Sunday Kind of Love (15 page)

“After Pete died, I mostly kept to myself…” Hank began, his words slowly unspooling. “That was because whenever I came to town, someone would always be looking at me. It didn't matter if I was walking down the street, in line at the bank, or in my truck; I'd see them watching, whispering. It made me so angry.”

Gwen listened breathlessly. Ever since she'd learned about the car accident that had claimed Pete's life, she'd wanted to know more, but she'd been afraid to pry into Hank's past, to upset him. She had hoped that he would eventually reveal it himself. Now it seemed as if her patience was about to be rewarded.

“Everyone was judging me for something they knew nothing about,” he continued. “There's only one person who knows exactly what happened that night, and that's me.” Hank turned to her, staring hard, his eyes pleading, as if he desperately wanted her to believe him. He shook his head. “But that sure as hell didn't stop damn near the whole town from inventing their own version. There were more rumors floating around than stars in the sky.”

Gwen thought about her parents. She was certain Warren and Meredith had heard all the wild speculation about the night Pete died. She was also convinced that they'd done their part to make things worse. Gwen could easily imagine her father leaning against the bakery's counter, spreading the latest gossip, loudly declaring Hank's guilt. Samantha, Sandy, everyone in Buckton had likely done it.

Slowly, she began to understand why Hank had gotten so upset.

“You didn't like me making things up about people,” Gwen said.

Hank nodded. “I imagine folks sitting in cars, just like we're doing now, watching me go by and saying terrible things. That I'm a drunk, a murderer, that if it weren't for me, my brother would still be alive, that they wish I was dead.” He took a deep breath. “Those people don't know the truth. They think they do, but they're
wrong
!” Hank grabbed the steering wheel, squeezing hard. “I just want to whip open their doors and scream that they're fools, that they don't understand, but I…I…just…” Though Gwen desperately wanted more, Hank stopped talking.

Voices drifted in through the open windows, a few people on the sidewalks braving the summer sun, but inside the truck's cab there was silence. Gwen's thoughts raced. There was something Hank wasn't telling her, that much was certain, a secret about the night of the accident. Sitting there watching him, Gwen understood that Hank had become important to her, maybe more than she was willing to admit. He'd saved her life, but her feelings for him weren't made up only of gratitude. She had been surprised by how much she enjoyed their drive to Mansfield. When her article had been accepted at the
Bulletin
, Hank was the first person she'd wanted to tell. Even now, under the circumstances, she was happy to be in his company. She wanted to know his secret, not because of the curiosity that drove her as a writer, but because if he told her, if he could bring himself to trust her, it would strengthen the bond growing between them.

“If you ever wanted to talk about that night…about what happened to Pete…I would listen…” Gwen tentatively told him.

Hank looked at her with such intensity that she had trouble holding his gaze. His mouth opened, then closed. He seemed unsure of what to do, as if he was weighing her suggestion. But then he shook his head.

“Gwen…I, I can't…”

She fought back a feeling of disappointment, then again reached out and put her hand on his arm, more purposefully than before. “It doesn't have to be now.”

He nodded, then surprised her by placing his hand on top of hers. His touch was rough yet warm. Gwen wondered how Kent or her parents would react to seeing her and Hank like this. Undoubtedly there would be questions, hurt feelings, even anger. But she had no desire to move away. This was right where she wanted to be. As the seconds slowly ticked past, as their touch lingered, Gwen pleasantly realized that even though Hank hadn't told her what she'd hoped to hear, somehow they had still managed to grow closer.

“I didn't mean to upset you,” she said, wanting to make things right, worried that she'd pushed him too far.

“I know,” Hank replied, his voice empty of annoyance. “It just caught me off guard, is all. If anything, I should apologize for reacting the way I did.”

“How about we just call it even?”

“Fair enough.”

But then, before she could suggest that they go for a drive so that Hank didn't feel like he was being watched, he turned the key in the ignition and the truck's engine grumbled to life. “I've got an idea,” he said.

“What is it?”

Hank flashed a thin smile. “Our first go-around at playing a game might not have gone so well,” he explained, “but maybe the second time will be better.”

“What do you have in mind?” Gwen asked.

“I'm not telling you that easily,” he told her with a warm chuckle. “Now it's my turn to have a surprise.”

“Oh, really?”

“I even have everything we'll need,” he said, thumbing out the rear window into the back of the truck. “You want to give it a shot?”

Resisting the urge to look in the truck's bed for some clue as to what Hank was planning, Gwen nodded. As they pulled away from the curb, quickly accelerating down the street, she was filled with anticipation.

So far, from the fateful night in the Sawyer River until now, their time together had been one heck of an adventure.

G
WEN LISTENED AS
Hank sang along softly to a Tony Bennett tune on the radio, a ballad that she and her friends had played again and again back at Worthington. He drove from the center of town through quiet neighborhoods, toward the river. She leaned against her door, still wondering where he was taking her, trying to imagine what sort of game he had in mind. Gwen considered asking more questions but chose to let him keep his secret a little while longer.

Though in many ways Hank was still a stranger, Gwen was surprised by how comfortable she felt around him. With some people, there was a constant pressure to say something, an awkward need to keep the conversation going. But with Hank, she found that even the silences felt right, as if they'd known each other forever, which in an odd way they had. Just sharing his company was enough. So while he could have been taking her anywhere, a fact that would surely have unnerved her father, Gwen wasn't worried. She trusted him.

A mile or so outside of town, Hank turned down a short gravel drive and stopped the truck. Looking out the window, all Gwen could see was an empty pasture ringed by trees. There wasn't a house in sight.

“We're here,” he said.

“For what?” Gwen asked without the faintest idea of the answer.

“You'll see.”

When they got out, the sound of their doors shutting echoed faintly off the distant trees. Hank began rummaging around in the truck's bed. “Are you right-handed or a lefty?” he asked.

“Right,” she answered.

He tossed something at her. Reflexively, Gwen raised her hands to catch it, but she still almost managed to let it fall to the ground. Turning it over in her hands, she took in the dark leather and heavy stitching, but couldn't make head nor tail of it. “What is this?”

“Seriously?” Hank blurted in amazement. “It's a baseball mitt. You told me you went to a Cubs game, right?”

“Well, I wasn't in uniform or out on the court.”

“The diamond,” he corrected her.

“Whatever.”

Looking closely, Gwen could see that there were spaces in the mitt for her fingers, but when she tried to stick her right hand in it, everything felt wrong.

“It goes on your left,” Hank explained. “You use it to catch the ball and then you throw it with your good hand.”

Embarrassed, Gwen did as he instructed. It felt strange.

Hank led the way from the truck into the field. “Stand right there,” he told her before walking a couple dozen paces away. When he turned around and looked at her, he frowned, then moved closer. “Are you ready?”

“For what?” she asked.

“To catch this,” Hank answered, holding up a baseball.

Gwen's eyes went wide. “Wait a second! You're going to
throw
that at me?”

He chuckled. “Well, yeah. That's how you play catch.”

“But…but what do I do?”

Hank jogged back and stood behind Gwen. Holding her left arm, he raised her gloved hand. “Keep it steady,” he explained. “Palm up. When I throw the baseball, all you have to do is move the glove and try to catch the ball in the webbing. When it hits, just squeeze your hand shut and that's that.”

While he talked, Gwen struggled to pay attention. All she was aware of was Hank's free hand on her waist and his chest brushing against her shoulder.

Back in place, Hank held up the baseball. “Ready?”

Even though she wasn't, Gwen nodded.

The ball left his hand and began a gentle arc toward her, floating across the few clouds in the sky. Tracking it, Gwen took a couple of tentative, awkward steps forward. She stuck out her hand as Hank had shown her and then, just as she was sure the ball was about to strike the glove, she closed her eyes.

But nothing happened.

She heard the baseball land with a thud in the grass behind her. She looked at Hank. “Was I close?” she asked.

He smiled and generously offered, “Kind of. Now throw it back.”

Gwen picked up the baseball and took a closer look. She rubbed her thumb across its surface, liking the way the red stitches felt. It was much lighter than she had expected. She couldn't remember the last time she'd thrown something—probably a rock down at the river when she'd been a girl—but she was too embarrassed to ask Hank for help.

Here goes nothing…

From the moment the baseball left her hand, Gwen knew that she'd done something wrong. She had no idea where it was going to go, but was certain it wasn't going to end up as intended in Hank's glove. “Whoops!” he shouted, racing to his left, stretching futilely as the ball dropped at his feet.

“Sorry!” Gwen apologized.

“You did fine for your first time,” he told her. “But when you throw, step forward on your left leg, then bring your arm up and over, only letting go of the ball when your hand is at the top.” He demonstrated in slow motion.

“Got it,” Gwen said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

“Let's give it another try.”

And so they did, but with only the slightest improvement in results. A couple of times later, Gwen was able to touch the baseball with her glove, but she never managed to actually catch it. Hank began to regularly snag her errant throws, but only because he quickly understood that he needed to start running just as soon as the baseball left her hand.

“Let's try something else,” he finally said, heading for the truck.

Gwen thought he meant that they were giving up on playing, but Hank reached into the bed and pulled out a long, tapered piece of wood. Ignorant as she was, even Gwen knew that it was a baseball bat.

“You want to give this a shot?”

Gwen shook her head. “With as bad as I throw, there's no way you could ever hope to hit the ball.”

Once again, Hank laughed. “You're probably right. That's why I'm going to pitch and you'll be the batter.”

Hank showed her how to position her hands on the bat and watched as she took a couple of practice swings. Unlike the baseball, the bat was much heavier than Gwen had anticipated. The first time she swung, she nearly fell over.

After Hank had backed up a bit, he held up the baseball. “Here it comes,” he said. “Give it a good whack.”

But in the end, Gwen had just about as much luck hitting the elusive ball as she'd had trying to catch it. Time after time she swung, and time after time she missed. Once, she managed to nick it, sending the baseball squibbing off to the side and into the grass, the impact causing stinging tremors to race up her arms. It didn't take long for sweat to dot her brow.

“This is your idea of fun?” she eventually asked.

“It sure is,” Hank declared proudly. “I've loved baseball for as long as I can remember. What's not to like?”

Gwen had an answer on the tip of her tongue, one she suspected he wouldn't want to hear, but she became distracted by a memory of Hank's brother running down the sidewalk, a baseball bat slung over his shoulder. “Pete loved it, too, didn't he?”

“Yeah, he sure did,” Hank answered, smiling as he stared off into the distance. “Some summers, we would play from sunup to sundown, until we could barely see the ball. We'd listen to games on the radio, read box scores in the newspaper, and buy packs of bubblegum cards down at the five-and-dime. Even in the winter, we'd while away the days thinking about spring, about the season to be played. There's nothing we loved more than baseball.”

“You must be pretty good at it, then.”

“I'm not half-bad,” he answered modestly.

It was obvious to Gwen how much happiness Hank got out of the game. Still, her own experience with it—short, sweaty, and filled with plenty of failure and frustration—wasn't anywhere near as much fun. “Even when you were seven, I bet you were better than I am now,” she groused. “I'm never going to hit that ball.”

Hank frowned. “Not with that attitude, you won't.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Gwen asked, a little fire in her voice.

He stared at her, tossing the ball into the air and effortlessly catching it without even looking at it. “Do you remember the first thing you wrote?”

“Sure…” she answered, wondering what he was getting at.

“Was it any good?”

“Not really,” Gwen answered. “It was all over the place, mostly because I had no idea what I was doing.”

“I bet it was hard to write,” Hank said.

She nodded. “What does this have to do with me hitting a baseball?”

“In some ways, nothing,” he answered. “In others, everything.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Sure it does,” Hank explained. “Whenever we try something new—it doesn't matter if it's writing, woodworking, or even baseball—odds are that we aren't all that good at it. Most times we struggle. We think about quitting, complaining that it's too hard. But if we stick at it, if we learn from our mistakes, we get better.” He smiled brightly. “Heck, look at you. Think of how far you've come from that first attempt at writing to now, about to be published in the
Bulletin
. All because you never gave up.”

Gwen knew that Hank was right. It would've been easy to quit writing after her first few failed efforts. It was hard, frustrating work, and if she were a different person, she might have put down her pen. Instead, she'd persevered, and today had been one of the best days of her life because of it.

Hank held up the baseball. “Compared to that, what's hitting this thing?”

Gwen lifted the bat and put it on her shoulder, feeling more determined than ever to smack the ball. Hard.

“One more time, then,” she said confidently.

Hank smiled, clearly pleased with himself for needling her enough that she'd give it another try. He went into his windup and the ball left his hand the same as the dozen times before. Gwen watched it come closer, clutching the bat tightly, her body coiled with anticipation. Once again, she swung as hard as she could, hoping to make contact. But this time, unlike before, she was rewarded. With a sharp crack, the ball rocketed off the thickest part of the barrel, shooting forward as if it had been launched out of a cannon.

And right at Hank.

He moved as quickly as he could, raising his glove to protect himself, but he wasn't fast enough. The baseball slammed into his shoulder, spinning him sideways before it flew off into the grass. Hank shouted, surely as much from surprise as from pain, and immediately grabbed where it had hit him.

“Hank!” Gwen shouted, running to him.

“Dang, that smarts,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I'm so sorry! It's all my fault!”

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he told her. “I should've known that when you finally got ahold of one, you'd whack it like Hank Greenberg.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Hank said with a chuckle.

“Let me take a look at it.”

He shook his head. “I'm fine. It's not like I'm bleeding or anything.”

“I don't care,” she insisted.

Finally Hank relented, moving his hand away. Gwen tried to peer down the collar of his T-shirt, but when she still couldn't see, he pulled an arm free and exposed his chest and side. She was momentarily distracted by the pronounced musculature of his body, unlike any she had seen before, but Gwen quickly turned her attention to the ugly redness spreading across his shoulder. It looked extremely painful.

“Does it hurt?” Gwen asked, gingerly putting her fingers to the tender spot, causing Hank to hiss and pull away from her.

“Only when you touch it,” he said, offering a teasing smile.

Gwen found herself drawn forward, unable to resist the feel of his skin beneath her fingers. Trying to steady her racing heart, she stepped close and tenderly placed a hand on his chest, far enough from his bruise so as not to cause him any more pain. This time, Hank didn't move, his flesh warm to the touch.

“So which did you like better?” he asked, his mouth only inches from her ear.

She looked up into his eyes. Even after touching him, Gwen had continued to move closer, so near that had he been someone else, it would've felt uncomfortable.

But not him. Not now.

“Which what?”

“Well, the first game we played wasn't much of a success,” Hank said. “And up until you hit that ball, this one didn't seem all that great, either. I was just wondering which one you liked better.”

“This one,” she told him. “It was much better.”

“I'm not so sure,” he answered.

Gwen felt a heaviness in the air, like something inevitable was about to happen. When she spoke, her voice sounded distant to her ears, as if she'd begun to float away, watching herself from afar. “You aren't?”

Hank shook his head and flashed a mischievous smile. “It's close. But something's still missing.”

“What's that?” she asked, butterflies in her stomach.

“This,” he answered, then leaned down and placed his lips against hers. Even though Gwen had been looking right at him, had seen it coming, his boldness surprised her all the same. But only for a moment. Faster than a few frenzied beats of her heart, she found herself letting go, welcoming it, hungry for what he was offering. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and surrendered to their kiss. Without thinking about what she was doing, Gwen eased into Hank's embrace and was enveloped by his strong arms. Her hands roamed across his bare skin, over the taut muscles of his stomach, to the soft hair covering his chest, and onto the broad expanse of his back. Kissing Hank Ellis was unexpected. It was completely out of character for her. She couldn't believe it was happening.

But it was also so very, very wonderful.

She didn't think about how her parents would react. She didn't consider what her aunt or Sandy might say. She didn't even think of Kent.