Starting From Scratch (8 page)

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55

Georgia Beers

Steve was his usual laidback self when I got home that

afternoon, lounging in a square of sunlight cast onto the

carpet from the sliding glass door, like always.

I let him outside into the yard where he did his usual

“perimeter sniffdown.” My backyard was small but I had a

white, four-foot picket fence on either side, just like

everybody else. When I first adopted Steve from the

pound, I bought a roll of two-foot high chicken wire-type

stuff to run across the back of the yard, connecting the

pickets on either side. Steve wasn’t a jumper but he was

part terrier and I worried that he might take off on me.

e chicken wire fencing was more for my peace of mind

than anything else, and of course, Steve could plow right

through it if he was so determined. Instead, he tended to

wander along the fence with his nose to the ground, check

out every inch of his very own twelve by twelve square of

the world, then plop down on the cement of the patio and

bake himself in the sun. It was still cool and the breeze

offset the heat of the sun nicely, so I suspected he’d be out

there for a while.

An hour later, I was parked in my favorite reading

chair, a glass of zinfandel on the end table next to me, the

latest Mary Higgins Clark novel open in my hands.

I glanced out the window to see if Steve had burnt

himself to a crisp.

And I froze.

“Oh, crap.”

Steve was sitting at the end of the yard, along the

chicken wire part of the fencing. On the other side, also

sitting, but with his arm dangling over the chicken wire

and moving gently along Steve’s dark, wiry fur, was little

Max from my tee-ball team.

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Starting From Scratch

Wondering if I were seeing things, I squeezed my eyes

shut, then opened them again. What was he doing there?

Was he visiting a friend? ere were two kids on the swing

set in the center of the courtyard, but they paid him no

mind whatsoever and I had to conclude that they didn’t

know him.

Steve stretched out and rolled over so Max could

scratch his belly, a move that seemed to delight the boy as I

could hear him giggle through the glass of my door. I

groaned out loud, suddenly realizing the most logical

explanation for Max’s presence. Had he and Cindy moved

into the newly sold townhouse down the block? I

muttered, “No, no, no,” under my breath; I didn’t want Max

to know I lived here. I mean, I liked the boy and all, but

my house was my sanctuary and I didn’t want it invaded by

some messy kid I barely knew leaving his fingerprints on

my sliding glass door and leftover grape jelly in my dog’s

fur. Not to mention, the thought of Slick Cindy being so

close gave me an instant, uneasy case of the jitters.

I watched him for a good fifteen minutes as he loved

up my dog. en, out of sight and earshot, somebody must

have called for Max because I heard him shout, “Coming!”

He gave Steve a final pat, then a quick kiss on the head,

which made me smile; I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out

the door and watched him. Sure enough, he bee-lined

directly for the seventh door down from mine, four

buildings down, and went inside.

I spent most of the next day, my Monday off for the

Memorial Day weekend, skulking around my own living

room as Max showed up three different times throughout

the day to visit with Steve. I supposed it made sense if

Cindy was spending the holiday unpacking that he might

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Georgia Beers

be running around, exploring his new territory and trying

to stay out of his mom’s way.

Practice on Tuesday went surprisingly well. While I

expected the kids to be restless and distracted having just

come off a long weekend, they actually paid close attention

and gave me a commendable amount of effort. Brittany

with the helicopter mom had definitely practiced over the

long weekend, because she made contact left and right

with the ball. She didn’t hit far, but she hit it every time.

e way her face lit up at the
whack
of bat on ball made

my heart warm and I thought,
is is why Maddie loves to

coach.
I was finally understanding, finally getting it. And it

did feel good, I had to admit. I felt…accomplished. Like

I’d taught these young kids something totally and

completely new and they were enjoying it. It must be how

teachers felt when their lesson was finally grasped, when all

the hard work paid off and the student got an A on an

important exam. It must have been how a parent felt when

she let go of the back of the bike seat for the first time and

her child squealed with glee at the realization that he was

pedaling a two-wheeler all by himself and not falling.

Exhilarating was a good description.

Still not something I wanted to do on a regular basis,

but it was all right.

I took my time packing up the equipment, glad

beyond belief when Max got into the car with both

Gabriel and Mikey. Not having to rebuff Cindy meant I

could hold on to my good mood.

I decided to splurge for some take-out and swung by

my favorite ai place. I arrived home, fed Steve, and let

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Starting From Scratch

him out. I fixed my plate, poured a glass of Pinot Grigio,

snagged two chocolate chip cookies from the stash I didn’t

take to work, and headed out to sit on my patio and enjoy

the unseasonably warm almost-June evening.

And wanted to kick myself for letting my guard down.

Max was already sitting in his usual spot on the other

side of the chicken wire, running his fingers through

Steve’s fur. My dog barely worked up the energy to glance

in my direction. I stood like a deer caught in the headlights

and when Max looked up, I knew escape was impossible.

“Coach King!” He stood up, his dark eyes bright with

excitement. “What are you doing here?”

Swallowing back the defeated sigh, I replied, “I live

here.” I set my plate and glass down. “What are
you
doing

here?”

“Me and my mom just moved into a new house.” He

pointed vaguely in the direction of the previously for sale

townhouse, confirming my suspicions.

“I see.”

“Is this your dog?” he asked.

Nope, never seen him before in my life, why don’t you take

him home with you?
I almost said as my canine turned

indifferent eyes on me. “Yep. at’s Steve.”

Max giggled, the easily amused, infectious giggle of a

kid barely out of kindergarten. “Steve?  at’s a funny

name.”

“You think so? How come?” I took a sip of my wine.

“Don’t you know any Steves? I have a friend named Steve.

And I went to school with a guy named Steve.”

He laughed harder and when his eyes crinkled with

mirth, he struck me as somehow familiar. “But he’s…” He

gestured at Steve, who hadn’t budged an inch since Max

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Georgia Beers

stood. “He’s a
dog.
”  e way he said it, there was an

unspoken “duh” in his words.

“Well, what do you think his name should be?”

Max shrugged. “I don’t know, something…

something…doggie, you know? Like, like…Duke or Rover

or…something like that.”

Amusement enveloped me like a mist and suddenly

my annoyance at the intrusion was pushed back into a

corner. I wasn’t sure what it was about Max, but I found

him to be rather charming company. I used my chin to

point to a ratty rope toy that had been left in the corner of

the yard. “If you throw that, he might fetch it and bring it

back to you.”

“Really?” Only a small child could put such hope and

anticipation into one word the way Max did.

“Yep.” I crossed the yard and helped him hop over the

chicken wire. He ran right to the rope toy, Steve hot on his

heels. I returned to my seat to watch them. “Does your

mom know where you are?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Of course I didn’t believe him, but we were within

shouting distance of his back door, so I let it go. I worked

on my ai and watched him play with Steve for a while.

When I was just about finished eating, I said to him, “Hey,

I make the best chocolate chip cookies around.”

“I
love
chocolate chip cookies!”

“Do you?” I held one out to him. “Here you go.”

Max turned to me, chewing. “Wow.  is is really

good.”

ough I didn’t think that six years on this earth

warranted him to be any kind of cookie connoisseur, I was

still inexplicably flattered. “anks. Glad you like them.”

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Starting From Scratch

We heard somebody call his name. Twin grimaces

crossed our faces. His because he didn’t want to leave Steve

and mine because I didn’t want to deal with Cindy. She

called again and Max looked at me. I gave him a shrug and

a half-grin.

“I’m over here,” he said loudly and—his inflection told

me—grudgingly.

I could hear footsteps brushing through the late-

spring grass a couple of yards down, and knew it was too

late to do anything but be neighborly. Bolstering myself

with a big breath and a bite of chocolate chip goodness, I

was ready. But when the figure finally came into view, I

nearly choked on my cookie, stunned into speechlessness.

Elena Walker—Smokin’ Hot Bank Manager, as Josh

liked to call her—stood on the other side of my chicken

wire fencing. “ere you are,” she said to Max, hands

parked on her hips.

“Hey, Mom,” Max said.

61

CHAPTER SIX

If I found Elena Walker incredibly sexy in the

business suits she wore to the bank every day, it was an

enormous treat seeing her in worn jeans and a plain white,

long sleeve T-shirt with
Life Is Good
printed across the

front in faded green ink. Good Lord, was it ever. Her hair

was tousled and the color of blackstrap molasses. She had a

smudge of what I assumed might be newsprint along her

jawbone, and she looked absolutely exhausted.

She was the most invigorating sight I’d ever seen.

With her eyes on Max, she said to him, “Are you

bothering our neighbors?” but when she looked up and saw

me, her faced changed from gentle embarrassment to stark

surprise. “Ms. King,” spilled from her mouth.

“
Coach
King, Mom.
Coach
,” Max corrected.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Elena waved her hand in front of

her face as if trying to erase what she thought she knew.

“
You’re
Coach King? You coach Max’s tee-ball team?” e

corners of her mouth lifted in an easy smile, telling me she

liked that idea.

I’d managed to swallow my fortifying bite of cookie

without finding myself in need of the Heimlich maneuver,

and for that I was grateful. I stood up and crossed to where

she stood on the other side of the chicken wire. “Guilty as

charged,” I said, hoping I came across as charming, rather

Georgia Beers

than dorky as I suspected. “And…
you’re
his mother?” I tried

to phrase my question in the right tone so as to not be

insulting, but to let her know I was slightly confused.

“One of them. I think you’ve probably met Cindy.”

I nodded. Okay. Max had two mommies. Who knew?

I tried not to dwell on the one question that was certainly

going to torment me for the rest of the evening and

beyond: where the hell was the justice in this world when a

self-absorbed creep like Cindy Johnson could land a catch

like Elena Walker? It was
so
not fair.

Pulling myself back into the wonderful arena of small

talk, I rested my hand on Max’s head and noticed his hair

was exactly the same rich color as his mother’s. When he

glanced up, I realized his slightly almond-shaped eyes were

just like hers. No wonder he’d looked familiar to me. “He’s

got some potential,” I told her. “He tries really hard and

he’s a pretty good listener.”

e glance she favored him with was filled with equal

parts pride and love. “I’m glad to hear that. He’s always

been good about making an effort. e listening part? Not

so much.”

“Mom,” he said, drawing the word out to make it

sound like it had three syllables. He led Steve to a different

part of the yard, obviously wanting to be away from the

embarrassing adult talk.

Elena lifted her gaze back up to me and my heart did

a weird, triple-thump kind of thing in my chest. “I know

we see each other in the bank fairly often, but it’s a

pleasure to meet you officially, as neighbors.” She stuck her

hand out. “Elena Walker.”

I almost snorted. Like I didn’t know her name. “Avery

King.” Her skin was warm and soft and everything I

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Starting From Scratch

thought it might be and I didn’t want to let go of her hand.

She held mine tightly and…for two or three seconds