His Most Important Win

Trying to put Bryce out of her mind, she went down the hallway toward her room, the cozy, familiar, rosy space that had been her private sanctum all her life. On the way, she stopped at another door, put her hand on the knob and took a deep breath. Her brother’s old room, which was now Danny’s. For three months after Ricky had died, Rosalie hadn’t been able to even look inside this space. Her father, in his attempt to heal his family, had eventually gone in and packed up many of the items Ricky had treasured. He hadn’t asked the women of his family to help.

But there had been practical matters to consider. A family had to move on. A baby was coming. They’d ordered a crib and other essentials. This room was needed for the future of the Campano family.

Rosalie turned the knob and opened the door. Although other mementos of Ricky existed in the house—in her mother’s room and the living room—the only reminder of Ricky in this space now was a photo of him in his Wildcat uniform. Danny had insisted on keeping the photo of his “Uncle Ricardo,” whom he’d never met, on that hutch above his desk.

Rosalie walked into the room and picked up the photo, which was both comfortingly familiar and achingly sad. She smiled at the image of her “second half,” the other part of her. With his football helmet tucked against his side, his shoulders unnaturally wide and strong under the padding, his dark hair military short as if he’d prepared for the battle on the football field, Ricky was the picture of invincible confidence.

She touched the tip of her finger to the letters of his jersey. She’d been so proud of him, the Wildcats star quarterback, recipient of a scholarship to Florida State University. Even now, looking at his cocky smile, her heart melted.

“I miss you,” she said to the quiet room. She still felt his presence in every square foot of the Campano house, but especially here. Could anything really separate twins? Not time. Not even death.

Setting the photo back on the shelf, she looked around at the things that identified her Danny. A baseball bat signed by Alex Rodriquez. A weathered mitt he’d outgrown after three seasons of Little League. Pictures of his heroes on the walls—current Atlanta Braves, legendary New York Yankees. A photo of Danny in his junior varsity baseball uniform. Soon that would be replaced by his freshman picture in a varsity uniform when he would take the mound as the Wildcats newest star pitcher.

By Danny’s third birthday, Rosalie had known he would be an athlete. He’d had the passion, the determination and the skinned knees to prove it. When, at a very young age, he had picked up a football he’d found in the park, her heart had seemed to stop beating for several long, painful seconds until she’d taken it from his hands. That very day she brought him to the sporting goods store and introduced him to every other sport. He’d settled on baseball and she’d encouraged him through all his years.

She’d never been sorry she’d pushed him in that direction. Once, when he had mentioned trying out for the football team, she had discouraged him, saying his talents lay on the diamond, not the gridiron. He’d accepted her advice, and he’d thrived. He’d proven himself. Most important, she’d been able to watch his progress from the bleachers without fearing that the next moment, the next play, could alter his life forever. She couldn’t go through that again. Much like she couldn’t face Bryce Benton.

She closed the door to Danny’s room and went to shower and dress. She’d make it an early night so she could do as her mother suggested and be at Benton Farms first thing the next morning. While Bryce and most of the world slept in, she’d pick up her order and be gone.

Benton Farms was located five miles outside of Whistler Creek on a two-lane road that wound through rolling hills, green pastures and what real estate agents called some of the best farmland in America. At 6:50 a.m., after pulling on jeans and an old T-shirt and fastening her unruly hair in a clip, Rosalie sipped coffee from a thermal mug as she chugged along the sparsely populated route in the old pickup Claudia had purchased for her produce business.

Over the years Rosalie had managed to maintain a working relationship with the Bentons despite the heartache their son had brought into her life. And she’d been grateful Danny had inherited the dark eyes and olive complexion of the Campanos and not the lighter skin tones and fair hair of the Bentons. No one in town had ever suspected that the onetime childhood friends, Rosie and Bryce, had ever conceived a child. And Rosalie had further protected her son’s identity by slightly modifying his birth records.

Today she planned to be first in line to drive through the wholesale distribution section of Benton’s corporate sales area which opened to local buyers at 7:00 a.m. Rising before dawn hadn’t been a problem. After coming home from dinner with friends, Rosalie had slept restlessly. Finally she’d kept one eyelid raised to her window, watching for the first hint of a pink sunrise on the eastern horizon.

Her mind raced with the possible ramifications of last evening’s odd turn of events. Why had Bryce sacrificed his climb up the university coaching ladder? Did he miss his hometown that much? Did he feel an obligation to his parents? Had the divorce she’d heard about set him back emotionally so that his return to Whistler Creek was as much a healing exercise as anything else? Rosalie could almost understand that explanation. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else herself.

But Bryce, at least the young man she’d known and fancied herself in love with, had always displayed enough confidence to combat any of life’s trials. Surely he could handle news of his father’s declining health, the breakup of a marriage. After all, he’d recovered easily enough from the death of his best friend.

And why had he approached her in the parking lot yesterday? Did he suspect the truth about her quick getaway—that she’d seen him and was avoiding a face-to-face meeting? She’d tried to appear casual, spontaneous, as if she hadn’t noticed him. She hoped he’d believed that a sudden thought had occurred to her and she’d naturally and without ulterior motive gotten into her car and sped away. And if not, did he suspect the other, more devastating truth, that facing him, dredging up memories, both good and bad, possibly initiating new ones, was the last thing she needed in her life?

Thankful that the electric gates had been parted a few minutes early, Rosalie drove onto Benton property and headed a quarter mile down the road toward the steel buildings that housed the wholesale division of Benton Farms. As she pulled up next to the overstuffed bins of vegetables, she noticed that she was the first local produce dealer to arrive. The usual farmhands, wearing the trademark green Benton Farms polo shirts, waved at her as they always did. She knew each of them would be willing to help her choose her stock and load it into the back of the truck.

She climbed out of the driver’s seat and spoke to Juan Gonzalez. He’d been hired by Roland Benton to work under her father’s direction when Enzo Campano had supervised the wholesale area. Rosalie had known him since she was a little girl.

“Juan, I need red peppers today and ten bushels of corn. Maybe eight pounds of Vidalia onions.” She handed him her list.

“I get you set up in no time, Miss Rosalie.” He began loading cartons while she walked among the bins of rich, ripe crops recently harvested on Benton land.

She picked up a tomato and was deciding if this particular one was overripe when a hand settled lightly on her shoulder and a familiar voice spoke into her ear. “Hello, Rosalie. Been a long time.”

She jerked as if his fingers had delivered an electric shock to her nervous system, whirled around and dropped the tomato on the pavement. It exploded into a pulpy mass, which immediately attracted a number of tiny winged insects. Rosalie swallowed and looked up into clear blue eyes that had haunted her teenaged dreams. She swore under her breath. What the hell was Bryce doing out here at the crack of dawn? Her voice came out dry and tinny sounding when she frowned down at the mess by her sneaker. “Sorry about that,” she said.

Dressed in the same Benton Farms shirt as the other employees, Bryce grabbed a paper towel from a nearby dispenser and bent over to scoop up the mess. “No problem.” He swept his other hand over the loaded cartons of tomatoes. “As you can see, we have a few others.”

He tossed the soggy towel into a trash can and wiped his hand on his jeans. If he’d planned to shake hands with her, he changed his mind. Thank goodness. Rosalie didn’t need to test her reaction to another touch.

“I saw you last night at the high school,” he said.

She blinked a couple times, trying to blur the image of Bryce’s face that seemed determined to burn itself into her retina. Last night he’d worn a ball cap low over his forehead, and he’d been at the other side of the room. Today his features were clear, undiluted by shadow and the play of artificial light. And she would have known him anywhere. Just as she remembered, the corner of his mouth quirked up in an odd half grin. His eyes, nearly the rich color of blueberries, narrowed under thick, brown lashes. Strands of his hair, longer than she would have thought he’d like and darker blond than she recalled, fell to the arch of his slightly darker eyebrows.

He continued to pin her with a disturbingly intense gaze as the grin broadened. “Rosalie? You okay?”

Of course he would ask that. She’d been standing for several awkward moments hoping her senses would return along with enough intelligible words so she wouldn’t sound like an idiot. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. What had he said? Something about seeing her at the high school. Hunching one shoulder with feigned indifference, she said, “I was there. Canfield wanted all the faculty to witness …”

She stopped, knowing she was about to finish the sentence with a biting example of sarcasm.

“… the spectacle?” Bryce filled in for her.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Sure she wasn’t. That was the exact word that had popped into her mind.

He chuckled. “Well, that’s what it was. Only an appearance by the Wildcat marching band could have been worse.”

“Obviously your return is viewed as a miracle by some people around here. Who better to take over for Bucky than a hometown football hero?” A shudder rippled down Rosalie’s spine. She really hadn’t meant to sound so unkind. A better plan would be to appear totally indifferent to Bryce.

“I guess we’ll see about that,” he said.

“Miss Rosalie!” The call came from a few yards away.

She stood on tiptoe to see over Bryce’s shoulder. “That’s Juan by my truck. He must have my order together.”

“I’ll give him a hand.”

Bryce stood aside as she walked ahead of him to the pickup where her order was stacked on the pavement. Knowing he was behind her made the skin at the nape of her neck prickle. Her footsteps felt leaden; the distance of only a few yards to her truck was like the length of a football field.

A line of trucks and trailers had started to form behind her. “We’d better hurry and get this loaded,” she said. “You have other customers.”

The three of them filled the pickup’s cargo area. Rosalie quickly consulted her list and wrote a check. When she tore it out of the book, she hesitated, looking first at Juan and then Bryce. “Who do I give this to?”

“Give it to Juan,” Bryce said. “He’s the boss. I’m just here to do what I can.”

She handed over the check and opened the door to the truck. “I suppose your father is happy you’re back.”

“He seems to be. I hope I can be more of a help than a hindrance.”

She climbed inside the truck, shut the door and started the engine. Bryce leaned on her open window. “Funny, but as soon as I got out here among the harvest this morning, it all came back to me,” he said. “I suppose produce is in my blood.”

“And football,” she said.

“Yep. And football.”

Rosalie stared out her windshield. All she had to do was put the truck in gear, and this whole anxiety-inducing episode would be over. She’d survived a face-to-face with Bryce. Maybe she could even walk by him in the halls of Whistler Creek High School without dissolving into a mass of insecurities. Not risking another look at his face, she lifted her hand. “Well, see you. Say hi to your parents.”

“I will. Give my regards to Claudia.”

“Sure thing.” Eyes straight ahead. Lips tight. Truck shifted into drive.

Now just take your foot off the brake….

“Oh, Rosalie,” he said, his arm still on her door.

She swiveled her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes?”

“You want to get together?”

Now her eyes snapped to his. Was he kidding? No. He actually appeared sincere. “Ah …”

“I’m only working until noon today, just until the out-of-town orders are loaded on trucks. Maybe we could meet at the Whistler Inn for lunch.”

“Lunch?” She gripped the steering wheel and resisted the urge to slap her forehead. She was an English teacher for heaven’s sake, and all she could muster was monosyllabic responses.

He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s the meal in the middle of the day. Most people eat it.”

She glowered at him. “I can’t do lunch.”

“Are you sure? I thought maybe I could catch up on fifteen years of Whistler Creek gossip.”

“Bryce, your parents can fill you in on what’s happened around here.”

“I suppose they could, if all I wanted to know about was the sixty-something country-club set. But I never cared much about those people when I lived here.”

Right. You much preferred the simple earthiness of the Campanos. Well, not any more. “Look, I just can’t. I’m working at the stand today.” That was a lie. Saturday was Rosalie’s errand day. She did chores while Danny helped Claudia at the stand. Now she had to hope Bryce didn’t stop by.

“Some other time then?”

She eased off the brake, gratified when the truck slipped away from him. “Maybe. Who knows?” she said.

“Rosalie?”

She gingerly stepped on the pedal, slowing the truck to a crawl. “What?”

“I still miss him, too.”

She hit the accelerator and drove off. When she looked in her rearview mirror through burning eyes, she saw Bryce standing there, hands on hips, watching her leave.

Chapter Three

Marjorie Benton slid another pancake on top of the stack she’d already layered on Bryce’s plate. “You ready for more bacon?” she asked.

He stared up at her. “Mom, enough. I’ve only been home a few days, and I’ve probably gained five pounds.”

She scooted the syrup bottle closer to him. “It’s Sunday, Brycie. We always have big breakfasts on weekends, remember?”

Bryce sought help from his father who remained hidden behind the newspaper. “So that plate of scrambled eggs and sausage that you brought to me in the wholesale market on Friday morning was a light meal?” he said to her.

Roland Benton covered up a chuckle with a rustle of the sports section.

Marjorie sat at the table next to her son. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds,” she said. “I know you don’t cook for yourself as a bachelor …”

He started to tell her that he was a good cook, even had a recipe box in one of the cartons currently stored in the garage, but figured she’d then tell everyone in town about her son, the kitchen wizard. Probably not the best image for the new football coach to project. Besides he could always tell when his mother was on a roll and knew the futility of trying to stop her.

“… I suspect you haven’t eaten properly in years,” she continued. “I know that woman you were married to didn’t like to cook.” She paused. “Or keep a clean house.”

Bryce smiled around a bite of doughy pancake. It wasn’t as if he and that woman had lived in squalor for four years. True, Audrey hadn’t been the domestic type, but she’d made sure the cleaning lady showed up weekly, so he’d never been able to write his initials in the dust. And she’d mapped out the best take-out restaurants in Lubbock, so when he didn’t feel like cooking for the two of them, they’d never gone hungry. Housekeeping issues hadn’t been what broke them up.

Marjorie raised one finger in the air. “But …”

Bryce swallowed and washed down the pancake with a big gulp of milk. Here it comes.

“I think we should discuss what’s really concerning me this morning,” his mother said. Behind his newspaper, Roland took a long swallow of coffee.

Bryce set down his fork and pushed away his plate. “Mom, do we really need to go over this?”

She tapped a manicured fingernail on the tabletop. “I don’t see why you’re meeting with a real estate agent today, Bryce. Give me one good reason why you’re rushing into this.”

He set his elbows on the table and looked at her. “Mom, would you like to see my driver’s license? It’s proof that I’m thirty-three years old.”

Her spine stiffened. “I know how old you are, Bryce. I was there the day you were born.”

“But you haven’t been there every day for the last fifteen years,” he said. “I’m used to living on my own. I need my own place.”

“What’s wrong with your old room?”

“Nothing. It has four sturdy walls, a big window overlooking the back patio, a view of the cornfield and the peach orchards. It’s a paradise.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, I think you and Dad should strip it bare, paint the walls a bright sunny color, move in your sewing machine and cutting table and make it your home hobby center.”

“Really, Bryce! I’m only thinking of you.”

He glanced at the ceiling as if inspiration, and patience, could be found there before covering her hand with his and once again wishing he weren’t an only child. “Mom, I love you. You know that.”

She brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead and sniffed.

“I want a home—my home—and I want it in this town.”

She pursed her lips a moment. “This is your home, Bryce. What need do your father and I have for this big house?”

“That’s a good question,” he said. “And one for you and Dad to think about. But for now, I’m tired of living in places that, for the last fifteen years, have always seemed like temporary shelters to me. Dorm rooms, apartments, condos. I want a house, a little bit of land, some grass with honest-to-goodness roots that I can fertilize and watch grow. I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity to come my way, and I want those roots in Whistler Creek soil. Soil with my name on the deed.”

Marjorie looked out the sliding glass doors which opened onto a view of acres and acres of rich Benton farmland. “But all this will eventually be your soil, Bryce.”

“Maybe so, Mom, and I look forward to helping Dad when he needs me. But for now …”

Marjorie started to speak, but stopped when Roland suddenly made a show of folding the newspaper and setting it on the table. Roland didn’t say much, but when he did, everyone in the room generally gave him the floor. “He’s a grown man, Marjorie. He’s going to contribute to this community in more ways than just as the heir to Benton Farms.” Roland leaned forward, leveling a steely gray gaze on his wife’s face. “Let him go. What’s a few miles between you and him anyway?”

Marjorie fingered the flowery buttons on her robe before standing to her full, impressive five feet eight inches. She picked up Bryce’s plate and walked to the sink. “Fine,” she snapped, turning the water on full blast.

Bryce sat in the uncomfortable silence for a full minute wondering if he should say something to bridge a gap between his parents which all at once seemed cavernous. And then his father reached across the table for a slice of crisp bacon on a platter. He picked it up and had it halfway to his mouth when Marjorie, the always effective eyes in the back of her head in full operational mode, stormed the table and smacked his hand. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, pointing to his chest as if his heart had ears.

Roland dropped the bacon, gave his son a little smile and picked up his newspaper.

Bryce stood in the middle of a stand of live oak trees and looked at the front of the weathered clapboard house he’d just toured. Turning to the real estate agent he’d hired, he said, “I can’t believe how many times I’ve driven this road, Lisa, seen this driveway, but never really knew what was back here behind all these trees.”

“I’m not surprised,” the agent said. “You can’t see the structure from the road.” She consulted notes in her portfolio. “The house was built in 1953 by a Canadian man, Clive Harbin. It’s only had two owners, Clive and his son, who inherited the place and used it as a winter residence since sometime in the ‘80s. The son, whose name is Wyatt, has been unable to make the trip for the last three years, and the house has remained unoccupied all that time. I guess that’s why Wyatt’s kids convinced him to sell.”

Bryce noted the missing shingles, crumbling bricks on the chimney. “It needs work,” he said. “Gutters need to be replaced. The whole house needs painting, inside and out.” Even as he listed the home’s problems, his hands itched to get to work on it. An hour ago, when he’d cleared the narrow, rutted drive and had his first view of the house, he’d fallen in love with its clean, traditional lines. Now he was trying to keep his enthusiasm at a reasonable level so he wouldn’t make a mistake with an offer.

A classic cottage farmhouse, the Realtor had called it. Steep second-story roof, a pair of gabled windows, an inviting porch that extended along the front and wrapped around one side. The inside floor plan met his needs exactly. A big living room with a stone fireplace, nice-size dining room, a kitchen that needed updating but was plenty big enough for a small table and chairs. A master bedroom downstairs with a small bonus room he could use as an office, and two small bedrooms upstairs.

“Let’s walk around back,” the agent suggested. “It says on my specs that the property extends three hundred yards into the wooded area.”

As they made their way around the side of the house, Bryce noted the well and water softener, and a patch of green grass that probably indicated the septic system. The rest of the yard was mostly weeds and overgrown shrubs. “How much total acreage?” he asked when they looked beyond the border of the backyard to a forest of pine, oak and magnolia trees.

“Four-and-a-half acres,” Lisa said, looking down at her shoes. “I’m not going into the woods with you in these new heels, but you go ahead.”

Bryce walked into the thick forest and returned after a few minutes. His mind buzzed with plans. He’d need to hire a backhoe operator to clear the wild shrubs and scrub trees, buy a decent chainsaw and weed eater….

“So what do you think?” she asked. “When you gave me your wish list, I immediately thought of this place.”

“It’s the best of the three we’ve seen,” he said.

“And its location on Fox Hollow Road makes it easily accessible to town.”

And the Campano’s house, Bryce thought. As he was following the agent to this property, he’d passed the home where he’d spent so many happy days growing up. When he’d glanced at the house, his heart had lurched in his chest. For most of his formative years, Bryce had felt as comfortable in the Campano home as he had in his own house. Maybe even more so. He and Ricky and Rosalie had been like siblings, Enzo and Claudia, like second parents.

He’d noticed too, the cars parked at Claudia Campano’s roadside stand. Not surprising that on a beautiful Sunday afternoon folks would be stopping for fresh produce. He hadn’t seen Rosalie. Bryce made up his mind to stop at the stand on his way back down Fox Hollow Road and say hello to Mrs. Campano.

“What do you want to do?” the agent said, breaking into his thoughts. “I’d love to draw up a contract on this house.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “I think it would be perfect for our town’s new football coach.”