Carly realized that somewhere between the patty melt and the diet Pepsi, Selma had sidled up to her.
“Will that be all?” Carly hardly recognized her own voice.
“For now,” he said softly.
As soon as Carly turned away, Selma leaned an elbow on the counter, angling so that Jake got a clear view of her ample cleavage and lowered her rusty voice an octave.
“You in town for long or just passing through?”
Carly shoved the order onto a clip on the chrome wheel and heard Jake explain that he’d originally just driven up for the weekend but that he might end up coming back. Carly reached for a tall glass, filled it with ice and then with Jake’s soda.
“Selma, your orders are up!” Joe, who never missed a thing, not even from the kitchen, began pounding the bell on the window ledge.
Carly rotated around the tables, making certain her customers had what they needed. When she returned to the counter, Jake’s patty melt was ready. She set it before him and watched him pour a puddle of ketchup on his plate.
“Your boss is quite a character.” He glanced over his shoulder at Selma, who was chatting with an elderly woman lingering over a slice of apple pie.
Carly laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I’d like to hear all about it sometime.” He fell silent for a moment before he added, “You have a beautiful smile, Carly. You should wear it more often.”
Jake watched Carly’s cheeks bloom at his compliment.
She ignored it but the smile lingered.
“How’s the patty melt?”
“Everything you said it would be.”
She left him to circulate around her station again, pouring coffee refills, greeting customers, delivering orders. She was definitely a pro, doing ten things at once and smiling the whole time.
Selma was filling a plastic bamboo salad bowl behind the counter when Carly walked back over to check on him. Jake lowered his voice.
“Is working here the reason you can’t go to dinner with me tomorrow night? Or will you be at the gallery again?”
“I don’t really work there. I only cover for Geoff on occasion. I’m here every Saturday night because the other girls usually have dates.”
“You don’t date?”
“I told you last night, I prefer to spend time with my son.”
He understood what she was saying, but something in her eyes told him that she felt differently, that she wouldn’t mind dating if the right man came along. She lingered long enough to ask if he wanted more soda.
No sooner had she left than Selma walked over again.
When the cook started pounding on the order bell, Selma turned around and yelled, “Keep your pants on, José. I hear ya.” She leaned over until she was eye to eye with Jake.
“Did I hear you just ask Carly out for dinner tomorrow night?”
“You’ve got very good ears, Selma.”
“That’s not the only good thing I’ve got.” She winked. “If Carly suddenly found herself with the night off tomorrow, would you ask her out again?”
“Sure. But maybe she’s just using work as an excuse.”
Selma glanced across the room. Carly was in deep conversation with a local cop. Jake had to give Carly credit. She was as adept as a chameleon at hiding out in the open.
“Try asking her again tonight.” Selma suddenly straightened and gave a slight nod, indicating Carly was on her way back. “If it doesn’t work out,” Selma winked, “I wouldn’t mind spending time with you. I close up at eleven.”
9
SATURDAY MORNING, THE METAL BLEACHERS AT THE T-BALL diamond were as cold as they were hard.
Chris’ team was scattered over the field dressed in matching gray T-shirts emblazoned with sinister black stingrays. Glenn had Chris playing shortstop, but at the moment Chris was busy writing his name in the soft infield dirt with the toe of his shoe.
Carly shoved her hands into the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt and yelled, “Be ready, Chris!”
Her son’s face lit up with a smile wide as the Pacific. He beamed and waved just as the batter hit the ball off the T and headed right toward him.
After two attempts, Chris picked up the ball. Thankfully for him, it was a good thirty seconds before the batter realized he was actually supposed to run to first base.
Carly hid a smile behind her hand. The games were little more than comedies of error, the kids never quite sure what was going on.
Tracy Potter, seated two benches below Carly, turned and called, “Aren’t they just the cutest things going?”
“I think they’re actually improving.” Carly watched Chris as his team left the field and headed for the dugout behind a chain-link fence.
Tracy turned around to concentrate on the game again. She was seated with a group of other mothers and always asked Carly to join them, but Carly usually declined, preferring to sit on the upper seat by herself, more comfortable in her self-imposed isolation.
She had her job, Selma and Joe, Etta and Geoff, but that wasn’t the same as having family—not that she’d know what having a real family was like. Sometimes she found herself longing for someone close enough to really talk to, someone who knew everything about her, who knew about her past and what she had been through. Someone she could share all her doubts and longings, hopes, and dreams with.
She purposely kept her friendship with Geoff Wilson one-sided. He talked and she listened to his dilemmas over the aging parents he left behind in Chicago, his ongoing emotional trauma after splitting with a partner of eight years, his concerns about opening the gallery in a town with an economy that relied on the tourist season.
She knew he would do anything for her, but that wasn’t the same as opening her heart to someone as well as being completely honest with him. She hadn’t had that kind of relationship since she was fifteen. Not even with Rick, and when she’d finally opened up and told him the truth, it was too late.
Last night, sitting alone in a puddle of moonlight at the kitchen table, sipping warm milk in her flannel robe, she’d actually considered calling the Rose Cottage to tell Jake Montgomery that she had changed her mind.
He was just a weekender. What could be safer? It might have been pleasant being alone with an interesting and undeniably handsome man. No complications. No strings.
But eleven-thirty at night was too late to call anyone. Besides, Jake Montgomery might have already invited someone else, and she was supposed to work. If there was one thing Selma hated, it was a last-minute schedule change.
Out on the ball field, the Stingrays were at bat. Glenn was patiently trying to explain that not all of them would get a turn this inning. His announcement was followed by a collective whine.
“That’s probably the way major-league players feel but they don’t get to whine out loud.”
When a deep, masculine voice wrapped itself around Carly, she quickly turned and found herself face-to-face with Jake. Somehow, she’d been so absorbed that she hadn’t even noticed when he climbed the bleachers to sit down beside her.
“Hi.” Tongue-tied, she strained to think of something else to say until she realized where they were and wondered how he’d found her. “What are you doing here?”
As Jake slid closer, he glanced over both shoulders. “I thought this was a public park.”
“Are you stalking me?” She tried to keep her tone light, but she was only half kidding. First he showed up at the gallery, then the diner. And the first time she’d ever seen him, he may or may not have been watching her from the bakery. Now this?
She suppressed an urge to grab her purse, head for the dugout, gather up Christopher and his equipment, and make a beeline for Etta’s old car, Betty Ford.
But just then Jake held up the papers she’d just noticed in his hand. “Glenn asked me to bring these by. I found a place to lease.”
“In Twilight?” So much for no complications. “I didn’t realize you were planning to stay around.”
> “Hey, believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are.” He glanced out toward the field, offering her a heart-stopping view of his strong profile. Then he met her eyes again and said, “Clap.”
“What?”
“Applaud. One of the Stingrays just hit a homer.”
When Carly realized Christopher was rounding first base and headed toward second, she jumped up, forgetting everything but her son and his first-ever home run.
As soon as Chris made it safely across home plate, she became aware that Jake was standing shoulder to shoulder with her, rental forms forgotten and crunched beneath his arm. He was clapping and whistling as if he actually cared about the score.
In his enthusiasm he bumped into her shoulder. Beneath his long-sleeved denim work shirt, he was as solid as a rock, warm, and definitely all male. Carly was tempted to lean against him, hungering for the quiet strength radiating from him, longing to give in to a sudden and unexpected need to be held, to be touched.
It would be so sweet to have someone like Jake to share the joy of the moment with, to appreciate the simple things of life, day-to-day triumphs and sorrows, the quiet hours late at night and just before dawn. Very sweet indeed, but she doubted she could ever completely be able to open up enough and trust anyone. Not with so much at stake.
Beside her, Jake had grown very still. She was almost afraid to meet his eyes, afraid he would glimpse her vulnerability.
“Mom!” Chris was yelling. “Did you see me?”
“I did! Way to go!”
When she sat down again, Jake remained standing, studying Christopher. Her heart stuttered, her protective instincts on high alert. Then suddenly, he sat down and devoted his attention to her.
“He’s some boy,” he said softly. His gaze swept her face. “You must be proud.”
She didn’t know him well enough to be certain, but he appeared genuinely impressed with her son.
“He means the world to me.” The sun was struggling to break through the marine layer of cloud cover. Carly raised her hand to shield her eyes against the bright haze. Jake pressed the papers in his hand over his thigh and began smoothing out the creases.
He lingered, as if there was something more he wanted to say, but he didn’t or couldn’t. He suddenly saluted her with the papers.
“Well, I’d better get these to Glenn before I talk myself out of renting the place. Bye, Carly.”
“Bye, Jake.”
She watched him climb down the bleachers to speak to Tracy, but before he did, he turned and looked over his shoulder at her and smiled, and her heart tripped over itself.
He seemed to be a genuinely nice guy. The kind of guy that Rick had been. The type she thought she would never meet again.
10
CHRIS WATCHED HIS MOM TOSS HER BACKPACK INTO THE backseat before she climbed into the old, dented car Mrs. Schwartz let them use. Mom named it Betty Ford. His friend, Matt Potter, called the faded old station wagon a junker, which kinda made him mad and embarrassed at the same time.
Mom couldn’t help it that she didn’t have enough money for a new car. Waitresses didn’t make a lot of money. She reminded him of that all the time, usually right before she told him that he should be thankful for what he had and that kids were starving in lots of other parts of the world.
He wished that they had a cool new Land Cruiser like Matt’s dad. That or a way cool Harley. He’d happily ride on the back, even when it was raining.
Matt Potter was his blood brother. They had a secret ceremony one day, picked scabs then pressed their scraped knees together, but being Matt’s blood brother didn’t mean he could claim ownership of any of Matt’s cool stuff.
He wished for a real brother all the time. He wouldn’t even mind sharing his room with one. Sometimes he even thought he’d be willing to take a little sister. That would be better than nothing.
But most of all, he wished he had a dad. Not just so he’d have somebody to go places with like camping or to ball games, or somebody strong enough to ride him around on his shoulders, but ’cause then Mom would have somebody to love besides him.
Usually he felt really special knowing that he was the only one Mom really, truly loved, but sometimes it was kinda hard on him. He didn’t want to be the only person she had in the whole world ’cause he was only a little kid. No way could he take very good care of her if she ever really needed it.
Chris sighed and kicked the underside of the glove compartment with the dusty toe of his tennis shoe. He spent a couple of minutes trying to figure out why it was called a glove compartment when they didn’t ever put any gloves in it.
Mom leaned close, fastened his seat belt and then hers before she started the car. Most of the time he knew what she was going to do before she did it, so it was no surprise when she leaned over and planted a noisy kiss on the top of his head.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah, big guy?”
“Who was that man I saw you talking to?” He snuck a peek at her as she moved the gear shift to R and the car started backing up. She was looking over her shoulder, not at him.
“What man?”
He could tell that she knew who he was talking about, but she was trying to act like she didn’t. He spotted Matt with his mom and dad and waved as they pulled away.
“The man in the bleachers wearing the blue shirt.”
Mom turned on the radio and started singing a country song about wide open spaces really loud. Now she usually only did it to drive him crazy because back in October he made the mistake of telling her it wasn’t cool for moms to sing out loud. He hadn’t even known that it wasn’t cool until he overheard some fifth graders talking behind him in the cafeteria.
“Mom!” he hollered.
“What?” She turned off the radio and rolled down her window. The air rushed in and mussed up her long hair but she didn’t even care. Matt Potter’s mom always yelled, “Close the window!” when even a tiny bit of air touched her hair.
He didn’t think Mom’s boss Selma’s hair would move either. It was stiff as cotton candy.
“Who was he, Mom?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Maybe he’ll ask you to go out on a date.”
He tried to act like he didn’t care, but he really, really did. He crossed his heart and hoped like crazy the man would want to take his mom out to a movie or to get something to eat.
His mom never went on dates. Matt told him that wasn’t a good sign—Chris would never get a dad if his mom didn’t start going on dates.
He checked her out from under the bill of his baseball cap. She was biting her lip, watching the road, and worrying. He knew she was worried because funny little lines were folded between her eyebrows.
They turned onto Cabrillo Road and drove past the usual shops and stores. He waved as they went by the diner, even though he didn’t see Selma in the window.
Except that she smelled like cigarette smoke, he kinda liked Selma. She had big boobs that stuck out of the top of her Plaza Diner T-shirt. Amazing boobs. He always pretended not to look at them even though he did. Once he and Matt even drew pictures of them, but then they tore the papers into little pieces and tossed the scraps in Matt’s trash can.
That was one of their blood brother secrets.
“Are you hungry? I can make you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cut them out with the star cookie cutter,” Mom said.
“If he did ask you to go on a date, would you go?”
She sighed very loudly, probably hoping he would stop asking questions. He saw her hands tighten on the steering wheel as they started down the long hill toward Seaside Village.
She was quiet for so long that he thought she was never going to answer his question. Maybe she felt really bad and had started thinking she was really ugly or something because men never asked her to go on dates.
He couldn’t figure out why because she was the prettiest mom in the whole world.
“What’s all this about going on dates?” Sh
e took her eyes off the road for a second and looked down at him.
Chris shrugged and rubbed an itchy spot on his neck. “Matt says that’s how I’d get a dad, if you went on dates and then married some guy.”
“Lots of kids in your class don’t live with their dads.”
Mom sounded kinda sad, and he knew it wasn’t because she was sad for the other kids. He wished he had kept his mouth shut, but now that he was blabbing away, he couldn’t stop.
“Yeah, but they still have dads. They might not live with them all the time, but they see them and talk to them and go on overnights to their houses. I don’t have a dad anyplace. You don’t even have any pictures of him.”
Mom slowed down when they reached the gate to Seaside. She always aimed the car right between the two skinny posts with the gas tiki torches sticking out of them. When she ran over the pothole that was inside the gate, just like always, he pretended to get knocked around in his seat. He did that every time they hit the pothole, but this time Mom didn’t laugh.
“You have a dad in Heaven.” Her voice sounded soft and full of cotton.
“Yeah. I know. But that’s no fun.” He didn’t have one single cousin or aunt or grandma or anything, which Matt said made for sucky Christmases.
He could tell Mom was still thinking about what he had said as she pulled the car up into the parking space between their mobile home and Mrs. Schwartz’s. Betty Ford began to cough and rattle when Mom turned off the motor and the car shook from side to side, twitching like an old, wet dog until it finally died.
Mom didn’t move.
“Hey! Maybe we should just get a dog.” He tried to make it sound as if he’d just thought of it. As if he hadn’t asked her for a dog one hundred thousand million times already. “You wouldn’t have to go on a date to get a dog.”
“Our place is too small.”
“We could get a tiny little dog, like Napoleon Bonaparte.” Mrs. Schwartz had a mobile home exactly like theirs, and she had a dog. It was a little French poodle with kinky white hair and painted toenails to match Mrs. Schwartz’s, and a real French name.
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” As Mom unhooked his seat belt, Chris knew exactly what she would say next. And she did.
Lover's Lane Page 7
