A Weaver Vow Read online

  “Who makes ’em?” the man still at the grill called out. “Believe I’ve been the one out here babying ’em along.”

  Jaimie rolled her green eyes. “Don’t listen to Matthew,” she confided conspiratorially. “He’s just getting set in his ways and we have to humor him.”

  “Heard that, Red.” There was no heat in Matthew’s deep drawl, just amusement. “You want to be helpful, sashay that pretty butt of yours over here with that platter.”

  Isabella pressed her lips together, watching the woman do just that, seeming to add an extra wiggle along the way.

  “Ain’t no proper way for a woman her age to act,” Squire said as he walked over and joined them. He had a paper plate in his hand and he scooped a huge amount of potato salad onto it. But Isabella could tell by the twist on his lips that he was amused, too. “Go on and get that baby outta your husband’s arms and bring ’er to me,” he told Lucy. “Your man needs to hold a beer for a while.”

  “You mean, you want to hold your newest great-grandchild,” Lucy countered. “He’s a marshmallow,” she whispered loudly to Isabella before she set off for where Beck was standing with Lucy’s parents, Cage and Belle. Isabella had met them once when they’d come to visit Lucy in New York.

  Excruciatingly aware of Erik standing beside her, Isabella focused on the elderly man instead. “You have a beautiful home here, Mr. Clay.”

  “Eh.” Squire waved his hand. “Call me Squire. Ever’body does.” He peered down at her. He was very tall and had obviously passed on that particular gene to his offspring. “Lucy says you used to work at that dance company with her.”

  “I did. She was a wonderful dancer.”

  “Saw her a few times.” Squire turned his flinty gaze to his grandson. “You just gonna stand there like a bump, son, or be useful and set this plate down next to your grandma for me?” He waggled the plate under Erik’s nose.

  “God forbid I’m a bump,” Erik returned drily. He took the plate. “Don’t be messing with Isabella,” he warned. “She’s too good for the likes of you.”

  Squire grunted a little and gestured with his walking stick. “Get.”

  Isabella bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing right out loud when Erik rolled his eyes and ambled away.

  At least she could breathe easier.

  Except the sight of his retreating jean-clad rear end was more than a little distracting.

  Before she could be caught staring, she looked back at Squire. “I was the wardrobe supervisor at NEBT,” she told him. “If you saw Lucy in one of our ballets there, she was undoubtedly wearing a costume of mine.”

  “That’s right.” Gloria had joined them and handed Squire an empty paper plate. “I saw how much potato salad you took.” She tsked. “Enough to feed four. Start over with some green salad, please.”

  “Bossy woman,” Squire complained, promptly patting her on the rump before reaching for the tongs stuck inside the salad. “Good thing I’m used to you.”

  Gloria laughed fondly. “Good thing we’re all used to you, you old letch.” She turned her smile on Isabella again. “Lucy tells us you’re a fabulous seamstress.”

  “Well.” Isabella shrugged, feeling self-conscious. “I get by.”

  “Don’t let her fool you,” Lucy said, returning with the baby. She slid the plate that Squire had just piled high with green salad out of his hand and handed him the sleeping infant. “She ought to be a fashion designer or something.” She gestured at Isabella’s dress. “Bet she made that. Didn’t you?”

  Isabella nodded. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

  “Evan’s mother, Jolie, is a seamstress,” Gloria inserted. “Leandra’s mother-in-law,” she clarified. “She has more business than she knows what to do with.”

  Lucky Jolie, Isabella thought. She took an empty plate from the stack and stepped aside when Jaimie returned with a platter of barbecued ribs. Despite her nervousness, Isabella’s mouth watered.

  “We don’t stand on ceremony around here.” Erik reached around her and plucked several ribs off the top of the stack and set them on her plate.

  His arm brushed warmly against her bare shoulder and she looked up at him. “I can’t eat all those.”

  His lips tilted. “You won’t know that until you start. You could take less but if you ended up wanting more—and you will—I’d hate to see you disappointed.” As if to prove his point, he nudged her as a mass of individuals descended on the table, grabbing ribs from all sides. And scattered among the adults snatching up food were a jumble of children, Murphy included. He was flanked by the twin boys, Zach and Connor, from his class at school, and as she watched him with some amazement, he stepped aside and scooped up another little boy so he could reach the table.

  A moment later, the mass cleared.

  The kids raced off, plates precariously held aloft, aiming for the farthest of the tables. Murphy hadn’t given her a single glance.

  Wholly bemused, she looked back at the food table.

  The platters were empty except for the smoky, dark smudges of sauce left behind. The salad bowls had also been decimated.

  She blinked a little. “Wow.”

  Erik dropped one of the few remaining cobs of grilled corn next to her ribs. “Told you.”

  “He also figures that whatever you don’t finish, he’ll have a better crack at.” The man she’d noticed earlier who could easily have been Erik’s twin was standing on the other side of the table. He had a smile just as smooth and easy as Erik’s. “I’m Casey. Ugly there’s cousin. We all know what his tricks are.”

  “And I know what your tricks are,” Erik returned, sounding amused. His hand covered her shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  But it wasn’t natural. And she barely managed not to audibly suck in a breath.

  “She’s got better things to do with her time than listen to your bull,” he continued.

  Casey’s smile didn’t dim. She saw the look that passed between them, but didn’t have a hope of interpreting it. Not when she could hardly think with Erik’s warm fingers cupped around her shoulder.

  “Tricks and bull aside, I’m going to go sit with Lucy and eat,” Isabella said. She sent both men a smile. “And if I have any ribs left, I’m pretty sure Murphy’ll beat the both of you to them.”

  “Guess she told you,” she heard Casey say to Erik as she escaped.

  She joined Lucy where she was sitting with Beck, Leandra, her husband, Evan, and Tara. She’d barely picked up the first of the hot ribs between her fingers when Tara’s husband, Axel, worked his way onto the bench across from her.

  “You’re Erik’s girl,” he greeted, stretching his hand across the table toward her. He was blond like Erik, but his eyes were brown. “Axel. Married to the prettiest girl here.”

  “I’m not Erik’s girl,” she protested again as she shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Erik butted Evan in the head with his plate. “Move over.” When the other man slid a few inches to one side, Erik wedged himself in the tight space left between him and Isabella.

  She gave him a look. “There’s more room on the other side.”

  “It’ll fill up soon enough.”

  His thigh was pressed against hers. But if she moved so much as an inch, he’d know he was getting to her.

  Yet his smile made her wonder if he knew anyway.

  “So,” he asked, all calm, easy innocence, “how’re those ribs?”

  Chapter Six

  “Come on, Isabella. You’re up to bat.” Jaimie was beckoning to her from the informal baseball diamond that had been set up out in an empty field behind the big house. With a John Deere cap pulled low over her nose and her red hair streaming from the back in a vibrant ponytail, she looked way too young to have grown children with families of their own.

  Wives were pitted against husbands, siblings against siblings. However, thanks to their sheer numbers, Isabella—technically on Jaimie’s team—had so far ma
naged not to field or bat.

  And now, Isabella stared with horror at the baseball bat the older woman was holding out to her.

  It was the bottom of the fifth inning; the other team was in the lead by a single run. Their own team had Sarah’s husband, Max, on first base and one of J.D.’s twin stepsons on third.

  They were only playing five innings to begin with, and they already had two outs.

  She had no personal experience with the game other than a few weeks of softball in junior-high gym class, but she’d had to sit through enough televised baseball games with Jimmy to know the situation was critical. Whoever batted next would either seal their fate or allow them to maintain a thread of hope through another batter.

  So she shook her head and waved her hands, warding off the offered bat. “I’ll pass. Believe me, our chances are better.”

  “Come on, Iz.” Casey, who was also on their team, gave her a poke in the back that made her jump. “You can get out of fielding, but everyone takes a turn at bat.”

  “Yeah, come on, Iz,” Sarah yelled from her spot out in center field. She was slapping her glove with her hand. “Give us something to do out here! I’m starting to get bored!”

  “If that’s a comment about your mother’s batting,” Jaimie yelled back, “next time you want to get a night away with your husband, you can find someone else to watch little Ben!”

  “Come on, honey,” Casey said from behind her. “We’re all just family here.” He grinned. “Of course, if you’re terrible at it and we lose this game, nobody will let you live it down for the rest of your life.”

  “He oughta know,” Erik called from his spot between second and third base. “Guy can shoot the hell out of a pool table, but he can’t swing a bat for love nor money.” He punched his fist a few times into his glove.

  “This is not helping me,” Isabella muttered, though she couldn’t help but laugh. It was just impossible not to.

  “Come on, Iz!”

  Isabella wasn’t sure where the chant started, but soon everyone seemed to be joining in. Chanting. Clapping. Catcalling.

  They were treating her and Murphy just like they treated each other, which had caused a lump in her throat several innings ago, and before the lump got any larger, she grabbed the baseball bat and headed toward the area marked off as home plate. “I’m wearing sandals and a dress here,” she complained to everyone in general.

  “Wardrobe’s no excuse,” Lucy retorted.

  Isabella gave her a look. She and Tara were sitting in chairs off to one side, their infants on their laps. “But having a baby a few months ago is?” The two women were the only ones who seemed to be excused from the entire charade.

  Lucy grinned. “Who knew that motherhood had such unexpected perks?”

  “Come on,” Squire groused. He was the umpire, though as far as Isabella had noticed, his calls generally favored whoever was buttering him up. Since that came from both sides, things tended to even out. “Stop delaying the game, girl, and get in there.”

  Isabella sighed noisily and moved in front of Axel, who was playing catcher. She tried to recall the dim memory of those few games from junior high and lifted the bat.

  She squinted against the bright sun in her eyes, eyeing Murphy, who was standing on the nonexistent pitcher’s mound, holding the ball. “Go easy on me, okay?”

  He just smiled slightly and flexed his fingers around the baseball. Her stomach knotted nervously.

  “Hold on a sec.” Erik suddenly jogged forward to Murphy. He closed his hand over the boy’s shoulder, lowered his head and said something they couldn’t hear. Murphy grimaced but, after a moment, he took off his Yankees cap and handed it to Erik. Then, instead of returning to his position as shortstop, Erik jogged over to Isabella. “Sun’s in your eyes,” he said and dropped Murphy’s cap over her head.

  Something careened around inside her, and even though she wanted to attribute it entirely to the fact that Murphy had given up his hat for her, she couldn’t.

  “Suckin’ up to the batter.” Casey tsked dolefully. “Trying to make sure she throws the game? How low will you stoop, man?”

  Erik’s gaze didn’t stray from Isabella’s face. “She’s gonna do great.”

  Squire suddenly whistled, sharp and loud. “Y’all gonna play ball or can I quit this foolishness and go have my chocolate brownies?”

  Erik gave her a quick wink that did nothing to help her peace of mind, then jogged back to his spot.

  Isabella adjusted the cap. It really did help against the blinding sun. Then she lifted the bat and tried to envision herself as a proper ballplayer, not a thirty-one-year-old woman, wearing a pink sundress with a lightweight white sweater and flat, strappy sandals, who hadn’t been up to bat in close to two decades.

  Murphy’s first pitch went whizzing by her with dazzling speed, right into Axel’s mitt with a solid thwap.

  “Strike one!” Squire yelled to various cheers and boos.

  “Kid does have a hell of an arm,” Axel commented as he straightened and threw the ball back to Murphy.

  “That’s what I keep hearing,” she said and renewed her grip on the bat. She focused harder on Murphy and less on the ridiculous sight she must make. All things considered, she looked no less equipped to play the darn game than half the other women there.

  She flexed her fingers around the bat. Waiting. Waiting.

  The ball smacked into Axel’s mitt again.

  “Might try swinging at it, girl,” Squire suggested under his breath. “Ball,” he yelled loudly, to pretty much the same amount of yelled complaints he’d earned when he’d called the first pitch a strike.

  She twisted her foot, setting the sole of her sandal deeper into the springy grass. A blur of motion caught her eye only a moment after Murphy whirled, and she realized Max was bolting from first base, stealing second.

  Only by diving down to slide the last few feet across the green grass was the sheriff able to beat the ball that his son, Eli, handily caught.

  Her pulse ratcheting up even more, Isabella tried to ignore the cheers and boos that filled the air and kept her eyes on Murphy as he caught the ball Eli threw back to him and turned to face her again. As soon as she saw his nose wrinkle a little as he wound up to launch another bullet, she started to swing.

  The contact of the ball against the bat jarred all the way through her shoulders.

  Stunned, she watched the ball scream past Erik, who missed even though he made a dive for it. And then the ball was bouncing out toward Leandra where she was positioned with Lucy’s stepdaughter, Shelby. They’d been turning somersaults in the grass and both scrambled to their feet as the ball spun madly toward them.

  “Run, girl,” Squire shouted, and Isabella jumped, racing like a madwoman away from home plate. When she safely reached first base, where yet another one of Erik’s cousins, Derek, was playing, he pointed out that she could have dropped the bat somewhere along the way.

  She was so giddy she didn’t even care about her gaffe as she turned to watch Max sail past third and follow Connor right across home plate. She jumped up and down, screaming just as crazily as everyone else on her team.

  Murphy just stood there and stared, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.

  Then Erik ran forward and clapped him on the shoulder, said something that had the boy actually grinning a little, and the two of them jogged forward.

  Isabella’s eyes suddenly burned and she quickly bent down, swiping at her calves as if to remove some nonexistent grass stains.

  There was something utterly tragic about the fact that Murphy had never had such an opportunity with his own father. Jimmy had played ball regularly with the guys from his firehouse. But he’d never included his son. And not until after he’d become ill had he finally taken Murphy to that Yankees game. He’d naturally assumed he’d have a long lifetime for them to share games.

  Sarah came up beside her and bent over in the same position. Her strawberry blond ponytail tumbled o
ver her head. “Nice job, Isabella.” Even though her team had just lost, she had a broad grin on her face. “Love it when the women of this family get to surprise the heck out of the men.”

  Isabella wasn’t part of this family, though. All of these people were just being kind, and even though she was grateful, particularly on behalf of Murphy, she had no business even entertaining a thought about how wonderful it must be for those who really were part of the family.

  She straightened. “Thanks.” But whatever else she might have said was forgotten as she was suddenly surrounded by everyone on her team, patting her back, giving high fives and moving en masse back toward the picnic tables near the house.

  Isabella finally managed to extract herself from the throng when some of the women broke off to go inside to retrieve the assortment of desserts. She headed toward Murphy, who was pawing through the melting ice inside the drink barrel.

  She handed him back his ball cap. “Did you have fun?”

  He flipped the hat onto his head and grunted. Nodding once, he finally extracted a tall brown bottle with no label. “Yesss.” He popped off the top using the bottle opener that was welded to the side of the barrel. Without looking at her, he started to walk away.

  Isabella managed not to sigh.

  But after a few steps, he stopped and turned back to her. Half his face was shadowed by the cap. “That was a good hit you had,” he muttered. And then he continued on his way, catching up to the twins.

  A silly lump filled her throat.

  “Told ’em you’d do great,” Erik said, stepping up to the opposite side of the barrel. He plunged his arm into the icy water, searching around the same way Murphy had.

  She gathered herself as much as she could. “What did you tell Murphy out there?”

  From among the bobbing cans of soda, he pulled out another one of those tall brown bottles. “When?” He shook water from his hand.

  She gave him a look. “When you got him to loan me his hat.”

  “Didn’t say anything about hats.” He popped off the top and offered her the bottle. His gaze was bright and almost as warm as the sunshine and it made her feel something inside that was entirely unwanted. “Best root beer money can buy,” he added.