by Judy Duarte
Her mom’s expression faltered before offering Shana one of her please-be-my-friend-again smiles, but Shana couldn’t bring herself to fully return it.
“How does spaghetti sound?” her mother asked.
“Great.” Shana wasn’t consciously trying to maintain a cold war, but she didn’t have the energy to fix the unfixable. Their mother-daughter relationship had been irrevocably damaged, a fact that they both knew.
The only trouble was, her mother wasn’t sure why.
To Cassandra’s credit, she tried to do everything in her power to make things right, but hadn’t been able to. Everything she said or did rubbed Shana the wrong way, even though she’d rarely confronted her about it.
“I’ll wait to serve dinner until you get home,” her mom said, handing over the car keys. “I can’t wait for you to meet Pastor Craig. You’ll like him. In fact, if you hadn’t decided to marry Brad, I would have played matchmaker.”
That’s all Shana needed. To hook up with a minister, of all people. A man who strove for perfection when she’d fallen so short of the mark.
Ten minutes later, after changing into her running clothes, she’d driven to Mulberry Park and parked in the shade.
She’d told her mother that she was going to run along the jogging paths, but her first stop was the new fountain and the flower garden that surrounded it.
Call her crazy or stuck on the past or whatever, but she didn’t care.
She needed to see what Ramon had done.
As she neared the drinking fountain, her gaze was drawn to a colorful display of flowers—the zinnias, the asters, the morning glories.
She stood there, immersed in the floral beauty and remembering the young man who’d turned her heart on end. She tried to imagine him as an artist—because that floral masterpiece proved that he was.
The scent of spring laced the cool sea breeze, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to forget all the reasons she’d left town. All the reasons she’d dreaded her return.
She took a drink of water and relished the cool liquid as it trickled down her throat before she headed toward the concrete paths that started near the baseball fields.
A couple of years ago, the city had created the trail, which was now used by bikers, joggers, dog-walkers, and nature lovers who enjoyed the canyon views.
Shana had no more than reached the fence near the third-base line when a late-model Jeep Wrangler drove up and parked. She merely gave the driver a cursory glance, but as he did a double take of her, she was forced to do the same thing.
Recognition dawned, and she froze in her steps, watching Ramon get out of his vehicle.
He wore faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red baseball cap, but his casual clothing was the only reminder of the boy he’d once been.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”
Emotion clogged her throat, and she had to clear her voice in an attempt to speak at all. “Fine. How about you?”
“Not bad.”
He’d always been tall, six foot or so. But he’d grown another inch or two since she’d seen him last. He’d also bulked up now that he was a man.
“I… uh …” She gave a nod toward the drinking fountain. “I saw the garden you created. It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” He seemed to be taking her in, checking out the changes seven years had made in her appearance, too.
She couldn’t help wishing she’d chosen running shorts instead of sweats, a new tank top rather than the oversize shirt. That she’d left her hair down instead of pulling it back in a ponytail.
“I heard you’re getting married,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She managed a half-smile, which was about all she was good for these days. Truthfully, though? She hadn’t been happy about anything in a long, long time.
He nodded toward the ball fields. “I’m coaching a kids’ baseball team.”
Before she could respond, a blond boy near the dugouts yelled, “Hey, Ramon!”
The kid jogged toward his coach, his shaggy hair flopping up and down with each stride. As he neared Ramon, a grin burst across his freckled face. “Want some help?”
“Yeah, sure.” Ramon addressed the boy, yet his gaze remained on Shana a bit longer. Finally, he ended the tentative connection and turned toward the Jeep. He opened the back end, pulled out a black canvas duffel bag full of gear, and handed it to the boy.
“Thanks, Matt. Why don’t you take this to the dugout, and I’ll be there in a minute.”
As the boy did as he was instructed, Ramon turned back to Shana. “My team has started to arrive, so I’d better go.”
She nodded. “Yeah, me, too. I’m trying to sneak in a run before dinner.”
“If you’re bored after you finish,” he said, “feel free to stop by and watch for a while. We don’t get many cheerleaders.”
“Maybe I will.”
He didn’t make a move to walk away, so neither did she.
“It’s good to see you,” he added.
“Same here.”
But it was actually bittersweet because it reminded her of how painful their breakup had been. How she’d wanted to curl up and die in the months that followed.
How a part of her actually had.
Chapter 13
Craig entered the Delacourts’ house at five-thirty on Monday evening, expecting to smell the hearty aroma of dinner cooking. Instead, he was met with the faint scent of lemon oil and cleaning products.
He couldn’t help thinking it was odd, since Cassandra routinely went out of her way to plan and prepare exceptional meals.
“Is anyone here?” he called out, not wanting to surprise his hosts, especially since Shana had come home.
“I’m in the family room,” Daniel said.
Craig dropped his keys into his pocket and joined Daniel, who was watching ESPN on the plasma TV.
“The girls are out shopping again,” Daniel said. “So we’re on our own for dinner. What do you say we call out for pizza?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Me, too. Cassie’s a great cook, but I’m a junk-food lover at heart. And every now and then I miss having take-out or drive-through.” Daniel reached for the telephone. “Do you have a problem with pepperoni and sausage?”
“None at all.”
Thirty minutes later, the Leaning Tower of Pizza delivery driver had brought their order, which Craig placed on the glass-topped table in the family room.
“How about a Miller Lite?” Daniel asked.
“You know,” Craig said, “I’d rather have a Coke.”
A sheepish expression crossed Daniel’s face. “I’m sorry for offering you a beer, Pastor. I should have realized you don’t drink alcohol.”
“Don’t apologize. It really has nothing to do with me being a minister. I just never acquired a taste for beer.”
Daniel went after their beverages and a couple of napkins. When he returned, he took a seat beside Craig on the sofa. “In my defense, you really don’t look like a minister. And you don’t act like one, either. So I tend to forget.”
Craig wasn’t sure what a minister was supposed to look like—or act like for that matter. If he hadn’t already felt as though he was wearing a borrowed suit that belonged to a much bigger man, he might have had some kind of retort.
“Did you always want to be a minister?” Daniel asked.
Craig wasn’t sure how much he wanted to divulge, but he liked Daniel. Maybe it was the fact that they’d had baseball in common. Or that he’d always admired men who clearly loved their children.
Yeah, yeah. He knew the psychology behind that. His dad had been bigger than life when he’d been alive. And even more so after death. So his loss had left a big hole in Craig’s life.
“Being a minister was never part of my game plan.” Craig reached for a slice of pizza, the melted mozzarella stretching until it threatened to slide right off the top of the piece he’d chosen. He used his finger to pull the che
ese free and to keep it where it belonged. “I’d wanted to play professional baseball.”
“Interesting.” Daniel shot him a grin. “When I was a kid, I had the same dream, but I never had what it took to play at that caliber.”
Truthfully, Craig wasn’t sure he’d had the skills needed to be more than a second-string pitcher, but he’d wanted to give it his best shot. “When I was a senior in high school, I was drafted by the Dodgers and was sitting on top of the world.”
Daniel popped open his beer. “I can only imagine how that must have felt.”
“I also had a full-ride scholarship to Arizona State, which my family encouraged me to accept. But I was giving some serious thought to forgoing my education and playing pro ball.” Craig popped another bite of pizza in his mouth, then picked up the napkin and wiped his hands and mouth.
There’d been no guarantee that he’d make it past the farm team, but he’d wanted to try. It might have been his only chance for a bit of fame and glory.
“Your parents must have been proud,” Daniel said.
“My mom and grandparents were, although sports never did hold that much importance in their lives. I suspect my dad would have felt differently, but he died during Operation Desert Storm when I was just a kid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Craig shrugged. “It was tough. He was in special ops and died a hero.”
“So what happened?” Daniel asked. “Why’d you give it up?”
“During the last game of the season, I tore my rotator cuff, so the decision to play pro ball or go to college was taken from me.”
“That sounds like a serious injury, but I wouldn’t think it would have sidelined you permanently.”
“I couldn’t play for at least a year.” The memories, the disappointment, barged into the room—front and center. And while he wanted to take his pain and run from Daniel’s intense gaze, he decided to level with the man instead, to make the admission out loud. “I thought life couldn’t get any worse than that, but I was wrong. Two weeks later, my granddad was diagnosed with liver disease, and I realized just how bad it could get.”
“You two must have been close.”
“We were. My granddad was a missionary, and when my dad died, he gave it all up and came home to be with my mom and me. So, yeah, we were very close. He stepped up to the plate and became the father I’d been missing.”
“So you decided to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps?”
Craig studied the half-eaten pizza on his plate, but was no longer the least bit hungry. “I promised God that if Granddad was spared, I would forget about baseball and go to the seminary.”
“So I assume your grandfather pulled through.”
Craig nodded. “They found a liver donor just in time. During surgery, they lost him but managed to bring him back. The doctors called the whole thing a miracle.”
“Which left you with a promise to keep.”
A big one.
Daniel grew momentarily silent, pensive.
For two guys who’d been hungry and looking forward to wolfing down an extra-large pizza, Craig noted that neither of them seemed to be focused on food.
“Can I ask you something, Pastor?”
There went the P-word again, scratching against him like an umpire’s whisk broom on home plate. Craig hadn’t gotten used to the title yet, and it felt especially rough coming from a man with whom he’d just opened up and spilled out his heart. Okay, so he hadn’t actually spilled anything, he’d just oozed a little.
“Sure,” Craig said. “Shoot.”
“Maybe I ought to explain something first.” Daniel glanced down at his pizza, then back again. “I’ve loved criminal law since my very first class at Cal Western, and I’d planned to work for the district attorney, prosecuting criminals rather than defending them. I’d wanted to make a difference in this world, or at least in the community.”
Craig didn’t respond, didn’t need to.
“I’m one of the top defense lawyers in the state. And one thing that makes me so successful is that I prepare a mental prosecution of the case before I tackle the defense strategy. There have been times when I won a case that I should have lost. Times when I knew exactly why the prosecuting attorney lost the case and where they went wrong. And each time that happened, I’d tell myself that I was just doing my job—and doing it well. That everyone deserves the right to a fair trial, and that someone had to make sure those rights were protected. But the truth is that I’m working for the wrong side. You know what I mean? Some people were born to be defense attorneys, but I don’t believe I was one of them.”
Craig nodded. It didn’t take much of an imagination to know exactly how Daniel felt about playing for the wrong team.
“Did you ever let someone else make a decision for you?” Daniel asked. “One that affected the rest of your life?”
“No, not in that sense.” But Fate or God had thrown Craig a curve, and he’d found himself sitting on the bench and hoping he’d get a chance to show his stuff while wondering if he’d be able to pull it off when push came to shove.
“You know,” Daniel said, “when you were telling me about your father’s death, I was able to relate. I lost both of my parents in a boating accident when I was a freshman in high school. And I had to live in foster care for a while, which was fine. I had a good home and was encouraged to go to college. But I missed my parents, especially my father. I can’t explain the hole his death left in my life or the need I had to fill it.”
He didn’t have to. Craig knew the hole he was talking about, yet couldn’t explain it, either.
“When I married Cassandra, there was a part of me that yearned for a father figure. And I thought I found one in her dad.”
“Did you?”
“I thought so. And I sold out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Prosecuting attorneys don’t make the same kind of money as good defense lawyers make. And Cassandra was used to having the finest things, a nice house, stylish clothes … I loved her, and I wanted to be able to provide everything she’d been used to, all she deserved. But I wasn’t bringing a whole lot to the table, other than a law degree and a slew of student loans. And now, after more than a quarter century of marriage, my job is really grinding on me.”
Craig had no idea how he’d feel about his life in twenty-five years. Better? Resigned?
Happy didn’t seem possible.
“Here’s where my question comes in,” Daniel said.
Craig’s gaze met the older man’s, and he realized the attorney was looking at him as though he held the keys to the universe and beyond. It was all he could do to hope and pray that he wouldn’t fail the first congregant to actually come to him with a dilemma.
“I’ve had some troubling cases in the past,” Daniel said, “but I’m working on one now that’s bothering me more than the others ever did, and I’m really struggling with it.”
Craig understood attorney-client privilege and knew Daniel couldn’t—and wouldn’t—say more. But if this case was different from the others he’d had to defend and causing him to struggle, Craig wondered if it was the one he’d heard about on the news the other night, one that was ugly—and very high profile. A wealthy man was accused of murdering a child. It was the kind of case that made a person, particularly a parent, challenge everything that was good and right in the world.
Daniel bowed his head, the weight of his dilemma apparent. Then he looked up, his gaze snagging Craig’s as though he had the answer. “You have no idea how badly I’d like to recuse myself from this case.”
“You probably ought to follow your heart.”
“Is that what you’d do?”
In Daniel’s case?
“I think I’d have to.”
But in his own?
The answer wasn’t so easy. Craig would love to pursue a different career.
One that didn’t break a promise to God.
Late Wednesday after
noon, Kristy stood at the kitchen counter, preparing meatloaf, baked potatoes, and green beans for dinner.
She glanced at the clock on the oven, realizing she would have to call the Maguires soon and ask them to send Jason home.
Kristy liked Jillian Maguire, Tommy’s mother, although they didn’t get a chance to actually chat very often. Jillian and her kids moved into the neighborhood last Christmas. At the time, she’d been newly divorced and, according to her, things had looked pretty bleak until Mac came along. The couple fell in love and were married shortly thereafter.
There were times when Kristy wished someone would sweep into her life and help her put the pieces back together again. But she’d never been a dreamer.
The doorbell sounded, and she quickly rinsed her hands, then dried them on the dish towel that lay on the counter. Gram hadn’t slept very well last night and was napping—something she seemed to do a lot lately. And so Kristy didn’t want to wake her.
She swung open the door only to find Pastor Craig standing on the stoop.
He wore a navy blue sports jacket, a cream-colored dress shirt, and a conservative tie. Yet his hair was stylishly mussed, making the man appear to be a bit of a contradiction.
And an appealing one at that.
“I’m early today. There’s a special service at the church tonight and since …” His voice trailed and lowered. “Well, your grandmother is sensitive about some things, and I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten about her. Is this a bad time for me to stop in?”
“No, not at all.” She stepped aside, letting him in.
A wisp of bay and musk followed him into the living room, and she had to make a conscious effort not to inhale his scent until it seeped into every pore of her body.
She wasn’t comfortable with her misplaced attraction to Craig Houston, a man who was far too wholesome for a woman like her.
“You know,” she said, suddenly realizing she’d answered the door and welcomed him in while on auto pilot, “Gram might be napping. At least, she was the last time I looked in on her. I’ll check again.”
“Don’t disturb her if she’s sleeping.”
“I won’t, but dinner will be ready soon.”
