Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  “Grampy, please. I don’t want to talk about this. My attorney is handling it. My publicist, too.” Rhett focused on a painting of a chicken hanging over his grandfather’s shoulder. The composition was off. Something about the eye placement. But of course, he was no expert on art or chickens, so maybe the artist had been correct.

  Rhett hated what his attorney and publicist were doing to manipulate public opinion in his civil case. On one hand, he knew this was how the game was played, but on the other, he couldn’t stand smearing the family of the child he’d accidently killed. They were claiming that his inaction during the accident proved complicity. They accused him of speeding, not paying attention. The boy who’d retrieved the soccer ball had been deposed and claimed Rhett had been looking at the radio . . . that he hadn’t even tried to stop. In defense, Rhett’s agent had hired a spin doctor publicist to go after the family with private investigator reports, interviews with neighbors, financial investigators—whatever it took to cast the family in a dubious light and prove parental neglect. His team planned to use the court of public opinion to destroy the Tavares family.

  “You know, we should order a pie for Thanksgiving while we’re here,” Summer said, thankfully changing the subject and drawing his thoughts away from his troubles.

  Summer wore an embroidered tunic shirt and Birkenstocks. She’d used to wear Birkenstocks back when they were in high school, too. This woman was such a mystery to him. Practical, whimsical, chilled, and intense. Maybe she was like every woman he’d been around . . . or none he’d ever met.

  “We gotta have a pecan. That’s my favorite. David’s too,” Grampy said, seemingly giving up on haranguing the people suing Rhett. Thank God.

  “David is actually why I came in. Saw y’all from down the street. Maisie has a funeral tomorrow morning and Shelia has to teach Bible study tonight, so I told her I would help out at the shop. I need someone to take David to pitching lessons this afternoon. It’s the only other time the pitching coach can fit him in this week. Hunt can bring David home, but he has a meeting in Hilton Head and won’t be back in time to run him to the field. I was hoping you could do that for me, Pete.”

  “I can do it,” Rhett said, surprising himself.

  Summer raised her eyebrows. “That’s asking too much of you. You’re visiting.”

  Ah, the polite way to say thanks, but no thanks.

  “It’s no bother. I have nothing to do this afternoon,” he said, giving her his most direct stare. I’m responsible enough to drive your kid to the ballpark.

  She met him with a stare of her own. “Thought you were trying to keep a low profile.”

  Rhett swept the café with a gaze. “Too late, don’t you think?”

  “Probably. But, I don’t want to impose—”

  “I don’t have anything to do.” In other words, I need some damned distraction. If I nap, I dream. If I dream, I wake shaking. Let me have something worthwhile to do.

  Grampy brushed the last of the carrot muffin from his finger. “He don’t have anything. Already fixed the railing on the deck. Rhett ain’t forgot how to use a hammer. David got lucky. The kid was supposed to help me over his break, but since he’s gonna be a star pitcher . . .”

  “Let’s not give him star pitcher title just yet,” Summer warned Grampy. Then she set those enigmatic hazel eyes on Rhett. “Thank you, Rhett. I’m sure David will grill you about the celebrities you know. He particularly likes Lil Wayne, much to my delight.”

  Her words were light, but he knew it was hard for her to give up any control, especially to a virtual stranger. “I’ll let Dwayne know he has another fan, but no problem on taking David. I’m happy to do it. He’s a cool kid.”

  “Okay, I have to run. Call me when you’re done, Pete,” Summer said, rising.

  “I don’t need to give you a report on my prostate or blood sugar. You already make me eat wheat germ in my oatmeal. I don’t even like oatmeal, neither. Having you around is like being married without the good benefits like biscuits and gravy . . . and sex.”

  Summer rolled her eyes. “David needs to be at the field by four thirty.”

  As Rhett flashed her a thumbs-up, he caught the soccer moms watching Summer depart with sharklike interest. Sexy, single Summer probably didn’t have many fans among the PTA crowd. She likely drew the eye of husbands and boyfriends alike.

  “Is Summer dating someone?” he asked.

  Grampy knocked a knuckle on the table. “Nope. Don’t even think about it. She’s not like those women you gad about with. Leave her alone.”

  “I didn’t say I was—”

  “You don’t have to. I see that spark in your eyes.”

  “I’m not interested,” he lied, taking an angry bite of muffin. “I just wondered.”

  “She’s new to town and too busy to mess around with the bums around here. Summer’s a good girl, and she deserves better than what she’s had.” Grampy’s gosh-darn demeanor was gone. His grandfather could be as congenial as a little wren, but get his dander up, and he went cold-blooded raptor on a guy. A warning had been delivered.

  And received.

  Rhett should probably pack up his crap and get the hell out of Moonlight. Wasn’t like the place was a magic pill that took away nightmares and restored calm. To even contemplate dragging someone like Summer into his damaged existence was ridiculous. He had no clue why he had the inclination.

  “I’m not into Summer, Gramps. Just merely curious. I’m going to hang with her kid today. Just thought I’d get the lay of the land,” Rhett said, wiping the remains of the muffin from his fingers. He rose and took his plate and cup to the counter, smiling at the soccer moms in their lululemon pants and matching jackets. He had a role to play even in his small hometown. “Morning, ladies.”

  “Hi,” one said, smiling broadly. “Welcome home, Rhett.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be back in Moonlight.”

  But was it?

  Rhett hadn’t been part of this life for too long, and being here, while it gave him some measure of comfort, felt like squeezing into a shoe he’d found in the back of his closet. Get out. Go to the spa.

  “Let’s get going, boy,” Grampy Pete said, scooting his chair back. “Can’t wait to introduce the doc to my boy. I ain’t much on sentimentality, but I’m glad you came home, Rhett. Don’t worry. We all got your back.”

  Maybe he should put that phone call to the spa on hold.

  Felt nice for someone to have his back . . . and Gramps wasn’t getting any younger.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  November, present day

  Hunt pulled into the high school baseball field and parked next to a rental car. He knew Rhett Bryan had come home to lick his wounds. So did the rental belong to his former best friend, or was it merely a soccer mom getting her transmission fixed?

  But why would Rhett be at the high school field? Then he remembered Summer’s unread text. Something about a funeral. Probably helping her sister. Of course, the Boy Wonder would step up to give the kid a lift. Rhett had always enjoyed the role of good guy.

  Climbing out of the truck, Hunt brushed a hand through his shaggy hair, trying to cover the thinning area. He’d spent the morning in meetings with architects before joining a few potential investors at Sea Oat Plantation, an exclusive golfing community, for a quick nine. He’d bullshitted about his handicap and had one last beer before realizing he wouldn’t make David’s full practice. Maybe if he hadn’t stopped to flirt with the beer cart girl, he would have made it in enough time to watch David throw some pitches.

  Sure enough, the pride of Moonlight sat spraddle-legged and loose next to Hunt’s father, who never left the house without a crease in his trousers or a collared shirt. Hunt couldn’t recall seeing his father in his undershirt and boxers but a handful of times, mostly when they went on hunting trips and Mitchell had to shuck out of his waders and wet thermals. Mitchell had a certain standard he held himself to . . . and everyone close to him.

 
Hunt’s father sat erect, leaning slightly forward, eyes fastened on David, who stood listening to Don show him the proper way to grip the ball for what looked to be a curve or a slider.

  “Dad,” Hunt said, as he walked up. Then he shifted his gaze to Rhett. “Long time, man.”

  Rhett gave the lazy smile that, no doubt, sent many hearts into a quick trot. “Doesn’t seem like it, though.” He held out a hand.

  Hunt gave it a hard, fast shake and slid onto the bench. “Yeah, time flies whether you’re having fun or not.” Again, the bitterness. Wouldn’t do to let it leak out too much.

  “True enough. Good to see you,” Rhett said, glancing back at Don positioning David’s arms. The kid looked focused on the task at hand and hadn’t seemed to notice Hunt had arrived. For some reason he wanted David to see him, to smile, to want to please his father. If only because the thing he had that Rhett didn’t was a kid. God, he was reaching for a way to beat Rhett, the way he always had. Rhett probably hated kids. After all, it was a kid who’d fucked up Rhett’s life last summer. Guess that was another thing he had on Rhett—Hunt had never killed someone.

  “What brings you back to Shitville?” Hunt asked.

  Rhett issued a chuckle. “That’s what they call it now? No longer ‘America’s backyard’?”

  “We still have all those godforsaken no-see-ums, so it’s kinda like a backyard . . . next to a dump.”

  “Hope you’re not trying to interest Rhett in investing in his home state. If so, you’re going about it the wrong way.” Mitchell McCroy’s lips seemed frozen in perpetual downturn.

  “I’m joking, Dad. Rhett knows that. Don’t get your shorts in a twist.”

  “My shorts are never in a twist,” Mitchell said, jabbing a thick finger toward the pitcher’s mound. “I don’t like the way Don has him addressing the batter. He needs a wider stride for more power.”

  “Don knows what he’s doing,” Hunt said.

  “Maybe we need to look around for someone who knows new techniques. Don’s getting on up there.” Hunt’s dad narrowed his eyes in that critical manner that made Hunt’s dander rise. Mitchell had no business here. He wished to hell he’d never mentioned David taking pitching lessons to his dad. The practice field mere yards outside their office was too much a temptation for the old man.

  “Good pitching hasn’t changed, has it?” Rhett asked, doing what he’d always done—defusing the situation between Hunt and Mitchell.

  His old friend wore a Rolex on his tanned wrist. His clothes looked casually rumpled, but Hunt would be willing to bet they’d come out of some Rodeo Drive shop priced at what most people paid as a mortgage. Jealousy pecked at him despite his best efforts to not give a damn about how successful Rhett was. The dude had come home because his life was fucked up. He’d run over a kid and then went ballistic on television. Obviously, he had issues.

  Hunt didn’t. Or at least nothing of that proportion.

  “Sure it has,” Mitchell said, clasping his hands between his knees. “Or don’t you watch baseball out in California?”

  “Sure. When I’m not getting my junk waxed or having Pedro bring me martinis at the pool,” Rhett said.

  Hunt gave a bark of laughter, but his father frowned. “Wax your junk? What’s that code for? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Hunter get that boy the best coach possible. Anyone can see the potential he has. He’s big, strong, and athletic. He could probably be better than Hunter with a little work. Maybe David will be the one to make it.”

  The unstated words fell hard, crushing Hunt. He didn’t want to give a shit what his old man thought about him and his failures, but the words left unsaid weighed heavy on him. Because Hunter here couldn’t cut the mustard. “I’ll take care of David. I’m his father.”

  Mitchell crooked an eyebrow. “That’s what the blood test said.”

  “Cut it the fuck out, Dad,” Hunt said, anger finally inching up his back, flushing him with heat. His father had to bag on him in front of Rhett. Of course.

  “Language, son,” Mitchell said, easing up from his seated position. “I’m going to walk out and speak to Don. I won’t interfere. Just want to say hello.”

  Rhett was silent as Mitchell made his way toward the dugout and eventually out toward the mound.

  “I can see your father hasn’t changed,” Rhett said.

  “Nah, he’s still a son of a bitch.” Hunt gave a tight laugh.

  “How are things with you?” Rhett said, polite as ever. That was Rhett. Never confrontational, always the peacemaker. And fucking lucky in life, like a shiny penny that was never passed over.

  “Good. Just put together a big deal out on Bohicket Island.” God, why had he done that? Pissing match with an effing millionaire Hollywood hunk? He sounded defensive. Trying to be important in some small way.

  “I’m surprised at how things have built up. Hardly recognized the town.”

  “Yeah, it’s growing. Perfect location for vacationers. Who would have thought?”

  Theirs was an awkward conversation. Two guys who’d once been good friends who’d drifted into different currents, and now they found themselves surprisingly beside one another again. Wasn’t like Hunt could come out and say, “Why didn’t you ever call me? Why weren’t you there when things were too hard to face alone? When I needed a friend?”

  ’Cause that would have made him a little bitch, whining about feelings and all that shit. But Hunt resented the fact that Rhett had gone away and erased the life he’d had like it hadn’t mattered. He’d deleted Hunt. In fact, Hunt would probably have trouble getting tickets to Rhett’s stupid late-night show. He’d have to call and say, “Um, I’m this guy he had his first beer with. Uh, we used to climb the water tower, watch porn, and shoot crows together. Think he can get me some tickets?”

  Stuck in his damned craw that he was so unimportant to everyone. He hated feeling like that, too. He didn’t want to need other people’s approval . . . but somehow he did.

  “I had forgotten how pretty it is here,” Rhett said, looking out at the woods showing off fall color. “Sorry I didn’t do a good job of keeping in touch. I wasn’t a good friend.”

  “No big deal. People move away. I did. I was on the road and stuff.” Hunt hoped Rhett couldn’t hear the emotion in his voice. He didn’t want Rhett to know his casual dismissal of their friendship had hurt him. “It’s whatever, you know?”

  Rhett frowned. “Yeah, whatever, but I’m sorry.”

  “It’s cool.”

  Silence stretched a cold shadow between them.

  Hunt turned his attention to his father, who demonstrated a motion to David. His son’s gaze found Hunt and the kid smiled. Hunt couldn’t stop the pleasure that bloomed inside him. Here was a person who thought Hunt important.

  “He’s a good kid,” Rhett said.

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “So much like you. It startled me when I first met him. He looks more like you than Summer.”

  Hunt nodded, pride joining the pleasure inside him. He’d not had much cause to feel such an emotion. Yet the kid out on the mound watching his grandfather with hungry eyes evoked it. “David has her eyes. Her stubbornness.”

  “Never remembered Summer being stubborn back in school. She was pretty easygoing, but she’s changed.”

  “She’s different. I didn’t see her for a while after high school. The whole pregnancy thing was . . . awkward. Shouldn’t have happened and then . . . suddenly I was a father. I wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t do right by David.”

  Rhett didn’t say anything.

  “I’m trying to change things,” Hunt said, wondering why he admitted this to Rhett.

  “I don’t think anyone is really ready to be a father, huh? Or that’s what I’ve heard.” Rhett’s tone wasn’t accusing. Just conversational. It occurred to Hunt this was how Rhett got all those movie stars to say things they didn’t mean to say.

  “Definitely not at nineteen. I don’t know how Summer managed to be a mom and
go to school at the same time. She could have, you know, skipped it all and no one would have known.”

  “Mm,” Rhett murmured. “That’s true.”

  “Sometimes I wish she would have. It’s wrong, because David is great, but that one decision molded the rest of my life. Sometimes . . . nah, never mind.” God, what was he saying? Why not just get out a blade, open up a vein, and bleed out? Rhett wasn’t even trying to get him to say these things, but yet they were spilling out. Dark, ugly truths he’d never want anyone to hear.

  “You resent her for having the baby?” Rhett asked.

  “Not anymore. But back then, I did. But, hey, it was her choice, right? Isn’t that what all the women libbers say?”

  “I don’t think they like being called that. Maybe go with feminists or pro-choice advocates.” Rhett said it with a smile.

  “Yeah, I’m politically incorrect, I guess. Dumb redneck. Sorry.” Hunt tried to remember what they’d been talking about. He didn’t want to admit to the mistakes in his life. “I was just commenting on Summer’s stubbornness. She’s like the ocean. Finds a path no matter what you erect against her. But I can’t complain. Summer never asked for one damned thing from me.”

  Rhett didn’t respond. Instead he stared out at the field, his face reflecting an indiscernible emotion. In the dying light, a golden hue bathed the field, a rarity seen only in November when the orange and reds of the hardwoods lining the outfield greedily pulled at the last rays, desperately soaking in the remaining warmth before darkness covered them. The setting was poetic, the emotions between him and Rhett not so much.

  Rhett looked back at Hunt. “I know about how one decision can fuck you. One simple veer off the path and everything changes.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry about that, man.”

  “Thanks, but that’s how life is, right? Tons of people make those seemingly simple decisions every day without knowing how quick life can change. They buy a lottery ticket with the rent money and become millionaires. Or they buy the last ticket on the Titanic and get a watery grave. We can never predict the ramifications of a simple decision. I took a shortcut to avoid traffic and a child died. A simple, split-second decision that on any other day would have saved me a few minutes to the studio.”