a little bit of surprise. As if he hadn’t anticipated tomorrow in a long while.
Robin had to blink some moisture from her eyes before she could unlock the car.
That night, after Malcolm had gone to bed, she sat at her computer and typed an e-mail, deleting and correcting half a dozen times, as if she were writing the cover letter for a grant application.
Dear Craig.
She frowned at the salutation, changed “Craig” to “Mr. Lofgren,” then questioned the “Dear.” Finally she deleted the whole dang thing. It was too formal anyway.
In the end, she was left with a few bare sentences.
Just wanted you to know that soccer practice went really well today. Brett hasn’t lost any skill, and he seemed to have fun. He’s to try playing goalie tomorrow. Oh, and he got a 90% on a spelling quiz today!
She added and deleted comments on how nice Craig’s father was, how much Abby had grown, how she hoped his flight was turbulence free.
Honestly! They weren’t pen pals.
The next night, she had a return e-mail from him.
Thanks for the report. I was hoping Brett would e-mail, too—he has his own Hotmail account—but no. He’s probably not wanting to make too much of this. Thank you, Robin.
Nothing chatty. Although he had used her first name. She was glad she hadn’t said, “Dear Mr. Lofgren.”
She hit Reply and typed,
No more thanks, please. Another good day. Brett was dynamite as goalie! I suppose he felt he had to prove something, but he made some spectacular stops. Josh, who is the team’s regular goalie, seemed especially determined to crack him. But after Brett skidded ten feet across the turf, stopping a hard drive to the far corner, Josh ran over and congratulated him. Well, he whacked him on the back and then they exchanged high fives. Preteen male congrats.
After a moment, she signed “Robin” and hit Send.
The next night, he had replied again.
I wish I’d been there! I did get an e-mail from Brett today, who said, “Soccer is okay. I need new shoes. Mine are too tight.” I should have thought of that. We can stop somewhere on the way to practice Friday, or Saturday morning before the game. If not for your e-mails, I’d be trying to decide how okay “okay” is. It’s just okay? He’s not having fun but is determined to give it a chance? He’s having the time of his life? So, once again…no. You said no more gratitude. Can I at least thank you for helping me stay connected? Tokyo feels like a world away, not just a few time zones. Craig
Robin didn’t hit Reply this time, although she felt a pang of regret. She’d been rather enjoying their exchanges. Tomorrow, he’d be home to see his son play.
She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if Brett didn’t see much action Saturday. Although as well as Brett was playing, the coach might put him in. Without a good backup goalie, Josh had been playing both halves in a mask and pads, but he was a heck of a forward, too.
Robin had no trouble picturing Craig on the sidelines at the game. She’d always noticed when he showed up for the occasional practice and every game when he wasn’t working. She’d tried to reconcile the husband Julie talked about so casually, and increasingly grumbled about that last year, with the handsome man who paced the sidelines yelling encouragement, who ruffled his son’s hair and said, “Don’t worry about it. That was a heck of a shot on goal you took earlier,” when Brett had made a mistake and was slumped despondently on the ice chest after being pulled from the game.
The two people—the tall, athletic man with unruly dark hair and the demanding but indifferent husband—never quite lined up and clicked into place in Robin’s mind, and she knew why. Face it, she’d thought. You think he’s sexy and can’t imagine what she’d been grumbling about.
But even then she had known that the exterior was often deceptive. Then, she’d reminded herself that beauty was only skin deep, etc., etc.
Now she reminded herself that some of the most famous serial killers were both handsome and charming, à la Ted Bundy. Some wife-killers looked like every woman’s dream husband.
Craig Lofgren could have murdered his wife and still be a caring father. In fact, he might have killed her for that very reason: he didn’t want to lose his children.
So don’t be an idiot, Robin told herself when her heart gave a faint flutter at the idea of seeing him. Concentrate on helping Brett.
THE NEXT DAY, the team had already begun running laps when Robin glanced idly over her shoulder—not that she was looking for anyone!—and saw Brett tearing across the grass from the parking lot, kicking his soccer ball before him.
When he reached the sideline, panting, he dropped his water bottle, spoke briefly to Coach and took off after the other boys.
Robin was careful not to look over her shoulder again. As a result, her start was genuine when a slow, deep voice said from just beside her, “Did you see the totally cool new soccer shoes?”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared me!” Then she laughed. “Yes, I did. You had to buy top of the line to make all the other boys jealous?”
It was the first time she’d seen him smile since before…well, before. This one was slightly abashed. “He begged. I succumbed.”
“You were glad he was excited about something.”
His gray eyes met hers. “Read minds, do you?”
“My stock in trade. How else do you think I maintain control of a classroom full of eleven- and twelve-year-olds? I have to scare ’em somehow.”
He laughed, showing a flash of teeth, his dark face heart-stoppingly handsome. A lock of hair flopped over his forehead, and his throat was tanned and bare with his sports shirt unbuttoned at the top. When her heart gave an uncomfortable squeeze, Robin lowered her gaze.
Which didn’t help, as he had his shirtsleeves rolled up and she’d always been susceptible to strong brown forearms and big, capable-looking hands.
Sounding only a little breathless, she asked, “How was Tokyo?”
“It was my third visit this month.” His gaze following his son, Craig said, “Prices there make Seattle look cheap. I mostly read in my hotel room. Went out for dinner and drinks with my crew.” He yawned. “But they’re a hard-drinking bunch. I’m not.”
“I thought pilots couldn’t drink the night before a flight.”
“Our layover lasted two nights.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that other mothers were watching them. Two whispered to each other. Most of them had known Julie, too, and had seen Craig at games. This team had been together for several years. Once they’d seen Brett, they had begun buzzing about whether his father would show up, but conversations had tended to die when Robin drew near. Everyone knew she was instrumental in bringing Brett back, and that he was in her class this year.
Craig ignored
