Flirting with Fire: A Summer Camp Swingers novel

“Yeah, of course. We get a lot of mileage out of the non-profit work. And not just tax breaks,” he added. “It’s a unique selling point, and it’s good for PR.”

He was right. Our work for Habitat for Humanity and AmeriCorps routinely brought in new clients who wanted to share the association. Most of it was the sort of empty activism that corporations pretended to engage in, but we were happy to take their money and use it to help actual people.

“I hate to say it,” Trip finished, “but your ‘socially conscious’ nonsense has infected me too.”

I grinned and then paused when I realized it was genuine. Trip could cheer me up when no one else could, including Christy. The fact that he cared spoke volumes about our relationship.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t call it ‘nonsense’?” I suggested.

It was a running joke. Trip still liked to pretend he was a ruthless capitalist, but it was mostly for show these days.

“Anyway,” he said into the silence, “let me know what you all decide. I’ll make sure we can pay our share.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. I’d have been a socially conscious nobody if not for Trip’s business sense. He gave me a moment before he returned to his original question.

“Any personal plans for next week?”

“Yeah. Dance camp with Em and Suse.”

“Dance camp? Oh, yeah, I forgot. Sorry, I stopped paying attention when Missy dropped it for swimming.” He frowned in thought. “Hold on, do you have to go too?”

“No, but I have to drop them off and pick them up.” I paused and then asked, “What about you? Big plans while I’m gone?”

“Work. And baseball. We have a shot at the championship this year.”

I resisted the urge to say something snarky about the Super Bowl or the Final Four. Trip was fair game for teasing, but his son wasn’t. Franklin Davis Whitman IV was fourteen and a nice kid. I occasionally called him Quad, to his own delight and his mother’s annoyance, but everyone else called him Davis. He had all of Trip’s good qualities and only a few of his bad ones, although Wren deserved most of the credit for that.

“Congratulations,” I said. “And good luck.”

“Thanks. Although we still have to beat Warner Robbins. They’re good, as usual. But this might be our year. I mean, our pitching is something else.” He talked baseball for a couple minutes, and I actually understood most of it. “Anyway,” he finished, “you don’t really care.”

“I’m excited for Davis,” I said, “and the team. Especially their coach.”

“Coaches,” Trip corrected.

“Still, the others take their cues from you.”

Trip was still competitive, but he’d changed since he’d started coaching. He taught the boys that hard work was its own reward, and that fair play and sportsmanship were more important than winning. He was teaching life lessons as much as baseball, and the results spoke for themselves.

“Seriously,” I repeated, “congratulations. Win or lose, you should be proud.”

“Thanks, I am. We are,” he stressed. “And on that note… we might have a game next weekend.”

“Will you be able to make it to camp?”

“Yeah, but a couple of days late. I already told Wren, but I was hoping you’d look out for her till I get there.”

“She doesn’t need me to look out for her,” I said.

“Oh, I know. But you know how it is. I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her.”

“You’re being a good father. Sometimes that’s part of being a good husband.”

“Yeah, absolutely. But still… I’ll feel better if you take care of her, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” I chuckled. Emily and Susie were still waiting, so I glanced at my watch as a way to wind things down.

“Yeah, me too.” He rounded the desk and grabbed his coat on the way out. “I told Davis we’d do a guys’ night, pizza and a movie.”

“What’re you watching?”

“The Rookie.”

I shot him a sideways grin. “Isn’t that the one about the forty-year-old pitcher who gets a shot at the big league?”

“He was thirty-five, but yeah.”

“Wishful thinking?” I teased.

“Maybe. But it’s still a good movie.”

“It is,” I agreed. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. I told the girls I’d take ’em to Tomo for sushi.”

* * *

I raised my head and looked around the restaurant for our server. Susie and I had finished eating, but Emily was still hungry. The woman saw me and came over.

“Can I get you another lemonade?” she asked Emily.

“Oh, um… yes, please. I’d also like a spicy tuna roll. And… um…”

The server wasn’t our regular one, and she gave Emily a look of surprise. My pint-sized daughter had already polished off an order of edamame, a salad, and a platter of sushi and sashimi. The server glanced at me for approval. Emily’s eyes narrowed dangerously, although she was too polite to actually say anything. Still, she was thinking it.

“Sweetie,” I told her, “you keep ordering till you’re happy.”

Emily’s relief was almost palpable. She hated her metabolism, and I couldn’t really blame her. She ate twice as much as the rest of us and was still small for her age.

“Well, okay,” the server said with a good-natured laugh. “What else besides the spicy tuna?”