Page 3 of Takes Two to Tango

Brent felt like an alien had beamed the kid down. The alien looked to be about seven or eight years old.

Brent flipped the ball to the kid. He caught it with one hand. Impressive. Apple wondered off to find more frogs and lizards to chase.

"Clean up the mess," Brent said, pointing to the dirt covering the brick path.

The boy looked at the broken pottery and spilled soil."Oh, sorry. My hand got sweaty."

Brent nodded. "It happens."

The boy didn't say anything more. He knelt and used a finger and thumb to lift a broken shard.

"You staying at the bed-and-breakfast?" Brent asked.

The boy nodded and picked up the upended planter and started stacking the shards inside. "Yep. My mom made us come here. Right at the beginning of my baseball season. It's absurd."

Something about the boy's disgust and vocabulary made Brent smile. He knew how that felt. He'd loved baseball. Especially in early April. The smell of the glove, the feel of the stitches against his hand, the first good sweat worked up beneath the bill of the baseball cap. Sweet childhood.

"Well, it's just for the weekend," Brent said, toeing the spilled soil with his bare foot.

The boy sighed, dropped to his knees, and began scooping up the dirt. He tossed it out into the grass. "I wish. She's making us live here. I don't even know for how long. She won’t say.”

"Oh,” Brent responded, watching the boy as be labored. His reddish-brown hair was cut short, almost a buzz cut. Freckles dotted his lean cheeks, and for a kid his age, his shoulders were pretty broad. He moved with natural grace, like an athlete. Like Brent had always moved. "What's your name? Since we're going to be temporary neighbors."

"Henry."

"Hmm..I wouldn't have taken you for a Henry."

The boy gave him a lopsided smile. "My mom likes Henry David Thoreau. I got my name from that dude."

"You look more like a Hank," Brent said offhandedly, picking up the base of the broken planter, stuffing the flower's roots into the scant soil, and setting it aside.

"Like the baseball player I saw a show on. Hank…uh,…”

"Aaron?" Brent finished for him.

"Yeah, that's the guy. Cool. I can use that name here. No one knows me yet."

"Well, you better ask your mom. You know moms." Henry was funny. Brent liked kids better than he liked most adults.

The kid picked up the ball and rolled it around in his hand before sending it airborne. He caught it neatly. "Yeah, my mom can be crazy about stuff like that. About sports and stuff. She doesn't think sports are important."

Brent feigned horror. "What's wrong with her?"

The boy shrugged. “I don't know. I'm good at them. I play football, baseball, basketball, and soccer. I even took karate before my dad died. I liked kicking boards and stuff. It's pretty cool.”

The boy tossed the ball as easily as he'd tossed out information. He'd lost his dad. Tough for a boy like Henry. He seemed headstrong and sturdy, the kind of boy who needed a firm hand. A good mentor. A man to toss the ball with.

Again, the boy threw the ball and caught it in one hand, slapping a rhythm Brent couldn't resist.

"You know, I could get my glove, and we could toss the ball around," Brent offered. "But first you better make sure it's okay with your mother."

The boy's eyes lit up. “Cool.”

“Go ask."

Something entered Henry's eyes. A sort ofoh, craplook. "Um, it's okay. She's making bread or something like that."

The boy's gaze met Brent's and a weirddeja vuhit him. The kid's eyes were the color of cinnamon. Like eyes Brent had stared into a million times. He glanced at the gate that had been locked for over ten years. The gate that led to the Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast on the other side of the fence.

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