“Got it.”
“The handle of the dipper is the Great Bear’s tail. The dipper’s cup is the bear’s flank. Now, Ursa Major is a large constellation, so keep your field of vision wide. You’re looking for the bear’s head now.”
He removed his hands from behind his head and pointed toward the sky. “The bright star at the top of the Big Dipper’s bowl is Dubhe. If it’s the center of a clock, you’re going to draw a line at about one o’clock to the next brightest star. That’s part of the bear’s head. Got it?”
“It’s too dark to see where you are pointing.”
He rolled over onto his side facing her and took hold of her right hand with his. Lacing their fingers, he extended their arms toward the night sky. “Put your index finger against mine.”
His hand was so big. His skin so warm. He leaned forward until their faces almost touched. Hope’s pulse began to race. His voice was low and gravelly against her ear as he moved her hand. “Big Dipper. Dubhe. One o’clock. Bright star. You with me?”
Breathlessly, she murmured, “Yes.”
“We take that line this way to the next brightest star. That’s the tip of the old guy’s snout. See it?”
“I do.” Hope fought the instinct to snuggle against the heat of him.
“Now we’re going to come back and down toward the bottom star in the Big Dipper’s bowl, but first, we stop here. Got to give the old guy his front legs.”
Hope’s attention wandered. He must have showered shortly before he went outside because the scent of the sandalwood soap his sister-in-law sold in her shop clung to his skin. She’d managed not to snuggle, but she couldn’t help but lean forward and sniff.
“We are about halfway between the snout and the lower star in the bowl of the dipper. Okay?” She nodded, and he continued, “Take your line down curving here to what looks like a double star, his knee joint.”
“Are they called knees in bears?”
Lucca seemed to bury his nose in her hair, and goose bumps skimmed up her neck. In a low, intimate voice, he asked, “What else would you call them?”
She couldn’t think of anything, and she forced her attention back to the night sky. “Is the star down from there at five o’clock the foot?”
“Very good.”
She felt his breath on her neck. She shuddered and closed her eyes, and yearned. If she turned her face toward him, would he kiss her? It had been so long and she’d been so alone. What would it hurt? Just to feel connected with someone for a short time would be so … welcome. “Lucca, I …”
He stilled for a beat, then subtly moved away without releasing her hand. Rather than intimate, his tone now sounded instructive. “Now, see if you can find the bear’s hind legs. Start from the bottom of the Big Dipper.”
It took Hope a moment to drag her attention back to the sky, and upon doing so, she discovered she really didn’t care about the bear’s hind legs. She also couldn’t see the stars very well because her vision had blurred.
Watery eyes from the chill in the air, she told herself. Not tears. Tears would be stupid. He was her grumpy next-door neighbor with whom she had nothing in common except an affinity for his mother and sister and an appreciation for starry nights.
How pathetic. Really, a little male kindness and she’s suddenly desperate enough, lonely enough, to melt all over the lawn.
She picked out a star and with a hand that slightly trembled, drew a line.
“Nope,” Lucca said. “The line goes to one star here”—he moved her hand—“then it branches. Here and here and that’s it. The Great Bear, Ursa Major.”
He released her hand and moved back onto his own lounger. “So, can you find it now?”
Hope stared up into the heavens. She found the Big Dipper, then retraced the paths he’d pointed out moments before, and a slow smile spread over her face. “I can. I see it.”
And really, now that she thought about it, wasn’t this gift better than something as fleeting as a kiss? “You explained it very well. You are a good teacher. Thank you, Lucca.”
He didn’t respond, and Hope wondered if she’d inadvertently wandered back into the same no-man’s-land that she had landed in when she’d called him “Coach.” The moment stretched, and the silence grew awkward and uncomfortable. She was still searching for something to say to interrupt the quiet when he finally spoke.
“You know, I liked it. Teaching, I mean. I never taught academic subjects, but I always believed that sports offer students valuable lessons that they’ll use the rest of their lives. It’s so much more than winning and losing.”
“I agree with that. Knowing how to work as part of a team is invaluable.”
“True. Sports teach the value of discipline, of sacrifice. They teach the value of goal setting and how to deal with failure. Sure, the so-called money sports have that entertainment factor as part of the package, but really, what’s wrong with that? Some people like to be entertained by reading a novel. Others prefer to watch professional baseball. To each his own, I say.”
Hope’s mouth gaped slightly. Why, who knew Lucca Romano had that many words in him? Positive words at that?
“I’ve never believed that sports figures should be considered heroes—that term should be reserved for people like my brother Zach, who has put his life on the line for others more than once—but then I don’t think that about Hollywood stars or politicians or other people our society decides are celebrities, either. But these star athletes, they started out just like everybody else in Pee Wee football or on school teams. People aren’t born knowing how to throw a ninety-two-mile-an-hour fastball or hit a twenty-foot jumper. They learn it through hard work and practice and paying attention to what coaches are trying to teach them. That’s something a kid at home who watches and dreams can pick up on and learn from.”
This had the tone of being an old argument. Hope wondered where his defensiveness came from. “I agree with that, too,” she told him, honestly. “I think sports teach a lot of good life lessons.”
Her comment seemed to stop him. After another long moment of silence, he said quietly, “And, some not- so-good life lessons, too.”
With that, he swung his legs off the lounge chair and stood. “I need to go. Sorry about the soapbox.”
It happened so fast that he was halfway to his house before Hope found her voice. “Lucca? Thanks for teaching me the stars.”
“No problem.”
She heard his footsteps on his back porch and the creak of the screen door. Then, out of the darkness, he said, “The easy A factor wasn’t the only reason why I took that college astronomy class. Back in middle school, I had a teacher who taught a unit on Native American folklore, and many of the stories she taught were based on the constellations. I never forgot them. The tale about Ursa Major is about hunters who chased the Great Bear into the sky and wounded him. In the autumn, the bear’s blood spills from the stars onto the earth, turning the trees red.”
“Well, that’s a gruesome picture.”
“Lots of those tales were violent. I loved them. The point I want to make is … well … teachers can be heroes, too.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“I know that. Good night, Ms. Montgomery.”
The shadows were so deep that she couldn’t see his expression. Why, then, did she picture a smile on his face? The screen door banged shut. Inside her house, Roxie let out a
Hope looked up at the starry sky and smiled.
FIVE
“Lasagna,” Lucca said, accepting the pan from his sister and pasting a smile on his face while his stomach sank with dread. Gabi had to be the world’s worst cook. “My favorite.”
“I hope you like it. I know Mom’s recipe is hard to beat, but I thought I’d try something a little
