by Susan Wiggs
“You’re doing it right now,” she said. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“I’d never.”
“Seriously, we’ve got work to do. We need to review that filmed interview, see how you did and figure out what to focus on.”
“Cool. I’ll get my laptop.”
“Good idea. We’ll all watch it after breakfast.”
Bagwell, Daphne and Dino filed in for breakfast. Penelope put on a fresh pot of coffee. Day by day, Kim was getting used to this house full of people—the chatter at breakfast, the clink of dishes and her mother’s flair at the simple act of serving food. Lately Kim noticed Dino’s attentions to her mother. Penelope’s coffee cup was always full, her chair always held for her. This guy meant business, and he was going about it in the right way.
After breakfast, Bo set up the laptop on the dining room buffet. “So this is an interview from back in November, after tryouts,” he said. “It’s the kind of thing a player’s supposed to do on a regular basis.”
While the video was loading, AJ grabbed his backpack. “I better go,” he said. “Almost time for the bus.”
Interesting, Kim observed. He had a good ten minutes before the bus. He seemed to be in a hurry. Following the New York incident, AJ had turned into a bus-riding pro. Bo had promised that if he went AWOL again, he’d find himself being driven to and from school every day, something no middle-schooler wanted. Also, AJ was nobody’s fool. He’d realized that his behavior could affect his mother’s case. When the stakes were this high, everything mattered.
“That book report you wrote is still on the printer,” Bo reminded him. “And do you have that signed permission slip for the field trip to West Point?”
“Yeah,” AJ said, heading into the study for his homework. “See you later.”
“You have a good day, now.” Bo’s gaze followed the boy out the door.
“You’re getting pretty good at sounding like a parent,” Bagwell observed.
“You think?” Bo smiled a little, but worry lingered in his eyes. Kim knew he phoned the school every morning to make sure AJ had arrived. In a short time, Bo had come a long way from the guy she’d encountered at the airport. That brutally cold morning, she never would have guessed he’d become someone she couldn’t stop thinking about.
Reining in her thoughts, she turned up the volume on the laptop. The segment opened with canned sports-show music and the MLB logo, followed by a tight shot of the new stadium. Then the camera panned across the handful of players who had received precontract invitations to spring training. There were a lot of hoops to jump through to get on the coveted roster, and this was an early one. Blowing it at any stage could mean the end of a dream.
Lined up in front of two shared mics, the players took turns fielding questions. They all looked so young and green, all so clearly nervous in front of the unfortunate backdrop of a gray cinderblock wall, the table stark and unadorned in front of each man.
Kim couldn’t take her eyes off Bo on the small screen. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. None of his magnetism or natural charm came through. Instead, he resembled an ex-con defending himself, right down to the hair hanging lank around his face, which was disreputably marred by a five-o’clock shadow. His delivery alternated between forgettable and offensive. Asked about his background, he offered a toneless resumé of previous experience. And when asked about the incidence of a pitcher in his age range making it in the majors, he responded, “I reckon they’re rare as
“Hey,” said Bagwell. “What’d they bleep out?”
“I think I said tits. Yeah, rare as tits on a bullfrog.”
“You can’t say things like that,” Kim pointed out over Bagwell’s guffaws. “Now, hush up and let me listen.”
The rest of the interview was as excruciating as the first part, a disaster made of awkward silences, studied stiffness, inappropriate language and a veritable symphony of ambient noises—shuffling feet, throat-clearing, heavy breathing into the mic, sloshing water glasses.
I’ve got my work cut out for me, she thought.
When the interview ground to a halt, Bo’s image stayed frozen on the computer screen. He wore the haunted expression of a man facing a firing squad. In the ensuing vacuum of silence at the end of the video, everyone around the table seemed to be at a loss for words.
Finally, Daphne passed around a plate of pastries from Sky River Bakery, helping herself to one. “Have one—better for your mental health than an hour of psychotherapy.”
“But higher in calories,” said Kim’s mother, taking a bear claw.
“How’d I do?” Bo asked, clueless.
“Honestly?” Kim’s appetite was gone. “You were like a prisoner under interrogation.”
“C’mon, I wasn’t that bad.” He grabbed a powdered doughnut from the plate. “Was I?”
“Yes.” Everyone around the table answered at once.
“Listen, don’t be discouraged. It’s a learning process. That’s why there’s fame school,” Kim said, going into rah-rah coaching mode. “That’s where I come in. It’s training, like anything else. You have thirty seconds to make them remember you.” She indicated the frozen screen. “All they’re going to remember from that is being bored.”
“Ouch,” said Dino, wincing.
“I think they’ll remember when he called Roger Clemens ‘dumber than a bag of hammers,’” Daphne said.
“Well, he is,” Bo insisted. “So’s any other juicer. I hate that shit.”
“Hate it all you want,” Kim said, “but keep the interview about you. Honestly, you’ve got a lot to learn. That was, to put it mildly, a complete disaster.”
He put on a fake announcer’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, and it’s Kimberly van Dorn out of the bullpen, warming up for what promises to be a great game.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“Whoa, look who woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning. You agreed to do this,” he reminded her.
“For AJ’s sake. Remember, that’s how you talked me into doing this. I like AJ.”
“What about me? Don’t you like me, even a little bit?”
She sniffed, forbidding herself to think about the way her nerve endings fired every time she was around him. “The jury is still out on you. Just don’t start acting like one of my usual clients. You’re not like them.”
“Right. They’re all rich and successful. And I’m not.”
“But you aspire to be.”
“I aspire to play ball. It’s what I’ve always aspired to do.” His eyes lit with passion. “The rest—money and fame—it may or may not happen. But if I’m in the game, then I’m happy.”
She stared at him. “Oh, my God.”
“Now what’d I do?” He held his hands with his palms up.
“I can see it in your face. You’re really not concerned about being rich and famous. You genuinely love the sport.”
“Well, excuse the crap out of me. Of course I love the sport. Why the hell else would I play year in and year out for no money, tending bar and doing odd jobs just to buy groceries? If this was about the money, I would have bought into a car dealership or gone to work on an oil rig in the South China Sea. But baseball for the money?” He threw back his head and offered up his signature Bo Crutcher laugh, showing the easy humor that was so conspicuously absent from his interview persona. When he realized he was the only one laughing, he quit. “What? How come you’re looking at me like that?”
She couldn’t help herself. When she was in the grip of inspiration, she tended to stare, mouth agape. “That’s genius,” she said.
“What?” He bit into the powdered doughnut, showering his chest with white flurries. “Me?”
She caught herself staring at his white lips. “Right. No, I mean, what you just said—that’s who you are. You spoke from
the heart and you told the truth, and that’s going to endear you to people. Everyone will remember your sincerity.”
“The baseball player who likes baseball? How is that different from any other player?” he asked.
“It’s not the sentiment that’s so different. A lot of athletes like their sport. It’s your delivery I liked. Everyone’s going to like it.”
“Yeah?” He grabbed a napkin and brushed at the powdered sugar, which merely served to smear it on his navy blue sweatshirt. “Hey, Dino,” he said, “I’m a genius. Kim here just said I’m a genius.”
Dino eyed him briefly, focusing on the powdered sugar. “Uh-huh.”
“The thing I always used to ask my clients to do is to tell their story,” Kim said. “Unfortunately, a lot of them don’t do it well. Or their story is boring. Some of them—too many—started training for their sport at such a young age that they never had a chance to decide for themselves whether or not they love the game.”
“And Bo simply loves the game,” her mother said, beaming. “That’s lovely.”
“It makes my job easier, having a client people are going to like. I’ve had my fill of clients I had to persuade the media to like.”
“Cool,” said Bo. “So I’m good to go?”
She shook her head. “Not even close.”
“Fine, then just tell me what I need to do. It’s your specialty, right? Turning a diamond in the rough into a polished gem.”
She regarded him skeptically. “Assuming there’s a precious stone under that exterior.”
“Ha. You know it, sugar pie.”
“New rule,” she said. “Don’t go around calling women names like sugar pie.”
“If I called men names like that, people would think I’m queer.”
“And don’t say queer.”
“Everybody says queer. It’s even in the name of that show.”
“It’s a matter of context. And judgment. Just do yourself a favor and don’t use that word.”
“What should I use? Ho-mo-sexual?” He separated the word into obnoxious-sounding syllables.
“How about you avoid the subject altogether? People can go for long periods of time without debating sexual orientation.” She assessed him with her eyes. “Unless this is a preoccupation of yours.”
He snorted. “Right. You slay me, lady. You really do. First, you rag on me for being a Lothario. Which, by the way, I looked up. I’m nothing like that guy. He was banging anything in hoop skirts. And I’m not. I don’t have that problem. At the moment, my biggest problem is you. And you’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I am, but I need some cooperation from you.”
“You got it,” he said, polishing off the doughnut. “Sugar pie.”
Chapter Nineteen
Kim insisted on getting an early start each morning. By eight o’clock, she was either on the phone or at the computer, preparing her game plan for Bo Crutcher. And finally, for the first time since she’d fled from L.A., she felt anchored to something. She was in her element. It was pathetic, discovering how much she missed this part of her old life. She couldn’t help herself—the work brought her an incredible sense of satisfaction. The pressure and challenge of it was exciting. Even the seeming impossibility of making someone like Bo Crutcher into a star was exhilarating.
She consulted the off-season schedule provided by Gus Carlyle, then glanced through the open door at her client, who was currently in the sitting room, teaching his son “Deep in the Heart of Texas” on his electric bass, killing time before the bus. Since Bo had decided to stay in Avalon, there had been a perceptible thawing in AJ’s attitude. Every once in a while, the boy forgot his worries about his mother, and the bond between him and Bo had a chance to flourish.
Whenever she grew frustrated with her client, Kim reminded herself of this.
The schedule listed a program of upcoming physical training with a strength coach. That aspect of the program would be no problem. Despite all his complaining, Bo was a natural athlete who excelled at physical challenges. He was doing sixty throws a day at the indoor gym, and Kim couldn’t wait to see him on the mound. The strength and grace of a talented pitcher was a thing of beauty; she had no worries about him in that regard. The real trouble would start when he had to step up for meetings with club management and the media. In addition to the upcoming gala reception for patrons, boosters and sponsors, they needed to prepare for New Player Week. He would require a press portfolio and media training right away.
She made some notes on the schedule and then joined them, pausing in the doorway for a moment. After the bass lesson, they’d moved on to ripping a phone book in half. Unguarded, they looked like father and son, although they probably didn’t realize it. On the surface, the two were wildly dissimilar. AJ lacked Bo’s lanky frame. The boy’s Latino coloring contrasted with his father’s blue eyes and Germanic features. Yet when AJ laughed and his eyes sparkled, it was Bo’s spirit that shone from the boy’s face. Bo was like a big kid around his son, with endless patience for silliness.
He was still grinning when he noticed her, and his smile widened. “Time to get to work,” he said to AJ. “I gotta go learn how to be a big-league player.”
“I don’t see what’s so hard about it,” AJ said. “You said you’ve been pitching since Little League.”
“The pitching I can handle. It’s everything else I need help with. What’s on the agenda now, coach?”
“An extreme makeover,” Kim informed him.
He traded a glance with AJ. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said.
“You’re probably not going to like any of it,” she warned him. She had a long list of things to do in order to prepare him for the gala reception in New York that would kick off New Player Week.
“Try me,” he said.
“You need a publicity photo.”
“I got one. It’s up on the Hornets’ website.”
“That one looks like a mug shot.”
“It kind of is. Ray Tolley, from my band, he’s a cop. He took the picture.”
“We’ll need a new photo. Your new ones are going to look like fine art.”
“You’re the boss.”
“We’ll get a whole portfolio of shots, professionally done.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I’ll book a studio in the city.”
“No need.”
“Look, we’re doing this my way, or—”
“I’ll go along with getting a new picture made, but we’re using my photographer.”
“You have a photographer?”
“Daisy Bellamy. My best friend Noah’s stepdaughter. She can use the work.”
“It’s nice of you to think of your friend, but no. We need a pro. We need—”
“Hang on a second.” He went to the rotunda and returned with a coffee table book. It was one she recognized—Food For Thought, Jenny Majesky McKnight’s memoir about the Sky River Bakery. He handed it to her. Now she noticed the line on the cover: Photographs by Daisy Bellamy. Paging through the glossy book, Kim was impressed by the quality of the photographs and the photographer’s eye for composition.
“She’s a pro, then.”
“A college student, studying photography. But she shoots like a pro.”
“Is she available?”
“We’ll have to ask.”
“Excellent. Give me her number, and I’ll set everything up. In the meantime, we’ve got a lot of work to do.” She enumerated the things they needed to cover—grooming, bio, message development, delivery, on-camera exercises and general issues of poise.
He listened, frowning. Then he said, “I’d rather have my teeth drilled.”
“Actually, that’s on the schedule,” she said. “Not exactly drilling, but teeth whitening.”
“Oh, man.”
She glared at him. “We made a deal. You hired me to do a job and I intend to deliver. I’ve done this before, and there’s a progression. Before the publicity photos, the first order of business is your teeth. It’s one of the first and simplest parts of this process.”
“I use that whitening toothpaste,” he protested.
“Permanent whitening.”
“Shoot.”
“Who’s your dentist? We need to make sure he can do the instant whitening technique.”
“You’re assuming I have a dentist.”
Kim frowned. “You don’t?”
“Just a reminder, up until November, I was making a pittance for playing baseball and tending bar for tips. I went to the dentist once for a toothache. What he did to fix it made the toothache seem mild, so I haven’t been back since.”
AJ hurried to the door and pulled on his snow boots. “Time for the bus,” he said.
“This might turn out to be a long day,” Bo warned him. “If I’m not here when you get back, Dino is in charge.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll have my phone with me, although if she’s serious about the dentist, I’ll probably be in a dead faint.”
“It’s no one’s favorite thing,” she agreed. “Is it, AJ?” If she could get his support, this would go easier. Where AJ was concerned, Bo clearly wanted to do the right thing.
“I guess.” AJ offered a vague shrug.
Oh, Lord. An alarming thought struck her. “What about you, AJ? When was your last visit to the dentist?”
He shrugged again. “Never been. Never had a toothache.”
This was incredible to her. Everyone went to the dentist, didn’t they? She considered the thousands of dollars that had gone into her mouth over the years, from regular checkups to the best orthodontics money could buy. She’d taken it all for granted.
“Well, there’s good news for you both, then,” she said.
They regarded each other with expressions of stark terror.
She offered a reassuring smile. “Think of it as a form of male bonding.”
* * *