She pointed to the house next door.The Southwick place.“We’re moving in.The furniture’s not here yet, so we might have to camp out—on the floor.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the house in question.The two-story structure, a smaller version of his own home, stood where it had for eighty years.In the last couple of months the old tenants had moved out and a string of workmen had taken over.The outside had been painted, the inside as well.Carpeting had been replaced and an electrician had fixed several old circuits.It hadn’t been sold, that he knew.The only real estate office in town used his bank, as did the local escrow company.New tenants, he told himself.Another family.He didn’t mind.It’s not as if he’d for a moment thought Jane might move back.Her parents had retired to Galveston and she had—
He frowned as he realized he didn’t know what she’d done.But it didn’t matter.They’d been old news for a long time.
“Are you ready?”Billie asked.
“Ready for what?”
“To play catch.Mom’ll be right out.She’s trying to figure out what furniture goes where.If it ever gets here.I won’t throw hard.”
She tossed the ball with an easy underhand.
He caught it instinctively and threw it back.“Young lady, you do not have to worry about throwing too hard for me.”
“I don’t know.I’m the pitcher on my softball team.I have a mean curve ball.”
Adam glanced at the broken window.“That I believe.How many wild pitches last year?”
She wrinkled her nose.“We won our division.”
“How many?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Let me guess.Not some or a few, but a lot?”
She laughed.The sound reminded him of something, but before he could place it, she threw the ball, harder this time.“Yeah, a lot.Coach says I’ll develop more accuracy as I mature.”
“I hope that’s soon.I have a lot of windows.”
Billie tugged the cap over her eyes, and bent in a crouch.“Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, the National League’s first female pitcher.Not only has she pitched a record six shutouts in a row, but her batting average is close to five hundred.”She cupped her hands over her mouth and breathed heavily to sound like background crowd noise.“She’s pitching to her favorite catcher, a champion in his own right, Mr.Adam—” She paused and looked expectant.
“Barrington.Adam Barrington.”
“Adam Barrington, one of the old-timers.He can still catch a mean curve ball.”
“I’m honored,” he said dryly.
She wound up and threw.The curve ball started out steadily enough, then lost its speed and direction.He lunged to the right, but it rolled past him and into the bushes.
“I gotta work on that curve,” she said.
“Try the backyard.”
“Why?”
With a flick of his wrist, he sent the ball toward her.“There’s a screen of bushes and trees between you and my windows.”
She wrinkled her nose.“I don’t usually—”
“Billie.”
The woman’s call came from the house next door.Adam stiffened.That voice.It couldn’t be.He glanced at Billie.
“Moms.”She shrugged.“They always know when you’re having fun.Over here,” she yelled.“Next door.”
“Billie, there you are.We need to go into town and use the phone.”
