name. “But it’s all just a damn shame.”
“That we can agree on,” she said.
He said goodbye to Claudia, got in his truck and drove off. And Rosalie began greeting customers. Anything to avoid the censure in her mother’s eyes and an old longing that was trying to squeeze its way into her heart.
Chapter Four
Live with it any way you can.
Those words spoken by Rosalie at the Campano produce stand yesterday continued to haunt Bryce as he dressed in shorts and a T-shirt for his first official visit to Whistler Creek High School’s athletic building. Without giving his mother a chance to discuss the real estate deal he’d entered into Sunday afternoon, he gave her a peck on her cheek, poured himself a mug of coffee and dashed out the door to his truck. He didn’t feel up to another argument this morning.
“What is it exactly that Rosalie expects of me?” he said aloud as he drove down the wide country road bordered by estate homes and green patches of rich, fertile farmland.
Obviously nothing, you thickheaded dolt!
The truck’s air-conditioning blasted him over the rim of the mug as he took a swig of steaming coffee. “And why the hell can’t you leave it at that?” he added, setting the cup into the drink holder.
Of course, he knew the answer to that question. Once Rosalie had mattered to him more than any other person he’d ever known. She and Ricky had been his constant companions for years. And then, one brilliant spring day at the end of their senior year in high school, he’d realized he was crazy in love with Rosie. Nothing in his life so far had equaled the pure, sweet jubilation, nor packed the emotional wallop, of that moment.
Thinking back now, it seemed to Bryce that Rosalie had come to the same conclusion as he had at the exact same minute in time on the momentous morning one day after their senior prom. Neither of their dates had made it to the ritual breakfast, this year hosted at the Benton home on Little River Road. Rosalie’s date, nursing a headache from too much booze the night before, had gone to church at his parents’ insistence. Bryce’s date, the girl he’d been with since his junior year, had slept in, refusing to even pick up the phone when he’d called that morning to rouse her.
Suddenly finding themselves stag at a date affair, and totally comfortable with each other, Bryce and Rosalie had wandered into the peach orchard with two wineglasses, a pitcher of fresh orange juice and a chilled bottle of champagne Bryce had pilfered from his father’s wine cellar. They’d laughed at the pop of the cork and jumped back as the frothing liquid had poured from the bottle, sending sparkles of golden wine over Rosalie’s flowered sundress.
Bryce made the mimosas a little strong, handed Rosalie a glass and suggested they wrap their arms in a traditional romantic toast. All fun and games, right? They’d sipped and smiled at each other as if they were Hollywood romance legends. Rosalie had batted those long black lashes that every girl in high school had envied, and Bryce leaned in to give her a kiss on her cheek. That’s what he’d intended. Only the force of some crazy cosmic collision seemed to take control of his body and he’d claimed her lips. To this day he didn’t know why. He only knew that when their mouths touched, hers soft as the peach-scented breeze that morning, his greedy and seeking, nothing had ever been the same.
Bryce navigated the moderate traffic of downtown Whistler Creek to the high school and parked in the lot reserved for teachers. Only one other car was there, a gray SUV with a faculty sticker on the windshield. He took cartons from the back of his truck, loaded them onto a two-wheeled cart and walked past the high school. Taking the track around the football field, he came to the freestanding athletic center where his office was located. The building had been dedicated ten years earlier, thanks to public tax dollars, corporate donations and too many bake sales to count.
Dexter Canfield had given Bryce a key to the facility, so he unlocked the door and went inside. The smells of sweat and socks and the indefinable scent of masculine dreams greeted him as he walked down a short hallway decorated with commemorative bricks inscribed with contributor names. Bryce stopped long enough to read the name Benton Farms in the short list of $5,000 benefactors. He entered the first office on the right where the name plaque on the door already said “Coach Benton.”
The office had been cleaned out in preparation for his takeover. Someone had spackled over reminders of the previous occupant’s certificates and photos. Fresh beige paint covered the walls. The large metal desk in the center of the room was free of clutter, and Bryce found the drawers empty. He set his cartons on top of the desk and began taking out his belongings and stacking files and documents in some sort of manageable order.
He would hang his diplomas and framed recognitions on the wall behind the desk. Research materials and empty file folders waiting for paperwork on players went into the plain gray file cabinet. He spread his playbooks and coaching charts on top of the desk, sat in the utilitarian metal chair and flipped through the material, deciding which formations would work for a coach starting up with a new team.
After a couple hours, he took a break to simply appreciate being where he’d always wanted to end up. He stared out a wide window that overlooked the field where, in a short time, he’d teach a bunch of raw players to become productive team members. One adult wearing shorts and a polo shirt stood on the sideline while two teens practiced pitching and catching a baseball in the center of the practice area.
Bryce spread his hands on the desktop and watched the interplay between the man and the boys. The man was obviously coaching. Bryce understood the connection between a coach and his players. He understood what each meant to the other, how each player individually was a vital link to the success of the whole. How parents and family and friends contributed to what happened on the field.
He imagined Bucky Lowell in this office and figured he probably had had pictures of his family on this desk, images that comforted and supported him. Bryce had no pictures to put here, no wife or children to think of while he made decisions that affected so many lives and dreams. Audrey had taken his dream of kids away from him.
He sighed. Maybe, if the house deal went through, he’d get a dog, a photogenic one. And maybe, if he got really lucky, he’d marry again and have those couple of kids he’d always wanted. And then quite unexpectedly, an image of Rosalie came to his mind, the way she looked now—grown up but still with a youthful sultriness that took his breath despite the sadness of the past in her eyes. He shook his head. “Don’t even go there, Bryce,” he said. “The woman has made her attitude about you perfectly clear.”
He left his office and wandered onto the practice field where the informal baseball session was still going on. The adult waved him over and stuck out his hand when Bryce approached. “Coach Benton,” the man said. “Welcome to Whistler Creek. Or, welcome back I should say.”
Bryce shook hands. “Thanks. It’s been a long time.”
“I’m Ted Fanning, baseball coach,” the man said. “This will be my third year on the faculty.”
“Nice to meet you.” Bryce shielded his eyes and looked at the boys on the field. “I guess those are a couple of your stars?”
“That’s right.” He pointed. “Watch that pitcher. He’ll knock your socks off.”
Bryce observed the kid wind up and let loose with a curveball that seemed good enough to have been computer generated. “Wow. The kid’s good.”
“You bet he is.” Coach Fanning cupped his
