“I need my tree.” He swiped the bottle off the ground and twisted off the cap.
Clover’s soul smiled widely. “You planning to stick around?”
He downed half the bottle. “Maybe.”
“Good.” She smiled. “If you want a good meal, I cook for The Pantry, and you’re always welcome. The information is on the card.” She pointed toward the bag.
“I’ll think about it.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and drained it.
Clover glanced away and then back, catching the bottom of a navy tattoo. “Were you in the service?” There were dozens of programs to help vets. If she could just get him to agree, she’d be able to have him in an apartment in no time.
He squished the empty water bottle and put the lid back on. “Eight years.”
She leaned forward and patted his arm. His skin was smooth, making her think he was younger than his emotional burden made him appear. “Thank you for your service to our country.”
A sense of pride filled his eyes, and he nodded solemnly, his eyes holding steady on the deformed water bottle. “Coming home was hard, but they don’t want me anymore. I figured I’d be away from life for a while.”
Clover dropped her gaze to the bags in her lap. “I wonder if that’s what my mom needed too. She had me at fourteen, didn’t have a family that I know of, and life was hard.”
He lifted his gaze, and she met him straight on, noting the bright blue color of his eyes, the keen intelligence there, and the memories that haunted him. “She did good by you.”
“Do you have any kids?” she asked tentatively.
“No—thank the good Lord. I don’t want to mess up anyone else’s life.”
Clover chewed the inside of her cheek. “I had a friend tell me that if I could imagine myself being something, then I had the power to be that thing. If you can imagine yourself being a father, then you can be one—and a good one.”
“That’s something to think about.” He tipped his chin up, staring through the leaves.
Clover patted his hand, gathered up the remaining water and bags, and stood. “I don’t know when I can come by again, but I’ll watch for you at The Pantry.”
He didn’t answer, just kept staring up at the sunlight coming through the leaves. Clover didn’t mind. The lines on his face were peaceful—sometimes that was all she could give, but it was enough for the moment.
Her phone chirped, and she juggled the bags and bottles of water to get it out of her pocket.
How’s your day? asked Dustin.
She managed to type out a quick “good” before dropping what was in her arms. She wanted to sit down with him and tell him all about the man under the tree—how he looked hopeful and was even friendly by the time she left. She could explain how much she wanted him to come to The Pantry so she could talk to him about some of the programs available for vets. At the least, he could have regular meals. At the most, he could have a place to stay and counseling. Then, maybe one day, he could be the dad he wanted to be. She tucked her phone back into her pocket. There was too much to put into a text, and she was here to help people.
She took the walkway around the tree to a picnic table. Two boys sat at the table, rolling a ball back and forth to one another. She walked right up to them and placed the waters on the table. The smell of sweat and improper bathroom hygiene hit her nose like a battering ram.
“You guys thirsty?” She smiled, though her stomach rolled at the stench. Kids were much easier to talk to than adults. They may be shy, but they usually came out of their shell if food was involved. She wished she’d brought a couple cupcakes or Zingers with her, but these two needed the soap and toothpaste more than a sugar high. There was a shelter with showers not far from here.
“Get away!” A woman with long gray hair and wild gray eyes charged at Clover, her arms waving. “Mine. Mine. Mine!” she screamed. Clover recognized the woman’s mental instability and backed away from the children. As she did, she dropped two of the bags and waters on the ground. They watched with dull eyes and little interest, but she had to try.
“They are yours. I was only inviting them to a meal.”
The woman clawed her hands down her face and screeched like an injured eagle. She didn’t have any fingernails to speak of, so her face was undamaged. Clover backed off a few more steps.
“Leeeeeave!”
“I’m going.” Clover kept her hands out in front of her as she backed up.
The woman scooped down, grabbing a rock and throwing it at Clover. Okay, time to run. Clover picked up speed, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she didn’t run into anything. When she was out of sight behind a pine tree, the screaming stopped as quickly as if she’d flipped a switch.
Clover sighed. At least the children had the bags and water. She bowed her head to offer a prayer on behalf of the children and their guardian. She couldn’t exactly say the woman was their mother, because she appeared much too old to have children that young, but then, living on the streets could age a person.
“Clover!” Someone grabbed her arm, startling her out of her prayer.
Clover jumped. Damarius jumped too. Her brain registered the little brown-eyed boy, and she bent down to scoop him into a hug. He pushed against her and kicked his feet, but she was too happy to see him healthy to let it bother her.
“You’re bigger.” She laughed as she set him down. He scowled at her.
Serena scrambled out from under the branches of the pine tree. She had needles stuck to her pants and in her hair. Clover knew better than to ask questions. Serena’s sense of safety was in knowing that no one knew where they were hiding. “I’m sorry—he ran out before I could stop him.”
“It’s no trouble. He’s one of my favorites.” Clover mused Damarius’s hair, noting the grainy feeling. This time, he smiled up at her. “You look good, Serena. And Damarius is obviously growing.”
Damarius crouched down, collecting rocks. Serena watched him for a moment before saying, “I feel like a failure.” She tugged at her dirty shirt. “Chad called. He wants to meet me somewhere neutral—just to talk.”
Clover wanted to scream at her to throw her phone away and run from the abusive man. “You’re not a failure. You’re courageous in protecting yourself and your child.”
“Hiding feels more like the cowardly thing.”
Clover shook her head so hard her bun tugged at her hair. “Be strong.” She remembered well the problem being dirty caused with her self-esteem and the way she’d felt at the ball game when she saw herself on the big screen. She glanced around at the few businesses within sight. She pressed the essentials bag into Serena’s arms. “Here. You could take Damarius to the gas station over there and wash your hair in the sink. They have a family bathroom, so you can lock the door and have a few minutes of privacy.”
She hugged the bag to her chest. “They’ll chase us out.”
“Walk in there with your head held high and they won’t even think about it.”
“They won’t?”
“If they knock, tell them your son has a stomachache and you’ll make sure the place is clean before you go.”
She shuffled her feet. “Maybe.”
Clover wanted to march her right across the street and into the gas station. She wanted to secure a place for Serena and her son and make life all better. “Can I …”
“No.” Serena’s response was as fast as it was persuasive.
Clover forcefully swallowed her argument. Offering help was one thing; forcing it upon someone showed a lack of respect. Respect was the least she could give Serena—but it was what Serena wanted the most.
Clover hugged her. “Okay. I’ll see you next time you come into The Pantry.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was full of deep gratitude.
Clover tightened her embrace before letting go. Her phone chirped again, and she said goodbye to Serena and Damarius before taking it out.
What’s your schedule today?
She skipped three steps, happy
to see he was thinking about her. I’m going to The Pantry now, and then hotel. Working late.
Me too.
She giggled. Play hard.
Always.
She unlocked her car and dropped behind the steering wheel, staring at her screen while she waited with the door hanging open for the heat wave to dissipate. St. George was awfully hot in the summer. So hot it melted the thoughts right out of her head. Why couldn’t she think of anything fun and flirty to say to him? She ran her hands around the steering wheel, testing the temperature. “Think. Think. Think.” The wheel was fine, so she started up the car, shut the door, and pulled into traffic.
“I saw the game last night,” she muttered, trying to get the old wheels turning. That wouldn’t do—they’d lost—by a lot.
“Better luck next time …”
Blech!
“It looked like the other team throws really hard.”
Brainless.
“Your uniform was spotless. What detergent do you use?”
Dimwit.
“Okay, I give up.” She flicked her hand at her phone as if dismissing it. “Apparently I am text defective.” She stopped at a light and dropped her head to the wheel. This is so not good. Dustin was out of town for half the year—how was she ever going to date a man she couldn’t text/talk to for half the year? He might as well know how inept she was so he could make an informed decision.
Her heart crimped at the thought of watching him run into the dugout without looking her way. With a sigh, she pulled over and picked up her phone. Good luck in the game tonight. I’ll be cheering for you. There! She hit send and gulped.
Thanks! Heading out for BP. Bye.
Bye.
That was the worst flirting job ever. Thankfully I have four more days of this before he comes home. Even her sarcasm couldn’t wrap up a protective layer around her heart. Strange, sarcasm had never failed her before. She might just have to admit that Dustin was more important to her than she wanted to acknowledge. Four more days of denial. She could work with that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Sunday after the long road trip, Dustin walked up the stained concrete steps of his parents’ home for a family dinner. He paused outside the door to paint on a smile. The Nationals were brutal—beating them by double digits three games straight. Dustin couldn’t connect with the ball to save his life. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d connected fly balls aplenty, but hadn’t been able to put the ball in play.
On the bright side, the rest of the team didn’t do much better, ensuring his poor performance didn’t stand out.
On the dark side, the rest of the team didn’t do much better.
To top it off, he wasn’t making any progress with Clover. He’d text, and she’d answer, but there was no real back-and-forth. It was like pulling apart the laces in a glove with his teeth to get her to talk. He’d tried calling once, but her roommate answered and said she was in the shower. He didn’t leave a message.
All the while he was fumbling his way through trying to talk to Clover, Blake Rygs paraded his redheaded girlfriend all over D.C., flaunting their stupid relationship bliss in front of everyone. They took selfies in front of the White House and the Washington Monument, posting them on Instagram like lovesick fools. Dustin took a little satisfaction knowing they were staying in separate rooms and had to at least say good night before they could sleep. Coach and Harper Wolfe hadn’t been married that long, and they managed to keep things professional in front of the team. Blake was a doof. Dustin had hardly said two words to the cheesy couple all week—stupid happy people.
All in all, it had been a week of battles and disappointments, and Dustin could use a day to gather his wits. Instead, he was headed onto another battlefield: family dinner.
The sound of children’s laughter and a dog running on the hardwood floors came through the front door and brought a small smile to his lips. His nieces and nephew were the best part of any family gathering, and he hadn’t seen them in weeks. They were probably taller—kids grew so fast.
Dustin squared his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of his parents when it came to baseball. Mr. Positive was his alter ego. They could say, “You struck out twelve times this week,” and he would grin and say, “I’ll get ’em next time,” because the minute he let his guard down, they would pounce.
He opened the door and was tackled by everyone under the age of ten all at once. Laughing as he tried to keep them from injuring one another in the dogpile, he hugged and kissed and exclaimed over pronouncements about one’s fall off a bicycle, the flavor of popcorn another had tried, and where still another’s dog had chosen to go the bathroom that made Mommy ground him to the backyard for-ev-er. They peppered him with questions about where he’d been and what he ate on the airplane.
Ginger, at six years old, was especially enthralled with the idea of eating while flying. She had dark brown hair that flipped up at the ends. “Did your fork float away?”
He tickled her side. “I didn’t go to space.”
She giggled. “I want to go to space.”
“Then do it! You’d make a great space woman.”
“More like space monkey,” quipped her older brother, Ty.
“Hey.” Ginger shoved him.
“Hey, both of you. Quit arguing and let Dustin get in here.” Aurora, his sister-in-law, waved him into the kitchen. “He’s probably starving.”
Dustin smiled, because he was hungry. His mom made the best dry rub in the state, and she put it on chicken, beef, and pork and then had Dad slow-cook it on the barbeque. The back sliding glass door was open and the screen door shut, allowing him to smell the smoky, slightly tangy flavors from here. He rubbed his empty stomach and reached for a pickle on the relish tray.
His mom, moving back and forth between the stove and the counter—where a spread worthy of Bobby, the clubhouse manager, was coming together—blew him a kiss. “It’s good to have my boy home.”
“What about me?” asked Zander, Dustin’s younger brother. “I’m the one who fixed your railing this week.” He winked at Aurora, who rolled her eyes, knowing he was trying to get under his mom’s skin. The two were a match made in heaven—Zander loving to pester those around him and Aurora having the patience of a saint to put up with him.
Mom huffed. “Yes, Zander, you are the apple of my eye,” she said, deadpan as she leveled him with a look that would discourage any player in the MLB from stealing a base. A timer dinged, and Mom whipped around to pull the rolls out of the oven. Their yeasty smell added another layer of anticipation to the fragrances swirling through the kitchen. Dustin’s stomach growled.
“You have this week off, right?” asked Zander. He grabbed a handful of olives and popped one in his mouth.
Aurora smacked his backside. “Wait for the blessing.”
He gave her a wicked grin and popped another olive in his mouth. She shook her head and turned away with a smile on her face. Dustin gave her props for sticking with Zander for eight years and some change.
Dustin put the pickle on a paper plate. Zander’s question chased away his appetite, because he knew what was coming and didn’t like it. “We’ve still got workouts.”
Zander cuffed him on the shoulder. “Come on, man. I could really use you to run a crew.”
“Running a crew is an off-season thing.” Even then, he was pushing his luck. Most guys took the three-month off-season to let their bodies rest. They did minimal workouts so as not to cause overuse injuries. Hanging Sheetrock, hauling Sheetrock, mudding and taping Sheetrock were physically demanding jobs that did not allow him time to rebuild.
“Come on. Tera needs braces. Do you have any idea how much braces cost?”
Aurora nodded her head as she mashed the potatoes.
“Dustin—help your brother,” added Mom in the same tone she used to tell Zander to catch for Dustin when he needed to practice in high school. At that point, he was throwing hard enough that Dad had to ice his han
d after catching.
Dad came in through the back door with a platter of meat. He looked like Fred Flintstone with a dino steak. He even had the black hair and thick build. Dustin couldn’t count the times Dad had sat in the car with a newspaper, waiting for practice to get over. Nor could he number the games his parents had attended, even though they had no love for baseball. But they loved Dustin. Of that he was sure. And when you love someone, you make sacrifices for them.
Dustin shrugged. “I’ve got afternoon workouts. If you can swing an early shift, I’ll make it work.”
“I’ll line it up and text you tonight.” Zander snagged a roll. He took a large bite and hid the roll behind his back when Aurora glanced his way. A piece of the roll stuck out the side of his mouth—he was begging to get caught. Aurora ignored it. Saint.
Dad set the platter on the table and dusted off his hands. “Glad you could make it.”
“Me too.” Although Dustin wasn’t so sure. If he’d stayed home, he’d be able to sleep in this week instead of getting up before the sun to go to work. “What’s the latest, Dad?”
“Not much here. But I have a question.”
The grandkids ran through the room, chasing Roberta, the dog. Carter, the youngest, toddled after the crew. He’d wanted to be a part of the pack from day one and refused to be left out, even though his little legs had to work twice as hard to keep up.
“Shoot.” Dustin motioned for Dad to ask away.
“When I see MLB players on television, they have a beautiful woman on their arm.” He craned his neck to look around the room. “Where are these women?”
Mom threw a dish towel at Dad. It covered his face before dropping to the floor.
Dad swiped it up. “I’m just saying. All these women out there and my son comes to dinner alone.”
Dustin thought of Clover. His family would scare her to death. “If you think I’m going to let you all meet a woman before she promises to marry me, then you’re crazy.”
“So you are dating?” Dad pressed.
“How can he have time to date? He eats, sleeps, and breathes baseball.” Mom gave Dad the I’ve got this look. “He dreams of playing in Boston—not giving us more grandchildren.” She set out a pitcher of raspberry lemonade, her displeasure with Dustin’s life goals evident in the parentheses around her mouth.
Caught Looking (Dating Mr. Baseball Book 2) Page 11
