by Sykes, V. K.
Must be nice.
Taylor immediately squashed that thought, hating how bitter it made her sound. Carter and Samantha had worked hard to achieve their life, and she had no business begrudging them any part of it.
So far, the only topics at the dinner table had been the kids, Carter’s latest high profile tax avoidance case, and, of course, Bridget’s progress or lack thereof in her never-ending struggle against the challenges of fibromyalgia and her various other ailments. Taylor would happily have avoided any shred of focus on herself and her career, but knew it was only a matter of time before one of the three others brought it up. They always did. Though none of them had the slightest interest in baseball—not even Carter, who had always shunned athletics as a way to thumb his nose at his father—only rarely would a family meal pass without an examination of Taylor’s personal failings.
“So, you’ll be in town for at least the next week, right?” Carter said as he poured more white wine into his glass. “Since the team’s playing their opening series at home.”
Taylor shook her head. “That was the original plan, but as I told Bridget this afternoon, my boss called me back to Clearwater to deal with an urgent situation tomorrow.” She gave a little shrug. “But it’ll only be a few more days until we’re back in town for the start of the season.”
Samantha’s expression instantly changed from pleasantly buzzed to irritated, if not pained. “I guess that means I’ll have to take Bridget for her ultrasound, after all.” She crumpled her white cloth napkin and tossed it onto the table before getting up and stalking down the hall. Taylor presumed it was to make a call to rearrange some commitment she’d made earlier today on the assumption Taylor would be on Bridget duty.
Taylor felt an instant pang of guilt.
“Poor Samantha,” Bridget said with a long-suffering sigh. “She does so much for me. The girl has a heart of gold, God love her.”
As opposed to your stone-hearted daughter, right, Bridget?
Taylor forced a smile. “Yes, Samantha is truly special.”
“Damn right she is,” Carter grumbled, throwing his dirty napkin on his plate. “A saint, as far as I’m concerned.”
His pinched brow gleamed with perspiration from the overly warm room and also, no doubt, from the copious amount of wine he’d hammered down at dinner. And the wine had been on top of the Scotch that Samantha had handed him as soon as he came in the door. Carter seemed to add a couple of more pounds every time Taylor saw him, and now must be packing at least two-thirty onto his barely six-foot frame. Unfortunately, little of the weight was muscle, either, and Taylor couldn’t help worrying about the impact on his health.
It was yet another way Carter and their father were opposites. Vance Page had been a fitness nut, viewing life through a prism of what was and was not good for his health and longevity, firmly aiming for eventual centenarian status. The fact that such a careful, fit man had been cut down at age forty-three by a combination of accident and medical malpractice had always struck Taylor as one of life’s cruel ironies.
She turned to Bridget and gently grasped her painfully thin arm. “Mom, I’m really sorry I have to leave tomorrow. But I’m glad I was at least able to be there for you today.”
“Yeah, sure, Sis. You really knocked yourself out.” Carter’s voice was little more than a sneer. “It looks like it isn’t going to matter all that much whether you’re back in Philly or still out in L.A., because Bridget can’t count on you, anyway, and neither can we.”
Their mother gave her head a little shake, her bony hands folded in her lap. “I understand why you’d say that, Carter, but I’m sure Taylor will be there for me now that she’s finally come back home. And, really, she was so wonderful this afternoon with that new rheumatologist. She explained everything to him so much better than I ever could have.” She got a little twinkle in her eye. “He seemed quite taken with her, too, if I didn’t miss my guess.”
God bless you, Bridget. Though she didn’t appreciate the little attempt at match-making, Taylor reached over and gave her mother’s hand a squeeze to thank her for that rare show of support.
After her husband’s death, Bridget had developed such a morbid fear of the medical profession—and that included anybody in a white lab coat or any other human who might make her undergo some kind of procedure or test—that she found it almost unbearably painful to have to confront an appointment on her own. Doctors had reported that she couldn’t even speak or respond to questions, and Taylor knew that Bridget would come away confused about a diagnosis or a treatment plan. Neither talk therapy nor medication had helped her very much, if at all. It seemed an intractable, permanent problem that left Carter, Samantha and Taylor to look forward to decades of trying to stick-handle their mother’s way through the medical maze. After all, Bridget was only sixty-four years old.
Carter shook his head. “Yeah, well, all I can say is that it’s a damn good thing I can support my family well enough so Samantha’s able to stay home and take care of the kids and see to Bridget’s needs, too.” He shot Taylor a glare. “You have no idea how hard it is on my wife. No idea at all.”
Sure, I do. You tell me practically every time I see you. And, by the way, when was the last time you got off your widening ass and helped your mother? Oh, sorry—you’re too busy helping rich guys evade taxes, aren’t you?
Taylor bit her tongue, of course. The last thing she wanted was another heated argument, or having to hear more of Carter’s bitching about how irresponsible she’d been to build a career in baseball instead of settling down in Philly with some big-time CPA firm, making tons of money in between popping out a couple of kids. In fact, her brother had gone so far as to declare her Wharton MBA a waste of time and money since she was doing a job any old baseball hack could obviously do. Taylor had long since stopped arguing with him because she could never change his mind about anything to do with baseball. He hated the game, and the fact that Taylor had followed in their father’s footsteps constituted an unpardonable sin in his eyes.
“Things will be easier on Samantha after I put down roots back here,” she said gently, directing her words to her mother instead of Carter. “I’ll still have to be on the road a fair amount, but I should certainly be able to cover my share of your appointments.”
Bridget gave her a tentative smile. “I hope so, dear. And I certainly hope this new job will let you finally settle down and give me some more grandbabies soon. You don’t want to be married to your job like your father was. A job is not a life, Taylor.”
Taylor sighed inside. Perhaps once she settled in permanently in Philadelphia she wouldn’t have to hear that stale refrain every time she saw her mother. Of course, being with Carter and Samantha and the kids always made it worse. Her brother’s perfect family—in Bridget’s eyes, anyway—never failed to strike a stark contrast with her daughter’s perpetual lack of attachment.
Not that Taylor didn’t want a husband and family someday. But she was realistic about the chances of finding a man who would put up with the challenging demands of her career. For now, it was better not to dwell on the subject. Despite her mother’s hand-wringing, she was hardly an old maid yet.
Hell, only yesterday she’d had the best sex of her entire life, which was not something she really wanted to discuss—much less think about—in the presence of her family.
“How about I get the dessert?” Taylor said with the brightest smile she had in her to give.
13
RYAN HIT THE Patriots’ practice field just before ten o’clock, as Pedro Delgado had ordered yesterday when he finally gave him a break after a hard, two-hour workout before the game. This morning, Delgado leaned a hip on his big green fungo bat, his eyes locked on Ryan like a hawk circling high over its prey. So far, Ryan’s work with the infield coach had mostly been about positioning—where to station himself in a range of situations—and repetition. Today, though, Delgado had promised to put him through his paces on pivots and throws, both to second
base and home. The Patriots’ backup shortstop and catcher were scheduled to show up in an hour to help him with that.
Ryan was determined to show the GM, the manager, the coaches and especially the players that he’d succeed in the transition to first base or die trying. He still didn’t like the trade, but what Ryan Locke liked or didn’t like didn’t matter a sweet damn anymore. What mattered was to repay the Patriots for the confidence they’d shown in him and, most importantly, to secure his financial future for Devon’s sake.
Devon. The kid had taken the news hard when he called her after school. He couldn’t blame her. She was obviously fragile as hell, even more so than when he’d taken her to Edenwood in the fall. And she didn’t need the added stress of losing the home in Pittsburgh she’d lived in for over seven years, even though absence seemed to have made the place a whole lot more important that it had been when she actually lived there full-time.
Devon’s disgust hadn’t even been mollified by the fact that he was going to Philadelphia, so her home would now be even closer to her school than before. When she hung up—too abruptly—he wasn’t sure she even wanted to come see him in New York, where the Patriots would be playing a weekend series against the Mets after opening at home against the Nationals. His offer to get her an adjoining room at the team hotel had been met with silence, and when he asked her if she wanted to come to Philly for a day to help him look for an apartment, she’d refused. Right then, Ryan’s chest had felt like somebody slammed a wrecking ball into it.
“Ready?” Delgado bellowed from near the plate, obviously noticing that Ryan’s mind had briefly wandered.
Ryan pounded the unfamiliar first baseman’s glove, wondering how long it would take until the big mitt felt anything other than weird with its rounded back edge and giant, single post pocket. “Go,” he shouted back.
Delgado stroked a hard ball that skipped across the infield grass well to Ryan’s right. Ryan didn’t dive for a whole lot of balls in left field anymore, but the instincts honed by more than twenty years of competitive baseball made him realize as soon as the ball left the bat that the only way he was going to get his glove on it was by a full-out flying lunge. His body reacted even before his brain fully processed that thought, because suddenly he was about to make impact with the dirt, his left arm extended full length and the glove stabbing backhand at where he anticipated the ball would be.
Whap. Thud. The ball slammed into the big pocket of his glove a millisecond before Ryan’s chest slammed even harder into the dirt.
“Nice.” Delgado’s voice seemed far away as Ryan pushed himself up on his knees and then slowly upright. “Very nice. You okay, man?”
Ryan scrambled up, rolled the ball back toward Delgado and then gave his uniform a couple of quick, hard swipes to knock off some of the dirt. “You could try to ease me in a little, dude,” he responded in a wry voice.
The big man nodded. “Yeah, that one was a little off. But, hey, I don’t expect you to be a hero chasing shit like that. Just let it go next time, for Christ’s sake. It’s just practice.”
Yeah, but I’ll bet you liked that hustle, didn’t you?
“Instinct,” Ryan said with a shrug. “I’m not sure I could have gotten up and made the throw, though. I’m not used to landing on this brick-hard dirt. It makes me appreciate the outfield grass.” He just thanked God that he’d mostly missed the Astro Turf era, when synthetic surfaces at the multipurpose stadiums built in the seventies were murder on outfielders’ bodies.
Ryan flicked a glance into the stands to his left. He realized he’d been doing that regularly both at practice yesterday and during the game. It was almost as if he expected Taylor to somehow materialize there, in the exact same spot where she’d first eyed him waiting for his turn in the batting cage. He wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t get the woman off his mind—maybe because it felt like she’d knifed him in the heart. As he continued to mull over what she’d done through the rest of the long day and night, he was glad she’d gone back to Philadelphia. If he’d met up with her yesterday, he would definitely have said stuff so over the top that it would probably have been impossible to take back. And that wouldn’t have been such a smart idea, since alienating the assistant general manager—and probably Dembinski, too, in the process—wouldn’t have been the best career move for a player skirting with marginal status.
But one way or the other, as soon as Taylor got back to Clearwater, they were going to have it out. Ryan had cooled down in the meantime, but he still wanted answers. He deserved answers, especially because what she’d done made no sense. Why would she manipulate him like that when it was obvious she’d eventually get caught out? Why trade for a player like him, and then piss him off in the process? If Ryan hadn’t been in such a rock and a hard place position, he would have refused the trade to the Patriots solely on the basis that the AGM had been screwing with him—both literally and figuratively. Taylor was far from stupid, so she had to know what consequences would likely flow from her actions.
He suspected she might be in for a rough ride from somebody other than him, too. Dembinski had schooled his features to try to mask his reaction to Ryan’s question about Taylor, but there was no doubt it had hit him hard. His gut told him at that same moment that she’d been operating on her own, not on orders from her boss. And Dave Dembinski did not strike Ryan as the kind of guy that liked his staff to operate as free spirits. Everything he’d ever heard about the man indicated exactly the opposite.
Taylor had taken a flyer on Ryan, and had succeeded in bringing him over to the Patriots. And instead of balking at the trade, he’d committed to busting his ass to make it a success. So, in that sense, she’d scored a personal victory, and maybe that was because she’d figured out what he was all about, thanks to all the time they’d spent together and the way he’d opened himself up to her. She might wind up paying a price for her little gambit, though, if Ryan was any judge of her boss’s reaction. Would it be worth it to her? Was she so calculating that she’d weighed the risks and rewards and decided to go for it?
“Jesus, are you still with me, Locke? You look like you’re on some other planet.” Delgado’s booming voice crashed through Ryan’s brief reverie like a sledgehammer.
Jesus, stop thinking about the damn woman and get your ass in the game. He nodded apologetically at Delgado, who was tossing a ball up and down impatiently.
“Sorry. Hit away,” Ryan said, dropping into a crouch.
* * *
“HI, GUYS,” TAYLOR said as she opened the door to the GM’s suite. Dembinski had his back to her, looking down onto the field where the Mets and Patriots were battling it out. Rick Clark was with him, and only Clark swiveled his head to acknowledge her presence. Her fellow AGM’s initial frown quickly changed into what Taylor thought was an embarrassing smile as he got up from his chair.
“Hope your mom’s doing okay, Taylor.” Clark glanced down at Dembinski, who still hadn’t turned around. “Dave, I’ve got some calls to make, so I think I’ll head back downstairs.”
Not waiting for a response, he brushed by Taylor so quickly that she wondered if a nest of fire ants had crawled into his underwear.
Taylor sat down in the chair Clark had just vacated. Dembinski stared straight ahead through the glass, still not looking at her, and Taylor’s stomach knotted even tighter. She’d raced back down from Philadelphia after taking her mother to an early breakfast at her favorite diner, and every minute on the plane and in the cab from Tampa International had been torture. She had a pretty good idea why her boss appeared ready to tee off on her.
“How’s she doing?” Dembinski finally said, eyes still fixed firmly on the action below.
Taylor stared straight ahead, too, but didn’t register anything going on down on the field. “Between my sister-in-law and me, we were able to deal with the immediate issues.”
Dembinski gave a little nod as he stroked his chin. “Yeah, well, I guess I was a little hasty telling you to hightail
it back here.”
Now you tell me. She stayed silent. He’d get to the point in his own time and own way.
“I’ve had a day to calm down,” he continued.
Taylor couldn’t stand the suspense. She inhaled a deep breath as silently as she could manage and said, “Talk to me, Dave.”
She wasn’t going to start apologizing until she heard what he had to say.
He finally turned his body so he gazed directly into her eyes. “You have to know what this is about, Taylor, and I gotta tell you, it damn near made me fall flat on the floor when Locke told me what was going on between the two of you.”
Taylor gulped. She’d figured Ryan must have said something about what they’d been up to. She’d known deep down that it couldn’t be anything else that had suddenly pushed Dembinski off the rails. Taylor only hoped Ryan hadn’t told him everything. “What exactly did he tell you?”
Dembinski shook his head. “No, I want you to tell me exactly what you did, and then I want you to explain why in terms a simple guy like me can understand, because I’m fucking mystified.” He gave his head what looked like a regretful shake. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to fire you if you come clean.”
Taylor realized she’d been holding her breath, and she let out a little inaudible sigh.
“Especially not after Locke socked that two-run double last inning,” Dembinski added. “He’s looking pretty good out there at first, too.”
Some of the tension flowed out of Taylor’s rigid shoulders and clenched hands. Getting fired hadn’t really been on her radar screen. No matter what she’d done, she figured Dembinski would still think highly enough of her ability to give her a chance to atone for whatever sin he thought she’d committed. But, at the very least, she was sure she’d let him down badly.