Diamond in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

  Mike refused to give up. “Can’t you talk him into it?”

  She laughed softly. “No one can talk my father into anything. He doesn’t yell or get angry, he will just politely ignore what he doesn’t agree with. But just because he won’t subject himself to a formal interview,” she went on, “doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him.”

  Mike cocked his head slightly. “I don’t think I follow you.”

  “It’s called conversation.” The look on Mike’s face just grew more confused. “Let me backtrack—”

  “Please.”

  Miranda couldn’t help smiling. Marlowe had a rather pleasant voice and that particular word had a nice, almost alluring ring when he said it.

  She realized her mind was wandering and forced herself to focus.

  “My father just began coaching a Little League team last week. The faces are still new to him. I thought you might come, mingle in with the fathers and observe him for a little while, see how he interacts with the kids. That way, you can talk to him and he won’t suspect that you’re actually a sportswriter.”

  He hadn’t expected this. “In other words, you want me to deceive your father.”

  She decided to put her cards on the table. The man who had tracked her down was sharp enough to figure out the rest without too much effort. She might as well tell him and save them both some time.

  “What I want is to have my father inducted into the hall of fame.” She saw the protest forming on Mike’s lips and quickly went on. “He deserves it and he has a right to be in it. Once you get to know him, you’ll agree with me. The only way my father has a ghost of a chance is if there’s a grassroots movement among the fans to have him inducted.”

  “And if I don’t agree with you?” he countered.

  “You will.” Her faith was unshakable.

  But Mike was skeptical about what she was proposing. After all, he’d just put forth a whole article against possible induction. “And you want me to plead his case?”

  She didn’t want him to think she was trying to put something over on him, or asking him to go against his principles. She was convinced that if Mike gave her father a chance, he would be won over. Not by charm, but by decency.

  “I want you to do an honest portrayal of the man. The rest,” she promised, “will take care of itself.” She paused, then drew in a long breath, waiting for his answer. “So, what do you say?”

  He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I say you’re being wasted in drug research. You have it in you to make a hell of a campaign manager for some fledgling politician.”

  “Not interested in that,” she said, dismissing the notion. “I’m just interested in getting my father what he deserves.”

  She didn’t add that she wanted to do it quickly. She didn’t know how much time her father had left. There were days that his condition worsened and she worried that he might take a nosedive. Not a great believer in omens, she just couldn’t shake the feeling of urgency that pervaded her.

  With Mike’s article appearing just when it did, things just seemed to fall into place.

  And then she suddenly did a mental replay. Mike had just said something about the nature of her work. That wasn’t just a lucky guess. He knew what she did for a living. Something else she hadn’t volunteered.

  She looked at him uneasily. “What else do you know about me?”

  “Only the basic facts.”

  He didn’t mention that when he’d discovered that she wasn’t Shaw’s girlfriend or mistress, but was his daughter, a feeling of relief had washed over him. For that he owed his former college roommate, Frank Jessop, one hell of a night out on the town—when he could spare the time. A computer-programming wizard who worked as a consultant for several government intelligence agencies, Jessop could get an erased hard drive to give up its invisible secrets.

  Because she appeared to be waiting, Mike explained. “That you graduated at the top of your class at UCLA and that you went into pharmaceutical research because your older sister, Ariel, died of a rare blood disease.” He paused for a second before adding, “And that you’re not seeing anyone currently.”

  Her father and her work took up all her free time. Besides, she didn’t miss what she had never had and she’d been too busy these last couple of years to have much of a social life beyond occasionally getting together with Tilda after hours for a little girltalk.

  “Is that last part important?” she asked. As far as she could see, her life had no bearing on her father’s.

  It had been to him, Mike thought. “Everything’s important in its place,” he told her.

  Miranda had no idea why a shiver suddenly slipped down her spine. She attributed it to lack of sleep and that her decision to go behind her father’s back was not sitting well with her conscience.

  She pushed the thoughts away. “Would you like to stay for breakfast?” she asked suddenly.

  “Maybe not breakfast.” He definitely wasn’t hungry at the moment. The dinner he’d had on the flight back was laying like lead on his stomach. “But I can be talked in to coffee.”

  Amused, she asked, “How much talking would I have to do?”

  He pretended to think a minute. “Just say the word coffee.”

  Her mouth curved beguilingly as she played along. “Coffee.”

  “That’ll do it.” Mike grinned broadly, enjoying himself. He still couldn’t believe he would be in the proximity of Steve Orin Shaw. The disappointed twelve-year-old gave way to the fan that had existed before. And then he thought of the repercussions. He wasn’t the kind of reporter for whom the story was all-important above everything else. He wasn’t the type to close his eyes to the possible consequences.

  “Is this going to get you into trouble with your father?” he asked, following her into the kitchen. “I mean, you know he is going to find out once the article is out. Somebody will tell him about it.”

  That part was true. Even at his lowest point, when he tried to leave the world behind and live like a hermit, some of his old friends still kept in touch. Even when he didn’t answer. They’d tell him about the article in the Times and ask if he changed his mind about doing interviews.

  “He might stop talking to me for a while, but then, he’s not much of a talker anyway so the difference will be negligible.”

  He watched her take a can of coffee out from the refrigerator and shut the door with a swift nudge of her hip. “What was it like,” he asked, “growing up being SOS’s daughter?”

  She didn’t have to think about her answer. “Lonely. My mother, sister and I were stationary,” she explained. “Dad was on the road a good deal of the time, either with the team, or doing promotional work or in training camp. Looking back, it seemed as if he was hardly ever home,” she admitted. Miranda smiled, more to herself than at Mike. “But whenever he was home, it was just like Christmas. He’d bring us presents and listen to us talk on and on about what we were doing. I don’t think I ever heard my father raise his voice. And the only time I ever saw him angry was when Ariel died. He punched a wall right before the funeral. He had to go to the ceremony with his hand all bandaged up.” A sad smile played on her lips. “I bandaged it for him because my mother was too upset to do it and he refused to go to the E.R.”

  The coffee machine began to make noises, announcing its progress. She took down two mugs and set them on the counter.

  “I guess that was the beginning of the end, really. My mother blamed my father for Ariel’s death, said it was his genes that were responsible. He had a great uncle who died of the same thing. They stopped talking to each other.” She drew in a deep breath and then released it. “The divorce wasn’t a surprise to anyone but me.” And then she looked at him suddenly as she realized what she’d said. “You’re not going to put that into the article, are you?”

  Integrity trumped a scoop every time. “I’d like to, but I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

  Miranda shook her head. “It’s not about me, it’s about him.�
��

  “But you’re part of him.” The way he saw it, you couldn’t have one without the other.

  Her smile was rueful. “I’m trying to be,” she admitted, “but I don’t think my father quite sees it that way.” Finished with its brew cycle, the coffee machine fell silent. She picked up the coffeepot and filled first one mug, then the other. She offered the first to him. “Help yourself to sugar.” Miranda nodded at the half-filled small crystal bowl on the table. “There’s milk in the refrigerator.”

  “Black is fine,” he said, picking up the mug.

  As they sipped their coffee, a comfortable stillness softly descended, embracing them both. Miranda held her mug in both hands, silently studying the man in her kitchen.

  Mike Marlowe was the right man for the job, she decided. She was doing the right thing.

  Chapter Six

  Getting out of her car, Miranda took a deep breath and let it out again. She was still a little shaky inside.

  “This has to be what spies feel like,” she said out loud.

  Mike was already waiting for her. From the way he leaned against his two-seater, he’d been there for a while. The amused expression on his face told her that he’d heard her.

  Her car keys slipped out of her hands, landing with a semi-melodic clatter on the recently repaved asphalt.

  Mike bobbed down and got them before she had a chance to do it herself.

  Holding the keys out to her, he smiled. “Not successful ones,” he countered whimsically. When she raised an eyebrow quizzically, he explained. “You’re nervous.”

  There was no point in denying it. Ordinarily, she was pretty cool under fire, but this was her father, which changed everything. “I’ve never gone behind his back before.”

  She expected Mike to laugh or say something about her reacting like an adolescent. Instead, he seemed to understand.

  “I can pretend not to know you,” Mike volunteered. “Say I got an anonymous tip that he’d be here—but for all we know, he might not find out who, or rather what—I am.”

  The so-called “anonymous tip” would be to cover up her part in this. “Then you’d be the one lying.”

  Mike was completely unfazed, but then, she rather suspected he would be. She wasn’t prepared for her own reaction to his answer.

  “We like to call it poetic license,” he told her, punctuating his words with a wink that went straight to her gut. It fluttered and quivered before tightening again.

  Miranda paused for a second and actually debated his cover story, but then she noticed her father glancing in their direction. “Too late,” she murmured, “he sees me talking to you.”

  “Just a stranger to the area checking to make sure he’s in the right place,” Mike supplied without a moment’s hesitation.

  Obviously “poetic license” came easily to him, she thought.

  Looking to the center of the field and the batting cage, Mike frowned slightly. “That’s a hell of a long distance for your father to be able to see anything.” He could barely make out the man’s expression, which appeared dour—but that could just be his eyes playing tricks on him.

  “My father’s always had fantastic vision,” she told him. “Even now.”

  Just went along with the mystique, Mike thought. Everything about the man seemed a little larger than life. Even his accident lent itself to that. According to the news media, SOS should have died instantly at the scene. And when he hadn’t, the doctors all said he would be completely paralyzed from the neck down. Shaw proved them wrong again by slowly regaining the use of his upper torso through a series of operations. Now, he’d heard, the former pitcher would soon be facing yet another necessary surgery in an attempt to aid him in getting back the use of his legs.

  Mike indicated the area beyond the batting cage, where parents were already congregating. “I’ll just meander onto the field, mingle in with some of the dads.” Talking to them would give him some background color for his story, he thought.

  She nodded. She wanted to see if her father needed anything. This was the third time they were getting together—sessions were after school on Wednesdays and on Saturday mornings—and a routine was setting in. But since her father was doing this at her behest, she wanted to be available to him.

  “Good luck,” she told Mike, turning to go.

  “Thanks. And Miranda—”

  She stopped, peering at Mike over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  He grinned and his eyes seemed to soften, pulling her in…and doing a number on her stomach. “Thanks for doing this.”

  She hardened herself against the effects of his handsome face. And pretty much failed, to her dismay. “Don’t thank me yet,” she warned. “I’m doing this because I believe in my father. You write one word that makes him unhappy, that puts him in an unflattering light and I’ll—”

  “Cut my heart out, right, I’ve got the picture.” Rather than promise, he merely smiled again.

  While she found him infinitely charming and definitely difficult to resist, it didn’t abate her concerns. She wanted his word that he would give her father the respect he deserved.

  “As long as you know,” she said, walking off across the grass.

  Mike smiled to himself as he watched her struggle not to sink into the softened earth. The woman needed a pair of sneakers, he thought as he went to join the other spectators.

  But then, just before he reached his destination, Mike had a change of heart. He decided that since he was here, he might as well listen to what a once revered pitcher had to say to a bunch of nine-and ten-year-olds. Mike managed to position himself so that he was able to overhear a good deal.

  It surprised Mike to discover that the once great pitcher did not treat the players as children or as disposable instruments, but as individuals. As people. Shaw referred to each of them, male and female alike, by the numbers that were stitched in below the team logo.

  Voted most valuable player three years in a row, Shaw had never been any good at remembering names.

  “Let me see that clipboard,” Shaw said to Miranda, holding out his hand without looking in her direction. Eager for instruction, the team had all gathered around him.

  Miranda carefully placed the clipboard into his hand. On the top sheet were all his dictated notes on which child was to play what position for the day.

  While he believed in winning, Steven didn’t believe children should be pushed to win at all costs, not at this stage. They still needed to have fun as they attempted to find their own personal place in the overall scheme of things.

  Leaving the clipboard in his hand, Miranda stepped back. The space she’d vacated was immediately filled by two of the team members, both of whom squirmed to find their names on the sheet. They crowded the others who protested. Steven didn’t have to say a word, he merely looked at the offending two and they instantly retreated.

  Miranda smiled to herself. God, did that bring back memories. It had been the same way with her and her sister whenever they squabbled or tried to best each other. Her father never had to verbally discipline them. All it took was that look and they were on their best behavior.

  Lord but she missed Ariel. And the way things used to be.

  “Here’s the batting lineup for today,” Steven announced in his soft, deep voice. “Number twelve is first,” he said, glancing at a tall boy with a lopsided grin. “Then number eight, followed by number three…”

  He continued down the line until everyone was accounted for. Next, he read off the positions they were to play.

  Rather than announce it first, the way Mike would have thought he would, SOS kept the position of pitcher for last. Mike decided it was because to Shaw, the pitcher was—and probably always had been—the plum position.

  “Okay.” Steven held out the clipboard to his side for Miranda. She was quick to step up and take back the board. “Any questions?” Her father slowly scanned the sea of faces. No one raised their hand. He nodded his head, signaling an end to the huddle. “
Then let’s show them what we’re made of.”

  The other team was batting first, so Steven’s team took to the field, accompanied by several of the fathers, who were acting as umpires and secondary base coaches. Steven had already gone over which father went where before he addressed the players. Mike noted that the older men looked as eager as their kids to please Shaw.

  Without any effort whatsoever, Steven Shaw seemed to cast an aura, leaving all who came in contact with the quiet-spoken man in complete awe.

  Miranda moved away again, leaving her father to concentrate. She knew that look. He was weighing and measuring each of the players’ strengths. She couldn’t have been more thrilled. This was so much better for him than just sitting around in his yard, watching his life pass by with the wind.

  “So, you think they’re any good?”

  Miranda’s mouth dropped open as she realized too late that Mike had just walked up to her father. She’d thought the sportswriter would have observed longer than a few minutes before pouncing. Secretly, she’d been hoping that Mike’s silent observation would last the entire session since it was his first time.

  Her stomach tightened in anticipation. Miranda held her breath as her father glanced at the man who’d asked him the question, then looked back on the field, his attention focused on his team.

  “I think there’s potential here.”

  It was a guarded answer and so typical of her father, she thought. He’d never been the kind to lavish praise, but he also wasn’t the type to heap criticism on a person, either, no matter what the age. And he never volunteered unless asked.

  Mike decided to push the envelope a little, see what Shaw’s response was. “You’re not just saying that because you think it’s something we want to hear?”

  He was lumping himself in with the fathers, she realized, feeling somewhat relieved, even though her conscience pinched a bit. At least Marlowe was going along with the ruse for the time being.

  Steven spared him a glance. “What would be the point?” he asked simply.