Mendoza's Return (3 page)

“Occupational therapists are experts in the social, emotional and physiological effects of illness and disease. We plot a different course of treatment for each patient, depending on their needs.” She crossed her legs and relaxed against the sofa. “I help stroke victims so that they can get back to living their lives. Children with autism need self-help skills. In Elliot's case, my partner and I hit a dead end with attorneys being able to help, especially given the narrow time frame.” Her voice grew stronger, more insistent. “Elliot can't afford to miss the practices, Rafe, and
the season starts in a few weeks. He may be a great batter, but he needs to learn about teamwork.”

Silence deadened the air for a few long seconds as he weighed her words. He'd hoped she'd come to him to open up a discussion between
them,
to settle things, that maybe she was feeling the same as he was—still trapped in the past and all that never got said between them. But obviously she'd come to see Rafe the lawyer, not Rafe the man.

“You want to pursue legal action against Beau?” he asked.

“We don't see an alternative.”

“And you want me to handle it.” Not a question but a statement of fact. She wouldn't have come to see him except that she was fighting for this little boy and didn't have anyone else to turn to. It was the second time since he'd moved back to Texas that he'd been sought for skills outside his specialty.

“Please,” she said.

“Mel, I haven't done anything but corporate work since I finished law school. The Americans with Disabilities Act is way outside my expertise. I'm not even sure this is an ADA case.”

“You always were a quick study.”

He almost laughed. The idea was ludicrous. And yet here she sat all calm and businesslike, except for the fire in her eyes, as if daring him. Like in the old days…

She stood, her eyes gone dull. “Never mind. Apparently you prefer making more money for already
rich tycoons than helping one little boy with an almost impossible dream.” She glanced pointedly at a glass case on the wall filled with baseball trophies from his days as a player, T-ball through college. Nothing she said could speak more loudly to him than that one look.

She walked to the door, grabbed the handle.

“I'll do it,” he said. “Or at least, I'll see if I can do anything. I need to research a few things first. But maybe even more important, Melina? You need to consider that my getting involved could work against what you're looking for. You know my history with Beau.”

“If I had other options, I would use them.”

He reached behind her and opened the door to the waiting room. “Vonda, how does my schedule look for tomorrow?”

“You're free after two o'clock.”

Rafe looked at Melina. “I'd like to meet the Andersons. Do you think they could come in tomorrow at two?”

“I'm sure they'll move heaven and earth to be here. I'll call you if they can't, but I don't think that's likely. Should Elliot come, too?”

“Yes. I need to see him for myself.”

“They don't have much money,” she said quietly.

“Okay.”

“Thank you. Listen, I've got a ton of material on Asperger's. I could drop off a couple of books at your house. Leave them on your porch sometime
today, if you want,” she said as they headed to the entry door.

“That'd be good.”

“Angie said you bought the old Dillon house.”

“It needs work, but my dad and brothers are helping when they can.” They stepped into an empty, quiet hallway, the door shutting behind them.

“I didn't think you'd ever move back,” she said.

“Me, either.” He didn't elaborate on his reasons. “So, Beau's gotten fat, huh?” he asked.

Her brows went up at the change of subject, then she nodded. “Beer belly.”

“Drowning his sorrows.”

“You're probably right. I'll see you tomorrow, Rafe,” she said, then left, the unfamiliar perfume he'd smelled on her at the wedding trailing enticingly in her wake.

Rafe returned to his office and closed the door. He couldn't read her. If she hadn't needed someone to plead Elliot's case, would she have contacted him?

Probably not.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small box. He'd always kept it in a place where he could look at it frequently, reminding him how tenuous love could be, but he hadn't looked inside for a while. He did so now, revealing a small, pretty promise ring he'd given Melina their first Christmas at college, only to have it mailed back to him some months later, a one-word note included. The tangible, devastating memory of a promise broken.

He didn't owe her anything, even if she was still the one he'd never gotten out of his system, and still the sexiest woman he'd ever met. But he could do this. He would try to help young Elliot but also wipe the slate clean with Melina.

He would be able to get rid of the ring, get it out of sight and out of mind.

Then he would finally be free to move on.

R
afe pulled into his garage a little after seven o'clock that evening. He saw the living room lights were on even before he spotted his father's pickup. He was probably sanding woodwork, a tedious process on the way to restoring the hundred-year-old house in a neighborhood where the homes were old but well maintained. Rafe had recently furnished one of his four bedrooms for his father, who'd become a fixture, not always spending the night, but staying often enough to warrant a bed of his own. Luis Mendoza had seemed to age ten years since losing his wife, Rafe's mother, to pneumonia a year ago.

Rafe unlocked the back door and stepped into a dark kitchen, turning on lights as he went.

“Hey, Dad, I'm home!” he called out above the sound of sandpaper scraping wood.

“In the living room!”

There was no evidence that his father had eaten—no dishes, no jumbled-up McDonald's bag in the trash. Rafe passed through the dining room and on into the living room. “How's it going?”

“Almost ready to stain.” From where he was kneeling he arched his back, stretching and groaning.

That's how I'll look in thirty years,
Rafe thought, although the same could be true of his three brothers, as well. Their mother's DNA showed up in other ways—drive, work ethic, sociability and deep love of family, but that could also be said of their father, too. Rafe missed his mom more than he could say, so he could only imagine the depth of his father's loss.

Rafe had expected to have the kind of marriage his parents had—with Melina. He still grieved the loss of that dream, and the children who hadn't come.

Rafe laid his suit jacket over the back of his leather sofa then crouched next to his father and rubbed his back. “How long have you been at it?”

“Couple hours.” He angled away from Rafe's touch and gestured to the entryway table. “Melina stopped by, left you some books and a DVD.”

“She said she would.” Rafe checked out the materials. The DVD was marked “Elliot Anderson.” He took the disc out of the case and headed to his television. “I haven't eaten yet, have you?”

“Nope.” Luis stood. When he turned sideways he
almost disappeared. He'd probably lost thirty pounds, twenty of which he couldn't afford to lose. “Is that the way the wind's blowing these days? Melina Lawrence again?”

“It's a business thing. I might be helping her out with something.”

“She was gone for your mother's funeral, but she came to see me as soon as she got back.” He brushed wood dust from his shirt. “I don't understand why she hasn't gotten married yet. She's about the best catch in Red Rock, that's for sure. Doesn't know how beautiful she is. Loves people. Smile that lights up the world.”

Rafe hadn't seen much of that famous smile since he'd returned, but he remembered it, as well as the slow, sexy one she'd perfected, the one he'd likened to her crooking a come-hither finger at him.

“I'm surprised you're even talking to her, though, son. You suffered a lot.”

“Everyone moves on, Dad. You seem to be okay around her.”

“For me, sure. But not for you. I don't want to see you hurt again.”

“I'm okay. But thanks for the support.”

He slid the DVD into the player then hit the start button. The quality wasn't bad, but the camera was a pretty good distance away.

“That Beau Bandero?” his father asked, coming up beside Rafe.

“In the flesh.”

“A lot of flesh, too. Heard he's been drinking a lot. It shows—
Did he just hit that kid?
”

Rafe didn't answer, wanting to hear the exchange between Beau and Elliot, which happened just as Melina had described. “What do you think, Dad? Intentional?”

“Don't know. Play it again.”

They both watched intently, then watched it again. One more time. “I can't tell,” Rafe said.

“Beau's got his problems, but I don't think hitting a kid with a ball is something he'd do.”

Rafe eyed his father curiously. “You've always championed Beau.”

Luis shrugged and moved away, picking up his sanding tools. “I know what he had to put up with at home. Mr. Bandero was hard on him. Working at his ranch, I saw it all the time.”

“Well, Beau's lucky that people aren't willing to drive their kids to San Antonio to play ball. Some parents will put up with a lot to have their kid trained by a former big leaguer.” Rafe turned off the DVD without ejecting it, figuring he'd watch it a few more times later. “I'm going to heat up some leftover pizza. Sit down, Dad. Put your feet up for a while. You don't need to work all day at the ranch then exhaust yourself here.”

“It's the only way I can sleep,” his father said softly, dropping onto the sofa, his shoulders slumped.

Rafe closed his eyes in gratitude.
Finally.
Finally, he wasn't hiding his pain.

“I miss your mother so much. The nights are too quiet, and the mornings too empty.” He made an effort to smile. “Been thinking about getting a dog.”

Rafe sat next to him. “Why don't you just move in with me? You know there's plenty of room.”

“I need to be at the ranch. Mr. Bandero's been very patient with me, but everyone seems to think that because it's been a year, it's time. That I should be recovered.”

“Not everyone understands that recovery is individual, Dad.” Although Rafe had also been hoping that by now his father would be emerging from mourning.

“That's what Melina said, too. She also said I should tell you how I'm feeling.” He shrugged. “Figured you knew, actually.”

“It's hard to miss the signs. You've lost too much weight.”

“Your mom was the ranch cook, and a good one. I can't bear to sit down at the table to eat someone else's cooking, son.”

“I get that. Which is why I think you should live with me. We'll take care of each other.”

“Wouldn't that cramp your style with the women?”

“I'm as celibate as you.”

“That won't last for long.” He put his hands on his knees and shoved himself up. “I think I'll skip dinner and head back to the ranch. Thanks for listening.”

“Nope. Dinner first, then you can leave.”

Luis crossed his arms. “You're a pushy kid.”

“Yeah? Who taught me to be that?”

“Your mother.”

Rafe laughed, slung an arm over his father's shoulders and headed to the kitchen, the only completely remodeled room in the house. He lingered over pizza and beer with his dad, getting him to open up more, trying to figure out if there was a way to help his father then deciding he was already doing it. He'd made the right decision, moving back to Red Rock, being there for his dad, which mattered even more than Rafe had thought.

After his father drove away, Rafe watched the video again. He sat on the sofa and opened one of the books Melina had dropped off, but he couldn't focus on it, and he'd already researched a lot himself.

Seeing Beau on video brought back memories Rafe had put aside. He didn't want to think about them now, either, didn't want the memories to affect what he did regarding Elliot. Rafe and Beau had been baseball rivals since they were kids, the intensity fierce and unrelenting, but Rafe needed to ignore that for now. Would Beau do the same?

Restless, Rafe took off for a walk. Although Red Rock had grown substantially since he was a child, it was still a small town, easy to negotiate on foot. He came to Red, the restaurant owned by his aunt and uncle. The classy eatery was closed on Monday, so Rafe didn't stop. A little farther down the street he came across Melina's office, a small, rustic
storefront with a shingle that read simply Red Rock Occupational Therapy Group, Melina Lawrence and Quanah Ruiz, AOTA-Certified Therapists, Specializing in Stroke Rehabilitation and Autism Spectrum Disorders.

The blinds were shut, but Rafe had glanced inside once before and knew it had a small lobby where Angie worked as administrative assistant, and a doorway leading to whatever other office space was in the back.

By asking around a little, he learned that Melina lived around the corner in a twelve-unit townhouse complex, her two-bedroom end unit purchased less than a year ago. What he didn't know was her phone number.

He'd been headed to her place when he'd left his house. He just hadn't admitted it to himself.

Rafe used his cell phone to call Information, but she wasn't listed. He tucked his phone back in his pocket then kept walking until he was in front of her building. Lights were still on downstairs, but he really couldn't just drop in on her.

Or could he?

It was nine-thirty. Was that too late? He hesitated a little longer, then decided to go home. He had questions for her and had planned to catch her at her office the next day before the meeting with the Andersons. It was better to just stick with the plan.

Rafe took about ten steps, stopped, then turned around and made his way into the courtyard of her
complex, ignoring the chastising voice in his head. Steam rose from a narrow, rectangular, lighted pool. Someone was swimming laps, but it couldn't be Melina, because she had a paralyzing fear of the water after a childhood experience.

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 thumb
ing 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.”