by Joanne Pence
Lee, however, was the opposite. Lee was sure about everything, chillingly sure. "Of course, Cheryl. I’d be a fool to let him get away. He’s very handsome. An up-and-coming executive. I couldn't ask for more."
Cheryl shrewdly studied her friend a moment. "Well, that's sure as shootin’ good to hear, Lisa. Be practical. That's so like you. The blond, blue-eyed way you've describe Bruce, I imagine him as looking like those smart, rich guys you used to moon over at school. Of course, once they'd pay attention to you, you'd high-tail it right back to Tony Santos. Funny, wasn’t it?"
Lee’s stomach knotted. She didn’t want to think about Tony right now. "Bruce is a big support for me on the news. Some men would hate the hours I have to keep."
"Oh, kid, I am so envious." Cheryl finished her piece of cake. "I look at you on TV at night and I can’t help but remember that we had the same start." She put her elbow on the table, chin in hand. "I guess the difference was that when we were little and played house, I always wanted to be the Mommy and you wanted to be Lois Lane."
"Don't get the wrong impression. Bruce is no Superman."
"That doesn't matter. You don't need any Superman. You can take care of yourself. Me, on the other hand, I've got Clark Kent."
"Oh, poor Mark!" Lee laughed softly at Cheryl's rueful grimace.
Cheryl joined her. "Okay, I'm being unfair. Mark's a good man and I love him dearly but sometimes these four walls are really hard to take." She cut herself a thin slice of cake this time.
"What about you, Cheryl?" Lee asked suddenly. "Are you happy?"
"Despite my complaining, you mean?" Cheryl grinned. "I'm happy. Sometimes, now that the kids are older, I think there's more I can be doing."
"You always talked about being a schoolteacher."
"A part of me still wants to."
"You can do it. Go back to school, get your degree."
"I don't think so."
"Why not? What's to stop you?"
"Me." Cheryl smiled at Lee, and gave a slight shake of her head. "You're still the same. You always knew you could conquer the world, and think everyone else who puts their mind to it can as well. Not everyone is as driven as you are, or willing to work so hard at it. Some of us are content to do only so much."
"I'm not the way," Lee argued.
Cheryl nearly choked on her coffee. "All A's? Miss Perfection? Sometimes it was a bitch even being your friend. But underneath, I knew you were okay. Especially because you were always harder on yourself than anyone else could possibly be."
Lee took a sip of coffee and didn't say a word. She didn't care for the way the conversation had turned.
Cheryl's kitchen was warm and cozy. Sunlight shone on the yellow-wallpapered walls and everywhere were signs of a family. Pictures, magnets, and memos covered the refrigerator door, a wall calendar was filled with red notations, the air smelled of freshly baked cake and good coffee. A mountain of newspapers was piled by the back door and a boy's baseball cap dangled precariously on one cabinet door knob.
With a pang, Tony Santos came to mind.
A fleeting thought formed. If she'd stayed in Miwok she might be living like this, in a warm family home...Tony’s home?
She held the question for the briefest moment, then let it go. Some questions had no answers.
As if reading her mind, Cheryl suddenly asked, "Have you seen any of the old gang yet, or talked to any of them?"
Lee studied her cake. "No. I don't plan to either. I don't have time. Before I know it, Friday will be here. I've got to get my mother's house ready to go on the market. I'll be horribly busy. But I'd like to hear about Suzanne and Abby. What are they doing these days?" The two women she mentioned were part of the foursome they’d been in high school, though she and Cheryl were the closest of the friends. She composed her features, a smile fixed coolly, determinedly on her lips.
Lee felt herself relax as they talked about old friends--other than Tony Santos--for a couple of hours when Lee checked her wristwatch and realized it was time to get back to help Miriam with dinner. A whole afternoon, wasted. Where had the time gone?
Cheryl walked her to her car. "Why don't we get together for lunch real soon?"
The thought of spending more time with Cheryl was surprisingly welcome. "I’d like that, as long as we can fit it in before Friday."
"Tell you what, we can make it a quick lunch."
Lee laughed. "Sounds perfect."
Chapter 4
"Would you like to go back to the house now, Miriam?" Lee asked.
"Not at all. I'm so glad we're taking the time for a Sunday drive. This is wonderful." Her aunt’s head bobbed like a doll’s with a spring neck as she tried not to miss a single house, shop or street sign. "Things haven't changed much, have they, Lisa?" Miriam asked.
"I was thinking the same thing," she said dryly. Visiting Miwok had been like entering a time warp. Presto, it was the fifties again, and the Leave It To Beaver Cleavers lived in the blue-shingled house down on the next block.
"Miwok is comfortable," Miriam said, settling back against in the passenger seat, her blue eyes sparkling. "Like an old shoe."
"That’s one way of putting it." Lee had a closetful of shoes in her Park Avenue condo, and promptly discarded any old ones. Perhaps it was a metaphor for her life. All the old shoes were gone, except for Miriam and Cheryl. And she liked it that way.
Miriam rolled down a window. The air smelled of sunshine, earth and fresh-cut lawns. "Ah, Miwok," she sighed. "When did I forget the clean, healthy way the air smells here?"
Bemused, Lee glanced at her hopelessly nostalgic aunt. "I can put on the air-conditioning if you're warm."
"City girl!" Miriam pursed her lips, but a smile hinted at the corners. "Let's stop at the park, Lisa. I'd love to walk through it once again."
Settlers Park was just ahead. If the red town hall with a weathercock on its clock tower was the heart of town, Settlers Park was its soul. A hopelessly corny soul at that, Lee thought.
Gravel crunched and bounced off the Cadillac as she pulled into the parking lot. Stepping out of the car, she smoothed her pale blue Ralph Lauren dress. The high heels of her blue-suede sling-backs wobbled precariously on the stones as she walked toward the paved pathway.
Beside her, Miriam sauntered along in a striped white and yellow loose sheathe and Birkenstock sandals.
In the park, people ignored Miriam, but their heads turned Lee's way with the same quizzical look that so often greeted her. They recognized her, but without a television set framing her face, she seemed much smaller, more human, even vulnerable. Her pale blond fragility belied the steely nature she had developed. She had a classic beauty, and played it to the hilt. Her wheat blond hair was streaked with platinum and flax, and From the moment she began working in New York City, Lee made sure she was coifed and dressed to kill, which was the reason she chose to wear her hair pulled back from her face in a severe, elegant chignon instead of the rounded, breezy style most television news anchors and reporters chose. Her every gesture, on and off camera, was performed in a cloud of self-assurance. She wanted to make a statement, and she did.
Now, she smiled at the gawkers with just the correct amount of cool reserve and acknowledgement, and continued walking.
On a wide expanse of lawn, adults sunned themselves or played with Frisbees, small children ran and tumbled, and a couple of dogs chased each other in circles.
Up ahead, a green park bench stood empty under a wide elm. "This is so peaceful. Let’s sit a while," Miriam said.
Lee wanted to remind her aunt that they had just spent ninety minutes sitting, but restrained herself. Back at the house was a documentary proposal she’d brought with her from New York. The CABN-TV news executives were considering producing a piece on life in Moscow over the past two years, and she was eager to read it. She wanted a major role in the project, if it was well conceived. She had a simple axiom for getting ahead--travel everywhere, cover everything, and make yourself a pain in the ass unt
il you get what you want, when you want it. She wouldn’t let her annoyance at wasting time in this park make her short with Miriam, however. Her aunt deserved better, and she was feeling guilty for having thrown herself so much into her career, that they had spent little time together. Lee wanted to use these days in Miwok to make up, a little at least, for years of neglect.
She was pacing back and forth, in no mood to sit on the dusty, pollen-laden bench, when a little boy walked by carrying a soda and a hotdog.
"Oh, doesn’t that look good!" Miriam said. "Are you hungry?"
Even if she were, a hotdog was the last thing she’d eat. The thought of the calories and fat content, let alone what it was made out of, was enough to cause her to lose her appetite. "No. Are you?"
"I am thirsty. I’d love some 7-Up. I do believe there's a stand just down that pathway." To Lee's astonishment, Miriam rose stiffly from the bench, and rubbed her knee. She looked like she was in some pain. "Oh my! I must have pulled a muscle or something. Every so often it acts up."
"You stay there," Lee said. "I’ll get it for you."
"If you're sure it’s not too much trouble?" Miriam asked.
"Don’t be silly." Lee watched, concerned, as Miriam slowly sat down again.
"Thanks. Take your time. I'm in no hurry." Miriam already looked quite a bit better.
As Lee followed the curving walk the boy had taken, she heard cheers from beyond a copse of eucalyptus and shrubbery. One of the town's Little League baseball fields was there.
When she was young, she often went to Little League games with Cheryl. Cheryl's three brothers all played. Another cheer rang out. Years ago, she used to go to lots of baseball games. No more, though. There never seemed to be time for such things anymore.
o0o
As she neared the field she saw a group of little boys wearing red caps and jerseys with the name "Bruins" playing against an equally miniature group in blue called the "Bobcats." She bit back a soft chuckle at the sight of the Little Leaguers in their pint-sized uniforms, their bats as tall as they were, and their batting helmets almost covering their eyes. They looked like jar-headed Charlie Browns come to life. But she was sure every one of them dreamed of hitting a home run or pitching a no-hitter. A-Rod, Sammy Sosa, and even Dered Jeter meant a lot more to them than George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, and if given a choice as to who they'd rather be like, the ballplayers would win hands down every time.
A sprinkling of parents sat in the stands, and behind them stood a snack shack. She'd buy the sodas there and maybe Miriam would finally be ready to go back to the house. Lee was curious about that Moscow proposal. She preferred St. Petersburg, but if she had to live a couple of weeks in Moscow to do the special, she’d manage.
The blue pitcher threw the ball to the red batter. It sailed at least five feet over his head. The catcher leaped and still couldn't reach it. "Good eye!" some parent shouted encouragement to the batter and didn’t even sound sarcastic. "Way to watch, buddy."
The batter tapped home plate a couple of times with his bat, wriggled his butt, and raised the bat high over his head, ready for the next pitch. A slight smile touched Lee’s lips. At Little League games any boy could be a hero for a day, and the meaning of courage was learning to step into the batter's box with your team behind, two outs and a runner on third.
"Full count," the home plate umpire called. "Three and two."
Only two strikes? This pitcher was better than the ones she remembered. They used to walk everyone, including the team mascot.
She reached the snack shack, bought Miriam’s 7-Up and a diet Dr. Pepper for herself, then headed back.
The batter had walked--some things never changed--and now stood at first base, looking for a chance to steal. Another boy was at the plate.
She heard the clink of the aluminum bat against the baseball and instinctively looked over her shoulder to see the hit. Everyone was peering upward. "Foul ball!" someone yelled. "Heads up!"
She lifted her head, too, and saw the ball that had been popped high in the air coming down right in her direction.
She quickly took a step back, then another. The ball dropped a few feet in front of her. "I'll get it, lady," a little boy, not in uniform, said as he picked up the ball and tossed it back into play.
"Fine," she answered, checking to see if the soda that sloshed over the cups had landed on her dress. The dress was spared, but a blob of sticky brown soda flattened the soft suede of one shoe. Terrific.
She raised her eyes. Suddenly, the world screeched to a halt, then careened backwards in time.
Standing inside the baseball field, staring straight at her, was Tony Santos.
The sound of birds, the murmur of the crowd, the heat of the afternoon sun, all dimmed and disappeared. She felt cold, then warm, then a little light-headed.
She blinked. Tony. Of all the people she had known in Miwok, he was the one she most often thought about. The one she had stayed curious about after all these years. The one she dreaded ever facing again.
He'd left Miwok years ago, just as she had--just as they'd both always said they'd do. Yet, seeing him here seemed so right, so inevitable, even if she wouldn’t admit it, she knew she had imagined he’d be here.
He wore a red Bruins cap and although it shaded his eyes a little, she could see that they were every bit as big and dark and penetrating as she remembered.
She felt rooted to the spot, and starkly aware of the damp coldness of the sodas in her hands, the smoothness of the silk that skimmed her body, the dull roar in her ears. It was somehow appropriate that even after all these years, she should see him in a baseball cap. That was how she remembered him best.
Yes, she remembered Tony.
As much as she hadn't let herself think about him, he was always there, in her subconscious. Tony...and Miwok. Her insides churned as wretched memories shook her--disgust and hatred, heartache and regret.
The loud cheer of the crowd startled her, and Tony turned his head to see the batter get a hit and make it safely to first base. The runner advanced to third. Then Tony turned to face her again. He didn’t smile; he made no acknowledgement. The hell of it was, she understood why, and knew she was to blame.
Still, she could have been sixteen once more, seeing Tony waiting for her after school, after his team practice or after her student council meeting. Against her will her heart raced, just as it used to do, and a yearning, as familiar as it was startling, filled her. She had to stop this, but instead her face burned at the sudden awareness she felt, and at the awkwardness.
Somehow her lips curved in her television smile--polite, charming, and not giving anything away. She lifted her hand, Dr. Pepper and all, in greeting.
"Hey, Dad!" a boy shouted, loud enough for the stands to hear. "Dad! Quick, who's in the hole?"
Dad?
Lee stared at the child and her world became a dizzying spiral. Her fingers tightened on the sodas. Dad...
Tony looked over at the boy. "What?"
"Who's in the hole?" he yelled again.
"Just a minute." He pulled a rolled-up paper from his back pocket and checked it. His voice seemed a little deeper now. But it was still low, sexy and musical, with a hint of grit. She’d always loved his voice.
As her gaze leaped from father to son, she felt she was coming apart inside. Tony's son was beautiful. He had Tony's black hair and dark eyes. He still had baby fat where Tony was sleek and well toned, and he had his father's light olive complexion. She steeled herself against the sudden ache deep within her. Tall, dark and handsome--that described the Santos men. That described Tony.
Her gaze turned toward the stands, scanning them as she heard Tony call out to a boy named Jimmy that he was the next batter on deck...scanning them as she wondered which of the women watching the game was Tony's wife.
What had passed between her and Tony happened a long time ago and was best forgotten. She glanced back at him and their eyes met. His burned, and yet, he still didn't acknowle
dge her, didn't wave, didn't even smile.
She squared her shoulders, turned and walked with deliberate slowness across the park to her aunt.
Chapter 5
North of Miwok a string of lakes filled the gullies between the coast range mountains to the west and the foothills that edged San Francisco Bay on the east. Along these lakes were small dairy and horse ranches. Among them stood the Circle Z.
Tony and Ben sat in the remodeled kitchen of the farmhouse and ate their way through a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken bought after Ben's Little League game. Tony had spent a lot of time and money on the old house, making it a warm and inviting home for himself and his son. The old-fashioned spacious kitchen, filled with modern conveniences and appliances, was the room he was especially proud of.
Tony’s father, Vic, lived in the cottage that he and Tony had shared when Vic was first given a job at the Circle Z over nineteen years ago. The cottages for Vic and the foreman, bunkhouse for the ranch hands, as well as stables for the ranch horses, boarding stables, and the barn, were grouped away from the main house. Tony enjoyed the business of raising prize Arabian stock and of boarding horses, many of whom were purchased from his own stables, and he spent nearly every day working with his crew.
The chicken was halfway eaten when Vic, as usual, entered through the back door without knocking.
"How'd the game go, Benito?" he asked.
"We won, ten to seven." Ben waved a drumstick in triumph.
"Want to eat, Pa?" Tony asked.
"I don't eat no food I don't recognize. Anyway, I already ate." He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Dos Equis beer, then opened it. He sat at the table and watched Tony and Ben finish eating. "You wanna come down and play some poker tonight?" he asked Tony.
"I don't think so." Tony picked up the plates, rinsed them off then put them in the dishwasher without saying another word. Ben ran outside to play.
