by Mary Campisi
“So much for perfect. Just get my ball cap, Rosa. Works every time.”
Rosa shook her head. “You and your ball cap. Who knows where you leave it?”
“Just go in my closet. Top shelf. Ten of 'em. All Pittsburgh Pirates. Take your pick.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, waving her arms in the air.
“Why Pittsburgh Pirates?” Sara asked, munching on a piece of wheat toast. “I would have thought you'd be a Dodgers fan, seeing as they're practically in your backyard.”
“Are you serious? You're from Pittsburgh. How can you even ask that question?” The enthusiasm in his voice and on his face was obvious.
“I am from Pittsburgh and I have twelve Pirates caps in my closet because they're the greatest baseball team in the world.” She paused, then added, “With the most loyal fans.”
“Once a Pirates’ fan, always a Pirates’ fan.”
“Even all the way out here, with all the glitter and glamour of West Coast living?”
“It never leaves you,” he said, his tone dead serious. “I can still hear the crowd in Three Rivers Stadium, still feel the excitement roaring in the stands. Still see the expression on my father's face when they clinched the title back in seventy-seven.” He shook his head, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. “It’s stuck in my brain all these years.”
Rosa returned and plopped a cap on Matt’s head. “Is Pittsburgh Pirates. Black and yellow,” she said.
“Thanks, Rosa. Feel free to borrow one whenever you like.”
She pretended outrage. “If I no like you so much, I leave this place.”
“You can’t do that,” he said, adjusting the bill of his cap. “I’d be heartbroken.”
“Would be nice change to see you with the broken heart,” she quipped. “One never knows,” she said in the little singsong voice that Sara had come to recognize as her way of prophesying. “Now, I leave you two to talk.” She turned and winked at Sara as she bustled away.
Matt rubbed his stubbled jaw. “What’s with her?”
Just a little matchmaking. Guess who the lucky couple is? “Oh, nothing.” She tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “I think she just likes to tease you.”
“So, when was the last time you went to a game?”
“A week before I came here. They were playing the Reds.”
“They lost two to one.”
“That's right,” she said, impressed with his memory.
“Where do you sit?”
“Usually upper deck, nosebleed section.” She studied him a minute. “I'll bet you're box seats, behind home plate.”
“Nope. Upper deck, left field.”
“Why?” The seats he mentioned were just average, nothing special. She pictured him in a loge or at least a box seat.
“Tradition. My father started taking me to see the Pirates when I was a kid. Three Rivers Stadium was brand new. Those were our seats. Upper deck, left field, anywhere in the first five rows. Every Sunday they played, we hopped in our beat-up Ford and headed to the stadium. Adam never liked the game and my kid sister was too small so it was just the two of us.” He leaned against the striped cushions and closed his eyes. “I can still see my old man shouting and cheering them on. It was the only time I think he was ever really alive. He worked in the steel mills forty-some years. Went to work every day, got paid, came home. Never said more than three words at a time.” He rubbed his jaw. “Unless he was at a ball game. Then you couldn't get him to shut up.”
“Is he still alive?”
Matt shook his head. “Died ten years ago. Two weeks after he retired.”
“And your mother?”
“Cancer,” he said. “Two years ago.”
“I'm sorry.” She knew the pain of losing a parent.
“Adam came here after she died and joined a law outfit in Irvine. Amy is the only one left back home. She's got two little rugrats who keep her going crazy most of the time.”
“Do you ever get back?” The thought of him in the same city, perhaps walking down the same street, did strange things to her stomach…
“Once a year. I schedule my visit around opening day and take Amy and the boys to the game.” He flashed her a smile. “I play the doting uncle. You know, cotton candy, hot dogs, peanuts. Real bellyache stuff. Amy says she doesn't know if she loves it or hates it when I come.”
“You like her children?” This was dangerous ground.
“I love her children. And I love being the uncle who spoils them rotten.”
“Have you…seen them since the accident?”
His jaw tensed. This was dangerous ground indeed—for both of them.
“No.”
Sara tiptoed. “Well, maybe you just need a little time.”
“They're used to me running and playing ball with them. Time isn't going to show me where to pitch the ball or how far out to throw the long bomb. I can't do any of those things with them anymore.”
“So, you're never going to visit them in person again? Or let them come here?” The idea was preposterous. “You're going to let those kids imagine all sorts of horrible things about their uncle?”
“It’s not that that simple.”
He was pulling away, she heard it in his voice. “Nothing is ever simple.” She reached out and touched his hand. He jerked but didn't move away. “Sometimes life throws us these incredibly horrible curve balls that hit us smack in the face, slamming us to the ground. And we're lying there, bloody and swollen, and it seems like no one can help us. Not even ourselves.” How many weeks had she spent wallowing in dirt, too heartbroken to see past her faithless husband and dead baby?
Matt was scared and alone in his own private hell, but she knew how to dig him out. “Let me help you,” she said. He didn’t speak, but placed his hand over hers. They sat in silence as the morning breeze wrapped them in their own intimate moment. Strange as it was, it felt right to be here. Sara closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. She was beginning to think Matthew Brandon was much more than the handsome face and wads of cash associated with his name.
“I'll bet you're a great doctor.”
She smiled, eyes still closed, face tipped toward the morning rays. “I am. Why don’t you let me show you how good?”
He sighed and said, “I get the feeling you're analyzing and assessing everything I say anyway.”
Smart man. “Against your will? Without your permission? Would I do that?”
“Damn right you would.”
“You're right,” she said. “I would.”
“You're not like the other doctors,” he said, rubbing his thumb in a distracted manner along her wrist. Sara's eyes shot open and fixated on his hand. What was he doing? She almost pulled away but didn't. She doubted he even realized what he was doing. She just wished she didn't feel every stroke. Wished even more it didn’t remind her of the other night in his bedroom…
“Sara? Were you daydreaming?”
“What? Oh. Yes. Daydreaming.” About you. “You caught me all right. I was daydreaming.” Suffering from temporary insanity was more like it.
“You know, I've been wondering,” he began. There he was with that darned thumb again. Circling, circling. “Why is it that every other doctor who came here was asking about my books before he crossed the threshold?” He paused. “Oh, except the last one who was more interested in touching than talking. But you haven't asked me anything about them. Why?”
What should she say? The truth? I don't like your Jack Steele character with his smart mouth and overabundant supply of buxom bimbos. How could she tell him that? It was too brutal, so she opted for a half-truth instead. “I assumed you would talk about your writing when you were ready.” Not bad. Sounded plausible.
“Bullshit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said bullshit, Sara Hamilton. From the second I met you, you've been pushing and pulling, prying into every part of my life except one of the most important ones. My writing.” He flipped his
cap up, scratched his head and flipped it back down. “Why?”
What to say? “We have so many other issues to address.”
“That's not the reason.”
He was too darned perceptive. “I'd been forewarned that your writing was not open for discussion.” That part was true.
“Since when did that stop you from meddling?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
She'd read somewhere that before he made it big with his Jack Steele Private Investigator series, Matt had been an investigative reporter—which would account for his questions and his persistence.
“Sara?”
How had he known she was stretching and reworking the truth?
“Sara?”
Judging by the pitch of his voice, he was moving from irritation to full-blown annoyance. “Okay, okay. I was going to get around to discussing your writing in a general way because it's what you do and is very important to you.” She hesitated, trying to think of a way to gentle her words. It was like sugar coating a lemon. No matter how much of the white stuff you dumped on it, it was still a lemon.
“Stop dancing, Sara. What the hell's the problem?” As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he slapped his chair with his right arm and said, “You don't like my writing!”
She wished she could slither away and hide until her embarrassment died down. Like in two thousand years. He'd guessed the awful truth. Little literary nobody, Sara Hamilton, did not like best-selling author, Matt Brandon's work.
“I'm sorry.”
He threw back his head and laughed. A full deep-bellied laugh that ended in a sigh. “Nobody's ever had the guts to tell me they didn't like my work. I was just worth too damn much money, selling too damn many books and movie rights for anybody to tell me they thought my work stunk.” He laughed again. “Until you.”
Sara was horrified. “I didn't say your work stunk.”
“You didn't have to. That's one thing about being blind. You learn to compensate with all of your other senses, including intuition. When I accused you of not liking my work, your body tensed and your breathing patterns changed. That’s when I knew.”
“Oh Matt,” she said, wincing. “I am so embarrassed. And so sorry.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Save the apologies. People apologize to me every day and they don't even know why they're doing it. Tell me what you don't like.”
What did she have to lose? He wanted the truth? Okay, she’d give it to him. “I don't like Jack Steele. It's his attitude. He can do anything he likes, with little or no repercussions and he always gets the girl.”
Matt’s lips twitched. “And that’s a problem?”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” Now that he'd given her the go ahead, she was eager to forge on and blast Jack Steele right off the page.
“Please. Go on.”
She dove right back in as though there'd been no interruption. “Actually, he always gets several girls. They fall all over him, or maybe they're just so top heavy they can't hold themselves up.” He howled at that. “Anyway, he's a horrible example for both men and women. His persona says, ‘I'll ignore you until I want sex, demean you with my sarcastic tongue, cheat on you as often as I like, with whomever I like, and there's not a damn thing you'll do about it. Because you'll be so desperate to win even a scrap of affection from me, you'll put up with anything I throw your way.’ That's what I think of your Jack Steele.”
He sat with his right hand under his chin, eyes open, mouth unsmiling. Maybe she'd been a little too honest. She cleared her throat. Sometimes honesty needed a touch of diplomacy to make it more palatable. “I'm sorry, but you asked—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I know I did. There's no reason to be sorry. I asked and you responded.” He let out a short laugh. “Though I must admit, I'm not accustomed to such brutal honesty.”
She should have toned it down a bit.
“But I wanted to hear it from you.” He rubbed his jaw. “I never thought about my stories from a woman's point of view. I was too busy having fun with Jack. He's a man’s man. You know, rough kind of stuff. Thinks ‘the other meat’ means the blonde next to him. Belches when he drinks beer. Eats nothing but red meat and cheese fries.”
“Sounds so appealing,” Sara said, scrunching up her nose.
“Yeah, doesn’t he? But women go nuts over the guy. They send him fan mail and all kinds of gifts.” He lowered his voice. “Some are really bizarre. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh yes, I would.” Some women had no pride where a man was concerned. That's why they came to her when they were all bled out.
“A lot of the women think I'm him.”
“Uh-huh.” And then, “Are you?”
“Hell no!”
“Hey, don’t get mad at me. He’s your guy. You make him walk, talk, and exert his machismo style.” She cocked her head to the side. “I can see where some women might think Jack Steele was living out Matthew Brandon’s fantasies. Just one time, I’d like to see him not get the girl. Just once. Let old Jack feel the pain of heartbreak.”
“But he’s Jack Steele,” Matt said. “Jack always gets his man and he always gets the girl.”
“That’s why I don’t like him.”
“Not even a little? Not even in your subconscious thoughts?”
“Not even in my sub-subconscious thoughts,” she said.
“Tell me,” he asked, “how many of my books have you read?”
He was determined to sell her on his man, Jack. “I read Cry in the City. That was enough of Jack Steele’s escapades for me. But of course, Jeff reads them all and loves them. I told him I wouldn’t read another one until Jack is the one who gets dumped.”
“It would ruin his image,” Matt protested.
“What image?” Sara countered. “Hardass bully or pompous pig?”
“Neither. Avenging hero was more what I had in mind.”
“Well, Matthew Brandon, he’s your man. You can do whatever you want with him. Have him sit in a tree and collect acorns, for all I care. But remember,” she said, raising her voice a notch, “this reader isn’t following Jack Steele anywhere until he takes the big fall. Not one baby step. Until he loses his heart.”
Chapter 8
“He’ll never agree to it, Sara,” Rex said.
“Trust me, Rex. I’ll handle it.”
“Just because you got him to walk to the mailbox doesn’t mean you can convince him to go to Dodger Stadium. There are a few more people there, Sara.” He ran a beefy hand over his face and muttered, “Like thirty thousand.”
“We've been talking baseball solid for the past three days. We listen to several games every day. Rex, the Pirates are coming to town. You know Matt loves them. He even told me he used to wear his Pirates cap when he was writing as a sort of good luck charm. Do you really think he wouldn't want to see them?”
He looked at her, his expression full of concern and resignation. “Sara. He doesn't go out in public. Period. Not since the accident.”
Rex was determined to honor Matt's wishes and protect him from interlopers. Like herself. “Do you want him to get back to his old self? I mean minus the vision, because that's still an iffy thing.”
“Of course I do.”
He looked pitiful with his head bent forward and his big hands clasped together. “Then get me the tickets. Upper deck, left field. Somewhere in the first five rows.”
Beads of sweat popped out on his wide forehead. “I don't know—”
“Just get them.” The time for talking was over.
“I'll make a few phone calls,” he said, heaving a sigh like someone caught between two choices—bad and worse.
“Good. And Rex, make that three tickets. You're coming with us.”
***
Matt stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Five minutes to game time. Sara better hurry up or she'd miss the starting pitch.
“C'mon, Sara. Game's starting.”
“I'll
be right in,” she called from the kitchen.
Sara Hamilton was turning out all right. Considering she was a shrink. He took that last thought back. Sara Hamilton was all right. Period. Too bad she was leaving in a few days. Would it be horrible to admit he would miss her? Damn, but it was the truth.Ever since they'd discovered they were baseball fanatics a few days ago, he and Sara had fallen into a comfortable routine. At breakfast, over grapefruit and wheat toast with eggs and salsa, they talked baseball. At lunch, with chicken fajitas or seafood supremes, they talked baseball. Sipping iced tea in the afternoon, with fat lemon wedges, they talked baseball. And at dinner, with grilled tenderloin a la chiles, or frijoles negros and rice, they talked baseball. Hell, two nights ago, they'd gotten into a heated discussion about right-handed versus left-handed batters. Matt believed the power was with the right-handed batter, but Sara argued that a left-hander had more versatility, greater ability to change the ball's placement and therefore, keep the outfield guessing. After two glasses of cabernet and a midnight breeze blowing over them, they decided that a switch-hitter had the greatest advantage.
The woman was everywhere, her voice, her scent, sinking into the stucco, the marble, filling their coolness with heat. But most of all, she was in his brain, in his thoughts, in his dreams … And yesterday, they'd discussed more than stats and home field advantage. As stimulating as it was to debate right-handed versus left-handed batters, it had proven equally challenging to discuss the environment and carbon footprints.
It was the woman who made the difference, with her fresh, honest perspective on issues that ranged from soul-provoking and morally responsible to light and inconsequential. For the first time in months, he looked forward to kicking off the sheets in the morning and getting out of bed.
He didn’t care about besting her anymore or digging beneath that impenetrable surface calm to excavate old wounds. Now, he just wanted to get to know her, and if he discovered any hidden scars, he wanted to help heal them. That's what friends were for—and they were friends. Nothing more. He just liked to be around her. He had almost forgotten that night in his bedroom. As a matter of fact, he hardly thought of it anymore. Except when he was drifting off to sleep and his subconscious took control. Then, it consumed him. Every touch, every whisper, every sweet smell magnified itself, ending with Sara waking up naked in his bed.