Spring Rain (19 page)

He heard the back door slam and automatically looked out the window. She was running across the lawn to her apartment, head down, curls gleaming in the sun.

Suddenly she wiped her hand across her eyes, once, twice, again.

He’d done that to her, brought her to tears.

His heart broke.

L
EIGH LEANED OVER
her kitchen sink and threw great handfuls of cold water over her flaming face. While the liquid cooled her flushed cheeks, it did nothing to reduce the anger and shame that burned within where her heart felt boiled to bursting.

He thought her a tramp and a floozy! He thought she slept around!

Well, maybe he didn’t think she did now, but he thought she did then. How could he think such things of her? She’d been Miss Prim and Proper, Miss Socially Inept. But even if she’d been Miss Popularity, how could he? How
could
he?

How could he not?

She sagged against the edge of the sink as realization struck with a devastating blow. She had decreed his opinion of her by manipulating the script of Billy’s birth as surely as the playwright led the audience to his preordained conclusions. The only difference was that the playwright realized what he was doing. She, foolish woman that she was, saw only now what she had done, and it was years too late to rewrite the living script based on a warped combination of logic and half-truths.

When it came right down to it, since Clay didn’t know Billy was his, what alternative did he have but to think there had been someone else? What were the words he had backhanded her with?

“It’s not like I was your first. You were already pregnant when—”

She shivered as she remembered the accusation in his voice, the condemnation.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I don’t care. You know better, God. You know the truth. You understand.

But it did matter. It mattered a lot, probably too much, and she resented Clay for making her care so deeply about his opinion without his even trying, for making her feel this intense pain at his disgust. And she was furious at herself for being so needy, for wanting his approval, for wanting him to look at her as special—good special, not trampy special. Around him she became that young girl again, yearning for his attention, his acceptance.

But not his love. Not anymore. Never his love. She was beyond that at least.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t still furious at his presumptions.

She cranked the spigot closed, taking out her frustration and angst on the innocent chrome faucet.

She took several deep breaths and moved away from the sink. It was almost time to leave for the Little League opening ceremonies. She had to compose herself before she saw Billy. She went to her room to fix her makeup and comb her hair. She studied herself in the mirror and sighed. Her eyes were still redder than they should be and slightly swollen. She poked at her puffy eyelids. Too bad she didn’t have a cucumber. She’d read somewhere that slices placed on your eyes relieved swelling.

She heard Billy thunder up the steps. She grabbed her purse and sunglasses. She jammed the glasses on just before he zipped into her room. The kid was too quick by half about spotting tears.

“Mom! Mom!”

His excitement was a live thing, dissipating much of her melancholy and wrapping her in the pleasant anticipation of learning about the unknown delight. She was actually smiling as she turned to him.

He looked at her strangely, momentarily distracted. “Why are you wearing your sunglasses in the house?”

“I don’t want to forget them.”

He frowned at that, then shrugged. She watched the excitement grip him once again. “Guess what?”

“What, tiger?”

“You’ll never guess!” And he stared at her, obviously awaiting her speculations.

“I’m not up to guessing today, sport. Just tell me, okay?”

“Clay’s coming to Little League with us!” His eyes shot sparks of happiness.

Leigh blanched and grabbed the bureau for balance. “What?”

“Clay’s coming with us!” He danced where he stood.

“How did that happen?” she asked, feeling like the words were being pulled from her like slow-running molasses from the bottle.

“I asked him.”

Great. Raise a gregarious, friendly kid and what does he do? He talks to people, any people, even dangerous people, people like Clay. Her shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know, Billy,” she began, turning toward the bathroom and a double dose of extra strength Tylenol.

But he wasn’t listening. He raced to his room and with much thumping and thudding, changed his clothes. He reappeared in his baseball pants, cleats, and shirt with Spenser and a big eleven written in purple on the back. The Purple People Eater was printed in purple letters across his chest with a logo of a purple parrot with a beak that would topple a real bird.

The name and the bird were the cause of much embarrassment for the whole team. They lent themselves so well to razzing calls of, “You guys are a bunch of birds,” or “Here come the birdbrains,” just to name a few of the less offensive offerings of their opponents. The only thing that kept the team from outright revolt was the fact that The Purple People Eater was actually a way cool surfing shop run by a pair of former surfing champions, or so they claimed. Leigh had her doubts, but the Little League officials weren’t about to turn down a sponsorship. And the kids believed the claims.

Billy grabbed his mitt and ran for the stairs. “Come on, Mom. We don’t want to be late. Coach Jeffers said we had to be there fifteen minutes before the opening ceremonies began.”

“Now you tell me.” She grabbed her navy blazer and tossed his jacket to him.

He grinned unrepentantly and caught his jacket.

“Listen, Billy.” She followed him down the steps and out into the yard. “I’m sure Clay was just being nice when he said he’d like
to come. He’s got more important things to do than spend the day at the ballpark with a bunch of screaming kids and irate parents.” She hoped, she prayed.

Billy looked at her like she was crazy. “Screaming kids? Irate parents? This is just Little League, Mom, not a class trip.”

“You know what I mean. All noise and confusion. He doesn’t want to come.”

“Sure I do,” a quiet voice said.

Leigh jerked to a stop and shut her eyes behind her dark lenses.
You are not embarrassed
, she told herself.
You are not.

“In fact, I’ll even drive.”

Mr. Consideration in his jeans and crimson corduroy shirt. That he should be so pleasant, so unaffected by their hissing confrontation of mere minutes ago set a new fuse to the dynamite of her emotions. She felt her face turn red and her jaw clench.

“I’d rather drive myself,” she spit out, hearing the lack of grace and not caring.

Clay shrugged, a deprecating grin tugging one corner of his mouth. “Just trying to be helpful.”

She wanted to kick him in the shins with a pair of pointy cowboy boots, never mind that she didn’t own any such footwear. She just figured they would hurt a lot.

“Come on, Mom.” Billy grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward Clay’s Grand Cherokee. “I never rode in one of these cars.” He turned to Clay. “Black’s such a cool color.”

Knowing there was no way she could avoid riding with Clay without appearing the complete fool in front of both him and Billy, Leigh let herself be led to the oversized Jeep. Without a smile she allowed Clay to usher her into the passenger seat while Billy climbed in the back. Billy leaned over the seat, studying the dash, his eyes alight with that mad glow men of all ages got over automobiles. She stared straight ahead, as removed from the situation as she could make herself while still physically present.

Billy and Clay talked cars all the way to the ballpark at the other end of the island. Motor stuff and zero to sixty in nothing flat and four on the floor and four-wheel drive and 4.2 liter engines and on and on. They didn’t even notice her miffed silence.

How she hated it when Clay looked good—the thoughtful chauffeur and interested male role model—while she looked
bad—the unwed mother and temperamental female.

Then stop being temperamental.

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. There were times when the last thing she wanted to hear was holy logic. It felt safer to be angry, to hide behind spite. She also knew it was unwise and self-defeating. And wrong. The little tune based on Philippians 4:4 ran through her mind:
Rejoice in the Lord always and again I say rejoice.

I get the message, Lord.
She sighed.
I’ll try.

They had to park a block from the Little League field and walk, all the places provided at the ballpark itself long filled.

“The whole town’s here,” Clay said conversationally as he walked at her side.

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t scowl either. She felt that was progress.

He didn’t seem to mind her silence. “Billy, I remember when Ted and I were in Little League. We played on the Potter Pontiac Indians. But we never had our names on the backs of our uniforms.”

“I bet you didn’t have to buy them either, did you?” Leigh asked with what she perceived as very little frost. More progress.

“Not unless we ruined them somehow. Ted was always ruining his sliding into base. He slid even when he didn’t have to because he liked it. His pants and his thighs were always torn up. Not that he cared. Mom was always cleaning up one wound or another for him.”

“Having a doctor for a dad must have come in handy, huh?” Billy looked at Clay wide-eyed.

“Having Dad for a dad always came in handy,” Clay said.

They joined the ever-expanding stream of parents and kids making for the bleachers that surrounded the main field, and Leigh saw she had been right. Screaming kids and irate parents. Worse than any field trip due to sheer numbers.

As if she wanted to prove Leigh’s point, the woman in front of her yelled, “Adrianna Murray, you get back here, or I’ll whip you but good!”

“Gotta go join my team,” yelled Adrianna over her shoulder as she ran the opposite direction from her loving parent.

“Brat.” The woman looked around as if hoping for someone to commiserate with her about her disobedient child. She spotted
Leigh. Her frown changed to an embarrassed smile. “Ms. Spenser. How are you?”

Leigh smiled back warmly. Big-time progress. Of course it wasn’t Clay she was smiling at, but still. “Mrs. Murray, it’s good to see you. How long has it been? Since the Christmas class party?” She smiled at Adrianna’s diminishing figure. “Quite the girl, isn’t she?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to adopt her?” Mrs. Murray asked hopefully.

“Five days a week are challenge enough.”

Mrs. Murray nodded sadly. “It was just a thought. You control her better than anyone I know, certainly better than her father and me.”

“Punishment for disobedience, Mrs. Murray. We talked about that before.”

Mrs. Murray nodded. “I know. I just can’t stand to see her cry.” And with that comment she veered off and yahooed a friend.

Leigh felt Clay’s eyes on her. She turned, a chip the size of a two-by-four back on her shoulder.

“She can’t stand to see the girl cry?” he said.

“Adrianna manipulates them with tears whenever they try to exert any control over her, and they invariably give in to her.”

He shook his head. “She’s going to be some teenager.”

“I know. Remember, Billy, you may never date her. I couldn’t deal with her even if you could.”

Billy looked at her aghast. “Mom, she’s a girl!”

“That’s who boys commonly date,” Clay observed.

“If they’re stupid enough to date.”

Clay looked at Leigh and grinned, welcoming her to join him in the knowledge that a day would come when Billy would change his mind. She couldn’t help but smile back. She wasn’t certain when she’d dropped that chip she’d been wearing, but she didn’t search for it. She felt so much lighter and freer without it.

A group of sixth grade boys on skateboards glided past. “Hey, Ms. Spenser,” they said more or less in unison. “Billy.” They eyed Clay with curiosity.

A group of giggling sixth grade girls jogged by, tailing the skateboarders. “Hi, Ms. Spenser,” they said. “Having a good vacation?” They too eyed Clay with curiosity, and suddenly Leigh saw the handwriting on the wall.

Oh, Lord, please let them keep their mouths shut! Strike them dumb.

One of the girls leaned toward Leigh. “Who’s the guy?” she asked in a stage whisper that carried for blocks. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Leigh made believe she didn’t see Clay’s broad grin as he waited with interest for her answer. “An old friend,” she said with nails in her voice. “An old
family
friend.”

She regretted the last as soon as she said it. This doing things
en famille
was just too hard. It felt too good. She made herself smile at the girls and turned in the opposite direction, not caring where she was going. Clay and Billy followed.

Billy spotted several other Purple People Eaters and took off, leaving her with Clay. She straightened her back and stuck out her chin. She could handle an afternoon in Clay’s company no matter the embarrassing comments. She was no longer eighteen.

Act naturally.

“Wow! They’ve even got lights!” Clay shook his head as they approached the main field. “And two fields, both with bleachers. Times have sure changed.”

They found two seats in the crowded bleachers, and Leigh made believe she didn’t notice that they were the objects of much speculation. Between her students and their parents and Clay’s lifetime friends, they were greeted more times than a rich man at a fund-raiser, and she read avid curiosity in every set of eyes.

Still Leigh watched proudly as Billy and the Purple People Eaters marched onto the field with the other teams for the opening ceremonies. She couldn’t help but grin when he took his hat off for the national anthem and, placing it over his heart, stood stiffly at attention. She knew he saw himself as Mr. Major Leaguer, as did every other kid out there.