small-town cop in the movies, he rests his thumbs in his belt and rocks back on his feet.
“I was hoping to talk with Mrs. Bishop.”
His stance doesn’t change, but he shakes his head. “She called and wants me to arrest you for loitering. You’d better get out of here before you miss your game.”
This woman refuses to hear me out. I wrote her twenty letters throughout the years, begging her to forgive me. Pleading my sorrow and pouring out apology after apology. Nothing. She never wrote back once, but my letters were never returned either.
“I only wanted five minutes.”
Sheriff cocks one side of his lips up, as if saying, Good luck. That’s never going to happen.
“Crosby, don’t be late.” He holds his arm out to his side, pointing down the street.
I huff.
He drops his arm. “She needs time.”
“I’ve given her two years.”
“I guess that’s not enough.” He digs his thumbs harder into his belt, resulting in it hanging down further.
I say nothing, taking off my baseball cap and placing it back on.
“Listen, she’s always been a stubborn one. I grew up with her, and no one can ever meet her expectations. She will never listen to you, so go and live your life.”
I wait, mere inches away from the first responder on the scene. The one who saw me screaming. The one who saw me crying.
I nod and walk over to my truck.
“Lynch!” he calls out when my hand is on the handle of my truck.
I glance back, and there’s a small crease of a smile on his lips.
“Good luck tonight.”
I turn back to grant him all of my attention. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ella
My foot won’t stop tapping, and that week’s worth of nail I grew is now on the ground below me. The team bus pulls up, and my throat dries.
There were no police cruisers waiting for Crosby at the edge of town, and there aren’t any picketers in front of the stadium, but the tension is enough to make me uneasy. It’s as though, in a moment’s time, this charity game could switch course, and our small town of Beltline would be national news.
The players exit the bus, each one looking right and left and then forward. A few nods and soft hellos are said to me.
Then, Braxton steps off the bus with a look of fear in his eyes. Before he lines to grab his bag from the storage locker under the bus, he rushes over. “Did he come with you?”
My heart falls to the pit of my stomach. “No.”
“Shit.” Braxton takes off his baseball cap and hits it against his knee.
“I thought he was coming with the team?” My entire body shakes. “Do you think—”
“No. There’s no way.” Braxton’s words sound great, but his eyes don’t match his conveyance of assurance.
“Brentwood, let’s go!” Coach Lipton stands next to Brax’s bag on the curb.
The bus pulls away.
Brax looks back and forth between the two and shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”
I hope he can convince himself more than he’s convincing me.
“Miss Keaton.” Coach Lipton nods his head to me and escapes through the doors to the locker room.
My eyes scour the street, imagining Crosby sauntering up with his bat bag swung over his shoulder and his hat lowered over his eyes, but only teenagers who are working the game are laughing on their way to the concession stand.
“Come on, Crosby. You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Crosby
My truck is parked at the bottom of the hill. The cherry blossom trees bear their beauty that gave the cemetery its name. I toss the baseball in my hand to distract myself while I approach his headstone. Otherwise, I fear I’ll lose my nerve to visit him for the first time.
Unfortunately, his stone is tucked under the largest tree, meaning it’s a longer walk for me to contemplate my decision to face this head-on. A few steps longer, and his name is right in front of me.
Noah Bradley Ford
Son, Friend, Ballplayer
March 22, 1996—June 24, 2014
The date of death buries me with a curtain of grief. My eyes divert, only to top on another hefty layer.
Lt. Keith Joseph Ford
Husband, Father, Friend
February 25, 1969—April 12, 1998
I never knew the man, but his legacy never left Beltline. The man saved a family of eight from a house fire and ran back to save the dog when the house collapsed.
When Noah was younger, he’d brag about his dad and the lifesaving firefighter skills he possessed. As the years grew on, I’d see