Shadow Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 1)

by Taeuffer, Pam

  "Ula." She shook my hand. "I'd love it if you did." She was an attractive Fijian woman with short black hair, brown eyes, and smooth, brown skin. She had only one leg.

  We chatted a bit to get comfortable with each other, and then did a duet of Blowin’ in the Wind. A small crowd gathered around and joined in. It was fun singing with them and when we finished, we were asked to continue. We did upbeat versions of two folk songs I’d learned at summer camp: If I had a Hammer and Kumbaya.

  Receiving a robust and loud round of applause, we drew several people to us and the entire group talked for a while.

  "When are you going to be released, Ula?" I helped her gather her sheet music.

  "In a few days."

  "Oh, you must be so excited!"

  "I am, but I'm also afraid." She strummed a few chords on her guitar. "Last time I was out in the world I had two legs."

  "Will the Veterans' Program help you?"

  "I hope so. In the meantime I'm staying with my parents. Thank God they're okay with it." She went on to discuss how she was working with Paul to fund a music program she'd put together for the vets. Her face lit up with joy as she told me about the details. "I want to come back twice a week to teach guitar and singing. I hope to put together a group that travels all over the country."

  "Sounds wonderful. You're a natural, Ula." I folded my hands in my lap. "I'm sure you'll get funded after what I've just heard."

  "Are you in college?" She opened a bottle of water and took a few sips from it.

  "Going to be. I'm studying business entertainment marketing." I explained the concept.

  "Well, maybe we'll run into each other again. Excuse me, will you? I've got to check in with Paul on some paperwork and I see he's finally free."

  I turned to see him waiving to her.

  "It was nice singing with you." I shook her hand. "Thanks for sharing with me." I started to leave the room when I saw Ryan had been sitting in the back of the room.

  “Wow, your voice is beautiful.” He stood up. "Have you ever thought about pursuing a singing career?”

  “I’ve been in chorus since junior high and performed at school and church, but I want a career that lasts. Singing is a long shot.”

  “That makes sense." He stroked his chin. "In the meantime, you’ve got everyone here under your spell.”

  “I think it was Ula, but thanks for saying that.”

  Our plan was to visit each veteran five to ten minutes. Ryan made his rounds, but I ended up spending most of my day with a young man named Johnny Mantle. He was twenty years old, had very short blond hair and pale blue eyes; one of them was obviously impaired. A portion of Johnny’s skull had been replaced with a steel plate. Even though his face sagged because of his damaged brain, when he smiled, he was beautiful.

  We’d been talking for more than an hour when Ryan joined us. I could tell Johnny knew him by the way his expression brightened.

  “Hi, I’m . . .” Ryan extended his hand. Before he could say his name, Johnny interrupted.

  “Tilton!”

  “Ryan,” he smiled. “Just Ryan. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  Johnny talked rapidly, in short sentences, and changed the subject often. In only a moment he would switch from the Goliaths’ season to how much he loved his mom, and from Ryan’s pitching to Iraq, then circle again to Ryan's pitching. His conversation was shattered just as he’d been, and the small pieces of incomplete stories tried to form whole, succinct thoughts.

  I considered him an amazing man.

  “Do you have any souvenirs from the Goliaths?” Ryan stood up. I assumed he was leaving.

  “I had a ball, but . . .” he shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” A few minutes later, Ryan returned with a baseball. He signed it in front of Johnny. “Here you go, just for you.”

  Johnny read the words out loud. “To Johnny Mantle, USA hero. From Ryan Tilton.” He gripped the ball to his chest. “Thanks, I root for you.”

  “I root for you, too.” Ryan put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Thank you for everything you did. I’m very grateful.”

  Hold it together, Nicky. Don’t cry in front of them.

  I tried to push down the feelings stirring inside me. The sensitive brilliance of the wonderful man who'd shared his special place with me had risen unexpectedly. I felt a warm pulse start deep inside my belly. It beat all throughout our day.

  “When will you guys be back?” Johnny's smile was innocent and hopeful.

  “Next week.” I didn’t wait for Ryan’s answer. Regardless of what my teammates decided, I knew I wanted to return. Whatever it was, whether the stories from those brave men and women who served our country, or the gentle man with whom I was now talking, I was moved in ways I couldn’t fully grasp.

  I was overwhelmed by another world opening to me.

  I was waking up.

  “Maybe I can get my dad to come here,” I said as we were leaving. “He’d enjoy sharing his stories of being in the army.” Still hopeful I could bring back the days when my father was sober and participated in my life, I knew in reality it would be a long shot that he’d ever go there with me.

  I didn’t stop talking until we got in the car. Ryan just listened to me and when I finally stopped, his wry smile bloomed.

  Crap, what did I say now?

  “What? Did I talk too much again?”

  “No.” He slipped his key into the ignition. “You’re exactly right.”

  “Far from it," I buckled my seatbelt. "That’s what you said about the scones.”

  “Not too far. I wasn’t talking about the scones earlier.” His voice was like warm hands massaging my body.

  Oh damn!

  “Do you have time to have a late lunch with me, Ms. Young?”

  “Yeah! I know a good hamburger stand in St. Helena, right on the main drag. They also make tacos, chili, sandwiches, and salads. I forget what it's called, but my high school team has our volleyball tournaments up here sometimes and that's where we go to eat. I'm on the team I guess you've surmised.”

  “I was thinking of something else, if that’s okay,” he chuckled.

  “Whatever you’re in the mood for,” I said curtly, immediately assuming he discounted my suggestion.

  “Um . . . I can be in the mood for . . . a lot of things.”

  No one who’s accomplished what he has could be interested in me the way he’s projecting. He's flirting, isn't he? Or he's just joking to see how far he can push me. Yes, that's it. I’m probably taking him wrong, but here I go.

  “Ryan?”

  “Yes, Ms. Young?”

  “I may be naive, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You’re laughing at me, and you’ve been doing it off and on all day. This morning when I didn’t know if you were dressing in your uniform. Maybe it was stupid to you, but I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t out of place, that’s all.”

  “I’m not laughing at you.” His voice lost all humor and his expression turned serious. “I’m amused, surprised, overwhelmed, but laughing at you—no. I am, however, thoroughly enjoying every opportunity to tease you. You’re very, very cute to tease.”

  I know. I put my foot in my mouth all the time.

  A new softness seemed to cover me. I was reminded of the heated liquid in a burning candle—that milky and soft substance that releases, spills, and falls from its waxy top, pouring like water from the candle’s flame, and then becoming pliable and silky as it settles around its base.

  Emotions I’d never experienced or acknowledged were now coming to the surface.

  It was as if my emotions had melted down and were slowly molding into different ideas and feelings, like soft, melting, wax.

  Whatever the reason, that day my heart seemed to beat differently—I hoped for joy.

  I'd never dared to allow myself to look for it.

  I never believed I'd have it.

  My bo
dy tuned in to a language I’d never known.

  “She” was coming to life and calling out for the first time: “Let go and step into the light of risk. Wake up, Nicky."

  Chapter 10

  Lunch and Tattoos

  Ryan parked the car outside a small bistro located on one of the side streets in St. Helena.

  “I love your idea of the hamburger stand you enjoy, but do you mind if we eat in? Part of what comes with a little success is being noticed. I’d like to sit in a quiet corner where I can focus all of my attention on you.”

  “That’s fine,” I replied. “Eating inside, I mean.”

  “You’re quick," he shot back.

  “Quick?” I’m not giving you one inch.

  “You know what I mean,” he looked at me with heavy lidded eyes that almost took me to my knees.

  I didn't know what to do with that look. I felt as if I needed to rip the neck of my T-shirt to get some air. I wanted him to stop teasing me, but at the same time it felt so good.

  We stood in front of the bistro, near the bar, waiting for a table to open in the back of the restaurant. It wasn't long before Ryan was recognized by some of his fans.

  I enjoyed watching the way he accommodated them. He signed autographs, posed for a few photos, and talked about the baseball season and the Goliaths chances for the postseason.

  “He your boyfriend?” I was standing in the background so I wouldn't interrupt, when the bartender introduced himself. "Cal."

  “Nicky. No, we volunteered at the Veterans’ Hospital together.” I rested my hand on the bar.

  “He’s a big dude.” He wiped a few glasses dry.

  Have you seen his chest?

  “He pitches for the Goliaths,” I informed him.

  “I know.” His smile told me he wished he could be one of the fans posing with him. “Do you want a drink while you wait?”

  “Sure, a diet soda please. Is it okay if I sit here?” I pulled out one of the stools.

  “Absolutely.” He wiped the counter in front of me. “So, do you volunteer regularly?”

  “Yes, I volunteer at . . .” I rolled on after sitting down, telling him about my plan and the charities I visited. During our conversation, Ryan looked up from signing an autograph and excused himself.

  “Shall we sit down?” He gestured to the back of the restaurant.

  “I don’t think our table’s ready.” I slid off the barstool.

  “We'll wait while they finish,” he said firmly.

  “Oh yeah. Ryan, this is Cal, and Cal—"

  “Cal, nice to meet you,” Ryan interrupted and then shook his hand. We immediately walked to a table in the corner. His fingertips rested on my lower back. I felt as if he were guiding and protecting me at the same time.

  One of the staff had just finished placing the final spoon on a napkin and told us he’d be back with menus. He left us with a basket of bread and two glasses of water. I started to sit down and Ryan pulled out the chair for me.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to do with all this." I scooted closer to the table. "I don’t go out much.”

  “Don’t you date?”

  “Well . . .” I didn’t want him to think I was weird but I decided to be honest. “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No,” I repeated. "I don't need to be reminded that I'm weird."

  “You're far from weird, whatever that means, it's just hard to believe. You’re so, uh . . . such an intelligent woman.” He blushed and tried to hide a smile.

  “Yeah, well, thanks, but I don’t want any trouble. Even if I did date, none of the boys I know would be as polite as you've been. By the way, that was really nice of you back there with your fans. How come you don't sign many autographs at the ballpark?”

  “You watch me?"

  Oh damn. I just revealed too much.

  "Well, I try to pay attention to all the players," I cleared my throat. "I try and get an idea of who might throw a ball to a child or sign his or her cap, so . . ."

  "You're very sweet. You know that about yourself, don't you?" He paused, but I let him continue. "I try to be as accommodating as I can, but there are always people I have to cut off or don't have the time for. In someone's eyes I’m always an ass. In a way, athletes are like characters in a comic book. It’s especially difficult when I’m trying to pay attention to the lovely woman I’m with and people won’t leave me alone.”

  “Yeah, I guess that would be hard.” I didn’t understand what he meant. “That’s true in all walks of life. Everyone wants a piece of whatever we have to give.”

  God, he’s handsome. Why is he looking at me that way?

  “What?” I tried to break the electric silence. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You’ve said more than you know." He folded his napkin across his lap. "No wonder you’ve applied to Stanford.”

  “Well,” I started to push off his comment like I always did whenever someone said something nice about me. “Thanks. I have a hard time taking compliments so . . . just thanks.”

  “I’ll make sure you get lots of practice then.”

  What? How?

  The waiter brought us menus, cited the daily specials, asked what we wanted to drink, and promised to return quickly.

  “So according to your plan you’ll be studying business entertainment marketing. What do you see yourself doing with a degree like that?”

  “Doing with it?"

  “It sounds interesting, but I really don’t get it.” He took a drink of water and reached for a piece of bread.

  “It’s kind of new, well, to me." I laid out an invisible book on the table, spreading it open with my hands. "Entertainment Marketing uses the principles of gathering clients through goodwill. It's like . . . paying it forward by encouraging business to hire first time job seekers, over fifty-five and disabled adults, teens or first time job seekers from low-income neighborhoods, and people with other employment challenges.

  “Available positions are actually internships that provide on the job training,” I continued. “The goal is match a prospect with an employer who might hire them permanently or even light an entrepreneurial fire inside them.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Ryan repeated.

  The waiter returned with a refill for our waters, and an order pad. Their special of the day was crab cakes.

  "Do you like crab cakes?" They're my favorite . . . I hope he likes them.

  "Love them," he confirmed.

  "Okay with you if I order them for an appetizer?"

  "Two orders," Ryan said to the waiter. "Salad and soup for me. Nicky?"

  "Same."

  "Got it," our waiter replied. "Would you like a refill on your soda, Miss?"

  "Not right now, thanks." I shook my head.

  He tucked a pencil behind his ear, tore off the order from his pad, smiled and walked away.

  "Continue, Ms. Young."

  “The whole thing is marketing by using creative and entertaining strategies that bring revenue to business through the education and teaching of new skills to people who haven’t been successful through traditional channels. For young adults or teens the purpose is to encourage a path that furthers their education by giving them a chance to showcase their skills.

  "For example, the Goliaths accepted the cheer team. Because we came up with something that was a first for professional baseball, we’ll probably get into the college of our choice. Through our success, management hopes for new income streams and they expect that in the future, we'll donate or spend marketing dollars with them—and they're right!

  "Imagine . . ." Stop for God sakes! His eyes will glaze over any time now. "Painters could be trained by covering graffiti around the city with wild, artistic abandon. As long as the graffiti is covered and the finish is within agreed guidelines, who cares?”

  I waved my overly expressive hands in the air.

  “That’s damn creative, Nicky.”

  “Thank you.” I puffed up a little
and explained my inspiration. “The idea came to me when I was volunteering at St. Anthony’s kitchen. So many people that came through the line were unemployed who seemed to be intelligent and could surely contribute somewhere.”

  I wondered if he might want a beer and was holding back because of my age, so I changed the subject.

  “You can have a beer if you want. Don’t pretend just because I’m under age. My friends drink all the time.”

  I know all about alcohol.

  Our food was ready and our order was placed in front of us.

  “I don’t drink. Do you want to order another soda or . . .”

  An athlete who doesn’t drink?

  “Iced tea please.” I'd had my one diet soda limit for the day.

  “Make that two.” He smiled at the waiter.

  What a boyfriend he’d be to someone.

  “Do you have a special lady in your life?” My curiosity got the best of me. “I’ve heard there’s a blonde lady you hang with, but I haven’t seen her.”

  “I'm working on someone special.” His eyes twinkled.

  “That makes sense. Her name’s Jesse?”

  “No.” His face scrunched.

  “Do you like someone on the cheer team?” I blurted.

  “What gives you that idea?” His lips quivered.

  “I, um . . .” I wasn’t ready to reveal that I’d heard him talking with Kevin in the outfield. I knew that he knew, but I panicked. “I thought I heard a rumor.”

  “You thought or you actually heard?” He raised an eyebrow.

  Oh, God. He knows. I know he knows. Doesn't he?

  “Thought—just thought. What do you mean you’re working on her?”

  “I’m trying to get her to be aware of . . . more.”

  “Aware of more? If she's doesn't recognize what you want, maybe you're not making yourself clear. That's not her fault.”

  “You're probably right, Ms. Young. What I'm trying to do is make her aware of me.”

  “How could she not be aware of you? You're in the spotlight, you're um . . . well, you must know you're handsome, and of course successful. I don’t get it. She must be crazy not to notice you. These crab cakes are delicious." I took a big bite.