by Dana Mentink
“Well, Tippy,” she whispered to the prostrate dog. “Your owner has a real chip on his shoulder, doesn’t he? How are you feeling about your new digs?”
Tippy let out an enormous sigh that ruffled the soft lips of her graying muzzle.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Two
Cal wandered the house. Not a wanderer by nature, he could not understand why it was now five o’clock on a Monday morning and he had not slept more than three hours the previous night. Again. Much as he’d like to blame it on the snoring of a certain overweight canine who’d somehow burgled her way into the bedroom and crashed in the middle of the plush carpet, the insomnia had started earlier, some six months before.
The sports psychologists they’d had him work with tried to connect it to his mother’s illness and death. It wasn’t true. She was gone. Yes. He was alone. Definitely, but he’d always been able to will his body to do anything he wanted, from running a six-minute mile to pitching a perfect game to splitting a cord of wood before sunup. With enough hard work, his body obeyed his mind and his mother’s death couldn’t change that. Nothing could.
So why was he awake?
He considered suiting up for a quick run before his morning appointment. Then again, he should probably eat something since he hadn’t been hungry the night before, much to the dismay of Luz, his chef.
On the fridge he found a note from her in all caps. “Junior, I will be here at seven promptly to make you a proper breakfast which you will eat. Luz.”
He smiled. Since he’d made it big in pro baseball, people didn’t order him around. It was all “Mr. Crawford” and “sir”—except from his teammates, who’d called him “Boots” since he’d shown up to training one unfortunate day still in his ranch clothes. Certainly nobody but his sixty-year-old Hungarian cook called him Junior. He would not admit it under pain of death, but it pleased him.
A clatter of toenails on the hardwood announced Tippy’s presence. The dog waddled in and sat, staring up at Cal.
“What?”
The dog stared.
“You hungry?”
More staring. Did it ever blink? The border collies he’d had at the ranch were always on the move. They never sat still, let alone stared at him. Creepy.
“Gotta go outside?” The thought horrified him as he considered the perfectly manicured lawns which cost him a cool twenty thousand a year to maintain. But if the dog had to go, better the grass than the Persian rug.
He opened the sliding door. Tippy did not move.
Cal ran a hand over his stubbled chin. “Look, dog. I got things to do today. If you need something, get it from Gina when she comes.”
Where was the girl anyway?
As if on cue, the front door opened and Tippy did an awkward three-point turn, trotting off to check out the new arrival. Cal heard a soft burble of baby talk.
The dog sitter had arrived. A sitter for a dog. Ridiculous.
He decided to stay in the kitchen and leave the two to “fellowship,” as his mother would have said. The thought stung. He retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and paced while he drank it.
Gina swept into the kitchen holding a pink box of doughnuts and munching on a sprinkled one. She’d left the starched look at home, this time dressed in a flowered skirt and soft sweater, a gauzy scarf to ward off the February chill. Flowers suited her way more than the blazer. She looked… soft, and fresh, and her hair shone as though it might smell like fruity shampoo if he put his nose to it. A far cry from the few girls he’d dated when he first made it to the big leagues, all designer shoes and fancy handbags, the kind that looked natural in the passenger seat of his Porsche but would never have been able to leap up into the front seat of his real car, a Chevy truck. He wondered what type of car Gina drove, then wondered why he was wondering about it.
He drank some more water.
“Good morning, Mr. Crawford. Do you want a doughnut?” she said. “I thought I’d bring some along and introduce myself to your people.”
“My people?”
“Sure. The cook and the gardener and such. I already met the security guard and your door guy.”
“My door guy?” Why was he repeating everything she said? “Roberto.”
“He prefers Bobby. He needed a doughnut, poor guy.”
“Why?”
“He’s getting divorced from Linda. It’s not easy to break apart two lives after sixteen years.” She slid the box onto the counter. “You want a sprinkle doughnut? I saved one.”
“No.”
Her eyes swiveled to the note on the fridge. “Oh, right.” She giggled. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your cook for ruining your meal.”
He felt a burn of embarrassment. “I don’t eat doughnuts because they’re basically fat bombs.”
She stopped. “Well, of course they are. That’s why they’re good to eat.”
A little yellow sprinkle stuck to the curve of her cheek, right above the dimple. The scent of sugar made his mouth water for his mother’s deep-dish peach pie. Odd thought, since he hadn’t eaten it in over a year.
She bent to caress Tippy. “Did you feed her?”
“Isn’t that your job?”
Gina shot him a look.
“I asked her if she was hungry,” he hurried to explain. Inane. He was asking questions of dogs now. Had to be the sleep deprivation. “Dog didn’t seem like it wanted anything.”
“You look tired,” Gina said, eyeing Cal. “Didn’t you sleep?” She put out a bowl and filled it with brown nuggets.
“I’m fine. Gotta make a call.” Cal excused himself to the study. He didn’t really have any such phone call to make, but the dog sitter confused him almost as much as the dog, talking as if she’d known him forever, offering doughnuts and teasing him about Luz. And how come she knew all about Roberto and Linda? He hadn’t even known Roberto was married, let alone breaking up with his wife. Not something men talked about.
He read his text from Pete. “Nine o’clock, get loose. Couple of pitches and press time.” He wondered how fast they could get the press thing done so he could get rid of them and watch more film of his slider, the pitch that was giving him trouble.
“Mr. Crawford?”
He started. Gina stood at his elbow with the yellow sprinkle still stuck to her cheek, but no dimple showing.
“Yes?”
“I need you in the kitchen for a moment.”
Her tone was troubled, lips puckered into a frown.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think we have a problem.”
He couldn’t help himself. He reached out a finger and gently brushed the yellow sprinkle from her satin-soft cheek.
Her eyes opened wide in amazement and her hand flew to her face.
“Sorry. It was a sprinkle,” he stammered. “Stuck on you.”
Color flooded her cheeks now as if someone had airbrushed her with petal pink. “Oh. Well. Thank you. Anyway, I think there’s something wrong with Tippy.”
There’s plenty wrong with Tippy, he thought, but he followed her into the kitchen anyway. Tippy stood next to her uneaten kibble, tail drooping.
“She won’t eat. Are you sure you didn’t feed her?”
“Not a thing. Maybe it’s the kibble you got her.”
“Well, I wet it with chicken broth. How could she not like it?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. You’re the dog expert. It could stand to skip a few meals, anyway.” He bent to examine the floor. “I really think her nails are messing up the wood. Can you get them clipped?”
Tippy launched herself at Cal. Off balance, he sat down hard. Tippy slurped her long tongue over his face, body wriggling as if she was spring-loaded.
“Knock it off,” Cal said, shooing her away with his free hand and wiping his cheek with the other.
Tippy trotted happily to her food bowl and began to wolf down the kibble.
“Nothing wro
ng with her stomach now,” Cal grumped. He got to his feet.
Tippy immediately stopped eating, staring at Cal with limpid eyes.
Gina’s mouth opened in an O of surprise. “I think she wants you to sit with her while she eats.”
Cal gaped. “You have got to be out of your mind.”
“Just try it. Please?”
Reluctantly, he resumed a sitting position.
Tippy once again began to eat.
He rose.
She stopped.
He sank down again.
She ate.
Cal looked up at Gina in complete disbelief.
“Looks like she’ll only eat when you’re with her,” Gina said, biting her lip against a smile.
“Why would that be?” he managed. “I don’t even like her.”
Gina shrugged, all doe-eyed innocence. “I guess she doesn’t know that.”
“Ms. Palmer, I’m not going to sit down on the floor next to this dog at chow time.”
“I understand, Mr. Crawford. I’m sure she’ll adjust. It’s the new place and all. It’s not very”—she looked around—“friendly.”
“Not supposed to be friendly,” he snapped.
“What were you going for then?” She pursed her lips. “Austere? Luxurious? Manly?”
He had an odd sense that she was teasing him and he was not at all sure how to take it. The truth was, he hadn’t consulted on one single detail in the monstrous house. He’d needed a home in San Francisco, told his agent as much, and bingo. One whopper of a check later and the deed was done. But it was all top-of-the-line stuff—beveled glass, pendant lighting, and such. She should be impressed, though the old banged-up couch at the ranch was plenty more comfortable than anything in the entire place.
“I’m sure things will improve as Tippy settles in. Pete said she’s been getting three meals a day on his boat, so we’ll keep to that schedule for a while until we pare down her calories a bit.”
“You’ve been talking to my pitching coach?”
“Well, of course. Pete’s been Tippy’s caretaker. Who would know her better than him?”
He shook his head. “Anyway, I’ve got to go to the ball field. Contact me if anything comes up.”
“How?”
He stopped himself from parroting back her maddening question. Grabbing a paper from the drawer, he scrawled his cell number on it. “Don’t give it out to anyone,” he said sternly.
“Of course not, Mr. Crawford. You can depend on me.”
She looked like a cross between a Girl Scout and a fifties movie star, standing there with her flowered skirt, pink lips, and mischievous smile.
“Call me Cal.” He grabbed his duffel bag and iPhone and headed for the door.
“What should I tell her?” Gina called.
“Who?”
“Luz. What should I say when she arrives to make you breakfast and you’re not here?”
Inwardly he groaned. “You can eat it for me.”
“Okey dokey, Mr. Crawford.”
He wondered how Gina Palmer, doughnut queen, was going to enjoy a wheatgrass smoothie and egg white omelet for breakfast. Smiling, he closed the door behind him.
Three antacids later and Gina had finally vanquished the wheatgrass heartburn. Though the breakfast tasted like something that was never meant to cross human lips, Gina had learned a wealth of information from the gregarious Luz.
The gray-haired lady, immaculately dressed in slacks and a white silk blouse, referred to Cal as “Mr. Cal,” leading Gina to believe that Junior must be a name uttered only in private. She’d been cooking for him since he bought the San Francisco home a year before.
“He works too hard, Mr. Cal. All skin and muscle and not sleeping. Not good for a young boy.”
Gina knew Cal was twenty-eight which, in Luz’s mind, must be just out of high school. “Why isn’t he sleeping?”
Luz shrugged. “Too much pressure. Everyone expects him to be a superstar. And now? No mama to share it with.” She looked slyly at Gina. “And no girlfriend either.”
Gina coughed. Don’t look at me. I’d never date a dog hater. “Was he close to his mother?”
Luz clucked. “Ah. I’ve talked too much. I’m to go to the market and pick up a few things. Some fresh spinach for steaming. That will fix up Mr. Cal.”
Gina was still thinking a sprinkle doughnut would do the cranky pitcher more good than steamed spinach, but she didn’t say so. She and Tippy went for a very slow walk in the February sunshine, which came to an abrupt end when Tippy sat down after two blocks and refused to budge. She had to carry her back to Cal’s place. Both Tippy and Gina required a nap after the exertion and Tippy woke eager for lunch. Gina poured the kibble, complete with bits of chopped chicken, in a bowl.
Tippy lay down and stared.
Gina sat next to her with no better result.
Nothing would tempt the dog to eat. She thought about calling Cal’s cell phone, but she figured he was busy with the throwing and catching thing. Her best chance was to get the dog to him. It would take no more than a minute. Surely he would have time for that.
“Like mom always says, if the mountain won’t come to you…” She put Tippy’s bowl into a bag along with the kibble and drove. The stadium was closed, but she found a security guard named Abe and explained all about Tippy. By the time she’d finished the story about the dog’s need for eating companionship from Cal, Abe was laughing until the tears ran down his face.
“I thought I’d heard everything,” he chortled.
He agreed to escort Gina to the dugout after she promised not to interfere with the practice.
“We’ll wait patiently until Mr. Crawford is finished, I promise.”
Still laughing, the guard guided Gina and Tippy to the field. The two of them settled onto a bench with a perfect view of the proceedings. The green of the grass and the enormous sweep of empty red seats floored her. Imagine all those people paying good money to go and stare at some guys trying to hit a ball with a stick. Maybe it was all about the snacks.
She stroked Tippy’s ears as she watched.
Pete was there along with several men she had not met. Cal was dressed in his uniform, cap low on his forehead, the number eleven pulled taut across his muscled shoulders. Behind home plate, a catcher crouched to take his pitch, looking like some weird sort of insect with all the padded gear covering him like an exoskeleton. A photographer with an enormous camera stood next to Pete, taking picture after picture. Cal ignored it all, riveted on the ball in his hands and some imaginary bull’s-eye in the center of the catcher’s mitt.
Gina could only imagine such focus. She could rarely make it through one magazine article without her attention drifting a hundred different directions—a leftover from her traumatic entry into the world, the doctors said, along with the memory problems and a tendency to catch every cold bug that came around.
Cal fired a pitch that went so fast it was nothing more than a blur. She gasped. No wonder the guy kept in such good shape if he had to do that for a living. With such torque on his arm, she did not see how it hadn’t snapped off at the elbow. The smack of the pitch into the catcher’s mitt echoed through the air.
Tippy shifted in her lap, her nails scratching Gina’s legs.
“See, Tippy? This is how Cal spends his time, playing ball, only there’s no fetching involved, at least from him.”
Another blistering pitch from Cal. The photographer clicked away, crouched down to get the best shot. Cal took off his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before replacing it.
Suddenly, Tippy made a mysterious canine connection. She stiffened, ears in a semi-upright position, nose twitching, entranced by the goings-on.
“Stay, Tippy,” Gina murmured in the dog’s ear. “He’s working.”
The catcher readied the ball to throw it back to Cal.
Tippy launched herself off Gina’s lap, yanking the leash free, and took off running for Cal.
“No,
Tippy,” Gina shouted.
Cal’s attention jerked toward Tippy just as the catcher loosed the ball. It sailed through the air and hit him square in the face with a thunk.
Gina clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. Cal’s head snapped back. He fell backward onto the pitcher’s mound.
Three
Cal’s vision cleared enough that he could see the panic-stricken face of catcher Julio Aguilera looming over him, blotting out the San Francisco sky. He blinked hard, a low ringing in his ears.
Julio was on his knees, mask off, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.
“Boots? You alive, man?”
“I think so.”
He smiled, then frowned, then grimaced in a way that would have made the bearded bear of a man terrifying if Cal didn’t know him better.
“What are you doing, losing your focus? I could have killed you.”
“I’m not dead,” Cal repeated, as if this was a logical detail to reiterate.
Julio was beyond logic. He stood up and lapsed into a Spanish tirade. “Could have knocked your scrawny head off, Boots.”
Julio wasn’t exaggerating. If the catcher’s throw had been anything like his “pop time,” the time it took him to fire the ball to second base, Cal would probably be fighting for his life or dead on the spot. As it was, that easy throw was still enough to mess him up, as Cal was beginning to experience. Something like pain began to trickle along his nerves and everything about his face seemed thick and slow.
Pete laid a hand on his chest. “Stay there. Medics are coming.”
“Don’t need a medic,” he mumbled.
Did he? Had a momentary lack of concentration caused a skull fracture? A concussion? Or permanent damage that would strip him of his career? In spite of the sensation that he’d taken a two by four to the cheek, Cal forced himself into a sitting position. Sparks danced in his field of vision, Julio and Pete blurring for a moment.
“You never listen,” Pete grumbled, but his eyes brimmed with genuine concern. “Wouldja sit still already? You’re worse than Tippy.”
