“Got it,” Joe said.
It felt good being on a ball diamond again, even though he couldn’t allow himself the pleasure of playing well. Actually, it felt good because there was no pressure to play well. At least not the kind of pressure he’d experienced in past years.
He checked to see how Bobby was doing. His son was happily playing in the dirt with another little boy with a vigilant mother watching over them.
No reporters. No news cameras. Just a small-town baseball game. The crisp fall weather was invigorating. The sound of the bat smacking into leather was almost hypnotic. Even the familiar smell of the dust on the baseball field gave him a sort of autumn high.
The teams were neck and neck. As the game continued, he could tell that Rachel’s team was doing better than she had expected, and she was getting excited over the chances of winning.
Her team was up one run going into the top of the last inning when the cop/fireman team took the field, hoping to hold the boys and make that last turn at bat unnecessary.
“Watch out, Joe,” Rachel called. “Keep an eye on that lefty I told you about.”
He saw her backing up, playing her position deep, hoping to cover anything in short right field and handle second base too. He smiled inwardly, wondering what she would think if she knew for whom she was trying to cover.
He had allowed himself the pleasure of stopping a couple of grounders that had gone through the infield during the game, but overall he had deliberately played with such mediocrity that he knew she had little confidence in his ability to field a ball.
The first batter took a walk down to first. The second batter hit a pop foul behind third base. The third baseman made a great catch but couldn’t keep the runner from getting to second. The third batter laid a bunt down the third baseline.
While trying to field the bunt, the catcher accidentally kicked the ball. The batter ended up on first and the runner slid safely to third. One out, one man on third, and one man on first. The top of the batting order was up.
The lead-off hitter knocked some dust off his cleats and stepped into the batter’s box. It was “Lefty,” the hitter Rachel had warned him about. If the boy hit it to Joe and Joe missed the catch, the boys’ team would tie it up and be in an excellent position to win the game.
“Heads up, Joe!” Rachel shouted, backing up farther.
Lefty whiffed the first pitch, took the second, tipped the third, and then slammed into the fourth pitch, drilling it toward the right-field line.
Joe got the same rising feeling of excitement in his stomach that he always did when he saw a well-hit ball flying toward the fence. That left-handed kid could hit!
The small-town crowd rose as one to their feet. Rachel started running, but she was too far away to make it. There wasn’t anything anyone on the field could do about that clean extra-bases hit—except Joe.
His eyes lingered on the ball as it arced its way toward him, high, high against the blue autumn sky. It was apparent to all who watched that the ball was going to sail right over the fence.
The sight of that white ball was mesmerizing. Not once did it occur to him to let it go. Years of training and instinct came into play. Before he could check himself, Joe had a lock on the ball and was moving toward the section of the fence where the ball would go out. Without conscious thought, his legs coiled beneath him and he leaped high into the air, using every inch of his superior height and catching the ball over his shoulder right at the fence.
Lefty was out, but out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw the runner on third tagging up and heading for home.
“Throw it,” the crowd roared. “Throw home.”
She knew it was futile. Even though Joe had somehow made an ESPN-level catch, he was still at the fence, and there was no way he could keep the runner from sliding into home. No one on the team had that kind of arm—not even Sam.
She checked behind her. Ed, who was acting as the catcher, hovered hopefully over home plate. Then she glanced back at Joe. Her jaw dropped when she saw Joe launch a low, sizzling rocket straight toward home plate. She involuntarily ducked as the ball hissed past her head.
Ed squatted, held his catcher’s glove directly in front of his chest, and was nearly knocked backward off his feet from the impact of the ball. Dust flew off his mitt, but he made the tag.
“Out!” the umpire called.
There was total silence on the field. Rachel was not the only one with her mouth hanging open.
Stunned, Ed stared down in disbelief at the ball embedded in his catcher’s glove. Rachel and the rest of the team began trotting in from the field.
Sam nudged her with his elbow as she walked by. “I thought you said the man wasn’t all that good.”
“I didn’t think he was.”
Joe handed Rachel the baseball glove she had lent him. He seemed in a hurry to leave. “Thanks for letting me play,” he said.
“How—how did you…” Her shock was so great, she couldn’t find the words to finish her sentence.
“It was a fluke,” Joe answered. “Sheer luck.” He seemed distracted. “Where’s Bobby? I lost track of him during that last play.”
She pointed toward Carol, who was talking to some of the other mothers. “Over there.”
“Right.” Joe nodded. “I’m going to grab him and head on back to the farm. I have some grout work to do on the tile in the bathroom.”
She watched him collect his son near a cooler of juice boxes Carol had brought to the game. She saw him thank Carol for watching his boy, and then his tall, lean body started walking home with Bobby seated firmly on his broad shoulders.
She shook her head in disbelief. Baseball players lived to make a throw like that. If it had been any of the rest of them who had made the play, the whole team would be going out to celebrate right now.
Her aunts’ handyman, from deep right field, had just thrown a baseball on an arrow-straight line over 335 feet.
No one could do that. No one except a few elite pro baseball players had ever done that. Regardless of what Joe said, luck had nothing to do with it.
Who was this man?
“Wow.” Ed came up beside her. “Joe can play on our team anytime he wants.”
“I agree.”
“You up for pizza? I’m buying for the team.”
Joe was a speck in the distance by now, but he still held her complete attention.
“Thanks, but I need to get back to the office. I have some work to do.”
She desperately wanted to access a computer. She was certain there was a story behind that magnificent throw—and she couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
Chapter Fifteen
Joe ran a bath for Bobby. The little boy was filthy from the combination of blue cotton candy and gravel dust. It was obvious he’d had a marvelous time. Joe sat his son in the bathtub and tenderly rubbed baby shampoo into his curly hair.
“You play ball good, Daddy.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Can we play together tomorrow? I’ll try harder.”
“If you want to.”
Joe was being gentle with his son, but he was furious at himself. What had he been thinking, making a throw like that?
He knew exactly what he’d been thinking, and it disgusted him. There had been that moment when he saw Rachel backing up to cover for him. He knew what she was thinking—that he couldn’t possibly make the catch…or the throw—and his stupid male pride had gotten the better of him, overridden his months of carefully orchestrated anonymity, and allowed his training and skill to take over.
It was, he conceded, an understandable emotion. He’d been homeless, penniless, and humiliated in front of her. She’d treated him like a criminal when he wasn’t. For one split second, the desire to be himself in front of her—his real self, the athlete who had brought fans to their feet in awe—had been overwhelming.
He had regretted his decision the moment his fingers released the ball.
He should nev
er have played at all. How could he have fooled himself into thinking that he could play badly, when playing well had been his life’s breath for so long?
It had been heady, that sensation of being on a ball field again. The feel of a baseball glove against the palm of his hand and the sound of a bat cracking against a leather ball had felt like coming home. There had been the laughter, the camaraderie with other players, and then that soaring, addictive surge of power as he’d thrown a ball straighter, faster, and farther than anyone else in the world.
It had taken the gasp of awe from the watching crowd to bring him back to his senses.
Sick at heart, he muttered a curse beneath his breath.
“That’s a bad word, Daddy.” Bobby’s eyes were wide with shock.
Joe was so ashamed, he felt like crawling into the closet and closing the door. “I’m so sorry, son. I didn’t mean to say that word. I’ll never say it again. Ever.”
Bobby’s shocked expression melted into forgiveness. He patted his father’s forearm as Joe knelt on the bathroom floor beside the tub. “It’s okay, Daddy. You made a mistake. You don’t get mad at me when I make mistakes.”
“You don’t make the kind of mistakes that your daddy does.”
“That’s okay. You’re bigger than me.”
Joe was humbled by his child’s instant forgiveness of his “mistake.” Such a huge mistake—cursing in front of his son. This whole day, from the moment Rachel had shown up at the barn, had been one big mistake.
Why hadn’t he been able to resist the desire to impress her this afternoon?
Unfortunately, he knew the answer to that question. Part of him wanted to run the opposite direction whenever Rachel came near him. The other part of him wanted to grab hold of her and never let go.
The problem was, he liked everything about the woman—the way she moved with such grace and purpose. The way she looked the world, and him, straight in the eye. She was the kind of person who would fight to protect even strangers who needed her help. He knew she would fight even harder for the people she loved.
Yes, he’d willingly trust Rachel with his life. The problem was, he wasn’t certain he could trust her with his secrets. Coming face-to-face with someone famous did weird things to people and made them act strange. He had experienced that awkwardness over and over when people discovered who he was. He didn’t want it to happen with Rachel. He couldn’t bear to think of it happening with Rachel.
Now he just hoped that his momentary lapse on the baseball field hadn’t destroyed the fragile normality of the life he had been beginning to live with his son.
Rachel stared at her home computer screen.
Finally, she knew exactly who Joe was.
She had tried to convince herself that he was nothing more than a charming, down-on-his-luck loser, but her gut had kept telling her there was more to the man—and her gut had been right.
It all fit. The ever-so-slightly changed last name. The fabulous throw. A deceased wife whose private, non-working name was Grace.
What didn’t fit was the beard, the hair, the broken-down truck, the homelessness, the worn clothes, and the poverty.
Days earlier, she and Kim had searched the databases for some sort of criminal who would fit Joe’s profile. Not once had she considered the possibility that he might be the exact opposite.
The name Mattias glared out at her now as though in neon lights. People frequently chose a form of their real name as an alias when they were trying to hide. Joe had done the same. His real name was Micah Joel Mattias—easily transformed into the nondescript and common Joe Matthews.
She already knew the story. Practically everyone in the country who followed baseball knew the story. Joe had started his athletic career in an unusual way. He had been studying for the ministry, paying his way through a midsized Bible college with a baseball scholarship. Then, during his junior year, he had taken his college team to an NAIA national championship. At that point, he had been discovered by a talent scout who was very impressed with this young man who could pitch and catch.
They’d tagged him for one of their farm teams and watched his lightning-like progress, and during one memorable game, he was thrown into the spotlight when a case of food poisoning and a broken ankle took out two major players in close succession. Joe was called up at the last minute to cover one of the open spots.
The rookie’s coolness under pressure caught the world’s attention. He was dubbed “Miracle Micah” as he brought home a victory by pitching a no-hitter against some of the best players in the world.
His childhood as a missionary’s son only added to the mystique. The team’s public relations firm churned out stories of an impoverished childhood in Africa, where they maintained that Joe had developed his throwing arm by lobbing stones at small animals for food for his family’s table. His good looks, skill with a baseball, genial personality, and unusual background made him an overnight media darling.
Offers for product sponsorships came rolling in, and Micah never looked back. As his fame, salary, and ego grew, he embraced the parties and the high-rolling lifestyle, eventually marrying Grace Plonkett, aka May Hunter—a former Miss Texas runner-up and a girl from a baked-earth trailer park in western Texas who had gambled on a perfect face and figure and won.
The resemblance between the young blond bombshell and Marilyn Monroe was too tantalizing for the press to ignore, especially after she married the world-famous baseball player. The press, playing on the relationship between Marilyn and Joe DiMaggio, dubbed them “The New DiMaggios.” For a while after their wedding, they had been the most photographed couple in the world.
A baby boy was born. Grace had a difficult delivery, and while she was recuperating, her career tanked. There were thousands of younger actresses hungry for the few parts Grace would have gotten had it not been for her extended maternity leave. Joe was frequently absent from home as he traveled with the team.
Joe sustained a shoulder injury, which had kept him out of play last season. There were rumors that the team’s owner was considering trading him. He had been playing pro ball for ten years—a long run for a baseball player. At thirty-two, he was considered the old man of the team.
Then the tragedy in their home happened.
Rachel felt sick to her stomach, knowing what came next. Joe had discovered Grace that fateful night and then desperately searched the house for his son.
With sworn alibis from his teammates, the cops did not list Joe as a suspect, but the press licked their lips and took him to court in their own way—hounding him every step of the way while he tried to assist the police in their search to find his wife’s killer.
Every detail of the family’s life was examined in the tabloids—from the cost of their house to their favorite restaurants to the number of shoes Grace owned. Even the measurements of the poor woman’s body were touted in the tabloids, having been obtained from her Miss Texas competition resume.
Snippets of videos of Grace’s vocal solo, which she had performed in the Miss Texas pageant, were played and replayed on TV, as though her singing ability could help the police solve the case. It had been a media-feeding frenzy.
From what Rachel gathered, when Joe couldn’t take any more, he had walked away, and no one had known where he went. The various tabloids had tried for months to find him. His friends and his team had been interrogated and offered large sums for information about his whereabouts, but no one seemed to have any idea where he and Bobby had gone.
That is—until his truck broke down in Sugarcreek and he ended up sleeping on her aunts’ couch.
Rachel clicked off the computer, shoved her feet into her tennis shoes, and walked the two blocks to the library, where she dug through stacks of People magazine. Six months ago, Joe’s and Grace’s pictures had been on the covers for five solid weeks.
She sat at a desk and leafed through the pages as their lives unfolded before her. The press had a lot to work with. Grace was a true beauty, with her daz
zling smile, perfect body, and mane of platinum hair. Rumors were that the color was natural. Having seen Bobby’s light-colored curls, she believed it.
As Rachel flipped through the various issues, she saw a picture that made her fists clench. It was of Joe fighting through a sea of reporters with Bobby in his arms. The little boy’s face was buried in Joe’s shoulder. The article said that Joe, determined to keep his son’s face out of the limelight, had thrown a punch at one of the more aggressive photographers.
Crank calls became an issue at the Mattias house. A few were threatening. Some, which the cops tried to follow up on, called to confess to the murder and then spun sick fantasies about how they had done it.
The last magazine, the one before Joe’s family drama drifted onto the back pages, said that Joe and Bobby had disappeared.
And that is where it all ended, except for several supposed “sightings” of Joe and his son. As far as the media was concerned, “Miracle Micah” had dropped off the face of the earth. But they were ready to pounce the moment anyone gave them a good tip.
She dropped her head to her hands in shame, remembering some of the things she had said to the man when he first arrived. That’s all Joe had needed—a small-town cop trying to intimidate him into leaving town. So much for those instincts about which she had been so confident.
If only he had confided in her.
Would she have confided in him if their positions had been reversed?
Probably not.
Rachel gathered up the stack of magazines and approached the librarian.
“Can I check these out?” She laid them on the counter. The librarian, a woman for whom Rachel had once recovered some stolen property, glanced at the dates.
“Why don’t you just take them?” she said. “They’re going to end up in next month’s book sale anyway. We don’t have room to keep everything.”
“I appreciate that. Thanks.” Rachel left, hoping the librarian hadn’t noticed that each copy had pictures of a certain famous athlete emblazoned on the front page. As far as Rachel was concerned, she would help keep Joe’s identity a secret forever. No one deserved to experience what he had been through.
Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio Page 16
