Mason groused at his wife. “I’ve got an engine to rebuild down at the shop after breakfast.”
Lindy called out to Chase. “Left, honey. Turn left.”
Chase, yawning broadly, complied.
Mason, frowning, hung out the driver’s side window, bellowing to his son, “Too far! Right!”
“You’ve got plenty of room, honey!” his mother assured him. Chase’s attention ping-ponged left and right. He wasn’t sure which parent to listen to as they both waved him back. Another significant look was exchanged, this time his father the looker, and his mother the lookie. Chase couldn’t help but laugh. He’d forgotten how entertaining they were. Chase spun the steering wheel.
“Look out!” Mason cried.
Crunch. Chase hit the fence. And if that wasn’t a coincidence—that he was about to be in trouble after a swing for the fence—Chase didn’t know what was.
Chase sat at the kitchen table with his parents, his father reading the paper as his mother served up breakfast. After a prolonged silence, Chase said, “Sorry about the fence.”
Lindy said, “Nonsense. It was an old fence.” As she spoke, she kept piling food onto Chase’s plate until he pulled it out of her reach.
Mason said, “And a perfectly good one.”
More silence. Chase was taken back to being seventeen again. Though Chase had grown up, his father’s disapproving stare hadn’t aged a bit.
Lindy poured coffee, ignoring the uneasy atmosphere. “Anyway, we’re so happy having you home, sweetheart. After all the five-star hotels you put us up in when we visit, it’s about time I get to take care of you!”
“Thanks, Mom.” Chase dug into his breakfast, lowering his head to avoid having to look at his dad.
Mason cleared his throat, and Chase looked up to see him nodding toward the wall. Chase followed Mason’s line of sight to see several dramatic paintings of himself at bat and on the mound, framed and hung in a grouping.
Chase took his dad’s meaning. “Hey, Mom, great paintings.”
Lindy brightened and said, “I painted that one of you right off the TV. And that one from a magazine cover.”
“They’re amazing, Mom. Well done.” He appeared a lot more heroic in his mom’s paintings than he felt in real life. The silence descended again.
Mason buried himself in the sports page, which gave Lindy the opportunity to drop three more pieces of sausage on his plate. Apparently not satisfied, she added a pancake, too. Mason’s paper didn’t even flicker.
Lindy sat down and said, “Mason, are you going to take a look at the vacuum today?”
Mason lowered the corner of his paper. “Yes, Lindy. I said I would.”
“What’s wrong with the vacuum?” Chase asked, not caring about the annoyed look his dad shot him for talking with his mouth full.
Mason, cracking a smile, explained. “One of your mother’s paintbrushes got stuck in the rollers.”
They all shared a laugh, which seemed to lighten the mood. Chase said, “That vacuum has been around since before I was born. Why don’t I just buy you a new one?”
Mason screwed up his face, scoffing. “What? You afraid to get your hands dirty fixing it or something?”
Chase said quietly, “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just figured while I’m here—”
Mason cut him off. “I can fix it down at the shop. It’s a perfectly good vacuum.” He picked up his steaming mug and sipped his coffee. “Just like our perfectly good fence.”
Chase stood up from the table, tamping down his urge to snap back at his father. He didn’t want to upset his mom. Instead, he leaned over to give Lindy a kiss on the cheek and said, “Maybe I’ll go out for a bit. Look around town a little.”
Chase watched as Lindy shot Mason another look, and Mason simply went back to the newspaper.
Jess wasn’t as hostile toward the sign emblazoned with Chase’s name as she and Wes strolled onto the field. She thought about how easy it had been to talk to Chase, to slip back into that familiar feeling of closeness and comfort. Wes unpacked his gear and, grabbing a bat, jogged out a few paces from Jess. Jess refocused and whipped out her phone, consulting her app. After tucking her phone away, she hoisted a ball and got ready to let loose her first pitch.
“Okay, buddy,” she encouraged him. “So, you’re going to just keep your eye on the ball, right?”
At Wes’s serious nod, she muttered under her breath. “That’s what they say? Okay.” She let the ball fly, knowing that her clumsy overhand pitch would be a bit wild.
Wesley swung and missed.
Jessica said, “Oh! I’m sorry.” She winced. “It was just a little high.”
Wes got back into position, raising his arms and hefting the bat.
“Look, I know you’re good at this,” Jess said. Better than I am at pitching. “You just need to concentrate. Let’s try one more time.”
She tossed out another pitch that bonked Wesley directly in the shoulder. Jessica recoiled as Wes dropped the bat, grabbing for the injured spot. He hopped around, trying to shake off the hit.
“I’m sorry! Sorry, honey! Are you okay?” Jess asked.
“I’m fine.” He glared at her. There were no tips in her coaching app on what to do if you thwacked a player with a pitch.
“You sure?” She wanted to run over to him, but the stormy look on his face suggested that motherly smothering wouldn’t be very welcome right now.
Clutching his bruised arm, Wesley said in an aggravated tone, “Mom, every time we practice together, I just get worse!”
Jessica took a shaky breath. She knew that part of why Wes wasn’t getting better was that she wasn’t the best coach. Okay, she was a bad coach. App or no app, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t do everything. It was a jarring realization. She tried to stay positive—she had made a pact with herself not to dwell on the negative in the years since Davis had split—but it was a difficult pact to uphold.
“Oh, buddy. I’m so sorry.” She searched for something to say, anything that would comfort him and help her bolster her own flagging spirits. “Well—just—let’s take a five-minute break?”
Wesley, skulking away toward the water fountains, said, “Fine.”
Jess ripped off her baseball mitt. Where’s a real baseball player when you need one?
