by Lauren Layne
Carter smiled to reassure him. “Go for it. Holler if anything good happens.”
He no longer felt as sharp a pang that he wasn’t playing, but neither was he in the mood to watch the game. It hadn’t been as painful as he’d thought, watching it the other night with Olive and Jakey, but that’s when he’d had Olive’s nonstop chatter in his ear. It was pretty hard to feel depressed in the presence of her relentless energy.
“The kid at shortstop’s not bad, but he’s no Carter Ramsey,” AJ told Carter.
Carter nodded in thanks at the loyalty. His brother-in-law was a good guy. A few years older than Carter and Caitlyn, he’d been a senior running back on the football team to Carter’s freshman shortstop on the baseball team. As a Haven firefighter these days, AJ was as fit at thirty-one as he’d been at seventeen, but as they exchanged a look, Carter wondered if AJ got it more than most people. If he understood that it didn’t matter how fit you were for your age, you were still your age, and there was always another rookie waiting to steal your spotlight—or in AJ’s case, a younger, brawnier firefighter whose youth you couldn’t compete with.
“Go,” Caitlyn said, too distracted by her pregnancy appetite and the wheel of brie on the table to notice the moment between her twin and husband. She waved AJ in the direction of the television. “But leave the boy. I have questions.”
Carter pointed at himself. “Am I the boy?”
“You are four minutes older than me, but infinitely less wise. So, yes, of course you’re the boy,” she said.
“Caitlyn, honey, have some grapes with the crackers,” Tracy said, spinning the cheeseboard around to point the fruit at her daughter. “Babies like grapes.”
“Yeah? Then how come they don’t like wine?” Caitlyn asked, with a wistful glance at her mother’s glass of Chardonnay.
Tracy rubbed a hand over Caitlyn’s baby bump. “Just a couple more months. Then I can babysit, and you and AJ can have all the wine you want, so long as you pump.”
“That’s my cue,” Carter said, climbing to his feet. He may not be dying to see the Hawks game, but it beat hearing about his sister’s boobs.
His mom’s hand reached out to grab his wrist. “Sit.” Her hand was small, her frame petite, but her voice more authoritative than any Navy SEAL commander.
Carter sat.
“So,” his mother said with a sweet smile, “does Olive know that Felicity’s coming back to town?”
“I don’t know how to make this more clear,” he said, a little desperately. “Olive and I are not a thing.”
“Just neighbors. And workout buddies. And she helped you pick out your shiny new truck. And you had dinner at Cedar & Salt together . . . ,” his mother trailed off.
He stared at her. “Do any of your sources work for the CIA?”
“I’m just saying,” she said in that tone that said there was nothing just about it, “it’s a lot of time with her, and Olive is a very attractive woman.”
“Great boobs,” Caitlyn agreed.
“And now we’re back to boobs,” he said, tapping the bottom of the kitchen table frantically. “Is there no panic button here? There should be if I’m subjected to talking about boobs with my mom and sister.”
“Not even great boobs like Olive’s?” Caitlyn asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
“I am not interested in Olive’s boobs,” Carter lied. He had the line at the ready, because he’d repeated it to himself all damn morning when said features had looked really good in her sports bra. “And if there’s no panic button, do you at least have anything stronger than this beer?”
“Whiskey above the fridge,” his mom said, relenting on her no-spirits-before-dinner rule, but not, apparently, on the Olive topic of conversation. “So, were you two friends in high school?”
“Lab partners. Senior-year chemistry,” he replied, standing to retrieve the whiskey.
“Did you get an A? Of course you did, if Olive was your partner,” Caitlyn said.
“I can’t remember. Probably. She was very into science.”
“She gets that from her father,” Tracy said.
Carter turned around, a bottle of Woodford Reserve in hand. “Yeah?”
When Olive had mentioned being a biology teacher today, he’d realized just how little he knew about her, and he had to admit . . . he was curious.
“Sure. Dennis Dunn was a nice man.”
“Was?” Carter asked, feeling an immediate surge of sympathy for Olive.
“He passed a few years ago from lung cancer. He went very quickly after his diagnosis, which I imagine was both a blessing and a curse.”
“What about her mom?” Carter asked, hoping to get a little more insight into the mystery that was Olive. As much as she seemed to be an open book on the surface—and as much as he suspected she viewed herself as an open book—there was something else about her, something that drew him to her, that he couldn’t identify.
“Never in the picture. I’m not sure the story there,” Tracy mused. “But Dennis did as good a job as he could raising a girl on his own. He was a pharmaceutical researcher up at that facility in Rensselaer.”
“That’s a long commute,” Caitlyn said. “I wonder why he didn’t live closer to work.”
“I asked him exactly that at one of your terrible spring musicals back in the day—sorry, but they really were terrible. He said it was because of Haven’s school district. He wanted the best for Olive’s education, even if it meant a longer drive for him.”
“Aww. That is a good dad,” Caitlyn said.
“And it paid off,” Tracy said. “Not only did Olive help our Carter get an A in chemistry, but everyone knows she’s the best teacher at Haven High these days.”
“Does she also get a parade?” Carter asked jokingly, grabbing a glass for his bourbon.
“What do you mean?”
“Everywhere I turn, people are singing Olive’s praises. It’s like she can do no wrong.”
“Well, she’s a little stubborn,” Caitlyn said. “Independent, too, like to a scary degree.”
Their mother took a sip of her wine. “Maybe she’s independent because she has to be. No family. Living on the outskirts of town.”
“Which she seems to love,” Carter pointed out.
“Oh, I’m sure she does,” his mother agreed quickly. “I’m just saying, I wonder if sometimes Olive isn’t independent so much as . . . alone.”
Carter’s back was to his family, but his head snapped up in surprise at that. Who would have thought? Maybe he and Olive Dunn had something in common after all.
Chapter Nine
Wednesday, August 12
Olive frowned in annoyance at the knock at her front door. “What! Come in! Jeez!” she shouted from the kitchen.
A moment later Carter entered, holding a bottle of wine. “Such a gentle, welcoming greeting.”
“We’re neighbors. You don’t need to knock,” she said in exasperation, as she shook a stamp off her thumb, then hissed in irritation when it landed faceup on the counter. “Now look what you made me do. I wasted a Forever stamp.”
“How did I make you do that?”
“Never mind. Good call on the wine,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the cabinets. “But I’ll warn you right now, if you spill on the invitations, you have to pay to replace them. I’m already a little over budget.”
“Spend it all on glitter?” he asked, getting two wineglasses down.
“Oh fantastic,” she said sarcastically, fishing her corkscrew out of a kitchen drawer. “At least if your baseball career goes to hell, you’ve got a real knack for comedy.”
“I’m multitalented. Though”—he looked down at the wine bottle and his sling—“opening wine bottles is not one of my skills at this particular stage of my life.”
Olive was already reaching for the bottle. She looked at the label. “Zinfandel. Nice. Are you looking forward to spending an entire night in each other’s company?”
“I promise I go down
a bit easier with some wine,” he said.
“Hubba-hubba.” Olive made a joking thrusting motion with her hips as she opened the wine. “That’s a bit forward.”
He held out a wineglass for her to pour into, then the other. “You’re a big fan of your sex jokes, huh?”
“Go down a bit easier? Come on. How could I not swing for the fences?”
“An oral sex reference and a baseball reference. Careful, or I’ll fall in love with you.”
Olive snorted at the comment, because she was supposed to, but it had caused an annoying little flicker deep in a part of her heart that she tried very, very hard to ignore. People didn’t fall in love with Olive Dunn.
“I like your place,” he said, already changing the subject.
“Well, of course,” she said. “It’s rather fabulous.”
It was true. Olive loved her home. Mostly because it was hers, and it looked like her. She’d spent a year renovating and decorating it just right, and she liked to think of the final results as “industrial chic.” She’d kept the old house’s original brick walls as well as the original hardwood floors and then contrasted the classic “old” look with modern pieces—brushed stainless steel appliances, crisp white furniture, exposed-bulb lighting fixtures. And her personal favorite: a smattering of lime-green accent pieces, because it was her favorite color.
The place was feminine and personal, and Carter Ramsey, in all his maleness, looked a little out of place. For that matter, any man would look out of place in it. Something she was just now realizing, because there hadn’t been a man other than her father in her house in . . . well, a while.
He looked at her in bemusement. “You’re really confident. About your home. About yourself.”
“Well, sure. What’s not to like?” she said, patting his cheek and then turning back to the counter, where she’d spread out the stacks of invitations and envelopes. “You ready for this?”
Carter gave the mailer supplies an aggravated look. “Do we have to?”
“Part of our deal, remember? You said you wanted to know what it was like to be me.”
“Uh, revisionist history,” he said. “I’m positive I did not say that.”
“You know what I mean. You thought planning a reunion was no big deal, so here’s your shot. Run point on this.”
“You’re not helping?”
“Of course I’ll help,” she said, sipping her wine and giving him a sly smile. “Just tell me what to do.”
Olive wasn’t above feeling extremely satisfied when he gave the various paper piles a panicked look. Welcome to the real world, Mr. Pro Athlete.
He held up his wine. “Can I finish this first?”
“You may,” she said with a smile, before pointing at her kitchen table. “Sit. Tell me all your secrets: third nipple, weird sex fetish where you get really turned on by shampoo, your favorite food is raw beets, and you eat them before every meal.”
He shook his head, but he sat, and she went to join him, tucking a leg beneath her and hiding a smile when his eyes tracked the motion, his green gaze clearly appreciating that her short shorts left most of her leg bare.
“My secrets, huh?” he said, lifting his eyes back to hers.
“Or something interesting. You choose. We have a boring task ahead. I want to be entertained.”
“Secret, or interesting fact,” he mused, tapping long fingers against her wood table. “All right. I’ve got one that might be both.”
She gestured with her hand. Try me.
Carter blew out a breath and stared down at his wineglass. “Citizen magazine named me their Man of the Year.”
Olive’s mouth dropped open. She wasn’t surprised—or starstruck—often, but Citizen magazine was huge. And Man of the Year was their biggest issue.
“Seriously?” she said. “As in, the same award they gave to the freaking New York City mayor last year?”
“Well, he’s not mayor anymore,” Carter pointed out.
“Exactly. Because he’s running for Congress,” Olive said. “And everybody’s already talking about how the White House is next. You’re in the same category as that?”
“You don’t have to sound so scandalized,” he said, sounding irritated.
“Sorry, sorry,” she backpedaled quickly. “It’s a big honor. Right?”
“It’s a weird honor,” he said slowly. “Not one that I ever imagined when I envisioned my future.”
“What did you imagine?” she asked curiously. Haven was a small enough town that she’d known Carter—albeit loosely—since elementary school, and as long as she could remember, it had always been a foregone conclusion that he would go places. Mainly, to the majors. He was in a different league, literally, and thus she’d never really given him much thought.
For the first time, she wondered about what that sort of youth must have been like for him.
“I never really thought much beyond the fact that I love baseball, and my hope was to be able to play it for as long as I could, or as long as they’d let me.”
Olive nodded, careful not to let her gaze drop to his injured arm.
“Which,” he continued with a little laugh, “is ironic now, I guess.”
“Why ironic?”
“Citizen sent me an early copy of the issue. As part of my contract, I get right of approval on feature stories about me.”
“Is it not good? Did they out your weird shampoo fetish?”
“No, it’s fine. And I don’t have any weird fetishes, at least none that I’ve discovered,” he said, with a quick smile. “It’s just . . .” Carter sighed. “It’s all about baseball. Or rather about my baseball skill.”
“Well, yeah. That’s sort of your thing,” Olive pointed out.
“I know, but—” He stood and paced around her kitchen. “Weirdly, it didn’t occur to me until that issue, until this”—he lifted the arm in the sling as best he could—“that baseball is all I have. It’s all that I am.”
Olive took a sip of wine as she thought this over. “Hmm.” She took another sip of wine. “Hmm,” she repeated. “That is some deep stuff.”
“I know,” he said with a laugh, sitting down once more. “Sorry, forget it.”
“No, I won’t forget it,” she said, placing a hand on his, and trying to ignore the unexpected flick of heat in her stomach when his gaze snapped to hers. “I imagine that must be really difficult. To put your entire life into one thing, and then realize that it won’t last forever. To not know what comes next, or even what lies beneath all that skill.”
Carter stared at her hard, and the slight vulnerability she saw hiding beneath his usual masculinity and charm tugged at her. Gave her the courage to continue.
“But there is something lying beneath,” she said, pressing her hand to his. “You’re more than your sweet, sweet baseball skills.”
“Yeah?” He gave a quick smile. “I don’t suppose you happen to know what lies beneath?”
“Not yet. But we’ll figure it out,” she said, giving his hand a friendly pat, then pulling back to lighten the moment. “I’ll help.”
He laughed. “You seem very accustomed to people doing as you say. Not to mention certain that it’ll go your way.”
“It’s a confidence thing, sort of a must as a teacher. If the kids think even for a second that you’re unclear or unsure about something, they’ll wiggle right in there and turn your entire lesson plan upside down.”
“My mom says you’re the best teacher at Haven High.”
She laughed. “I’m a good teacher, but most of the teachers are good. Our dropout rate is low, our test scores are high, and most importantly to me, kids seem to like being there.”
“Do you like being there?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it, realizing that nobody had ever asked her that before. “I love being a teacher.”
“Not what I asked.”
No, it wasn’t. Carter Ramsey was a jock, but he was no cliché jock dummy who only had a brain for bas
eball stats. He was quick-witted and a good deal more perceptive than she’d expected.
“All right,” she said with a slightly nervous laugh. “In return for your sharing, I’ll take a turn, but don’t get excited, nobody’s putting me on a magazine cover.” She took a breath. “So, I love being a teacher, I love Haven High, but . . . I don’t agree with my boss’s philosophy.” She said it on a rush, then realized it wasn’t quite accurate. “Actually, it’s not just that I don’t agree with it. I don’t respect it.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Principal Mullins.”
“What happened to Principal Glover?”
“Shockingly,” Olive said with a smile, “Mary Glover dared to want to retire to spend some time with her grandkids after corralling us hooligans for the better part of three decades. Kirk took over for her a couple years ago.”
“And you don’t like him?”
“He’s fine,” she hedged. “He’s authoritative, patient, the right amount of stern and kind. But he considers himself very forward-thinking, and part of his ‘innovative’ mentality is that the stuff we’re teaching kids today isn’t relevant for later life. We teach them the names of dead presidents, Pythagoras’s theorem, and the taxonomic rank—”
“The what now?”
“You know.” She rolled her finger. “Kingdom, phylum, class, order. I guess the fact that you don’t know sort of proves his point. But as a science teacher . . .” Olive mimed driving a stake into her heart.
“But he still lets you teach that stuff, right?” Carter clarified.
“He has to. It’s part of the core state curriculum. But he controls the budget, specifically discretionary funds that come in from any donations, etcetera. And let’s just say our computer lab is state of the art, but the biology classroom is using the same microscopes and dissection kits we had when we were in high school.”
“I take it you’ve asked for an upgrade to no avail?”