hang around for the last inning, or are you going to go coach some other team?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, dropping her hands to her hips. “There’s really not much around here to work with. Besides, after that performance, I wouldn’t miss the end of this game for the world!”

  “Good,” he said, earning another winsome grin. With a little wave of her fingers, she turned toward the bleachers. He watched her walk away (could never see enough of that), then stepped into the dugout and collapsed on the bench. He was pleased when Victor Hernandez put them up another run before the inning ended. The opposing team could not muster even a base hit in the last inning, and thereby ended the game.

  As Jake headed for the dugout to get his gear, Robin and Cole stood at the same time, both making their way down the bleacher steps. In his extra-wide pants, Cole had trouble negotiating the bleachers. On the ground, Robin walked about three feet ahead of Cole, who was doing his usual reluctant shuffle, head down, hands stuffed in pockets. The kid had to be exhausted—it was hard work to stay that miserable.

  “Hey, you’re really good,” Robin said brightly as she walked up to the fence.

  Jake did not confess that his performance today had more to do with lucky pride than any skill. “Thanks. So do you often hang out in the park watching old men play baseball?”

  Robin’s laugh was rich, warm. “I told you I was going to come by.”

  “I didn’t believe you,” he said, latching his hand to the fence and leaning toward her. “I think you probably say lots of things you don’t really mean.”

  “I’m wounded.”

  “So how did you find my nephew?” he asked as Cole shyly slunk over to them.

  “Your nephew?” Robin made a sound of surprise as she shifted her gaze to Cole.

  “Meet Cole Manning. Cole, say hello,” Jake said, and the kid pulled one hand out of his pocket, stuck it sort of halfway to Robin.

  Robin graciously accepted it. “It’s very nice to meet you, Cole. I’m Robin.”

  “Hey,” Cole muttered, quickly withdrawing his hand.

  “Robin is . . . She is . . .”

  “His batting coach,” Robin interjected when Jake could not seem to think of an appropriate word.

  Cole squinted up at Jake. “She said you were a big baby.”

  “Jeez,” Robin said, blushing. “You could have at least mentioned that you knew him.”

  Cole shrugged, but dammit if Jake didn’t see the hint of a smile. “I didn’t say anything because he is a big baby.”

  “Very funny,” Jake said, reaching into his pocket for some change. “Here, go get a couple of sodas. I’ll meet you at the truck.”

  “Bye, Cole,” Robin said as Cole took the money and started to slink away.

  Cole gave her a lift of his chin. Jake waited for him to gain some distance, then looked at Robin. She was smiling, blue eyes shimmering, eyes that could pull a man into a world of trouble.

  “So . . . it turns out that instead of being a pervert, you’re actually a man of many talents,” she said, playfully punching him in the arm. “Baseball, school, renovations.”

  “Ah. Zaney’s been talking, has he?”

  “A little. Isn’t it a glorious day? I was walking through the flower gardens earlier, and it’s just gorgeous. Do you do that? I mean, when you’re happy, do you ever want to just get out and see flowers?”

  Yes. Oh yes, there were definitely those moments. Like now. “Would you like to see some of the prettiest wildflowers in all of Texas?”

  “Here at the park?”

  “No—about an hour outside of Houston. There’s a place I found a few years ago where the wildflowers bloom like you’ve never seen them. If you want, I could take you.”

  A
smile slowly spread across her luscious lips, one almost as brilliant as her sapphire eyes. “That,” she said, “would be very cool.”

  Robin heard Jake’s motorcycle on the drive and checked herself one last time in the mirror. She had changed to jeans and (just in case) matching bra and panties. One never knew when one might end up splat on the highway.

  Instead of letting himself in as he normally did, Jake knocked. Robin flung open the front door, all smiles, but her breath lodged in her throat. Leaning against the scaffolding, one leg crossed over the other, Jake was wearing Levi’s that were faded in just the right place, boots, a plain white T-shirt, and a bandana tied around his head. He looked about as hot as any man she had ever seen. Hotter.

  He grinned at her like he knew what she was thinking, and casually took in her hair, her patriotic flag shirt, and her jeans. “I was going to ask if it was okay to take the Hog, but you look like you’re ready for it.”

  She was ready for it, all right, and grabbed a jacket and backpack from the stair railing. “Let’s go.”

  Jake’s laugh made his whiskey eyes dance. “Then come on, gorgeous.”

  On the drive, he showed her where to sit on the bike and where to put her feet. Robin donned a baseball cap and straddled the Harley. And when Jake took his seat in front of her, she confirmed what she had believed—that their bodies fit perfectly together. He was nestled deeply between her legs, and the breadth of his back, the strength of his legs, the whole package was just . . . perfect.

  “Hold on to my waist,” he instructed her as he started the bike up.

  No problemo. She put her hands on his waist—very solid, no love handles—and inched them around further, until she was practically lying on his back. As they coasted down North Boulevard, she couldn’t help but imagine lying in bed with him like this, drifting off to sleep against the warmth of his strong back. He told her to hang on and enjoy the ride.