“I do not,” Robbie said. “They ruin many a good dessert.”
“He’s a picky eater,” Madison said cheerfully. “But I’m not. Trevor isn’t either.”
“No bread for Trevor,” Lila said.
“But he loves bread,” Madison said, sounding sad.
“Nuts are toxic to dogs,” Robbie said. “We must remain diligent or he’ll try and steal a piece. Trevor’s smarter than he looks, and he’s food oriented above all else.”
“Not all else,” Madison said. “He loves me the most of anything or anyone.”
Robbie acknowledged that with a brief nod. “Lila, is there anything else to eat? For nut haters such as myself.”
Lila nodded, reaching for a picnic basket. “I brought fruit and some cut up vegetables and tiny quiches I whipped up last night.”
Delphine shook her head. “Lila, you’re a wonder.”
For the next few minutes, everyone helped themselves to food, chattering away. I’d just grabbed a bunch of grapes and turned back toward the field when Tyler saw me. He took off his cap, grinning, and waved to me. I waved back.
“He’s thrilled you’re here.” Seraphina’s green eyes softened. “It’s nice of you to come.”
“I can think of worse ways to spend an evening,” I said.
The game got underway with Peter on the mound, his warm-up pitches crisp and controlled. I could see Alex watching from the dugout, relaxed and supportive.
“Peter’s been pitching since he was eight,” Gillian said to me. “Baseball’s his great love. He and his dad share that. But I’m a nervous wreck at every game. Sports is new to me. Although, my Grace has been in a thousand plays, and that makes me nervous too.”
“Motherhood,” Seraphina said. “Not for sissies.”
Tyler was at shortstop, cap pulled low.
“Shortstop’s no joke,” I said. “He must be good.”
“He loves it. That’s all that matters to me,” Seraphina said. “He gets his physical gifts from my dad. Not me.”
“Did he play ball?” I asked. “Your dad.”
“In high school, he played baseball and ran track,” Seraphina said. “When he became a teacher, he started coaching. It’s funny how many baseball games I’ve been to in my lifetime. Tyler begged me to let him play tee-ball when he was only five years old. It’s been a blur of games ever since.”
“It’s good you can be at his games,” I said. “And that work doesn’t keep you away.”
“I’m here for most of them,” Seraphina said. “But I miss some because of work. I always feel guilty about it.”
“I’m sure he understands,” I said.
“Actually, he does. He always says—Mom, your work makes it possible for me to do sports and pretty much anything else I want, so don’t be sorry.”
“He’s generous,” I said.
“Like my dad,” Seraphina said. “Some people are almost too good for this world.”
In the second inning, Tyler ranged far to his left on a hard grounder up the middle, backhanded it cleanly, and fired across his body to first—a play that drew a sharp gasp from the parents around us before the first baseman squeezed it.
I leaned forward, completely pulled into the game.
Peter struck out the side in the third, each batter heading back to the dugout with a dazed look, like they weren’t quite sure what they’d just faced. Tyler came up to bat in the fourth inning with two men on base and one out. The first pitch was a fastball on the outside corner that he let go.
“Good restraint,” Seraphina said under her breath.
