Free Seems Like Old Times by Joanne Pence Page B

get a
chance to say hello to you before I left." There was so much she wanted to
say, but she didn't know where to begin. She could discuss the news in front of
strangers on national television, but she couldn't say "Tell me how your
life has been" to one man right beside her, the one man who had once been
the world to her.
    "I meant to call you as well, to see about coming
over to give my condolences...." He leaned forward, legs wide, arms on
thighs, his hands clasped. He stared straight ahead.
    "You never used to call first."
    He froze, his back visibly stiffening, and she cursed the
flush heating her face. Why she had said that, why she had brought up the
intimacy of the past, she didn't know. His expression, when he turned to her,
was serious, as if he couldn't let himself smile. "I couldn't believe it
was you at my son's game on Sunday," he said quietly. "I thought I
was dreaming."
    Her eyes never left him. Her heart and mind whirled with
the force of his presence, and she wanted more than anything to just look at him.
To take in everything about him that was the same and all that was different. Still handsome. Still exciting. Her Tony. But he wasn't her Tony anymore, and she
dropped her gaze. "Being back, it is almost like a dream." She looked
up. "But you know I love baseball."
    He relaxed and let his hands hang loose between his legs.
"Heck, that's not baseball. It's Little League."
    She smiled then, without restraint or defense. You
always knew how to make me smile, Tony.
    He sat upright, his spine against the backrest of the
bench. "You should have stayed and watched. We won."
    "I had to run. I had to meet Miriam." She was
quite sure he didn’t believe a word she said. She never could fool Tony.
"You have a nice looking boy."
    His face lit up. "His name's Ben. He's a great
kid."
    "How old is he?"
    "Nine."
    "Already? My goodness! Any more kids?"
    "No. No, just the one."
    "Ah." She rubbed her hands together and looked
around, avoiding his eyes, fighting the piercing emptiness, the aching hurt,
that threatened to overwhelm her. Somehow, she would get through this. Where
was Cheryl? "You and your wife must be very proud of him."
    He folded his hands again. He used to say he had
"soft" hands, and that's what made him such a good fielder. She saw
nothing soft about them.
    "I'm divorced."
    She raised her eyes, surprised, and yet half-expecting
something like that to explain Gene and Cheryl wanting the two of them to meet.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
    "It happened a long time ago. How about you? Did you
marry?"
    She shook her head quickly, her gaze capturing the door,
tables, the waitress, anything but him. "Never
could fit it into my schedule, it seemed."
    He rested an elbow on the back of the bench. "Must be
hell being a rich, famous TV star."
    His arm nearly touched her. She sat forward, putting her
palms on the edge of the seat, her fingers curled under. "Doing news is
hardly stardom."
    "Close enough. The way you're going, you'll end up
owning the network if I know you, Lisa."
    She felt his eyes measuring her. "Thank you."
    "It's what you always wanted." He tried to force a harshness to his voice, but it sounded almost
wistful to his ear.
    She took a deep breath. Some emotion, long dormant and
hidden deep within her, was responding to him in a way she recognized as dangerous.
"So, what are you doing these days?" She tried to sound upbeat and
casual, and failed miserably.
    Over the years since she’d left him, he’d imagine himself
telling her all he'd done with his life, all he'd accomplished. Now, though, it
didn't seem so significant. "I own the Circle Z."
    Her mouth dropped open. "You own it? You're
kidding."
    "No." He glanced at her as if wondering if he
should say more, then away as he spoke. "I grew up thinking horse ranches
were boring and dumb. A few years ago, my dad told me the owners were going to
put the place up for sale and I realized it was home--more home than I'd ever
known. I didn't want some stranger