by Gina Wilkins
“Hi, Savannah,” she drawled, looking over her shoulder from beneath her half pound of lashes.
“Hi, Treva.” Despite the other woman’s characteristic flamboyance, Savannah had grown to like her during the years they’d been watching their sons play on the same team.
Treva turned her eyes to Kit. “Who’s your cute friend?”
As if she didn’t know.
Trying to emulate Kit’s patience with stupid questions, Savannah held onto her smile. “Treva Blacldock, this is Christopher Pace.”
Treva held out a hand tipped with two-inch-long artificial nails. They were painted a bright scarlet and had little gold accessories glued to them, making them look so lethal that Savannah couldn’t fault Kit for hesitating a moment before gingerly shaking Treva’s hand.
“Isn’t that your Billy about to step up to bat?” Savannah asked Treva, who looked inclined to crawl right into Kit’s lap.
Distracted, Treva turned to face the field. “Come on, Billy. Knock that puppy outta’ the park!” she yelled through her cupped hands.
“What did I tell you?” Savannah asked Kit in a whisper. “People around here aren’t accustomed to having celebrities among them.”
He only smiled. “I’m used to it. Stop fretting.”
“I am not—”
The crowd surged to its feet, cheering as Billy slammed the ball out into left field, the first hit of the game. Treva pumped her fist and yelled, “Woof, woof, Billy. Way to go!”
A cluster of teenage girls sitting together at one side of the bleachers began to chant, “Go, Bil-ly, Go, Bil-ly.”
Kit laughed and shouted, “Good hit, Billy.”
Treva sent him a look of approval over her chubby shoulder.
Savannah almost sighed. How could Kit look so darned comfortable here when it should be obvious to everyone that he was completely out of place?
During the remainder of the game, the attention of the crowd seemed to be almost equally divided between the action on the field and Kit.
A reporter for the local weekly newspaper wanted to interview him. Kit promised to give the man a call the next afternoon for a telephone interview, which seemed to more than satisfy the young journalist who rarely—if ever—had the opportunity to interview nationally known subjects.
A burly man in a faded T-shirt and a cap advertising farming equipment stopped by with his hands full of hot dogs and soft drinks from the concession stand. “Just wanted to tell you that I really like your books,” he said to Kit.
“Thank you.”
“I was laid up in the hospital after I hurt my leg balin’ hay last fall. My wife brought me a couple of your books, even though I ain’t much of a reader. They kept me from going crazy with boredom. Now I read every one of yours that comes out”
Kit seemed genuinely touched by the plainspoken man’s simple praise. “I’m glad my books gave you some pleasure during your ordeal. That’s the reason I write them—to entertain.”
“Well, keep ‘em coming,” the farmer said gruffly. “I’ll keep buying ‘em.”
He moved on before Kit could answer.
“Do you know him?” Kit asked Savannah.
She shook her head.
“I think he’s Gary Raper’s dad,” Miranda piped up.
“Find out for me, will you?” Kit requested of her. “I’ll send him a copy of my new hardcover.”
Miranda nodded, looking pleased with the assignment she’d been given.
A few youngsters shyly approached with pens and scraps of paper for Kit to sign. He signed them all, though he instructed the kids to kneel in the aisle while he did so to keep them from blocking the view of the field from the people surrounding them.
“Mom, I’m thirsty,” Miranda said sometime during the fourth inning. “Can I have something from the concession stand?”
“I’ll treat,” Kit said, beginning to rise.
Savannah placed a hand on his arm. “If you go down there, you’ll be mobbed. You won’t make it back before the end of the game. Miranda and I will go.”
“I’m pretty good at getting through crowds,” he said with a cocky grin. “Miranda and I can handle it, can’t we?”
Miranda nodded eagerly. “I won’t let them mob him, Mom. Let Kit and me go, okay?”
Savannah conceded with a don’t-blame-me-if-it’s-amistake shrug. .
“What would you like?” Kit asked her.
“Just a cola,” she replied. “Diet.”
He nodded and followed an eager Miranda down thé bleacher steps.
“Oh, wow, Savannah. He is so cute,” Treva gushed. “You’re so lucky to have a man like that after you.”
“Kit isn’t ‘after’ me,” Savannah protested. “He’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, right.” Treva snorted inelegantly. “Try telling that to someone who don’t have eyes. I seen the way he’s been looking at you. Like he’d like to just eat you up or something.”
Savannah’s face flamed. “Honestly, Treva.”
The other woman only laughed. “Hey, don’t mind me. I’m only teasing. But, if I was you, I’d give it some thought. The guy’s rich and gorgeous. Hang on to him as long as it lasts. And if you ain’t interested,” she added impishly, “have him give me a call.”
8
TRUE TO HIS WORD, Kit wasn’t gone very long. He returned with his hands full of snacks—hot dogs, popcorn, candy bars. A rather smug-looking Miranda tagged close behind him carrying a tray that held four drink cups.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” Kit asked as he took his seat next to Savannah. “Everything smelled so good I got carried away.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she looked at his haul. “I’d say so.”
“So, c’mon, have a hot dog,” he said enticingly, waving one in front of her.
Savannah hesitated only a moment before reaching for it. “You talked me into it.”
“If only it was always so easy to tempt you,” he murmured, his smile wicked.
She looked hastily away from that devastating grin, all too aware of spying eyes. “I don’t suppose you remembered the mustard.”
He promptly dug into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic packet. “Of course. We couldn’t possibly eat hot dogs without mustard.”
He made sure their hands brushed when he handed her the condiment. She tried to hide the shiver of response that went through her at the contact.
“So when is Michael going to play?” Kit asked after eating his hot dog in only a few hungry bites.
Overhearing the question, Miranda hooted. “Michael’s, like, the worst player on the team,” she confided. “He sits on the bench until the team gets way ahead and then the coach sends him in.”
“What’s his weakness?”’ Kit asked, frowning.
“Batting. And catching. Probably pitching, too, but he’s never been given a shot at that,” Miranda answered before Savannah could jump in. “He’s been on a team every summer for the past four years—since he was nine—and he never gets any better.”
Kit shook his head. “Haven’t his coaches worked with him?”
“He’s had the same coach all along,” Savannah explained. “George Bettencourt—the pitcher’s dad,” she added.
“We must be ahead,” Miranda mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-and-peanut candy bar. “There goes Michael out to right field.”
Savannah automatically tensed. She wanted very badly for Michael to do well today, particularly with Kit watching. She knew how embarrassed her son would be if he played poorly.
But the only hit that went in Michael’s direction sailed right over his head. And the only time he got up to bat he struck out.
“Oh, well,” Miranda said matter-of-factly. “At least we’re far enough ahead that he didn’t blow the game.”
“The boy can’t judge the distance of the ball,” Kit, who’d been watching intently, said with a shake of his head. “Have you had his eyes tested?”
“Yes
. The optometrist said there was nothing wrong with his eyes.”
“Maybe you should have him tested again. By an ophthalmologist, perhaps. Passing a simple eye-chart test doesn’t always reveal all visual problems.”
“Oh, you’re an expert on vision problems, are you?”
Kit grinned and batted his ridiculously long, dark eyelashes. “You think my big, brown eyes are naturally this shiny? Contacts. Astigmatism. And I played baseball in high school and college, even considered going pro. I know the game. I can give the boy some pointers, help him compensate a little for his trouble judging distance.”
Of course he’d played baseball. He’d probably been spectacular at it. The local sports hero, Savannah couldn’t help thinking. Just like Vince had been.
But she was doing it again. Comparing Kit to Vince. She had to stop that.
“And if it turns out that my son is just a really bad baseball player?” she asked, trying to keep her mind on their conversation.
He shrugged. “We all have our talents. I’m sure Michael has plenty. But I’ll still give him some tips.”
Savannah looked at him nervously. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted Kit giving baseball advice to her son—or parenting advice to her, for that matter. She didn’t want him getting too deeply involved in her life, when she knew that it was inevitable that he would soon return to his own.
Miranda groaned loudly when a broad-shouldered, shaggy-haired boy swaggered up to the plate. “That’s Nick Whitley,” she told Kit. “The total creepazoid. He’s been bragging all day about how his dad told off Officer Henshaw.”
Kit glanced at Savannah. “The one you were telling me about?”
Savannah nodded grimly. “That’s the one,” she said, noticing Nick’s father, who was standing in the stands loudly jeering at the other team’s pitcher.
Nick swung and missed.
His father yelled at him. “Watch what you’re doing, you numbskull.”
Kit scowled. “Nice way to talk to his kid,” he muttered.
“It’s the way he talks to everyone,” Treva said over her shoulder, overhearing Kit’s comment. “Guy’s a jerk.”
Nick connected with the second pitch. He recklessly threw the bat and dashed toward first base. An error on the part of the center fielder sent the ball spinning into the outfield. While the players scrambled to retrieve it, Nick kept running. The crowd cheered him on.
The ball hit the catcher’s mitt a half a second before Nick’s foot touched home plate. The umpire called him out.
Nick’s father came out of the stands, swearing and gesturing, while Nick shouted abuse at the umpire, yelling that he’d been safe and that the umpire was a “stupid, blind old man.”
Savannah groaned and resisted an impulse to hide her face in her hands.
How were they supposed to teach these children good sportsmanship—not to mention basic courtesy— when parents behaved this way?
She felt Kit’s arm slide around her waist. And, while it felt wonderful—warm, supportive, encouraging— she was quite sure that everyone in the park had noticed his action and would be speculating about just what was going on between Savannah McBride and Christopher Pace.
MIRANDA CAJOLED Kit into following them home for ice cream after the game. Ignoring Savannah’s ambivalence, Kit cheerfully agreed.
Ernestine had already gone to bed. She must really have been tired, Savannah thought, hoping Ernestine wasn’t coming down with another respiratory infection. Still, it was rather nice not to have her mother’s perceptive eyes on them as she and Kit and the twins gathered around the kitchen table with glasses of soda and bowls of butter-pecan ice cream.
“This is great,” Kit said, digging in enthusiastically. “Do you always celebrate your team’s victories like this, Michael?”
Michael shrugged. “I guess.”
“Kit played baseball in high school and college,” Miranda announced, beaming with self-importance. “He was going to be a professional ballplayer, but he decided to be a famous writer instead.”
Kit chuckled. “I decided to be a writer because I enjoy telling stories. I wasn’t really expecting the fame.”
“You’re definitely famous,” Miranda insisted. “It’s so cool that you have movies made out of your books. Like Stephen King and Michael Crichton and…and…” She fumbled for another name.
“Tolstoy,” Kit supplied roguishly.
Miranda frowned. “What did he write?”
“War and Peace,” Savannah murmured.
“Oh. Was Bruce Willis in that one?”
Savannah swallowed a groan.
Kit grinned. “No. That must have been a different
“one.” “I bet you were a really good ballplayer,” Michael said wistfully. “I stink.”
“I don’t know. I think you have real potential. You just need some pointers,” Kit answered, his expression kind. “Would you like to throw the ball around with me tomorrow afternoon? And we could work on your hitting, too. It’s supposed to be a nice day.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Hey, you bet. That would be cool. Thanks, Mr. Pace.”
“Sounds like fun,” Kit assured him. “And call me Kit, okay? Mr. Pace sounds too formal.”
He glanced at Savannah. “Maybe your mom will take the outfield.”
Michael hooted. “Mom never played ball. She was always a cheerleader, weren’t you, Mom?”
Savannah grimaced. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Finish your ice cream, Michael. It’s starting to melt.”
Her son shoveled an enormous spoonful into his mouth. He’d hardly swallowed it before he spoke again. “I guess Mr. Whitley told that stupid umpire off, huh?”
A heavy silence fell in the kitchen.
Savannah felt Kit’s gaze on her when she cleared her throat. “Mr. Whitley was wrong to cause a scene because he disagreed with the umpire’s call. And Nick’s language and attitude were both reprehensible. I would hope that I’ve taught you better manners than either of them displayed this evening, Michael.”
Michael scowled. “Hey, he deserved it, Mom. The guy’d been making lousy calls all through the game. And Nick was safe by a mile. He and his dad both said so.”
“The umpire called him out,” Savannah repeated stubbornily. “And I believe that he was. But, regardless, the umpire’s call is final and a good sportsman accepts the calls graciously.”
She could almost hear Nick’s father ridiculing her sanctimonious sermon. But she couldn’t think of any other way to make her point.
Michael obviously wasn’t convinced. He turned to Kit for reinforcement. “You saw the play, didn’t you, Kit? Nick was safe, wasn’t he?”
Kit lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t ask my opinion unless you really want to hear it,” he warned.
“That means he thought Nick was out, too,” Miranda translated.
“No, he wasn’t. He was safe. You saw it, Kit.”
Kit shook his head. “He was out, Michael. It was a good call. Your friend was lucky the ump didn’t throw him out of the game for his attitude. Had I been making the calls, I probably would have.”
Michael looked as though he would have liked to continue the argument, but Savannah interceded. “Rinse your bowl and put it in the dishwasher, Michael. And then it’s time for you to hit the shower before bed.”
Her son obeyed with visible reluctance.
Savannah glanced at Miranda. “You, too,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
Miranda dragged her gaze away from Kit—for what might have been the first time that evening—and sighed. “Okay, Mom.”
“Kiss up,” Michael muttered.
Savannah ignored him in a way that let him know she was doing so intentionally. _
“I’d better be going,” Kit said after telling the twins good-night and watching them leave-the room. He held out a hand to Savannah. “Walk me out?”
SAVANNAH AND Kit stepped out of her front door and into the summer night. It was still quite warm, with no breeze to st
ir the sultry air. Crickets chirruped loudly in the darkness, their song interrupted only by the occasional bark of a dog and drone of a car engine.
Savannah closed the front door behind them, then leaned back against it. The amber porch light gave enough illumination for safety, but was not so bright that it made them feel spotlighted. Still, she was glad that none of her neighbors seemed to be out.
Kit paused on the porch and gazed around the quiet neighborhood, then turned to her with a smile, planting his right hand on the door beside her. “Have you noticed that we’ve spent a lot of time together outside at night?”
She was very much aware of his hand, only inches from her shoulder. He’d leaned close to speak softly, so that he loomed over her, crowding her a bit more closely against the door. He probably didn’t intend to intimidate her, she assured herself. He was only standing closely enough so that they could talk softly, without risking being overheard.
“We haven’t spent a lot of time together at all,” she corrected him.
He lifted his left hand and stroked the side of her face with his fingertips. “Always obsessed with details,” he murmured.
He was teasing her. She had to force herself to smile. “I’m an office manager. Details are my life.”
He slid his fingers down her cheek and along the line of her jaw, just missing the corner of her mouth. “You’re an office manager? I didn’t know that.”
She swallowed. “I, er, I work for a local construction company. I’ve been with them for ten years.”
“Fascinating.” He leaned closer to brush his lips across her forehead.
She closed her eyes, which only made her more aware of his warmth, his nearness, the feel of his fingers on her skin.
“I…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t remember exactly what it was they’d been talking about.
“How old are you, Savannah?”
‘I’m…um…thirty.” It had taken her a moment to remember.