typical Oklahoma spring. We were under a severe thunderstorm warning and—”
“That’s where I got my name,” Stormy added.
Erica sent her a mock scowl. “Do you want to tell it?”
“I was a baby, Mom,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t remember that night.”
Erica remembered every precious—and precarious—moment. “Anyway, I thought you might be born at home because it took your dad forever to find that baseball glove he’d bought you.”
“Because he thought I was going to be a boy.”
This time Erica decided not to scold her over the interruption. “That’s right. But the minute you were born, he took one look at you and fell in love.” She still remembered the awe in Jeff’s eyes the moment Stormy came into the world, followed by the fear.
Stormy smiled again. “And when he heard me cry, he said I was going to be a country music singer.”
That cry had come much later, one little detail Erica had chosen not to share with her daughter. She also hadn’t told her how close she and Jeff had come to losing their precious baby, whose heart had begun to fail only hours after her birth, leading to the first of four corrective surgeries. “He said you were either going to sing or umpire baseball games.”
Stormy hesitated a minute before asking, “Do you still have that baseball glove somewhere?”
Only one of the many keepsakes Erica had clung to in order to preserve the memories. “It’s in the cedar chest. Why?”
“Because I’m going to need it.”
“Show and tell?”
Stormy rolled her eyes. “We haven’t done that since first grade. I’m going to need it because Lisa wants me to play softball with her next spring. We’re supposed to sign up in January.”
Serious concerns came crashing down on Erica. “First of all, the glove’s too small. Secondly, you’ve never played softball before. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
Stormy stiffened, looking determined. “I can run fast and I can throw harder than a lot of boys. My P.E. teacher says I’m a natural athlete.”
If that happened to be true, Stormy had come by it genetically. Aside from Erica’s gymnastics acumen, Jeff had been a talented football player. Yet for years her daughter had been held back by her physical deficits. She had no right to hold her back now, but still…“Before you sign up for anything, we need to check with Dr. Millwood. You can ask him when you have your appointment in February.”
“They’ll pick the teams before then, Mom.” Stormy unconsciously touched the top of the vertical scar peeking out from the parting in her pajama top. “Besides, he told me the last time I saw him that I could do anything I was big enough to do, and I’m big enough, and well enough, to play softball. I can practice with Lisa. It’ll give me something to do while you’re training with Kieran.”
The time had come to let her daughter down easy, at least on one front. “I promise I’ll consider the softball issue, sweetie. But I don’t think the training is going to work for me right now.”
“You aren’t going to do it?” Stormy said, both her tone and expression reflecting her displeasure.
“Maybe later.” Or never. “But I really love that you wanted to do this for me.”
Stormy pulled her legs to her chest, rested her chin on her knees and gave her a mournful look. “Daddy would’ve wanted you to stay in shape. He would’ve wanted me to play softball.”
A masterful manipulation if Erica had ever heard one, even if Stormy happened to be right. Nothing would have pleased Jeff more than to see his daughter excel at sports and his wife maintain a healthy lifestyle, and her weight. “I realize that, but I don’t want you to get hurt if you’re not ready for sports.”
Stormy climbed out of the bed and propped her hands on her hips. “Just because you’re afraid doesn’t mean I have to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. I’m only concerned for your well-being, Stormy.”
“You are too afraid!” Stormy stomped her foot, something she had never done before. “Lisa says you’re paranoid, and she’s right. You’re afraid I’m going to get hurt and you’re afraid to let Kieran train you because you’re afraid of guys. You’re afraid of everything, Mom. And I’m afraid I’m going to be stuck in this house with you until I’m too old to have any fun.”
With that, Stormy spun around and headed down the hall, her hair wagging with a vengeance against her back.
On the verge of tears, Erica leaned back against the headboard and released a broken breath that bordered on a sob.
In some ways, Stormy was right—she was afraid. Her daughter would never know how many nights she’d stayed awake and watched each breath she took, fearful it could be her last. How afraid she’d been when she’d received the call informing her that her husband would never be coming home. That fear had admittedly driven her to be too overprotective, but she couldn’t stomach the thought of something happening to her baby girl, the most important person in her life.
One thing she did know—Stormy had been wrong about her fear of Kieran. She wasn’t afraid of him at all. She was afraid of how he made her feel in the short time she’d been around him. Afraid of acknowledging that she was highly attracted to a man, as if she was somehow being unfaithful to Jeff.
Still, she couldn’t imagine Kieran would persist if she didn’t go through with the training. At least she hoped not. She’d had enough trouble explaining her reasons for refusing to her daughter. She couldn’t battle them both.
“Stormy’s here, and someone else is here to see you, girlfriend.”
Erica stopped restocking the therapy room and took a quick glance at the clock before depressing the intercom on the wall. “My next appointment’s not due for another half hour, Megan.”
“He’s not here for a massage. He says he’s the dancing pizza man. Do you want me to call the cops?”
Erica’s heart did a little skip-beat rumba over the thought of seeing Kieran O’Brien again. Apparently an impatient Kieran O’Brien since less than twenty-four hours had passed since he made the offer. Oh, well. She might as well tell him face-to-face no thanks to the training, and be done with it. “Law enforcement isn’t necessary. I’ll come downstairs to meet him.”
And down the stairs Erica went, practically sprinting. She slowed her steps when she reached the second landing because she certainly didn’t want him to believe she was excited to see him. Yet when she paused at the bottom of the staircase and caught sight of him entering the salon area, she could barely catch a normal breath. She certainly wasn’t the only one who’d noticed him.
From the stylists’ stations lining both sides of the lengthy aisle, clients and beauticians alike snapped their heads around, risking whiplash. And those who didn’t simply studied him in the mirrors’ reflections, including Mrs. Weldon, a seventy-something Houston icon who’d come in for her weekly shampoo and style. Several mouths dropped open, and the once-boisterous conversations quieted to a low murmur, although
