A Taste of Texas. Liz Talley

know you won’t.” He patted her thigh beneath the ruffled sundress she’d squirmed into. It was wrinkled from lying on the floor, but still looked great on her.

      “Well, I’d better leave while everyone else is in church. If my grandmother sees me, I’ll get lectured in front of the whole family again. Roast beef just doesn’t taste right with a side accusation of whore.”

      He frowned. “You’re not a whore.”

      “Tell that to the Reverend Beach.” She rose and slid the sandals onto her feet. The small birds in the tree beside her flew away. She smiled and tilted her face again to the morning sun. “Have a good one, Brent.”

      She waved as she slipped out the wooden gate that led to a side drive, leaving Brent to his heavy thoughts.

      As the gate banged shut, the phone resting beside him on the step rang.

      He didn’t want to answer it. He knew who it was and what she wanted. But he picked it up anyway. Ever the dutiful son.

      “Happy birthday, Brent!” The greeting launched an enthusiastic round of “Happy Birthday.”

      “Hey, Mom,” he said into the receiver.

      “Happy birthday, my handsome boy. How’s everything at the house? Are you feeding Apple her sensitive stomach food?” His mother’s tone sounded too cheerful for a person up at such a godforsaken hour. It was 5:30 in the morning in California.

      “Let me talk to him,” he heard his dad say.

      His dad’s voice barked in his ear. “Talked to a guy last night. Name’s Russell Bates. His brother works in management for the Chargers organization. He said he saw you play your freshman year and might have a spot for you here in San Diego.”

      “Doing what? Selling hot chocolate?” Brent closed his eyes and pretended they weren’t having this conversation again. His dad just wouldn’t give up. Would never give up. Playing football was a memory for Brent. And would stay that way. “This ain’t going to happen. You know that.”

      “Horseshit.”

      “Today I’m thirty-two. Thirty-two-year-olds don’t start a football career in the NFL. I’m not Brett Favre. I’m done with football.”

      “Brett Favre is ten years older than you and still in the league. Besides, Hamiltons don’t give up,” his father said. His old man might as well have said, “Denny didn’t give up.” Because that’s what Brent heard when his dad talked about Hamiltons. Always Denny. Competing with the memory of a dead brother was part of what had brought Brent to this very moment. He would never win that battle.

      “Okay, fine. Give me the number.”

      “Ready?” his father said.

      Brent closed his eyes. “Hold on. Let me grab a pencil. Okay, go ahead.”

      He didn’t move from the step. Simply listened as his father rattled off a landline and cell number. Brent wouldn’t call. The hint of interest was just a friend of a friend humoring an old man with dreams too big for his son. Brent could only imagine the conversation that had taken place when his father had learned of the tenuous connection to the Chargers organization. His father was a bulldog, pushing until people rolled over and surrendered. Brent had rolled over quite a bit in his life. Another reason for his self-loathing.

      “Call him tomorrow morning. His name is Bill. Bye.”

      “Bye,” Brent murmured into the phone. He pressed the end button. No happy birthday from his dad. Only more direction toward a future that did not exist.

      He sighed and drank the rest of his lukewarm coffee. The sun already grew warm despite the cool April breeze filtering through the trees. It was a perfect day to putter in his parents’ backyard, whittling out perches for the birdhouses he’d promised the kindergartners at Oak Stand Elementary. But, then again, he needed to complete the proposal for the next few books. His publisher wanted five more books in the lacrosse series, which was good because his job at Hamilton Construction was slow, mimicking the economy all over the nation.

      During the day, he ran his father and uncle’s construction company, a local contracting business that specialized in renovations and additions rather than new construction. But most nights, he became B.J. Hamm, author of award-winning sports fiction aimed at boys. No one in Oak Stand knew the complex B.J. Hamm. They only knew the rather simple Brent Hamilton.

      His secret hobby had grown into a secret career— one that not even his absent parents knew about. Writing was a juicy secret he took pleasure in keeping. He didn’t know why.

      Donna and Ross Hamilton had taken a long overdue RV tour out West and suddenly retirement sounded good to his parents. For the past couple of weeks, his father had finally stopped mentioning tryouts for the Canadian Football League and started hinting that Brent should buy his half of the company. But now with the phantom San Diego Charger contact, Brent was certain his father would jump on the football bandwagon again, dreaming about Brent hoisting the Lombardi Trophy overhead.

      How in the name of all that was holy could a pragmatic man like his father believe something so shaky as a dream of that magnitude? The old man couldn’t let go. Of anything.

      Brent had his chance years ago.

      But he didn’t want to think about failed dreams today. He didn’t want to think about anything. Maybe he’d go back to his feather-stuffed bed. Or doze in the hammock strung between the two Bradford pear trees in the corner of the yard. He rarely had time to enjoy the peaceful oasis he’d helped his mother create between the carriage house he rented and his parents’ small Victorian.

      He whistled for Apple and she ignored him.

      As he stood, a baseball came whizzing over the fence. It bounced on the path and crashed into a red clay planter, knocking it over, spraying potting soil into the air.

      What the hell?

      The ball rolled into a daylily clump and stopped. Apple pounced on it, slobbering all over the well-used baseball.

      He walked over and pulled it from Apple’s mouth. She grinned up at him as if a game of fetch was about to commence.

      “Hey, that’s mine.” The voice came from the left.

      Brent turned to find two brown eyes peeking over the wooden fence. They belonged to a boy whose leg crept over the top of the fence. The boy hoisted himself up and straddled the two yards, his eyes portrayed wariness.

      Brent motioned the kid to come on over and the boy tumbled down, dropping like a sack of potatoes onto the bag of mulch his mother had left in the corner.

      Apple trotted close and sniffed him.

      “Hey,” he said to the dog, rubbing her head before standing up and brushing himself off.

      Brent felt like an alien had beamed down. But it wasn’t a little green person. It was a boy who looked to be about seven or eight years old.

      Brent flipped the ball to the kid. He caught it with one hand. Impressive. Apple wondered off to find more frogs and lizards to chase.

      “Clean up the mess,” Brent said, pointing to the dirt covering the brick path.

      The boy looked at the broken pottery and spilled soil. “Oh, sorry. My hand got sweaty.”

      Brent nodded. “It happens.”

      The boy didn’t say anything more. He knelt and used a finger and thumb to lift a broken shard.

      “You staying at the bed-and-breakfast?” Brent asked.

      The boy nodded and picked up the upended planter and started stacking the shards inside. “Yep. My mom made us come here. Right at the beginning of my baseball season. It’s absurd.”

      Something about the boy’s disgust and vocabulary made Brent smile. He knew how that felt. He’d loved baseball season. Especially in early April. The smell of the glove,