The Baseball Diamond

The Baseball Diamond by

Carolyn Zane Chapter One Dawson Bauman nosed his Beamer into the parking lot of the Upstate New York Parks and Rec. Center and found one of the few remaining spots not bulging with a minivan. At his side, his eight-year-old goddaughter, AmyJo, barely waited till he'd stopped before throwing open her door and tumbling out, dragging her sports bag behind her. "Hey! Watch the door!" "What?" "You're smashing it into that…minivan thing there." He smiled to ease the pinch of annoyance he felt tugging at his lips. "Oh, sorry," AmyJo called over her shoulder as she bolted out to the field to join her team. Dawson sighed and watched her cavort across the parking lot, hair flying, all elbows and coltish legs. He rubbed a hand over his face. A little more every day, she reminded him of her parents. It had been five years this month since they'd run to the store in icy weather. Man, he missed them. Now, more than ever. They'd know how to talk to her about bras and cramps and all that girl stuff that was coming down the pike like an ominous hormonal storm brewing in the east. But they were gone, and he was here. A workaholic single parent. A pinch hitter and not much of one, at that. Hence, the summer spent coaching the coed peewee baseball team. Dawson rotated his shoulders and cracked his knuckles to release the tension. Like an idiot, he'd thought that enrolling AmyJo and acting as her coach would bond them. Bring them that ever-elusive feeling of family that they both longed for but never seemed capable of capturing. Instead of bonding, however, he'd ended up with scene from Norman Rockwell gone somehow seriously wrong. Dawson sighed and hauled himself out of his car and ambled after his goddaughter. He tried not to think about how he was supposed to coach this goofy team into actually remaining upright and conscious

throughout an entire inning. Last week, after orientation night, he'd been so discouraged that he'd nearly thrown in the towel before their first practice. And then again after their first practice. But he'd hung in there. For AmyJo's sake. As he walked, his gaze roved over his team. There was skinny Cee-Cee who walked everywhere on her toes, ballerina style. And Bud, the hyperactive boy who was now busily climbing the chain-link fence. Priscilla was a plump, fair-haired little angel baby with a fear of bats. All kinds. There were twin boys, Miguel and Manuel who spoke only Spanish. And only to each other. Then there was Lena, her nose permanently buried in a book. And last, but certainly not least, a frail, sickly, bespectacled little boy named Elliot who seemed to practically chain-smoke his inhaler. And the kids were only the half of it. The parents were out of their ever-lovin' gourds. He'd fielded more than one irate phone call every night this week. Pepto on the rocks was rapidly becoming his drink of choice. Dawson fished a pair of sunglasses from his pocket to shield his eyes from the stunning glory of this perfect day. The parents were arriving in hoards and climbing into the stands. He signaled the "team" to join him in the dugout and hoped a little athletic discipline would help.

*** "— and so," Dawson continued, exhausted from trying to capture and keep the kids' limited attention spans, "if we are ever gonna win a game, you guys are going to have to work. I'm gonna be drilling you till you drop." Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed a woman edging his way, and he frowned. Not that he minded a beautiful blonde approaching, mind you. But clearly by that parental purse to her lips he could tell that she was here to interfere. There was nothing Dawson hated more then interfering league parents. He'd ignore her. That usually worked. "Uh, excuse me." Drat. When he turned around to give her the curt send-off, he drew up short and promptly forgot what he was about to say. Wow. This mom was a real babe. He didn't recall seeing her at the first practice, so she had to belong to the kid with the inhaler. She'd had to work that afternoon, the kid had said. She almost looked too young to have a kid in third grade. Her hair was upswept into — but falling out of — a messy ponytail. Her full lips were pursed and there was a gully between her snapping blue eyes that spelled trouble. Dawson cleared his throat and gripped his clipboard in an effort to look the part of a professional kiddy coach. "Hello."

"Hi. I just heard what you said about running the kids until they drop, and I don't think that is such a good idea." Suddenly, Dawson didn't care that this gal had legs that ran from here to Montezuma. "And why not?" he asked, reigning in his temper. "Because my son has asthma." "So? Exercise has been known to help make asthma better," he argued. "Maybe. But I don't want you —" she drew air quotes "— 'drilling him till he drops' today." Dawson screwed his face into an irritated wad. Lowering his voice he gripped Isabelle by the arm and moved her from the curious ears of the children. "If he's such a little hothouse flower, what the hell is he doing out here on my team?" Isabelle lowered her voice to a menacing whisper and growled, "I'll thank you not to call my son a flower." Dawson snorted. He'd had it with these overbearing parents. Did they want a coach or not? He was sick to death of their whining. "Look, lady, I've had a little experience with sports, okay? I promise he'll live to see the end of the day. So why don't you just go back to your seat and let me handle the kids. I don't need a bunch of uptight mother hens hovering over the chicks." Isabelle gasped and stared agog. "Why, I'll have you know that I come from a long line of very well-known base —" "Listen, I've got a job to do here, and I don't intend to take a lot of crap from the parents. Starting with you. Do I make myself clear?"

Chapter Two "Crystal," Isabelle replied through clenched teeth, enraged by the nerve of this man, handsome or not. Forcing a smile, she added, "What I'd like to know is why my son had to end up with the one coach in the league who seems to have a bat stuck permanently up his —" "Coach," a tiny voice cut in. Dawson glanced down. "Not now, Cee-Cee, Mrs. Walters and I are having a discussion." "But, Coach —" "Not now," he snapped, immediately regretful. It wasn't Cee-Cee's fault this woman had planted herself under his skin like a prickly cactus. "You might want to listen to what she has to say," Isabelle suggested, pointing to the dugout across from the one they were standing next to.

Dawson bit back a curse as he took off toward the little boy who was playing king of the mountain atop the visitor's dugout. "What have I told you about climbing up there? I want you down right now." "Nope." The little boy crossed his arms and shook his head stubbornly. He let out a frustrated sigh. "Bud Thompson, you come down right now or I'm going to call your mother." Isabelle watched his growing irritation with great pleasure. But her concern for the child won out over her enjoyment. She walked over to where Coach Bauman stood, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at the young boy. "Bud, I came all the way out here to watch your team play. How can they do that without their star player?" The little boy smiled. Coach Bauman didn't. "I'm the coach, Mrs. Walters. I'll handle this." She gave a snort. "Of course you will, Coach Bauman. You've done so well handling things already."

*** AmyJo wove her way through the other kids who were watching her godfather try to get Bud off the roof of the dugout and sidled up to Elliot. "Your mom's really pretty," she whispered. He gave a tiny shrug and pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "I suppose so, for a mommy." AmyJo smiled. "I think my daddy likes her." Elliot's head snapped around. "Coach Bauman likes my mom?" She pressed a finger to her lips. "Shh…not so loud. My daddy doesn't know it yet." "Huh?" "These things take time," she explained in the same grown-up manner her godfather had always explained things to her. "They have to realize what they have in common first." That's what he always told her when she asked why he wasn't married. He said he was looking for a woman who liked the same things he did. Elliot crinkled his nose and looked toward his mom and his coach. "What do they got in common?" "That's easy," AmyJo replied with a grin. "Us."

*** "Everyone grab your glove and head out to the field. I'm going to hit some out to you before the game starts." Dawson glanced toward Elliot's mother who had returned to her seat on the bleachers. Okay, so maybe she had helped to get Bud down and he hadn't exactly shown his appreciation. But it was hard to be appreciative with her remark about the bat still hanging in his thoughts. He tossed a ball into the air and hit a fly out to left field where Miguel and Manuel were standing. They both let out exclamations in Spanish and raced for the ball, right at each other.

"Manuel," Dawson called out in warning. "Call your brother off." It was no use. Manuel had no idea what Dawson was saying. The two brothers collided and fell to the ground. The ball sailed right over them and rolled to a stop at the back fence. Could this day get any worse? Dawson dropped the bat and ran out to check on his fallen players. Much to his relief, the two boys were sitting up, but they were sobbing. "Are you hurt?" The boys muttered something he couldn't decipher and sobbed harder. Dawson knelt beside them and started checking for injuries. "That's it," he muttered to himself, "parents must attend all games from now on." "Coaching a team of kids is hard to do all by yourself. Need some help?" Not again. Dawson rolled his eyes and turned to Elliot's mother. "Not unless you speak Spanish, know how to play ball and have a degree in handling children." She knelt beside him, her attention focused on the crying boys. "Hablo español. April 8, 1974, Hank Aaron passed Babe Ruth's record by hitting his 715th home run. The Dodgers beat the Yankees in the 1955 World Series. I have a degree in child psychology. Three strikes, you're out." Her reply caught Dawson completely off guard. Slack-jawed, he watched as she spoke to the boys in Spanish, her soothing words bringing an end to their tears. In no time at all, the boys were up and running around. Dawson stood and wiped the grass from his jeans. "Thanks." "You're welcome." She got to her feet and turned to him with a smile that exuded confidence. "Looks like you have yourself a new assistant coach."

Chapter Three AmyJo sat on a tall stool overlooking the kitchen counter as Dawson quickly chopped up vegetables for a stir-fry. She could tell by the rapid smack of the knife against the cutting board that her godfather was very irritated. It was a good sign. "I thought the game went really well today, didn't you?" AmyJo asked, leaning forward on her elbows across the counter. She rested her chin against her palms and smiled innocently at Dawson. "I mean, even though we didn't win." Dawson looked up quickly at AmyJo and almost sliced the tip off of his index finger. "Damn it!" "Daddy! Watch your language!"

"Sorry, kiddo." AmyJo tried to hide her smile as Dawson flipped on the faucet and thrust his finger underneath the cold water. She waited until he was done drying his hands and applied a Band-Aid. "I thought it was super nice of Mrs. Walters to help out with Bud, didn't you?" Dawson returned to slicing the vegetables and cut through the first carrot with a snap. He didn't answer. "And wasn't it cool how she could talk to Manuel and Miguel? Maybe we should have her come over and teach us some Spanish." "I don't think that's a good idea, AmyJo." "You didn't think she was a nice lady? And she's so pretty. Her real name is Isabelle. Isn't that a pretty name?" AmyJo tilted her head so that her long brown ponytail fell down over her shoulder. She opened her blue eyes as wide as she could and blinked beguilingly at her stepfather. Dawson looked mesmerized for a moment, and then shook his head. "AmyJo, what are you up to?" AmyJo raised her eyebrows. "Me? Nothing. Why?" Dawson peered across the counter with narrowed eyes. AmyJo held his gaze. "I just thought Mrs. Walters was a nice woman. And I like Elliot. He seems really cool. Did you know that his grandfather was 'Deuce' Elliot? Elliot was named after him." Dawson dropped the knife with a clatter. AmyJo had never seen Dawson let his mouth hang open like that before. "What?" "Yeah, Elliot said that his mom was Deuce Elliot's daughter. I think that's how she knows so much about baseball." AmyJo tried not to laugh as Dawson opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish. "That — that…woman…is the Deuce's daughter?" Dawson was practically sputtering with disbelief. "Yep! I'll bet she has some great stories to tell about him. Didn't he play for the Dodgers for a while?" "He was only their star outfielder for almost fifteen years! He had a .372 career average and helped lead the Dodgers to two World Series titles. Deuce Elliot is a legend!" "Wow, isn't that cool that his daughter is your assistant coach then? And Elliot says she used to play baseball, too, in the National Championships, before he was born." Dawson's enthusiasm deflated immediately. "Oh, no. She must think I'm a total jerk. I can't believe how rude I was.…"

"It's okay, Daddy. I'm sure you'll have a ton of time to make it up to her."

*** Elliot lay in bed as his mother tucked the covers under his chin. She had been fuming ever since they had left the field. Elliot was trying to wait for the right time to mention Coach Bauman, but his mother's anger didn't seem to be going away, even now. Still, he was a patient boy, and he knew he could wait out his mother's frustration. After a while, Elliot finally decided to break the silence. "Thanks for offering to be the assistant coach for the team, Mommy. I think that's going to be fun." "Well, your team should have a coach that knows something about the sport," Isabelle said huffily as she sat down on the edge of his bed. "I think Coach Bauman is just new to being a coach. He's pretty cool, though. I really like AmyJo; she's awesome." "Which one is she?" "The pretty one with the dark hair." Isabelle looked closely at her son. "The pretty one? Since when do you like girls?" "Well, she can be pretty and still have cooties, right?" Isabelle laughed and tickled Elliot, who giggled. "Well, I can see where she gets her looks, but I hope she got her attitude from her mother." Elliot peered at his mother through narrowed eyes. She just looked like a big pink blur to him without his glasses on. "Oh, AmyJo isn't his real daughter. Coach Bauman adopted her when her parents died." Elliot could hear his mom's quick intake of breath. "Oh, no. That's so sad!" "Yeah, AmyJo said her parents died in a car accident when she was only three, and Coach Bauman has been her daddy ever since. She said he is a real good daddy to her." Elliott could tell that this news had washed away much of Isabelle's anger and frustration. "Maybe we could have them over for dinner or something some night?" Elliott suggested hopefully. Isabelle didn't answer for a moment, and when she did her voice was distracted and sounded as if it were coming from very far away. "Yeah, maybe. That might be nice. We'll see." Elliot smiled. As Isabelle turned off the light and shut his bedroom door on her way out, Elliot thought how cool it was going to be to have a dad… and a sister.

Chapter Four "Hurry up, Daddy! We're gonna be late for practice!" AmyJo was practically bouncing in her seat as Dawson backed the car out of their driveway. "Don't worry, we're right on time," Dawson replied calmly, but he glanced at his watch and accelerated anyway. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt uncharacteristically anxious to get to the ballpark today. "This is gonna be great! Don't you think so? Won't it be a big help to have an assistant coach, Daddy? Especially the Deuce's daughter!" AmyJo had been chattering nonstop since breakfast about Elliot and his mother, Isabelle. Sheesh. Dawson felt like a fool for the way he'd acted at the game. He wouldn't have been at all surprised if she'd reconsidered being his assistant. "I bet she can tell us some great stories about her dad," AmyJo rambled on. "Or maybe she could give you some coaching pointers." Dawson pulled into the parking spot and shoved the gearshift into park, turning toward her. "AmyJo, I don't need any coaching pointers," Dawson said a bit more harshly than he intended. AmyJo stared back at him innocently. Dawson sighed, opening the door. "But you're right; I'd love to hear about her father," he said, hoping to make up for his earlier tone.

*** Dawson strode toward the ball field, running scenarios through his head. He hoped to find the right words to apologize for the other day without sounding like an idiot. Unfortunately he didn't have long to plan. She was already there. Her blond hair was pulled back into a braid that fell down her back. She wore a blue polo shirt that accentuated her eyes and little white shorts that revealed long tanned legs. Lots and lots of legs. AmyJo had scampered on ahead of him and was already chatting with Isabelle, who turned as he approached. "Coach." She smiled hesitantly. "Mrs. Walters." Dawson was immediately encouraged by her demeanor. He paused for a moment, unable to form words, then they both spoke simultaneously. "Look, about the other day —" he began. "I didn't mean to —" she started. Realizing they both regretted their rocky introduction, they laughed, relieved. He couldn't help noticing how her eyes sparkled when she smiled. Her laughter was almost musical. Dawson cleared his throat.

"Anyway, I just want to say that I'm grateful for your assistance." She smiled again and nodded. "Well then, I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of passing out the gear and getting them started. I figured that since they were all here…" "Uh, no." Dawson was slightly taken aback, despite his resolve to put their differences behind him. "That's fine." He turned to check out the players who were split into three groups, one stretching their hamstrings, one doing jumping jacks and the other attempting squat thrusts. She, too, watched the exercisers for a few moments, then blew a shiny silver whistle that hung from her neck. The kids all came running to line up in front of her. "What's next, Coach?" Bud jogged to Isabelle's side. Dawson noticed that even Priscilla was pumping her chubby little legs to line up quickly. Isabelle, who had been staring at her watch, looked up as the last child fell into line. "That's not bad, only eight seconds to file in. Now, listen up." she announced like a drill sergeant. "Next we are going to practice our throwing accuracy. Everyone grab their gloves and take the field." While Dawson couldn't help being amazed by her obvious control of the unruly bunch, he began to feel his cheeks burn. "Uh, excuse me, Coach," he started sarcastically. "I like to have them run laps first to build up their endurance." "Well, I know," Isabelle replied calmly, while watching the players dig their gloves out of the equipment bag. "But I think that laps are a bit much for this group. So I drew up a chart of calisthenics and a skills regimen for us to use instead."

Chapter Five Isabelle ran toward her son as if her feet had wings, but Dawson reached Elliot first and crouched beside him. "What happened?" he asked AmyJo as he ran his hands under Elliot's head, checking for bumps. He didn't like the pallor of the boy's skin or the way his eyelids fluttered. "I — I don't know," AmyJo stammered, looking down at the ground and scuffing her shoe in the dirt. Isabelle knelt close to Elliot, taking his hand into hers. "Elliot?" she whispered, obviously fearing the worst. Moaning, Elliot opened his eyes, looking over at his mother's white face. "My stomach hurts." "We're taking him to the hospital," Dawson said decidedly, scooping the young boy up into his arms. "It'll be all right, sweetie." Isabelle walked closely beside Dawson as he headed toward the parking lot,

an unusually silent AmyJo trailing behind. "Watch the kids," Dawson shouted to Priscilla's mom once he neared the bleachers, thankful that the woman had chosen to show up today. In the parking lot Isabelle climbed into the back of Dawson's car and Dawson sat the boy beside her. After fastening Elliot into the seat belt, Isabelle guided her son's head to her lap, stroking his forehead. The short ride to the hospital was made in silence, each lost in thought. Dawson wondered how often Isabelle had to deal with Elliot's illness. Glancing in the rearview mirror at her, he felt a lump form in his throat. It couldn't be easy for her. "Hold it!" Dawson called to the kids. "Put the gloves back in the bag. We start with five laps around the bases. Let's go." The kids stopped in their tracks, their gloves dangling at their sides. "But, Coach Walters said —" Cee Cee whined at him. "I am the coach, and I say run." Dawson stood firmly, his hands on his hips. The kids tossed their gloves down and begrudgingly jogged out onto the field. Isabelle turned to face him. "Do you have a problem?" she asked dryly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." He answered through gritted teeth. She stepped toward him, her hands now also on her hips. "And?" "This is my team. I will manage it how I see fit. I don't care if you are the Deuce's daughter." "Hey," she said, her blue eyes flashing. "Don't go all macho on me. I just thought I could help with a little organization. Even your daughter said you wanted some pointers." "She — I — I did not." Dawson stammered. "This wouldn't be chauvinism, would it?" she asked sarcastically, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Dawson felt a little embarrassed now. This was not turning out as he had planned. More than anything, he felt extremely distracted by her standing only inches from his face. Her eyes were the bluest he'd ever seen, and she smelled wonderful. Was that vanilla musk? "Look, I said I'd like to hear more about your father —" "Is that the only reason," she interrupted, "you suddenly decided to be nice to me?" Before he could answer, a voice from the field caught his attention. The players who had been circling the bases were now gathered around second base. Dawson's gaze followed theirs to where AmyJo knelt next to a child sprawled out in the red dirt. "Daddy! Daddy! Come quick! It's Elliot!"

When they arrived at the hospital, Dawson took Elliot gently from Isabelle and carried him through the double doors. Once inside he placed the boy in a wheelchair and hovered behind it while Isabelle filled out paperwork and explained her son's medical history to the nurse. The earlier animosity he'd felt toward Isabelle had vanished in light of Elliot's illness. Glancing down at the small bowed head before him, he felt a surge of emotion he didn't care to examine too closely. "Bring your son this way, please." A nurse addressed Dawson. He opened his mouth to correct her assumption that he was Elliot's father and Isabelle's husband. He closed it just as quickly. It wasn't important. The triage nurse took Elliot's temperature and made notes in the chart. "How often do you have asthma attacks, hon?" She smiled at Elliot, pen paused. Elliot mumbled, twisting his hands together, "I didn't have an asthma attack. My stomach was hurting." "Is it still hurting?" The nurse asked. Elliot glanced over at AmyJo before looking back at the nurse. "A — a little," he stammered. After the triage nurse was finished with Elliot, Dawson wheeled him into the waiting room and took a seat beside Isabelle. It seemed to him the most natural thing in the world to take her hand, to give her comfort and offer her strength if need be. Isabelle closed her fingers around his, giving him a tight smile. Their eyes met and held briefly. Her gaze slid to his lips before she looked away. Taking a deep breath, she said quietly, "You don't have to stay." "I want to be here," Dawson said gently, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. In fact, he couldn't think of a single place he'd rather be.

*** AmyJo leaned over to Elliot and whispered, "You were great!" "I really do feel sick now," Elliot hissed. "I've never lied to my mommy before," he added glumly. "Do you want a daddy or not?" AmyJo sent a pleased glance toward her father and Elliot's mom. They held hands and her daddy had that gooey-eyed look. That was a good sign. Elliot nodded, pushing his glasses back up. "More than anything." "This will work; wait and see." AmyJo gave Elliot a satisfied smile. "What will work?" Dawson's voice made his daughter jump, a guilty flush on her cheeks. "AmyJo?" he prompted when she didn't answer right away. "N-nothing." She looked up at her father, her eyes pleading for understanding.

Dawson took one look at Elliot's red face and he knew. "It was my idea, Daddy. Please don't blame Elliot." Tears filled AmyJo's eyes and her lower lip quivered. Rising to stand near Elliot, Isabelle said slowly, "What's going on?" Crossing his arms, Dawson said to AmyJo's bowed head, "Elliot isn't sick, is he?" The tears spilled forth as she admitted, "No." "Elliot!" Isabelle stared at her son. "Please, it was me." AmyJo sobbed in earnest now. "No, it was me. I said I wanted a daddy —" Elliot began only to be interrupted by AmyJo. "I said I wanted a mom." Understanding dawned. Avoiding Isabelle's eyes, Dawson lowered himself to his daughter's eye level. "What you did was very wrong, honey." "I know, Daddy, but I don't want you to be lonely anymore. I only wanted to help." She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face. Dawson hugged his goddaughter tightly. When he raised his head he found himself looking straight into Isabelle's eyes, the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen.

Chapter Six Dawson had never been very good at cooking, but he figured, anything for AmyJo. Especially after the effort she and Elliot had gone to in order to get him a social life. And though Isabelle was as cuddly as a porcupine and twice as defensive, she did have the most incredible blue eyes. And her smile? She could turn the world on. He hummed to a vision of Isabelle tossing her cap in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. Cars honked and skidded. The urgent sound of AmyJo's voice broke through his dreamy trance. "Dad?" "Huh? "Do you smell smoke?" Dawson shook the cobwebs from his brain and peered into the frying pan he held. "No…I…Uh-oh!" At the exact same time, they both spun around to see black smoke and flames belching from the oven. AmyJo screamed. Leaping into action, Dawson turned off the oven, grabbed a towel and began to beat at the fire. AmyJo ran in panicked circles. The doorbell chimed at the same time as the smoke detector

began to shriek. Choking, AmyJo rushed to the door and let Isabelle and Elliot in. "Heeeelllp!" AmyJo shouted and grabbed Isabelle's arm. "We're all going to die!" "True enough. But hopefully not today." Flapping her hands, Isabelle stepped through the swirling black fog, and smiled. "Shall we go out?"

*** After a filling, if not exactly gourmet, meal at Chuck E. Cheese, the four headed to the movie theater for an early showing of the latest kid flick. Dawson had been amazed at how much he'd enjoyed Isabelle's company, even in the midst of the unruly juvenile masses. While the kids played video games, he and Isabelle spent nearly two hours simply talking. And talking. And…talking. About baseball and mortgages and just about everything in between. Including, but not restricted to, their personal lives and romantic histories. Though Dawson had never felt the keen grief that came from losing a mate to death, he could commiserate with Isabelle's loss. AmyJo's parents had been his best friends and the closest thing he'd had to a family to call his own. The pain, though blunted by time, was still there, even after all these years. It was truly amazing how much they had in common. Contrary to his first impression of her, Isabelle was very easy to talk to and had a wicked sense of humor that had him laughing without restraint a good deal of the time. She seemed to soften where he was concerned, too. He could see it in her eyes. Her body language. The way she touched his hand when she spoke. In the movie theater their shoulders had brushed together more often than not, and they'd exchanged several amused glances in the dark over the kid's carefree laughter. On the way home both kids were zonked, and by the time they'd pulled up in front of Dawson's house, AmyJo and Elliot were slumped, heads together, mouths open, snoring softly. "They're so cute." Isabelle watched them sleep from where she sat next to Dawson in the front seat of his plush BMW. "Especially when they're quiet." They shared a private smile, filled with pride and tenderness and an abundance of parental love. "I'm sorry about the way the kids pushed us together like this. I mean —" Dawson cleared his throat and stared out the windshield "— I'm sure you had other stuff you could have been doing tonight." "Oh, right. I had to cancel my date with the American Idol. That and a stack of bills that'll just have to wait another day to be sorted.…" She smiled. "I had fun." Dawson tipped his chin and looked at her with lazy eyes. "Me, too. Wanna do it again? I mean, I think the kids would probably like that." "To heck with the kids. I'd like that." He grinned. "You would?"

"Very much." "Great. Then it's a date. What have you got going…say…" Dawson hefted his shoulders in what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug "…tomorrow night?" Isabelle pursed her lips. "Tomorrow? Well, there are those bills to pay, but other than that, we're free." "Really?" Already the wheels were turning in Dawson's head. They could take the kids miniature golfing, and after that they could grab some ice cream and take it home…for…sundaes.… Dawson's focus swept Isabelle's face. Wasn't hard for him to imagine spending every evening with these two. The yearning in his belly for family, for connection, for a feeling of belonging had him straining across the seat to better see her face. She was so beautiful. Breathtaking. His gaze dipped to her lips then flashed back up to her eyes. He watched as the tip of her tongue slid across her lower lip and he wondered when she'd last been kissed. For him the answer lay somewhere before AmyJo, but he couldn't really remember who or where or when. Feeling suddenly awkward, he worried that he might be rusty. He needn't have. As naturally as hot and cold weather patterns colliding to form lightning, Dawson leaned forward the few inches it took to press his mouth to hers. And there was lightning. His arms followed his mouth's lead and he pulled her into his embrace and deepened the kiss. They shared a sigh that spoke of connection. Of rightness. Of the beginning sparks of…the beginning. Minutes ticked past and the windows began to fog as they held each other. "What time can I pick you up tomorrow?" Dawson murmured, after he'd thoroughly kissed Isabelle. "Six?" She breathed the word into his mouth and they kissed again. "We'll be at your place at six. Wear comfortable clothes." "Mmm 'kay." She smiled and kissed him again. From the back seat, came muffled giggling. "Don't look," AmyJo instructed and clapped her hand over Elliot's face. "You're too young for all this mush." "Are they kissin'?" he wondered sleepily. "Yup." "Oh," Elliot sighed. "Good." And he promptly returned to his sweet dreams.

The End