The Next Best Thing (11 page)

Charley gives me a look that conveys moral indignation and deep, deep hurt. “And old friend, huh? So I guess last week meant squat?”

Fred, understanding that good-looking Charley feels I have thrown him over for Fred’s own rotund self, beams. I close my eyes briefly. “Charley and I had dinner last week,” I explain to Fred. Turning to Charley, I add, “Those clams were great, Charley. I had a nice time.”

“Nice time, is dat right. I getcha. Fine. No prob, Luce.” He gives Fred a disgruntled look, then tromps off to right field, where we put all the guys who can’t catch.

“So this is fun,” Fred says. “I haven’t been to a game in a long time. Maybe we can grab a drink afterward?”

I swallow. “Um…yeah,” I say. “Let’s see how, um, how long the game goes.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be cheering for you.” He winks, then waddles off with Corinne over to the bleachers. Ah. Good.
Parker and Nicky are there, too—we’re playing Ethan’s team again.

I don’t see Ethan yet…he’s been late a couple of times recently, driving in from Providence, but I start at seeing International’s new pitcher. Doral-Anne Driscoll. Uh-oh.

In addition to being a loose-moraled, obscenity-spewing, nasty and not-always-clean bully, Doral-Anne was also the captain of Mackerly High’s softball team. The year we won States. I wasn’t on the team…my baseball talents were dormant till I started playing as an adult.

“Well, well, well,” Doral-Anne says, then spits. I square my shoulders. She can’t scare me anymore. I’m a grownup. A grown-up who bats .513.

“Hi, Doral-Anne. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Ethan Mirabelli invited me to come,” she says. “Saw him the other day. Said I wouldn’t mind playing again, and he said his team could use a good pitcher, so here I am.” She pulls a face, daring me to protest.

“Welcome,” I say. My mind is racing. Why would Ethan invite Doral-Anne? Surely he can’t be…
interested
…in her, of all people!

“Batter up!” calls Stuey Mitchell, our home plate ump. I take my bat, tap my cleats and go up to the plate.

Three pitches later, I’m out. Somewhat dazed, I slink back to the dugout.

“Way to go, D.A.” someone calls.

It’s Ethan, walking toward the field from the parking lot, tucking his International Foods T-shirt into his pants. I can’t help it, I know it’s juvenile, but heck! Ethan’s supposed to be my friend. He’s not supposed to cheer when I humiliate myself at bat. He must see my disgruntled expression, because he smiles. “Nice try, Lucy,” he adds.

Doral-Anne doesn’t seem to have lost her stuff in the
years since high school. She retires us in order, and I can’t help but notice that Ethan and she have a laugh together back at the dugout.

Bemused, I get my glove and head for the mound.

Ethan’s up first…the privileges of ownership, when he’s around, anyway. Doral-Anne watches his ass quite intently as he walks to the batter’s box. Super.

My first pitch is a bit inside. Okay, okay, it’s a lot inside. Ethan jumps back, a swirl of dirt rising from his cleats. “Ball one,” Stuey calls.

“Control yourself, Lang,” Doral-Anne shouts, then spits in the dirt. God. Martha Stewart would just have to smother her with an eiderdown pillow, wouldn’t she?

I try to ignore Doral-Anne and catch the ball Carly Espinosa, our catcher, throws back. She gives me the sign for an outside pitch. I shake my head. She gives me another sign—fast ball down the middle. I nod and, launching into the odd little windmill windup of softball, I let the ball fly.

The pitch is wild; Ethan jerks back, but the ball bounces off his helmet.

“Jesus, Lang!” shouts Doral-Anne. “Is this how you always pitch?”

“Sorry, Ethan!” I call, ignoring Doral-Anne. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answers. He tosses his bat gently to Carly’s son, who’s eight and serves as batboy, and then jogs to first.

International Foods scores three runs that inning. Clearly I don’t have my best stuff. Everyone hits me. Including the debutante princess, Doral-Anne, whose mother, legend has it, named her daughter after Dorals, her favorite brand of cigarette.

At some point later in the game, I manage to make it to first base on a weak little hit that’s fumbled by International Foods’ shortstop. Finally.

“Yay, Aunt Wucy!” calls my nephew. I glance over, then start. Fred Busey. Crikey, I’d forgotten all about him. I wave. He waves back, then smoothes his hand over his paint-enhanced hair. Parker says something, and they chuckle.

“Give ’em hell, Lucy!” my friend shouts.

“Go Bunny’s!” Fred seconds.

Though I’m not one hundred percent sure I want it publicly known that the man with the inked-in scalp is with me, my battered ego is still somewhat soothed. I contemplate the distance to second base. Take a subtle step in that direction. Another inch. Another. After all, I’ve been known to steal a base or (ahem!) a hundred and twenty-two! League record, ladies and gentlemen! And besides, that would really piss off dear Doral-Anne, who’s pitching far too well. If we’re going to have a chance, I simply must get in scoring position.

Doral-Anne glances at me from underneath her too-long bangs, then decides I’m not worth watching. She goes into her windup, and I’m off. My helmet flies off as I sprint toward second, each step a joy, the thrill of stealing electrifying my legs. Ethan doesn’t even see me, but I slide anyway, just as his glove comes down.

“Out!” says Christopher. “Sorry, Luce.”

“Excuse me?” I pant, standing up, my foot securely on base.

“You’re out,” he says.

“I am?” Openmouthed, I look at Ethan, who raises his eyebrows and grins that elvish smile. He holds up his glove, and sure enough, the ball is right there.

“You weren’t even close,” he says. “Buddy.” He winks.

“Can we keep playing, or is the princess going to stay there forever?” Doral-Anne calls.

With no other option, still shocked that I was, for the first time
ever,
tagged out on a steal, I trudge back to the dugout.

Bunny’s loses, 9-2. Worse, Ethan offers to buy drinks for both sides, so everyone will be heading to Lenny’s for a postgame analysis.

“Tough loss,” Fred Busey says, panting a bit with the effort of walking the ten yards or so from the bleachers.

“You’re telling me,” I say, forcing a smile. Truthfully I’m stunned at how badly I played. Three measly strikeouts. On base only once, and that because of an error. And caught stealing…jeepers.

Most of those heading for the bar do it logically…by cutting through Ellington Park. Which would mean also going through the cemetery. Which we all know I’m not willing to do.

“Shall we grab a drink?” asks Fred.

“Sure,” I say. I can have a drink with Fred. He’s a nice guy. Besides, Ethan’s just chitchattering away to Doral-Anne. And you know what else? I’m going to walk through the cemetery. Because it’s time for me to stop being a dope when it comes to that. I should be able to take care of Jimmy’s grave as a good widow should. The Mirabellis are moving—their goodbye party is just around the corner, and the very thought causes my heart to clench. So yes, I should get over this issue of mine. Should be able to walk through the cemetery. But that doesn’t mean I have to walk fast, either.

Indeed, everyone else on the team trickles past us. Fred can’t move too quickly, and that’s fine with me, because I need a little time to shore up my courage. I try to follow Fred’s tale of his recent divorce, his eight-year-old daughter, but the cemetery looms in front of me like the gaping maw of a shark. I make the appropriate noises, but my heart starts to clatter as we approach the end of the park…and the entrance to the cemetery.

We’re getting closer. I’m a little out of breath. And why can’t I hear Fred? Is he still talking? Lips are still moving…A buzz fills my ears, and my hands are slick with sweat. Up ahead, well into the cemetery, I can see Ethan’s back,
Mirabelli
over a number 12. He’s walking with Doral-Anne, laughing, unaware of my distress. If only he’d turn, see me, help me out…
Please, Ethan.
My psychic cry fails to hit its target. Ethan and Doral-Anne disappear around the bend.

“Um…Fred?” I say, and my voice cracks. We’re just outside the stone pillars now.

“Yeah?” He looks up at me, his brows coming together.

“I…can we…um…” I’m having a hard time getting enough air, my chest bucking up and down erratically. Oh, jeepers, I’m going to faint.

“Are you okay? Want to sit down?” Fred, also panting though not for the same reasons, takes my elbow in his pudgy hand and leads me to a rock. I sit down with all the grace of a dying hippo. Dropping my head between my knees, I try to relax, try to let the breeze push air into my lungs.
Everything’s gonna be all right…everything’s gonna be all right.

“Lucy? Should I call someone…911?” Fred asked, patting my shoulder.

I shake my head. The panic subsides like the outgoing tide, bit by bit. I don’t have to go in the cemetery. No one will know. Nice Fred won’t mind, I can already tell.

“My husband’s buried in there,” I whisper, and oh, it sounds so sad. Tears spring to my eyes, and I scrub them away, almost irritated. I should be able to say these things without crying by now.

“I’m so sorry,” Fred murmurs.

“Maybe we can just go around?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I know it doesn’t make sense—”

“It doesn’t have to,” Fred says. “Of course we can go around. Whenever you’re ready.”

And so, feeling like an ass, I get up and take twenty minutes longer than necessary to get to Lenny’s Pub.

“Hey, Luce!” a few of my Bunny’s teammates chorus. Ellen Ripling is sucking down a piña colada, flirting shamelessly with Leeland Huckabee. Tom Malloy, our first baseman, looks half plastered already, which is par for the course…the man just cannot hold his liquor, and I make a mental note to get his keys. Carly Espinosa, responsible for both our team’s runs with a homer in the ninth, is on her cell phone. Roxanne, the surly waitress, growls at patrons to hurry up and order as she slaps down drinks.

And Ethan is yucking it up with Doral-Anne.

“What would you like to drink?” Fred asks.

“Oh, um…I’ll have a…whatever you’re having,” I say, my mind temporarily blank. I indulge in a guilty and relieved sigh when he turns his back.

“So what happened today, Lucy?” Tommy Malloy calls.

“Just having a bad day,” I answer. “Don’t worry. My mojo will be back when we play Nubey’s.” We’ve never lost to Nubey’s Hardware, after all.

Ah-ha! Ethan is coming my way. “Hey, Luce.”

“Hi. Sorry I’m late getting here,” I say.

“Oh, were you late?” he asks, glancing at the bar.

“I just had a little…trouble. That’s all.” I wait for him to inquire after my well-being. He doesn’t. “So. Taking steroids or something, Eth?” I continue. “Pretty aggressive there on second today. First time you tagged me out…ever, now that I think of it.” I offer a smile, and he grins back.

“It’s not steroids, Lucy. Just treating you like my buddy. Why? Should I let you get on base next time?” His merry eyebrows rise, and his smile is full-fledged now.

“You don’t
let
me do anything,” I object.

“Sure, Luce.”

“What are you saying?”

He laughs, not meanly but in genuine amusement. “Lucy, Lucy. Do you really think you’re that good?”

My mouth falls open. “Yes! I’m great at softball! I bat .513!”

He nods. “Yes, you do. Even higher than Tommy Malloy, who played for Arizona State. Amazing.” He winks.

My shoulders slump. “So what do you mean? I’m
not
that good? People have been just being nice?”

“Yup.”

“No, sir!”
I’m not great?
“Why would they do that?”

“Because you’re Jimmy’s widow, kid. Who’s gonna strike out poor Lucy Mirabelli?”

My eyes narrow. “Did you have something to do with this?”

He grins again. “Well, I may have said to go easy on my sister-in-law. Back when you first started playing, anyway. I guess it got to be a habit.” He pats my shoulder, and I catch a slight whiff of his cologne, such a comforting and familiar smell that I’m filled with longing. And jealousy, maybe, because he’s…ah, dang it.
Snap out of it,
I tell myself harshly.

I glance around the bar. Fred, surrounded by taller patrons, waits patiently, unaware of the “shove your way to the front” method of getting a drink at this fine establishment. I glance over to where Doral-Anne sits in a booth along the back wall. Where
I
usually sit. Often with Ethan, whenever he was around for a game, that is. Despite the fact that our more intimate relationship had always been a secret, Ethan was always quite protective of me. Quite solicitous, and everyone always gave him huge points for
being such a good guy where his brother’s widow was concerned. He’d get me a beer, praise my skill on the field (gah!) and usually walk me home. And often shag me.

Dang it, dang it, dang it.

Doral-Anne eyes me with all the warmth of a great white shark. “You should probably get back to your date,” I say to Ethan, unable to completely hide the bitter note in my voice.

“Who? Doral-Anne? Oh, we’re not on a date. Just talking.” He glances over to Doral-Anne, who jerks her glare off of me and pretends she was studying the menu.

“And what are you talking about?” I ask.

He considers me carefully. “She’s interested in what International Foods does. Our new product line. Stuff like that.”

“Your product line?” I snort. “Ethan, my dear boy, Doral-Anne’s interested in
you
.”

“No, Lucy, she’s interested in my company. We’re both in the food service industry, in case you didn’t notice. There’s been talk about Starbucks closing the Mackerly store. She might send her résumé to International, that’s all.”

“She’s not good enough for you.” The statement falls out without my consent, but there it is. The truth.

Ethan’s mouth tightens. “So now you’re an expert on who I should date, Lucy? Maybe you shouldn’t go around judging people you barely know.”

I gulp. Great, he’s defending her. “Well, I just…whatever. Sorry I said anything. I’m sure she’s perfectly wonderful.”