You're My Baby (19 page)

When she removed the wrapping and saw what it was, she turned to Grant. “A wallpaper sample book?”

“Don't we need a nursery?”

The reds and greens and yellows of the Christmas tree lights blurred in front of her.

“I thought we could fix up the spare bedroom,” Grant continued. “But I wanted you to pick out the paper, the color scheme. You're the decorator, not me.”

“You can say that again,” Andy added.

She turned from the cradle and gazed at this warm, generous, thoughtful man. Realizing that Andy and Will were anticipating some kind of reaction, she knelt in front of Grant and took his hands in hers. “Thank you,” she breathed before leaning forward and kissing him tenderly.

When she pulled back, he squeezed her hands. “You're welcome.” Time seemed to stop. No matinee idol had ever looked at his leading lady with such intensity. “There's one thing more,” he said, clearing his throat.

“There can't be. You're spoiling me.”

“Oh, but there is.” He winked at Andy. “While you're at it, for God's sake, pick out some paper to replace that abomination in the kitchen.”

 

A
NDY HAULED HIS LOOT
up to his bedroom. The laptop was way cool, and he couldn't wait to start the Anne Rice vampire books Pam had given him.

But the best was Gramps's gift. It would be great to see Pepper again, even if a ride meant he'd have a monumentally sore butt. And his own saddle—that was really something. He'd bet not too many of the Keystone
kids had their own—what had Gramps called it?—yeah, their own “mount.”

But then there was the package from his mother and Harry. He peered warily into the box as if it contained a nest of vipers. Jeez, how could Mom think he'd wear those smarmy Italian silk shirts or those skintight pants with the buttons? They might be okay in the Mediterranean, but in Texas? He'd be laughed off the streets. Or called names he didn't want to think about.

He supposed his mother would phone sometime today. She'd want him to gush about the new clothes. Why couldn't she have sent him the boom box he'd asked for? But that was just like her. She always thought she knew what was best for him.

Well, it hadn't been best to keep him from spending summers with his dad, now had it? Of course, Pam and Gramps wouldn't have been there then, so maybe it would've been different. Worse?

But it had been kinda fun going with his dad to shop for the cradle. At first it had felt weird to be in that big baby store. Cripes, how much stuff could one little kid need? The cradle they picked out was one of the most expensive, but like Dad said, “Pam's worth it.” Then they'd gone to eat Mexican food, and on the way home, Dad had actually let him drive. It had been a really okay day.

How many more might he have had if his parents had just asked him what he wanted to do in the summers? Was that too difficult a concept?

But at least he had this year. And it was getting better and better. He and Gramps had plans to watch a bunch of old cowboy movies. Stuff like
Shane
and
High Noon.
He and Angie were getting along great and he even thought he'd done all right on his exams.

And Pam hadn't told about the basketball.

But she expected him to. When he was ready.

He dumped the box of pretty-boy clothes in the back of his closet and shut the door. He reviewed again the great Christmas morning. One of the best ever. But he still felt nervous, anxious.

He wasn't ready to tell his dad. Not yet.

 

T
HE DAYS IMMEDIATELY AFTER
Christmas fell into a comfortable routine. Grant worked on some house repairs, set up his course outlines for second semester and spent early afternoons conducting short practices with his team.

Will was making a valiant effort with his therapy and bending over backward not to be any trouble. Grant was glad he'd decided to sleep in the den. Twice he'd caught the old man trying to get to the bathroom by himself and had been able to assist him. Will was a trouper and great company, especially for Andy, who might've been bored without their movie marathons. Grant was grateful for the mellowing he observed in his son.

Christmas had been a great day—harmonious, sentimental. Vastly different from the perfunctory observances of his past. Yet it had left Grant with an unsatisfied longing. Almost every gift had been a painful reminder that the good times couldn't last. How would Will feel when the truth came out? Or Andy, whose relationship with Pam and Will was deepening daily?

Betrayed, no doubt.

New Year's Eve, while Pam and Andy were running errands, Will limped into the kitchen where Grant was fixing the two of them bologna sandwiches for lunch. “Ever try fryin' that dog meat?” Will asked as he lowered himself into a chair. “It's mighty good that way.”

Grant smiled at the man's colorful expression. “I'll give it a try.” He placed a small skillet on the stove and began heating the bologna.

“That's one good kid you've raised.”

“I wish I could take more of the credit.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. It's natural for kids to pull away.”

Grant turned down the heat and pulled out a loaf of bread. “I just can't reach him. It's almost as if he's afraid to get close.”

The old man looked up, a gleam in his eye. “Think about it. Remind you of anyone?”

Grant leaned against the counter, pointing the spatula at Will. “You know men almost as well as horses, don't you?”

Will chuckled. “There's not much difference.”

Afraid to get close? Grant thought fleetingly about his own father, cold and rigid, then more intently about himself and his son. There wasn't going to be a pattern here. Not if he could help it.

“Great fried dog,” Will said, after swallowing the first bite of his sandwich. “Pass me some more of that hot mustard.”

Grant savored the fresh bread, the tang of the sauce and the surprisingly rich flavor of the bologna. “It is good.”

“Say,” Will said, pausing to swallow another bite, “there's one more thing. A man oughta start the new year with his bride, not with his gimpy father-in-law. So tonight, it's upstairs to bed with you, son.”

The bologna suddenly took on the consistency of rubber. “Tonight?”

“You heard me. You gotta bring in the new year right, know what I mean?” Then Will winked broadly,
suggestively, and Grant realized he'd developed a galloping case of pregame jitters.

 

P
AM LAY ON HER BACK
, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her eyes following Grant as he moved around the end of the bed to his side. “It feels strange, doesn't it?” she said.

“I'm trying hard to think about it like Boy Scout camp.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Roughing it, you mean?”

He slid beneath the sheets, aware, with a jump in his pulse rate, that the “bundling” layer was gone. “In a manner of speaking.” He stretched out cautiously, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The light?”

“Oh, yeah.” He rolled onto his side and reached the bedside lamp. The darkness made him uncomfortable. Things could happen in the dark that didn't happen in the light.

When he lay back down, she reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. As if she could read his mind, she said, “We're friends, Grant. We can do this.”

Do
what? “You mean get through this with no sex?”

“It's probably harder for a man.”

You've got that right.
“We have an agreement. I haven't forgotten.”

“Well, we've got Barney on our side. It can't be too appealing to be in the same bed with a butterball.”

If you only knew.
“Are you comfortable enough? I could go back down—”

“Grant, we'll have to sleep together sometime. We may as well start now. When Dad goes home, then we can go back downstairs.”

Roses. Damn. The whole bed smelled of her.
“Yeah.” He couldn't continue this conversation, not if he didn't want to develop a bigger hard-on than he already had. “Have you completed all your grading?”

She withdrew her hand and seemed to stiffen beside him. “Yes.”

“And averaged your semester grades?”

“I finished this evening.”

“So?”

“What?”

“What about Beau? Did he pass?”

In the silence, he found himself counting the individual ticks of the alarm clock on the bedside table. Finally she answered. “No, Grant, he didn't.”

Faster than he could mark F on a report card, his attention turned from sex to basketball. This was a disaster. “Are you sure? Can't you do something?” She turned her head, and in the light from the streetlamp, he could see her one eyebrow raised. “No,” he said, expelling a deep breath, “I guess you can't.”

At midnight he was still awake, marveling that there were revelers all over Fort Worth celebrating the new year with hope and promise, while all he could think of was that stupid line from “Casey at the Bat.” There was definitely
no
joy in his Mudville this night.

W
HEN
P
AM
awoke on New Year's Day, her first thought was—
this
is the year. She rubbed her hand over the rounded flesh of her belly, seeking the protrusion of a tiny foot.
This year my precious baby will come. And nothing will ever be the same.

She spread her arms in a huge, contented stretch and then encountered the empty pillow beside her, still bearing the lingering scent of Grant's aftershave. Her heart plummeted as the memory of last night's final conversation surfaced.

In one fell swoop, she'd dashed his hopes of a winning season. She corrected herself. She wasn't responsible. Beau Jasper, perfectly capable of doing acceptable work, had been the instrument of his own destruction.

She'd have done almost anything not to have hurt Grant, but she couldn't change an undeserving student's grade.

She closed her eyes, picturing again the pickup game in the park. If Andy were on the team, maybe Beau's abrupt departure wouldn't be such a disaster.

Would Andy tell Grant, as she'd advised? She could give the boy another nudge. She hugged Grant's pillow against her chest. No, she wouldn't. It had to be Andy's decision.

 

A
T THE END
of the final vacation practice, Grant had the team huddle up. He hated making his announcement
this way, but Beau Jasper had ignored his request for a private meeting. Denial or arrogance? Who could tell? “Gentlemen, I'm afraid I have some disappointing news.” Heads shot up, but Jasper leaned over, hands on his knees, as if winded. “I wanted to pass this on before you get back to classes and hear rumors.” He paused, knowing full well the devastating effect his next words would have on team morale. “We'll be playing one short next semester.”

Cale Moore interrupted. “Whaddya mean, Coach?”

“Jasper will be ineligible.”

Beau's head shot up, his face turning a fiery crimson. “The hell you say!”

The thin thread of Grant's patience snapped. “Watch your language. You failed English.”

The other boys looked shocked. Several shook their heads in disbelief, and one muttered an emphatic “Crap!”

Beau edged a step closer to Grant, his lips curled, his eyes a stormy gray. “What's the matter, Coach? You whipped? Get her to change it.”

Grant jerked his thumb toward the locker room. “Out! Now.”

Jasper glared at him. The others were dead quiet. A moment later, the boy turned and sauntered toward the locker room, but not before everyone heard his hissed “This is bullshit!”

When the locker-room door slammed shut behind Jasper, Grant took a deep breath, then turned to his team. “This is a blow. I'm going to be asking all of you to suck it up and play harder than you've ever played before. There'll be some shifts in assignments, but we won't worry about that until Monday's practice.
Then we'll start fresh.” He paused, studying each stunned face. “Anybody got anything to say?”

“We're trashed,” the substitute center mumbled.

“Only if we let ourselves be,” Grant responded. “I know you're disappointed. I am, too. But you're a team, and together you can accomplish a whole lot more than you think you can. Believe in yourselves and each other.”

Cale drew circles on the gym floor with the toe of his shoe, then looked up with watery eyes. “We'll do our best, Coach.”

“That's all I ask.” There didn't seem anything more to say. “Hit the showers, men.”

They started for the locker room, but Chip Kennedy lagged behind. “Can I talk to you a minute, Coach?”

“Sure. What's on your mind.”

The boy picked up his shirttail and wiped perspiration from his forehead. “I dunno if I should say somethin' or not.” He hesitated, searching Grant's face as if for an answer.

“Shoot, son.”

“We need another forward, right?” Grant nodded, wondering what the heck the kid was getting at. “I think I might know somebody.”

“I'm open to any reasonable suggestion.” Hell, yes. He was desperate.

“Over Christmas me and my cousin Howie got together. He's a senior at the public school near where you live.”

“Go on.”

“He says there's this great basketball player that plays pickup games with him and his buddies.” He paused.

Grant bit his lip in frustration. What was the kid driving at? “And?”

“He goes to Keystone.”

“Great, let's get on it. What's his name?”

The boy couldn't look at him. “That's just it, sir. It's, well, it's Andy.”

Andy!
Grant struggled for breath. “What?”

Kennedy looked straight at him. “Howie says he's awesome. Really awesome. He could help us, couldn't he?”

Help them? There wouldn't be any eligibility problems and if he was good… Then, like an engulfing red sea, rage hit him. Damn it! Why had Andy held out on him? His son didn't hate basketball. Hell, no. He hated his father! In a choked voice, Grant said, “Thanks, Chip. I'll look into it.”

If he hadn't been afraid the team would hear him, he'd have howled in pain.

 

P
AM TOOK ONE LOOK
at Grant when he came in from practice and knew something awful had happened. His whole body was tense, and the expression on his face was at the same time shattered and resolute. She scooped up Sebastian and held him close. The man was in no mood for cats.

He threw his jacket across the sofa. “Where is he?” he said in a cold voice that sounded nothing like the man she knew.

“Who?”

“Andy.”

“In his room. Why?”

He didn't answer, but took the steps two at a time. She hurried to the bottom of the stairs, clinging to the
newel post with a growing sense of dread. Grant knocked loudly and flung open the door.

Without even straining, Pam made out his first words. “What kind of crap have you been pulling? Why didn't you tell me?”

Then came Andy's defensive reply. “What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” Grant's voice had a metallic edge, like flint striking on steel. “Basketball. That's what I'm talking about!”

Pam swayed, momentarily dizzy. Dear God. Grant had found out.

 

T
HIS WAS FRIGGIN' GREAT
. Pam must've told on him after all. Damn. “What's the big deal?”

His father stood over him, making him feel like a cornered rat. “What's the big deal? I'll tell you. For starters, you lied to me. Apparently you've been playing a lot of ball in the park.” His voice grew eerily sarcastic. “Kind of odd for a guy who professes to hate the game, wouldn't you say?”

“It was somethin' to do.”

“A pretty amazing something, from what I hear.”

“What'd Pam say?”

That stopped his father dead. The color drained from his face and he looked momentarily confused. “Pam? What's she got to do with it?”

“Who else could've told you?”

“She knew?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Wonderful. The whole family's involved in this conspiracy.”

“It's not like that!”

“I'll deal with her later. The important thing is that I
did
find out.”

Andy hated himself for the tears he felt threatening. “How?” he managed to ask.

“Chip Kennedy from his cousin Howie. That name ring a bell?”

Howie. Jeez, what a crappy coincidence. “Yeah.”

“So do you want to tell me about it or do I have to get it some other way?”

“I'll tell you.” Damn, his voice was cracking like an eighth grader's. Maybe Pam had been right. This wouldn't be happening if he'd just told his father first.

His old man settled on his bed, folded his arms and waited. “I'm listening.”

“You prob'ly won't believe this, but I was gonna tell you. It didn't feel right sneaking around. But I was afraid you'd get mad.”

“So what kind of basketball player are you?”

Andy wiped his hands on his jeans, then looked straight into his father's implacable eyes. “A good one.” He let that sink in, then added, “A damn good one.” He noticed a perceptible slump to his father's shoulders.

“Why couldn't you tell me?”

“I was afraid you'd make me play for you.”

“And you didn't want to do that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

What could it hurt to tell the truth? He was screwed anyway. “I didn't think I'd be good enough to please you.” His dad looked like an old man all of a sudden. “I—didn't want you on my case…any more than you were already.”

“On your case? Is that how I come across?”

Andy felt like a lower life-form. “Not always.”

His father got to his feet and with a hangdog look just stared at him. “I never meant to make you feel that way.” He started from the room, but paused at the door and turned back. “I'm glad you don't hate basketball. It's a great game.” He looked up at the ceiling like there was something written there. Then he sighed. “Andy, I was angry when I came in here. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so carried away. I want to ask you whether you'd consider coming out for the team now.”

Andy stared at him. What was going on?

“Jasper lost his eligibility. We're desperate for a good shooting forward.” He cleared his throat. “I need you, son. Think about it.”

He waited several beats, then left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. His old man needed him? On the team? Andy closed his eyes, picturing himself in the crimson-and-gold uniform shooting the game-winning bucket, the fans going wild.

But what if, instead, the ball caromed off the rim into the opponent's hands?

He couldn't risk it.

 

“Y
OU KNEW
.” Grant slumped into the recliner, exhaustion written all over his face.

Pam continued dusting, desperately needing to keep her hands occupied. “Yes, I knew.”

“Any reason you chose not to tell me?”

She couldn't stand to look at him, nursing his wounds like a defeated bear. “Andy asked me not to.” She picked up a small figurine she'd always liked and dusted beneath it.

“Don't you think you owed me the truth?”

She set down the figurine and turned to face him.
“Owed?”

“He
is
my son. I might've liked knowing how he put in his spare time.”

“Especially since it was basketball.” Pam perched on the arm of the sofa.

“Makes sense to me.”

“He trusted me.” She gathered her thoughts. “He needs somebody to trust.”

He stared at her as if she were daft. “And you think he can't trust his own father?”

“To the contrary, I think he most certainly can. But he doesn't know that. History—whether manipulated by Shelley or not—has taught him otherwise. With time, though, he'll discover he can trust you. Most of all.”

“I asked him to come out for the team.” His words were flat, toneless.

“What did he say?”

“Not a thing, Pam. Not a thing.”

She longed to go to him, to shield and embrace him. But it wasn't her place. In keeping Andy's trust she'd betrayed Grant, just as she had feared. She hoped Andy appreciated what she'd done, because right now she felt totally miserable.

 

“S
OMETHIN' GOIN' ON HERE
I should know about?” Will sat at the kitchen table watching Pam flour pork chops.

“Why?”

“The herd seems kinda restless, that's all. Grant's outside in this cold weather pounding nails into the fence like there's no tomorrow. Andy didn't wanna watch
Silverado
and you, well, you're mighty quiet.”
He tucked his thumbs into his suspenders. “It's downright unnatural.”

Before Pam answered, she tested the temperature of the oil, then one by one placed the pork chops in the skillet. Unnatural? Grant was disappointed in her, hurt by Andy. Andy was under pressure from Grant, and as for her? She'd let them both down. She didn't blame Grant for being upset with her.

The aroma of browning pork chops filled the room. She turned the meat, then covered the skillet. “Daddy,” she set down the fork and slid into the chair beside him, “I've made a mess of things.”

“Anything you wanna discuss?”

She told him about discovering Andy playing basketball and agreeing, for the time being, not to tell Grant. “But Grant found out today. The same day he kicked Beau Jasper off the team.”

“And he wants Andy to play?”

“Yes.”

Will chewed his lip, as if considering the implications. “What does Andy want?”

“I don't think he knows. Except he doesn't want to fail.”

Will snorted. “That's what life's all about. It's how a fella deals with failure that makes a man of him.”

“He's so afraid of disappointing Grant that—”

“He doesn't risk a damn thing. That's hiding out. That's not owning up.”

Pam found herself wanting to defend Andy, protect him. But her father was right. From the beginning, Andy hadn't given Grant a chance, and she sensed Grant was nearly to the limit of his understanding. “I don't think Grant will ask Andy to play on the team again.”

“So it's up to the boy.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Don't you and Grant have someplace to go tonight?”

Pam frowned, puzzled. They not only had no place to go, but she couldn't imagine Grant would want to spend any time alone with her. Not after what had happened. “No, we—”

“Yes, you do. Take in a movie, bowl a few lines. Get out of here, though.” Then he clucked his tongue and winked at her. “The boy and I have some palaverin' to do.”

 

A
NDY SCRATCHED HIS HEAD
. Something was weird. His dad and Pam were going to a movie. Angie was always talking about her folks doing stuff together, kinda like dates, but come to think of it, Pam and Dad never did anything like that. They'd left right after dinner for the early showing of an action-thriller. That was weird, too. From stuff she'd said in class, he knew Pam hated those kinds of movies.