Chapter Nine
I knew when my career was over.
In 1965 my baseball card
came out with no picture.
— Bob Uecker
In the end, self-preservation won out over Keely’s near compulsion to chase down Jack Trehan, sit him down—tie him down, if necessary—and tell him she understood how he felt. She understood, she sympathized, but now he had to stop thinking about his lost career and start thinking about the future. About Mary Margaret.
So she gave him the weekend. Jack didn’t know he’d been given the weekend, but Keely felt pretty good about her magnanimous gesture. It never occurred to her that she was in no position to give him anything, or that she had no right to poke her nose into his business. She would have been amazed if anyone told her that she might be bossy, interfering. She was just the sort of person who, when she felt she was right, just assumed that the rest of the world also knew she was right. Or, as her Aunt Mary had been heard to say, not always with a smile, “Keely would have made a great dictator.”
So, operating in this marvelous generosity of spirit, Keely made great meals, kept herself busy with Mary Margaret, and stayed out of the den all day Sunday while Jack channel-surfed, probably lowering his I.Q. by several points as he watched ESPN, then six different baseball games, then ESPN again, from early morning until nearly midnight.
Monday morning, however, all bets were off, so she handed Mary Margaret over to Petra and hunted down Jack, who was swimming laps in the pool.
And nearly lost her nerve, her resolve, and possibly even—only temporarily—the ability to remember her own name.
He’d just climbed out of the pool, the sun shining on his wet, glistening skin, on the soft golden hair that lightly covered his arms and legs, his flat, muscular chest. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, the long, lean, muscular frame of the ballplayer. His dark blond hair looked even darker as it lay wet and plastered to his well-shaped head, set off the pretty damn magnificent planes of his face, his absolutely perfect nose and brow and chin. Even his bare feet were sexy, damn him.
He didn’t see her, just raised his hands to push his fingers through his hair, ruffle it. Which was worse on her equilibrium? His hair slicked back or damply curling around his face? Then he turned, bent from the waist to retrieve his towel, and Keely got her first clear view of Jack Trehan’s butt in a bathing suit.
A law. There ought to be a law against Jack Trehan’s butt in a bathing suit.
Still, she had come out here to talk to the man, and that was just what she was going to do. Hand him some home truths, wake him up to his responsibilities. All that good stuff. But maybe she’d sort of ease herself into it...
“Hi,” she said, inwardly wincing. That was too bright, too cheerful. And if her voice got any higher, she could call dogs with it. “That is, good morning, Jack. How... how’s the water?”
He rubbed his head with the towel, then draped it over his shoulders. “Wet. Is something the matter? You look sort of flushed.”
“What? Me? No, no,” Keely said, backing up a pace as Jack came closer. Close enough to smell the chlorine on his skin, count the small spattering of freckles on his chest.
“You want to talk to me, right?” he asked, stepping even closer, so that she took yet another step backwards. “You’ve been a good girl all weekend, but you’re just dying to talk to me, aren’t you? Offer me your condolences, tell me how sorry you are that my ball career is over, that from now on all I’ve got left is the rest of my life, with nothing to fill it. Even better, you’ve got a way to fill it for me, don’t you, Keely? I can fill it with Candy, raising Candy.”
He tipped his head to one side as he looked at her. “How am I doing so far?”
Keely wet her lips, averted her eyes. “Well... actually... I mean...” She closed her mouth, counted to three. “Hey,” she said, beginning again, this time with only her anger to guide her, “what’s wrong with that? You’ve got the time, you’ve got the money—you’ve got this house. Why not keep Mary Mar—Candy?”
He raised his eyebrows, his grin bordering on wicked. “I told you Mary Margaret was too big a name for her right now. You’ve got to give her time to grow into it. But we’ll talk about that later. For now, we’ll talk about how I’m supposed to take care of her, okay? I mean, are you applying for another job here, Keely? And if you are, which job would that be? Nanny? Live-in nanny?”
“This has nothing to do with me!” Keely protested, wishing she could believe her own denial. “I’m going back to Manhattan, remember?” Then she winced, because it wasn’t exactly politic to mention her own hopeful comeback, right after he’d just lost his last chance at one of his own. “Oh, Jack,” she said, reaching out a hand, touching his damp yet warm arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I mean, that was low.”
Jack shook his head, grinned. “You think you can do it, don’t you? You really think you can go back. You didn’t make it the first time. What makes you think it’ll be easier this time around?”
“Nothing,” Keely admitted quietly. This conversation wasn’t taking her anywhere she wanted to go. Still, it was better if he believed she wanted nothing more than to head back to Manhattan. It was safer for her to believe she wanted nothing more than to head back to Manhattan, even if her biggest reason for doing so still remained making one rat-fink Gregory I-told-you-so Fontaine eat his words.
She’d like to think her motive was more noble, or that she still felt this burning desire to “make it there” in the Big Apple, be a career woman, show her Aunt Mary she had what it took to succeed. None of these were noble reasons, but they were all Keely had right now. That, and a nearly overwhelming desire to push down the spiky-wet curls sticking up on Jack’s head. She’d give half her commission on this job to be able to feel free to make such an intimate gesture.
“But you’ve got to try, don’t you?” Jack said as Keely lost herself in the jumbled mess her powers of reason had become since the first time she’d stepped inside Jack Trehan’s life.
“Yes,” she said, grabbing at the straw he’d handed her. “I’ve got to try, Jack. You, more than anyone else, know I’ve got to try.”
Something passed over Jack’s face, some sort of... cloud, and Keely watched as he took off the towel, threw it on the tile beside the pool. “Yeah. Guess that’s all you can do, seeing as you don’t want to do anything else. I don’t blame you.” Then he turned, dove back into the pool, leaving Keely to try to figure out just what the hell had happened... or not happened.