Seems Like Old Times (19 page)

In the real world, he’d discovered, there was no way he’d
turn her out.

"This is lovely, Tony." Lee looked from the
hallway to the beckoning warmth of the room. "It isn't what I expected at
all."

"No?" He walked into the room and stood at one
end of the sofa, watching her. "What did you expect?"

"Oh, leather, chrome, a small trampoline in the
living room."

He laughed aloud. "What every good jock should
have."

"Exactly."
She paused
at the cherry wood desk and found herself running her hand over its satin like
surface and hand carved molding.

He stepped beside her and placed his fingers on the top
rail of the desk chair. His hand was sizes larger than hers, his skin shades
darker. She looked from his hand to hers and the old familiarity struck.

"This is the kind of home I’d always dreamed of when
I was growing up," he said. "Old fashioned, warm and big enough for
Ben and me to fit in at the same time--not at all like a couple of the places
Vic and I lived in. Sometimes, when Ben's not here, though," he paused a
moment, then rushed on, "I feel like I rattle around in it. When he's
home, it's perfect."

 She thought she'd known him so well, but she hadn't
known that about him. The cottage he and his father had shared was small and
stark, the antithesis of this.

She walked over to a group of old pictures hanging above a
library table.

"Those are old pictures of relatives back in
Mexico," Tony explained, welcoming the chance to pull his thoughts away
from things so personal.
"My grandparents and great
aunts and uncles.
I never knew any of them, but I like the photos, and
my dad’s able to tell Ben stories about
everyone
of those people."

The sepia pictures were set in intricately carved frames.
The people in them, young and
old,
were lined up,
either standing or sitting, and staring straight at the camera. She could see
the Santos eyes in every one of them. "I like these," she said.

He smiled as he walked to her side, put his arm to her
waist and led her to the hall. "Just so you won't think everything's old
in this house, step this way."

Down the long hallway, he stopped to show her the family
room where an assortment of Mattel cars and G.I. Joes and video games were
scattered about. Sliding glass doors led to the back yard. Past the family room
was the kitchen, which drew a long 'ah' of approval from Lee. It was white
except for one brick wall that held a huge fireplace with iron and brass pots
and utensils hanging from hooks that had been worked into the mortar. Between
the large sink and double ovens stood a tiled island with a butcher-block
section and a massive cook top. The countertops and appliances gleamed from
obvious loving care. A pine table and chairs were against floor to ceiling
windows on the far side of the room.

"The kitchen was old--
old
appliances and everything. So I gutted it and had this built. I always wanted
to have a big kitchen. You should see the mess when I cook."

The pride in his voice warmed her. "This is a great
kitchen, Tony. You’ve made a wonderful home. I can see why you love it
here." Their eyes caught and held and the spark that always existed
between them suddenly flared, bright and hot, consuming the very oxygen around
them.

He took a step toward her, then another. His hands cupped
her elbows.
Her pulse race.

"I could show you the upstairs.
My
room."

He meant more; she saw it in his eyes, heard it in his
voice, felt it in the center of her being.

She was too intensely aware of him, even more so now, with
a woman's desire and knowledge, than she'd been as an innocent teenager. She
wanted to climb those stairs, but a last remaining fragment of sanity warned
her against it. Her heart was too vulnerable here, and there was too much in
both their lives to risk. She had never been a "one-night stand"
person. She couldn’t become one. She owed Bruce more loyalty, and Tony more
honesty.

She broke his gaze, and turned away. "The downstairs
is lovely, Tony."

Tense silence spread between them. She couldn’t hold back
from looking at him. He waited until their eyes joined, then he nodded. He
walked over to the counter, and in his ever-restless way, reached for the salt
and peppershakers. He shifted them one way and then another. That was
Tony--always moving, with more activity and energy than any four other men she
knew.

"That guy you're with in New York," he said,
moving the shakers, first the salt in front, then the pepper. "I guess
it's pretty serious between you?"

She knew she should say yes. That would be the easiest way
to avoid entanglements with Tony, but as she stood there, she was struck with
doubts--
doubts
that had been struggling to surface
from her first day in Miwok.
Doubts that, if truth be told,
were there even before she left New York.
"I thought it was. But I
don't want to complicate things. I could never treat you casually. I still
can't."

He faced her again, his hands still. "I could never
treat you casually either. I guess that was the problem." He pushed the
shakers back against the wall,
then
folded his arms.
"Well...at least that's settled." His words were serious, but as
their eyes met, his face slowly broke into a grin.

Despite
herself
, she smiled too,
relieving the sexual tension that had filled the room. Maybe she couldn't stop
her heart from beating faster or her blood from heating when he was nearby, but
she was an adult, not a young girl with her first crush. Whatever happened in
the past, and whatever the future might bring, Tony would always be her friend.
The unhappiness of their parting, all that happened afterward, the different
directions they had taken in their lives, all the years and silence in between
had brought them here, to this point--two older, wiser people.

She turned quickly toward narrow built in shelves near the
stove and tried to study his collection of spices while waiting for her
heartbeat to stop doing the crazy rhumba it had launched into. "It looks
like you've become quite a cook."

"Not really, but I enjoy it." He ran his fingers
through his hair, glad to change the subject. "I'l1 put on that coffee
now."

Lee walked to the opposite side of the kitchen and sat at
the table while she watched him grind up some coffee beans and fill the coffee
pot with French roast. He moved smoothly through his kitchen, obviously
comfortable with it. Her eyes devoured his broad back, the deftness of his
hands as he
worked,
the play of his muscles as he bent
and stretched to get the things he needed.

When done, he turned to her. "Why don't we go into
the living room while the coffee's brewing? I'll build a fire. The fog came in
over the hills tonight. It's getting a little chilly."

"Fine."
She jumped to
her feet.

He made a fire,
then
put on a
compact disc of the Modern Jazz Quartet.
That done, the
coffee was soon ready.

They drank their coffee by the firelight. Tony pulled off
the sweater he wore over his black turtleneck, and sat on the hearth. Lee sat
on a chair at his side watching the fire, enjoying the warmth of the coffee as
she sipped on it.

"So, tell me," Tony asked, "how does it
feel to be home?"

"Strange. Everything's different, yet there's so much
the same. I'm still baffled by it all."

He smiled. "But, aside from clearing out your
mother's house, have you enjoyed being back while it's lasted?"

"Yes. There's no doubt. For the longest time, I felt
awkward and thought I'd made a mistake. But Miriam was stubborn. She found
reasons to keep me here, and as time passed, I think she was right. I needed to
come home. I'm glad I got to see the town, to spend this time with my aunt, to
see...old friends."

"It's good to see you, Lisa.
Different.
Better than I expected it would be."

Better than I expected, too,
she wanted to say, but
she didn't. "Tell me about yourself, Tony. What have you been up to all
these years?"

"There's not much to tell."

"There's baseball."

"Baseball...yes."
He'd
planned to boast. In his dreams, he'd flaunted his success at her.
But not now.
"Two years with the Cubs, three with the
Braves, and a few months in Montreal...."

Lee's mouth dropped and she leaned forward. "You
spent all that time in the majors?
The majors?
Tony, that's wonderful! You did it!"

He smiled broadly at her excitement,
then
dropped his gaze to his coffee cup. "It was the best," he whispered.

She gazed at the wistful expression on his face.
"What happened?" Her voice was soft.

"It was a combination of things. Lots of people think
that once you make it to the majors, you’re set for life. But it’s not so. I
started out as a utility infielder. When someone was hurt, I'd go in, but I
never made the regulars--the starting nine."

"But at least you were there."

He nodded. "Yeah, that’s true. Just to stay sharp and
in shape meant I had routines of exercise and coaching and personal trainers.
People thought that it wouldn’t take much to get my playing up to a level that
I could become a regular.
If not with my team, through a
trade.
That meant a lot more coaching, a lot more
exercise,
winter ball, a lot more pressure to do more, watch
the stats, never
fuck-up."

"I know what you mean," she said. "It’s
exactly that way in television."

"It worked. I was traded to Montreal. I was their
starting shortstop."

"Tony, that’s wonderful."

"Yeah, wonderful.
I had
everything I thought I wanted. Then I looked around me--not just at my teams,
but at all of baseball at that level.
At the egos, and the
competition, and the salaries, and the pressure--the god-awful pressure--not
only from owners and managers, but from fans, as well as yourself."

"Tell me about it," Lee said. "The money
and back-stabbing because of it, in broadcasting, is really ugly."

He nodded, then sipped his coffee and looked at the fire a
moment before replying. "One day, I remember I was looking at a schedule
my agent had sent me. More coaching, more practice, winter ball, lots of PR
events--both personal and for the team. I said, wait a minute. I had a child I
barely knew and my father was getting older. I had to make a decision: was it
worth it? I’d made enough money to live comfortably the rest of my life. Not
high on the hog, but okay. I got into baseball because I loved the game, and
I’ll always love it. But I realized there was more to life. I’d spent fifteen
years playing pro ball, and I’m glad I had that time." He stopped talking.

"What did you do?"

"Consciously, nothing.
But
subconsciously, I wonder. I started getting hurt--hamstring pull, broken
finger. Nothing big, just enough to get in the way of being the best I could.
When the team sent me down to the minors, I quit."

As his story concluded, his low, deep voice took her
vividly back to the days and nights they had spent together, sharing their
dreams of the future. The future he'd dreamed of had come and gone already, and
she had missed it. Missed his joy, his excitement, and missed the bad times,
the down side. The weight of those lost years was like a physical pain to her.
The decision to leave baseball, the thing he loved so much, must have been
agony for him. She lowered her gaze. "It must have been hard, Tony, so
very hard."

He nodded, glad she understood. "Yeah, it sure was. I
spent a lot of sleepless nights worrying. But then, I bought the ranch. I’m
glad it worked out this way. I’m...content."

She noticed he didn’t say happy. But as she’d grown older,
she’d concluded that "happy" was a state only for the young. Maybe he
felt that way, too.

 He rose and walked to the built in shelves on one
side of the fireplace. Trophies and mementos filled it. "This baseball,
Lisa, is from the first home run I hit when I was in Little League. I always
wanted to be a baseball player, but it demanded more, in the end, than I was
willing to give."

He ran his fingers over the baseball,
then
looked at the other trophies a moment. She could practically see his memories
ticking by. Finally, he returned to the hearth and sat, his legs bent and his
hands resting on his knees. "Now, I'm enjoying Ben's team. Eventually, I'd
like to work with high school boys.
That's where you get the
ones who are really serious, and where a coach can make or break a talented
boy.
I want to be a good coach for them."

She touched his hand, the way his words touched her heart.
He turned his hand over, palm up, and wrapped his fingers around hers.

She looked at their entwined fingers, and raised her eyes
to his face to see that he, too, was studying their joined hands. And what had
begun as a gesture of understanding, catapulted into something stronger, as a
sharp awareness of him radiated from her fingers throughout her body. She took
in the long, black lashes that fanned his cheeks, and the sensuousness of his
lips. She wanted to trace the line of his lips, she wanted to feel his mouth against
hers, his arms around her, just as she used to. But also, she wanted more. More
than she had even known about as a young, high school girl.

"Why did you leave, Lisa?" he whispered, his
face stark. "What went wrong? Was it because of me? Because of what
started the night of the prom? Were you so ashamed of me--of us?"

She stared at him, horrified by his words, her heart
breaking.
"Oh God, Tony.
Is that what you
thought?" Her hand tightened on his, and with her free one she touched the
side of his face, his hair--so much thicker and coarser than the soft locks she
had loved to stroke when they were young. There were times she thought she knew
Tony’s face better than her own. "It wasn’t you."