“How have you been, Amanda?”
Warmth started in the pit of her stomach and rose to surround her heart. “It’s been a long time.”
Life could be so unfair. Uprooted from an existence and career she’d, if not loved, at least became accustomed to, her emotions were too raw yet to cope with ghosts from the past.
“Yeah it has.” Clad in jeans and a worn Orioles T-shirt, body well muscled and trim, Barry moved closer until she was sure he’d hear the rat-a-tat of her pulse. “You haven’t changed, Amanda.”
Clenched fingers pushed into action, she waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t kid yourself. We’ve all changed.”
He seemed entranced with studying her. “I mean it. You look the same as I remember.”
Taking in his tone, low and sexy, her imagination soared. He’d thought about her many times over the years and any moment he’d hit one knee and beg her to put an end to his suffering, agree to love him the same way he’d always loved her.
She shook her head to dispel the ridiculous one-sided fantasy. Barry Carlson had a limitless supply of women to choose from, why would he want a used up loser like her?
What People Are Saying About
Margo Hoornstra:
HONORABLE INTENTIONS
“Every page is packed with emotion and action, and this is a story you will find hard to put down, once you’ve read the first page.”
~The Long And Short Of It (4.5 Books)
~*~
FORGOTTEN ALLIANCE
“Good Read!”
~Lynda Coker, Between the Lines
“I defy the hardest of hearts to come away from this story with anything but respect for Ms. Hoornstra’s style of writing and praise for the strength of her characters...”
~CK2S, Kwips and Kritiques (4.5 Clovers)
~*~
MORE THAN A MEMORY
“Leaps so realistically from the pages, the story might be part of your past...”
~The Long and Short of It (4 Books)
To Be, Or Not
A Class of ’85 Reunion story
by
Margo Hoornstra
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
To Be, Or Not: Class of ’85 Reunion Series
COPYRIGHT Ó 2011 by Margo Hoornstra
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Last Rose of Summer Edition, 2011
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
First and foremost
To my personal hero Ron Hoornstra
For his unselfish support no matter what.
Next to my fellow Class of ’85ers.
What a wonderful party this is.
Thank you all so much for sharing.
Chapter One
Summerville, New York hadn’t changed much in the twenty-odd years Barry Carlson was away.
Located on the southern shore of Lake Ontario between Buffalo and Rochester, the town boasted a state of the art hospital, two family-owned industries and a medium-sized university. In addition to the various activities associated with a large body of water, several widely acclaimed arts and crafts festivals attracted thousands of tourists from early Spring through late Fall—all accommodated by several chain restaurants and hotels, smaller bed and breakfasts, gift shops and boutiques.
In a sort of diversity bonus, Summerville was also home to a triple A farm club of the Baltimore Orioles. Hornets games drew the summer vacationers as well as a respectable fan base of loyal locals.
Seated on the ground high above the Lake on Angel Wings Bluff, his silver Jaguar XK nearby, Barry relaxed against one of many limestone boulders clustered at the roadside. As much as the town hadn’t changed, he had. For the former star catcher and record holding home run hitter who did his part to put butts in the seats at Camden Yards, it was a coaching position with the Hornets that brought Barry home for good.
During a career that kept him far from home, as the youngest of five, Barry felt pressured by his parents and siblings, all female, to return to Summerville at least once a year. Despite a demanding schedule, a few times he managed to comply, most times he didn’t. Those years he couldn’t get home, especially around the holidays, he made up for his absence to the family in other ways.
Like the year his team made the playoffs and he used a contract bonus to take his mom, dad and sisters, with their spouses and assorted offspring to Hawaii for two weeks. Proud he was able to give those he loved most a piece of the good life, for him, watching the kids have fun was the best.
Beyond the cliff, his gaze settled on the cloudless March sky. Funny how life changing events occurred in threes like hard-hitting sucker punches. For Barry, epic event number one counted as the freak hand injury that put a swift end to a successful pro career. His subsequent return to the small town where he grew up qualified as event number two.
Warbling in sing-song communication, a swarm of seagulls soared in typical scattered formation out over the blue green water. One by one, they swooped down for whatever morsels they could scavenge from its rolling surface.
Former high school classmate Elizabeth Baumgartner Heade offered to find him a place to live after he returned to town. Summerville’s premier real estate maven—in her mind, if no one else’s—she talked him into buying a condo in pricey Cascade Estates. The place was nice, having two separate bedroom suites, each with private baths. A large living room, larger family room and huge dining room he’d probably never use completed the floor plan. Sliding double doors opened onto a picturesque backyard area with nature trails and trees, squirrels and the occasional passing deer. His gaze dropped to the pebble dotted ground. Problem was he wasn’t convinced a permanent residence was the right way for him to go just yet.
Reaching into the right hand pocket of his cargo pants, he pulled out a folded piece of card stock. Epic life event number three, right there in black and white.
Dear Fellow Alumna,
Hard to believe it’s been 25 years since we last walked the halls of Summerville High. Wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on with former classmates?
The Reunion Committee has worked hard to plan a fabulous, fun-filled three day celebration on the last weekend in June at the historic Summerville Inn. Come for the day or all three—but register early for the SHS package discount.
Bring your spouse or come stag. You won’t believe the surprises waiting for you!
RSVP to [email protected]
His unseeing gaze returned to the dirt beneath his feet. Barry’s personal what-ever-happened-to arrived in the form of a regret at the way he’d treated a fellow classmate, Amanda Marsh. The adolescent attempt at sex that didn’t go well at the time, still haunted him to this day—and never would have happened if he hadn’t been a dumb ass who made major life decisions with the head situated between his legs rather than the one on his shoulders.
He’d been a jerk, though he preferred to blame senioritis and an overlarge jock ego made larger after he won a full scholarship to college thanks to
his talent with a baseball.
None of which excused what he’d done.
Warbles ramped to mega-loud; two of the more resourceful members from the circling flock dipped with the precision of well trained stunt pilots, landed nearby then peddled to stops in perfect sync. White feathered heads twisted one way then the other as they sized up the human in their midst. Obviously he’d been mistaken for one of those tourists who enjoyed watching their antics and brought crusts of bread or other tidbits to lure them.
“Sorry, guys,” he said when the courageous pair tottered closer. “I’m a local now.” He held his hands, palms out. “See? Empty. I got nothin’.”
Beaks clamped shut, heads raised in indignation, two sets of wings spread out to lift them away.
I’m a local now.
Holding the reunion announcement by one corner, an invitation to a collective trip back in time for him and a couple hundred fellow alums—many of whom he hadn’t spoken to since graduation, his fingers started to open so the wind could carry the stupid thing away. He had no need for a paper and ink reminder of past mistakes when he thought back to August 19, 1985, about an hour before Amanda’s eleven o’clock curfew...
He’d pulled his mother’s light green Chevy into a back corner of what passed as the Angel Wings Bluff parking lot, having learned from scores of past experiences, you could see another car coming in before they saw you.
In the front seat with Amanda beside him, all he could think about was how incredibly wonderful she smelled. Sweet and sexy at the same time. And, lord how he yearned to hold her close. Second only to Marty Keegan for class lothario, Barry was uncharacteristically shy and awkward around Amanda. More eager to act than think, he said something witty, he hoped, about the beauty of a shimmering full moon. Rolling down the windows as he commented about the mild temperatures, he’d slid his arm over the back of Amanda’s seat and across her shoulders, loving the way her long, silken hair tickled as it draped over his bare skin. They sat side by side like that for awhile just talking. He had no idea about what, he was so focused on the lilt in her voice and the way the sound snuggled its way inside of him to wrap around his heart.
After savoring how warm and special she felt, he pulled her into his arms and, not asking permission, went in for a kiss. Far from being his first, the moment his lips touched hers, Barry was certain this one would always qualify as his best. Jacked up on an eighteen year old’s testosterone, he’d soon coaxed her down to the spacious bench seat and maneuvered his way on top of her.
Suddenly, headlights lit up the inside of the car and Amanda freaked. She tried to sit up and get away from him. “Wait just a minute,” he’d said and held her down. “Lie still. They aren’t interested in us.”
Crying by this time, Amanda begged to be let go. When he finally did, he wasn’t proud of what happened next. Pushing her roughly away, he said nothing as he started the car. Then, while she managed to re-hook her bra and button her blouse, he drove her home like a man possessed, squealing the tires around corners, slamming on the brakes at stop lights.
With the presence of mind to slow down before they reached her neighborhood—her father had a reputation for being an over-protective hard ass—Barry sat stone-faced and silent until she got out of the car.
Life took off at light speed soon after. Being recruited by a couple of Major League teams before he was even out of high school distorted a guy’s perception of self worth out of normal proportion. A few weeks later, based on the belief he’d done nothing wrong and convinced it was Amanda’s problem and not his, he left town without saying good-bye...
Prior to the scene at Angel Wings, he’d dared entertain the notion that he wanted to spend his life with her.
And maybe still did.
Wrong! His conscience knew the truth; it was time the rest of him owned up. It was impossible to lose what never belonged to you in the first place.
Fingers parted to release the card. The second it blew upward to skitter toward the sheer drop-off, he jumped up to charge after what was about to become worthless litter.
All his relationships after Amanda were superficial at best, mainly because he could never be sure if the females who threw themselves at him wanted Barry the man or Barry the pro ball player.
“Look! It is Barry Carlson!”
At the excited female voice, his head shot up. A slew of teenagers piled out of a van parked beside his car. The intrusion went on. “I told you I saw his car make the turn to come up here!”
With no convenient escape, he could only watch as the group of three girls and three guys headed his way. All because they spotted his ride. Damn. He ought to get rid of that overpriced gas hog. Driving it made him too visible when all he really wanted was to disappear.
Maybe a battered jeep would help him blend in. Until then, or the novelty of his return to town wore off, he’d best accept the trappings of fame he never was able to get used to.
The girls, clad in variations of jeans, form fitting T-shirts and unzipped sweaters despite the cold temperatures, alternately giggled then jostled each other in a show of juvenile camaraderie. All the while shooting shy glances his way from beneath mascara drenched lashes.
The three guys with them, tall and gangly like Barry had once been, brought up the rear. Confounded facial expressions announced they’d had other ideas for a spring afternoon on the Bluff.
“How are you all doing today?” Barry called out in an effort to put everyone’s nerves at ease. Another round of giggles and jostles answered.
“We’re doing just fine, Barry,” a particularly mature looking blonde was quick to respond.
Watching them approach, he wondered if any were classmates of his many nieces and nephews.
“Can I have your autograph, Barry?”
“Sure.”
Taking the offered pen and paper from feminine fingers which lingered longer than necessary against his, he glanced up at the trim brunette in a scoop-necked belly shirt with tight jeans riding low on her hips.
“You’re so adorable.” She bent at the waist and leaned slowly forward to showcase a stellar cleavage. As she maintained eye contact, he saw the dark sultry promise put there for his benefit. Assurance that he could have her in bed or any other place—or way—he chose.
It wasn’t arrogance or ego that brought on the self-centered conclusion. Over his years of fame, he became adept at reading similar invitations and even took many a beauty up on offers of easy, no strings sex. It became a way of life for Barry the sports star and a true human connection was never the goal. Not anymore. At this place in his life, he was old enough to have slept with their mothers. And, in some cases, probably had.
“My uncle lives in Cascade Estates where you bought your condo.”
Jesus, was nothing in his life sacred?
He already knew his foolish attempt at denial would backfire but tried anyway. “What makes you think I live there?”
“Mrs. Heade posted it on her website.”
“Oh.” Struggling to put the requisite smile back up, his attention returned to providing his autograph.
Would he never be free of such insensitive assaults on his privacy?
“I’m next, Barry.” The blonde moved front and center like a soldier eagerly reporting for duty.
Having already pegged this one as the boldest of the bunch, he realized too late he should have prepared for evasive action. Before he could prevent it, a thin arm sidled around his back and surprisingly strong fingers clenched his hip. The warm body folded against his just as frigid late Spring lake air gusted inland and slapped the back of his neck.
All he could think was the girl attached to him had to be the same age as one of his nieces. With a firm grasp of her wrist, he pried himself free. “Unless you let go, I can’t sign what you want—” He strained to see what she held in her hand then had to smile. “Hey, it’s a Summerville High baseball cap. I used to have one of these.”
Snatching the gold hat with the upper
case C embroidered in black, elbows out, he took a giant step back to position it on his head.
“That’s mine.” One of the boys bounded forward and claimed the blonde by settling one arm around her shoulder.
Barry removed the cap he started to hand back. “Sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Could you sign it for me?” he asked then, seeing his girlfriend’s glare, made a quick amendment. “Us, I mean, her. Could you sign it?”
Miraculously, the kid produced a felt tipped pen. Barry accepted it with a nod. “Happy to. You guys on the team?”
“I am. Play catcher like you did.”
“Do you enjoy it?” He returned the hat which now bore his scribbled signature.
“It’s okay. But, I doubt I’ll go as far as you did.”
Barry caught the kid’s gaze and hung on as he returned the pen. “Never say never, pal.”
“Ryan’s our pitcher. But, you probably know that.”
“Yeah. I do manage to keep up with the activities of my family members.” Barry immediately regretted his sharp tone. He had no reason to be angry, unless it was at himself.
While he may not have taken the time to establish his own home and family, he’d sure as hell kept tabs on the families of his many sisters, up to and including his oldest nephew.
Another of the boys stepped forward, a shy look in his eye. “I was at the Orioles game three years ago when you threw out five stolen base runners in a row. You were awesome.” Growing bolder, he went on. “That last one you threw to third base must have been goin’ over a hundred miles an hour.”
“I doubt it was that fast,” Barry replied, then tried not to jerk away as one of the girls took hold of his hand.
“Your palms are soft,” she murmured as she stroked his skin. “I didn’t expect that.”
“That one always had the protection of my glove.” He seized the opportunity to pull it away. “But, this one,” he raised his right hand, fingers spread. “I can’t begin to tell you the number of breaks, dislocations and sprains these bones endured.”
To Be, Or Not (Class of 85) Page 1
