by Laura Abbot
“What do you think of this one?” His dad was standing beside a gray Honda.
“Okay, I guess.”
“But?”
“It’s not exactly a cool color. It doesn’t have a sun roof.”
“Is that a requirement?”
Andy shrugged. “I guess not. But it’d be good.”
“Let’s look over here, then.” His dad walked toward a candy-red Firebird.
That was more like it. “Yeah, I can see myself in this.”
Then his father gave him the spiel about considering more than looks—as if he was stupid or something. He knew about gas mileage, safety features and insurance rates. Not to mention price.
On the way home, his dad, kinda casuallike, said, “Has your mother talked with you about a car?”
“I guess she thinks you’ll get me one.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption, I’d say.”
Andy felt a squirmy sensation in his stomach. He’d never heard Dad use that tone of voice when talking about Mom. Then he went on. “Shelley and I haven’t been very good at communicating. Especially where you’re concerned.”
No shit. What was this about anyway?
Dad was studying the road like he was in some Grand Prix race. “Did you know I used to ask your mother if you could spend summers with me?”
Summers? Plural? Pam had only mentioned the one. “Not exactly.”
“I did. Up until a couple of years ago when I realized I was fighting a losing battle.”
Andy didn’t know if he bought this story or not. “What stopped you?”
Instead of answering the question, his dad glanced at him. “Did you ever know about those invitations?”
“No.”
“Would you have come?”
“I dunno.”
They’d arrived home. His dad parked the car but didn’t get out. Instead, he put a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “I wanted you to come, son. Always.”
Andy felt queasy. “Why didn’t Mom tell me?”
“She always claimed you had other plans—Little League, camps, trips.” He cleared his throat. “I figured that you preferred it that way.”
Andy erupted. “Like I had a choice? Like either one of you ever asked me what I wanted?” He grabbed the handle and leaped from the car, turning back for one last word. “And now what? You expect it to suddenly be okay? To fix it with a car? Hell, Dad, where’ve you been for sixteen years, huh?”
Blinded by a rage he couldn’t express, Andy rushed past Pam and up the stairs to his bedroom. It was too late for some big father-son moment.
Even if it had prob’ly cost him his wheels. Son of a bitch!
“WELL, SO MUCH FOR communicating,” Grant said, sinking defeatedly into his recliner.
Pam eyed him from the sofa, where she sat in her customary place, a pile of student papers in her lap. “What was that all about?” She nodded toward the stairs.
“Testosterone and one blown opportunity.”
“Is it just today or do you always talk in riddles?”
“You were right.”
“About?”
If a grown man could be said to be sulking, Grant was. “Shelley. Andy. Me.”
She nudged the stack of papers aside. He must be upset—he hadn’t even noticed Sebastian mewing plaintively and entwining himself between Grant’s legs. Getting the story out of him was going to require delicacy. “For what it’s worth, I take no satisfaction in being right.”
“Where were you when I needed you all those years ago?”
Nice as it was to be needed, he wasn’t going to lay this off on her. “A better question might be where were you?”
His frown deepened and he didn’t answer. Pam smoothed her maternity top over her slightly rounded stomach, a sinking feeling making her distinctly uncomfortable. This was definitely not the way to let a man know you cared about him.
“Fair enough,” he grunted. “I told him about the times I asked Shelley to send him for the summer.” He looked at her. “He never had a clue.”
“Is that surprising?”
“I can’t believe I was so gullible.”
“It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”
“Andy’s angry. At both his mother and me. Justifiably. Shelley and I let our own egos get in the way of what was best for him.”
“Anger could be good.”
He gazed at her as if she’d lost her mind. “How do you figure that?”
“If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be angry. He’d be indifferent. So long as he cares, you can reach him.”
“I wish I knew how.”
“By trying. Just like you tell your team. Keep practicing. No pain, no gain, right?”
He gave her an arch look that slowly dissolved into a half smile. “You sound just like a wife.” Then he tried to stand up, encumbered by Sebastian. “Jeez, a cat?” He shook his head. “I guess I’m learning tolerance.”
She watched him leave the room, an amused grin twitching her lips. It had felt, for a few moments, like a real marriage. Full of troubles and strained relationships. But solid.
Which goes to show, she thought wryly, that appearances are deceiving.
THE NEXT WEEK was a whirlwind. Two basketball games, dress rehearsal and three performances of Our Town. Grant wished he could be more help to Pam. She had big circles under her eyes and he knew she wasn’t getting enough sleep. Wednesday night he’d awakened and seen the living room lights on. She was curled up in his chair double-checking the ticket sales and seating assignments, her deliciously curved breasts pressing against her knit T-shirt in a way that sent him scurrying back to bed, full of libidinous thoughts.
Andy, too, was involved with the play. Probably a good thing, since they had both needed a time-out. Grant clung to the tiny ray of hope Pam had given him. Maybe Andy did care. If only they could find a way to communicate without anger and recriminations.
Sunday afternoon Grant finally attended an Our Town performance. He’d had games both Friday and Saturday nights. If it hadn’t been for Beau Jasper’s outstanding play, they’d have been outmatched. When the lights went down and the curtain rose, he found himself caught up with the residents of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire. By Act 3, he realized the tightness in his chest was caused by his identification with Emily, the heroine. Dying tragically as a teenager, she’d been permitted to choose one day to return to earth—to experience things anew, do things over. More than anything, he wanted “do-overs” with his son.
When the final curtain came down to thunderous applause, he joined the rest of the audience in a standing ovation. The kids had been terrific. Then the cast beckoned offstage for the crew, and there was Andy, holding Angela Beeman’s hand, smiling, bowing and looking for all the world as if he, single-handedly, had been responsible for the success of the production.
Then the kids pulled Pam onto the stage and the male lead presented her with a huge bouquet of roses. Her eyes sparkled with tears as she turned to hug first one actor, then another. He was ashamed to admit that this was the first drama production he’d been to in several years.
Andy went with Angela and some of the others to a cast party. Grant lingered to help Pam secure the auditorium. As she turned the lock in the door and started to leave the building, a cool breeze ruffled her hair, coppery-gold in the fading light. He took her arm and tucked it into his. “You should be very proud of yourself. It was wonderful.”
“Thank you, but it’s the kids who made it happen.”
“I understand. That’s how I feel about my players. All the same, they couldn’t have done it without you.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “It’s moments like this that make us remember why we chose teaching.”
“I know.” He helped her into the car and drove slowly through the upscale residential area. Since confronting him about Andy, she had seemed guarded around him, and, in truth, he had resented her interference. But she’d been right. In the afterglow of her success t
oday, maybe they could recapture their earlier closeness. He hoped so.
“Andy really enjoyed himself, I think.” Her eyes shone and her skin, almost translucent, called out to be caressed.
“Thanks to you.” He reached over and took her hand in his, grateful she didn’t pull away. “You have a magic touch with kids.”
“Not with all of them.”
Something in her tone abruptly altered the mood. She had turned to look at him, her eyes telegraphing concern. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to have to talk with Beau Jasper.”
Tightness banded his chest. “Beau?”
“Nothing I’ve said has made a dent. Not with him. Not with his ditzy mother.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Short of a miracle, Beau is going to fail senior English.”
He felt as if he’d just been socked in the stomach. “I need him, Pam.”
She withdrew her hand. “I know you do. And I’ve tried to make him understand. Now it’s up to you.”
“Can’t you help him? Figure out something?”
Her voice grew cool. “Take it up with Beau.”
ANDY GAVE HOWIE an elbow, whirled and passed off to Andre, waiting under the basket. When he went up for the shot, James blocked it. Juan picked up the loose ball, bounce-passed it back to Andy, who hit a three-pointer. Andre strutted over, his palm extended. “My man!” he said, giving Andy a high-five.
Howie held the ball, surveying the others. “Wanna go another five minutes?”
“I’m freezin’ my butt off,” Juan said, picking up his windbreaker from the pavement.
“Pretty soon it’ll be too cold to play after school,” Andy said.
“Yeah, man, for dudes like us who aren’t on the big team,” James made two syllables of team, “winter sucks. Tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Andy pulled the Keystone sweatshirt over his head, hopped on his bike and headed for home. Except for not getting to see Angie every day, he was glad the play was over so he could play basketball more. James was right. Winter sucked. For a few moments he allowed himself to wonder if he’d have made the varsity at his old school. He thought so. After watching the Keystone Knights, he was damn sure he could have played here. He and old Chipper would’ve made an awesome pair.
But that’d mean hours a day with his dad. Who didn’t think he was good at much of anything. If he had, he’d have figured a way to get to Florida to watch him play.
Right. He’d had obligations as a teacher. As a coach. What about his obligations to the son he’d walked out on?
GRANT CLOSED his classroom door and, with a nod, indicated which seat Beau should take. The boy sauntered to the chair, only the high color in his cheeks betraying his nervousness. Grant remained standing, arms crossed, as the boy slid into the desk. “So what’s up, Coach? Why’d you wanna see me?”
“I think you know. A little matter called English.”
Beau’s eyes were hooded. “What about it?”
“Ms. Carver tells me you’re in danger of failing.”
Grant thought he heard Beau mutter “that bitch” under his breath. “What’d you just say?”
The boy looked up, defensiveness in every feature. “I said, ‘That’s rich.’ I do my work.”
“Satisfactorily?”
“She doesn’t like me. I know she’s your wife and all, but she has it in for me.”
Grant moved a step closer to Beau’s chair. “That dog won’t hunt, friend. Ms. Carver has showed me some of your papers and tests. If you gave that kind of effort on the basketball court, you’d be lucky to warm the bench. Are you trying to self-destruct?”
“Man, I never get a break. She loves to give me bad grades.”
Grant felt bile sour his palate. There had to be a way to reach this kid. “She doesn’t give you anything. She evaluates what you earn.”
Beau shot him a skeptical look. “I don’t need this crap. O.U., Baylor and Tech think I’m a hot prospect.”
“You have to get there first. Not likely if you fail English.”
“You think I’m stupid, or somethin’? I’ll pull it out.”
Grant ran a hand through his hair. “You better. You have a whole team counting on it.” He paused. “Come to think of it, you have a whole future depending on it. Don’t blow it. Understand?”
The boy stood up, eyeballing Grant. “No sweat, Coach. She isn’t gonna flunk me. You watch.” He ambled toward the door, then turned back. “Anything else?”
Grant stared at the insolent, blindly overconfident youngster. “No. That’s it.”
The only “anything else” he could think of was to turn the kid over his knee and administer the long-overdue spanking he’d probably never had.
But he also knew the winning season had just walked out the door.
EARLY IN DECEMBER Pam sat at the kitchen table staring at the Christmas cards she’d purchased. “Warm holiday greetings to you and yours” read the message. Her family and friends would expect the cards to be signed “Pam and Grant,” yet by this time next year, she’d be explaining about their divorce. She couldn’t avoid a twinge of sadness. For all the awkwardness of their arrangement, this place felt like home. A very important home. The one where she would first bring her baby.
She picked up the pen and commenced writing a cheery note to her college roommate, then signed it, adding Andy’s name to hers and Grant’s. Heck, for now, this was her family.
Grant arrived home about seven-thirty, filling the kitchen with a blast of cold air and the scent of aftershave. His hair was still damp from his locker-room shower. Pam sighed. He looked downright gorgeous. He paused by her chair. “What’re you doing?”
“I thought I’d better get a head start on our Christmas cards.”
He grinned. “You’re something else. I haven’t sent cards in years.”
“I’d like to include your friends.”
He helped himself to a bowl of soup from the pot simmering on the stove. “Tell you what. I’ll put Xs beside the names in my address book.”
He sat at the far end of the table, making sure he didn’t get food near the cards. She continued addressing them, sneaking looks at him from time to time. She liked the way he ate, with gusto but not sloppily. And she liked how his broad shoulders strained his blue oxford-cloth shirt. Best of all she liked the crinkly laugh lines bracketing his eyes.
He scraped the last of the bowl, shoved it aside, then sat back, folding his hands contentedly over his stomach. “You’re cooking is spoiling me.”
“Don’t get too used to it.” She’d meant it as a joke, but the remark came out as an unintentional reminder of their situation.
“I’ll try not to,” he said tonelessly.
“Grant—” As she struggled to lighten the mood, a strange thing happened. A twitch. Like a butterfly kiss. Her eyes widened and her hand went quickly to that spot on her abdomen. Another flutter. To the right. She moved her hand.
“Pam?” Grant was leaning forward, watching her with concern.
Almost as an aside, she felt the tears on her cheeks. At the same time, she smiled, filled with joy. “The baby,” she stammered, “the baby…”
He’d gotten up and moved beside her. “What?”
“Oh, Grant, it moved. I could feel it.”
“Where?”
And before she could stop to think, she placed his big, warm hand on her rounded belly. “There.”
He frowned in concentration, and then there was a definite thump, stronger than before. His eyes were level with hers, warmed by genuine delight. “Awesome,” he breathed.
They remained in that pose until the flutterings subsided. Then, as if on cue, the phone rang. Grant got to his feet and picked up. “Hello, Will. Yes, she’s right here. I’ll put her on. She’s got some exciting news for you.”
Grant handed Pam the receiver. “Hi, Daddy. Guess what? Your grandchild just made himself known. I felt movement.”
“I reckon that�
��s plumb wonderful.”
“It is. Somehow, it makes everything more real.”
Her father chuckled. “It’ll get a lot ‘realer’ before all’s said and done. How are you feelin’, dumplin’?”
“Great. This second trimester is a breeze compared to the first. How about you? How’s the knee?”
He didn’t answer right away and Pam felt a twinge of apprehension. “That’s partly why I’m calling. I’m having the danged thing replaced.”
“Surgery? Oh, Daddy. Where? When? How can we help?”
“Slow down. Where? Fort Worth. When? I don’t wanna ruin your Christmas plans, but how does December fifteenth sound?”
“I’m so glad you’ll be here where I can keep an eye on you.” She felt Grant’s arm slip around her waist in silent support. She mouthed “knee replacement” to him. “But what about the recovery? You can’t expect to go home.”
“You asked how you could help. The doctor said I could go into a rehabilitation hospital or—”
“You’ll come here, of course.” Belatedly she searched Grant’s face. He nodded. “We won’t hear of anything else.”
“I hate to impose—”
“You won’t. Besides, maybe you can keep Andy company.”
“A fella could do a whole lot worse.”
After she hung up, she turned in Grant’s embrace. “It is all right, isn’t it? I mean, I forgot to ask.”
“You didn’t have to ask, Pam. This is your home. And Will is part of our family.”
“Thank you for that.” Our family. It had such a solid, comforting ring. If only it were true. “There will be some adjustments, though.”
“I know.” Then he grinned in a way that even the most innocent, virtuous maiden couldn’t fail to interpret as flirting. “We’ll have to give your dad the master bedroom. I doubt if climbing steps will be on his immediate therapy plan.”
“But—” The implication set in. They certainly weren’t moving Andy out. And there was only one spare bedroom upstairs. One small bedroom. With one very cozy double bed.
