Fireside. Сьюзен Виггс

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      “I’ll find a place to stop.” Within a few miles, he spotted a Friendly’s sign poking up into the gray day. The place was open, surrounded by a few semis and travel trailers. They got out, and discovered the air was even colder here, outside the city. Bo hated the cold. He usually tried to spend winters training in Texas or Florida, someplace warm. If the Yankees deal worked out, he’d be headed to Tampa soon enough for training and exhibition games.

      The restaurant smelled like pure heaven—frying oil and fresh coffee. Bo waited in the foyer while AJ went to the men’s room. Behind the hostess stand, a young woman checked him out. Bo acted as if he didn’t notice, but he stood up a little straighter. The fleeting moment reminded him that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time. It was easy enough to get dates, but harder to keep them.

      AJ returned, sniffing the air like a coonhound on the scent. His eyes shone with a stark, naked hunger, and his face looked pale and drawn.

      “You all right?” Bo asked.

      “Fine.” AJ’s hair gleamed at the temples, as if he’d slicked it back with water.

      For some reason, Bo was touched by the hasty attempt at grooming. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

      A shrug.

      “Did they feed you on the plane?”

      “Yeah.”

      Bo had his hand on the door. Something made him hesitate, and he turned back. “What?” he asked. “What did you eat on the plane?”

      “A snack.”

      “You mean like a little packet of peanuts and a Coke?”

      “Yeah, only I had a Sprite.”

      “This way,” Bo said, heading to the hostess stand. He offered the hostess another smile. “You got a table for two, darlin’?”

      “I sure do.” She took two glossy, oversize menus from beneath the podium. “This way. Your server will be right with you.”

      Despite the undercurrent of flirting with the waitress, Bo was irritated. “You should’ve told me you were hungry,” he said. “I’m not a mind reader.”

      AJ regarded him solemnly across the table. “I don’t know what you are. I don’t know you at all.”

      “I’m your father, that’s what I am. And it’s not my fault you don’t know me. It’s not your fault, either.”

      “Sure, let’s blame Mom for everything,” AJ said.

      All right, so this was going to be an emotional minefield. Bo was bad at blindly feeling out someone’s vulnerable areas, particularly with a boy who was a stranger. An angry, resentful stranger.

      “I’m not looking to blame anybody,” he said, trying for a kindly, reasonable tone. Wasn’t that how you talked to a kid? With kindness? “Your mother isn’t to blame for anything, AJ. She made the best choices she knew how to make under the circumstances. I respect her for that.”

      The boy stared at the menu, his face expressionless.

      “Sorry I sounded pissed. I’m mad at myself, okay?” Bo continued. “Not at you. I’m new to this—to being in charge of a kid. I should have asked if you were hungry, or if you needed the restroom, but it didn’t occur to me. I’m not a subtle guy, AJ, and I’m not real smart about a lot of things. Sometimes you’re going to have to speak up, spell out for me what you need. Can you do that?”

      “I guess.”

      “Good.” He picked up the carafe the hostess had left at the table. “Coffee?”

      “I’m a kid. I don’t drink coffee.”

      What Bo knew about kids would not fill the stoneware mug in front of him. “Well, then, take a look at the menu and order anything you want.”

      The waitress came, and AJ asked for a blueberry muffin and a glass of milk.

      “Oh, you gotta do better than that,” Bo said. “I mean it, AJ. Anything.”

      The kid packed away food as if he was hollow inside. A stack of pancakes, steak and eggs, a ham sandwich, a vanilla milkshake. Watching him eat, Bo felt oddly gratified. He didn’t know why. There was something primal about feeding the boy, watching him fill himself up like a tanker taking on fuel. If he ate like this all the time, maybe he’d grow.

      Bo had a club sandwich and coffee, wishing it was a beer. As he paid the tab, he felt AJ’s eyes on him.

      “What? You need something else? Dessert?”

      “No, just … thanks.” The kid’s gaze shifted to an array of pies in a revolving lighted display case.

      “We’ll take that, too,” Bo told the waitress. “The apple pie.”

      “Two pieces?”

      “Nah. The whole pie, to go.”

      Once they were back on the road, Bo felt downright talkative, thanks to the coffee. “So what’d you think of your first airplane ride?” he asked AJ.

      “It was okay, I guess.”

      “You know, I was even older than you when I first took a plane flight. Summer before my senior year of high school. I made the same flight you just did—Houston to New York. It was for an all-star baseball team that brought together kids from all over the country. We got a chance to work with a coach named Carminucci. Dino Carminucci. He had a big career with the Yankees for a while. He’s retired now, but manages the Hornets these days, which is the reason I ended up in Avalon a few years back.” He paused, trying to figure out if AJ was interested in talking.

      The boy kept his eyes straight ahead on the gray horizon.

      “The Hornets,” Bo explained, “that’s my team in the Can-Am League. It’s Independent League Baseball. Totally separate from major league. I’ve spent my entire career in the Independent Leagues. Never thought that would change. It might, though. If everything goes the right way this winter, that’ll change.” He sneaked another look at the kid. AJ clearly didn’t give a hoot about any of this and, honestly, Bo didn’t blame him.

      “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just strumming my lips. You’re probably tired from your trip.”

      AJ nodded but didn’t say anything. However, Bo’s remark made the silence seem less awkward. He relaxed, resting his wrist at the top of the steering wheel, and watching the road. He remembered that first airplane flight as though it were yesterday. He’d been a boy on fire. Not literally, of course, although at seventeen, that was the way he felt, all the time, like a struck match. With no supervision at home and nothing to keep him from exploding, he was into anything that would give him an adrenaline rush—swimming in the long, deep rice wells west of town, skateboarding through parking garages, having bottle-rocket wars with his friends, racing hot rods along the spillways and bayous of Houston—an accident waiting to happen.

      He wasn’t looking for trouble. It was just that life excited him, though СКАЧАТЬ