Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  The difference in playing abilities was a killer, too. There were grown men like Greg who had played on a high school or community team—and wore shoes—all the way down to Terrell’s nine-year-old twins, who had to be taught every rule. It was a miracle they got through any innings, let alone five.

  Everybody was hot, sweaty, hungry, and tired. The teams were dwindling, and even the cheerleaders fanned themselves idly on the hill. Carrie was the only one still following the game, the dutiful parent Zach didn’t have.

  Carrie caught Greg’s eye and smiled. For the thousandth time. She’d smiled at him more today than she had in the last month combined, a broad smile that lit up her face. Too broad for Greg’s comfort, especially because it was aimed at him.

  He turned back and wiped his face on the corner of his sleeve. “What’d you think, kid? You done?”

  Zach looked just as hot and sweaty, but he frowned. “It’s only the fifth inning. We can’t quit now.”

  Greg sighed. “Right.”

  He took accounting of the remaining players. The twins ran off to sit by Jada, along with a few other inept players. Suddenly, it was just the men left and Sasha, who played better than most of the men.

  Sensing a shift in power, the adults started staking out their spots. Terrell slid over to first base and Dylan backed into left field. There was only one spot for Greg, but that involved taking a huge risk. Zach, the last non-adult standing, hovered over that ‘pitcher’s mound’ like Mariano Rivera. Greg approached slowly. Thankfully, the kid saw what was coming and handed Greg the ball without complaint.

  “You’re gonna need a catcher,” Zach said. Then he limped toward home, and the sixth inning began.

  Jeff Kovach was first up to bat.

  Greg took his time stretching out his arm—not because it had been years since he’d pitched, not because he was out of practice, or because, after four days of food rations, his muscles were tired and sluggish. Stretching was part of the game, intimidating the batter before throwing a single pitch, and Greg couldn’t have picked a better first batter.

  “Come on,” Jeff said, swinging the old pipe. “You scared or something, Pierce?”

  Greg motioned for Zach to move aside. Zach moved a few feet. Greg waved him further over where he couldn’t get hurt.

  “Give me a break,” Jeff called. “Just pitch already.”

  Stepping back, Greg wound his arm and let the first pitch fly. The ball whizzed past Jeff and Zach with barely a whisper. It rolled to a stop thirty feet away. Jeff spun around to figure out what had happened, but Richard held up a solid fist.

  “Strike!”

  Zach jumped up and down. “Whoa! Did you see that, Carrie? Did you—holy cow! I’ve never seen anything that fast. Did you see that? Did you?”

  Carrie looked at Greg with another smile. “Yes.”

  Zach was still celebrating as he limped after the ball. Jeff clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the old pipe. Greg adjusted his hat and began to stretch his arm again. He was in his element. The pull of the muscle felt good. The heat of the game felt even better.

  Zach chucked the ball back, and Greg massaged it in his bad hand. It was fortunate Carrie had ruined his left hand in the woods and not his right. Otherwise he may have never forgiven her. The bandage almost felt like a mitt. Almost.

  The second time Jeff stepped up to the make-shift plate his eyes were tight in concentration.

  It was too easy.

  Greg struck Jeff out without a single hitch. And Braden after him. And Sasha, Dylan, and every other person who wanted a try. Even Richard gave up umpping for a few, fruitless swings.

  Time and time again, Greg rolled the ball between his fingers, wound his arm, and felt the surge as he let it fly. Outside. Inside. Low, then high. Even a few curve balls for the cocky ones like Jeff. Terrell Dixon got a piece of the ball, but only a piece and a small one at that. The sixth inning had more outs than Carrie could count, turning it into batting practice for the bold and brave. Fine by Greg. There was no better feeling than pitching a no-hitter.

  After striking out for the fourth time, Jeff threw down the pipe. “Alright, hot shot. Let’s see you on the other side of the plate.”

  “Alrighty.”

  Greg picked up the pipe and stood to bat lefty, but before Jeff could pitch, Greg jumped over the ‘plate’ and switched to right. He was better right-handed. But as Jeff wound his arm, Greg hopped back over. Left was safer. Too many people sat by third base.

  The crowd laughed, taking his indecision as antics, but Jeff looked unamused. “You done, Pierce?”

  “Maybe.”

  Batting wasn’t Greg’s strong suit, especially batting lefty, but against Jeff he did well enough. He sent the first pitch sailing for first base.

  Throughout the game, only a few players were brave enough to catch a ball barehanded. Only one was stupid enough to try to stop Greg’s trademark line drive down first base. It nearly snapped Terrell’s thumb off. In turn, Terrell nearly knocked Greg’s head off as he rounded first.

  Huffing, Greg picked up speed and tagged the second base rock before heading for third. Terrell shouted at Zach, warning him that the ball was coming. Knowing Zach could never catch a testosterone-forced throw, Greg sprinted for home.

  “To me,” Jeff yelled. “Throw it to me!”

  “No, he’s mine!” Terrell shouted.

  Greg caught sight of a huge black guy barreling down on him. With ten feet to go, Greg took two giant leaps and launched himself, hands first, sliding into the home rock just as Terrell’s fist smacked his shoulder.

  For a second neither moved. Greg’s arms burned from the attempted slide on the grass, but he wasn’t budging an inch. Not until he heard the call.

  Richard shook his head like it pained him to say it. “Safe.”

  “I concur,” Greg’s mom said, eyes warm. “Welcome home, son.”

  Zach leaped for joy. “Home run! Home run!”

  Terrell grabbed Greg’s hand and yanked him up. “You stink, Pierce.”

  Greg sniffed the air. “That ain’t me.”

  Terrell took a swipe, but Greg dodged easily. Then he couldn’t resist and called, “Nice pitch.”

  The look Jeff Kovach gave him made the other five innings worth it.

  Greg brushed off his UNC shirt. “I say we call the game. What’s the final score?”

  Carrie laughed as Zach and Little Jeffrey danced around her. “Zach’s team has fourteen points,” Carrie said, “and Chris’s team has nine. Zach’s team wins!”

  The small crowd erupted. Amber and her friends did a few cartwheels, the older boys high-fived each other, and Terrell tried to slug Greg again.

  Zach shot across the grass like a lop-sided rabbit. “Greg! Greg! We won! We won! We won! We—”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Greg interrupted.

  “We gotta do this again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next,” Zach said, breathless.

  “Tomorrow?” Greg said. “You gotta give Jeff’s pride time to recover.”

  Jeff snorted behind them. “My pride? You got lucky, Pierce.”

  “You wish,” Greg muttered.

  Zach’s head bobbed up and down without hearing either of them. “Right, right. Give ‘em time to recover.” Then his freckled face split into a wide grin. “Monday, then. Man, I gotta rub it in Amber’s face. She said Braden’s team was gonna kill us.”

  As Zach took off, Greg picked up his ball and rubbed the dirt from the seams. It was a little worse for the wear, but not too bad. Shoving it in his pocket, he fell in line behind everybody else heading home. He planned to head straight to the well to dump several buckets of cold water over his head—a shower and laundry in one motion.

  “Wait!” his grandma called. “Everyone wait just one minute.” CJ pulled her up, and she brushed the grass from her polyester pants. “Today is Carrie’s birthday—her twenty-third birthday—and we all need to sing to her.” Without waiting, her saggy arms swayed a beat, and she b
egan, “Happy birthday to you…”

  Greg watched as the embarrassment hit Carrie’s cheeks, almost like she’d forgotten it was her own birthday. He hadn’t. Since dawn all he’d heard was, “Today is Carrie’s birthday, Gregory. Be sure to wish her a happy birthday, Gregory. Did you know she loves birthdays because she just loves birthdays!”

  When he tried to squeeze in a snide remark about Carrie being born on April Fool’s Day, it had backfired. His grandma launched into a story about how Carrie’s dad said she was born on the first day of April because spring couldn’t start without her. “And she’s bloomed faithfully ever since. Quite beautifully, too, don’t you think?”

  Greg couldn’t move out of that house fast enough.

  The funny thing was, Carrie didn’t look like she enjoyed the impromptu celebration any more than he did. Both of them waited impatiently for the song to finish.

  At the end, a chorus erupted. “Happy birthday, Carrie!”

  Amber ran over and gave her a hug. So did Greg’s mom and grandma, minus the running. Then his mom announced, “I made a birthday cake if y’all wanna stop by the house.”

  That’s all it took. The kids took off. The adults followed, although at a more leisurely pace. Greg trailed the group, mouth watering. The cold shower could wait. It didn’t escape his notice that his mom hadn’t made him a cake for his birthday. Of course, they’d been snowed in at Decatur at the time, living on squirrels and tree bark.

  “Thanks, Greg,” Carrie said, falling in line next to him.

  He glanced sideways. “For…?”

  She smiled another large smile. “For Zach. He had the time of his life today. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him this happy.”

  Greg should have seen it coming. An unfortunate byproduct of appeasing the kid was getting the gratitude of his older sister, a girl who shouldn’t be smiling that broadly at anybody but a slightly balding patrolman.

  He slowed, hoping she’d go on without him.

  She didn’t.

  Her blue eyes danced up at him. “You should have seen Zach earlier. He ran around the house, bouncing off the walls. Today meant a lot to him. And me,” she added softly, although her smile grew. “It was a nice birthday present.”

  Greg looked around. He really didn’t want to have to set Carrie straight again because, in all fairness, she wasn’t the annoying flirt her little sister was, nor was she the pushy type his grandma was. In fact, she was their opposite, which made her dangerous. Greg knew how to handle girls like Amber and You-can-just-call-me-Ashlee. But Carrie was different. Her features matched her personality, soft and warm. Perfect for a quiet guy like Oliver, which meant she shouldn’t be talking to him so eagerly. Or batting her big, blue eyes up at him. She was borderline attractive, and he wasn’t about to put up with it.

  His eyes narrowed in warning.

  It only took a second for her grin to fade, her gaze to drop, and her enthusiasm to dissipate. At least she was quick. They started down the sidewalk again at a slower pace.

  A twinge of guilt tugged at Greg as he remembered what day it was. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  She tried to smile, but it was nothing like before. “Thanks.”

  The guilt continued to twist his gut. Carrie didn’t deserve the cold shoulder, but it was for the best. She needed to stay away from him—for her own sake as much as his own. Or the clan’s.

  Everybody else was already around the corner, leaving nothing but discomfited silence to escort them home. As they walked, Greg continued to berate himself. He’d have to watch any time he spent with Zach in the future. Maybe the cold shower would beat Carrie’s birthday cake after all.

  He heard it first, but his thoughts were too preoccupied to register the sound until it was too late. An engine. Panicked, Greg stopped and searched for a bush where he could hide, but it was useless. The damage was done.

  The truck pulled to a stop beside them, which meant he and Carrie had already been spotted together. Walking alone.

  Greg turned slowly.

  Oliver’s already-long face elongated in shock.

  Carrie stopped to say hello to the patrolman, but Greg took off, speeding down the sidewalk toward his grandparents’ house, cursing himself the entire way.

  Who’s the careless one now?

  twenty-four

  AMBER LOOKED UP AS GREG burst through the Trenton’s front door.

  “Oliver’s here,” Greg said, “but—”

  Everyone but Amber dropped their cakes to rush out. Amber wasn’t moving until Braden did. With him distracted, she scooted a little closer to him on May’s couch until their thighs were almost touching.

  Greg planted his feet, blocking the front door. “Hold up. Before y’all take anything home, we should inventory it. Terrell needs to know exactly what there is before he goes on his supply run. Sort first.”

  “I hope Oliver found my shoes,” Amber whispered, wriggling her bare toes.

  Braden chuckled mid-chew. “I don’t know. I think barefooted cartwheels are kind of cute.”

  So he had noticed.

  “In that case,” Amber said, “I hope Oliver didn’t find my shoes.”

  That time she got Braden’s full laugh. His sandy-blond hair was still mused and sweaty from the game. Same with his short beard. If she had the guts, she would fix both, but she wasn’t sure they were to that point. Other than a desperate hug when she thought he’d died on the night of the raid, they hadn’t officially crossed the touch barrier.

  Yet.

  Jenna Kovach pushed her way forward until she stood in front of Greg, hands on her hips. Amber found it hard to believe that Jenna had ever been runner-up in any beauty pageant with that dark frizzy hair and pale skin.

  “Alright, alright, alright,” Jenna said. “Move already.”

  “You can’t go outside wearin’ that,” Greg said.

  Jenna looked down at the purple and gray striped shirt and jeans that were too short for her spindly body. “Why not?”

  “‘Cause those clothes aren’t yours,” Greg said.

  “They are now. Carrie gave them to me.”

  “And Oliver gave ‘em to Carrie.”

  “So?” Jenna challenged.

  Amber leaned close enough to Braden that her chin almost touched his shoulder. “Jenna drives me crazy,” she whispered. “She’s such a whiner.”

  “She drives everyone crazy,” Braden said.

  Jenna tried to move past, but Greg just folded his arms, blocking the door. “Oliver gave Carrie those clothes. He can’t see you wearin’ them.”

  “Oliver won’t care!” Jenna said. “I just want to see if he found my stuff.”

  Mariah walked up and put a hand on Jenna’s shoulder. “Jenna, darlin’, why don’t you let Jeff and the others look for your things. You’ve been out in the hot sun all day, and you look real tired. Why don’t you keep me company in here?”

  “Actually, I am kind of tired,” Jenna said.

  Greg waited until she moved off before he stepped aside. People rushed past him like a stampede. Even Braden set his cake down.

  “I should go help unload the truck,” Braden said.

  “I’ll come, too,” Amber said, hopping up because there was no way she’d miss a show like that. Braden’s damp t-shirt still clung to his broad shoulders. Baseball had been a feast for the eyes. Watching him unload the truck would be the real dessert.

  As they stepped outside, Amber shielded her eyes. If she didn’t know differently, she would have thought the clansmen lived in some third world country for how everyone thronged Oliver’s truck. Carrie helped Oliver pull a tarp off the back of the bed, and a collective gasp went up.

  “Wow,” Braden said. “Oliver found a lot. I wonder how much money he spent to get it back.”

  “Who cares?” Amber said. Cute cartwheels or not, the cement was doing a number on her feet. Her soles were an inch thick and felt like rhinoceros skin. She craned her neck to get a better look, hoping one of
those boxes held her ugly shoes.

  Carrie climbed up into the pickup bed to help Oliver hand out boxes to everyone. Amber shimmied through the people.

  “Hey, Carrie,” she said, squinting against the bright sun, “do you see my shoes anywhere?”

  “No. Take this.”

  Carrie handed Amber a box so heavy, Amber’s legs wobbled. She looked around for help. Braden already held a box, and the second Greg saw her, he just pointed her to the left.

  “Clothes go on the lawn,” Greg said. “Food on the back of the driveway, and kitchen stuff there by the porch.”

  Amber peeked inside her box. Terrell Dixon’s hideous brown shirt sat on top. She took the box over to the clothing spot and then, unwilling to make the same mistake twice, made a wide circle around the truck. The clan was efficient enough they didn’t need her help. Besides, she liked watching everyone work. It looked like a happy dance with skinny, homely people.

  Finding a quiet spot by the porch, Amber watched Braden unload a box of kitchen supplies. In her book, “cute” was an eighteen-year-old hottie sorting mixing bowls. He stacked a larger bowl on top only to have the whole stack topple. She laughed.

  He looked up. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping?”

  “I am. I’m making sure you get it right. Wait!” She lunged. “That’s ours.”

  She reached for the bowl at the same time he did. His warm hand clamped over hers, strong and firm. Amber looked up and locked gazes with those perfect turquoise eyes.

  Did this mean anything to him? Did he notice the way their hands fit together? Did he even care? His expression remained steady, but his grip tightened around hers.

  Her heart did a flip.

  Braden was definitely using more pressure than necessary to grab a simple bowl. Amber grinned inwardly while doing her best to act nonchalant.