Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Luke

The umpires, after seeing the steady band of rain moving in on radar, decided to call the game. Now the Beavers and the Jackalopes will pick it up in a twi-night doubleheader tomorrow. If I were playing, my muscles would already be aching me. But I'm not. Not after I talk to…

"Thanks for helpin' to drag the tarp out onto the field, Single." Landry's big, booming voice greets me the moment I step out of the clubhouse. "'Cause, let me tell ya, the guys who didn't pitch in are about to get their asses handed to them by yours truly. I'm not gonna tolerate any slackers on this team."

He's rubbing a towel over his wet hair, and I cautiously raise my eyes to his.
Is he out here…waiting for me
? I swallow.
Does he know? Did Roberta tell him about Mom
?

I shrug. "No big deal."

"See, that's what I like about you, Single. You're old school," he says, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "Not many guys feel the way you do. Hell, some of them won't even pick up the balls in the cage after BP." He exhales loudly through his nose before giving me a lopsided grin. "But your daddy taught you how to play the game the right way, son. So just keep on doin' what you're doin', and for now, don't worry about the results." He claps me on the back. "They'll come."

"But…"

"Nah, no buts about it." He raises his hands in the air. "Tomorrow's another day. Let's see what happens then. One day at a time, Single. One day at a time."

I tug on the laces of my hoodie. "But my mom…"

He turns around with his hand on the door.
This is it. The battle royale
.

"Gosh, darn it. I'm sorry, Single." He smacks his forehead. "But I gotta git my butt to the airport right quick after I ream out these numskulls in here. Ya see, my boy, Jason, has a digital art show goin' on at school tomorrow, and I promised him I wouldn't miss it. So please give your mama my regards. She's such a sweet lady…sharp as a whip, too."

I gulp.
Sharp as whip
…?

He doesn't know. Roberta didn't tell him
.

"Go on. Skedaddle!" He points down the hallway leading to the players' parking lot, the diamond band on his World Series ring twinkling under the lights. "Don't let one bad day get under your skin. 'Cause, just between you and me? You're the kinda player I can see buildin' this entire team around." He smiles at me. "So hang in there, all right?"

He's basically telling me that the job at second base is mine, and as a player, an endorsement like that coming from someone like him should give me all the confidence in the world to tough it out and somehow find my swing again. But knowing that the praise is coming from
Roberta's boyfriend
somehow takes all the joy out of it for me.

Landry enters the clubhouse, and the room immediately goes silent. "Listen up, boys, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once…" he says as the door swings shut behind him.

Yeah, he's all down-home and folksy outside the game. But when it comes to winning? He's as competitive as they come. I'm grateful I didn't have to go up against him. I still have time to figure something out. He claims he's building this team around me. If that's the case, then there's no way he's going to let me quit because of Mom. He'll steamroll over me and put her somewhere before I can even blink.

I peer out into the rain and pull my hood up over my head. But for now, Mom is still with me, safe and sound, and I have to keep telling myself that.
Roberta didn't betray me
. And as my sneakers slosh through the puddles, there's an undeniable spring to my step, one that's been missing for quite some time. Maybe I can convince Mrs. Jenkins to come over again later on so I can pop over to the Sheraton and thank Roberta in person for not spilling the beans and turning my life upside down.

On a good day, my Subaru hatchback isn't that hard to find. It usually stands out among the other players' souped-up pickups and speedy little hot-rods. But today, Mom's faded blue umbrella is leading me to it like a homing beacon. I smile, remembering the night Dad brought it home, a freebie from one of Beaver Field's many giveaway nights.

"Hey, Ma!" I call out. "Did you enjoy the game?"

But when the umbrella twirls in my direction, it's not Mom standing underneath it. It's Mrs. Jenkins, talking frantically to a stadium security guard. And damn the puddles, I break into a run.

"Mrs. Jenkins, where is she? Where's Mom?"

As I approach, tears start falling down her cheeks. "I don't know," she sobs. "I turned away for one second…and she was gone."

"What?" I grab onto my hood, trying to make sense of what she's telling me. "You were supposed to be watching her!"

"Luke, it happened so fast," she wails. "Ever since the first inning, I've been looking all over for her…"

"The first inning!" I exclaim. "That was almost two hours ago!"

"Mr. Singleton, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down." The security guard steps in, laying a hand on my arm. "We're doing everything we can to locate your mother."

"Then where is she?" I yell back. "She could be anywhere by now!"

I spin around in a circle, my eyes combing the area, taking in everything at once. Yeah, Mom's done this before, but usually when there are plenty of people around to point out what direction she went in. But the crowd's dispersed. Anyone who could have seen her is long gone by now. And that's when my eyes stray to the forested area right beyond the outfield wall, and a chill goes down my spine.

"Are you searching everywhere? Do you have anyone outside, looking for her?" I demand.

"Sir, we don't have the manpower. We're currently searching the stadium restrooms and—"

"For two hours?" I scream at him. "For two hours, all you've been doing is kicking in bathroom stalls? You need to call the police."

"But, Luke," Mrs. Jenkins whimpers, pulling on my arm. "I told him not to."

"That's right," the guard pipes up. "She said no cops."

Mrs. Jenkins looks at me, shaking, when I stare at her in confusion. "Luke, I didn't think you'd want anyone to know about…"

"About what…?" the guard prompts, glancing between the two of us. "If there's something you're keeping from me, then one of you needs to tell me what it is
right now
."

Mom's out there alone somewhere, probably cold, wet, and terrified. I have to tell him about her Alzheimer's—even if they end up taking her away from me. I have no other choice.
And here I'd thought I'd just dodged a bullet with Landry
…

I wipe the rain from my face and draw in a shaky breath. I just want her back, no matter what. That's all that matters now.

"She has—"

I'm interrupted by the sharp blasts of a car horn.

Mrs. Jenkins holds her hand to her eyes. "Oh my goodness gracious, who's that?"

I blink as a car comes careening toward us, barreling through the rain.

"After I told them to cordon this area off…" the guard grumbles, reaching for his radio. "Please, folks. Step back."

But then the car suddenly comes to a screeching halt in front of us, and my heart almost stops beating right along with it.
I know this car
. It was parked outside my house last night.

The window lowers and Roberta cries out, "Luke, there you are! What the heck took you so long? Can we
please
go home now?"

Okay, what in the world is she talking about
?

But when she motions with her head, it's clear she's not alone inside the car. There's someone with her—someone I never expected to see. Utterly stunned, all I can do is obey. I don't even feel my legs as I jog toward the car, my heart thudding in my chest with every smack of my feet against the pavement.

From a distance, Roberta appears annoyed, irate even, but as I get closer, her eyes start telling me a different story. She's anxious as her gaze keeps flicking back to the guard. Only when I come to rest my elbows on top of the open window, essentially blocking him from view, does she sit back and allow me to peer inside. And there's Mom, disoriented and wetter than wet.

She's shivering, which means she hasn't been safe and dry and warm in Roberta's car this whole time.

"Ma, it's me… It's Luke!" But she just gazes out at the rain, not even acknowledging me.

Roberta turns to her in concern, and her curls hit me square in the face. For a moment, my eyes, my nose, my lips are all buried in her hair. And I stand stock-still. She's wet, too. They both are.

I lean back and she rubs Mom's hand between the both of hers, holding it up to the heater. "If you want to keep this quiet, then get in your car and follow me to your house."

"Why? Where were you? How did you find her?"

She shakes her head at me. "Not here. We have to go."

"Okay, okay, but tell me one thing…" I stare down into her eyes. "Is she gonna be okay?"

Roberta looks up at me. "She will be, but time is of the essence."

I start walking backward, digging my keys out of my pocket. "I just have to take Mrs. Jenkins home. She lives right next door. She won't say anything."

"What about him?" she inquires, jutting her chin at the guard.

"He doesn't know about her condition." I shrug deeper into my hoodie as I start getting pummeled by a cold, driving rain. "I'll just tell him she was with you and we got our signals crossed or something."

"All right, see you there." She rolls up the window, and I wave as she drives by me toward the stadium exit.

"Oh, Luke! What happened?" Mrs. Jenkins asks, struggling to keep the umbrella aloft in all the wind.

"She got caught up talking to some of her old friends at Beaver Field and lost track of time." I chuckle for the guard's benefit. "You know how it is being Mr. Beaver's wife. She knows everybody in Stockton, and everybody knows her. Sorry to have troubled you."

I cross my fingers inside the front pouch of my hoodie. I've kept Mom mostly out of sight over the past year, ever since her mind began to deteriorate rapidly. I didn't want anyone to see what she was going through, in an attempt to keep things as private as possible. Being recognized around Stockton didn't help matters. The added attention in public only made her agitated, muddling her thoughts even more. It just wasn't worth getting her so upset if she could just as easily stay at home with Mrs. Jenkins and watch TV for a few hours when I had to go somewhere. Today was the rare exception, and one I wish with all my heart, I could take back.

The guard is getting pelted in the face with rain. And it's clear he doesn't intend to stand around and argue with me. As long as I'm happy, he's happy.

"Well, if that'll be it, then, I'll leave you to it." He nods at us. "Have a safe ride home."

He begins marching back toward the stadium, probably eager to clock out and call it a day. Only then do I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Luke, can you ever forgive me?" Mrs. Jenkins asks the minute we get inside my Subaru.

I run my hands over my face and pull down my hood. Mrs. Jenkins is an old lady herself, and I know just how fast Mom can disappear in a crowd. I can't blame her for this. It's not her fault.

"Yes, of course. I forgive you, Mrs. Jenkins." I give her a sad smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She beams back at me gratefully, but everything's spiraling out of control faster than I can keep it together. I can't do this on my own anymore—or put so much responsibility for Mom's safety on Mrs. Jenkins. I need help.

And I'm hoping Roberta will be willing to give it to me.

Chapter Eight

Roberta

I lean back into the steady stream of hot water, finally feeling some warmth seep into my bones.

Luke's mom is resting comfortably in her room after I bathed her and got her ready for bed. Luke was underfoot the whole time I was tucking her in, but I guess it's understandable. She gave him quite a fright today, and he didn't want to let her out of his sight. Still, I insisted that he hop in the shower ahead of me, needing some time away from him in order to think. Is this a job I'd be willing to take on on a more permanent basis? Dipping my head back in the shower, I sigh as the numbness leaves my body. I've never been so cold for that long before, and I don't even want to think about what would've happened to Luke's mom if nobody had found her in time…

The pipes start to clang, and I cry out when a frigid blast hits me.
What the
…? I hurriedly rotate the taps beneath the spout, forgetting which one's which, yet somehow managing to turn the water off. I step out and bury my face in a towel. It's an older home; things happen. But I don't think running out of hot water has anything to do with the sorry state of their kitchen. I pat myself dry. All the signs are there; I just don't want to see them.

Wiping the condensation from the mirror, I know I need to have a good talk with myself before I come to a decision. Luke's mom is slowly fading away, and his heart's only going to break more and more with each passing day. So I'd better make damn sure I'm up for this before I go making him any promises. I stare at my reflection.
God, who am I kidding
? My mind was made up the minute she called him little Lukey.

Knock, knock, knock
. "Roberta, are you all right in there?"

Christ, it's Luke…and I can't remember if I locked the door or not. My cheeks start to burn as I hastily reach for the silky robe he lent me until my clothes are dry. His mom's so petite, and this is probably the only thing of hers that'd fit me. I keep my eyes trained on the doorknob until my body's completely covered.

"Uh, yeah. I'll be right out."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," he groans. "It's just been so long since I had to listen for anyone in the shower before turning the washing machine on."

I smile. "Well, since you did wipe down the shower for me when you were done, why don't we call it even?"

I rest my forehead against the door and listen to him laugh on the other side. So many guys aren't considerate, not like he is. My ex-husband certainly wasn't. I cram my feet into his mom's fuzzy bedroom slippers and sigh. I can either leave Stockton like I was planning on doing or I can keep lying to Luke's face. But if I go out there and tell him the truth about me, there's a very real possibility that he'll tell me to leave and never come back. And after today, there's no way I can put his mother's care back in the hands of their elderly neighbor, not when I can step up and do something about it.

Slowly, I open the door, and I'm taken aback to find him standing there, holding a tray with a china tea set on it.

"What's all this?"

He crinkles his brow at me. "An apology."

"An apology? For what?"

"For last night, for today, for everything." He gestures toward the two large throw pillows he has propped up against the wall. "Please, take a seat."

I wrap my arms around myself. "You want me to sit on the floor?"

He juts his chin toward the end of the hallway. "Just so I'll be able to hear Mom, in case she gets up again."

"Luke," I protest. "She's fine. She's sound asleep. You don't have to—"

"I know. But it'd just make me feel better," he says, handing me a saucer with a beautifully painted cup on top. "Do you mind?"

I step out of the steam-filled bathroom, feeling very self-conscious. "Playing tea party, are we? Looks like someone's trying to butter me up for something."

He shrugs. "Mom always did things right. And I know this is how she'd like to thank you…if she could."

I'll be the first to admit I've never been attracted to shorter guys. But there's something intensely intimate about being able to look directly into Luke's eyes like I am now. It's disconcerting because there's nowhere to hide. They're clear and open and honest, the eyes of someone who, despite all his problems, is at peace with himself. And for a moment, I can't bring myself to look at him.

Sensing my discomfort, he lowers the tray onto the floor and eases himself onto one of the pillows. "Your tea awaits, milady."

I smile awkwardly, having no choice but to join him. He crosses his legs, and his shorts, which before were hitting him almost at mid-calf, have now ridden up to his knees where they belong—which is about where this tiny robe is on me. As demurely as I can, I bend down next to him, first with one knee and then the other, before quickly bringing my legs back together again.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you look pretty in pink?" He winks at me.

"Yeah, well." I glance down at the loud floral pattern on his Mom's robe while filling my cup. "In case you haven't noticed, black's more my color. It makes me feel strong and powerful, not like a wilting flower floating atop a fruity drink."

"So you're a girl who never liked pink?" he teases, taking the teapot from me.

I deliberately take a sip before responding, "I swore I'd never wear pink again." I stare at him over the rim of my cup. "And look at me now."

Just like I told Landry I was done with hot, young baseball players…and here I am
.

Before coming to Stockton, I got rid of everything that was tying me to my past—including my favorite pale-pink sweater a certain someone gave me for Christmas one year. But he wasn't the man who broke me. He was just one of my many reckless rebounds in my vain attempt to forget the one who did.

Luke gives me an appraising glance. "Well, you don't need to wear black in order to impress me. I'm already impressed by you."

And my guard immediately goes up.
Please don't tell me he's coming on to me
. But there's no heavy-lidded trace of lust or hint of flirtation in his eyes. Instead, they seem to be glowing with genuine admiration for me, reinforcing the sincerity of his compliment. And that vexes me more because I don't deserve his kindness.

"You're impressed by someone who wipes wrinkled asses for a living?"

And there it is, my inner tough girl, ready to reassert herself whenever I get the least bit scared. I don't know what comes over me, but whenever I feel cornered, my snarky side emerges, striking out full force at whatever target's in front of me. Even when it's a nice, unassuming guy like Luke Singleton.

But his eyes crinkle with merriment. "I'll have you know I work out, so my ass isn't saggy or wrinkled, but this isn't about me. It's about my mom—and her saggy ass."

I will my hand to stop shaking as I put my cup down. I've been dealt a lot of tough breaks in life, and I survived with a sharp enough tongue to prove it—but that doesn't give me the right to go around insulting people.

"Luke, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." He smiles at me, placing his cup next to mine. "But now that you mention it, today was a major wake-up call for me, in more ways than one. And there's something I need to ask you."

"Okay…"

Here we go. You knew this was coming. So just breathe… breathe
…

"Roberta, do you think I can hire you to move in here and take care of Mom?"

Breathe
…

If I don't tell him who I am now, there'll be no going back to fix it later. If he ever finds out, he'll never forgive me for deceiving him.
But he'll never find out, right
?

I stall. "Is it so you can play? Because I don't think—"

My eyes unconsciously travel to the side of his neck, while his gaze remains fixed on me, not wavering in the slightest.

"I'm not afraid of getting hit again, Roberta, if that's what you're thinking." I stare at him, letting him know that I know he's bluffing, even if he wants to believe what he's saying is true. "It's just a reflex, my brain trying to protect my body, that's all. But the more at-bats I get, the quicker I'll adjust. You'll see."

"Luke, with the type of injury you sustained, no one would blame you for—"

"For what? For giving up?" His eyes darken considerably. "Well, you're too late. Your boyfriend already talked me out of it."

I run my hands through my hair, agitated. "If you mean Landry, then you can relax. I'm not going to tell him about your mom."

"So he
is
your boyfriend?"

"God, what does it matter?"

He gets to his knees and rests his hands on both sides of the pillow I'm sitting on, caging me in with his arms, arms that are strong, sinewy limbs of corded muscle. I know; I felt them yesterday.

Meeting my eyes, he states, "It matters because I need to know if I can trust you."

I raise my chin at him. "Well, if you already believe every single rumor there is flying around about me, then how do you expect
me
to trust
you
?"

He sighs, "Roberta, he's my boss. So if we're going to be living together, I feel I have the right to know if you're dating him or not."

"Well, I'm not," I retort. "So does that answer your question?"

He sits back on his heels. "You're not?"

"No, I'm not."

"Wow, that's great!" he blurts out, nodding his head. "I mean, it's good…that there's no conflict of interest when it comes to hiring you."

"And I guess I don't have to ask you about having a girlfriend." I smooth the robe down over my thighs. "Since you already answered that one for me yesterday. They don't call you Single for nothing, huh?"

He blushes. "Point taken. No more personal questions, I promise," he responds, placing his hand over his heart.

"So you consider yourself married to the game, is that it?" I ask, lifting my eyes to his.

"I do. And with your help, I intend to get back to where I was." He removes his hand from his heart and offers it to me, and something about that simple, yet meaningful, gesture touches me deep down inside. "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

I press my palm to his and hope to God he can't feel it trembling. "Deal."

Little does he know that once upon a time I was married to the game too. My name just wasn't Roberta Bennett. Oh, no, back when I was young and trusting and foolish, it was Bobbie Jo Nichols. Making David—the guy who almost ended his career, the guy who almost
killed
him—my ex-husband.