Free Right Next Door by Debbie Macomber Page B

all that eager to run into her, either. Just as well, she supposed.
    He stayed on his side of the hedge. She stayed on hers.
    If he passed her on his way to work, he gave an absent wave. She returned the gesture.
    If they happened to be outside at the same time, they exchanged smiles and a polite greeting, but nothing more. It seemed, although Robin couldn’t be sure, that Cole spent less time outside than usual. So did she.
    â€œOkay,” Jeff called, running to the end of their yard. “Squat down.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?” Robin shouted indignantly. “I agreed to play catch with you. You didn’t say anything about having to squat!”
    â€œMom,” Jeff said impatiently, “think about it. If I’m going to be the pitcher, you’ve got to be the catcher, and catchers have to be low to the ground.”
    Complaining under her breath, Robin sank to her knees, worried the grass would stain her jeans.
    Jeff tossed his arms into the air in frustration. “Not like that!” He said something else that Robin couldn’t quite make out—something about why couldn’t moms be guys.
    Reluctantly, Robin assumed the posture he wanted, but she didn’t know how long her knees would hold out. Jeff wound up his arm and let loose with a fastball. Robin closed her eyes, stuck out the mitt and was so shocked when she caught the ball that she toppled backward into the wet grass.
    â€œYou all right?” Jeff yelled, racing toward her.
    â€œI’m fine, I’m fine,” she shouted back, discounting his concern as she brushed the dampness from the seat of her jeans. She righted herself, assumed the position and waited for the second ball.
    Jeff ran back to his mock pitcher’s mound, gripped both hands behind his back and stepped forward. Robin closed her eyes again. Nothing happened. She opened her eyes cautiously, puzzled about the delay. Then she recalled the hand movements she’d seen pitchers make and flexed her fingers a few times.
    Jeff straightened, placed his hand on his hip and stared at her. “What was that for?”
    â€œIt’s a signal…I think. I’ve seen catchers do it on TV.”
    â€œMom, leave that kind of stuff to the real ballplayers. All I want you to do is catch my pitches and throw them back. It might help if you kept your eyes open, too.”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Robin suspected she heard a tinge of sarcasm in her son’s voice. She didn’t know what he was getting so riled up about; she was doing her best. It was at times like these that she most longed for Lenny. When her parents had stilllived in the area, her dad had stepped in whenever her son needed a father’s guiding hand, but they’d moved to Arizona a couple of years ago. Lenny’s family had been in Texas since before his death. Robin hadn’t seen them since the funeral, although Lenny’s mother faithfully sent Jeff birthday and Christmas gifts.
    â€œYou ready?” Jeff asked.
    â€œReady.” Squinting, Robin stuck out the mitt, prepared to do her best to catch the stupid ball, since it seemed so important to her son. Once more he swung his arms behind him and stepped forward. Then he stood there, poised to throw, for what seemed an eternity. Her knees were beginning to ache.
    â€œAre you going to throw the ball, or are you going to stare at me all night?” she asked after a long moment had passed.
    â€œThat does it!” Jeff tossed his mitt to the ground. “You just broke my concentration.”
    â€œWell, for crying out loud, what’s there to concentrate on?” Robin grimaced, rising awkwardly to her feet. Her legs had started to lose feeling.
    â€œThis isn’t working,” Jeff cried, stalking toward her. “Kelly’s only in third grade and she does a better job than you do.”
    Robin decided to ignore that comment. She pressed her hand to the small