Mendoza's Return

He moved around the courtyard as unobtrusively as possible, spotted the door to her unit then hesitated again. He had no idea how she would react to his just dropping in, yet for a reason he couldn’t articulate, he wanted to know.

“Rafe?”

He spun around. Melina was resting her arms on the pool’s edge, staring at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“You’re swimming,” he said in amazement, moving closer. “You never even liked bathtubs.”

“Hand me my towel, would you?” she asked, pointing to one on a chair nearby. She swam to the steps and climbed out, her bright blue one-piece suit clinging like a second skin, her breasts firm, her nipples hard, her wet skin shiny.

He’d almost forgotten how perfectly built she was, not lithe and athletic but curvy and lush. They hadn’t slept together all that many times, at least not overnight, but he’d loved being able to wrap himself around her in bed and touch her whenever he wanted. The few times they’d been able to afford a motel room, it’d seemed as if they’d made love more times than there were hours in the night. Otherwise, their dorm rooms had allowed for only quick get-togethers, pleasurable but not as satisfying.

Now, standing in front of her, Rafe opened her towel and draped it around her. He was more than a little tempted to pull her against him and rub her through the towel to dry her off.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, not moving away but wariness settling in her eyes.

“I was out for a walk.”

Still she didn’t try to put space between them, as if frozen in place. He took it as a sign, inching closer, memories of her consuming him. His gaze dropped to her parted lips, her breath coming softly, quickly. He bent toward her….

Melina spun away from him. “Let’s go inside,” she said, pulling her towel tightly around her, then pressing the button for the electric pool cover.

Her body ached for him even as she called herself every kind of idiot. She’d almost kissed him, almost forgotten why they weren’t together. If she hadn’t come to her senses— She didn’t even want to think about it.

Melina was trembling as she walked to her house, cold from the night air, but she’d also pushed herself hard in the pool. Seeing Rafe this morning had set her on edge all day. Caught between the past and present, she’d barely been able to focus on anything. Even Big John had called her on it—and if a sixty-two-year-old cantankerous stroke recovery patient noticed, it was a sure thing that everyone else she’d worked with today would’ve seen a different Melina.

“I’ll be right back,” she said to Rafe once they were inside her living room, then she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, stripped off her suit and grabbed her jeans and a sweatshirt.

In a hurry, she knocked her robe off the hook in the closet. Her gaze landed on the framed letter that had hung under her robe. The letter he’d sent all those years ago. She’d finally stopped noticing it—until just this moment. Now it seemed to have its own spotlight.

She didn’t have to read it to know what it said, as it was burned in her memory. She’d framed and hung it to remind her of what could happen if she let someone hold her heart, as he had done.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds. He hadn’t even called her. After all those years, all that love, and he hadn’t even felt that he owed her a phone call ending their relationship.

It all came back to her in one stab-in-the-heart moment—all the pain, all the loneliness, all the anger. And now she had to go downstairs and face him as if nothing was wrong.

It’s been ten years, she reminded herself. You’re not the same person. He isn’t, either. Let it go. Just let it go.

She towel-dried her hair, stared in the mirror for a few seconds, then padded downstairs. He was thumbing through the yearbook she’d left on the coffee table.

“It seems so long ago.” Rafe straightened, no discernible emotion on his face, even though she remembered that the book had been open to the homecoming photos, when they were crowned king and queen.

“A lot of life has happened since then, that’s for sure,” she said casually. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

She went into the kitchen, separated from the living room by an open bar counter. She poured herself a glass of water, more to keep distance between them than because of any real thirst.

“When’d you learn to swim?” he asked, leaning against the countertop.

“A couple of years ago. I’d watched so many people conquer fears in order to recover from debilitating diseases or injuries that I decided it was hypocritical of me not to defeat my own.” Of course, she’d also advised a lot of her patients to forgive those people responsible for causing them pain and yet she had never forgiven Rafe—which was also hypocritical. The framed letter was proof of that. “It took me over a year of lessons twice a week.”

“Good for you. So, the nightmares stopped, too?”

“For the most part. I can still see my cousin drowning, but now I see myself diving in and saving her instead of standing by helplessly.”

“You were five years old when it happened, Melina.”

“I know.” And the impact of the experience had changed her life for years. She’d never spent a hot summer day in the river as a teenager. Never even splashed in a kiddie pool as a child.

Melina set down her water glass. “Why are you here?”

He didn’t answer right away, as if gauging her mood. She knew how to keep her expression blank, even though she wanted him to leave. She didn’t want to picture him in her house—or to give in to temptation again. Because no matter how much pain still lingered, she couldn’t escape the attraction that was still there, powerful and tempting. She’d wanted to kiss him by the pool. Turning away had been close to impossible.

“I had a few questions before we meet with the Andersons tomorrow,” he said. “I would’ve called but I didn’t have your number.”

“Yet you know where I live.”

“Some information is easier to obtain than others. I’m guessing you don’t have a landline, that you use only your cell? Anyway, can you find out when the team is practicing again? And is there a way you could get me a team roster, as well?”

“I’ll put my spies to work on it.” She crossed her arms. “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 to speak to the parents without Elliot present. Melina offered to wait in the lobby with him, but his mother took him, instead, saying that her husband could speak for both of them.

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