Diamond in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

  “You were smarter than that. Smart enough not to be affected by what the mindless masses believed. You’re not a prisoner of what the fickle public think.”

  “Maybe not,” she acknowledged. “But it still hurt to have them think that of you. Hurt to have you the butt of their jokes.”

  “Then I’m sorry.” Though there was no more emotion in those words than in any of the others, she found herself believing him. “I never intended to hurt you.”

  While his words were sincere, it would take a while to let go. Right then, she didn’t want to rehash more of the past. It mattered more that her father finally get his due—just as she’d wanted him to. Except now, there was no need to persuade the commission or have the public rally. The truth could finally come out.

  “Since Wes is dead now, Dad, you’re free to come forward and finally clear all this up,” she urged enthusiastically.

  “No,” he said, knocking the pins right out from under her.

  “No?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Why would he continue to live in the shadow of a lie when there was no longer a reason for him to keep quiet?

  “No,” he repeated. “Nothing’s changed, Miranda. If the truth came out, it would still tarnish his reputation, still hurt his family.”

  “And untarnish yours,” she insisted. How could he want to continue this way? He’d taught her that all a man had was his good name. Wes had willingly taken it from him in order to preserve his own. That just wasn’t right. “Look, Dad, haven’t you suffered enough? Don’t you think it’s about time you had a little well-deserved recognition?” She wasn’t moving him, she could see that by the look in his eyes. Frustration filled her. She knew how immovable he could be. “Without this stupid ban on you, you can finally be nominated for the baseball hall of fame—and you’d be a shoo-in, you know that.”

  He folded his hands before him on his lap. “I don’t need to be in the hall of fame.”

  The longer she knew him, the less she understood him. “Maybe I need you to be in it,” Miranda told him, exasperated.

  “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  The note of sincerity in his voice wasn’t enough for her. She couldn’t stand by and let his inaction continue without doing something. But by the same token, she couldn’t go against him. “Dad—”

  “Discussion over,” he said with finality. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he turned his wheelchair a hundred and eighty degrees away from her “—arguing with bullheaded daughters always makes me tired. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “It’s nine-thirty in the morning,” she called after him. Why couldn’t she make him listen to reason?

  “Never too early to get a jump start on napping,” he answered wryly. “Besides, the doctors want me well rested before the next surgery.”

  Miranda fell silent. She’d almost forgotten about the next surgery. He’d had so many already. Each time one was performed, there turned out to be more to do. It was like they were trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again and succeeding only marginally. And each time, the doctors told her, there was a huge risk to his system—that the operation might be a success, but that he could die.

  “By the way—” he stopped and turned his chair half around to look in her direction “—where’s the letter?”

  She’d carefully folded up the letter in which Wes expressed his undying gratitude and eternal inability to ever begin to pay his friend back for his sacrifice. She placed it back in its envelope, and after resealing it, she’d put the envelope in her jewelry box.

  “At home,” she answered, refraining from giving him any more details unless he demanded them.

  “Keep it in a safe place.”

  Her father’s cavalier instruction surprised her. She’d half expected him to order her to bring it back so he could continue being its guardian—or personally destroy it the way he’d obviously intended when she’d rescued the three bags from the trash.

  Was there a hidden message here? Was he telling her in his own subtle way that it was up to her to someday bring this to light?

  God, she wished that he’d be more straightforward with her than this. Wished that communication wasn’t just a word in the dictionary when it came to her father.

  “I’ll do that,” she said as she let herself out.

  As far as she was concerned, nothing had been settled.

  “All better?”

  It was all she could do to keep from crying out in startled surprise when she heard the question. Lost in her own little world, Miranda hadn’t even seen anyone in the area, much less recognized that it was Mike standing before her door.

  Mike bearing gifts. Specifically, a very large pizza box. The moment she smelled the aroma coming from the flat, square box, her mouth watered. It reminded her that she hadn’t eaten.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, even as she stood up on her toes to brush a quick kiss on his lips. Preoccupied, she blindly dug in her purse for the keys to her apartment.

  “Delivering your lunch and waiting for you.” She unlocked the door and entered. He followed right behind her, closing the door with his elbow. “You know, I wouldn’t have had to stand here, getting some very suspicious looks from some of your more curious neighbors if I had a key to your place,” he said, placing the pizza box on the counter beside the sink.

  He’d already given her a key to his apartment, a key he’d noted that she hadn’t made use of yet. But, nonetheless, the significance behind the gesture was still there. He was willing to share his life with her, but she apparently wasn’t willing to share hers with him yet.

  Dropping her purse on the floor, Miranda grabbed a handful of napkins and put them on the small kitchen table. “I keep forgetting to make you a copy.”

  “Give it to me.” He decided to bait her and see if she backed off. “I can swing by the hardware store right now, and get a copy. Two if you want—”

  She stopped him before he continued. “No strings, remember?” she reminded him. She took two soda cans out of the refrigerator and placed two glasses next to them. “That’s what we said.”

  Sitting down, he drew one glass and one can over to his side. “That’s what you said and I let it go because, at the time, it sounded like a good deal.” He popped the top. The ring broke off, sliding down his index finger. “It doesn’t sound like that anymore. Speaking of ‘more,’ I want it. I want more than just a casual, two-ships-passing-in-the-night thing.” He’d put off saying it, thinking that he’d instantly regret it. Up until now, he’d been commitment-phobic. But the words were out and there was no feeling of constriction, not in his throat, not in his chest.

  “It’s broad daylight,” she answered flippantly as she reached up in the cupboard to take down two plates.

  Before she realized it, Mike was right behind her, his body shadowing hers. She could feel his heat. Stirring her.

  He took the plates down for her, handing them over. “You know what I mean.”

  Miranda took a long breath. It didn’t help. “I know what you mean.” And there was part of her that warmed to the idea—and part of her that was scared out of her mind. “A lot of other guys would be thrilled with the no-strings policy.”

  She was right. A lot of guys would be. And he would have been among them. But not anymore. “I’m not a lot of other guys.”

  She touched his face lovingly. “Don’t you think I don’t know that? Don’t you think that I don’t know how special, how different you are from the other men I’ve come across?”

  His frustration levels rose. He could all but hear the “but” in her voice. “Then what’s the problem?”

  She was honest with him. She owed him that much. “I’m just afraid that if I say it out loud, if I agree to a commitment, it’ll be the beginning of the end.” She looked into his eyes, hoping he would understand. “That you’ll suddenly change your mind and leave.”

  His mouth curved. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her. “I really don�
��t think that’s going to happen.”

  “You don’t think—” She emphasized the crucial word, the word everything hinged on.

  He realized his mistake. Mike caught her by her shoulders before she could turn away. “Okay, I know that’s not going to happen.”

  She shook her head. “My parents didn’t get married thinking they were going to get divorced. But they did. And they’d turned away from each other way before that.”

  The sadness in her voice tore at his heart. But he saw through her, even if she didn’t.

  “That’s not the problem, Miranda. They turned away from you and you’re afraid you’re going to wind up being that little girl standing all alone in the foyer again, your heart in your hand—”

  She didn’t want to hear it.

  “Pizza’s getting cold,” she said abruptly, trying to shrug off his hands on her shoulders.

  She didn’t succeed. “But I’m not.”

  Trapped, she watched him for a long moment. Everything he’d said was true, but that still didn’t help her make that final leap, the one that magically took her from her mountain peak across to his. The space was too wide for her to attempt, even though the reward—if she succeeded—was great.

  There was only one way to make him drop the subject. She needed a diversion.

  “The hell with the pizza,” she murmured, throwing her arms around his neck and bringing her mouth up to his.

  To sate the appetite that rose up within her, she needed to touch him far more than she needed pizza.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her father’s revelation continued to eat away at Miranda. She carried it inside of her. It was part of every minute she inhabited, making her preoccupied and stealing away her usually keen focus.

  It took less than half an hour for Tilda to notice she was distracted. Her best friend commented on it once or twice, then, not getting any enlightening feedback, she wisely left it alone.

  What’s more, it stood like an eight-foot barrier, complete with a 360-degree overhead beacon, swirling around, between her and Mike. She was torn between loyalty to her father and loyalty to the man who seemed to accept her better than she was able to accept herself.

  And even her loyalty to her father could be split in two equal pieces, further complicating her quandary. Part of her wanted to do as he asked, to keep silent about the secret she didn’t feel was worthy of the effort. The other part of her, the part that belonged to the little girl who worshipped the ground he walked on, felt that her father deserved to have his name cleared and to receive the honor that was due him.

  It tore her into little, unmanageable pieces and caused her to lose more than a fair amount of sleep. And if that wasn’t enough turmoil for her to deal with, her father was going in for yet more corrective surgery to his spine. She tried not to worry, but it was like trying not to breathe. Doable in principle only, not in reality.

  To her surprise, rather than appoint one of the squadron of fathers who faithfully showed up game after game to handle minor tasks he might toss their way, her father turned the responsibility of temporary coach over to Mike.

  Miranda wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Mike was stunned, as well, not to mention he felt ill-prepared for the job, if for no other reason than that he had no offspring to contribute to the game.

  Rather than admit that as his defining argument, Mike began with a technicality. “I’m flattered, Mr. Shaw, but shouldn’t you check with someone that it’s all right?”

  For the most part, these last ten years SOS had gone his own way, listened to his own rules. Sticking to someone else’s just didn’t interest him.

  “I’m the only one I need to check with,” SOS told him. “And it’s because you call me ‘Mr. Shaw’ that I’m doing it. You don’t follow me around, picking up everything I come in contact with to either keep as a souvenir, or sell on that damn, blood-sucking eBay everyone’s so hot over.” He paused, looking up into Mike’s eyes. “I’m not stupid, Mike. I know who you are and I appreciate the fact that you haven’t been pumping me for an interview.”

  He’d had Walter type Mike’s name into a search engine a couple of weeks ago and reams of Mike’s columns had jumped out at him. His first reaction was annoyance. But that gave way to curiosity and he’d read several of the articles. And found himself, for the most part, agreeing with what he’d found written down.

  Steven’s eyes held his for more than just a moment. Mike felt as if his thoughts were being x-rayed. “I want you to be honest with me. Have you been using her to get to me?”

  “No. But aside from the fact that I’d never do that, you’re not giving her enough credit, Mr. Shaw. Your daughter is much too sharp to allow herself be used by someone else.”

  And then, having said his piece, Mike was privy to one of Shaw’s rare smiles. It came and then went, fading quickly like the last embers of twilight. Going so fast that he almost thought he imagined the whole thing.

  “I think so, too,” Steven told him. He’d already gone over the fine points of his strategy for the next few games, the rest he expected Mike to have absorbed by hanging around him. “Okay, whatever you don’t recall, ask Miranda. She’s kept track of everything. Got a good head on her shoulders.”

  As far as he knew, Miranda had never been on the receiving end of a compliment from her father. “Maybe you should let her know you think that.”

  Steve shrugged away the suggestion. “She knows,” he asserted.

  “Still, won’t hurt to make sure.”

  Steve moved on, ignoring the direction the conversation had taken. “Things go well,” he told Mike, “I’ll be back in a few weeks. Just in time for the play-offs—” he leveled a deep, penetrating glare at his substitute “—if you don’t screw things up.”

  Despite the fact that it was only a Little League game, Mike felt as if he’d suddenly been given a mandate. “I’ll do my best not to,” Mike promised.

  Satisfied, Steven nodded. “And if, for some reason, I don’t make it back to the playing field,” he continued matter-of-factly, as if he was talking about the weather changing and not his own death, “write me a nice obit.”

  So, the man was thinking about his mortality, Mike realized. “Don’t let Miranda hear you talking like that,” he advised.

  Steven thought of his daughter, of the way she just plowed ahead no matter what life threw at her. She was resilient and he was proud of her for that. “Miranda will be fine.”

  The man actually believed that, Mike realized. How oblivious could you get? Just because the man was a baseball god didn’t mean that he was all-knowing when it came to other matters. Certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t blind to what was in front of his nose. “You don’t know, do you?”

  Steven scowled as his eyebrows drew together. “Know what?”

  “That you’re her whole world,” Mike told him, watching the man’s face for some sign that maybe he did. “That you always have been. And that she felt completely devastated and abandoned when you turned away from her.”

  Indignation rose in his deep blue eyes, but Steven kept his voice low, not wanting to attract anyone’s attention. He’d always been one who wanted to travel under the radar. The aura generated by success had never sat well with him. “I never turned away from her.”

  “When your other daughter died—”

  Steven’s face darkened. It was obvious that he had no desire to go to that part of his past. “Leave it alone, boy.”

  But Mike dug in. This was for Miranda and the air needed to be cleared, if not by Miranda and her father, then by a third party. He appointed himself. “She needed you then.”

  “I was grieving,” Steven insisted through clenched teeth.

  Mike didn’t back away. “So was she,” he pointed out. “She lost a sister, someone from her generation. Nothing brings mortality closer to a kid than to have someone around their own age die.”

  Steve said nothing for a moment, then sidestepped the conversation that was not
to his liking. He nodded at the duffel bag that Mike had just finished filling with baseball bats that had been used during the game. “Don’t forget to bring those with you for Wednesday’s game.”

  With that, Steven applied his gloved palms to the wheels, turned sharply and pushed his wheelchair toward the parking lot.

  Mike watched him go, shaking his head. The former pitcher and MVP never looked back.

  If she consumed another damn drop of coffee, she was in immediate danger of either floating away or overdosing on caffeine—quite possibly both.

  But she needed something to do, needed something to occupy her hands. Flipping through magazines wasn’t doing the trick. Her nerves were wound up so tightly, she was afraid she would tear those pages out, shredding them into tiny bits.

  Any minute now, she was going to scale the walls.

  The surgery wasn’t supposed to be taking so long. None of the other surgeries had gone beyond three hours. They were approaching hour number five.

  She couldn’t take much more of this.

  “Want some company?”

  Miranda swung around the moment she heard his voice behind her. With a cry of relief and frustration, she threw her arms around his neck. Hugging Mike for all she was worth. Burying her face in his chest.

  Right now, there was no room for pretense. She couldn’t pretend that she was the independent, completely-devoid-of-strings woman who’d indicated more than once that she didn’t need anyone.

  She did need someone. She needed someone to hold her. She needed him.

  “Oh, God, yes,” she all but sobbed against his chest.

  “Careful,” he warned, drawing back. Trying to hold the bag he had brought with him, the one she’d almost squashed, still. “I brought you coffee.”

  She felt her empty stomach lurch and then all but pull into itself. A wall of nausea rose up at the mere thought of a cup.

  “Don’t give it to me unless you want me to throw up on you,” she countered.

  “Fair enough.” Taking the container out of the bag, he set it to one side, then took out a second container. She assumed it was a cup of coffee for him until he said, “And also chicken soup.”