“No.” Her gaze returned to Claire. “I grew up in Clinton.” It was the county seat, twenty miles away.
“Is that where you met Roger?” Claire pasted what she hoped was a pleasant, nonthreatening smile on her face.
“Yes.” The younger woman relaxed a little. “I was working in the county clerk’s office. He came in to get some records, and we started talking.” Her gaze slid to her cup, and she lifted it to her mouth with a shaking hand. “One thing led to another, we got married and here I am.”
There was a small bruise on the inside of Andrea’s wrist. A bruise the size of a man’s finger.
“It sounds like he swept you off your feet,” Claire said. She smiled through clenched teeth.
Andrea nodded. “We got married after three months.”
“It sounds very romantic,” Claire said.
A shadow passed over Andrea’s face, then disappeared. “It was,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly.
Good, Claire thought. At least she has a little spirit left. “Were your parents happy you got married?” she asked.
Andrea’s mouth trembled. “My mom and dad died in a car accident a few months before I met Roger.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said gently. “That must have been hard for you.”
Andrea stared out the window of the diner and didn’t answer.
Claire slid her coffee cup to the side. “Did Roger tell you who I am?” she asked.
Andrea glanced at her, pink tinting her skin. “He said you were a former client,” she mumbled. “He said you’d had a disagreement, that you’d tried to get him in trouble with the police and the bar association.”
Claire gave a rueful laugh. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.” She leaned forward and touched the other woman’s hand. “I’m sorry you have to hear this way, but I was a lot more than a disgruntled client. I was married to Roger for two years.”
“What?” Andrea’s face paled. “That’s impossible.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Roger never told me he’d been married before.”
“I’m not surprised. Roger doesn’t take losing well. And believe me, he didn’t give me a divorce voluntarily.”
“I don’t believe you.” Andrea stared at her, shaking her head. “I don’t know why you’re making this up, but you’re lying. You were never married to Roger.”
“I’m not lying, Andrea.” Claire ached for the young woman who looked so confused. And so frightened. “If you used to work in the County Clerk’s office, you know you can look up our marriage license. And our divorce decree.”
“Why would he lie to me?”
Claire held her gaze, then reached across the table and touched the bruise on Andrea’s wrist. “You know why.”
Andrea followed her gaze to the bruise, then slid her hand into her lap again and lifted her head. “I think you should leave now.”
“I will. I don’t want Roger to find out about this meeting any more than you do. Because I know what will happen if he does.”
Andrea shot her a frightened look but didn’t answer.
“What he’s doing is wrong, Andrea. He has no right to hit you.” She reached across the table to touch Andrea’s arm, and the other woman flinched. Anger swelled inside Claire. “I can help you,” she said quietly.
Claire scribbled her home and cell phone numbers on the napkin, then pressed it into Andrea’s hand. “I got away from him,” she said. “I can help you get away, too.”
“But I love him,” Andrea whispered. “And Roger loves me.”
Claire knew better than to argue. “That doesn’t give him the right to hurt you. I want to help you, Andrea. Call me anytime.”
She laid some money on the table for her coffee, then slid out of the booth and tried to smile at Andrea. She knew too well how the young woman felt—she’d been cowed and terrified herself during her marriage to Roger.
But Claire wasn’t a child anymore. She was an adult, and she wouldn’t allow Roger to intimidate her. Shaking with anger, she vowed to help Andrea.
As she slid back into her car, she saw Roger turning into the parking spot in front of his office. Her anger flared again. How many times had he told her he’d be gone all day, only to show up unexpectedly, hoping to catch her doing something he’d forbidden?
Thank goodness she’d left the Dixie Diner when she had, Claire thought as she watched the lawyer hurry over to the restaurant. She didn’t want Andrea to suffer because of their conversation. And if Roger knew Claire and his wife had been talking, Andrea would definitely suffer.
Call me, Andrea, Claire prayed as she drove away. Call me soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“THANKS,” Nick yelled as he slammed the door and loped toward school. Guilt kept him from turning around to watch his aunt’s car pull away. He knew she wanted him to call her Aunt Claire. He saw it in her face every time he didn’t.
He couldn’t make the words come out of his mouth.
He clutched his uniform more tightly to his chest as he ran. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone.
It didn’t matter if he called her Aunt Claire. She’d still leave.
He opened the locker room door and slipped inside, quickly surrounded by the familiar smells of overripe gym socks and mildew. Those smells soothed him, reminded him that there was at least one place where he belonged.
He was part of this team and no one could take that away from him.
“Hey, Kendall,” an excited voice called from the other side of the room. “Are we going to kick some Acadia butt tonight, or what?”
Nick wove his way past his teammates to give Booger Johnson a high five. “You got that right, man,” he said.
Booger grinned at him. “Wait until you see the cheerleaders tonight. They’ll be hot, man. Carly Horton will be out there. She’s the hottest of all.”
“Cool.” Nick didn’t much care if Carly Horton would be on the field, but he wondered about Caitlyn Burns. She was in the band. Would she be playing at the game? He’d wanted to ask her, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words.
Nick stripped off his clothes and began to dress for the game. The shoulder pads felt bulky and awkward and he adjusted them nervously, trying to make them feel more natural. As he pulled on the stretchy pants, he examined his legs. Did the tight material make his bad leg look funny? Would the other guys laugh at how skinny it was?
“Hey, Kendall, get a move on. It’s almost time to go,” Booger said.
Nick bent to tie his shoelaces hiding the furious red of his face. Booger must think he was a total dork.
“You guys about ready to warm up?” Coach Hall spoke from the door, and the chatter in the locker room stopped immediately. Nick grabbed his helmet and stood up.
“You’ve been working hard for the last few weeks, and this is it. Are you guys ready to play?” The room erupted into cheers, and he grinned. “I’ve been looking forward to this game as much as you have. Now let’s go out there and play some football.”
Coach gave the guy closest to him a high five. “Captains, lead the way.”
Nick followed the rest of the team out the door, his heart pounding with excitement as he ran toward the stadium. The lights were already on, even though it wasn’t dark yet. The stands were filled with people, and they stood up and cheered as the team ran onto the field. He stopped dead, staring at the crowd.
“How are you doing, Kendall?”
Coach Hall appeared beside him, and Nick nodded, unable to speak. His throat was too thick.
“Your leg feel good tonight?”
“Yeah,” he managed to say.
“Good. You go out on the field and do your warm-ups, then I’ll show you where to practice your kicks.” He gave Nick a shrewd glance. “Nervous?”
Nick swallowed. “A little.”
“That’s good,” Coach said, slapping him on the back. “I’d be worried if you weren’t. Now get out there and loosen up your leg.”
Coach turned to another player and Nick trotted onto the field. The grass was thick and cushiony beneath his feet, and the sweet scent of it drifted up to him. It made him think of one of the last days he’d spent with his mom. They’d made sandwiches and taken them into the backyard. Sprawled in the grass, his mom had told him how well her job was going. She’d asked him if he liked Monroe, told him it was a good place for them to be. She’d said they’d be staying in Monroe for a long time.
He blinked fiercely to clear his vision. He wished his mom were here tonight, watching him play football.
As he straightened from his stretch, he saw Aunt Claire walking up the bleachers. He rolled his eyes when he saw she was wearing fancy clothes, clothes he’d labeled her city clothes. She didn’t look anything like the other parents. Jeez, was she trying to embarrass him?
All the other parents wore Monroe Bulldogs sweatshirts or T-shirts, and jeans or shorts. His mom would have worn a Bulldog T-shirt.
He kept one eye on her while he followed the captain’s directions for warming up. She sat down with someone who looked like Booger’s mom. Why was she talking to Mrs. Johnson? He stared at them for a moment, trying to figure out what they were saying. Were they talking about him?
Coach blew his whistle and they all headed to the bench. Booger ran at him and jumped into the air, banging his helmet against Nick’s. Nick staggered backward, his head ringing, then grinned. He and Booger jumped up at the same time and banged helmets again. Then all the guys on the team were banging heads and doing high fives. Nick’s heart swelled until it almost burst out of his chest.
They got into a circle, put their hands together and yelled, “Go, Bulldogs!” The starters trotted onto the field and the rest of the team settled on the bench.
Nick sat down at the end of the bench, afraid to watch the guy who was going to kick off. If Tompson screwed up, it would be Nick’s fault. Coach hadn’t relented about benching him for the first half of the game, and Tompson hadn’t been too happy about having to kick.
The crowd groaned, and Nick knew Tompson had screwed up. He lifted his head and saw that the ball had only gone a few yards. His heart sinking, his gut churning, he watched the other team exchange high fives. His stomach burned with shame.
The rest of the half was a nightmare. Every time they tried to kick the ball, it squirted out of someone’s hands or dribbled weakly to the ground. When the other team laughed, Nick shrank further into himself.
He could hardly bear to look at the crowd, but a flash of bright green caught his eye. His aunt Claire was on her feet, cheering when the Bulldogs gained a few yards. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was paying attention to the game, he admitted grudgingly. And she was cheering in all the right places.
He narrowed his eyes. It looked as if she was even asking Mr. Johnson about the game. She was just putting on a good front for the Johnsons, he assured himself. But a tiny voice told him he was being unfair to his aunt.
He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to care what his aunt did.
Finally the whistle blew for the end of the half and he shot up from the bench. He practically sprinted into the locker room, ahead of almost everyone else. He just wanted to go and hide somewhere.
TUCKER STOOD on the sideline, watching the boys as they warmed up for the second half of the game. He’d have to go talk to Nick, he thought. The kid looked completely miserable.
As he started to walk over to him, he found the green shirt in the bleachers that told him where Claire was.
She had come down to the front of the stands and leaned over the railing, clearly searching for Nick. Tucker couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Then she turned to look at someone who’d apparently called her name.
Derek Joiner sidled up next to her, and Tucker scowled.
Why was that smooth-talking metrosexual sucking up to Claire? His slick blond hair gleamed in the lights and his smile flashed. His teeth were probably whitened.
A hot bolt of jealousy stabbed through Tucker when Joiner laid his hand on Claire’s arm. Tucker would bet big bucks that Joiner’s manicured fingers would gleam in the lights, too. He watched them, brooding, his hands itching to tear the little weasel away from Claire.
“Coach?”
One of the captains interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to the boy with a start. “Yeah, Coolvin?”
“Same starting lineup?” the boy asked.
Tucker cursed himself for allowing Claire to distract him. These boys deserved his full attention. “Yeah, same starters,” he said.
He avoided looking at the stands, wouldn’t allow himself to look at Claire as he watched the first plays unfold. They weren’t going to score on this drive. Hell, they’d be lucky if they scored at all tonight.
He looked to the end of the bench, where Nick sat with his hands between his knees, his head bent. “Kendall,” he barked. “Come here.”
Nick jerked his head up and stood up. The hope in his eyes was heartbreaking. He hurried over to Tucker.
“It looks like you’re going to have to punt,” Tucker said. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “I’m ready, Coach.”
“Okay. When you get out there, you take a few deep breaths and relax. You’ve done a good job in practice this week. Just pretend you’re still practicing. Keep your leg straight and you’ll be fine.”
“Right, Coach. I’ll remember.” Nick nodded vigorously as he shifted from foot to foot.
A few moments later, Tucker patted him on the back. “You’re up, Kendall.”
Nick bounded onto the field, got into position and kicked the ball. It rose into the air, then slowly fell back to the ground.
As soon as the boy who caught the ball had been tackled, Nick trudged off the field, his head down. Tucker intercepted him before he reached the end of the bench.
“You’ll do better next time, Kendall,” he said.
Nick nodded and kept walking.
“Let’s walk through a kick again.” Tucker slung an arm around Nick’s shoulders, feeling the tension that hummed through him. “Even the pros walk through before they take a kick.”
Nick listened as Tucker broke down a punt, step by step. By the time he’d finished, the tightness had disappeared from Nick’s face. Then he went and stood on the sideline instead of retreating to the bench.
WHEN THE GAME ENDED, Tucker shook hands with the opposing coach, then watched as his team filed down the field, exchanging hand-slaps and muttered “good games” with their opponents. He couldn’t bear to look at the scoreboard, the evidence of their failure. It’s just a high school game, he told himself as he walked away. He’d damn well better pull himself together before the post-game locker room speech.
He swallowed the bitter-tasting anger and disappointment and managed to smile as the kids trooped off the field. “Sophomores, you grab the water coolers,” he said. “Juniors and seniors, pick up any equipment on the field. Freshmen, make sure there’s nothing lying around beneath the bench. Then I’ll see you in the locker room.”
He headed into the building, then locked himself in the washroom and paced from one side to the other. He hated to lose, loathed it with a fierceness that still burned. When he’d been the one wearing a uniform, a loss like this would have had him punching a hole in the locker room wall.
A metal garbage can stood in his way and he kicked it with a vicious swing of his foot. It flew through the air and smashed into the wall. The noise of it crashing to the floor rang in his ears like the echo of a hundred cymbals.
The sound jerked him abruptly back to reality. This wasn’t an NFL game. This was Monroe High School, and the players were boys who would be studying him to see how he reacted to the loss.
It was his responsibility to teach them the important things about sports.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and reached for his composure.
Ten minutes later, the team sat uneasily on the locker room benches or leaned against a
wall, holding their helmets. None of them would look him in the eye.
“All right, guys, what do you think about our first game?” Tucker asked.
No one said a thing.
“Captains? Porter? Coolvin?” Tucker asked with a raised eyebrow.
Finally one boy muttered, “We sucked.”
Tucker waited, looking around at the others, but no one else said a thing. “Is that what you all think?” he asked. “That we sucked?”
Grunts and curt nods were his only answers.
“Want to know what I think?” He waited for a moment, but no one said a thing. “Sucked is the last word I’d use to describe how we did.” He met each boy’s gaze, one by one.
“I’m proud of you. Every single young man on this team played hard. Every one of you gave it all you have. And every one of you played a clean game.”
He paused. “Those are the things that are important. The final score isn’t the final measure of a game. In all the ways that count, you guys were winners tonight. You should be proud of yourselves.”
The boys shuffled their feet, but their faces began to relax. Had they been afraid he was going to chew them out?
“Now get out of here,” Tucker said with a smile. “It’s Friday night. Don’t you guys have anything better to do than hang around a locker room?”
Suddenly, the tension broke and the boys were laughing and joking with each other. Tucker watched them for a moment, then went into his tiny office.
As he wrote some notes about the game and what they needed to work on, he sensed someone in the door. When he looked up, Nick Kendall stood there, looking miserable.
“Kendall,” he said. “Come on in. What do you need?”
“I think I should quit,” he muttered, standing stiff and tense.
“Quit?” Tucker raised his eyebrows. “Quit what? Quit flirting with pretty girls? Quit eating ten pounds of junk food every day? What do you want to quit?”
His face flamed. “I think I should quit the team.”
Tucker leaned back in his chair and studied the boy. “Why is that, Nick?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“Because I really did suck tonight,” Nick said. He looked close to tears. “I didn’t help the team at all.”
Hometown Girl Page 8
