A Roof Over Their Heads. M. K. Stelmack
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“A bat?” Bryn asked, echoing Alexi’s thought.
Seth put a choke hold on the thinner end of the bat and swung it, only a little, but Callie suctioned even tighter on her leg. Seth stilled his swing and eased his grip into a limp hold. He looked at Bryn. “We got a deal?”
Bryn hesitated and then said, “Okay, but first I’m going to get water. I’m thirsty.” He headed to the house.
No, not a repeat of the last time he went inside. Alexi jumped—sore ankle, Callie and all—in front of Bryn. “How about I take you all for slushies?” She looked over to Amy and Matt. “All of you.” She switched back to Bryn. “But first you have to take off the shirt.”
Bryn gripped the back of the jersey to do just that, but Matt and Amy yelled the naked consequences of that move.
Alexi could feel Seth Greene taking all this in, drawing his conclusions, passing them on to his cop-buddy tonight.
“Bryn. Look at me.” She waited until his gaze connected with her collarbone. “Go to the backyard. Get on your clothes. Okay? Backyard. Clothes on. Bring me back the blue shirt. What are you going to do?”
“Backyard. Clothes on. Bring you the blue shirt.” He headed off and Amy followed. She’d make sure it happened. Matt lingered. A double helix of pride—that Matt would protect her and sadness that he felt he had to—twisted inside her. She depended on him far more than was healthy for a boy his age and with his background.
She extended her hand to Seth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t thanked you for bringing back Bryn. Thank you. I—well—it’s been a day. There have been...a few problems.”
He looked at his truck, looked at her hand. The instant he took it, she wished he hadn’t. Her sweaty palm slimed his dry, muscled grip. Hot embarrassment flooded her already overheated body, cresting when he quickly released her hand. “How so?”
How so? She aimed for a light remark. Instead out poured, “The place reeks of paint. There’re no floors. No floors, no fridge, no stove. No kitchen sink. It’s what made Bryn run off.” She licked her lips. “Worse, no water.”
He straightened. “No water?” He was tall; she barely reached his shoulder. “You might need to just turn the valve. It’s by—it should be downstairs in the furnace room right against the far wall. Usually about a foot or two off the ground.”
“Did that. Only the valves to the taps weren’t shut off and water sprayed everywhere, so I have to figure out what goes where.”
“You called the owner?”
“Yes, but she’s not picking up.”
He hefted the stick in his hand and his thick arm muscles corded. Callie whimpered and Alexi lifted her into her arms. Seth glanced at the stick, walked to the garden, set it down and returned without a word. Alexi felt Callie’s body sag with relief against hers.
“Until you sort it out with her,” he said, as if there’d been no interruption to their conversation, “the outside tap runs—usually runs—through a separate pipe. You could try it.”
She’d never thought of that. “Of course.” She leaned to check the side of the house, Matt leaning with her. She couldn’t see anything.
“Might be on the other side,” Seth contributed.
Matt moved to check but halted at the man’s next words. “You on your own?”
Alexi stiffened. One act of kindness didn’t give him access to her life file. Besides, she wasn’t about to admit to a stranger that she and the kids were alone.
Before she could answer, Matt spoke. “Daddy-R died a year ago.” He swallowed. “A year ago today.”
He’d remembered. Alexi had hoped that the excitement of today would make the kids forget the anniversary. Matt lifted his eyes to her, deep brown eyes Richard had described as rock and wood and land, all things solid. Right now, they’d gone soft with unshed tears.
“I’m sorry,” Seth said. The standard words of condolence were low and distinct as if the man well and truly was sorry.
Matt squared his shoulders and gave a short nod. Putting on a brave face as usual.
“Thanks again for all your help,” she said to Seth. “Matt, could you check—”
Bryn came up the side of the house, twirling Seth’s jersey about his head like a lasso. Seth made a low grumbling noise, and Matt jumped to sort out the mess.
The jersey-for-bat exchange was made with few words and fewer movements. Alexi and the kids watched as the first person they’d met at Spirit Lake strode off and pulled away in a truck with the lettering Greene-on-Top Roofing on the doors.
Alexi turned to Matt, his face pale as he tracked the progress of the white Ford down the street. “You okay?”
Matt wiped his forehead, leaving behind a streak of dirt. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
His voice was sad and shaky. When Alexi leaned to kiss him, he tilted his head away and quickly said, “Hey, I was thinking that we could set up the tent in the backyard. Be just as comfortable as sleeping inside and it wouldn’t stink, either.”
Alexi let him have his evasion. The whole point of coming here was to start over. Time to get on with it.
“Why not? We deserve a little fun.”
* * *
UNBELIEVABLE. THERE WERE no baseball bats. Seth had reserved the diamond, answered obvious questions, posted all week to the Facebook group with reminders about the switch in dates from their regular Thursday meetup to today, Friday, and to bring bats and balls because he had neither. The result was thirty-three people, sixteen balls and no bats. And to think he had one in his hand not two hours earlier. Homemade, but enough to get the game underway.
Everybody arranged themselves on lawn chairs or bleachers, or leaned on trucks, content to have him deal with the consequences of their forgetfulness. Fair enough. He was responsible for—how did the legal wording go?—“generating, overseeing, implementing and attending all events associated with the recreational club, Lakers-on-the-Go.”
He was about to haul his own butt off a bleacher and shoot over to Canadian Tire for a couple of bats, when Ben texted to say he’d bring over his two.
Seth wondered if one of them was a girl’s bat.
Back when he and Ben were thirteen, they’d hiked across town to this same ball diamond with a bat and ball. Mel, when he wasn’t roofing with their dad, came along, but Connie, four years younger, had been too much of a pain. She’d pestered him to come, and so he told her that there was only one bat, it was his, and he didn’t want to share it with her. The next time they’d played, Ben had showed up with a pink-and-purple bat he said he’d share.
Seth learned then that Ben was a loyal friend unless Connie was involved.
That summer it had turned into the four of them. They’d start off taking turns pitching,