Page 40 of Takes Two to Tango

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE COOL SPRING BREEZE whipped through the stands surrounding the baseball field, hurling empty soda cups to the concrete below and stirring up the yellow pollen coating the bright blue bleachers. Several fans sneezed as the Oak Stand Warriors took the field.

Rayne cheered as Henry ran out and took his place at shortstop. Aunt Frances blew an air horn.

Everyone jumped. One woman screamed.

"Sorry," Aunt Frances said, sporting a Warriors T shirt that saidHank's Aunton the back. It was all a bit much, but Rayne didn’t have the heart to admonish the enthusiasm. Henry deserved a bit of fanfare.

Rayne sent her son a thumbs-up sign. It was his first game and he'd earned the privilege of playing when he brought home signed papers showing significant improvement along with a computer printout that relayed he'd scored a nine out of ten points on his accelerated reading test. Rayne had been stunned. Henry had given her a told-you-so shrug and said, "I didn't like dumb ol' talking animal books, but I can do good on the ones about sports."

She'd hugged him, after correcting his incorrect adverb usage of course, and let him eat one of the Pop Tarts Brent had sent over for him via Meg.

"Oh, he looks so little," Aunt Frances said, waving at Henry. Her son gave a quick wave and then focused on the batter lining up at the plate. A bright blue pitching machine whirred on the pitcher's mound. A coach from the other team stood behind it and began threading balls into the slot. Brent emerged from the dugout, tugged the batter out of the way and crouched to catch the balls. He was making certain the strike zone was right.

Brent wore a red-and-black coach's shirt that declared he was Coach Brent on the back. All the parents wore the red shirts with the black battle-axes crossed on the front beneath the wordWarriors.His shirt looked much better on him than Rayne's did on her. Wearing battle-axes was so not her thing.

As the thunk of the ball hit Brent's glove, Rayne wondered for the tenth or eleventh time about him going through Nellie's panties.

She was afraid to ask him, but more afraid not to ask.

What right did she have anyway? And what would he think if she asked? Surely, it was only an accident, something benign. She thought about the night she'd kissed him and brushed against his pajama pants just to play with him. Just to gain the upper hand with him. Then she thought about the day at the fountain when everything had shifted and she'd fallen into the infatuation she'd always had with him. Why was she moving in his direction? Why was she tempting him? Flirting with him? Letting him back inside her heart?

Was it fate? Or perhaps she simply wanted to get naked with him and call it a day? Or was there some thing more?

She suspected the latter, but was afraid to explore it too much. Afraid to label her feelings. And Rayne liked to label everything. She needed a plan, a path, and a goal. But outsideof her career, which hung in the balance, she had no idea about what to do with the burgeoning feelings she had for the man standing in the huddle of little boys giving a pep talk.

Confusedwas the word of the day.

Who was she kidding? It was the word of the year. She felt bewildered about everything. Her career. Her relationship with Brent. Her new fondness for Pop-Tarts. Yes, she'd polished off the last two in the box and then hid the evidence from Meg. She knew she'd never live it down that she'd eaten chemically injected pastries if Meg found out. Not after she'd forced her assistant to throw out the Halloween candy last year.

Meg stood with Bubba Malone alongside the chainlink fence skirting the ball field. Rayne had never seen a couple look so misfit as those two. Bubba wore unlaced construction boots, stained jeans and a well-washed T-shirt. A ball cap faded from the sun sat backward on his head. He'd shaved his scruffy beard into a neat goatee that suited him much better. Meg wore a long skirt, a tight Ramones T-shirt, and, of course, her patent leather combat boots. Her nose ring caught the sunlight just right.

Yet the two looked content to merely stand next to one another. No words. No forced conversation. No confusion. Simply being.

A referee clad in protective armor took up residence behind the plate and the game began. Good defensive play had the Warriors running to their dugout after a three up, three down inning. The parents cheered as if it were the World Series.

"Do you think Henry will get a hit?" Aunt Frances asked as Henry sauntered to the batter's box. "I think they should let them bat until they hit the ball. I hate this whole 'out' thing."

Rayne laughed. "That's how you play baseball, Aunt Fran."

"I'm not sure it's good for their self-esteem."

"You sound like Glenna," Rayne said, deliberately drawing the comparison between Frances and her sister. Rayne's motherwas so very different than her aunt, but somehow they shared a gentleness in their nature. A demand for things to be just.

"I'm not like her at all," Frances said before letting loose with the air horn again.

The front row ducked and a baby started crying. Several fans glared at her aunt. "Y'all were raised by the same parents. Merely pointing that out."

"That doesn't mean a thing. You're nothing like Summer."

Rayne smiled. Her sister was a fireball with a flair for drama. Yes, Summer was a bit over-the-top. "I'm a little like her."

"Maybe," her aunt conceded, "but don't lump me in with that crazy hippy Glenna.”

Rayne laughed. "Okay, but youarea crazy fan."

They both let the conversation rest as Henry pulled the bat over his shoulder and crouched in his hitting stance. Brent stood behind the pitching machine and directed Henry, moving him first forward then backward, closer to the plate then back again. Finally, when Henry was in the exact same spot he'd started in, Brent dropped the ball.

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