You're My Baby. Laura Abbot

closer, stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for being my friend. Now, go,” she said, gently nudging him in the small of his back.

      He stood on her walkway long after she had closed the door. The night was warm, and above him a nearly full moon was on the rise, the stars hidden beyond the city lights. The universe was as it eternally had been, its orbits fixed.

      But something—Pam—had knocked him out of his.

      HOLDING THE BASKETBALL in the crook of his arm, Brady Showalter gaped toward the azure swimming pool, bordered by palm trees swaying in the Florida breeze. “Your mom’s a fox.”

      Andy Gilbert shot his friend a disgusted look. “So?”

      “It’s cool, that’s all. My mom, all she wears are these dumpy-looking pantsuits. And I don’t even wanna tell you about her swimsuit.”

      Andy knew what Brady meant. His friend’s mother wasn’t the hottest babe he’d ever seen. Still, it was embarrassing to have your own mother parading around the pool in her bikini, kinda like she was deliberately showing off her bod for his buddies. “Gimme the ball.”

      Brady bounced it to him and Andy feinted, then lofted a shot that whistled through the hoop. Diving after the rebound, he whirled and went in for a layup. “Four points!” he crowed.

      “You gonna play basketball in Texas?”

      Andy banged the ball off the backboard. “You gotta be kidding. Play for my father? No way in hell.” What was with Brady? He oughta know the last subject in the world Andy wanted to discuss was this freakin’ move to Fort Worth! It was bad enough he couldn’t stay here where—finally—he would’ve been eligible to try out for the varsity. But play for his dad? No way.

      “You’re weird, Gilbert.” Brady stole the ball from him and darted to the basket.

      Andy stood, rooted. Weird. That was the truth. His whole life was weird. Mom was running off to some stupid foreign country with Harry, the biggest dork so far of Mom’s boyfriends. Which was saying something. Harry had a gut-busting paunch, fuzzy gray chest hair and a pinkie ring like some Mafia mobster. And he insisted on calling Andy “Sonny.” Like in “Hey, Sonny, how’s it goin’, big guy?”

      “Andy? You wanna play or not?” Brady held the ball in front of his chest, waiting to pass off.

      “Nah, I’m going inside. Mom’s been on my case. I gotta start organizing my stuff.”

      “For the move, you mean?”

      “Yeah. So I’ll see you later.”

      “Here.” Brady tossed him the ball. “Call me if you wanna go with the guys to crash Liz’s slumber party.”

      “Okay.” Andy dribbled angrily along the sidewalk to the back door of the house—the third one he’d lived in in two years. What was the point of going with Brady tonight? He’d never see any of these kids again after next week. Oh, no. He had to go live with his dad, Coach Cheeseball of Keystone School. The father who’d walked out when he was three.

      What did Dad know about him, really? Maybe he’d squeezed in some visits between teaching, coaching and running basketball camps, but it wasn’t like they ever spent any length of time together. Dad had never once made it to one of his basketball games.

      His mom kept telling him just to forget about it. “He’s devoted to that school, Andy. You have to understand. Everything else comes second. Maybe it’s better this way. Just you and me, sweetie.” Yeah, you and me and whatever dickhead was after Mom. He didn’t want to go to the friggin’ United Arab Emirates and he sure as hell didn’t want to go to Fort Worth. But did he have a choice? No, he was just the kid. The victim.

      He slammed the back door on his way to his room. Divorce sucked.

      GRANT USHERED the smilingly officious woman out the front door, closed it and sagged against it, the headache he’d had all day continuing to play racquetball against his temples. How many applicants was this? Seven? Two who spoke minimal English, one who smoked like a chimney and had insisted she be allowed to bring her bulldog with her, two who claimed they’d had no idea he actually expected them to stay over the weekends, and one—the only real possibility—who wouldn’t be available until at least November.

      He walked toward the kitchen, wiping his palms on his pants, aware of a buzzing in his ears and an uncomfortable shift in his stomach. He was running out of ideas, and he had to let Shelley know something by Friday. Before the upcoming Labor Day weekend. Because, if all went well, Andy would arrive Labor Day evening. And school started the day after.

      But all wasn’t going well. He’d interviewed everyone who’d applied through the agency or the newspaper ad. Texas Christian University and U.T. at Arlington had both been dry holes. So where did that leave him?

      Desperate.

      He reached in one of the cupboards and pulled out the aspirin bottle, shook out two tablets and chased them with a glass of water. He had so much riding on this year with Andy. Although he knew he couldn’t make up for all the time he’d missed, he hoped to God they could build their relationship. The boy needed a family. Stability.

      A family. It had all been so promising in the beginning. Sure, he and Shelley had been young and naive, but when Andy was born, he’d been certain they could raise a fine son, have more children. Live happily ever after.

      But that hadn’t happened. He could never please Shelley. And Andy, poor kid, had been the one who’d suffered most. Damn.

      Grant had to do something. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by.

      A family. More than anything, that’s what Andy needed.

      Prickles cascaded down Grant’s spine. A hammering sensation reverberated in his chest. No. It was a crazy idea.

      Lunacy.

      Grant raked both hands through his hair. But if…?

      Pros and cons rocketed through his brain. He shook his head. “Crazy” didn’t even begin to get it.

      Somewhere outside a neighbor’s dog barked. The air-conditioner compressor cranked on. But Grant didn’t move. Maybe, just maybe, it could work.

      He turned and grabbed his car keys from the counter and, before he could reconsider, strode toward the garage.

      Hell, what did he have to lose?

      PAM SAT on her living room floor, the multiple pages of her senior English syllabus spread all around her. Collating was hard work when Viola and Sebastian insisted on regarding the papers as playthings. Finally she’d had to close the cats in the utility room. She compiled one complete set, tamped it on the coffee table, then stapled it. As she gathered the next sheets, she deliberately avoided looking at the headings, especially those for second semester. It hurt too much to realize that someone else would be teaching the Romantic poets, Thomas Hardy and Wilfred Owen.

      Sorting and stapling, she mentally reviewed her search through the Sunday want ads. There were openings for secretaries, of course, and receptionists. She’d thought about real estate, but what would she live on while she took the licensing course and established her clientele? College teaching might be a possibility, but openings were scarce.

      She sighed. Tomorrow teachers’ meetings started. And after that when would she have time to follow up on job opportunities? She’d read in the pregnancy book that the lethargy she was experiencing was common in the first trimester. How ironic that when she most needed her energy, she was so bummed out.

      She scooped up the collated syllabi and got to her feet, feeling oddly top-heavy. Eventually she’d have to tell her father she was pregnant. Although he might not approve, she knew he’d stand by her. That’s just the way he was. She smiled fondly. He’d be the greatest grandpa. Soft-spoken Will Carver had a heart as big as the West Texas skies.

      In fact, it would be far easier to tell him than her sister, twelve years