Seems Like Old Times

by Joanne Pence

  She turned quickly toward narrow built in shelves near the stove and tried to study his collection of spices while waiting for her heartbeat to stop doing the crazy rhumba it had launched into. "It looks like you've become quite a cook."

  "Not really, but I enjoy it." He ran his fingers through his hair, glad to change the subject. "I'l1 put on that coffee now."

  Lee walked to the opposite side of the kitchen and sat at the table while she watched him grind up some coffee beans and fill the coffee pot with French roast. He moved smoothly through his kitchen, obviously comfortable with it. Her eyes devoured his broad back, the deftness of his hands as he worked, the play of his muscles as he bent and stretched to get the things he needed.

  When done, he turned to her. "Why don't we go into the living room while the coffee's brewing? I'll build a fire. The fog came in over the hills tonight. It's getting a little chilly."

  "Fine." She jumped to her feet.

  He made a fire, then put on a compact disc of the Modern Jazz Quartet. That done, the coffee was soon ready.

  They drank their coffee by the firelight. Tony pulled off the sweater he wore over his black turtleneck, and sat on the hearth. Lee sat on a chair at his side watching the fire, enjoying the warmth of the coffee as she sipped on it.

  "So, tell me," Tony asked, "how does it feel to be home?"

  "Strange. Everything's different, yet there's so much the same. I'm still baffled by it all."

  He smiled. "But, aside from clearing out your mother's house, have you enjoyed being back while it's lasted?"

  "Yes. There's no doubt. For the longest time, I felt awkward and thought I'd made a mistake. But Miriam was stubborn. She found reasons to keep me here, and as time passed, I think she was right. I needed to come home. I'm glad I got to see the town, to spend this time with my aunt, to see...old friends."

  "It's good to see you, Lisa. Different. Better than I expected it would be."

  Better than I expected, too, she wanted to say, but she didn't. "Tell me about yourself, Tony. What have you been up to all these years?"

  "There's not much to tell."

  "There's baseball."

  "Baseball...yes." He'd planned to boast. In his dreams, he'd flaunted his success at her. But not now. "Two years with the Cubs, three with the Braves, and a few months in Montreal...."

  Lee's mouth dropped and she leaned forward. "You spent all that time in the majors? The majors? Tony, that's wonderful! You did it!"

  He smiled broadly at her excitement, then dropped his gaze to his coffee cup. "It was the best," he whispered.

  She gazed at the wistful expression on his face. "What happened?" Her voice was soft.

  "It was a combination of things. Lots of people think that once you make it to the majors, you’re set for life. But it’s not so. I started out as a utility infielder. When someone was hurt, I'd go in, but I never made the regulars--the starting nine."

  "But at least you were there."

  He nodded. "Yeah, that’s true. Just to stay sharp and in shape meant I had routines of exercise and coaching and personal trainers. People thought that it wouldn’t take much to get my playing up to a level that I could become a regular. If not with my team, through a trade. That meant a lot more coaching, a lot more exercise, winter ball, a lot more pressure to do more, watch the stats, never fuck-up."

  "I know what you mean," she said. "It’s exactly that way in television."

  "It worked. I was traded to Montreal. I was their starting shortstop."

  "Tony, that’s wonderful."

  "Yeah, wonderful. I had everything I thought I wanted. Then I looked around me--not just at my teams, but at all of baseball at that level. At the egos, and the competition, and the salaries, and the pressure--the god-awful pressure--not only from owners and managers, but from fans, as well as yourself."

  "Tell me about it," Lee said. "The money and back-stabbing because of it, in broadcasting, is really ugly."

  He nodded, then sipped his coffee and looked at the fire a moment before replying. "One day, I remember I was looking at a schedule my agent had sent me. More coaching, more practice, winter ball, lots of PR events--both personal and for the team. I said, wait a minute. I had a child I barely knew and my father was getting older. I had to make a decision: was it worth it? I’d made enough money to live comfortably the rest of my life. Not high on the hog, but okay. I got into baseball because I loved the game, and I’ll always love it. But I realized there was more to life. I’d spent fifteen years playing pro ball, and I’m glad I had that time." He stopped talking.

  "What did you do?"

  "Consciously, nothing. But subconsciously, I wonder. I started getting hurt--hamstring pull, broken finger. Nothing big, just enough to get in the way of being the best I could. When the team sent me down to the minors, I quit."

  As his story concluded, his low, deep voice took her vividly back to the days and nights they had spent together, sharing their dreams of the future. The future he'd dreamed of had come and gone already, and she had missed it. Missed his joy, his excitement, and missed the bad times, the down side. The weight of those lost years was like a physical pain to her. The decision to leave baseball, the thing he loved so much, must have been agony for him. She lowered her gaze. "It must have been hard, Tony, so very hard."

  He nodded, glad she understood. "Yeah, it sure was. I spent a lot of sleepless nights worrying. But then, I bought the ranch. I’m glad it worked out this way. I’m...content."

  She noticed he didn’t say happy. But as she’d grown older, she’d concluded that "happy" was a state only for the young. Maybe he felt that way, too.

  He rose and walked to the built in shelves on one side of the fireplace. Trophies and mementos filled it. "This baseball, Lisa, is from the first home run I hit when I was in Little League. I always wanted to be a baseball player, but it demanded more, in the end, than I was willing to give."

  He ran his fingers over the baseball, then looked at the other trophies a moment. She could practically see his memories ticking by. Finally, he returned to the hearth and sat, his legs bent and his hands resting on his knees. "Now, I'm enjoying Ben's team. Eventually, I'd like to work with high school boys. That's where you get the ones who are really serious, and where a coach can make or break a talented boy. I want to be a good coach for them."

  She touched his hand, the way his words touched her heart. He turned his hand over, palm up, and wrapped his fingers around hers.

  She looked at their entwined fingers, and raised her eyes to his face to see that he, too, was studying their joined hands. And what had begun as a gesture of understanding, catapulted into something stronger, as a sharp awareness of him radiated from her fingers throughout her body. She took in the long, black lashes that fanned his cheeks, and the sensuousness of his lips. She wanted to trace the line of his lips, she wanted to feel his mouth against hers, his arms around her, just as she used to. But also, she wanted more. More than she had even known about as a young, high school girl.

  "Why did you leave, Lisa?" he whispered, his face stark. "What went wrong? Was it because of me? Because of what started the night of the prom? Were you so ashamed of me--of us?"

  She stared at him, horrified by his words, her heart breaking. "Oh God, Tony. Is that what you thought?" Her hand tightened on his, and with her free one she touched the side of his face, his hair--so much thicker and coarser than the soft locks she had loved to stroke when they were young. There were times she thought she knew Tony’s face better than her own. "It wasn’t you."

  "What, then? Everything was fine, then I left for baseball camp and you turned completely cold. It was as if you'd flipped a switch. One day we were in love, and the next...You went to San Diego to go to school instead of Los Angeles, but you didn't say why. You wouldn't talk to me; wouldn't explain."

  Memories washed over her. "You're wrong. I tried to explain."

  "You said a lot of words. You never told me the truth."

  Sh
e stared at him.

  "I thought...so many terrible things," he admitted. "Why, Lisa? Won't you tell me?"

  What could she say? The truth screamed in her head, but she couldn't do that to him, or to herself. It had been pushed far in the past, and had to stay there.

  "I was confused," she said finally, weaving the lie she'd learned to live with. "I was...I thought I was doing what was best--for you as well as for me. I thought I shouldn’t see you--that you needed to concentrate on your baseball career."

  He drew his hand away from hers. "Stop. It was more than that, whether you admit it or not. Tell me, was it that easy for you to forget me?"

  "No." She felt pressure behind her eyes. "I never did."

  "Then, I don’t understand--"

  "Please. It was so long ago. It was a mistake, one of many mistakes." Her body trembled and she folded her arms, hugging them to her chest.

  As if he, too, needed to put distance between the emotional bond that connected them still, he stood and went over to the window, resting his hands on his hips. "It's so foggy out you can't even see the trees in the front yard."

  He did nothing she could see, but as always, he drew her to him. She stood at his side, also facing the window. "Perhaps they aren't there anymore. Perhaps nothing is." She took a shuddering breath. "It's so strange, Tony, being here...in Miwok...with you. I feel as if I've drifted away somewhere, that I'm not quite the same person, and it's not quite the same year as shown on the calendar."

  "Things in some ways are the same," his words echoed hers, but his voice was hollow, "and in some ways altogether different."

  "I don't know what to make of it. The Lee Reynolds I've been in New York seems to grow dimmer with each passing day, but Lisa Marie isn't here either. She's gone. She doesn't exist anymore. I know that. Yet, it's as if I'm drifting as aimlessly as that fog bank. And everywhere I look, it's the past I see."

  "I know one thing," he said as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. "The past might haunt you sometimes, but it's gone, no matter how much you might wish otherwise. And there's not a damn thing a person can do about it." His embrace was both a sanctuary and a prison, offering security and bliss, but asking for promises she could not keep.

  She shut her eyes a moment, then glanced at him, her voice so soft he barely heard it. "I can't help but think, if things had turned out differently, of what might have been."

  He heard a wistful longing in her voice that tugged at him. He couldn't let her do this to herself. Or to him.

  He placed both his hands on her shoulders and held her straight out before him. "The funny thing about people, Lisa, is when they see life in a certain way, they make choices that fit what they see. As strange as people may seem, they're remarkably consistent creatures. Time after time, given the same circumstances, they'll make the very same choices."

  Her shoulders sagged under the weight of his words. "So Lisa Marie will always choose to become a journalist, and Tony will always choose baseball."

  "Was that how you saw it, Lisa?"

  "Wasn't it?"

  He pulled her into his arms in a hug, as brotherly as he could manage. He shut his eyes, as if not seeing her could protect him against the feel of her, the scent of her, but it didn't. He was rocked by her nearness, by the need that was always just below the surface when she was with him.

  He wanted her as much as when he was a boy. No, he realized. Even more. Back then he didn't know an iota of what he knew now about loving a woman. But he still remembered the pain of losing her. Once was enough. Choose baseball? He had no choice. And in a way, a much worse way, neither did she.

  Lisa left him once, and she had already told him she was leaving again. This time, he was not going to let it shatter him.

  He set her from him and turned to tend the fire.

  She folded her arms again, hugging them tight against her rib cage so as not to reach out for him. What was happening to her? Why? Why, suddenly, this longing? this ache?

  "Would you like more coffee, Lisa?" he said, his back still to her as he struggled to maintain the composure he had nearly lost.

  "It's very late. I should go."

  A jazz saxophone played softly in the background and the fire logs snapped and popped. He straightened and brushed the ash from his fingers against the back of his jeans before he faced her, his expression carefully neutral, then picked up her jacket and held it open.

  She slipped it on. The light from the fireplace cast a warm, orange glow over the soft lines of the living room furniture. She liked this room. It was a room that shouldn't know loneliness. Not his. Not hers.

  He held open the front door and she forced herself to walk toward it. But as she stepped in front of him, he reached out and placed his hand on her arm. Even through the jacket she could feel her skin burn where he touched her, she could feel her heart nearly stop, and her breath catch. Her eyes flashed to his, then drifted downward to his nose, his lips. She wanted him with a force that left her weak and trembling.

  His fingertips rose to her cheek, then to a stray wisp of hair near her ear, brushing it back away from her face. He cupped the back of her neck.

  "You know, don't you, that if I were to kiss you, I wouldn't want to stop?" The words were thick in his throat.

  "If you were to kiss me," she whispered, "I wouldn't want you to stop."

  His fingers trailed against her jaw line, his thumb slowly tracing the side of her face as his eyes softened and grew warmer. Blood pulsated hard through her body. It was all she could do not to wrap her arms around him, pull him against her, and kiss him hot and slow and sensuous. But she hesitated, and then it was too late.

  She felt as if a wall separated them and she was suddenly scared to death of what would happen were she to step over to the other side of it. She thought of the words he had spoken earlier about the past being over. It was. Lisa Marie had grown up.

  And so she turned away from him and walked out the door.

  o0o

  Her conversation with Bruce that night was very short. He was too angry to talk after learning she wouldn’t be home for the dinner party at Baldwin’s.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, Miriam was up early. She was packing lunches when Lee walked into the kitchen. "What’s this?"

  Miriam’s face turned fiery red. "I’m going to a rodeo in Salinas with Gene. I think it’s the biggest one held in California, and it’s going on this week. I’ve never been to a rodeo before, so I said yes. I...um...had thought you’d be on your way to New York, so I didn’t mention it. But now, you’re staying, and I didn’t want to leave you, but then Gene has been so excited about taking me, and...oh, God!" She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks.

  Lee grinned. "I think it’s great that you’re going, Miriam. I didn’t know you wanted to see a rodeo."

  "I didn’t either." She bustled about, her eyes avoiding Lee’s as she began building huge sandwiches of cold meats and cheeses. "Gino used to ride in them--he rode the bulls. The goal is to hang on for a certain amount of time. Can you believe it? He made it sound so exciting!"

  "You call him Gino?"

  "I don’t know where he found the nerve," Miriam mused, lost in thought about the man. "I’d be afraid to touch a bull, let alone try to sit on one."

  Lee laughed. "Well, you and Gino, have fun."

  "Oh, I will. And...um...don’t worry about me if we don’t get back tonight."

  Lee’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

  "It’s three hours to Salinas and another three back. Gino will be driving, and if he seems too tired to drive all the way home..."

  "Ah, of course, can’t let that happen."

  Miriam eyed her stiffly, daring her to say another word. "My feelings exactly!"

  After Miriam and Gene left, Lee faced the job she dreaded more than any other. In fact, she had planned not to do it, but to throw everything in Judith’s bedroom away after the house sold. Now, though, in the big empty house, she
decided to do things the right way.

  Memories flung themselves at her the moment she stepped into the room. Struggling to keep her thoughts focussed only on what she was doing, she unfurled a Goodwill bag, opened her mother's top bureau drawer, scooped up armfuls of underwear, nylons and nightclothes, and shoved them into the bag.

  When she reached the bottom drawer, she sat on the floor to go through it. Under a layer of scarves and handkerchiefs, a metal framed picture lay on its face. She turned it over.

  It was her favorite portrait of her parents. She'd thought it was lost.

  Judith Reynolds was beautiful in a sparkling rhinestone necklace and a low cut, royal blue evening gown that showed off her full breasted but otherwise petite figure to perfection. Her platinum blond hair was styled like Marilyn Monroe's.

  Lee had never been as delicate or beautiful as her mother. "You're such a cow," Judith used to say to her as she was growing up. Even now, as Lee watched her diet carefully to stay thin enough for television cameras, Judith's condemnation rang in her ears.

  In the photograph, standing behind and slightly to Judith's side, his hands on her waist, was Jack. He was much older than Judith, tall and breath takingly handsome, with dark brown hair, and a sparkling glint in his brown eyes.

  When Judith heard he'd been a soldier during the Vietnam War and had been captured and tortured, she was overwhelmed. He was her hero, her own Burt Lancaster, just like in From Here To Eternity.

  But what he'd been through was no movie script, and his nerves had been shattered by his experience.

  Lee set the picture upright on the dresser top and looked at it. Judith’s ideas of marriage to her handsome war hero and the reality of it were apparently quite different.

  Although Lee was only six at the time, she never forgot the last night of her father’s life.

  She’d been asleep, and something woke her. The bedroom door had stood slightly ajar. Down the hall in her parents' room, she saw movement and heard loud voices. She crawled into the hall and knelt on the floor, her nightgown tucked under her knees, trying to make herself small so they wouldn't notice that she was there. It wasn't unusual for her parents' fighting to wake her, but something about that night's fight was different. That night, she was scared.