By late afternoon, when someone came by and honked and Zaney flew out the door, Robin was restlessly stalking about her house, wondering why she had bought such a big residence when there was no one to go in it.
It occurred to Robin that perhaps her mom was right—she did flit from one thing to another, never letting a moment go by that wasn’t sucked up in some frantic activity, and now that her life had been turned upside down, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. Her dad’s illness, her job, this general emptiness, was making her feel as though her life was slowly unraveling into one long nothing. All she had to show for thirty-four years of living was just a lot of things and more things, as if the quantity of possessions made up for the dearth of meaning in her life. She just kept moving faster and faster until everything was just a blur, running and running, searching for . . . what?
There it was again, that question. And she did not like the clammy, almost sickly feeling it gave her, this realization that she had been searching for something all her life, but it was a feeling that would not leave her. By the time Sunday morning rolled around, she was crazed with determination to change things in her life. Toward what end, though, she had no clue. One thing was certain, however—it was a glorious day for a stroll through Hermann Park, where she heard a men’s baseball league played.
At an exclusive resort in Newport Beach, California, Aaron and Bonnie sat side by side, cross-legged, on a tatami grass mat. New Age music played softly in the background, the smell of incense wafted through the air. Bonnie held her hands on her knees; her spine was straight, her eyes closed, and her face lifted upward, toward the soft blue light. Her lips moved with the murmuring of the chant, but she made no sound.
Next to her, Aaron had forgotten the chant they were supposed to be repeating and was admiring Bonnie’s neck. He was trying to remember the last time he had kissed the smooth skin there, recalling with vivid clarity the taste and feel of it.
Bonnie’s eyes fluttered open; she stole a glimpse of Aaron sidelong and smiled. “You aren’t practicing the chant,” she whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back, and leaned over, so that his lips were just inches from her neck. “Why, Bonnie?” he breathed.
His question startled her; she put a hand against his chest, looked at him with wide blue eyes. “Why what?”
“Why are you with me? Why still? Why haven’t you gone back to your life? I was an ass to you, Bonnie. I don’t deserve this.”
Bonnie looked stunned. Her gaze drifted from his face to her hand against his chest. Aaron covered her hand with his, pressed hers tighter against his heart.
“You’re right,” she whispered, her gaze still on their hands. “You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve me.”
Chapter Fourteen
At the bottom of the seventh, Jake’s vision was so blurred he could hardly see the ball without squinting. He was getting old—he used to party all night and still be as good as new, but now, if he stayed up late doing nothing more exciting than cramming for a test, he was a wreck the next day. What really pissed him off was that he was the only one in this league who seemed to be suffering from age.
“Strike!” the ump called, and with a sigh, Jake stepped out of the batter’s box, headed for the dugout, completely disgusted with himself. Tossing the batting helmet into the corner, he dropped heavily onto the bench, avoiding anyone’s gaze.
“Hey, you did pretty good, considering that pitcher was throwing crap.”
That voice shot through him like mercury rising; Jake jerked around, saw Robin standing at the fence on the end of the dugout, smiling prettily. She waved cheerfully, as if it was perfectly natural for her to be at his game. It wasn’t natural at all, and moreover, neither were those legs. Good God, he had never seen such long and shapely legs in his life. She was wearing a T-shirt that sported the American flag, a stretchy red miniskirt, and a different pair of funny-looking sunglasses than he had seen before.
Beside him, the podiatrist Bob Richards squinted in Robin’s direction, giving her the once-over. “He’s throwing crap all right,” he agreed.
Jake was instantly on his feet, but not fast enough.
“You didn’t look like you were stepping into your swing. You know . . . like this.” She stepped back from the fence before Jake could reach her, demonstrating exactly how he might step into his swing.
“That’s very interesting,” he said loud enough for the guys to hear, and, reaching the fence, added in a loud whisper, “What are you doing?” as he stole a glimpse of the others over his shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? What are you doing here?”