Chapter 4

“So, pick your passion for a cold, rainy afternoon. Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate?” Mason asked as he drove his red Dodge Ram pickup truck up the ramp and out of the basement garage.

It was a good thing he couldn’t drive with his left hand or he’d have to work hard at not letting his right one close over Tess’s knee in reassurance. She looked close to irresistible on the other side of the console in the big leather bucket seat, wearing the several-sizes-too-large hoodie he’d loaned her.

“Um, hot chocolate, I guess, though there are compelling arguments for all three.”

“Unless you need a jolt of caffeine, I can promise you won’t be disappointed with their hot chocolate. It’s a coffee shop just up the road. I’ll run in. You can wait here out of the rain. I know you must be in a hurry to look for your stuff. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Thanks. You don’t have to, but if you’re going for you as well, a hot chocolate would be nice.”

Mason left his truck idling because he could see she was still shivering and he didn’t want to kill the heat. He dropped a few coins in the meter and jogged inside. By the time he came back with a giant hot chocolate for her and a coffee for him, she looked a lot further from tears than she had when he’d returned to the lobby. He’d sensed she’d only pulled herself together at the ding of the elevator.

He opened his door and placed the drinks in the console cup holders before gripping the steering wheel to climb into the high seat, something he’d perfected since his left arm and shoulder had been immobilized. He couldn’t say for sure how he used to get into his cab. It had been second nature.

“Is it hard driving one-handed?” she asked.

“So far, so good. It’s my collarbone and shoulder, not my arm. I’m counting the days until I get this sling off.”

He was glad when she didn’t ask how he’d done it. He worried telling her he’d been in a car wreck might cause her to make a connection he was hoping she wouldn’t make. Not today. Today, he wanted to be generic Mason from a generic farming family in Iowa. He didn’t want to be the single, pro baseball player just about every social media gossip column had tagged in one sensationalized story or another that summer. He didn’t want to be a player on the field or off. He just wanted to be a guy helping a girl recover her stuff.

She lifted her paper cup in both hands and took a cautious sip. “You weren’t kidding. This is the real stuff. Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

“By everything, do you mean not watching your stuff while you were saving the dog I was supposed to be taking care of?”

He headed for the side streets and alleys that surrounded Citygarden on the north side of Tucker Boulevard. With any luck, they’d find her case or backpack tossed on the ground or in a Dumpster.

“I didn’t ask you to watch my things. The park seemed empty. I figured it was safe, and I was focused on Millie.”

He shook his head and turned down the first narrow street two blocks north of the park. “It seemed empty, didn’t it? Do you want to describe your stuff so we both know what we’re looking for?”

“I had an aqua-colored backpack. The suitcase is a hard-shell spinner. It was rose pink, a gift. They weren’t exactly color-coordinated. But you know what they say: you start from where you are, right?”

Memory rushed over Mason. You start from where you are. He’d heard that line once before and never forgot it. Twice in his twenty-nine years, he’d felt so on top of his game that he’d almost believed nothing could bring him down. Twice he’d been wrong.

He’d been proven wrong just four weeks ago. The Red Birds had made it to the playoffs and he’d had a phenomenal second season with them. Then his buddy had been in town and what had seemed like a well-deserved night of partying had led to him piling into the back of an Explorer that, less than a mile after entering the highway, had flipped twice and careered across the highway, severely injuring his best friend and breaking Mason’s nose and collarbone and preventing his participation in his first-ever playoff season. Three other people had been in the SUV. Two had been injured worse than him.

The other time he’d been knocked down, he’d had a much harder time getting back up. He’d just finished his junior year of college and had gotten word that he was being considered for that year’s MLB draft. He’d gone home to his family’s farm in Iowa thinking he was infallible. Then, one fateful talk with his dad had left him angry and rebellious. That afternoon, he’d lingered outside too long when the game of catch he’d been playing with his cousin was cut short by a thunderstorm heading their way.

Mason had stood in the field too long watching the clouds race in, trying to lose the leftover fear lingering in him from his conversation with his dad to the power of the storm. He still remembered feeling the electricity that had been building in the air, causing the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand on end and thinking what an unstoppable force nature could be.

That was the last thing he remembered. He woke up five days later to learn he’d been struck by lightning and that he owed his life to the CPR his cousin had given him until the ambulance arrived. The strike had blown out his left eardrum and caused a 60 percent loss of the hearing in one ear. He had also barely been able to move the left side of his body. His arm had been worse than his leg. Not only was moving it excruciating—it was nearly impossible. And no one would say for sure how much, if any, movement would return or if, like the hearing he’d lost, it was gone forever. There was the fatigue, disorientation, headaches, and irritability he’d had to deal with too.

What had terrified Mason the most was the partial paralysis of his left side. He’d wanted to be a pro ball player ever since he could remember, and the dream had been so close, he’d almost been able to touch it.

He’d acted like a caged bear those first several sessions of physical therapy, lashing out at a string of therapists who wouldn’t give him the answers he wanted. He’d finally been passed along to a bad-tempered woman on the verge of retiring who wouldn’t take his shit.

“You want to play ball tomorrow, then move that arm like I say today. You were handed a plate of crap, and now you can quit or you can work your ass off and set your mind to getting your body back under your control. It’s the best choice anyone’s ever given, isn’t it? Starting right from where you are.”

Mason did as the woman instructed and the path to full recovery was long—several years long—and chock-full of bumps and ruts and washouts. By twenty-five, he was starting to play close to as good as when he’d been struck at twenty-one. The Orioles picked him up for his first season when he was twenty-six. He’d been a mediocre player for them and a slightly better one for the Brewers before getting transferred to the Red Birds two years ago.

What kind of coincidence was it that he was hearing those words again now, after he’d had another brush with the chaos and uncertainty that had the potential to derail a career in a mere fraction of a second? And after a season of riding high, at the top of his game, and feeling like he again had the world at his feet. His friend Georges’s answer to that was that his unconscious was sending him a message, a loud, clear one that he needed to figure out, and figure out quickly.

Now, here was this girl, not recognizing him from anywhere, but reminding him so strongly of the connection of life. What message had he not gotten back then? What message was he not getting now?

You start from where you are.

“So, were you heading out of town or are you just getting back?” he asked, wanting to stop his racing thoughts.

She squinched her brows, then her face relaxed in understanding. “That’s a good question, considering what we’re on the hunt for. Neither, really. I got back from Europe about a month ago, and I’m staying put in St. Louis for a bit.”

Mason parked the truck at a row of Dumpsters, two for trash and one for recycling. “Europe, huh? Sounds nice.” He slipped the truck into Park and switched his wipers to low. “You can stay here, if you’d like. I’ll call out to you if I see anything.”

Tess unbuckled her seat belt. “Thanks, but they’re my bags. I’ll Dumpster dive.”

They headed over in the drizzling rain together. As Mason peeked behind the Dumpsters, a cat dashed out from underneath and ran off down the street.

“Poor kitty.” The way Tess looked after it was proof of the kindness in her heart he didn’t need after seeing her with Millie.

“Feral cats are pretty good at taking care of themselves. It’s the dogs you see around here that get to me.” Mason picked what seemed like a clean spot and lifted the first lid. It was cleaner than he’d imagined and a quarter full with tied bags of trash, a computer monitor, and a silk plant that showed more dust than green foliage.

“True,” she said, moving to the adjacent Dumpster with him and peering in. She had stepped close enough that he caught a whiff of her scent—soft, sweet, and subtle. It mixed with the stink of the Dumpsters, confusing his nostrils.

When the recycling bin proved empty as well, they loaded back into the truck and Mason continued cruising through the backstreets and alleys around the park. On the fifth stop, they surprised a dog who’d been hanging behind the Dumpster under the cover of a roof overhang. Mason was surprised to see it was John Ronald.

The magnificent animal dashed away about the distance between home plate and second base, then turned and stood in the rain, watching them with pricked-at-attention ears. Mason whistled loudly. The dog, who Mason guessed was part Husky and part something big and long-legged, responded with a single wag of his tail.

“That,” Mason said, “is my dog. He just doesn’t know it yet. Or maybe he does and he’s still trying to deny it.”

Tess looked from Mason to the dog and back to Mason. “He’s watching you like he knows you, that’s for sure.”

Mason wished he’d thought to bring some treats along in the likely event they’d run into him. He’d been in a hurry to get back to Tess, and he’d only been thinking of the guy in the statue head. He’d grabbed a pair of running shoes he didn’t wear often and a couple of muscle drinks, the only thing he had in his empty refrigerator, and had dropped them off the second time they passed near the park.

Mason whistled again, but after a few seconds, probably determining that he was empty-handed today, the dog turned and trotted away, his long legs making fast tracks. Mason would put him at seventy or so pounds, eighty if he wasn’t overly lean like he was.

“Not today, huh, John Ronald,” Mason said under his breath.

Mason noticed Tess studying him harder than she had since she’d told him to lay off his attempts to recall Millie—since she’d called him imposing.

“What do you mean, ‘your dog’?”

He shrugged. “He’s a stray who hangs out near my building. We’ve had a few moments, but I haven’t been able to get close enough to catch him. If I ever do, I intend to keep him.”

Her mouth opened a fraction of an inch, calling Mason’s attention to the fullness of her lips. Despite the rain having slowed to a dull drizzle, it was still cold and wet, only she didn’t seem to notice.

“And why John Ronald?”

Judging by the incredulous look on her face, Mason’s best guess was he’d either done something impossibly wrong or impossibly right.

Hoping it was the second, he opted for the truth, letting it fall out in a display of rare vulnerability.

“The first night I ever saw him, I was up in my loft. It was last winter, late February or early March, and the moon was full. I told you, I’m on the sixth floor. I have a decent view of the street below. After I spotted him, I stepped out on my balcony to watch him. The white patches on his body and above his eyes stood out in the moonlight, and I could have sworn that he was looking up at me even before he stopped walking. I was afraid if I went downstairs and outside, I’d scare him off, so I dropped him some hot dogs and he ate them. He even caught a few before they hit the ground.

“When I ran out of them, I headed downstairs and outside as fast as I could. I think he knew I was coming. He was already at the end of the block, but he was looking my way like he was waiting for me but needed the distance to feel safe. He watched me for a while, but then he turned and left like he did just now.”

He shrugged, thinking of all the interactions he and the dog had had since that first night. “I leave him food on the street under my balcony. Sometimes he leaves me things too. Odd things. A dead crow once, but trash too. I know it’s him, because I spotted him carrying a hat once. By the time I got downstairs, he was gone. The hat was waiting for me by the door.”

Fresh tears appeared on her lower lids. She blinked them away without shedding them. “But why John Ronald?”

“Because calling him Tolkien didn’t feel right.”

She dropped his gaze so quickly, Mason knew she’d gotten the confirmation she’d been looking for. “Not all those who wander are lost.” It was such a quiet whisper on her lips that Mason almost wasn’t sure he’d heard it. It was so quiet, he suspected it wasn’t even meant for his ears.

She shook her head as if she’d just figured out something she didn’t quite believe. He was about to ask for clarification when she turned away from him and stalked abruptly over to the Dumpster to check for her stuff. When it proved to be a wash, she returned to the truck without a glance his direction.

Mason climbed into the truck after her, wondering if perhaps the universe had just shifted for him a third time, only this time, much less painfully so.

* * *

Tess knew it was on her to talk, to explain her odd line of questioning, only she couldn’t. She’d been completely waylaid. It had started with his kindness to her and to the homeless guy he’d encountered in the park.

Those were remarkable but ordinary things. Things you remembered about a stranger long after you parted ways. Things that changed the course of your day and sent you to bed mulling over a small but profound connection.

But the Tolkien quote, the one from the poem she’d carried in her backpack across Europe, the backpack she’d lost meeting him—it was too much to process. That single line of poetry meant more to her than any verse she’d heard.

Those words meant something giant to him too. They had to. Maybe she hadn’t clarified that he’d named a stray dog with wanderlust John Ronald because of the same line that had given her meaning in the darkest moments of her life.

But after the story he’d shared, she didn’t have to. She wanted to know what it meant. Wanted answers from a universe that either she didn’t know how to listen to or wasn’t in the habit of talking to her.

The final thirty minutes of Dumpster searching was quiet, wet, smelly, and unproductive. The only thing that came from it was that she’d never look at trash the same way again. Wherever her things were, they hadn’t been thrown out anywhere surrounding Citygarden.

Somehow, Tess knew after running across the remarkable-looking John Ronald that, for some reason, her stuff was gone for good. She just didn’t know how to explain that to Mason.

Finally, when Mason admitted they’d combed as much of the area as he knew, he asked if she wanted to go to the police station.

Tess thanked him but asked him to take her home instead. She gave him directions toward Nonna’s small, redbrick shotgun home on the Hill. Fifteen minutes later, when they entered the Hill’s single square-mile border and she directed him to Nonna’s, she saw the neighborhood from a stranger’s eyes.

Italian-colored flags flanked the main street entrances just as they did popular street corners within it. Tess couldn’t remember how old she was when she realized that while the fire hydrants in her neighborhood were painted red, white, and green and topped with bright-yellow caps, elsewhere in the world, they were starkly yellow.

Yards here tended to be infinitesimally small as compared to other St. Louis neighborhoods, and Tess wondered if there were more flags on street corners or more Virgin Mary concrete statues in the carefully pruned yards of the row houses they were passing. And being just a few days past Halloween, pumpkins, gourds, scarecrows, straw bales, ghosts, and skeletons still lined many of the porches of the modest frame, brick, and shotgun-style homes.

Mason drove past an old man with stooped shoulders sweeping cobwebs from the corners of his covered porch. Tess remembered trick-or-treating at his home nearly two decades ago. He and his wife had passed out cannoli instead of candy, and it had been better than her grandmother’s.

When they reached Nonna’s, Mason parked in a rare open spot alongside the sidewalk out front, and Tess was struck how his truck was nearly as long as her grandmother’s yard was wide.

He slipped the truck into Park and slowed the wipers to a rhythmic pulse. The soft rain fell around it, wrapping it in droplets like a snug blanket. She watched his gaze comb the house—the chipping paint of the double swing on the covered porch, the concrete statue of the Virgin Mary, hands spread open in welcome, nearly lost in a crowd of browning-out mums alongside the walkway. The Red Birds flag still hung on the wrought-iron garden flag post.

Looking at it now, it struck Tess for the first time how little decorating Nonna had done for Halloween this year. She wondered if Thanksgiving and Christmas would be different. Not that Tess would blame her if they weren’t. Nonna had been married to Tess’s grandfather for nearly sixty years. The thousand-square-foot house her grandparents had lived in their entire marriage wasn’t much to look at, but it was also one of Tess’s favorite places in the world.

She started to unzip the cozy Vineyard Vine hoodie he’d lent her, but he held up his hand. “Keep it. It could never look that good on me.”

Tess’s cheeks grew warm, but she didn’t argue away the offer. The hoodie was warm and cozy, and she never wanted to take it off.

She caught a glimpse of movement in the dark dining room window. Nonna was always looking out to inspect tourists who parked in front of her house on their way to one of several thriving Italian restaurants in the Hill. Would her grandmother notice she was inside the cab? Whether or not she did, Tess needed to get moving.

Only needing to go and wanting to leave weren’t the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Sorry for what? For taking up his time? Using up his gas? For not sharing what his story about John Ronald means to me? “Thanks for helping me look for my stuff.” It was easier than offering an explanation.

“You never told me what you were doing out there today. Where you were going.”

Tess considered her answer in the quiet that hung between them. The radio, tuned to a popular country station, was turned low, somehow drawing her attention to the music more than if it had been turned up. “I’m trying to start a business. I was lugging a bunch of stuff around. That’s why I needed the suitcase.”

“What sort of business?”

Even in the dark afternoon, his eyes were such a beautiful mixture of blue and green. And his hair was just wet enough that it called to her to brush her fingertips through it. She balled her hands into fists and rested them on her lap. The warm cab and renewed blanket of rain invited her to linger.

All those months in Europe and she’d had a hundred opportunities for a one-night stand that she’d never pursued. Maybe her heart wouldn’t be beating as hard right now if she had.

She shook her head at his question, not able to reveal her business dreams to him or the driving passion of her desire to make a difference in animals’ lives. Not now. If there was one less barrier between them, she was pretty certain they’d both be leaning in until their lips met in the middle over the wide console.

So, instead, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “So, uh, you probably feel as gross from those Dumpsters as I do. You can come in and wash up, if you’d like. But if you do, you should know my grandma will force food on you. Lots of it. You won’t be able to say no. No one ever can. She’s a good cook though, so it’s not so bad.”

He looked from her to the house and back to her. He seemed about to say yes when his expression darkened. “I would if I could. Another day.”

He mentioned the future with easy, assured conviction, and Tess felt with a rare certainty that there would be another day in store for them, and maybe not just one. “Will you tell me what all you lost at least,” he added, “in addition to your cell?”

She took a breath in hopes it would turn important objects into mere words. “A laptop. Pictures. Testimonials. That sort of thing.”

He nodded and leaned over the console, flipping open the glove box. There was a baseball glove inside, a truck manual, napkins, and a few pens.

He grabbed a pen, flipped the glove box closed, and lifted her empty cup into the air. He transferred it to his left hand and held it as he wrote a phone number that started with an area code she didn’t know. But no name. The familiarity of the gesture made Tess’s heart thump harder. Then he pressed the paper cup into her hand. Their fingers brushed. His touch was even more inviting than it was when she’d first felt it in the park. A strong buzzing began behind her ears.

“Since I can’t call you” was all he said.

Tess locked her fingers around the empty cup. The sugar from the hot chocolate still coated her lips. “I hope…I hope one day he lets you catch him.” She hopped out without saying anything else. She knew if she did, she’d end up leaning in and letting their lips brush in a kiss she’d swear he was asking for with his eyes with the same urgency she was feeling inside.

After climbing the slanted-from-settling steps two at time to reach the cover of the porch, she turned and looked his way. It didn’t surprise her to find he was still watching her as intently as when she’d been inside the cab.

A part of her was full of silent admonitions for getting out of the truck, for leaving that cozy space filled by their warm bodies. Another part, the part that needed to be alone to process an impossibly momentous afternoon, thanked her.

Then Nonna pulled open the sticky wooden door, determining Tess’s next move for her. With a small wave in his direction, Tess turned away and headed inside.

My Forever Home

On sale December 2018