The Weather Girl

by Amy Vastine

  It took everything he had not to laugh out loud. His dad missed him? His dad could visit anytime he wanted. Travis lived the same forty minutes away that Conner did, and Travis knew he’d been to Conner’s house plenty of times since the baby was born. Travis’s phone worked just fine, too. His dad didn’t miss him. His dad missed who he had been. He didn’t have the time of day for this version of his son.

  Travis didn’t dare bring up the trouble with his dad. It was better his mom thought everything between them was fine. Travis had grown up in a house where he was taught not to worry his mother.

  He hung up and scrubbed his face with his hands. This Friday was going to be torture. It was time for him to face all the people who’d supported him and his career all these years. He had to suffer through all their condolences, sympathetic looks and pats on the back. Best of all, Summer would be there to witness it, giving her more reason to think he was a loser.

  His relationship with Summer was shaky at best. She hated football. She was unfazed by the dimples. All the things that made him so desirable to women in the past had no effect on her. There was no reason for her to agree to meet his mother. Still, Travis was a glutton for punishment. He got up and perched himself on the corner of her desk. She smelled like spring—fresh and flowery.

  “So, we’re going to the Sweetwater homecoming game this weekend.” He picked up her paper clip holder, which she promptly took away from him and set back down. “Do you know what that means?”

  Refusing to look at him, Summer sighed. “It means I need to bring earplugs to protect my hearing from the screaming fans and my abundance of indifference to make sure your head doesn’t get too big.”

  “Ha-ha.” Considering he was coming back a has-been, there was no danger of an overinflated head. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

  “Oh, come on, the fair prince is returning to his kingdom,” she said with a flourish of her hand.

  Little did she know, his trip to Sweetwater was more like the return of the prodigal son. He had squandered his chances of fame and fortune and could only hope his father would forgive him. This was a bad idea. Inviting her to his parents’ house was asking her to make things too personal between them. He’d tell his mom she couldn’t make it. He’d do a brief introduction at the game and that would be that. “Never mind.”

  He headed back to his desk and pulled up his script for the five o’clock newscast. He tried putting some of the report in his own words to make it easier to regurgitate.

  “So what does it mean?” Summer pressed. She folded her arms across her chest. “And don’t say nothing.”

  Leaning back in his chair, his fingers nervously drummed on his thighs. “It means I’m going home, and maybe you’d ride with me instead of in the station van. We could stop by my parents’ before the game. My mom’s a big fan of yours.” Her bluebird eyes widened a bit. “I told her I could probably get her some one-on-one time with you if she made cupcakes.”

  “Cupcakes? The red velvet ones?”

  “Those are the ones,” he said, managing a smile. It was humiliating to need a bribe.

  She pondered his request for a second or two. “Did you know there was a tornado in Sweetwater back in 1986 that developed with little warning and caused almost fifteen million dollars in damages?” Her voice was a little higher than normal.

  Travis figured that was better than a no. “My parents lived in Sweetwater back in ’86. My mom might be able to give you a firsthand account of that tornado.”

  Interest flickered in her eyes. “Don’t tease me.”

  “No lie,” he said, making a mental note to call his mother immediately and make sure she knew something about that storm before Friday.

  “Summer!” Ken shouted across the newsroom. He marched over to Travis’s desk, his face red and his fingers tugging on the collar of his shirt as if his tie was too tight. “Why are you here and not at your appearance?”

  “Someone from the school called me and said they had to cancel,” she replied calmly.

  “That’s funny, because I just got a call from the principal of Hooper Elementary, asking why she had a gymnasium full of children and no meteorologist there to enlighten them about tornadoes.”

  Summer shook her head and flipped through the planner on her desk. “I swear, someone canceled. I didn’t write down the name, but I know the woman said she was from Hooper.”

  “Why would they call you and not me?” Ken’s tone put Travis on edge. He felt the urge to stand in between his livid boss and the Weather Girl. “When have you ever handled scheduling your own appearances? Everything goes through me, Summer. It always has.”

  Flustered and looking as if she wanted to share every fact she knew about tornadoes—or any weather phenomena, for that matter—Summer continued to defend herself. “I didn’t think about it. I assumed they had someone transfer the call to me. We can reschedule. Whatever they want to do.”

  “They want you there thirty minutes ago. That’s what they want. You represent this station. When you mess up, it makes us all look bad. Be where you are supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there.”

  “But—”

  “No excuses. I rebooked you for next week.” Ken turned to go but stopped. “And this time, even if someone calls to cancel, I expect you to show up anyway, understand?”

  Summer clamped her lips together and nodded. Ken went back to his office, slamming his door hard enough to quiet the whole newsroom for a second or two. Travis watched Summer take a deep breath, forcing herself to remain in control.

  “Boy, I think the boss man needs a day off,” Travis said to lighten the mood.

  “Someone called and canceled. I have never missed an appearance in the three years I’ve worked here.” Summer bit her lip.

  “Say it,” Travis said. Her chin trembled. “Say it. You know you need to say it.” Summer covered her face with her hands, shaking her head vigorously. “Summer...”

  From behind her hands, she let it out. “Did you know Hurricane Katrina caused 108 billion dollars in damages and was responsible for 1,836 deaths? Or that the storm surge was twenty feet high and approximately ninety thousand square miles were affected?”

  “It’s incredible how much destruction one storm can cause,” Travis said.

  Summer dropped her hands and glanced down at him. She was so darn adorable he couldn’t help wanting to make her feel better. Travis stood up and touched her shoulder. “You missed an appearance. It isn’t like you destroyed the entire Gulf coast.”

  Summer gave him the smile he was looking for. She didn’t need to say anything; the gratitude was clear in her eyes.

  “So you’ll come with me?” he asked, feeling a bit more confident than he did when this conversation first started.

  “Let’s see... I don’t have to ride in the van, I get cupcakes and a firsthand account of the Sweetwater tornado.” She seemed to pause for dramatic effect. “You got yourself a deal.”

  * * *

  ALL OF SWEETWATER was properly geared up for the big Friday night homecoming game. Store windows throughout the downtown were decorated with fire-truck red and bright white paint. Signs lined the streets, wishing the Mustangs good luck and encouraging them to WIN, WIN, WIN. Several houses proudly displayed the names and numbers of the players who lived there. Football never failed to bring this community together.

  The Lockwoods lived on a friendly street in the heart of Sweetwater just a few blocks from the high school. Travis fondly remembered playing games of two-hand touch in the street with Conner and the neighbor kids. Eight or so boys of varying ages would gather out there before getting called in for dinner. It was the only time football was carefree for Travis. No pressure. His only worry had been getting out of the way of passing cars.

  There were no boys playing ball or parents c
oming home from work today. The street was quiet as they climbed out of the car. Summer, on the other hand, had been quite talkative on the drive over. Besides the weather, she chatted about her dog and her grandparents. She continued to be evasive about her parents, but Travis sensed they weren’t a topic for small talk.

  A large shade tree in front of the house cast early-evening shadows on the path that led to the door. “Welcome to Casa Lockwood,” he said, holding the door open for her as they entered the house. The smell of every possible bakery delight enveloped them. His mother must have spent the entire day making treats for her beloved son. Travis inhaled deeply.

  “Anybody home?” he called out.

  There was quite a racket in the kitchen, clanking pans and a buzzing timer.

  “Oh, my baby boy is home!” His mom came flying out to greet her guests. She had an apple-red apron tied around her waist and her hair was done up in a sophisticated twist. Olivia Lockwood looked good no matter the time or the place. She introduced herself to Summer and gave her a hug before quickly moving on to Travis, who she clung to for dear life.

  There was little resemblance between mother and son, aside from the dimples. His mom was a petite, dark-haired former beauty queen. Everyone who knew them always noted how he and his mother shared the same smile, but everything else was clearly inherited from his father.

  “Hi, Mama. Smells good in here.”

  Visibly overjoyed at the thought of feeding her son, his mom bounced on the balls of her feet. “Just wait till you see what I got for you to take back to Abilene.”

  One thing Travis truly loved about home was his mother’s cooking. “Where’s Dad?”

  His mother’s face fell for a second, but she quickly put her hostess smile back on. “Oh, you know him. He’s slower than molasses. Came home from work and messed around in the backyard for twenty minutes. Now he’s upstairs doing Lord knows what. I’ll run up and get him.”

  Travis frowned. Avoid, avoid, avoid. It was all his dad did lately. He didn’t come to the phone when Travis called. He hadn’t been to Abilene to see Travis’s new place yet. He hadn’t even responded to the few texts Travis had sent.

  Travis and Summer moved farther into the house. Everything was beautifully arranged. The UT blanket Travis had given his mother for Christmas one year was perfectly folded and draped over her favorite chair by the fireplace. Framed photos of the first grandchild littered the mantel. All of Olivia’s Martha Stewart Living magazines sat beside the chair in a basket. Travis’s mother loved baskets. She had enough to hold just about everything in the entire house that needed holding.

  “These pictures are beautiful,” Summer said from behind him. She stared up at the wall of photographs framed on the wall opposite the fireplace.

  “I can’t believe she did this.” He smiled, surprised his mother had chosen so many of his favorites. She’d framed the photos he’d taken of the Statue of Liberty at night, and the fog rolling in around the Golden Gate Bridge. There was the one of his grandmother’s rose garden in full bloom, and the one of the giant bean in Millennium Park from his wintery trip to Chicago last year.

  “Did you know this sculpture is really called Cloud Gate?” Summer asked, pointing to that last photo. “No one calls it that, but I think it’s a much better name than The Bean.” Her nose wrinkled and Travis’s smile widened. Only Summer would know something like that.

  “He’s quite talented, isn’t he?” His mother had snuck up on both of them.

  “Who?” Summer asked.

  “Travis. He’s got a good eye for pretty things, don’t you think?” His mother gave him a wink that made him wonder whether she was still talking about the photographs.

  Summer looked a little stunned. “You took these?”

  Travis shrugged. “Anybody can take pictures of things.”

  “I can’t even take a picture of my dog without it turning out blurry,” she replied, turning back to the photos.

  He’d never put too much thought into how easy or difficult it was to capture a decent shot. Travis photographed things he thought were cool to look at when he traveled around the States. It was his way of remembering the places he’d been.

  The buzzer went off in the kitchen. “Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Lockwood?” Summer asked.

  “Oh, call me Olivia, dear.” She took Summer by the hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. “You can help me box up some goodies for Coach Phillips. Travis, you go tell your father to get down here.”

  Travis begrudgingly obliged while Summer followed his mom into the kitchen. He didn’t have to go all the way up—he bumped into his dad on the stairs.

  “You made it,” the elder Lockwood said, giving his son an awkward pat on the back. Something was up. His dad was smiling. It had been a while since Travis had seen that.

  “Mom thought you got lost up there.”

  He stopped abruptly at the bottom landing and turned to face Travis, who was right on his heels. Father used to tower over son when Travis was a kid. Now, even though the boy was a man and he could look his dad in the eye, Travis still felt intimidated in his presence. They shared the same broad shoulders and stormy blue eyes. His dad was in good shape for his age, could probably bench-press the same weight as Travis if they made a game of it. There was no one more competitive than Sam Lockwood.

  “I was on the phone.” His dad’s strong hand came down on Travis’s bad shoulder. “I think I found the guy who’s going to fix you,” he said in a hushed tone. He smiled wider, then took off for the kitchen, where they could hear nothing but laughter and more clanging.

  Travis grabbed his dad’s arm and stopped him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His dad leaned back to get a look inside the kitchen, and, satisfied no one was paying them any mind, he whispered, “I found a doctor, Trav. This guy has looked at all the reports and all the scans. He thinks he can go in—”

  “Dad, I don’t think—”

  Clinging to the last of his hope, his father made his case. “I’ve talked to a lot of people, son. All of them say this guy works miracles. He believes we can get you back on the field in a year.”

  Travis’s stomach ached, but no longer from hunger. He’d been waiting for his dad to offer up his opinion on what he should do next with his life, but he never thought it would be this. They had been to half a dozen doctors, who had in turn consulted with enough specialists to fill an entire hospital. All of them said Travis risked permanent nerve damage if he continued to play. There was nothing that could be done. Playing football was not an option, and he hated that he had to disappoint his father one more time. As if the past six months hadn’t been enough.

  “I’m retired. It’s over,” Travis said, watching his dad’s eyes shift from hopeful back to disappointed. It was almost too much to bear.

  “You won’t even go consult with him? Hear him out?”

  “I don’t see the point of any more surgeries.”

  “So you give up, is that it?”

  “I need a plan B, Dad.” They’d had this conversation. After doctors number five and six. Travis needed closure. He couldn’t hold on to old dreams. “I can’t go back. You think I can play, knowing twenty doctors told me one hit could leave me with debilitating pain the rest of my life? Football is as mental as it is physical. I will not be the same player. I won’t be what any team needs. I won’t be who you need me to be.”

  “You think I need you to be a sportscaster for a small-town news station?” His father’s words stung worse than the pinched nerves in Travis’s neck.

  “I’m doing the only thing that was offered to me. If I could play, I would. I...I can’t.”

  “Well, I had no idea I raised a quitter,” his dad said bitterly, leaving Travis standing there thoroughly shamed.

  From where he wallowed outside the kitchen
, Travis could hear his father turn his frustration on his mother. “Good Lord, Olivia, are you having a bake sale? Who is going to eat all of this stuff?”

  “Did you forget how much food your sons eat?” his mom shot back.

  “I know how much our oldest eats, but for all I know the one out there gave up on eatin’, too.” His father’s comment was another hit to Travis’s crumbling defenses.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” his mom asked. Travis couldn’t understand how the disappointment didn’t exist in her world. He wondered if his parents ever talked about him and what his father shared or didn’t share.

  “Nothing, Liv. Nothing,” Travis heard his dad answer.

  His mother jumped right into introducing Summer. Travis suddenly regretted bringing the Weather Girl. The last thing he wanted was for Summer to see how dysfunctional his family had become. He mustered up the courage to set foot into the kitchen and was taken aback by the abundance of baked goods. All of Travis’s favorite cookies lay cooling on racks: chocolate chip, peanut butter, oatmeal brown sugar. Brownies, cupcakes and mini pies covered the island. Summer flashed him a smile. She was tying red and white ribbons on bags of treats. His mother must have given her the 1950s frilly and flowery apron she was wearing. Leave it to Summer to figure out how to fit right in just when Travis felt as if he didn’t belong here anymore.

  “Did someone say bake sale?” Travis asked as if that were his reason for looking and sounding so dejected.

  “See?” his mother said to his father. “He hasn’t lost his appetite. I know my son.” She turned to him. “I made a few extras for the coaches and some of the boosters. But you can have whatever you want.”

  He wasn’t as hungry as he had been when he arrived, but Travis wasn’t about to turn down the red velvet goodness she placed in front of him. The cream cheese frosting was homemade and like nothing he’d ever tasted anywhere else. He wasn’t lying when he told Summer his mother’s cupcakes made him cry.