OME ON, TURNIP! You can do it!” Max’s video camera, a prehistoric relic from the ’90s, went up, as it had every single time Posey had come up to bat in the four years she’d been playing on the town softball league. There were roughly ten games a season, and on average, Posey was up to bat four times. That meant Max had roughly a hundred and sixty movies of his daughter striking out.

Baseball was something of a religion in New Hampshire, as Fenway Park was only an hour south. Alas, it just wasn’t Posey’s sport. Not that she’d gotten to try many, due to Stacia’s rules about body contact and danger. But a few years ago, Jon, who was one of those irritating people who was good at everything from flower arrangements to sports, convinced her to join Guten Tag’s team. He played shortstop—the hottest position for the hottest guy, as he liked to say. Posey was the catcher, and not a bad one at that; she threw out a fair number of runners attempting to steal second. But when it came to the bat…not so much.

And she always struck out. Never popped up, never grounded out. Nope, she went down swinging, which had a certain élan to it. She’d been hit three times, which had been thrilling, since it got her on base, even if it did leave a bruise. But she’d never scored a run, never driven in a run, never hit so much as a foul ball. It was something of a town legend.

Now, in the bottom of the second, she was up, facing José Rivera, the pitcher for Stubby’s Hardware and rumored to be third cousins with half of Major League Baseball.

Brianna and James were here tonight—Kate was first baseman for Guten Tag, an excellent one at that. Both kids were a little on the fringe of high school, and Posey was glad they were hanging out more, even if Brie pretended not to like James. Shilo was there, too, lying on his back in front of the kids, waiting for them to notice his giant belly, always ready for a scratch. When they failed to comply, he let out the occasional groan until finally, James rubbed the dog’s cow-like belly with his foot, earning Shilo’s croon of approval.

Posey stepped into the batter’s box. Her teammates all stood up and started clapping, their way of supporting the cause.

“Eye on the ball, Posey!” called Reverend Jerry. At the sound of his owner’s name, Shilo sat up and woofed.

“Swing away, Merrill!” This in unison from Jon and Kate, both fans of the movie Signs.

“History about to happen, Posey, hon!” Bruce Schmottlach, their oldest player at seventy-eight, had a batting average of.402. But he was a bit of a freak of nature in general.

Posey took a deep breath, dug her cleats into the earth and waited. She could do it. Even a foul ball would be a triumph. José let fly and she swung with all her might. Strike one. She’d been a little late, that was all. She’d swing earlier this time. She did. Strike two.

“Hang in there, honey!” Stacia called. One more pitch. She swung. “Strike three!” called the ump, and that was that.

“That was pathetic,” Brianna called. “Points for trying, though!”

“You’ll get it next time, honey!” Stacia called.

“Thanks, Mom.” Posey trotted back to the dugout, got on her catcher’s gear, and went back to home plate.

As the batter for Stubby’s came up, her face blazed with heat.

It was Liam. She hadn’t seen him since the Night of Drunken Sloppiness.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” she answered, grateful for her face mask. “Didn’t know you were playing.”

“Mike Owens asked me to join. Hi. Liam Murphy.” He shook hands with Lou, the home plate umpire.

“Nice to meet you,” Lou said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Being catcher meant that Posey was eye level with Liam’s groin. Granted, she was squatting and garbed in padding, but the whole thing felt very sexual nonetheless. Then again, she guessed that she could watch Liam get an appendectomy and find it hot. Which was just pathetic.

“How good are you, Liam?” she asked as Liam took a practice swing. Oh, crap, that sounded really dirty. “At baseball, I mean?”

“Not bad.”

“Go, Liam! Knock it out of the park!” The women on Stubby’s were all leaning out of the dugout, and was it her imagination or was there more cleavage than usual being shown tonight?

Reverend Jerry, who was pitching for Guten Tag tonight and imagined himself quite a talent, glared down from the pitcher’s mound. “Prepare to feel the power of God’s wrath,” he said and fired off a pitch. Liam swung, and kablammy, it was gone.

“Not bad indeed,” Posey said. Liam grinned and set off around the bases.

He clobbered a triple in the fourth and a double in the eighth, driving in six runs altogether, and Stubby’s won, as they usually did. Liam’s teammates—especially the women—swarmed around him, and there was much patting of his back and stroking of his arms, much hair tossing and laughing.

“Gotta run. James and I have a yoga class,” Kate said, trading her cleats for Nikes. “Want me to bring Brianna home? It’s on the way.”

“Brie?” Posey asked. “What do you think?”

Brianna gave James a long, contemptuous look, then smiled. “Sure.” James flushed. Posey gave Brianna a hug, reminded her of their movie date on Sunday (another Twilight, but at least there’d be popcorn), and slung her bag over her shoulder, then stowed Shilo in the truck with a promise of a Whopper on the way home.

“I feel like we never see each other anymore,” Jon said as they walked over to Rosebud’s to buy Stubby’s a round.

“We had lunch together yesterday,” she said.

“True, true. How’s business? You get Vivian to sign yet?”

“Business is good,” she said. A young couple with uncommonly good taste had come this morning and bought four stained-glass windows, a carved mantel for their fireplace, and a concrete lion, which she and Mac would deliver tomorrow on the flatbed. “But no, Viv hasn’t signed.”

“A shame to have that place torn down.”

“Tell me about it. Is my brother meeting us here?” Posey opened the door to the bar, and the noise of the crowd and the spicy smell of buffalo wings enveloped them in a warm embrace.

“He sure is. There he is now, fighting off Rose.” Rose had tried to turn Henry straight in high school, and Henry was perversely fond of her, smiling as she flirted outrageously. Gretchen was there, too.

“Does that woman ever work?” Jon asked. “I thought she’d be at the restaurant, barefooting away.”

“Seems like Willem still does most of the cooking as far as I can tell,” Posey said.

“She’s revamping the menu. Experimenting,” Stacia announced, materializing with Max and the Schmottlachs. Posey’s parents looked around disapprovingly—they didn’t like going to other restaurants, even Rosebud’s, which was more of a bar. “Oh, there’s Henry! Henry! Over here, honey! We haven’t seen you in weeks!”

“We were there on Sunday,” Jon muttered, and Posey smiled. Time-telling was a subjective skill where her family was concerned.

Liam stood in a cluster of people, including Taylor Bennington, one of his flings back in the day. Posey’d bet he remembered Taylor, who’d once stuffed a thong into Liam’s pocket in the hallway. And Taylor was still beautiful.

“Hello, all!” Gretchen came over to their table and set down her plate, leaning over to reveal an acre of boobage. Jon held up a napkin to shield himself from the view. “How are we tonight? Does anyone want some of this artichoke dip? Oh, hi, Posey, I didn’t see you there. Heard your streak’s still not broken. Too bad. Maybe if you weighed a little more?”

What does a person say to that? Bite me? “Does everyone want their usual?” she asked, standing up.

“I’ll have a glass of pinot noir, but only if it’s from Willamette Valley. The California pinots this year? Why bother, right, Henry?”

Indulging in an eye roll, Posey went up to the bar. “Four Heinekens for them, one seltzer for me. And a California pinot noir for my cousin.”

“Coming up,” Rose said. She gave Posey her seltzer first. “That brother of yours gets cuter every year,” she added with a grin, turning away to fill the rest of the order.

Liam appeared next to her, having apparently hacked through the crowd of women vying for his attention. “So, I hear you’ve never hit a ball,” he said.

“I’ve broken many, though. Just saying.”

“I bet.” He looked at her glass. “Nonalcoholic, I hope.” Was he flirting with her? No. That would be… No. Still, the very thought paralyzed her brain.

“Liam! Hi! It’s so good to see you!” Of course. Gretchen materialized beside Posey, pushing her out of the way with her curvy hips, and wrapped her arms around Liam like he’d just returned from Afghanistan. “Join us! Stacia has commanded it, and you know how she is. Not someone to disobey, right?” She smiled up at Liam, and Liam smiled right back. “Come on, now, I don’t want my aunt getting mad at me. Posey will be right with us, right, hon?” She leaned in a little closer to Posey. “You might want to freshen up first, though,” she whispered, loudly enough for Liam to hear. “You’re a little ripe.”

Gretchen towed Liam over to the Osterhagen table, chattering and laughing away. They sat next to each other, too. And, for crying out loud! Now Gretchen was feeding Liam a bite of whatever she was eating. Just…gross. Both of them.

It was just as well. Lusting after Liam Murphy had been fruitless—indeed, damaging—back in high school. No point in repeating past mistakes. Almost against her will, Posey went to the loo to freshen up—Gretchen might have a point—and stopped at the bar to bring their drinks back to the table. When she got there, Liam was gone.

Yep. Just as well.

MEN SHOULD NOT have to buy tampons, Liam thought darkly. Especially not when there were fifty-seven different kinds, and God forbid he came home with the wrong one. Should’ve stayed at Rosebud’s and been sociable, but no, he’d made the mistake of going home only to find his baby girl in the throes of PMS the likes of which the world had never seen. So here he was, at Hannaford’s.

He double-checked the list, which Nicole had written in big, block letters as if she thought he was an idiot (which, given her current state of hormones, she did), and tossed it into the cart. One more item to find. He scanned the shelves, muttering the product name over and over. It wasn’t here. Scanned again. Nope. Not here. They must not have it.

Liam pulled out his phone and hit Home, dreading his daughter’s voice.

“I can’t find the last thing on the list, sweetie,” he began.

“Dad!” Baby Girl stretched the once-loved word into three syllables of shrill torture. “Come on! I need it! I’m dying here! You don’t understand! You’re a guy!”

And thank God for that. “Okay, well, I have the first three…?.” And that was another thing. Three types of feminine protection? Pads, panty liners, tampons… It was bad enough to have to shop for this stuff, but to have to stand there, painstakingly reading every frigging box. Pearl. Sport. Super Pearl. Super Sport. Super Fresh. Sport Lite. If you were dyslexic, sport and super looked a lot alike, the letters sliding around as if they wanted him to screw up and bring back the wrong kind, at which point Nicole’s head would turn 360 degrees and she’d start puking pea soup or whatever.

Bad enough that his daughter wasn’t four years old anymore, a time Liam always thought of as kinda perfect…old enough to walk and feed herself and go to the bathroom alone, young enough to still worship him. Alas, the time machine was out of service, and Nicole was home with a hot-water bottle clutched to her abdomen and a box of tissues next to her on the couch.

“Make sure you get the right kind,” his princess now ordered. “Don’t come back here with Stayfree when I specifically asked for Kotex, Dad. There’s, like, a huge difference, and I’m already miserable enough, okay?”

“No, no, we don’t want you more miserable,” Liam said. “I have the first three things, but I can’t find the…” He lowered his voice and glanced around. No one else in the aisle… “The Midol. Maybe they just don’t carry it. Maybe something else will work?” Like a horse tranquilizer?

“No, Dad! It’s there! Okay? Please just find it! Jeesh!”

“Honey, I’ve been looking for ten— Hello? Nicole?”

Great. She’d hung up.

Two and a half more years, and his angel would be off to college. Hard to imagine he’d miss her, sometimes. But the thought caused his chest to tighten abruptly. Super. Wouldn’t that be dignified, a heart attack in the tampon aisle, paramedics swarming, the police being dispatched to his apartment to tell Nicole the bad news, her face crumpling. His baby, an orphan, left to the Tates, who would do their best to erase her memories of him—

Liam’s heart revved in panic, and sweat broke out on his forehead. “Settle down, settle down,” he muttered.

“Got your period?” a voice asked, and Liam jumped, guilty as a shoplifter. Cordelia Osterhagen for the second time in a day. He took an unsteady breath, then looked over at her. She was still in her baseball uniform— Guten Tag T-shirt, baseball pants and cleats. There was a ketchup stain on her left breast, and the sight of her was oddly reassuring.

“You following me?” he asked.

“Yep. And everyone knows you like to browse the tampon aisle.”

He glanced in her basket. Tapioca pudding, at least four pints of Ben & Jerry’s, whipped cream, a block of cheddar, a Pepperidge Farm coconut cake, two frozen pizzas and a carton of Egg…Blisters? No, Egg Beaters. “Watching our cholesterol?”

Her eyes narrowed. “The Egg Beaters are for my dog. Who bites on command, by the way. What can’t you find?”

He looked back at the wall of…stuff. “Midol. Extra Strength. For that special time when you feel like ripping out your father’s throat and drinking his blood.”

Posey grinned. “Wrong aisle, pal,” she said. “It’s in with the Motrin and cold and flu stuff.”

Ah. Why not put the period medicine twelve rows away from the other period stuff? Clearly a woman was in charge of this store. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” She started off.

“Hey, is it my imagination, or is your mother trying to fix me up with your cousin?” he asked, not quite wanting her to go.

Her face turned pink, but she just shrugged and pursed those gorgeous lips of hers. “No clue.”

“Think she likes me?”

“Of course she does, Liam. It’s the law, isn’t it? Women must fall at your feet.”

He grinned. “You don’t seem to do that. Not when you’re sober, anyway.”

Her blush deepened. “Don’t worry, biker boy,” she said coolly. “You’re not my type.”

“No? You sure about that?” He raised an eyebrow and grinned, and her face went from bright pink to Harley-Davidson’s Fire Engine Red.

“Very.” She pushed her cart past him. “But you know, if you’re looking for love, there’s always the mirror.”

She was mad. “Hey, Cordelia. Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Whatever. Hope your daughter feels better. Bring her something chocolate.”

She didn’t look back, and Liam had to admit, it wasn’t his usual effect on women. Even women who hated him softened if he gave them a little dose of charm. Sounded cocky, but it was true. Hadn’t Maya Chu just been flirting with him at Rosebud’s? Liam had been fielding passes since he was fourteen years old. Marriage had slowed that down from a river to a stream, but now that he was a widower, women had been swarming like a cloud of mosquitoes. One woman, someone from the PTA, had slipped her phone number into his pocket at Emma’s wake, and six months later he’d been averaging four or five phone calls a day from a horde of concerned single women (and three married chicks as well) who wanted to let him know they were available if he wanted to talk, have dinner or get laid.

So even if Cordelia Osterhagen blushed when he was around, she was certainly one of the more subtle females he’d come across. The cousin, Greta or whoever, feeding him by hand…that was more what he was used to.

He went to the medicine aisle and found Nicole’s Midol, said a quick prayer that it would work, and swung by the chocolate aisle, adding a mega-size bar of Lindt milk chocolate. Couldn’t hurt.

At the checkout, there was Cordelia again. She didn’t look over at him.

“So, you have a salvage yard,” he said, holding the first box of girl stuff under the scanner.

“Yup.”

“You think you might have something Nicole would like for her room?”

She glanced over. “What did you have in mind?”

Liam shrugged. “I don’t know. Her room back home… Well, Emma had painted it with clouds and all, and Nic was saying the other day how bare it looks here. I didn’t really have anything in mind. Not really good at that stuff.”

“What does she like?”

Excellent question. Aside from Cookie Monster, he had no idea anymore. At Christmas, he’d bought her a Hello Kitty calendar, which earned him a lecture on how she wasn’t a baby anymore. Last week, she’d come home from the store with a pair of pajamas imprinted with Hello Kitty. “I don’t know. I just thought something a little different. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“I’ll look around,” Cordelia said. “I might have something.”

“Thanks.”

They finished scanning about the same time. Apparently, they were parked near each other, too; Liam’s dark blue Honda next to a battered red pickup.

As he approached, a pony-size black-and-white head appeared in the window of Cordelia’s truck. The dog, the biggest he’d ever seen, yawned then sniffed the air, maybe sensing his Egg Beaters were close by.

“That’s some dog,” Liam said.

“Shilo. He’s a Great Dane.”

“Can I pet him?”

“Do you mind if he rips your arm off?”

Liam blinked. “He bites?”

She smiled, just a little flash. “No. Go ahead.”

The only dog Liam had ever owned was way back when they still lived in Pennsylvania, when Liam was about five—a pit bull his father had trained to attack and which spent its life chained to a stake in the front yard. His dad had called the dog Idiot. Liam had been bitten twice by the dog, but it had still been his job to feed him, tiptoeing up to the dog, who’d always growled, even though supper was approaching.

A little warily, Liam held up his hand for the Great Dane to sniff. Shilo licked his hand once, then closed his eyes, and Liam smiled, then smoothed his hand over the dog’s warm, bony head. Clearly not in the same class as Idiot, though probably five times as big. The thing took up almost the entire front seat of the truck.

“He must outweigh you by forty pounds,” he commented. “How’d you train him?”

“I don’t know. The usual way, I guess.”

Maybe Nicole would like a dog. “Where’d you get him?”

“The pound. See you around, Liam.” With that, Cordelia got into the truck and floored it, tires screeching a little, as if she couldn’t wait to be away from him.

Not his usual effect at all. But fifteen minutes later, when Nicole had snatched the chocolate from him and kissed his cheek, telling him he was the best, Liam couldn’t help feeling grateful to that scratchy little Cordelia Osterhagen.