In spite of himself, Dylan grinned at the mental image. He would have paid damn good money to see tiny Barb, five foot nothing in her stocking feet, give Michael Echols a piece of her mind. Since leaving home, Dylan had avoided timid women as if they were a curse, gravitating instead toward females who did whatever they wanted. Of course, that practice had netted him women like Heidi. There must be a middle ground he was missing.
“Echols!” The coach had looked up from the people talking to him and spotted his one-time protégé. With a quick nod of dismissal to the people surrounding him, he covered ground in the exact manner Dylan remembered. How many times had he seen that purposeful stride as Coach headed out to the pitcher’s mound to confer during practice or a game?
Nostalgia bubbled up, forming a lump of emotion in Dylan’s chest. Being a guy, he hadn’t cried when he lost his major league career—although, dear God, he’d wanted to at times, wondering if it would help him purge any of the frustration, fury and loss—and he hadn’t shed a tear over his father’s grave. Barb had sobbed enough for both of them, and Dylan had played the part of the stoic son, holding her and thanking everyone who’d come to pay their respects, knowing that many of them were there out of obligation to his mother not affection for Michael. Now, Dylan’s vision blurred for just an instant, his eyes stinging.
Then he blinked, and the world righted itself again. “Coach.” He clapped the man’s shoulder, leaning into it and making it a half hug. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too.” Coach Burton squeezed him hard, strong as an ox despite his advancing years. Speaking low enough that only Dylan could hear him, he added, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back in time to be here for you in January, son.”
Dylan swallowed and nodded.
Coach Burton moved back, turning to Barb. “Mrs. Echols, you’re looking as lovely as ever. I’m glad you made him bring you. It’s good to see you again.”
“I was glad he asked! You’ve been such a special person to our whole family.” A cloud passed over her face. “I’m just sorry Michael couldn’t be here for this.”
Taking the diplomatic path, Coach patted her arm and said nothing. During his summers off, he’d attended some of Dylan’s pro games. They’d gone out for beer afterward once, and Coach Burton had let slip the opinion that any man who routinely made himself feel more important by belittling his kid should be horsewhipped. As Dylan approached thirty, he found himself wondering if he’d ever settle down and if, assuming he ever became a parent himself someday, he’d be a decent dad. After all, his own father hadn’t provided a shining role model. But I had Coach. That was more than some kids ever got.
Other guys were coming through the doorway now, including Nick and Shane, who was accompanied by a very pretty girl with golden hair. Both men hailed Dylan with loud greetings.
His mother smiled. “You’ll be wanting to catch up with old friends. I should get out of your way.”
Coach Burton extended his arm gallantly. “You two will sit with me. Can I show you to the head table? Maybe get you a drink?”
Looking ten years younger, Barb nodded.
Shane strolled up, introducing his date. “Dylan, this is Arianne Waide. Ari, Dylan Echols.”
She grinned, her eyes twinkling at Dylan. “You went to school with my older brothers. I watched you pitch some great games.”
“Waide?” Dylan flashed back to the pregnant photographer yesterday. “Any relation to Rachel?”
The blonde nodded. “She’s one of my sisters-in-law. Lilah Waide is the other.”
Right, now he remembered the name of Lilah Baum’s steady boyfriend throughout high school. Tanner Waide. He’d been a fairly decent football player, but had been far more passionate about Lilah than sports.
“Nice to meet you, Arianne.” Smirking at Shane, Dylan leaned closer to her. “You do realize you’re too good for this guy here, right?”
She laughed. Shane, less amused, socked Dylan in the shoulder—not the one that had been injured, thank heavens.
“Shane and I are just good buddies,” Arianne said. “Honestly, I think he asks me out because he hopes I can get him a discount on fishing equipment at the family store.”
“That’s not why I ask you out,” Shane insisted. “Although now that you mention it…”
Heckling each other, the two of them moved farther into the room, leaving Nick and Dylan behind.
“I didn’t want to ask for details in front of Ari,” Nick began, “but did you track down your mysterious lady in red the other night?”
“As a matter of fact.” Maybe Nick knew more about her. “Chloe Malcolm. Is she—”
“Klutzy Chloe?” Behind them, a man guffawed. “Don’t tell me she’s here tonight. Better keep her away from the punch table.”
Next to Dylan, Nick had stiffened. His unsmiling expression fell several degrees cooler than civil. “Petey.”
Dylan turned to find Peter “Petey” Grubner holding a drink and sporting the same severe crew cut he’d favored ten years ago, atop a much rounder face. Their former teammate had gained about thirty pounds. What Dylan remembered about the guy was that Petey had often tried too hard to fit in, laughing loudly at his own jokes or picking fights with other teams to prove his “boys” had his back. To give him credit, though, he’d had a decent batting average. One of the best in the county, but he’d lacked the discipline to do anything with his God-given talent.
“Hello, Pete.” Even though he’d heard far stranger nicknames in professional sports, Dylan would feel asinine calling another grown man Petey.
“Dylan Echols.” The man bared his teeth in a smile. “We’re honored that you took time from your high-powered big-city career to hang out with us yokels.”
“No chance I’d miss Coach’s send-off,” Dylan said easily, refusing to be disturbed by someone else’s bitterness. Not when I already have plenty of my own.
“Shocked no one asked him to retire years ago.” Grubner sipped whatever was in his red plastic cup. “I mean, I like the guy as much as the rest of you, but he’s been at Mistletoe High ever since it was a one-room schoolhouse for the pioneers’ kids. It’ll do everyone good to get new blood.”
Go away, Grubner. “Who’ve they got to replace him?” Dylan asked Nick.
“They don’t. They’re still interviewing. The assistant coach, Asbury, will fill in for the interim, but he’s not too far off from retirement himself. They can make him head coach, but then they’ll be going through the same process in a couple of years.”
Grubner rocked back on his heels, puffing up his chest. “You know, I thought about going into coaching instead of taking over the car dealership, but it’s a good thing I followed in the family footsteps. Coaching just wouldn’t be fair to Petey Jr. Wife’s home with him tonight ’cause he’s got some stomach bug, but he’s a strapping boy. Quite the baseball future ahead of him. Why spend all my time and energy on a team that changes every year when I can devote every spare minute to shaping Junior’s career?”
Petey Jr. had Dylan’s sympathies. “Well, it’s been nice catching up, but—”
“When I walked over, you were talking about Chloe Malcolm.” Grubner was studying the room with predatory interest. “Where is she?”
“Not here,” Dylan said, unintentionally biting off the words. “I ran into her briefly at the reunion.”
Again with the braying guffaw—one of Petey’s many donkeylike qualities. “She actually showed up? I’m surprised she left her computer long enough to venture out in public. That little gal’s scared of her own shadow. Most exciting thing she ever did was douse Candy Beemis in punch at a high school dance.” He leered. “Even back then, Candy was an excellent candidate for a wet T-shirt contest.”
“She dumped punch on Candy?” Had Dylan stumbled into some bizarre, grudge-match rivalry?
“Not on purpose. Why d’you think we call her Klutzy Chloe? I remember this one time she—”
“Dude.” Nick interrupted, rol
ling his eyes so hard his sockets probably had whiplash. “That was over a decade ago. Grow the hell up.”
When Nick stalked off, Dylan and Petey were left staring at each other in surprise. Dylan recovered first, muttering a quick, “I should be going, too.”
He caught up with his friend waiting in line at the open bar. “No one could accuse you of mellowing with age.” But his tone was openly admiring. Grubner had been working his nerves, too.
Nick looked sheepish. “That guy makes me insane. I didn’t like him when we were in school, but he was part of the team. Then he and his wife lived next door to me for a while with these three yappy little dogs. He was the type who complained about everything—say, if a leaf from one of my trees blew into his yard. They moved across town to a bigger place once Petey Jr. outgrew his nursery, and I nearly threw a block party to celebrate.”
“How old is the poor kid?”
“Around seven. With all the pressure his dad puts on him, he’s probably going to hate sports before he even gets into junior high.” Nick asked for two beers, then admitted as they moved away from the bar, “I didn’t like how that blowhard was ragging on Chloe.”
“So you know Chloe?”
“Not well. You remember my grades slipping junior year? Plummeting, really. That’s when Mom started seriously dating again, and I had a tough time dealing with it. You know how strict Coach has always been about no pass, no play. My chem teacher asked Chloe to help me. Nice girl. Maybe a little…awkward, but decent. I see her around town sometimes. She grew up to be a looker, but I’m not sure she knows it.”
So far, Dylan had seen her in a low-cut red dress and a flamboyant purple shirt with a suggestive slogan. It wasn’t a wardrobe that screamed “shy.” Although she definitely had her bashful moments. Hell, maybe she was a split personality. Chloe and C.J. Would that make sleeping with her a threesome?
Grimacing at his inappropriately wayward thoughts, Dylan pushed her out of his mind and focused on socializing with other ball players, some from his time at Mistletoe High and others who had come before or since but shared a mutual respect for Coach Burton.
“I brought my mom with me,” he told Nick, “and I’ve ignored her too long. Why don’t you come say hi. She’d like that.”
“Sure.” Having vented on Grubner, Nick was back to his affable self.
Barb was seated between the coach, who’d lost his wife decades ago to breast cancer and later declared himself married to his job, and the Asburys. She looked like she was having the time of her life, so enthusiastic that it made Dylan wonder if she got out of the house enough. Having lived in Mistletoe since birth, she must have enough friends and neighbors to keep her social calendar filled.
Before long, the waitstaff announced that dinner would be served. People who had been mingling in clumps throughout the hall gradually found their way to their seats.
Over the salad course, Coach Burton asked Dylan, “You nervous about giving the speech?”
God, yes. “No. I plan to regale them with stories about how your answer to everything was ‘walk it off.’” Dylan smiled at Assistant Coach Asbury. “Whereas you always told us to ‘ice it.’”
Coach Burton chortled. “He’s got you there, Steve.” Lowering his voice, he imitated his assistant’s gravelly tone. “‘Go get some ice on that.’ ‘See the trainer for some ice.’”
At sixteen, Dylan had been led to believe there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be solved with enough ice or some pacing.
Steve Asbury harrumphed, but his gray eyes twinkled with humor as he shook his head at his longtime boss. “You know we’re not going to miss you, old man.”
“Liar,” Coach Burton said confidently. “And good luck replacing me. You ever think about it, Dylan? Coaching?”
Dylan coughed, stunned by the question. As far back as first grade, he’d desperately wanted to get out of school; he couldn’t imagine voluntarily returning to one.
“No, sir. Can’t say that I have.” Could he stand it, watching young kids with the same dreams he’d once harbored, doing what he was no longer able to? He shuddered.
The coach eyed him. “The biggest requirements are patience and a love of baseball. I used to ask a lot of you guys in ninety-degree practices and during games. This is the last thing I’ll ask of you—think about it? For me.”
Reluctantly Dylan nodded, trying to ignore the way Barb was practically vibrating with excitement in her seat. He’d resolved to come visit her more, but that did not mean he wanted to move back to Mistletoe. He’d promised Coach to at least consider it, though, so he would. Fleetingly.
His temples throbbed with the onset of a headache. So far on his weekend away from work, he’d become preoccupied with a woman who viewed the truth as nothing more than a loose guideline, he’d been swamped with guilt over what a bad son he was and now he found himself faced with unexpected career questions. Maybe next vacation, he’d try scaling Everest. It might be more relaxing.
Chapter Eight
Dressed in clothes Natalie had helped her pick out and armed with several books’ worth of theory and tips on feng shui, Chloe felt totally prepared. Until Dylan opened the door. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a pair of dark jeans, a timeless look that she was sure had never worked quite this well on any other man. Ever.
“Hi.” He spoke before she found her voice. “You’re earlier than I expected. I guess traffic was light today.”
It had been easier than she’d anticipated to find her way to his neighborhood. She’d even had a few minutes to grab something to drink at a trendy coffee shop around the corner and study some final crib notes. Learning new things—and learning them well—had always been something she enjoyed, and a certain part of her was eager to apply her newly acquired knowledge.
Dylan backed up to let her in, his warm gaze falling across her body like a sunbeam. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” The bright pink, sleeveless V-neck blouse was Natalie’s, worn underneath a beige lightweight blazer of Chloe’s. According to Nat, the matching beige skirt was saved from being boring by a pair of cute sandals and Chloe’s “great legs.”
“So this is ‘professional C.J.,’” he said, an odd note in his voice. “You are a woman with many sides.”
She smiled weakly and followed him into the living room. The couch sat with its back to the entryway, and his decorating choices were full of sharp edges.
“Bad chi,” she mumbled.
“Pardon?” Dylan was studying her intently. Very intently. As if looking for something specific.
Or maybe, since she had something to hide, she was paranoid. She set her purse on a shiny black table and passed by Dylan to sit on the far end of the couch. “I should tell you, I’m…not the best decorator out there.”
“I hope that isn’t what you have printed on your business cards.” He cocked his hip against the arm of the sofa, facing her but not exactly sitting with her.
“I just meant that lots of people probably work in this area and have more expertise. I’ll tell you what I know, but you have to decide for yourself what speaks to you. It’s your space,” she said, wanting to absolve herself of as much responsibility as possible. “You ever see some of those redecorating shows on cable? Professionals charge a lot of money to do things to people’s homes that occasionally make me cringe.” She’d watched a few such shows this week and, while she’d thought jokingly of scaring Dylan off with feathers, one designer actually did incorporate feather trims and animal prints. Heavily.
“Decorating isn’t like math,” she continued. “There’s no set equation or one right answer. Even in feng shui, there are differences of opinion between traditionalists and modern practitioners. So don’t take anything I tell you too seriously. It’s just my opinion.”
“But people pay you for that opinion.”
She wouldn’t let it get that far. “This is just a preliminary consultation,” she reminded him. “You may well decide not to hire me. My feelings wo
n’t be hurt if you go a different direction. At all.”
He arched a brow. “Well, I appreciate your being so honest and up-front about it.”
She managed not to flinch at his word choice. Now that she’d given her disclaimer, she wanted to share with him what she’d discovered. “Feng shui creates the most harmonious living space possible, with emphasis on the chi, or energy.”
Since Dylan Echols was a “man’s man” from a small Georgia town where coffee came in only one standard size and flavor—none of this four-dollar “venti” madness—she’d half expected him to be put off by discussion of crystals, natural life force and the spiritual importance of wind chimes and mirrors. In fact, she was counting on it. Once they’d established that this was not his cup of green tea, they could casually part ways, her dignity and his both intact.
But he listened avidly as she gave a brief overview of feng shui’s history and how it went beyond color schemes and new throw pillows, even encompassing the property on which the home was built.
She caught herself rambling and took a deep breath. “I figured you’d be looking at me like I was crazy by now.”
“Is that the reaction you usually get from people?”
“I never know what reaction to expect.” Especially since she’d never discussed this with anyone until now. “A lot of this comes across as pretty New Agey.”
Apparently she’d misjudged his open-mindedness, which made her feel better about him and worse about herself. After all, she knew what it was like to be branded by a stereotype, how it could be superficially accurate without telling the whole story.
He spread his hands in a nonchalant gesture, a horizontal shrug. “You obviously don’t know how superstitious athletes can be. I guarantee I’ve heard far more off-the-wall notions than anything you’re going to say.”
“‘Superstitious’ like lucky socks, or pagan idols in the locker rooms?” she kidded.
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