The One & Only: A Novel (31 page)

I considered simply saying yes, but forced myself to be truthful, mumbling that I had left my purse here.

“Your purse?” Lucy said, Coach now standing beside us. “When?”

“Last night,” I said, sneaking a glance at Coach, who looked the way I felt. Uneasy, guilty, totally busted.

“It’s in the kitchen. On the counter,” he said without looking at me, as Caroline reached up and played with the bill of his cap. She knocked it off, revealing a head of messy hair—as messy as short, coarse hair could really be.

“Why is your purse—” Lucy began as Coach cut her off.

“Shea was sweet enough to bring me some tacos last night. After the game. Very nice of her.” He looked at me and said, “Thank you, again.”

“You’re welcome,” I said with a lump in my throat.

Lucy studied her father, then me, then her father again, finally saying, “You don’t look ready for church.”

“Was I supposed to be?”

Lucy shook her head and said, “It’s Sunday morning, isn’t it?”

“Since when do I go to church on Sunday morning if it’s not Easter or Christmas?”

“Since this past Wednesday. When we talked about you going to church with us and you said you’d make every effort to go,” she said, as I wondered if she, too, noticed that his ring had changed hands. Was that part of what she was upset about? Or was it only that I had come over last night? Or merely that her father wasn’t going to church? “Ring a bell?”

“Vaguely,” he said.

“So this is your
every effort
? Talking about Taco Bell in those clothes at …” Lucy glanced at her white ceramic watch. “Nine forty-five?”

Coach stared sheepishly back at her.

“Ugh. Okay. We have to go,” she said.

“Next week,” he mumbled.

“That’s the day after Texas,” I said, the words just slipping out. My tone of voice saying,
So we all know that ain’t happening.

Caroline ran her hand over her grandfather’s whiskered face and said, “Ow. Your face hurts!”

“Yes, Care Bear. I need to shave today,” Coach said, then gently put her down and looked back at Lucy. “Where’s Neil, anyway?”

“He’s meeting us there,” she said.

Coach nodded, then glanced at me and said he’d be right back with my pocketbook. Once he had made his escape, Lucy stared at me intently, her eyes narrowed. “So was last night … work-related? For your story?”

I shook my head and admitted that I’d already turned my story in.

“So you really just stopped by to check on him?”

“And bring him Taco Bell,” I added, hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I felt.

Lucy studied me for a few seconds and finally nodded. “Y’all are friends. I get that.”

I said nothing.

“It’s sort of weird, though,” Lucy said, doing her toe-pointing thing left over from years of ballet.

“Weird?” I said, still watching her feet.

“That you’re friends. Apart from me. I mean, can you imagine me hanging out with your dad?”

“
I
don’t hang out with my dad,” I said. “But you’re friends with my mom.”

“Not like that. Not like … eating Taco Bell together late Saturday night … without
you
,” Lucy said. “But whatever, I
really
gotta go.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Where are you going?” Lucy said.

“Home,” I said.

“Why?” she asked, a little on the shrill side. “Don’t let me chase you off. He’s not going to church. And what do you have to do today?”

“Well, watch the Cowboys,” I said, just as Coach returned with my bag. I took it from him and murmured my thanks.

“What time do they play?” Lucy asked. “The Cowboys?”

“Kickoff’s at three,” I said.

“Well, then? What’s the rush?”

“I was only coming to get my purse,” I said.

“Yes. But you’re here now. You should stay. Go on in. Have breakfast together.”

Lucy was
definitely
agitated, now boxing us into a corner. To protest any more than we already had would almost look worse than acquiescing, so he finally just looked at me and said, pleasantly, casually, “Shea. You’re welcome to stay. But I really don’t have much to eat in the way of breakfast. Other than raisin bran …”

“Okay,” I said stiffly. “I’ll come in and have a bowl of raisin bran. Thanks, Coach.”

Lucy nodded with a broad, forced smile, her lips reminding me of how they used to look in braces, stretched across her face. She stooped for a second to retie Caroline’s sash, now dragging on the ground, and neaten her French braids. Then she picked her daughter up and headed for her car. “All right, then,” she said over her shoulder. “You two enjoy your breakfast together.”

“I want to stay with Poppy and Shea,” Caroline protested.

Lucy shook her head and said, loud enough for us to hear, “No. They have things to discuss. Football things. You wouldn’t be interested.”

She belted Caroline in the backseat as I realized that I had to back up to let her go. So I did, waiting in my car, the engine running, as she drove away a little too quickly.

My stomach and heart hurt as I got out of the car.

Coach shook his head.
“Shit,”
he said under his breath. Then he looked right at me and stated the obvious. “Well. She’s not happy.”

“You don’t say …”

“You think it’s because … you were here last night? Or that I’m not ready for church?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Even though I did. “Maybe both?”

“There’s no peace in church. Especially during the season,” he said, although I could tell he, too, knew that wasn’t the main problem.

“I can imagine. And you
really
can’t go next week. C’mon,” I said, referring to Texas again.

He nodded. Then, as I followed him toward the house, he addressed the elephant on the driveway. “I think maybe our friendship … bothers her a little.”

“I know,” I said. “But she understands—”

“That you and I have more in common,” he said, finishing my sentence.

I wasn’t sure if he meant that we had more in common than she and
I did or than the two of them did, but, either way, the statement was true.

I returned to safer ground and said, “I think Sundays are just hard …”

Coach nodded and said, “Yes. You’re probably right. And I think I did, maybe, sort of promise her I’d go to church this week.”

I grimaced as we walked inside through the garage, the same pile of clothing remaining on the dryer but the radio back on a country station, Garth Brooks singing “Shameless.”

“That’s better,” I said, pointing at the radio.

“I love this song,” Coach said just as Garth wailed:
But I can’t walk away from you.

He gave me a purposeful look that made me feel exactly the way Garth sounded in that song. Down on my knees and shameless.

Remembering Lucy, I gathered myself and followed Coach into the kitchen, watching as he got out two bowls, two spoons, and two napkins, setting the kitchen table. I got down our glasses, poured orange juice, and brought them to the table.

“Milk,” he said, snapping his fingers. Then shook his head, disgusted. “Damn. I’m out. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

He nodded, looking as conflicted as I felt, and said, “I know. Me either …”

“I really should go,” I said, even though I wanted to stay.

“Okay,” he said so quickly that it hurt my feelings.

Leaving the bowls on the table, we stood and walked right back outside to my car. By the time we got there, I was completely disheartened, sure that we would never be hanging out alone again. That it just wasn’t worth all the accompanying angst and guilt and whatever was going on in Lucy’s head.

But a few minutes later, just as I pulled into my driveway, a text came in from Coach that said:
Sorry about the milk. Going to the store now. Rain check on the raisin bran?

Overcome with relief, and pushing Lucy as far from my mind as you could push your best friend, I typed back:
You bet. Anytime.

Later that afternoon, as I was watching the Cowboys and folding laundry, Lucy came over to my apartment, unannounced and without Caroline. She had changed out of her church clothes into linen drawstring pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, but had forgotten to take off her pearls. As I went to the refrigerator to pour us both drinks, I informed her that Dallas was up by a touchdown, but it was clear she hadn’t come over to watch the game.

“Daddy moved his wedding ring. To his right hand,” she announced, looking like she might cry.

“He did?” I asked nervously, putting ice in two glasses, then filling both with Coke Zero. I handed her one, forcing myself to look in her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“That he’s moving on?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Then why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe you should ask him,” I said.

She stared at me for several more seconds, then took a dainty sip. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t talk like that …”

Then, before I could respond, she said, “I’m sorry for being so grumpy this morning.”

I played dumb as I followed her the few steps back to my family room. “You weren’t grumpy. Were you?”

She glanced at the television, then took a seat on the floor, her back to the screen, before continuing, “I told you I wanted you to help look after Daddy … then when you tried to do that … I acted … difficult.”

“It’s okay,” I said as quickly as possible. This was as close as Lucy came to an apology, and it made me uncomfortable given everything that I knew to be true. Bottom line, she really didn’t owe me one. “I get it.”

“Do you?” she asked as I turned the volume down three notches.

“Yeah. I think so. Sure.” I folded a pair of flannel pajama pants from the pile on my sofa, avoiding her hard stare. It was obvious that the conversation, whatever it was she wanted to discuss, was not going away no matter how much I wanted it to.

“It’s just that I’m a little bit … jealous,” she said.

My pulse quickened and my mouth got dry. “Jealous of who?” I said, folding a T-shirt with great care and precision. It was quite possibly the neatest folding job of my life, which is saying a lot given my practice in Lucy’s store.

“Jealous of you and Daddy. How close you are,” she said. “He’s my father, but sometimes I think he’s closer to you.”

“That’s not true,” I said, feeling queasy. I plucked another shirt from the sofa, shook it out, and got to work.

“It is true, though,” she said, taking a sip of Coke, then placing the glass on a pile of
Sports Illustrated
issues on the floor beside her. “It always has been true.”

“It’s just …
football
,” I said, although I really didn’t believe those two words belonged in the same sentence together. “We have football in common. That’s it.”

“That’s like saying that … that … Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein only have fashion in common … or …” She stared up at the ceiling, thinking. Analogies had never been her strong suit.

“I get your point,” I said, smiling, pretending to be amused when I only felt sick.

“Whether it’s football or something else … you two have always had this connection … He talks to you.
Really
talks to you. He doesn’t do that with me. I go over there … and it’s just awkward. It’s like he has nothing to say.”

Her description weakened me, but I shook my head and denied it
again. “We don’t have a
connection
, Luce,” I said, thinking about the look he gave me last night. “We just like football. I’m a sportswriter. He’s a coach. And we both love you. That’s it.”

“But even when you’re not talking about football … You could be playing Trivial Pursuit … and it’s like you have all these inside jokes.”

I almost said,
They’re not inside jokes—they’re simply jokes. You just don’t get them.
But I didn’t think that would make her feel much better—so I simply said, “No, we don’t.”

Lucy leaned back on her hands and stared at me. “Okay. Look. I’m curious. Last night? Did he invite you over? Or did you call him?”

I told her it was his idea, and could tell right away that wasn’t the answer she wanted. The corners of her mouth drooped slightly, and her forehead scrunched up.

“See? That’s what I thought,” she said, although I wasn’t sure how this fact made a difference. Wouldn’t it be just as bad if I’d initiated?

“Well, wait,” I said, pretending to think over the particulars, then backtracking. “Actually, come to think of it, I called him. Then he called me back. But I was at Taco Bell … and so … I offered to bring him something to eat. So, technically, I invited myself over. All he said was yeah, he’d love a taco. See?”

She waved off my explanatory babble and said, “The fact remains … he never calls me like that. He never invites me over like that. And definitely not after a
game.
”

“But you’re his
daughter
,” I said. “It’s totally different.”

She asked why, folding her arms across her chest.

“Because fathers don’t need to
invite
their daughters over. Daughters just … stop by whenever. Like you do all the time.” I thought for a second, remembering my own dad. “Unless a divorce is involved.”

“Or unless a dead mother is involved,” Lucy snapped back.

I shuddered, perhaps visibly. Or maybe Lucy realized how harsh her statement sounded. In either event, her voice and expression softened markedly as she said, “Look. It was one thing when my mom was here. She was our go-between. My mom and I talked three, four times a day, and at least one of those times, he was somewhere nearby. In the
background. And that worked just fine. We were all happy with that arrangement. But now … Everything is different.
Everything
 …”

Lucy paused, choking up, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes. I wanted to give her a hug, or say something comforting, but couldn’t make myself move or speak. A few seconds later, her composure regained, she continued, “And without my mom … my dad and I have to work a little harder at our relationship. We
both
have a responsibility to put in the effort.”