Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “There you are!” her mother called out. “I thought you’d forgotten about the party.”

  Breeanne crossed the kitchen to drop a kiss on the cheek of the blond-haired nurturer who’d rescued her. “Did you need me for something?”

  “Could you make the whipped cream for the pie?”

  “Sure,” Breeanne said, depositing her notebook computer and purse on the hutch, and rolling up her sleeves to wash her hands at the sink.

  “You know this is more than just our Memorial Day weekend party. This is your going away party. I still can’t believe you’re moving out tomorrow,” Mom said. “We’re going to miss you so much.”

  Breeanne suppressed a sigh. “Peach Street isn’t in Outer Mongolia, Mom. Just ten blocks away.”

  “It might as well be,” said her mother, her voice heavy with woe, and passed her a dish towel to dry her hands.

  She had to tromp down hard on guilt to stop from apologizing for moving out. Before making her way over to the refrigerator, she sneaked a quick peek out the screen door to see if anyone else might be coming inside to let her off the hook.

  No such luck.

  Guests had started drifting into the backyard. The kooky but lovable next-door neighbor, Trudy Wells, was helping Suki put ice in paper cups and set them out. Dad’s best friend, Mr. Tice, who ran the lumberyard and lived next door, was doling out cooking advice. He hollered, “Don’t be stingy with the Zatarain’s, Dan,” and then chuckled at his rhyme.

  “You’re at Rowdy’s house all day, and working on the book in the evenings. When will we ever get to see you?” Mom went on.

  “You’re seeing me now.”

  “I’m being whiny, aren’t I?” Her mother gave a rueful laugh. “It’s hard watching your little ones leave the nest. You’ll see one day.”

  She stepped over to give her mother a quick hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I know, I know. Just call me sentimental.” Her mother patted her shoulder. “Your hair is damp. What happened?”

  Not wanting to answer, but not wanting to lie either, she leaned over to pluck the spoon out of the chocolate pie filling and stick it in her mouth. “Mmm.”

  “I’m so going to miss these moments.” Her mother opened the silverware drawer and took out a clean spoon.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll come over to eat chocolate pie anytime.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll put it on the nightly menu.”

  “Overkill.”

  “Three times a week?” her mother asked hopefully.

  “Sunday dinner,” Breeanne offered.

  “Twice a week? You can bring anyone you want. Rowdy included.”

  “I can commit to Sunday dinner,” Breeanne said, proud of herself for holding firm.

  “Sunday dinner it is.” Her mother nodded like she’d won a round on a game show. “How are things going with Rowdy, by the way?”

  “Fine.” She didn’t look up in case the day’s adventure showed on her face.

  “He’s not tried anything funny with you?”

  “He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing.”

  “Mom!”

  “What?” Her mother shrugged. “I’m ready for grandchildren.”

  “Rowdy’s not the least bit interested me in that way.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  Breeanne took the whipping cream from the fridge and bumped the door closed with her hip. “What have you heard? And from whom?”

  “Suki told me about the cheetah scarf. How it feels soft to Rowdy too.”

  “What a blabbermouth,” Breeanne grumbled, and got out the hand mixer.

  “It’s a sign.”

  Breeanne stabbed the beaters into the mixer, jerked her head up, and studied her mother. “When did you get superstitious?”

  “I’ve always believed in signs,” Mom said. “I was volunteering in the NICU on the night shift on the same day you were born. You were only fourteen hours old. I wasn’t even supposed to be there that night, but it was a full moon and crazy busy. The nurses called me in and asked if I could comfort babies. I’d no more gotten gowned up when one of the nurses directed me to you. She told me that your birth mother had left the hospital against medical advice as soon as they told her that you had a heart defect and that you hadn’t slept a wink since you were born, and little wonder. You had half a dozen tubes and wires hanging off you, and Band-Aids were stuck all over your tiny body where they’d turned you into a pincushion drawing blood. I reached inside your incubator and stroked your little arm and you looked up at me, and fell right to sleep. And I instantly fell in love. I didn’t know how at the time, but I just knew you were going to be mine someday.”

  Breeanne had heard the fanciful story hundreds of times, but she always thought her mother added that last part just to make her feel better for having been abandoned by her birth mother.

  “Don’t scoff at signs, Breeanne,” Mom said.

  “It’s just a scarf.”

  Her mother’s eyes met hers. “You know it’s more than that.”

  Okay, the way the scarf had come into her life had been unusual, but a scrap of material didn’t have the power to divine one’s life partner.

  “You’ve had a crush on Rowdy since you were twelve.”

  “So have a million other women.”

  “How do you feel about him now?” her mother asked.

  Breeanne sighed. “To be honest, the more I get to know him, the more I like him.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “C’mon, Mom. He’s Rowdy Blanton, and I’m—” She swept a hand at herself. “Me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You have amazing qualities.”

  “Yeah, like you’ve ever heard a guy say, ‘Look at the amazing qualities on her.’ ”

  “If it’s meant to be, you’ll feel it.” Her mother leaned over to press her palm to Breeanne’s heart. “Right here.”

  She scooted away and turned the mixer on high to prevent further conversation on the topic, but her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. She was back at the pond, being cradled against Rowdy’s chest as he carried her from the water. In that moment, she’d felt utterly safe. Protected. Cared for. It was a dangerous feeling for so many reasons, but she couldn’t dispel it.

  Suddenly, the mixer stopped. She looked up confused, saw her mother standing there with the plug in her hand. “What is it?”

  “I called your name three times,” Mom said.

  “You did?”

  “You were a thousand miles away. What has you so lost in thought?”

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “What did you want?”

  “To tell that you’ve whipped the cream so hard you’ve churned it into butter.”

  Breeanne looked down in the bowl and sure enough, instead of fluffy white peaks, the cream clumped yellow.

  “It’s all right,” Mom soothed. “I’ll send Suki to the store for Cool Whip.”

  “It’s my mess,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  “All right, but walk, don’t drive. You’ve got your head in the clouds today and we don’t need any accidents.”

  While Breeanne was busy whipping the cream into butter, Rowdy hung up the phone from talking to his agent. His agent had confirmed the timeline that proved Rowdy’s suspicions. The Gunslingers manager had called Zach after Jackdaw’s official press release on Wednesday morning announcing they were publishing his autobiography.

  “I know you don’t like Potts,” Zach said, “but he’s not holding any grudges. He came down to meet me and said to be sure and tell you that he says hey.”

  Rowdy gnashed his teeth. That sonofabitch Potts was goading him through Zach. He shoved a hand through his hair. The kid had no idea he’d just stepped into a bear trap.

  “You can’t do this, Zach.”

  Zach’s mouth dropped open. “Are you nuts? No one refuses The Show.”

  Rowdy wrapped a hand around his brother’s for
earm. “It’s not a legitimate offer. It’s a trap.”

  Zach jerked back, leveled offended eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Potts picked you up to assure that I would keep quiet. He heard about my autobiography and now he’s afraid I’m gonna spill the beans.”

  “Spill the beans about what?”

  “For one thing, that was no jealous husband that busted up my pitching arm. Potts hired a guy to do it.” Rowdy went on to explain his suspicions about the general manager in detail.

  “Yeah?” Zach scowled. “You got proof?”

  “I can identify the tattoo on the guy’s arm.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they say?”

  “It’s not enough proof.”

  “There you have it.”

  “Zach, I know it’s true.” He pumped his fist twice against his chest. “I might not be able to prove it in a court of law, but Potts hired the guy to bust me up.”

  “What have you been smokin’, man? You’re out of your head.”

  “Kid, you’re not ready for The Show and deep in your heart, you know it. Stop and think for a minute.”

  Zach knotted a fist, and shook it in his face. “You’re jealous. That’s what this is about. You’re a washed up has-been who doesn’t want to see his little brother take his place.”

  Acid burned his throat. He hated saying this, hated hurting Zach, hated realizing his suspicions about Potts were true. “I wish that’s all it was.”

  “Fuck you, man.” Zach looked like he was about to cry. It killed Rowdy’s soul to tell him this. “Fuck you.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Zach’s face reddened, his body shaking with fury. “You’re a paranoid lunatic. The rumors are right. You do have a vendetta against Potts. What is your problem?”

  “Mark my word, Potts is setting you up in order to get to me. There are things you don’t know. Guard your back.”

  “Guard your face,” Zach yelled, hauled off and punched Rowdy in the mouth.

  Rowdy staggered back, saw stars, tasted blood, lost his balance, ended up on his ass. Whacked his head against the wall, his bell completely rung.

  Nolan Ryan came over to lick Rowdy’s busted lip, and whimpered.

  He shook his head. By the time his vision cleared, Zach had stormed out, slamming the front door behind him, and Warwick was standing in the living room with his arms folded over his massive chest.

  “That’s been coming for a long time,” Warwick said. “Need ice?”

  “Naw.” Rowdy swiped his palm across his bloodied mouth, levered himself to his feet. “I just hope Zach didn’t use his pitching arm. Then again, maybe I do. If he ruined his pitching arm, it would take him off Potts’s chessboard.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Hitting is timing. Pitching is upsetting timing.

  —WARREN SPAHN

  If the cars parked up along the street and the sound of laughter and Zydeco music hadn’t been a dead giveaway, the smell of crawfish surely was. The Carlyles were throwing a party.

  And there was nothing Rowdy loved more than a party. Too bad he was here as the bearer of bad news.

  He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to think of a way around this, but there was only one solution. He had to call off the autobiography. Too bad Breeanne was going to be another casualty in his war with Potts. Dammit, this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Maybe he should come back later.

  He paused on the front porch, hand raised to knock, a box of autographed baseballs tucked under his arm. He’d brought them to smooth things over, a peace offering of sorts to soften the blow. Christ, he hated delivering bad news, especially to someone as nice as Breeanne.

  Might as well get it over with. He could stall all he wanted, but the problem wasn’t going away. Potts had him by the short hairs.

  Just one more reason to despise the Gunslingers general manager, Potts was causing him to hurt Breeanne.

  Rowdy set his teeth and his shoulders, and bounced the brass knocker against the door. He waited. No one answered. He knocked again. Nothing. He spied a doorbell, rang that. Nada.

  Clearly, they were all in the backyard, and no one heard him at the front door.

  Go. Don’t ruin the party.

  It was so tempting to just run. He hated pain. Hated experiencing it. Hated causing it even more. But firing Breeanne was the lesser evil, although he couldn’t tell her that.

  Tacking up a smile, he took a deep breath and forced himself to head around the side of the house toward the open backyard gate.

  The sky was the sleepy orange-purple of encroaching dusk, the temperature balmy, the light wind just enough to keep bugs at bay. Honeysuckle in full bloom grew over the privacy fence, sugaring the air. The hum of pleasant conversation vibrated through his bones.

  He poked his head around the side of the house, pausing to take in the scene, but he didn’t get very far. Right away, an older woman with beet red spiky hair and numerous colorful tattoos spied him and screeched, “Rowdy Blanton!”

  In seconds, he was surrounded, a dozen people jabbering at once, all telling him how impressive he was. Normally, he would have dove right into the attention and wallowed around, but he was here to crush Breeanne’s dreams. No glory in that. He glanced around, searching for her in the crowd.

  A man in his fifties, holding a wooden canoe paddle and wearing a red rubber apron, came toward him, hand extended. “Rowdy Blanton in my backyard? Pinch me like a crawfish and call me done. I’m in heaven.”

  Rowdy shifted the box of balls to his other arm and shook the man’s hand. “Glad to meet you . . .”

  “Dan, Dan Carlyle.”

  “You’re Breeanne’s father.”

  “That I am.” Dan straightened, squared his shoulders, and stepped into Rowdy’s personal space, slung the paddle over his shoulder like a baseball bat. “I trust you’re treating my girl right.”

  “Yes sir. Pleased to meet a fellow ballplayer, sir,” Rowdy said, strengthening his grip and ignoring the part about treating Breeanne right. Much as it pained him, he was here to do Breeanne wrong.

  Dan Carlyle looked flattered and flustered. “You know I used to play ball?”

  “Breeanne told me about your family, and her aunt Polly. I read all about you in her book.”

  “Oh yes, right. Breeanne’s book. We are so proud of her. Thank you for giving her a chance.”

  Rowdy gulped, his mission growing more difficult by the minute.

  “C’mon in, c’mon in.” Dan ushered Rowdy deeper into the yard. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Suki, fetch our hometown hero a cold beer.”

  He allowed the small crowd to settle him at a picnic table, but all the while, he kept searching for Breeanne. He’d first gone to Timeless Treasures to look for her and found the place was closed for the day. A shopkeeper in the clothing boutique next door to the antique store had told him where the Carlyles lived.

  He was about to ask where she was, but people were eyeing the box of baseballs, so he passed them out. There weren’t enough to go around, but he issued rain check promises to everyone who’d missed out. After that people asked him to sign other things—a paper towel, beer bottle labels, body parts.

  A blond older woman came out of the house and introduced herself as Maggie Carlyle. Breeanne’s parents were friendly, gregarious, and welcoming—his kind of folk.

  A cute girl with Asian features and an asymmetrical haircut put a beer in his hand. “Hi, I’m Suki, the younger sister.”

  “And I’m Jodi, the oldest.” An auburn-haired, freckle-faced Meg-Ryan-in-her-romantic-comedy-days look-alike handed him a sturdy paper plate.

  “Kasha,” said a husky-voiced brunette, her thick, waist-length hair floating around her. Kasha was darker than her sisters, her skin creamy caramel, cheekbones high. A young Rae Dawn Chong with straight hair. She went barefoot, and wore a long, flowy dress.
Images of recycling, organic vegetables, Volkswagens, and Seattle popped into his head. “I’m the sister in the middle between Jodi and Breeanne.”

  Dan, and another man about Dan’s age, dumped the contents of a kettle onto the picnic tables covered with newspaper—bright red crawfish, corn on the cob halves, new potatoes, pearl onions, and smoked sausage.

  People vied for food and conversation equally, everyone talking at once.

  “Eat, eat,” Maggie urged, using tongs to pile his plate with food.

  “Where’s Breeanne?” he asked, but Maggie had turned to answer someone else’s question, and apparently she hadn’t heard him. He stood, a paper plate loaded with food in one hand, a beer in the other, not knowing what to do.

  That’s when Breeanne came through the backyard gate with a plastic bag in her hand.

  Golden twilight filtered through the mimosa trees, spreading shadows over the lawn like a Hallmark greeting card. Dying sunshine glinted off a dangly silver hook in her ear. He set down the plate and beer, and stared at her without breathing.

  Through the dreamy dusk, she came toward him, moving gracefully, the dwindling sunlight darkening, shifting, shrinking around her. He stood motionless, struck by her softness.

  She strolled toward the back door, a faraway expression on her face, swinging the sack in her hand in time to a melody that only she could hear. A honeysuckle blossom was caught in her hair, yellow-white and sweetly pleasing. She wore a blue sundress dotted with pink flowers that hugged her nicely at the waist, and pink flip-flops on her feet.

  The cheetah scarf was tied at her neck. The print didn’t match the outfit, but it didn’t matter. At the sight of the scarf, he felt a surge of something hot and unexpected low in his belly. Something desperate.

  Her hips swayed delicately as she climbed the back steps, and she paused when she reached the screen door, stopped, turned. Their eyes met.