by Rachel Hauck
“I can, Don, I know I can. It’s been seven years, and I’ve finally made peace with the past, including the decision to put him up for adoption. Then I find you, or you find me, and I get a second chance at love. You bought this gorgeous home on Memory Lane, a street by the same name where I once planned to build my dream house and raise a family. Well, this is my dream house now. Look at Lou Jr. Don, what are the odds of you buying a house across the street from him?”
“Astronomical.”
“And that house being on Memory Lane. He was the baby in my womb when I dreamed of raising him in a beautiful house on Memory Lane. And look, he’s being raised in a beautiful little house on Memory Lane. It’s as if God is telling me, ‘All is well, Everleigh.’”
“Are you sure? We’ll have to talk to Lou and Aimee.”
“I’m sure, Don. I am not his mother. Aimee is. I feel it. I know it.” She tapped her heart. “It’s my mind that condemns me, not my heart. And I will no longer yield.” She held his face with her hands to kiss him. “Does this change anything between us?”
His kiss covered all of her fears. “It changes nothing. I promise to love you the rest of my days, to kiss you when I come home at night, to not sit on the toilet reading the paper until my legs grow numb.”
“Now I know we are meant to be. When I first married Rhett, Betty Jo from Kestner’s would tell me, ‘One day he’ll barely kiss you when he comes home, ask what’s for dinner, then sit on the toilet reading the paper until his legs are numb.’”
Don’s laugh rang out. “Not me, Ev. I promise. Now, you stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
His quick footsteps resounded in the narrow stairwell. Everleigh giggled to hear doors slam and drawers bang. Then the sound of his urgent return.
He bounded into the room, dropping to one knee, and reached for her hand, slipping a diamond ring on her finger.
“I know you’ve been here before but—”
“This feels like the very first time.”
Because love not only drove out her fears but brought dead things to life. Just when she thought all her rainbows had faded, God sent her Don.
“Now, tell me more about this room,” she said, curling into his arms.
“I think over here I’ll hang pictures of us and our children . . .”
chapter thirty-four
Bruno
He woke to spring sunlight slicing through the edge of the drawn curtains. Crawling from bed, he stared out over downtown Waco from his fifth-floor room, the Magnolia Silos and the ALICO building in the distance.
Reaching for his phone, he checked the time. He was meeting Stuart at the regional airport in three hours.
He’d flown into Dallas with Stuart four days ago. First stop, a meeting with the Cowboys’ front office to talk about Calvin Blue. They were extremely interested but seemed hesitant to talk details. He left a message with Launders Allen, the CFO, hoping to get insight on the team’s hesitation. Was there something he needed to know about Calvin?
Allen had yet to return his call.
He also tried to bring up Tyvis Pryor but got cut short. The coach knew of him, of his outstanding record at FSU, and of his criminal trouble and that he ended his career at a JUCO.
Wasn’t interested.
Bruno texted the meeting details to Calvin, who responded with about a hundred smile emoticons. To Tyvis, he texted to keep grinding.
While Stuart played golf at Dallas National, Bruno drove down to Waco, met with the pro liaison at Baylor, and evaluated players during their Pro Day, taking advantage of being on the sidelines with his peers and the representatives from a number of NFL head offices.
He squeezed in next to the scout from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, brought up Tyvis, and to his surprise didn’t get a hand to the face. The scout was interested—no, curious—and promised to check him out during University of Central Florida’s Pro Day.
Finally, good news to text the boy from a Scooba, Mississippi, JUCO.
Last night he treated two Baylor players, Jeff Jewel and Damen Worely, to a five-star dinner. He was right in the middle of his pitch when Jeff stopped him.
“Look, man, thanks for dinner, but you’re just too small for us. We need a big agency to get us a big deal.”
Damen added, “We know you were with Watershed, but they were your clout.”
Bruno composed himself. He’d been here before. No big deal. “I appreciate that, boys. Who are you talking to then?”
“Kevin Vrable over at Watershed.”
“Is he the one who said I’ve lost my clout?”
The players exchanged a look. Yeah, it was Kevin. This was his MO. Go after players he didn’t really want just to create competition among the agents. Then he’d only sign the cream of the crop and leave the rest stranded at a critical time in their career.
“Look,” he said, tucking his napkin under his plate. “I worked with Kevin for seven years. He’s got a large client list, to be sure. Names of players you admire. But here’s what I can do for you . . .”
They were bored before he even started reciting his résumé. Telling them he’d signed first-round probable Calvin Blue to Sweat Equity also failed to impress.
Kevin Vrable’s brainwashing rhetoric was stuck in their heads.
Bruno continued to talk as they texted and scrolled Instagram instead of listening, as they took selfies with the server instead of realizing they were not the caliber of recruit Watershed ever signed.
The night ended with Bruno excusing himself for the men’s room and walking right out the door. Yep, he stuck the kids with the bill.
Which now, in the light of day, he regretted. Impulses like that made Kevin Vrable’s claims about him look true.
Snatching up his phone, he texted Jeff Jewel.
Send me the tab. I’ll reimburse you or make good with the restaurant. Good luck in the draft. Let me know if you need anything.
Tossing his phone to the bed, he started the shower water, then studied his reflection in the harsh mirror lights, rubbing his hand over his night beard. He looked rough. He felt rough.
And he felt like quitting. Maybe he’d run away to Montana or Idaho and be a mountain man. A Jeremiah Johnson. Live away from the grind and completely off the grid.
In a world where he repeated and kept the fruit of his labor. Where arrogant players like Jeff Jewel and Damen Worely wouldn’t tell him he wasn’t good enough because the fact he survived the winter proved he was.
Where there’d be no lying moms telling stories about dying dads.
But in that world, there’d be no gorgeous NYPD sergeant who captured and owned his heart.
He could do without his private jet rides and the fast pace of the billion-dollar NFL industry.
What he couldn’t live without for the next fifty years was Beck Holiday. It was enough they’d been apart for almost two months.
They texted constantly and FaceTimed when they could, but it wasn’t enough. Bruno wanted to kiss her good morning, kiss her good night. He wanted to see Baby Girl’s face and tell her he loved her. Which was, you know, crazy. She wasn’t his kid. But he felt it to his backbone.
“Say, God, help a guy out here. What do I do about Beck? Do I close Sports Equity, move to New York?” He’d move Sports Equity to the Big Apple if he had the money.
Then there was the silent but looming issue of Dad being alive. Bruno had not seen the black Mercedes nor received any anonymous calls since Beck told him the truth.
But he was confronted by his own words, by the wild speech he gave to Mom about “one day” and “next time.” Well, here was his chance to live up to “one day” and “next time.”
Stone Endicott was alive. Did Bruno want a relationship with him or not?
He stepped into the shower’s warm rush, his head pounding. This was too much debate for so early in the day.
The water ran down his shoulders as he bowed his head and baptized himself with pray
er. If he was going to figure out his life, he had a feeling he needed more time on his knees, lifting up holy hands without doubt.
He turned on ESPN, muting the sound, as he dressed and packed, figuring he’d grab breakfast and coffee from the hotel breakfast bar before heading north to meet Stuart for wheels-up at ten.
A final sweep of the room and he was ready to go. He was just about to power off the TV when his phone pinged with a text from Coach Brown.
Are you watching ESPN?
Bruno glanced at the screen. Calvin was talking. The overlay underneath read: Top Ten Draft Potential Calvin Blue.
Bruno snatched up the remote and upped the volume.
“Here we go,” he said. “Tell them who you are, Blue.” He wondered why Calvin didn’t tell him ESPN had come calling.
“I’m looking forward to the draft. Yeah . . . I think I’ve got what it takes. I’ve been grinding hard. I’ve got a great team around me. My coaches, my family, my man at Watershed Sports and . . .”
What did he say? Bruno pressed rewind.
“. . . my man at Watershed Sports.”
Was he joking? Or confused? Bruno used to be at Watershed, but he’d never represented anything but Sports Equity to Calvin. Bruno reached for his phone.
“Calvin, rise and shine. I just saw your clip on ESPN.”
“Yeah, who’s this?” He sounded sleepy.
“Bruno Endicott, your agent, at Sports Equity.” He repeated the name, loud and slow.
“Bruno, yeah, man, hi.”
“Just saw your interview on ESPN. Why didn’t you tell me? And by the way, you’re with Sports Equity, not Watershed.” Bruno laughed. Too loud. Settle down. “Repeat after me. Sports . . . Equity.”
“Yeah, bro, sorry. Didn’t Kevin call you? He said he would take care of things.”
“Kevin? Why do I need to talk to him? Calvin, what’s going on?”
“We met with Kevin after I signed with you. My dad wanted to make sure we were with an agent who knew how to negotiate the league. There’s a lot on the line.”
“Who do you think negotiated Ham Donavan’s contract? And Wilson Michael’s? Kevin Vrable? No, I negotiated those deals.”
“I signed with him two weeks ago. Bruno, he said he’d call you.”
“Calvin, I’ve got money going out of my account to pay for your apartment and training. I’ve been talking to front offices for you.” Now he understood the weird looks from the Dallas guys. “You just sent me a million smileys when I said how interested Dallas was in you.”
“I know, and I called Kevin. He promised to take care of it, and look, I’ll make sure Watershed pays you back.”
Bruno stared at the sunny day beyond his window and every beam of light felt a million miles away. He might as well be in the deep, deep dark. “Unbelievable. After I signed Tyvis too.”
“He’s real grateful, man. Look, Bruno, I appreciate you, but I had to do what’s best for me and my family.”
Me and my family. He was sick of that timeworn, meaningless line.
“What about me and my family? By the way, I’m the one who would’ve brokered the best deal for you, Calvin. Trust me, Kevin will do no better. Word to the wise, he never reads the small print and never negotiates bonuses. But I do.”
“He bought my mom a Range Rover. She’s always wanted a Range Rover.”
A Range Rover. Son of a—
Bruno seethed, exhaling hot coals. Be nice, be nice, this kid may need you in the future. “Well, I wish you the best. Call me if you ever need anything. I’m here for you. We’re friends no matter what.”
“I appreciate that, Bruno. Thanks for everything.”
“Good luck, Calvin.”
Bruno hurled his phone against the wall with such a force it shattered and landed on the tile by the door with a clatter.
He had to get out of here. Had to goooo. He stomped his phone with his heels as he walked out and punched the elevator button. But instead of waiting, he slammed through the exit door, ran down the stairs, and burst with a force into the bright Waco day.
Leaning into the March breeze tinted with spring, he started walking.
His steps mounted to a jog, then a run. When he got to Austin Avenue, he was in an all-out run, his jeans tight against his legs. But with each stride, he hammered every emotion into the hard concrete.
The list of people requiring his forgiveness mounted. Mom, Dad, Kevin, Calvin. All of which made him miss Beck even more. He needed to talk to her, hear her calm, sound wisdom.
He stopped when his lungs were burning and dropped to one knee. Running away never fixed anything. So he’d lost this one. But he still had Tyvis to fight for, and if any kid deserved Bruno’s absolute best, it was Tyvis Pryor. And by gum, Bruno was going to treat him like he was a potential number one pick.
Now to get back to the hotel, pick up his things, and meet Stuart in Dallas.
* * *
Beck
When she got off shift, she booked an Uber ride home and slept in the back seat. The Cemetery Club was killing her.
It’d been seven weeks since Florida, but her body wanted to keep the lazy-day tempo, sleeping long hours and bingeing on Gilmore Girls. She still hadn’t seen the last of season seven.
However, the chief promised her the day shift after her maternity leave. If she could endure that long. As it was, her seven-month belly had her driving a desk. Which made the nights even longer.
Yet there was never a dull moment at the Ninth. Last night the boys rounded up a prostitute ring and the holding cells reeked with cheap perfume and cigarette smoke.
When the driver dropped her off in East Flatbush, Beck climbed the brick steps to the house, feeling as if she carried more than herself and a growing baby.
Bruno had been on her mind all night. She texted him a couple of times, but he never responded. Now that she was off tour, he weighed on her even more.
The house was quiet when she entered. Mom’s shift had changed to days last week. Flynn was at work and Wyatt at school.
Following the aroma of bacon, she found a plate of eggs and bacon in the oven. With a note.
Found more of your dad’s memorabilia in the attic. His h.s. yearbook. Check him out. XO, Mom.
In the past month, Mom had started to open up about Dad, retelling Beck details of how they met and the humorous mishaps on their wedding day.
“Not one groomsman had the right tux. And the ring bearer had his finger up his nose the entire ceremony.”
She laughed more, and when she walked past Beck, she’d gently pat her belly.
For Beck, the rebuilding came gently. Not a flood of recall but a flash of something quick that she stored away.
Or if Mom asked again what she wanted to do with the house on Memory Lane, Beck would remember driving to pick Dad up from the airport. Or helping him paint the upstairs bedrooms while Miss Everleigh fueled them with milk and cookies.
She thought Miss Everleigh was her grandmother for years. But no, she was just a family friend introduced to Dad by his cousin, Lou Holiday Jr.
Sitting at the table, Beck opened Dad’s yearbook to the page Mom marked. There was Dad with his long seventies hair and psychedelic, wide-collar shirt.
Even Flynn told a bunch of rookie cop stories on Dad at dinner last night. Which earned the highest praise possible from Wyatt.
“He sounds like a cool guy.”
Beck finished her breakfast, then dropped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and turned on the TV anchored in the ceiling corner. News broadcasted from the small flat-screen.
Mom, get help. She was a news channel addict.
Beck poured a glass of orange juice and buttered her toast while the weather girl predicted more cold and possible snow.
She missed Florida. Missed the peace. Missed Miss Everleigh’s unseen presence.
While munching on toast, she perused Dad’s yearbook and was about to cut off the TV and head to bed when a crashed airplane came on the screen
.
The image raised the hair on the back of her neck as the stiff-haired anchor intoned the plane’s tragic demise. She fumbled for the remote.
“. . . pilot was found dead after the plane crashed near Jackson, Mississippi. The crash happened after the pilot, whose name is being withheld, flew into bad weather. Investigations are ongoing.”
Beck’s chair toppled as she stood. Was it Stuart, Bruno’s pilot? He’d flown with him to Dallas this week. No, no, no.
She patted her pockets for her phone, then ran to her jacket. She had five missed calls from Natalie and about a dozen texts.
Call me please.
Beck?
I can’t get ahold of Bruno.
There was a plane crash, but I can’t find out the pilot’s name. It’s Stuart. I just know it. I’m coming undone down here. Beck?
Shaking, breakfast churning and burning in her belly, Beck returned Natalie’s call, waiting as it rang, anxiety spiking and rising. Baby Girl woke and kicked her in the ribs as if to say, “What’s going on? Your heart rate is killing me.”
Beck swore when Natalie’s phone went to voice mail.
“Natalie, it’s Beck. I just saw the news. Have you learned anything? Call me.”
Then she tried Bruno. Her call went straight to voice mail. “You’ve reached Bruno Endicott of Sports Equity—”
“Bruno, hey, call me.” Still in cop mode, she held her voice low. Calm. She hesitated, hand pressed over her terrified heartbeat. “I love you.”
She paced the living room, trying to think. She sat on the edge of the sofa, then bounded up again. She needed to sleep, but her adrenaline was on overdrive.
Call me, Bruno, Call me.
“I cannot lose two men I love in disaster, Lord. Dad and Bruno. I can’t.” Wait. She drew a deep breath. There was absolutely no indication that Stuart was the pilot of that plan. And no reason to believe Bruno was in any danger whatsoever.
She’d let Natalie get under her skin.
He must be busy or in a meeting. She shook off the anxiety and aimed her thoughts in a more positive direction. Bruno was fine. Natalie was panicked for no reason.