by Elley Arden
Damn that Bailey. It was her fault he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn today. Good thing he hadn’t been playing baseball. He’d have been traded, if not sent back to the minors. What were the odds of finding her here in this little Podunk town anyway? Nothing had ever surprised him more. He’d been doing so well, too; he hadn’t even thought about her in close to three days.
The route to the clubhouse took Marc right by the hospitality tent, and he couldn’t help looking toward Bailey’s station. She appeared to be packing up her medical supplies. Marc knew he had no business going anywhere near her, but his feet carried him there anyway.
She lifted her head and gave him a tired look. “Do you need more Tylenol?”
He intended to say something nice. He really did. But a sullen eighth-grader took hold of his faculties and made him say, “No. I’m reporting for my colonoscopy.”
“Ha. I wish,” she said.
“I’ll bet you do.” If a fourteen-year-old had been running the show inside him — and had been ever since he’d laid eyes on Bailey this morning — now a cranky toddler, badly in need of a snack, a nap, and a time out, pushed that boy out of the way and stomped in. “I don’t like you!”
She waved her hands in the air on either side of her face and widened her eyes. “Oh, no! What will I do?” Then a grim look moved in to replace the mockery on her face. “Believe it or not, I get that, Marc. I got it when you cheated on me.” She slung her canvas bag over her shoulder and turned to walk away.
Oh, hell, no. He did some fancy footwork and stepped in front of her. “We’re about to have a conversation.”
“We are not.” She stepped around him and turned toward the parking lot.
It would feel so good to stomp his foot, grasp her arm, and say, “Don’t you walk away from me!” But he didn’t. He took a deep breath and banished the toddler and the eighth-grader.
“I would like to have a conversation,” he said evenly. “It’s clear that by the way we’ve both been acting, we need to close the book on eight years ago, and we need to do it like adults.” He hesitated. “Closure.” That’s what they called it on talk shows and in the books, though he’d never understood what it meant until now. “I need closure.”
She must have been taken off guard at him using such an anti-man-friendly word because she let him take her heavy bag.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.
Bailey actually moved her head in what might have been a nod … or what might have been shaking a fly off her face. Nevertheless, she started walking, falling into step beside him. Finally, Marc thought. Here we go.
• • •
With trembling hands, Bailey unlocked the trunk of her Honda Accord.
“Just put my bag there,” she said.
“Got your keys?” he asked.
“Right here.” She held them up. Once, when they were at school, she’d locked her keys in her trunk and they’d had to call a locksmith. After that, he had always asked if she had her keys before closing her trunk.
Conversing with Marc like “normal people” was disconcerting.
He slammed the trunk and looked around. “Do you want to go somewhere? It’s really hot.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you have to go do something at the clubhouse?”
“I’m supposed to but what are they going to do if I don’t? I’m not afraid of Missy Bragg.”
“You should be. That woman flosses her teeth with barbed wire.” He smiled, and she relaxed slightly. This probably wouldn’t take long — after all, he cheated, she walked away. What more was there to say? “We can sit in my car. I’ll turn on the air.”
Just as they started to climb in the car, five boys wearing Little League uniforms ran across the parking lot from the direction of the ball fields. They looked to be about nine.
“Mr. Polo!” the leader of the pack called out. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was Laura Cochran’s boy.
Marc turned to them, and Bailey paused, too, uncertain if she wanted to curse or rejoice at the boys’ timing. Then again, it’s not like the kids knew they were prolonging a conversation that she’d been waiting to have for too many years. A conversation that, conversely, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to have at all. She looked over to Marc, worried that the snappishness he’d had earlier would manifest again, and crush the boys’ obvious case of hero worship. But if he was irritated by the interruption, his open expression didn’t show it.
“We know we’re not supposed to ask for your autograph,” the Cochran boy said. “’Cause guys like you charge money for that now. But we wanted to say hello.”
“We watch you play on TV all the time!” another boy that Bailey didn’t recognize blurted excitedly. “You got so gipped!
“Yeah!” A third kid — Louisa Bennet’s — spoke up. “We think you should totally be playing in the All-Star game on Monday.”
“Do you?” Marc laughed and squatted down to eye level with the boys. “I’ve gotten to do that lots of times, and I’ll probably get to again. Not everybody gets to go every year. And I’m kind of glad I’m not playing this year. I wouldn’t have gotten to come here and meet all of you.”
His tone was teasing and sweet, his enthusiasm genuine. As a celebrity, Marc probably had to deal with this — being in demand — all the time. Yet he spoke to the boys as if he were a peer, not a star who had to be polite or patient to maintain his image. It was uncalculated and, frankly, quite charming.
“Now, about those autographs. I don’t usually charge, but I think I want something from y’all.” He paused and smiled at the boys. Her knees went weak. “How about this: I’ll give you mine, if you’ll give me yours.”
“Sweet!”
“All right!”
“Yeah!”
There was lots of high-fiving, and then they discovered that no one — including Marc — had anything to write with.
Bailey opened her trunk and located a Sharpie in the bottom of her bag. She looked on as he signed for each kid in turn. If Marc felt any impatience at writing personal messages on the boys’ ball caps, he didn’t show it.
“I don’t have my cap,” he said. “Too bad. I guess I’ll have to let you write on my arm.”
While shaky little hands inscribed their names on the inside of his forearm, Marc asked what positions they played, how their team was doing, and about their coach. When he was done, he gave the Sharpie to the Cochran boy, who looked at it like it was the Holy Grail.
“I’ve got a sneaky feeling that y’all have run off,” Marc finally said. “Maybe you’d better run on back before somebody misses you.”
As they ran back the way they had come with shouts of joy, Bailey tried to hide her smile. “That Sharpie isn’t going to come off your arm any time soon,” she said as they climbed into the car and she started the engine.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll go to a tattoo parlor and have them tattooed over so they never come off.”
“That might be carrying things a little too far. Still, it was good of you to do that.”
“I’m not all bad, Bailey. In fact, there was a time when you thought I was more good than bad.” This he said with no anger, no fire.
So that was how they were going to do this: calm, rational, quiet. Not a bad idea, if she could manage it. Maybe she could pretend they were discussing something that didn’t matter. Cheese. Think about cheese.
“There was a time when you had not cheated on me.” And I like a good sharp saga blue.
“I have been waiting for eight years to say this to you: I never cheated on you.” I like a plain old chunk of Velveeta. Can’t beat it. “There was no possibility that woman’s baby was mine. The paternity test proved that.”
He ran his finger over the bottom lip of his beautiful mouth.
To distract herself, she adjusted the air conditioner vents. “No,” she said tersely. “The paternity test proved the baby wasn’t yours. If there had been no possibility, there would have been no need
for a test.”
“There was every need,” he snapped. “I’d just been called up to the majors. I’d just signed a multimillion-dollar contract making me the highest paid rookie in the MBL. And there was all that talk that I was going to be all that.” He rolled his eyes in a self-disparaging way, but it hadn’t been just talk. He had turned out to be all that, and the money — so much money — had followed. “You know what the baseball groupies were like, even in college and the minors.”
Marc’s face was wrought with raw emotion. So much for cheese. She gripped the steering wheel. “I do know. And when I saw your picture splashed all over the paper with her, I felt like the groupie! And there you were, the new bad boy of baseball, making headlines and having fun!”
“Oh, believe me, honey,” — the sarcasm in Marc’s voice hung heavy in the air — “you were no groupie. Groupies are always willing to talk to you.”
“Talking? Is that what you call it?” There was a sneer in her tone, and she wasn’t proud of it, but full-on angry had hit — for both of them.
“I already told you I didn’t cheat on you! Not with that woman and not with anyone else!”
“No? What about that very chummy picture of the two of you with your arms around each other?” Let him explain that away!
“It was a fan picture, Bailey. And I knew her a little.” He was working hard to keep his voice calm but not quite succeeding. “She was a groupie, came to all the home games in Scranton, hung out at the place we went after games. Lots of the guys slept with her, but I never did, never was tempted. She used to call me ‘Romeo’ and ‘old married man.’ I thought she was harmless, but I guess she took it personally that I wouldn’t go home with her.”
A sick feeling took root in Bailey’s stomach. What if he was telling the truth? But he couldn’t be. “Then why the paternity test? Why would she want it if there was no possibility the baby was yours?”
“She didn’t want it, damn it!” He punched his left hand with his right fist. “She wanted to be paid off for keeping quiet. She knew what you meant to me!”
Bailey opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. She wasn’t interested in talking about what she had meant to him.
Marc closed his eyes for a second and then continued. “My agent said we had to send a message that people couldn’t come after me. We asked for the test. And I would have told you that if you’d taken my calls, if you’d even bothered to open your dorm room door the day I flew down to talk sense to you.”
“If all that’s true, the time to talk sense to me would’ve been before I read it on the front page of the paper!” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but calm had walked out the door a long time ago.
He nodded and raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Yes. I know that now. But back then … it blew up really fast. I guess I just hoped it would all go away and you’d never have to know I’d been accused of such a thing. But, Bailey, we both knew what your state of mind was. If I had been able to get to you, to tell you this then, would you have even believed me?”
Ah, yes, her state of mind. It wasn’t too different from her state of mind now — confused, angry, and scared. Regardless of how well he’d played at the college level, that experience had done nothing to prepare her for the media storm and feeling that he was outgrowing her every second they were apart.
And that was a lot of seconds.
But he was right. She would never have believed him. Best to evade the question. She lifted her chin and said, “I don’t know a lot of girls at that age who wouldn’t have experienced a little insecurity in view of the situation.”
He nodded. “I know. I did what I could to assure you, but it was never enough.”
“And after,” she said, sounding horrified. “There were so many women … ”
“And after.” He nodded his head, and his jaw quivered with anger. “That’s the key phrase, Bailey. There were never any women when I was with you!” He raised his hands in frustration. “My, God! I never even wanted … “ He trailed off and swallowed. “I was worried about failing, worried about disappointing my parents, you … myself. I was twenty-one years old. I was engaged. I was in love. I was faithful. And I never got one bit of credit for any of that. Not from the press and not from you.”
Bailey’s heart slammed against her breastbone. This could not be true. “Oh, please!” she shouted. “You got engaged five months after I sent the ring back! And then you got engaged every year thereafter!” And that’s what had hurt the most, what kept hurting every time it happened — repeatedly being rejected and replaced.
“So what?! What did it matter? Was I supposed to sit around cherishing the memory of you? Once you sent that ring back, yeah, you’re right, I dated a lot of women. Even proposed a few times, when they started expecting it. But don’t you get it?!” He was shouting now, too. “Bailey, I never married any of them, because they weren’t you!”
The pain in Marc’s face would have taken the wind out of Bailey’s sails if she’d had any left.
Yep, that was her — windless, loveless, and clueless. Only not so clueless anymore. She got it now, only all too well. He’d made a mistake, one born of inexperience and good intentions. She, on the other hand, had committed the mother of all relationship sins; she’d been too stubborn to even listen. And he had never replaced her at all. He’d only tried, just like she’d tried — and failed — to replace him.
And now it was too late.
The silence in the car was oppressive, aggressive even. Marc put his head back and closed his eyes, exhausted.
“So … are you engaged right now?” Bailey asked finally, because the silence had to be broken.
Marc raised his head and looked at her. “No. I was. Nothing since January.” His mouth twisted wryly. “She couldn’t stand me in the off season. They never can.”
Bailey smirked a little. “Well, the day is young. Miss Texas awaits.”
“Think she’d like me in the off season?” He cocked his head and looked at her through his mile-long eyelashes.
“I don’t know. I always did.”
They both laughed sad little laughs.
“How about you?” he asked. “Any husbands, fiancés, or the like?”
“Some ‘or the like’ from time to time.”
“Yeah?”
That was her cue to tell him if she was involved with anyone now. But what was the point? It wasn’t like they were supposed to fall into each other’s arms. It was way too late for that. Neither of them even wanted it. They were here to tie up loose ends, say goodbye, prepare to move on. For closure. It was a good thing.
Yet, it felt so sad.
“I need to go,” she said abruptly. “I’ll drop you off at the clubhouse. Missy and Miss Texas will be looking for you.” After all, just how long could she be expected to look at that mouth and not want to kiss it?
Marc just nodded.
She pulled into the circle drive; he started to get out but then turned to look back at her.
“Can I ask you one question?”
“Might as well.”
“Was there anything about what happened that made you glad? Were you relieved on any level?”
What? “I don’t follow.”
He retreated into his thoughts to puzzle them over before speaking. She’d seen him do it a thousand times.
Finally, he spoke. “It seemed to me at the time that you were looking really hard for a reason not to trust me — not to trust us — even before all that happened. Were you glad to walk away, to think you’d been right all along — that we couldn’t work out?”
She opened her mouth to deny that, but closed it again. “I don’t know. Maybe I was afraid of a life where I might not be able to measure up. Does it matter?”
He shook his head. “No. I guess not.”
“Marc? Can I ask you a question?”
“Turnabout, fair play.”
“We were so young. Did you give me an engagement ring because y
ou really wanted to get married at that stage of your life or because you wanted to give me a security blanket so I’d be there if and when you did?”
Marc shook his head. “Who knows? Does it matter?”
“No,” she allowed, echoing his words. “I guess not.”
“Well.” He opened the car door. “Thanks for the talk, Bailey. I’ll see you — well, I guess I won’t see you. Ever.” He looked a little surprised and extended his hand like he might touch her but then thought better of it.
“I guess not.”
She drove away, her head and heart full. It wasn’t until she was halfway home that Bailey started pondering why she hadn’t told Marc she’d be at the gala that night.
Chapter Four
Miss Texas had gone to the bathroom — again.
“It’s gonna storm. Big one’s coming.”
Great. Someone wanted to talk about the weather — like it wasn’t bad enough being here in a tuxedo on a forced date with a small-bladdered beauty queen with a high opinion of herself. Though really, all that was wrong with Miss Texas was what was wrong with all of them — they weren’t Bailey and never would be.
Marc had thought that if he could have his say with her, she’d be out of his system. But now he’d faced it, and she had believed him. Sure, she hadn’t admitted it, but he could tell the second the realization hit. And it hadn’t mattered. On some level, he had thought if he made her believe he’d never cheated on her, she’d say, “Oh, my bad. Sorry. Can we pick up where we left off?” Stupid. He was a stupid, stupid man.
He took a sip of his drink and turned to the would-be weather oracle. “Think so?” Marc said. “I haven’t heard a weather report today.”
“Sure you have. I just gave you one.”
Wasn’t this that odd man who’d worn 1920s golf clothes today — complete with knickers, bow tie, knee socks, and a tam? Tonight he was dressed like almost every other man here — in a regulation black tux — but Marc was almost sure this was the same guy.