Читать книгу Fugitive Family - Pamela Tracy - Страница 12

Since she didn’t have a ladder, Lisa used one of the children’s desks to help her get to the out-of-reach places where she wanted to put “Welcome Back” posters.

Right before lunch, Vince meandered in. Greg, looking as if he’d rather be anyplace but here, and as if he hadn’t slept a wink, was right behind him.

Haunted. Yup. Distracted, too, but not unfriendly.

Vince didn’t waste any time. “My brother says it’s going to be a few days before you get your car back.”

It was rather fun to gaze down at them. Vince looked like he’d willingly catch her if she fell. Greg looked like he expected her to fall and break. She put him out of his misery, climbed down and said, “I like riding with Miss Magee. It’s not a problem. Really,” she emphasized looking right at Greg and smiling. “There’s no need to feel bad. Are you all right?”

“He woke up grouchy,” Vince said. “Me, I woke up just fine, and I can give you a ride anywhere you need to go this weekend, too. My brother says he’ll have the fender tomorrow, and your car should be ready Monday at the latest.”

“If possible,” Greg said, tersely. “I’ll head over there Monday and check out the car with you. Then, after you look at it and are sure you’re happy, I’ll pay for everything. We’ll make it work.”

Then, before she could ask questions, they were gone. Well, at least Greg was. Vince hung around a moment talking about dinner, movies, playing pool.

Lisa checked her watch and said she was meeting someone.

That someone was Gillian, who five hours later, gave Lisa a ride to the old Victorian that Lisa called home. Just after six, fading daylight offered the first hint of evening shadows. The wind sent a few leaves blowing up the sidewalk. Lisa opened the car door and started to step out.

“The folks playing softball across the street are the team from my church,” Gillian said. “They’re excited. Tonight’s their first game in this final season. I’m going over to watch. Why don’t you come along?”

Lisa glanced at the park. She’d watched so many of their practices from her balcony that she almost felt as if she knew them. They had a strong first basewoman and pitcher. The outfield was okay, but second and third base were clearly the weak links. It would be nice to put names to the players. They’d be around for Lisa’s viewing pleasure long after Gillian stopped bringing Lisa home.

Besides, the clink of a bat hitting a ball, followed by cheers, was starting to be a feel-good sound—a sound that signaled home, safety, community. Plus, Gillian was quickly becoming a friend. The type of friend who might one day be the Let’s go shopping; how about a movie type of friend. Lisa had already turned down two invitations to Gillian’s church; attending a church softball team sounded safe.

“Yeah, great idea,” she agreed. “Let me run upstairs and drop off some stuff.”

Gillian followed her up the stairs and into the tiny apartment. She stood in the doorway and looked right, then left. “Wow, I’ve never seen a place so small.”

Lisa tossed her purse onto the tiny kitchen table and headed for the bathroom. “It’s perfect for now. I only signed a ten-month lease. Then I’ll either know this is the job and place for me and get something bigger or I’ll go back to Tucson.”

“Don’t let Principal Mott hear you say that,” Gillian called. “She expects life sentences from her teachers. Look how long Mrs. Henry’s been there.”

“Longer than I’ve been alive, and she’ll remind you of that every chance she gets.” Lisa laughed.

When Lisa left the bathroom, Gillian continued, “Karen, who you’re replacing, taught for fifteen years.”

“Hmm,” Lisa said. “So, besides me, that makes you the new kid on the block.”

“Not so new. I attended Sherman Elementary School, my mom was the school nurse—back when the school nurse was a full-time position—and my dad was on the school board. I basically was slated for a position the day I graduated college.”

Lisa grabbed a soda, offered one to Gillian, and opened the door to the sound of a ball connecting with a bat. A cheer followed. Gillian grabbed the soda and quickly headed down the stairs.

“Are you in a hurry?” Lisa asked.

Gillian slowed and nodded. “Perry was supposed to get back today. He hasn’t called, but he plays on the team. I just want to see if he’s back.”

Lisa had heard all about Perry Jenson. He worked for the mayor’s office and spent more time in Lincoln, Nebraska’s capital, than in Sherman.

“What position does he play?” Lisa asked.

“Second base.”

That certainly explained why second base had been weak during practice. The real player had been absent. Lisa hoped there was a good explanation for third base, too. “Why do you suppose he hasn’t called?” Lisa asked.

“Oh,” Gillian said breezily. “He gets busy.”

The team was still warming up when Lisa and Gillian climbed onto the bleachers. Gillian seemed to know everybody and everybody came by to say hi except Perry, who was back in town and busy warming up. There came a round of introductions, complemented by a smattering of Oh, you’re the new first-grade teacher and ending with a few You’ll be seeing my son, daughter, grandchild, come Monday.

Before Lisa had time to put faces to names, a man carrying a roster sat down next to Gillian. “We need two more players.”

“Not me.” Gillian held up a sandaled foot.

He looked at Lisa, and she shook her head. “I’d love to, but I don’t belong to your church.”

“Belonging to the church is a perk, not a requirement.”

“Reverend Pynchon never misses an opportunity,” Gillian joked. “Really, thanks for asking, but the last time I played outfield, the ball hit me in the head.”

The minister looked at Lisa.

“I play second base.”

Wrong thing to say, his eyes lit up.

“I don’t have any gear.”

“We can provide the gear.”

Lisa grinned. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We have our team, but I need a few more live bodies, and the list has to go in today. Gillian, can I put your name down, too?”

“Do it, Gillian!” Perry yelled.

Gillian looked trapped.

Lisa took the clipboard from Gillian’s hands and dutifully wrote down her name and number. Slowly, Gillian did the same, but stipulated, “Only call me as a last resort.”

He nodded, somebody hollered Batter up, and the game began.

A few minutes later, Lisa knew why the preacher’s eyes had lit up. Hopefully, Perry was better at politics than he was at softball. The church team was playing the field, and the other team scored three runs with their first three at bats. Perry missed a grounder aimed dead-on at him, one she would have snagged, and also failed to back up the first baseman on another grounder.

Perry didn’t act as if he cared that Gillian was in the bleachers. Lisa was about to make a remark about that when she finally noticed the man playing third base.

Greg Bond.

Why had he missed so many practices? Just how dizzy had be been last week? Well, he certainly wasn’t dizzy tonight, and he was a pretty good player. Definitely a better player than Perry, and more observant, both when it came to the game and when it came to women. When Lisa—along with a hot dog, a bag of chips and a brownie—settled down to enjoy the game, Greg looked her way. For an unguarded moment, a half grin came to his face. Then, the mask returned and he gave his full attention to third base. For the next half hour, as Lisa finished her hot dog, brownie and purchased another soda, he kept looking her way. It was almost embarrassing.

“See.” Gillian nudged her. “He likes you. He’s perfect for you, I’m telling you.”

“Hush,” Lisa said. “He’s still wearing his wedding ring. That says it all.”

“Perry barely noticed that I’m here,” Gillian complained. “One quick wave.”

At that moment, two little girls ran toward the fence in front of the bleachers. They hit it hard. A boy was moments behind them. “Daddy!” Amber cried. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too!” the other two cried.

Lisa turned around. Behind her was the playground.

Greg hadn’t been checking her out; he’d been keeping an eye on his daughter.

Greg’s mind was definitely not on softball. If it had been anything but a church league, he’d have been benched.

His mind was on the bullet, Rachel and Burt.

He’d left work again, claiming dizziness, and had headed home. This time, his boss told him to see a doctor. This time, he didn’t have an accident or need to retrieve Amber. He’d scanned the Internet until his eyes were crossed. He’d watched the news until he could recite the same old reports. And after eight hours, all he knew was he needed—no, deserved—to bury Rachel properly, and he knew he was slowly losing his mind waiting for Burt to call. Burt had better have something more than what the news channels were reporting.

After making sure the batter wasn’t ready, Greg checked his cell phone one more time, just to make sure it was on.

It was—no missed calls.

It was Amber’s need to be with other kids and Greg’s need to take his mind off his cell phone that drove him out of the house.

It was the wise and healthy choice. It was getting to the point where he wanted to smash his fist right through the screen as he listened to newsman after newswoman read the teleprompter, condemning him.

Unfortunately, softball wasn’t enough of a contact sport to take the edge off his anger.

When Lisa showed up at the softball game, Greg noticed but didn’t have time to really think about it. He focused on his daughter’s whereabouts while listening for the cell phone stashed in his back pocket. He didn’t care about the dirty looks his teammates would give him should it ring. He needed to hear what Burt had to say. He wanted to hear that there was some hope of getting his life back!

The first game of the season already hinted at a shutout. The score was 10–2. His team had heart; the other team had a cutthroat mentality.

In some ways, it was Greg’s fault. He’d missed every practice. He blamed himself. Somewhere, somehow, he’d really antagonized somebody, and that someone had taken over his life.

Sometimes he didn’t feel as if he deserved to have fun. God, it seemed, and the people of Sherman, Nebraska, had other ideas.

The center fielder was the town sheriff, a man named Jake Ramsey who made Greg nervous by his offers of friendship. Even he managed to make it to more practices than Greg, which only implied that it was better to chase criminals than be considered one.

“Batter up!”

Greg glanced over at Amber, then picked up his bat and ambled to the plate. He was able to concentrate by reverting to an old trick. The ball zoomed toward him; it was the bank robber’s, the murderer’s, head. He swung; the ball clanked at impact, and in a flash Greg went around first, second, third and thundered across home well before the ball made it back to the infield.

He hadn’t even realized that two people were on base.

Maybe the game wouldn’t be a total embarrassment after all.

“Good going,” Perry said. The mayor’s assistant had struck out. Looking at the bleachers, Perry did the politician’s wave, almost as if he had just homered and driven in three runs.

The sheriff patted Greg on the back. “Way to get us in the game.” The applause died down, and Greg looked over to where Amber was playing. She hadn’t noticed the hit, but it looked as if Miss Jacoby and Miss Magee had. They were both smiling as if he’d struck gold.

Miss Magee waved.

Greg looked over at Perry.

The man was an idiot.

If Rachel were here, if Rachel could be cheering Greg on, he would notice. He would hop the fence and give his wife a huge kiss, wave at the fans and grin in satisfaction. Not because of the hit but because of the kiss.

Stop being an idiot, Perry, he urged silently.

The next player made the third out, and Greg trotted to third base. For the next ten minutes he had plenty of time to think because, for some reason, the other team wasn’t hitting.

This was his second turn at coed softball with the church’s team, thanks to a stubborn minister. And—surprise, surprise—he enjoyed it. Tonight was different. In some ways, he needed to be here, away from the Internet, away from the gut-wrenching fear that tied him to the house and to his memories.

Yup, this was God’s way of making sure Greg knew that life was for the living.

When the minister had first approached him about playing on the team, right after Greg had joined the church, Greg said, “No, thanks. I really don’t have the time.”

Then Amber started in. “Daddy, Tiffany’s daddy plays. It’s every Friday night and while her daddy plays, her mommy lets Tiffany go to the playground.”

Tiffany’s mom said the same thing the next Sunday. Then Amber mentioned that her sworn enemy’s mother played. “Mrs. Maxwell does first base, Daddy. Mike says she’s the best player. I don’t really care about that, but I told him you’d be the best.” Amber’s eyes lit up at this point. “While his mommy’s on the field, his daddy watches him on the playground. He could watch me, too.”

Then Mike’s dad made a point of shaking Greg’s hand every Sunday. Now there was a man with a perfect life. He was a dentist. His wife spent her time taking care of the family, organizing every wedding and baby shower the church put on and playing softball.

The second time the minister approached him, Greg could almost hear Rachel say, “Playgrounds—complete with friends—are a wonderful thing for an only child.” Rachel had emphasized over and over that just in case Amy…

Think of her as Amber.

…just in case Amber turned out to be an only child, they had to make sure she did lots of things with friends, kids her age. Outdoor things. Not so much television.

So Greg had joined the team, and even though he hadn’t played since high school, he discovered that the team really needed him.

And Amber really needed him playing on the team. Greg looked over at her again. She was having a blast. She’d had a red Sno-Kone and it was all over her face; Mikey looked like someone had dumped a barrel of cherry juice on him. Tiffany managed to look like a princess.

The inning ended. Greg had a while before his turn at bat. He took his cell phone and a hand towel from his bag and, with Amber in tow, headed to a nearby drinking fountain to wash her face.

“I’m not dirty, Daddy.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not dirty, you’re sticky.”

She giggled.

“Why is it,” Greg asked, “that Tiffany can eat a Sno-Kone and not get it all over her?”

“Her Sno-Kone is special. Maybe if you buy me another one, this time mine will be special.”

He should say no but her eyes were glowing, her cheeks were flushed, and she wasn’t suffering.

As he was.

Somehow, in the midst of everything, that brought him to his knees—his daughter was thriving. He handed her a dollar and remembered again why he couldn’t turn himself in: two reasons.

One, Greg didn’t know if he could face the day without Amber. He’d been a good father while Rachel was alive, but he’d put work first. Now Amber came first and he truly knew the challenge and joys of fatherhood. No way was he playing Russian roulette with the foster-care system.

Which took him to reason number two.

No one would watch Amber with the intensity that Greg did. No one. And Greg knew that just to get at him, whoever had killed Rachel wouldn’t hesitate to come after Amber.