But her arm burned from the condescending pat. Daddy didn’t fool her one bit. His only goal was to keep her as far from Justin as he could.
Before she was more than half-aware of her actions, she was on her feet. “I’ll do it.”
Al recorded the veterinarian’s name in his notebook as she left her chair and approached, her feet dragging. For a moment when Millie stood, he feared she’d been about to volunteer. Thank goodness he wasn’t put in the position of trying to talk sense into her in front of half the town.
Thacker, with his finger hovering over his tablet, directed a question to Jerry. “What position are these girlies going to play?”
Sharon fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “They’re women, not girlies.”
Oblivious as usual, Thacker nodded vaguely. “So what positions?”
Jerry contemplated his team. “Tell you what. Let’s practice a bit of catching first before we decide.”
“Good idea.” Justin sketched an imaginary line with his finger. “Line up there, and Little Norm and I will throw.”
They started to move, and Jerry called, “There’s some extra gloves in that tote over there if you didn’t bring one.”
When everyone stood in the line, Al took up a position to one side. What was the manager supposed to do during practice?
Thacker bounded up beside him. “Let me see your roster, Bert. I’ll update the names in my database.”
Swallowing a wave of annoyance, Al held his notebook out for Thacker’s inspection. Curious in spite of himself, Al asked, “What’s your program supposed to do, anyway?”
“It’ll evaluate the players’ performance and identify their strengths and weaknesses. I’ve built an algorithm to analyze the data I input over the next few practices.” His thumbs tapped with impressive speed.
Al looked up in time to see Little Norm execute an underhanded toss to Susan, who shut her eyes and cringed. The ball bounced off her foot.
“Seems to me their weaknesses are going to be pretty obvious,” Al commented drily.
“Oh, Bert, you’ll be surprised at what comes out of this program.” Thacker entered the final name and grinned at him. “It’ll be good stuff, I garr-own-tee.” He hee-hawed, ending in the nerve-grinding snort that Al heard from the other side of his cubicle wall all day long.
Catching practice lasted thirty minutes. As her boys had asserted, Alice caught every ball, even the overhanded pitches that Justin started lobbing her way. To Al’s surprise, Norman didn’t miss a single ball. Hard to tell from where he stood, but it did appear that Little Norm’s pitches to his father lacked the intensity of the others.
Thacker took careful notes. What data was he entering? And more importantly, was he doing something the manager should be doing? Al strained his neck to see, but the tablet’s screen couldn’t be read from the side.
“I think that’s good for now.” Jerry stepped out of the catching line. “Let’s practice some hitting. Al, you want to get the bats ready?”
At the mention of his name, Al perked up. Finally, something to do. He located a pile of softball bats and lined them out on the ground in order of weight while Justin organized the team.
“Little Norm, you’re on the mound.” He pointed to the chalk X in the center of the makeshift infield. “Alice, I’d like you over by third until your turn to bat. Junior, you cover second.”
Junior’s mouth drew into a pout. “I’m the shortstop.”
“I know. This is only for batting practice.” Justin smiled until the pout disappeared and Junior headed for his assigned position. “And Chuck, let’s put you there near first.”
The rest of the team lined up along the baseline between third and home. First up was Susan, who approached Al like she was heading for the firing squad. She studied the bats a moment and then lifted a helpless expression to him. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Her confession stirred pity in Al. Poor girl.
“Neither do I,” he confided in a low voice. He retrieved the lightest bat. “Why don’t you give this one a try?”
Fred, his face protected by a catcher’s mask, hovered behind the X that indicated home plate. Jerry came to stand beside Al while Justin guided Susan to the batter’s position with an arm around her shoulder.
He backed away. “Okay, let’s see your stance.”
From where he stood Al couldn’t see her expression, but from the way Justin’s face softened, her terror must have been obvious. He moved her a step closer to the X and arranged her hands on the bat.
“Place your feet apart,” he instructed. “Now hold the bat up here like this.” He placed her arms in the proper position and then stepped back to inspect her. “There. That’s your stance. Does it feel comfortable?”
Though she faced the other way, her shrill answer carried on the evening air. “Are you kidding? Of course it’s not comfortable.”
Al exchanged a glance with Jerry. Would this ballgame result in a lover’s quarrel? Seemed likely at this point.
Justin’s eyebrows rose slightly, but his smile stayed in place. “It will eventually. Now, watch the ball. When it gets about here”—he leaped in front of her and held a fist in the air—“swing at it.” He shouted to Little Norm. “Nice and slow, okay?”
Little Norm nodded, adjusted his footing, and tossed a slow, underhanded pitch. The ball passed by Susan, who never moved, and thudded solidly into Fred’s glove.
Justin’s expression did not change. “You have to keep your eyes open, Suz. Otherwise you won’t be able to see the ball.”
“I know that,” she snapped. Then her voice took on a fearful wail. “But what if it hits me?”
“I promise you, it’s not going to hit you.” He pointed to the pitcher. “See Little Norm out there? He’s way too good to hit a batter. Come on, let’s try it again.”
Fred threw the ball back to Little Norm, who caught it deftly. The second pitch was as accurate as the first, and this time Susan swung. The ball sailed past her.
“Okay, that was better. A second too early, but not bad. Let’s try another one.” He called toward the pitcher, “Just like that.”
During the next six attempts, anxious tension gathered in the air around the pasture. Al glanced at the watching crowd. Even from the distance, he could see Millie’s taut frame and worried expression. Violet perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped in front of her mouth as if in prayer. Susan’s father sat with his arms folded across his chest, his tight-lipped scowl clearly visible.
As the ninth pitch sailed through the air, the mayor drew in an audible breath. Though Al detected no difference in Susan’s swing, she finally connected with a satisfying crack when the ball met wood. A cheer rose from the crowd and from the team. Al and Jerry exchanged relieved smiles.
Susan stood frozen as the ball sailed through the air for a few yards and then rolled toward third base.
“Run!” Justin shouted, grinning and giving her a gentle shove.
She did. Alice dashed forward and scooped up the ball. She made eye contact with Chuck, who stood near first base with his glove ready. For a few heartbeats nothing happened, and Al looked from Alice to Susan, still clutching the bat as she dashed toward first with impressive speed. Not until she’d almost arrived did Alice throw the ball, a strong pitch directly to Chuck, who caught it and turned to tag Susan… too late. She sailed past the base mark amid cheers and applause. The grin she turned on Justin held enough triumph to light a stadium.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Great job. Now come on back.” He addressed the rest of the team. “We’ll run the bases later. For now, let’s just practice hitting. Okay with you, coach?”
Jerry splayed his hands. “Fine with me.”
The next player in line, Norman, shuffled over to the bats. He picked up three, testing the balance of each and gazing down its length like inspecting a pool cue before finally selecting one. Al made a note beside his name, recording his selection. Apparently he was goi
ng to be the bat boy as well as the manager, and that was okay by him. The last thing he wanted was to stand there looking like a useless appendage. Like Thacker. Al glanced behind him to find Thacker’s thumbs drumming on his tablet.
With a nod at Justin, Norman took his stance. “Come on, sonny,” he called toward the pitcher. “Gimme a good ’un and watch ’er fly.”
The difference between this pitch and the previous ones was obvious to even Al’s untrained eye. The ball sped toward the batter box, and Fred hunched down, catcher’s mitt poised to receive it. But to Al’s surprise, Norman’s swing connected. The ball soared into the air, heading toward third base. More cheers erupted from the watchers.
Norman dropped his bat and took off—well, it couldn’t exactly be called running. He half-jogged, half-sauntered down the baseline with his odd bowlegged gait. He hadn’t taken four steps before Alice raced backward, watching the ball’s arc, and nabbed it out of the air.
“Looks like we have our third baseman,” Jerry commented to Al. “Or third basewoman.”
Any answer Al might have made died on his lips as he watched Norman, who turned his head to watch Alice catch his fly ball and promptly tripped over his own feet. Down he went, to an audible gasp from the crowd. He landed with a thud, rolled onto his back, and began yelling with more volume than Al would have thought a man his age could produce. Everyone on the field raced toward him, Justin arriving a second before Little Norm.
“Twisted my dadburned ankle,” he moaned as Al approached. “On account of this dadburned uneven ground, and a dadburned clump of grass.”
“Lie still, Pa,” commanded Little Norm. “Let me see if it’s broken.”
“It ain’t broke,” his father snapped. “I’ve had broke bones afore, and I know what they feel like. This’un’s just sprained.”
Eulie arrived, along with several of her friends. She stood over her husband. “What’ve you gone and done now? Didn’t I say you was too old to go running around bases with the young folks?”
Justin looked up from his inspection of Norman’s ankle. “I don’t think it’s broken, but a doctor needs to take a look at him. Somebody want to call an ambulance?”
Norman erupted, jerking up to a sitting position. “I ain’t ridin’ in no dadburned ambulance.”
“I’ll take him.”
Little Norm stooped down to slip a strong arm around his father’s waist while Jerry supported him from the other side. Moving slowly, they got him upright. The fact that he could walk, albeit leaning heavily on his son and cursing the dadburned everything, was a good indication that the ankle was, indeed, only sprained. Safely loaded in Little Norm’s pickup, the team and onlookers watched as they pulled down the gravel drive and turned onto the road.
Jerry folded one arm across his middle, propped his elbow, and rubbed his fingers across his mouth. “I guess I have some more calls to make. Looks like we’re down a player.”
“Be nice to have some reserve players,” Justin commented.
A flash of guilt attacked Al. Should he offer to play? No, he’d end up like Norman, being hauled off the field and taken to the hospital. And if by some miracle he managed to escape injury, he would only humiliate himself. The veterinarian was a better player than him.
Chapter Five
Jerry’s hand tightened on the receiver, and he worked to keep his tone even. “I know that, Theo, but at this point I don’t have a choice. Either I play, or we can’t field a team.”
A chuckle sounded through the phone. “Having a rough time getting volunteers, are you? Not surprised. You don’t have much of a pool to draw from over there.”
Teeth clenched, Jerry drew in a quiet breath. Goose Creek was roughly half the size of Morleyville, a fact that its mayor, Theo Fitzgerald, loved to point out at the county mayoral meetings.
“We had a man injured last night. One of our best players.”
“Norman Pilkington is one of your best players?” Now the chuckle became an open guffaw. “This game is going to be more fun than I thought.”
Jerry rocked forward in his chair, spine stiffening. How did Theo know what happened at their first practice? One of last night’s onlookers must have connections in the enemy camp. They had a spy on their hands.
Voice still infused with amusement, Theo said, “If you can’t even scrounge up nine players, maybe you want to go ahead and forfeit.”
Jerry chose to ignore the comment and answered only when he was certain no hint of irritation would sound in his voice. “There’s nothing that says the coach can’t play too, is there?”
“Heck, we made the rules. You know there isn’t.”
“Fine. That’s all I wanted to know.” He managed to eek out a fairly polite, “Talk to you later, Theo,” before pressing the button to disconnect the call. He replaced the receiver and slumped in his chair. The field chart spread out on his desk contained eight penciled-in names. The half-dozen calls he’d made this morning had garnered nothing except six polite but firm, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Where was that famous all-American love of baseball? Was he the only Goose Creek resident who wanted to uphold their town’s honor?
His gaze slid toward the telephone. Okay, so maybe this game represented something a bit more than a friendly game between towns. If he could once—just once—wipe that arrogant smirk off of Theo Fitzgerald’s face.
Though it pained him, he picked up the pencil and wrote his own name on the line above the X representing first base.
The door opened and his secretary stuck her head into his office. “You’d better hightail it over to the water tower. There’s a ruckus about to start.”
Jerry dropped his head onto his hands. “Of course there is. Because today wasn’t bad enough already.”
Sally gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he passed her on his way out.
The water tower stood at the south end of Main Street, a three-minute walk from city hall. Four spindly legs rose one hundred thirty feet into the air, its bucket-shaped barrel topped with a pointed dome that Jerry privately thought resembled a dunce cap. When the repainting was completed, the tower would become a Goose Creek icon, an artistic representation of the quaint and tranquil town. At least, that’s what he hoped. Over the past few months the tower had been a source of turmoil and civic unrest.
He heard the voices before he rounded the Whistlestop Diner, while the base of the tower’s support structure was still out of view. Not shouting, but containing enough emotion that they carried through the air. Sharp, shrill voices he recognized before he saw the speakers.
“It’s too blue, that’s all.” Betty Hunsaker stood with her arms crossed, neck craned back. “Maybe you’re too close to see it when you’re up there, but it’s perfectly obvious from here.”
Sandra, wearing a T-shirt that may once have been white but was now covered in rainbow-smattered stains, maintained a patient smile, though as Jerry drew nearer he thought the corners of her mouth looked a bit strained. “It may look that way now, but when I’m finished I promise you’ll be pleased.”
“Paint doesn’t change color.” Frieda shook her head, disapproval carved into the lines on her forehead. “If it’s blue now, it’ll be blue when you finish.”
“Good morning, ladies.” Jerry nodded at the three. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Nothing.” Betty flashed a sugary smile sideways toward Sandra. “Nothing that can’t be corrected, anyway.”
The painter caught his gaze in a steady one of her own. “Seems some of the folks in town don’t like what they’re seeing, so they sent a delegation to tell me about it.”
Jerry arched his eyebrows. “That true, Frieda?”
The woman didn’t meet his eye. “Well, not an official delegation. We just wanted to offer our assistance before it was too late to fix the obvious problems.”
He stared upward. Splashes of color on the tower’s barrel interrupted the uniform gray in an uneven pattern. “I don’t see anything I’d call a pro
blem.” He cocked his head. “In fact, I don’t see anything at all.”
Sandra laughed, a deep, booming sound of mirth worthy of a Texan. “Not much there to see yet, is there?”
Betty’s tone became the slightest bit condescending. “Is that blue down at the bottom supposed to be grass?”
“What’s that squiggly line running through the grass?” Frieda pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and opened it. Jerry recognized a copy of Sandra’s sketch for her artwork, the one included in the proposal that had won her the painting job. They’d posted it on the town’s website along with the minutes from the council meeting. Frieda traced a line on the paper. “If that’s the creek, it’s too high. And is that blotch in the sky a goose? Looks more like a woodpecker.”
The artist exercised more patience than Jerry could have managed. “I’m testing the colors. You can look at paint in a can all day long, but you don’t know what you’ve got until you see it in use.”
That stopped the complaining for a moment while the pair exchanged a glance.
Betty sniffed. “Then I hope it’s as obvious to you as it is to the rest of us that the colors you’ve chosen are all wrong.”
“When they’re layered they’ll look completely different,” Sandra explained. “Trust me. I’ve done this before.”
A chilly smile flashed onto Frieda’s face. “I’m sure you have. But when you’re finished, you’ll leave town. Those of us who live here will have to look at these colors for years.”
From where he stood, Jerry watched Sandra’s jaw bulge slightly as she clenched her teeth. Time to intervene before the woman blew a gasket.
He stepped between Betty and Frieda. “I’m sure Sandra appreciates your feedback, but I think we can leave this to her judgment.” Placing an arm behind each of them, he exerted gentle pressure to lead them away. They dug in their heels.
“We were on our way to your office next,” Frieda informed him. “Since you’re here, you’ve saved us the trip.”
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