Mendoza's Return. Susan Crosby

“Anything else?”

      A few beats passed. “If this is making you uncomfortable, I can call you tomorrow at your office.”

      She looked at the counter for a moment. She could so easily slip back into the part of their relationship that had worked so well—talking. At least until the very end. Until then they’d talked all the time, about anything and everything. She’d missed that so much, even the occasional argument.

      “It’s just weird, Rafe. I haven’t seen you in all these years, and then …” She gestured toward the pool and their almost-kiss. “We need to keep it just business between us. So, do you have more questions?”

      He slid his hands into his pockets, signaling something, but she wasn’t sure what.

      “In your professional opinion, should we be fighting for Elliot to play ball? Will he be able to do okay at it?”

      “His having Asperger’s won’t prevent ultimate success, but it will take him longer to learn and he needs more intensive, individual work, which his father has been giving him.”

      “For batting, you said. But what about the other skills, like catching and fielding?”

      “I honestly don’t know. I only know that he can’t learn to be part of a team without being on a team. It’s the socialization process that’s hard. But, most important, Elliot wants to be part of it. He’s enamored with the idea of playing ball. He says over and over that he wants to be with them, meaning the other kids.” Needing to do something, she set her glass in the sink. “That drive, that need, can take him far. He just requires more help than the average kid to get there. And perhaps success might be measured a little differently than with other children, but doesn’t he deserve that chance?”

      “Are you sure you didn’t go to law school, after all?” he asked.

      She didn’t appreciate the reminder, but she didn’t call him on it. “I hope that means I’ve swayed you, because he needs an impartial advocate.”

      “I’ll let you know tomorrow after I’ve met him and his parents, and dug around a little more.”

      When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her kitchen clock. “I’d better get going. If you can get that info and fax or email it to me before we meet, I’d appreciate it.”

      She nodded, then followed him to the front door, noting how he’d taken one last glance at the yearbook, in the same way she had with his trophy case in his office. He was holding back, just as she was, she realized. There were things that needed saying, and at some point they would have to be said.

      But first things first. Elliot was more important than long-buried emotions. It wasn’t like her to hold so much inside, but it was necessary this time.

      She held the front door open as Rafe stepped outside. One safety light stayed spotlighted on the pool all night, even though a decorative metal fence prevented anyone from accidentally falling in.

      “Did you get the material I left with your dad?” she asked.

      “I’ve already watched the DVD several times. I wish it was more definitive.” He turned to face her. She was unable to read his expression. “Good night, Melina.”

      Her throat closed. The way her porch light spilled onto him took her back to all the times they’d kissed good-night by her front door. She hadn’t known disappointment then—or loss. She’d come to hate him since then for that.

      And yet she wanted to haul him upstairs and make love with him.

      She’d heard it said that there was a fine line between love and hate. Walking that tightrope between those two emotions was too risky, especially without a net.

      “Good night,” she said, then shut the door, burdened with doubt that she could work with him, but knowing she had no choice.

      For Elliot’s sake she had to put her personal feelings aside for now.

      For her sake she needed to lock those feelings away forever.

       Chapter Four

      Melina had just finished making the introductions the next day at Rafe’s office when Elliot Anderson, who’d taken a seat on the sofa between his parents, hopped back up and rushed to the glass case on Rafe’s wall. “Wow! Look at all the trophies, Dad. They’re awesome!”

      Steve Anderson sent a look of amusement to Rafe then followed his son, coming up behind him. He was a smaller version of his father, both sporting matching crew cuts.

      Rafe joined them, grateful for the icebreaker of the trophies. “I see you’re an Alex Rodriguez fan, Elliot. That’s a cool jersey you’ve got on.”

      “A-Rod, yeah. Number thirteen. First-round pick of the 1993 draft. He never went to college. The Seattle Mariners signed him. Then the Texas Rangers. My dad took me to see him play but I was too little to remember. I got pictures, though. The New York Yankees got him now. His batting average is—”

      “Not now, Elliot,” his father said. “We’re here to talk to Mr. Mendoza.”

      “I know. We looked him up on Google.” Energy and excitement burst from him. “Rafe Mendoza was a pitcher for Red Rock High School. His senior year his ERA was 2.28. His batting average was .432. He got forty-six RBIs and six home runs. He struck out 205 and walked forty-two. He went to college at the University of Michigan on a baseball scholarship. His ERA was—”

      “Elliot, this is Rafe Mendoza.”

      “I know, Dad. He had 362 at bats, and—”

      “Would you like to hold one of the trophies, Elliot?” Rafe asked. Melina had told him that the best way stop a running commentary was to redirect him.

      “Yes!” He bounced up and down. “Can I choose which one? I want that one,” he said, indicating the very large MVP trophy from Rafe’s senior year at Michigan.

      “How about one you can hold in your lap instead?” Rafe asked, pulling down a smaller but fancier trophy, one with brass pennants and other game paraphernalia replicas.

      “Okay!”

      “Go sit next to Mom,” Steve Anderson said.

      Elliot ran to the couch, leaped into the air, turning at the same time, and plopped, grinning. He accepted the trophy and began to examine every inch of it.

      Rafe moved his chair in front of his desk, removing the barrier that sometimes stifled conversation. “I hear you’re a good baseball player yourself, Elliot.”

      “My batting average is .754. That’s higher than Rafe Mendoza. My dad is teaching me how to pitch.”

      “Do you like to pitch?”

      “Yes, yes, yes. But I like to hit more. My batting average is .754.”

      “Can you catch fly balls?”

      “Sometimes.” He seemed to be studying something in particular on the trophy. “I have to wear sunglasses. I like to wear sunglasses. I like to wear uniforms, too, like the other kids. I want to be on the team.”

      “What’s your favorite thing about baseball?”

      “I want to be with the kids.” He stopped examining the trophy and looked at the prize case again. “I want pictures like that on my wall to look at all the time.”

      There were several team photos in the case—Rafe’s high school and college teams, all-star games, too. He understood Elliot’s desire to be part of something that united people in a common effort, one that brought acceptance and camaraderie. Until Rafe had moved back to Red Rock, he’d been part of some business teams in Ann Arbor, as corporate counsel. Going solo was taking some getting used to.

      Rafe asked a few more questions, received enthusiastic and hopeful answers, then he wanted