by Pat Simmons
“Respect for the sport, but not life?” Greg’s mouth twitched. “Did you give them the autographs they demanded?”
“I didn’t wait for them to ask me twice. It was ransom for my life,” he stated without shame. “I feel like God was using that as a way for me to escape harm, so I didn’t hesitate.”
Greg threw a few baseball questions into the mix before returning to the hot topic, and Rahn seemed grateful for the breather. “I hope the police catch those guys. You were lucky, man.”
“No, I was blessed. I’m here today because there is a God who spared me and caused them to be distracted. I’ll never forget this act of mercy for the rest of my life.”
Shae had been about to tune out the remainder of the interview, but his confession caused her to remain glued to the monitor.
His acknowledgment of his fear stunned Shae. Humility was hard to find, especially among prosperous public figures, and his vulnerability spoke volumes to her heart. She’d felt a similar sense of helplessness when her fellow church members had made her feel ashamed of her relationship with Alex, even though she’d been clueless about his marital status.
Not only was Rahn good-looking, buffed, and strong; he appeared fearless, even though he’d acknowledged his fear. And he’d thanked God. That earned him a star in her book. His uncanny ability to recall the features of his would-be carjackers, under such stressful circumstances, was noted. Shae prayed he had given the police a detailed enough description for them to find the men before someone who didn’t have a recognizable face or name got hurt or killed.
“Shae? Shae?”
“Huh?” Shae blinked at the sound of Diane’s voice. She glanced at the screen. Rahn’s interview had ended, and the producer was rolling the show credits.
“Girl, you’re being paged. You better head back to the editing booth before your photographer comes looking for you.”
“Right.” Shae gathered her notes, leaped from her chair, and hurried down the hall as fast as her three-inch boots could move.
3
After Greg had made his closing remarks, ending the segment, and the director had cleared them, the tech reappeared and unclipped Rahn’s microphone. They stepped down, and Greg asked Rahn a few more questions off camera as both men retraced their steps through the newsroom to the lobby.
Although they were engaged in a discussion, a woman who was heading their way caught Rahn’s attention. As they drew closer, Rahn made fleeting eye contact with the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. He was a sucker for a baby-doll face with delicate features—she had both.
“Hey, Shae,” Greg greeted her in passing.
“Hi, Greg.” She smiled, then directed her attention to Rahn. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
“Me, too.”
Her soft, simple words were filled with sweetness and sincerity. But were they just a prelude to the jokes that were sure to pop up on late-night TV? No doubt many women would see his admission of fear as a weakness.
In the lobby, Greg shook his hand. “Thanks again for giving KMMD the exclusive. I owe you, man.”
Talk about a distraction. Now Rahn couldn’t get the image of Shae out of his memory. He didn’t know what triggered this emotion—the moment frozen in time or her whispered words—but he felt something. “Who is Shae?”
Greg snickered, seemingly amused by his inquiry. “I guess you don’t watch our news. Shae Carmen’s been here a few months. She’s is our newest reporter and weekend anchor—”
“I can get that from the station’s Web site.” Rahn reined in his frustration and lowered his voice. “Is she single, married, divorced, or seeing someone?”
“How should I know?” Greg shrugged. “Shae is cordial. She comes in and does her job—she’s a great reporter, just an all-around nice person. By the way, I hope you received your invitation to my wedding.”
Rahn took the hint that Greg had no more to say on the topic. Fine. He would take it from there. He shook the man’s hand and bid him good-bye. Finding out more about Shae would give him something to focus on besides the instant replays of his carefree life that had almost been snatched away.
***
For some reason, Rahn Maxwell’s confession that he’d been scared seemed to linger in Shae’s spirit for hours after hearing it—during her entire shift, actually—and she couldn’t figure out why. The man was human, after all, and anyone on the brink of death would be afraid. That ambush had changed him and altered his outlook on life. She could not only identity with that; she’d sensed it during his interview, which she’d almost missed.
It was after eleven that night when Shae arrived at the Westmoreland Condominiums, where she lived. The entrance was the size of a hotel lobby, with a lounge area that featured a showcase fireplace. Cozy tables and chairs were sporadically placed in front of a large window facing Forest Park. A side hall led to an adjacent restaurant, Turvey’s on the Green, a sports bar known for live broadcasts and weekly jazz nights.
She waved at Mr. Chapman, who saluted her with a smile. The retired factory worker turned night security guard had adopted Shae as his daughter because she lived away from family.
“It’s a shame about Rahn Maxwell. I watched the interview on your station.”
“God spared his life.”
“Yep, He did.” Mr. Chapman nodded, then returned to a late-night talk show on TV as Shae walked toward the elevators.
On the fourteenth floor, Shae strolled down the hall to her condo. Inside, she flipped on the switch to illuminate her living room, making a conscious effort to switch off all thoughts of Rahn Maxwell. His interview had consumed enough of her time for one day, and she still felt the unexplained connection with him.
Shae performed her nightly beauty regimen, showered, and got into bed, Bible in hand. She frowned as she read that familiar passage in 1 Peter—chapter 3, verse 7—that didn’t apply to her, since she wasn’t a wife. She moved on to verse 8—“Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous”—and let that settle into her spirit before she drifted off to sleep.
A few days later, Shae found a small envelope, the size used for invites or thank-you notes, in her stack of mail at the TV station. The return address was from the elite suburb of Wildwood, Missouri. She didn’t know anyone in faraway West St. Louis County. Her small circle of new friends was limited to the station and church.
It was a good thing Diane Duncan wasn’t around. With her suspicious mind and paranoid ways, Shae’s fellow reporter would have strongly urged her to take the letter to the police to have it X-rayed or dusted for fingerprints. Shae undid the flap and slid out a small folded card. Confused, she squinted, admiring the artist’s depiction of a woman resting her chin in her hand. She wore a dreamy expression, and she looked familiar.
Then she read the message:
Shae,
You make a man—me—glad that he’s alive. Your smile and soft words were like a homecoming to my soul, which I prefer to my family and friends mourning my demise at a homegoing church service. I closed my eyes, and I saw your beautiful face. I sketched you from memory. I know I didn’t do you justice.
Rahn
His passionate words knocked the wind out of her. She sucked in a breath, trying to recalibrate her racing heart. Shae blinked at the sketch again. He had captured her features: the pointy chin, the sculpted eyebrows, even the mole under her left eyebrow. How? Their contact had been nothing more than the blink of an eye.
He’d listed his home and cell numbers, in case she wanted to call him—which she didn’t. Compliments were commonplace to people in the media. There was no reason for her to take this one personally, Shae thought, as she fed his note to the newsroom shredder.
4
Rahn couldn’t believe it. His interview with Greg Saxon had gone viral, and it seemed as if everybody and his momma was reaching out to check up on him. Along with teammates and colleagues calling and texting, CNN, Fox Sports, ES
PN, and NBC hounded him with media requests to rehash the same thing he’d told Greg.
“Why didn’t Shae call?” Rahn questioned his close friend Marcus Evans, one of the starting pitchers for the Cardinals. Both had come from the Cardinals’ Triple-A farm team, the Memphis Redbirds, the same year. Their personalities meshed, despite varying opinions on lifestyle choices. Although both men had gyms at home, they occasionally worked out together at the country club.
And why am I sulking about it? He kept that question to himself. “I’m telling you, man, in the briefest of seconds, we connected—at least, I thought we did. It was different—no lust on my part; no fan worship in her eyes, only genuine concern. When I got home, I couldn’t get her out of my head.” Rahn would have rubbed his face as a demonstration, but the weights in his hands were a deterrent.
After double-checking the room for privacy, Rahn lowered his voice and added, “I couldn’t help myself from sketching what I saw to keep her doll face from fading in my memory.”
Marcus added more weights to his barbell. “Yeah, and that blows me away. I’ve seen you do that only a couple of times in the eight years I’ve known you. That might be flattering if she knew you, but she probably thinks you’re a stalker. Did you really give her all your contact numbers? That sounds like a scary, lonely person.”
Rahn could see his point—sending Shae the sketch did seem a little excessive—but he blamed his irrational actions on her powerful allure.
“Now you’re handling her rejection worse than the shattered invincible sports figure persona you built for yourself following the crime,” Marcus said, going in for the kill.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘rejection,’” Rahn snapped harshly, mainly out of frustration. “Sorry…there’s nothing I can do about the gunmen, but with Shae—” He paused and nodded to several newcomers in the weight room. “With her, one phone call, and things could happen. I almost feel like she’s part of my life change.”
“Something did happen to change your life—a gun and a prayer. If that wasn’t life-altering enough, then I don’t know what is. You admitted in that interview that God saved you that night. You owe Him big time. Don’t let some woman distract you from fulfilling your debt to the Lord. You’ve dated enough of the wrong women to last years.”
Rahn cut his eyes at his friend. “I know my social life hasn’t been stellar, but I’m single, unlike you.” Ever since marrying Yvette, his friend had worn the badge of husband proudly. Marcus was the model family man, especially now that he and Yvette had children.
While Rahn was happy for his friend, his status was his choice until he found the right woman. He was still holding out for that special someone and thought perhaps, just perhaps, Shae Carmen could be a candidate. But he wouldn’t know that for sure unless they connected.
Marcus paused in his routine and faced Rahn. “Listen, I’m glad you’re alive. All I’m saying is, don’t forget about your brush with death.”
That remark hit a nerve. “You better believe just because I don’t want to talk about it twenty-four-seven doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. It’s on my mind every time I drive down that interstate or see a detour sign anywhere.” Resting his weighs, Rahn patted his chest. “I remember, so, for me to think about something pleasant, like a woman, doesn’t mean my mind is in the gutter. There’s just something about Shae that resonated with me.”
Marcus backed down, holding up his hands in surrender. “I stand corrected. But you’re like a brother. You know I’ve got your back, and I have no problem calling you out.”
Rahn smirked. “True.”
“I’ve seen Shae Carmen on TV a few times, and no question she’s a beautiful woman. Whether she would be good for you or not, I don’t know. My advice is, don’t chase too hard.” He laughed, breaking the tension.
“I won’t.” Rahn grunted.
They finished their workout and then hit the showers.
The next night, Rahn had just returned home and strolled into his master suite when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID—his mother again. Her constant checking up on him since the incident bordered on obsession. The combination of morning wakeup calls and nightly curfew checks, with random chats throughout the day, was driving him crazy. “Hi, Mom.”
Eloise Maxwell looked for any excuse to call. After his father, Baseball Hall of Famer Ronald Maxwell, died of a massive heart attack seven years ago, his mother’s mission in life had been to keep her two children, both adults, within reach—if not literally, then virtually, via the phone. As her only son, Rahn indulged her.
Years ago, his mother hadn’t had any qualms about suggesting he and his older sister build a home on the sprawling family property. Rahn’s answer had been a flat-out no. That would have been too close for comfort, not to mention how it would have hampered the lifestyle he enjoyed.
Thankfully, his mother seemed content that his older sister, Phyllis, her husband, and their twin sons had remained in Richmond.
“I was watching the local news this morning, and there was a shooting in the city.” She gave him a play-by-play of the crime. “That’s why I thank the Lord for sparing the life of my favorite son!”
Stifling a sigh, Rahn held his peace. He had grown accustomed to being called her “favorite son”—even though he was the only one—since he was a teenager. But he would give anything to erase that night from his memory.
He glanced out the French doors to the balcony off of his bedroom. The moon buffed the night sky, and his mind drifted to visions of Shae. Instead of stars twinkling at him, it was her mesmerizing brown eyes. What would it take to see her again and maybe enjoy a candlelit dinner?
“This is your testimony,” his mother said, in a loving way just shy of a childhood scolding from the five-feet-something spitfire. His six-three stature didn’t intimidate her. “You should never get tired of thanking God.”
“And I don’t,” he said, walking away from the window. He picked up the remote, aiming it at the flat-screen TV in the adjacent sitting room.
“It’s not too early to think about finding a wife and having children—”
“And how would that have prevented the attempted carjacking?” Rahn was amused that whatever problem was at hand, a wife and children were always her solution. After kicking off his shoes and peeling off his socks, Rahn flopped in his recliner. With little effort, he became engrossed in the NBA game: the San Antonio Spurs versus the Indiana Pacers.
“You would have been at a different place, maybe at home with your family. When it comes to God, our name has no value. Being Rahn Maxwell didn’t save you from death, Son. God did. Don’t let it be in vain. Have you gone to church since last week?”
Rahn closed his eyes. He had already committed to making a lifestyle change. Wasn’t that enough? What did everyone expect of him—to stop living? He measured his words carefully. “I am praying more, Mom. Do you want me to park in front of the first church I come across, walk inside, and join?”
“Watch it,” she warned. “Not every building that calls itself a church is a Bible-preaching, salvation-teaching center. Some are self-serving, having the appearance of godliness on the exterior only.”
So, his philosophy was, why bother, since Sunday services were a programmable routine—in and out? His Bible, shelved in his home library, was more a showpiece, part of the décor. It didn’t seem right for a household not to have one. However, the few times he’d picked it up, he’d felt no connection. Actually, he was surprised he’d heard God’s voice the night of the carjacking attempt.
Half listening to his mother, Rahn turned up the volume of the game. Noticing both teams were playing hard, he stood. Although it was high-def, he would rather watch it on the 62-inch TV in his home theater. He padded down the marble spiral stairway to the first floor. Despite Rahn’s wealth and fame, the solitary life he lived, in an effort to safeguard his privacy, was losing its appeal.
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to learn the difference betwee
n lust and love?” His mother tsked, transitioning with such finesse from the topic of church to women that she caught him off guard. “They’re secondhand hoochie mamas that are available at bargain prices.”
It was ironic how his mother and Marcus wanted the same things for him, but not in the same order. A family was his mother’s priority; his friend felt God should be first. When his phone beeped, Rahn checked the caller ID. “Mom, Marcus is calling. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Tell that young man I said hello.”
“Love you,” Rahn said, then answered the other line. “Your timing is perfect, man. I was getting an earful from Eloise Maxwell. She basically told me to stop shopping at rummage sales for women.”
“Ouch.” Marcus hooted uncontrollably. Rahn wasn’t amused.
Marcus tried to compose himself, only to start up another laughing binge. Finally gaining some control, he stuttered, “I’ll add an amen to that one. You’ve got to love Mrs. Maxwell.”
“Figures you would agree with her,” Rahn said dryly.
“Great minds think alike. Since you’re changing your ways, I’m calling to invite you to a gospel concert tomorrow night. Proceeds go to fund college scholarships. Yvette and I purchased twenty tickets to give away. Want to go?”
Rahn had committed to making changes, and he’d figured praying more and watching the slip of his tongue was a good start. But a gospel concert? That wasn’t his choice of entertainment. “I hope I’ll have other plans tomorrow night, after I call the station and ask Shae out to dinner.”
“I see you’re not going to drop that bone,” Marcus conceded. “Then bon appétit, I guess.”
“Yes, and get your praise on.”
Rahn didn’t waste time to follow through. Once they disconnected, he called the station. Just his luck, Thursdays and Fridays were Shae’s days off. From habit, he was about to curse out his frustration but caught himself just in time. “God, I said I was going to change, but it’s slow going.”