Sit, Stay, Love Page 8

  Cal squirmed. “Usually when I do these things, it turns into a distraction.”

  Gina nodded, thinking of the crowd they’d attracted at the fast food restaurant.

  “You don’t need to worry about that, I promise,” Oscar said. “These kids aren’t going to be blinded by your reputation.”

  “What about their parents?”

  “How’d you get to be such a cynic, son?”

  “The price of fame.”

  “Remember when you were a kid and I taught you how to pitch? Remember how we used to set up the bottles on the fence and see if you could throw ’em down?”

  Cal laughed. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “It was fun, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well this is gonna be just like that. Fun.”

  “You guarantee it?”

  He forked up a last mouthful of meatloaf. “Be ready at nine tomorrow morning. Gina, we would be honored to have you and Tippy come along too.”

  “Since you’re promising fun, I’m in.” She was pleased to see that Cal was not only eating, but devouring his dinner with gusto.

  After the meatloaf was gone and the creamy pudding finished, Oscar carried his plate to the sink and Sweets followed up with the service platter. Cal insisted on doing the dishes. Gina grabbed the towel. “I’ll dry.”

  Oscar yawned. “Well, if you all are gonna do KP, I’m going to take my bride home.”

  Sweets laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “That sounds good, but why don’t you let me drive?” she teased.

  “Whatever makes you happy,” Oscar said.

  Sweets and Oscar left, doling out hugs before they did so. Cal helped his aunt into the truck, and he and Gina stood on the porch until they’d driven out of sight. They returned to the sink and Cal dove in to the washing.

  “Your uncle and aunt are wonderful people.”

  Cal scrubbed and handed her a dish. “Yes, they are. I’m lucky.”

  “Blessed,” Gina said automatically.

  He continued to scrub, swirling the soapy water, but he did not correct her. She wanted to ask about his father, how he was dealing with the revelation that his absentee parent had been visiting throughout his mother’s long illness. How would she feel? She couldn’t imagine. They remained silent except for the swish of water and the clink of dishes returning to their homes on the warped kitchen shelf.

  Gina took the last plate, dried it, and put it in the cupboard. She heard a smacking sound.

  Tippy was dancing around a small square of meatloaf that Sweets must have placed on a paper towel near the spurned kibble.

  “I guess Sweets likes Tippy more than she lets on,” Gina said.

  Cal shook his head at the sight. “Why don’t you just eat it, you crazy dog? What’s the matter with you?”

  Gina offered a pleading look.

  “Seriously?” Cal said.

  “You don’t want her to pack herself off to the wilderness, do you?”

  “Actually… ” Cal said.

  Gina threw a dishtowel at him which he caught easily. Lowering himself to the floor, he crossed his long legs and rested his chin on his hand.

  Her world set right, Tippy began to wolf down the meal, kibble, meatloaf, and all.

  Nine

  The next morning Gina hauled herself from bed at just after eight, pulling on jeans and a comfy sweater patterned with green leaves and tiny pink hearts. Securing her hair into a loose ponytail, she stopped at the door of Meg’s room. Tippy had stayed up pacing and whining until Gina finally relented and let the dog sleep in Meg’s room. She was still there, snoring softly on Meg’s bed. Tippy opened an eye. She didn’t move a muscle, but her tail whacked against the mattress as if pulled by an invisible string. Tails were an amazing barometer of canine emotions. It would be so much easier if people were as easy to read.

  Gina managed to lead Tippy into the kitchen and offer kibble and broth, which Tippy refused until Cal hustled in wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. With his unshaven chin and his baseball cap shoved into his back pocket, he could just as easily be a local rancher as an elite sports star. She liked the look. It suited him.

  “Morning. Want some breakfast?” he said.

  “To be honest, I was going to sneak out here and eat the leftover pudding for breakfast.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Pudding isn’t breakfast food.”

  She shrugged. “It’s got milk and eggs. That’s close enough.”

  “I’ll scramble some eggs,” he said with a smile, going for a pan.

  “Can I have mine with the yolks still in?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. Let’s throw caution to the wind.”

  Tippy approached, bonking her head playfully into Cal’s shins, paws clickety clacking while she did a good morning jig.

  He scooted her to the side with his foot. When the eggs were ready, he handed Gina a plate and mechanically sat down on the floor next to Tippy, balancing his meal on his knee. Smiling, Gina joined him on the floor and the three scarfed up their scrambled eggs and then loaded up in the car, Tippy installed on Gina’s lap.

  Sweets drove up, Oscar in the passenger seat, and they fell in behind, following the road down the mountain through the minuscule town of Six Peaks, which boasted a post office the size of Mrs. Filipski’s kitchen and a doughnut shop, among its other attractions.

  They pulled up at an old warehouse which read Foley’s Grain and Feed on the side in faded letters. Cal peered around. “Oscar must be lost or something.”

  But Oscar and Sweets got out of their truck.

  “Where’s the ballfield?” Cal called.

  Oscar pulled a bag from the back. “Not ready for that yet. They’re just beginners.”

  “Well, where are we going to play? Got batting cages inside?”

  “You’ll see.” Oscar let the way.

  Following a bewildered Cal, Gina clipped Tippy onto a leash and they entered the warehouse. Oscar flipped on the lights, which took several seconds to flicker to life. The warehouse was empty except for a section of fake turf affixed to the floor and surrounded by a standing mesh fence. White lines marked out a home plate and there was another white lined spot for the pitcher. Two blue foam-covered posts stood where first and third bases would normally be.

  In a few minutes, the door opened again and people began to stream in, parents toting folding camp chairs and accompanied by girls and boys in the seven- to ten-year-old range, Gina estimated. Some held their parents’ hands. Other scooted in using canes to find their way along.

  Tippy barked.

  “You see, Cal? I told you they wouldn’t be blinded by your fame.” Oscar smirked.

  “Uncle Oscar,” Cal said, voice low. “What exactly is going on here?”

  “We’re going to teach these kids how to play ball, just like when I taught you.”

  “But… ” Cal surveyed the group, which had grown to eight strong. “They’re… ”

  “Blind,” Oscar said. “Got a problem with that?”

  Cal looked to Gina as if she might hold the clue to his understanding. She shrugged.

  “No, sir, it’s just that I don’t really understand how we’re going to play baseball, you know, with people who can’t see.”

  “You will.” Oscar whistled. “Everyone over here now. I’m gonna introduce our pitcher for today.”

  Sweets helped herd the children toward the makeshift baseball diamond.

  Tippy wagged her tail hard as a little boy approached. “Dad, I heard a dog. Where is it?” he said.

  “Mark’s got a thing for dogs,” the dad said. “Is it okay for him to pet it?”

  “Her,” Gina said. “Her name is Tippy.” She crouched and took the boy’s hand, guiding his fingertips to Tippy’s silky ears. Tippy wriggled excitedly, and so did the boy. His hair was white blond, so much like Matthew’s, skin freckled, and eyelashes so fair they were almost invisible.

  “I’m Gina,” she said. “And this is Tippy. What grade are you i
n?”

  “First grade,” he answered proudly. “And I’m on the team. We’re the Hornets. Know what a hornet is?”

  “Yes, I do. A bug that flies and stings.”

  “Yeah,” he said, laughing as Tippy licked his face. “Flies fast and stings real hard.”

  Mark’s dad was staring at the mound. “The pitcher. Is that…?”

  “Cal Crawford,” Gina confirmed. “He’s helping out Uncle Oscar today.”

  “Wow. I sure didn’t know that. I heard Cal was a relative, but I never expected to meet him.” His eyes narrowed and he looked around. “Is this going to be some sort of publicity event? We weren’t told about that. We thought it was all about the kids today.”

  “It’s no publicity op,” Gina hastened to explain. She was going to add how Cal was at the ranch, preparing it for sale, but then she remembered what had happened the last time she shared too much information. “He’s just here to help.”

  The man still wore a bemused look as he ushered Mark over to the group. Gina gathered Tippy and moved closer. Uncle Oscar stepped to the mound.

  “All right, kids. We’ve been practicing our fielding and hitting, and today my boy Cal is gonna pitch for us. He knows a lot about pitching, but you can help him with his batting.” Oscar grinned. “Pitchers aren’t such hot stuff at batting. He’s been trying to hit a home run his whole life.” Oscar patted Cal’s shoulder. “Go meet the kids, son.”

  Cal looked stricken. “Uh, hey,” he said. “Happy to be here.” He looked around the circle. “How about we do a high five?” he suggested, wide-eyed.

  The kids immediately held up a hand and Cal traversed the circle, delivering high fives to the kids and parents.

  “Tell ’em about what you do, son,” Oscar said.

  “Well… I’m a pitcher for the Falcons baseball team,” Cal said. “I learned to play from my Uncle Oscar and then I joined a team. Every team has to have a pitcher.” Cal continued on, warming to the subject, discussing some of the finer points of baseball. Mark scooted away from the group.

  “Where’s the dog?” he whispered to his father.

  Tippy jingled her collar and Mark left the circle of kids to play with her. He was soon joined by a tiny girl named Ruth and two more boys, Ben and Rohan. Tippy sniffed her way through the kids, causing them to burst out into giggles. Soon all the kids had trailed over, jostling to get Tippy’s attention. Cal looked at his disbanded group and then at Gina.

  She shot him an apologetic look. Tippy, once again, had stolen Cal’s thunder.

  Instead of irritation on Cal’s face, he threw back his head and laughed, brown eyes lit with a glow that made her senses tingle.

  Eventually, Gina got the kids into two groups. Uncle Oscar and Sweets, with the help of a few parents, got half the kids lined up in something of a batting order. The other half were sprinkled around, ready to try out their fielding.

  Mark was up first, the bat looking huge in his hands. Oscar activated a tiny speaker in the ball which emitted a beeping sound and handed it to Cal.

  “Tell ’em ‘ready’ when you pull back and ‘pitch’ when you release,” Oscar said. “That’s how they know when to swing.”

  Cal took the ball, a little larger than a softball, Gina noted, and crouched down a little.

  He said something to Mark which Gina couldn’t hear but that made the little boy laugh. “Ready… ” he said as he drew back his arm. “Pitch!”

  Mark swung the bat so hard it almost knocked him over. The ball thunked to the turf. His face fell.

  “Don’t sweat it, Mark. We’re gonna do this, just you and me, okay?” Cal said.

  Oscar helped Mark adjust his stance and Cal lobbed him a soft toss. Another swing, another strike. Mark’s cheeks grew red.

  Mark’s dad called encouragement to the boy, helping him through the next few pitches. Still the ball sailed by out of range.

  Then Mark let the end of the bat hit the ground and he looked as though he was about to dissolve into tears.

  Gina’s heart wrenched.

  Cal jogged over and put his hand on Mark’s shoulder, bending low to whisper something in his ear. After a moment, Mark nodded, rubbed his sleeve across his face, and picked up the bat.

  Another pitch, another miss.

  “Come on, Mark. Remember what I told you,” Cal called.

  Gina wanted to tell Cal to ease up, to let Mark walk away and regroup. He was, after all, only a little boy playing a game that was supposed to be fun. Instead Cal called out again.

  “Ready,” Cal called out, “pitch.” This time Mark made contact and the ball flew past the mound, beeping all the while. With Oscar’s help, Mark ran toward one of the foam-covered pillars and smacked it with all the enthusiasm of a player making a World Series home run.

  The onlookers burst into cheers as the fielders scrambled to find the rolling ball.

  One voice shouted louder than the rest. Cal Crawford, his face lit up like a beacon, pumped his fist in the air. Gina’s heart skipped a beat to see the joy there, the joy that must have drawn him to baseball in the first place, before all the pressure, and the heartache. The unfettered pleasure of smacking a ball high and hard out into the field, before baseball became the measure of his self-worth.

  “Nailed it,” Cal shouted.

  Mark’s smile was ear to ear.

  Yes, you did, she thought.

  The warehouse gradually warmed with the heat of the day and all the activity. Cal and two of the parents cranked open the big bay door. A delicious breeze wafted along, ruffling Gina’s hair as she hopped along after Tippy to keep her off the playing field.

  Cal wished he could just watch Gina for a while as she smiled and chatted with the parents and kids. How did she always know what to say? He heard her laughter bubble up as she gave a little girl a hug. They called Cal “a natural” when he pitched. She was a natural with people. It enticed him, fascinated him. It was like she had the sun inside her, energy which pulled him closer and warmed him. He blinked to rid himself of the strange thoughts.

  She’s just here to help with Tippy and you’ve got a plane to catch next week. Don’t get distracted. Distractions were bad. They kept him from doing his job for the team and his crazy attraction to Gina had the potential to derail him entirely. Stay away from Gina Palmer, he ordered himself.

  But there she was, skipping over to him, holding out a sleep mask between her slender fingers. “It’s your turn.”

  “For what?”

  “The kids want you to try batting. You have to wear a mask so everything is fair.”

  “Is that a good idea? What if I hurt somebody?”

  “You will be gentle and Oscar says you can’t hit the broad side of a barn anyway.”

  “Very funny, and if that’s supposed to get my dander up… ”

  “It worked?” She laughed. “Come on, then. It’s almost time for lunch and the parents are barbecuing. I don’t want to miss my chance at a hot dog.”

  He took the mask and put it on.

  “Bend down. It’s twisted in the back.”

  He bent, as instructed, and he felt her fingers skimming the back of his head, adjusting the strap along his neck and behind his ears. Her touch sent sparks tingling through his nerves. He wanted to capture her hand and feel the softness of her palm next to his cheek, against his lips. With a jerk, he straightened. “It’s good.”

  She took his arm and led him to the plate, giving him the bat and a final pat on the shoulders. “Keep your eye on the ball this time,” she advised, and he laughed.

  “And you keep your eye on Tippy.”

  “Yes, Mr. Crawford,” she threw over her shoulder.

  One of the dads took the mound.

  “I gotta say, it’s weird to be pitching to Cal Crawford,” he said.

  “No weirder than me trying to bat with a sleep mask on.”

  “Ready. Pitch.” The dad lobbed a pitch and Cal heard the beeping grow louder and louder until it passed him by. Second pit
ch, third, and he felt the bat make contact, but only a glancing blow.

  “You can do it, Mr. Crawford.” He recognized Mark’s voice. “Let’s go Hornets, let’s go.”

  And then all the children were chanting, “Let’s go Hornets, let’s go.”

  He’d heard a lot of cheering fans in his day, but Cal thought none of them had ever put as much feeling into it as these little kids. On the fifth pitch he made contact, a gentle tap that sent the ball rolling onto the green. Pulling up the mask with his thumb, he saw the team hopping and scrambling around, getting excited directions from their parents and Uncle Oscar.

  He saw the glint of a camera lens.

  “Put on your mask and run,” Oscar roared.

  Cal yanked the mask back on and jogged slowly toward one of the bases which had started to beep, arms outstretched. What kind of confidence did it take for a blind person to full-out run? The thought bewildered him. Tripping over the edge of the base, he sprawled on the astroturf. A wet tongue slurped across his face as he took off the mask. Tippy gave him another congratulatory lick. Then all the kids cheered as the ball was retrieved. Technically, his brain said, it wouldn’t have been an out because he made it to the base before the fielders got control of the ball. His heart corrected. It was a victory for the Hornets, who whooped and shouted as Tippy zinged from child to child, adding her own congratulations. The finest play he’d ever not seen. He sat there and grinned.

  From his spot on the ground, he looked for Gina. She gave him a double thumbs-up. What a smile, he thought. Electric.

  “And they say a pitcher can’t hit worth a nickel,” he muttered to himself.

  As he got up, he saw the glint of a camera lens again, only this time he was able to pinpoint that it was coming from the bay door, and it wasn’t a parent capturing the moment for their family. This was a professional camera, aimed right at him, held by the hands of Tom Peterson, stalker extraordinaire.

  Ten

  Cal was on his feet and sprinting for the bay door. He skirted kids and beep balls, Tippy racing right behind him. Peterson was leaping into his van by the time Cal reached the passenger side.

  “Give me the camera,” Cal shouted through the half open window. The engine revved and Tippy danced away.