pretty much nails it,” Brody agreed. As the waitress walked away, he told Sawyer, “If you rented a room from Becca, your lodgings would be spotless, the meals would be tasty and she could answer any question you ever had about Cupid’s Bow. But you don’t want to cross her. Last man who did that is still missing.”
Sawyer froze with his glass halfway to his mouth, sweet tea sloshing, but then decided his friend was messing with him. “You made up that last part.”
“Exaggerated, maybe. But it’s true no one knows where her ex-husband is—including Becca. Long story short, she’s still pretty ticked. And she would hate you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Sawyer demanded. “I’ve been told I have a winning personality.”
“Becca likes structure and setting rules. While you...are a pain in the ass.”
“But a charming one.”
Brody snorted. “Not as charming as you think. Is that our food?” He perked up at the sight of Leanne carrying a tray in their direction.
“Do you have her phone number or address?”
“Leanne’s?” Brody asked, sounding perplexed.
“Becca’s.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. Although, I suppose that’s why you’re pursuing it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Brody gave him a knowing glance. “Never met anyone who hates being told what to do more than you.”
“It’s not like I’m being stubborn for the sheer hell of it,” Sawyer defended himself. “A private room is bound to offer more peace and quiet than a hotel filled with tourists in town for the centennial celebration.”
“I’ll give you directions to Becca’s place, but it’s your funeral if you track in mud or pick an argument with her.”
“Pretty sure I can handle myself.”
“Maybe. If not...can I have your truck?”
Marc Johnston watched the soccer ball, a whirl of white and black as it came at him, and wished it would roll far away. Off the field. Into the street. His mama would never let him chase it into the street. No ball, no soccer practice. He could go home to play in his room! It was too hot outside.
But that was a dumb wish. If the ball rolled into the street, his mama would chase it down and bring it back to him. She’d told him a zillion times, “I’m always here for you.” Not like his daddy, who’d gone away. Mama was never far.
Right now, she was coaching from the side of the field. “Kick the ball, Marc! You can do it!”
He swung his leg. It wasn’t really a kick, not a good one. He brushed the side of the ball, which kept moving, and lost his balance as it rolled under his foot. He wobbled, then fell on his back, the sting just enough to make him suck in a breath. Ow.
Mama jogged toward him, her face crinkly with worry. She helped him up, brushing grass and dirt off his uniform. “You okay, champ?”
“I guess.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take a break and drink some water.”
He’d rather have soda from the machine by the bleachers, but knew better than to ask. Mama handed him a water bottle, then turned to give instructions to Jodie Prescott, who was taller than Marc even though his birthday was before hers. He didn’t like Jodie—she called him Shorty—but he was glad she was keeping Mama busy so he could go sit in the shade. There was another boy there, not in Marc’s grade, playing on a Nintendo 3DS.
“Are you here for soccer practice?” Marc asked.
The kid grunted. “Does it look like I’m playing soccer? My dad’s coaching my sister’s team over there.” He flung an arm toward another field without looking up from the screen. “I’m waiting.”
“You’re lucky you have a DS.” And lucky you have a dad. And, also, lucky he didn’t have to play soccer. “Can I have a turn?”
“No. But you can watch me.” He scooted a little closer so that Marc could see the screen.
It was the best soccer practice ever. Marc almost forgot how hot it was. He even almost forgot about his mama, who had to call his name twice when it was time to go home. On their way to the van, the way she watched him made him feel bad for not trying harder at soccer.
She brushed the back of his shirt again. “We’d better get this straight in the washer if I’m going to get the stain out.”
“Sorry.” His mother didn’t like stains. Or running in the house. Or when he forgot to swallow his food before telling her interesting stories, like how Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake got out of its cage. Marc had learned at dinner last night she also didn’t like stories about Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake.
“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong—everyone falls down.”
“Even you?” It was hard to imagine Mama falling. She never messed up.
“On occasion.” She hit the key button that made the doors unlock. He got in the back seat, wishing he was big enough to sit in the front. It felt lonely back here.
Although she started the engine, she didn’t drive anywhere. She looked at him in the mirror. “Marc, are you enjoying soccer?”
If he told her the truth, would he still have to play? Probably. She was the coach. They couldn’t just quit the team. “Soccer’s okay.”
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She sighed. She made that sound a lot. Marc didn’t remember her doing it so much when his dad lived with them, but those memories were blurry, like when he tried to see underwater at the community pool.
“Mama? A girl in my class has parents with a divorce.”
“Parents who are divorced.”
“She says she lives with her dad in the summer. Is it summer soon?”
“Next month, after the election.”
“Will I live with Daddy then?”
“No, I’m afraid not, champ.” Her eyes were shiny in the mirror, like she might cry, and Marc wished he hadn’t asked. “But I’ll do my best to make sure you and I have a great summer. Okay?”
“Okay.” He looked out his window. “Is Mr. Zeke coming back?” For months, the bald, smiling man had been around their house, making what Mama called ren-o-vations. Mr. Zeke had shown Marc cool drills and saws.
“Not anytime soon. The attic’s finished now, so he’s moved on to his next job. But now that the attic apartment is ready to rent, maybe we’ll have guests.”
That would be nice. It would be even better if whoever came to stay with them was as cool as Mr. Zeke.
* * *
BECCA HAD MIXED feelings about her son’s silence on the drive home. On the one hand, she’d had a very long day and appreciated the few minutes of peace. But she was worried; quiet reflection was not the seven-year-old’s natural state. Was he still in pain from his fall? More likely he’s still in pain from his father’s defection. The questions about when he would see his dad, followed by whether or not the general contractor would be back, made it pretty clear that he missed having a man to look up to in his life.
Her throat burned. Nothing mattered more to her than her son, but she couldn’t be everything to him. The town’s upcoming centennial celebration