Thrown by Love

by Pamela Aares

  Pete Little grinned and cut her a huge slab that hung over the edge of the plate. A couple of the players had filed over to their lockers and were starting to remove their shirts and don their batting practice uniforms. She glanced at her watch. It was later than she’d realized. Definitely time to leave.

  “See?” Charley said as he walked her out.

  “See what?”

  “You're an ace. Our ace.” He patted her on the shoulder.

  In baseball, ace meant really good. And right then, that's just how Chloe felt.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Rise and shine!” G’maw chuckled as she arranged a tray with biscuits and coffee on the table next to Scotty’s bed. He pulled a pillow over his head. Sometimes having a grandmother living on the premises was not so much of a treat.

  “We’re going back out on that mound today, even if I have to kick you all the way out there.”

  The image of G’maw trying to kick his ass made him grin. She was way too short to be able to reach that far. But then again, maybe he shouldn’t take the chance.

  After downing a quick breakfast, Scotty threw on his workout gear and headed outside. He felt strong, he was rested. His headaches had stopped, and tests had shown there’d been no residual damage. G’maw had teased him, saying that if he forgot anything from now on, he could just blame it on baseball.

  After two weeks of tests, the team doctor for the Giants had cleared him, and he’d be on his way to San Francisco in twenty-four hours. Scotty was pretty confident he had his game back. And though he wasn’t sure pitching to a seventy-eight-year-old woman qualified as a foolproof final test, but the prospect sure cheered him up. Maybe it’d been a bad idea to skip the week in the minors, but he’d jumped at the chance to avoid pitching there. Sometimes rehabbing in the minors could do bad things for a guy’s mechanics. He wasn’t willing to stake his career on sometimes. Lucky for him management had let it slide.

  His dad was already kicking dirt off home plate when Scotty got out to the field. The sun was hot, but a cool breeze blew in from the north. A perfect day for baseball.

  He threw to his dad as they waited for G’maw. A basket with about fifteen balls sat at his feet.

  G’maw huffed across to them, picked up a bat and took a couple practice swings over the plate. Scotty tossed in a few slow pitches, then laid one slow and straight across the plate.

  “I’m not that blind,” she scowled as she smacked it into right field.

  He ran through an easy rendition of his pitch sequence, and she smacked a few out into the field. Then his dad traded places with her.

  “Show me what you’ve got, son.” He stood poised at the plate, bat in hand. “But go easy on your catcher.”

  G’maw smacked his dad on the butt with her glove, and he yelped.

  “You want heat, you get heat.” Scotty grinned. He wound and threw in a fastball. His dad connected and blasted it within inches of Scotty’s head. Scotty shot out his glove, pivoted and snatched it out of the air.

  “Hair of the dog,” his dad said with a grin before dropping his bat. He turned to G’maw and looped an arm around her shoulder. “I think our work here is done.”

  Scotty stared at them as they ignored him and walked away. Then he laughed, calling after them to save him some cookies. He did a full workout using the net he and his dad had rigged at the side of the barn. Satisfied, he showered and then returned to the fields to chase down his dad.

  He found him in the garlic.

  Scotty bent down and began harvesting a row. “Mighty good-looking crop.”

  “Mighty good-looking fastball.”

  “Thanks for that . . . out there.”

  His dad nodded. “A friend of mine once said that a man should stand at the exit to car lots and ping each shiny newly purchased car with a ball-peen hammer as it was driven off the lot. It’d save owners from worrying about their first ding.”

  How long he might have pitched, how long he might have worried about the first ball to whiz close, Scotty would never know. His dad had taken care of that and done it without a word.

  They pulled garlic side by side for a while, enjoying the sun and the rhythm of the work, until Scotty got his nerve up to ask the question that had floated in his mind for way too long. He had no doubt that his dad would know exactly why he asked, but he asked anyway.

  “Was it ever hard between you and Mom?”

  His dad didn’t look up, just kept on with his harvesting. “You were around—how’d it look to you?”

  “Like you worked things out.”

  “Yup. That’s the key. That and never being unkind. You can be angry, frustrated, even occasionally dislike one another, but if you’re never unkind, it always works out.”

  “I meant the gap. That she came from a . . . well, a different family and . . .”

  His dad looked up then and grinned. “You mean that she was rich, powerful and upper-class and I was a lowly farmer?”

  Scotty nodded. It was exactly what he meant. Exactly what he’d been rolling around in his head for months.

  “I wondered how long it’d take you to ask. Been wondering ever since I saw Chloe step out of that jet.” He turned back to the garlic, pulling each bulb out of the ground with smooth, even strokes. “But you should ask your mother. She’s better at all that than I am, has the words for it. All I can tell you is your mom’s the best thing that ever happened in my life. I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of having her.”

  They finished the garlic in silence and when his dad turned toward another field, Scotty returned to the house.

  When he walked into the kitchen, the strong smell of linseed oil hit him like a wall.

  “Jeez. I thought I’d smell cookies or biscuits at least.” He brushed a kiss to his mother’s cheek.

  She backed away. “Watch out, you’ll get paint on you. I forgot to leave my smock in the studio.” She ducked out the screen door and took off her paint-splattered apron.

  He filched a cookie off the baking sheet and popped it in his mouth. The chocolate drops were still steaming hot and nearly burned his tongue.

  “Better?” she said as she slipped back into the kitchen.

  “Oil paints are hazardous.”

  “Life is hazardous. Oil paints create beauty.” She looked him up and down as a knowing smile lit her eyes. “I can’t say I haven’t loved having you here. It’s been too long.”

  “If I stay any longer, Dad’ll have me picking peas.”

  “Nothing wrong with picking peas. He loves it. He chose it.” She slid the cookies onto a rack.

  “He chose you.”

  His mother put the tray down and slid her arm around his waist. “And someday you’ll make the same important choice. Maybe the most important. Maybe soon.”

  He felt heat creep into his face. Chloe had won his parents’ hearts. Hell, she’d won his.

  His mother released him and reached for an envelope on the corner of the counter. “There’s a letter for you.”

  Chloe hadn’t written, hadn’t texted, hadn’t called. He didn’t blame her. Some days he wished he’d lost his memory. At least of their last moments together. He’d been an ass. She’d been right to do what she did, and still he’d as much as told her to take a flying leap to hell.

  He reached to take the letter from his mother.

  She kept hold of one corner of it and held his gaze. “Some choices aren’t made with the mind”—she tapped a finger to her heart—”they’re made here, one way or another.”

  She smiled and released the envelope. The letter was from Alex.

  Up in his room, Scotty unfolded Alex’s letter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d received a personal letter. Email and Twitter were about all he could manage. Tracy had a stack of get-well cards from fans waiting for him, and Sabra had actually sent a fruit basket, along with a wordy apology, for keeping him out too late the night before he got beaned. Both Lowell and Luke had been interested in learning m
ore about Sabra, wondered if she might consider dropping in to check on him in person.

  Alex’s letter was odd. Three paragraphs about the vineyard followed by an anecdote about Alex’s cousin Alana hooking up with some French venture capitalist she’d met at the Sabers’ picnic.

  He stopped reading and stared out the window.

  He could still feel the jolt that had rushed through him when he’d bandaged Chloe’s ankle at the picnic. And he remembered every word of their conversations. She loved the mysteries of life. And he loved her for that. For that and for . . . well, for damn near everything.

  He looked back to the letter. Jackie had visited Chloe at Woodlands, Alex wrote on the last line at bottom of the page.

  Scotty’s heart picked up speed as he turned the page. But Alex just went on about how thrilled he was that Scotty was returning to the Giants. The team needed its funny bone back, Alex wrote. The next line had only Alex’s scrawled signature.

  Scotty stared at the paper, as if looking hard would make words he wished he’d seen appear on the page. Words that said there was some slim crack of a possibility that he could go back, call Chloe and she’d talk to him.

  But the words weren’t there. Leave it to his buddy Alex to find a sneaky way to make things all too clear by not saying anything. He suspected Jackie had her hand in the letter’s construction too.

  He tossed it on the bed.

  Through the window he saw G’maw working with Drake in the horse ring. The horse wasn’t cooperating, and she put her hands on her hips and wagged a finger.

  Scotty took the stairs down to the kitchen three at a time and grabbed an apple off the counter. Went back for a second and started munching as he crossed the yard.

  He bounded into the ring with G’maw. “This might work better,” he said as he handed an apple to her.

  “A brain would be good too,” she said, laughing. “You got an extra one of those?”

  “I could ride him if that would help.”

  G’maw looked him over. “Don’t tempt the fates. You’ve done a good job of that already.”

  The gate clanged open, and his dad walked into the ring. Drake nosed over and sniffed. His dad pulled a carrot from his pocket.

  “Wily damn horse. He’s been hanging with your grandmother too long.”

  “I’ll just leave you boys to it then,” G’maw said. “You’ll soon see what forces you’re up against.”

  His dad pulled a saddle from the fence and hoisted it onto Drake. “Heard you got a letter.”

  Scotty didn’t like the tone. He’d opened up a can of worms with all his questions about relationships and now he’d better close it. Information was one thing, humiliation was another. And not something he had any interest wallowing in.

  “It’s not what you think. It was from Alex.”

  “I saw your press interview, son.” He tugged at the girth, cinching it snug. “No woman would open herself to another round of that. Hell, you convinced me it was over.” He turned and shot Scotty a steely look. “It’s not like you to lie; Chloe probably knows you well enough to know that. She’s not going to be writing you a letter.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw her interview?” Scotty hated the defensiveness in his voice.

  “Hers was business. The woman did what she knew was best. For the team. For you.”

  His dad walked Drake to the saddle block, slipped his foot into the stirrup and mounted.

  He rode toward the gate, then reined in Drake and circled back toward Scotty. “If you want a woman like that, you’ll have to go get her.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chloe and Jackie nudged past a knot of fans hoping to snag an autograph from the Giants’ players during batting practice, and Chloe looked out at the arc of the stadium. She might love the Sabers, but this was her favorite stadium. The view of the bay, the feel of the city surrounding it, there was no ballpark like it. Maybe now that the vote for the Sabers new stadium had gone through, they’d have a park to match the excellence of the team. But they still wouldn’t have the bay.

  She waved at George Ellis, who sat behind home plate with Halliman and Halliman’s wife, Betsey. George had been a league-leading hitter in his day; he preferred to sit behind the plate. He’d taken a liking to Halliman. George had been brilliant at the press conference the day they’d announced that the stadium vote had gone through. It’d been the first press conference she’d enjoyed. It’d helped to have Halliman and his wife there. More than his financial backing, Chloe appreciated his clean dealing and sound advice.

  Jackie ushered her into seats about ten rows up behind first base. “Not the best seats for watching a pitcher,” Jackie said. “But I get a good view of Alex.”

  “I can’t believe that Scotty’s first game back with the Giants is interleague against the Sabers,” Chloe said. She sipped her beer. “I mean, I knew the schedule, but knowing and facing it are different beasts.”

  Jackie held up her beer cup. “Here’s to the beasts.”

  “Ten bucks says we beat you.”

  “Ten bucks and loser buys dinner.” Jackie grinned.

  The Giants took the field for batting practice. Scotty and the bullpen pitchers were warming up down the right field line.

  “Alex’s swing looks solid,” Jackie said.

  “You surprise me,” Chloe said.

  “Alex talks baseball in his sleep.” She laughed. “That and wine. He’s working up to seals.”

  “If Ribio and Griffin keep their pace, the Sabers stand a chance at the division title. If our pitching holds up. Scotty hasn’t been easy to replace.”

  “I bet not,” Brigitte said as she slid into the empty seat next to Chloe. “Sorry I’m late. The plans for my Paris show are giving me fits.”

  Chloe hugged her and introduced her to Jackie.

  “I don’t know much about baseball,” Brigitte said in her French-laced accent, “but I do know a thing or two about men.” She lowered her sunglasses and peered over the top, looking first at Jackie and then to Chloe. “I say Scotty Donovan’s a keeper, and I am rarely wrong.”

  Chloe blushed. Though she’d warned Jackie about Brigitte, words were inadequate to describe her. But Jackie laughed, and the two expats appeared to take an immediate liking to one another.

  “Have you called him?”

  Leave it to Brigitte to get to the point.

  “Not before this game. It’s his first time back out. I wouldn’t risk upsetting him.”

  Brigitte pursed her lips and winked at Jackie. “Americans. They know nothing about love.”

  When the Giants took the field in the top of the first, Chloe had to remind herself to breathe. Scotty tossed in a few pitches and then the Sabers’ lead-off hitter entered the batter’s box. She knew that a pitcher who’d been through what Scotty had experienced faced a hump of fear that could ruin a great career, but she saw no hesitation in his form or on his face.

  “Slow and easy,” Jackie said, her hand warm on Chloe’s arm. “Slow and easy.”

  But slow and easy was evidently not what Scotty had in mind. He fired a ball across the plate so hard, Ribio didn’t have time to swing.

  “Looks like he’s recovered,” Jackie said.

  “He might have, but I’m not sure I will.” Chloe leaned forward, watched Scotty wind up, watched the four-seamer tail away from the plate as Ribio missed it by a foot. It occurred to her that if Scotty struck every batter out, he’d be safe.

  In the second inning, he did just that.

  In the bottom of the third, the Giants’ catcher smacked a solid single. The few Sabers’ fans scattered around them muttered and booed.

  Brigitte cheered. “It’s more interesting when they actually hit the ball.”

  “Said like a true fan.” Chloe smiled at her.

  When she turned back to the field, Scotty stood in the batter’s box, ready to hit. She’d forgotten he’d be hitting—blocked out that he’d be facing a pitcher and his fastballs. She sucked in
her breath and said a silent prayer.

  Brigitte eyed her. “Is something wrong?”

  “American League pitchers, those who pitch for teams in my league, don’t usually hit. I wasn’t thinking that Scotty would have to face . . .” She pulled in a long breath. “National League pitchers hit all the time, so of course he’ll be batting.” Not knowing if she was talking to Brigitte or herself, she stopped to gather her thoughts and rubbed at her collarbone, hoping to relax suddenly tense muscles. She turned to Brigitte, but immediately looked back at the field. “Even though this is an interleague game, we play by the rules of the home field. This is a National League field.”

  She shouldn’t have forgotten that. She should have been prepared.

  Except for the family game in Nebraska, she’d only seen Scotty bat in person once, against the Royals. He’d struck out looking.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Brigitte said, “but everyone else is batting. It can’t be so difficult.”

  “Ninety miles an hour, Brigitte. The ball goes ninety miles an hour.”

  “I see. “ Brigitte slid to the edge of her seat. “It looks so slow, this game. I hadn’t realized.”

  “That’s a funny bat,” Jackie said.

  She’d been concentrating so hard on Scotty, Chloe hadn’t noticed the bat.

  “The boys from the Big Brothers program gave it to him. They all signed it.”

  “Must’ve passed the bat Gestapo.” Jackie winked.

  “Yeah,” was all Chloe could mutter. She remembered the youngest boy at the fundraiser; he’d be happy Scotty was back with the Giants. A lot of people were. She could only hope Scotty was.

  Scotty swung at the first pitch and fouled it off. It was the first ball she’d ever seen him get a piece of.

  “He’ll be going for a bunt,” Chloe said.

  “I’m already thinking about where I’d like to have that dinner,” Jackie said with a grin. “You should join us, Brigitte. Chloe’s paying.”

  “We haven’t lost yet,” Chloe said, without taking her eyes off Scotty.