get that for you?”
At her nod, he took the long metal fork with a wood handle on the end, the prong looking like something out of a fondue set. Carefully, he eased it away from the flames.
“Watch out for Polly,” she reminded him.
The pup had fallen asleep with her furry chin on a dog biscuit—mid gnaw. Now, she snoozed on the far corner of the picnic blanket.
“I see her.” Still, he was careful about where he laid aside the hot metal fork after he slid the gooey marshmallow onto a plate to cool. “Do you mind if I ask you a question about your family?”
“A question?” Melanie’s eyes shot to his. She shifted from her spot on the leather ottoman to a seat beside him on the quilt.
Putting her in touchable range, even though she looked a little freaked out at the idea of talking about her family.
“I’m camping and testing out life as a pet owner, right? I’m trying to compromise. So it’s your turn. Share some of your secrets that you think are going to keep us apart.”
“I didn’t mean to keep them a secret—”
“Yes you did.” He watched the flames glow blue at the base of the blaze, figuring it was safer to keep an eye on the flames than her.
“Okay, maybe I did. But you know I work in my father’s restaurant a lot of nights.”
“I know it’s on the other side of town from the ball field and that you discouraged me from stopping by.”
“Dad’s sort of a local legend. A minor league journeyman who hit a lot of homeruns but never went back to the majors after a shoulder injury prevented him from being as good as he once was.”
He could sense a whole lot of subtext there, but wasn’t quite sure how to pull it free.
“No wonder you know your baseball.” He’d been impressed at her knowledge of the game more than once—from situational pitching to batter’s box strategy. But she’d written it off as stuff she’d picked up on her temp jobs at the training facility.
“Baseball and broken dreams. They’re the language of the household.” The bitterness in her voice was something he’d never heard.
“Your dad took it hard?” He wanted to understand her better. Wished he’d worked harder to figure her out sooner.
“Not as hard as Mom did. Her disappointment in him drove her to drink. For a long time, I thought he was crazy to stay with her. But as I get older, I think it’s how he punishes himself.”
“That’s so—”
“Dysfunctional? Messed up? Yeah. I know.”
He shook his head. “I was going to say, that’s sort of like my father. He was an angry man and he took it out in the boxing ring as a small-time fighter. He always wanted his sons to do better. Be more than the old man. So he drilled us relentlessly on our chosen sports. Baseball for me. Golf for Seth. Hit two hundred balls before dinner. Two hundred more before bed.”
“Yet you always credit your father with your success as a player.” She frowned, her eyes full of tender concern.
“I wouldn’t be where I am without him. Although if I had it to do over, I’d be a golfer like Seth.”
“He’s on the PGA tour, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t envy his success as much as the fact that he always got to hit his two hundred balls off the tee. Whereas I got the old man pitching to me for most of those swings. Which meant I doubled up on the father-son time.” He shook off the old ghosts. “But if you’re thinking I’m some kind of sports fanatic, I can tell you nothing could be further from the truth. When my career is over, I move on—no regrets.”
Her eyes darted away.
“However long the success lasts, you pay a high price for it.” She picked up her marshmallow now that it had cooled, balancing it on her fingertips while she seemed to debate how to eat it.
“Damn straight. And I’d never want to be with a woman who didn’t understand that.” He savored the sight of her tongue testing the gooey warmth.
Her eyes closed for a moment as she sampled the treat.
And just
Learning to Kill: Stories