by Karen Young
He reached for the handle on the side of the recliner and pulled up to a sitting position. Just that small movement triggered searing pain that went hot and deep. With his teeth set, he groped for his crutches and painfully managed to get on his feet. For a second, the room spun, reminding him that he’d also suffered a concussion.
Propped on his crutches with his vision blurred and his knee throbbing, he made his way cautiously out of the den and across the vast foyer, splendid in Italian marble, heading for the kitchen. By the time he reached the butler’s pantry, he was sweating and feeling a little sick. He’d been injured many times, but mostly stayed away from painkillers. But this time, between the knee and the concussion, he’d been desperate for relief and it was telling on him now.
At the pantry he stood thinking. He wasn’t washed up yet, by God. A few weeks favoring his knee and he’d pick up where he left off…provided they didn’t put him out to pasture as Steve Grissom might recommend and as the powers that be might sanction. Grissom was not known for his creativity as regards rehab, so any plan he devised would be traditional, slow to achieve results and in the end, possibly not particularly successful.
Head hanging low, Buck faced facts. He hadn’t survived in the cutthroat world of professional baseball by just sitting back and accepting what a couple of so-called experts said. If he’d done that, he would have quit before he was twenty-five years old. Nearly ten years in the minors had taught him a thing or two about survival. Hell, being raised by his cold-hearted mother had taught him a thing or two about survival. Balanced on the crutches, he opened the door to the pantry.
Using one of his crutches, he snagged the leg of a stool and, moving cautiously, climbed a couple of rungs until he could reach the topmost shelf where he stored liquor, purchased by the case. Fumbling behind a case of Dewar’s, he found a small box containing a vial of a clear substance and a syringe. Stepping down from the stool, he stood for a moment with his head pressed back against a shelf loaded with bottles of champagne. He took several long, deep breaths until the pain subsided to a bearable level.
A few minutes later—still sweating like a pig—he made his way out of the pantry, through the kitchen and the huge foyer to the den and finally to his recliner. This time, he simply dropped his crutches to the floor without caring whether he would be able to reach them if needed and sank into the chair. He was whipped.
A long, long three minutes passed. Then, with shaking hands, he fumbled at the seal on the box. No way he’d be able to inject his knee until he could hold the syringe steady, he thought. But he had the vial out now and he’d watched the procedure enough in the hands of other athletes to know what to do and how to do it. By the time he had the syringe filled with the powerful steroid, he was calm.
Fortunately, he wasn’t wearing jeans, but pajama bottoms, which had been a gift from Anne at Christmas. Since he always slept buck naked, when he’d opened the box on Christmas morning and saw what was inside, they’d both laughed at the absurdity.
“Wear them just once…for me,” she’d teased that day. “I have a reason.”
“Such as?” Suspicious, but he’d played along.
“Since you always have so much fun taking mine off,” she said, smiling and kissing him at the same time, “I thought I’d try the same thing.”
What would Anne think if she saw him now?
He quickly banished his wife from his thoughts and ripped the side seam of the pajamas all the way up to the knee. Steve’s exam and the trek to the kitchen and back hadn’t done good things for the injury. Gingerly feeling it up, Buck found the spot he thought would be about right and took a calming breath. Holding it, he pushed the needle into the spot and blinked rapidly at the pain. Slowly and carefully, he injected the drug.
For a minute, he was caught in a blankness of thought and time. Anne’s face floated before him. She looked so sad. Was she still crying for the baby, he wondered, or was it because of what he’d just done? What had he done, he asked himself as tears welled in his eyes. With sudden and profound shame, he flung the needle across the room and bowed his head in his hands.
In spite of the many opportunities he’d had over the years, he had never used chemicals to enhance his performance on the mound or for any other reason. It was cheating, pure and simple. How had he reached such a low that he turned his back on every honorable standard he’d prided himself on from the time he first held a baseball in his hand while his father smiled at him proudly? The game was sacred to him. The ethics of play were sacred. What did it say about him that staying in the game was so vital to him that he’d not hesitated before shooting up if it meant he’d play again?
A sudden deep, agonizing need for Anne welled up in him. Jesus, she would be horrified over what he’d just done. Using the fingers of both hands, he wiped his cheeks and let his gaze move to a photo of the two of them when they’d been married only a few months. Anne was leaning into Buck who was Mr. Cool in sunglasses, a crooked smile and shirtless, while she laughed and raked at strands of her dark hair whipping in the wind. No sunglasses, so you could see her eyes, those incredible, beautiful turquoise-blue eyes. God, he missed her. He hadn’t realized how empty the house was without her. Or how long the nights could be. Or how desperate he was to hear her voice. A dozen calls and she still refused to talk to him. He was flat-out scared that he’d hurt her so much she might never forgive him.
It came to him then that he needed to get his life in order. Still reclined in his chair, he considered what that entailed. First of all, he needed to win his wife back, but he could hardly do that if she was in another state and wouldn’t even talk to him. Next, he needed to get back in shape enough to play baseball. In time, the concussion would take care of itself, but the knee was a problem. The chemical he’d just injected was only a temporary fix. A lengthy physical therapy plan was vital. He sat up in the chair. But who said that it had to be done here? There were physical therapists all over the planet, even in Mississippi.
Hell, he could kill two birds with one stone. The Jacks wanted him nearby so they could keep an eye on his progress. But what could they do if he left? He wasn’t going to be able to play and Schrader wouldn’t want him visible to the fans walking like a cripple. If he arranged to have his physical therapy in Mississippi, he could be near Anne. He’d have to pay for it out of his own pocket, but it was an expense he’d gladly bear.
His adrenaline was flowing now. He was a man of action. Instead of sitting on his butt, he was going to do something. But first he had to get to Mississippi. With his knee messed up, he couldn’t drive. And he didn’t want to fly commercial. Too public. Too embarrassing. He’d have to charter a plane. Simple enough. For the first time since driving the Porsche off into that ditch, he felt he was in control again. He could handle Gus Schrader’s reaction, no matter what it was. His biggest worry was what kind of reaction he’d get from Anne.
By the third day in Tallulah, Anne was sick of her own company. The baby was her first thought upon waking and her last at night, a sore and tender spot on her heart that felt as if it might never heal. She appreciated the fact that Beatrice and Franklin took her at her word that she wasn’t ready to talk, but a part of her wanted to tell someone how she’d felt when all was well in her pregnancy. She’d been so joyful. If a boy, she’d imagined him a carbon copy of Buck, complete with that rakish smile and easy charm. Or a girl with those same gifts. Would she be a tomboy? Would Buck’s son have his athletic gifts or would his talents be similar to hers? Or would their baby be nothing like either of them?
Lord, enough of that. To keep from dwelling on her troubles, she was headed to the Spectator to take her dad up on his job offer. She was genuinely eager to resume her career, but it was icing on the cake that she’d have access to the Spectator archives. According to Beatrice, who had proved to be a walking encyclopedia of Tallulah’s history, the archives would be chock-full of references to Buck’s family. The things Buck told her about his family had only whett
ed her appetite to learn more. It was a golden opportunity to fill in the blanks.
She had not spoken with Buck. She simply wasn’t up to arguing with him. After she’d refused to take his calls, he’d stopped trying. Maybe after thinking it over, he was relieved that she was the one who dared to say their marriage was in trouble. Maybe he’d been looking for a way out and just hadn’t found a way to tell her. God knows, there were scads of women who’d love to be with Buck Whitaker. And not a single one of them would complain about not having his baby.
Her stepmother had generously offered the use of her car and Anne was halfway to the newspaper office when she realized the gas light was on. She was torn between irritation and amusement at Beatrice. The woman was a crackerjack businesswoman with a creative bent but Anne noticed that, in practical matters, such as keeping gasoline in her car or stocking the pantry with groceries or picking up clothes at the cleaners, she was woefully forgetful. Franklin groused about it when it affected him directly, but Anne had seen right away that he was so besotted with Beatrice that it would take a lot more than a depleted pantry or a wardrobe mishap to make him truly angry with his wife. In the time that Anne had been their houseguest, she was completely convinced that her father was happier than he’d ever been. She suffered a pang of conscience every now and then, feeling a bit disloyal to her mother, but Beatrice really was a sweetheart.
At the service station, she swiped her card and prepared to pump gas into the tank of the small car. For just a second, she thought of her Mercedes and wondered if Buck was driving it in St. Louis. He shouldn’t be driving at all, but she couldn’t imagine him staying cooped up in the house even when ordered to stay put. Of course, he may have already replaced his wrecked Porsche with something equally fast and expensive. And for just a second, she wondered if he was missing her.
“Anne! Anne Whitaker? What the hell—”
With her hand on the nozzle, Anne turned to see who’d spoken. Coming around the hood of a large black Lexus on the opposite side of the pump station was Buck’s older brother.
“Jesus, it really is you, Anne.” While still a yard away from her, Pearce Whitaker opened his arms wide and smiled, showing a lot of teeth. He swept her up in a bear hug, his kiss just missing her lips when she turned at the last second. Then, holding her by the arms, he looked her over. “Talk about surprises, honey, I about drove into the pump when I saw who it was gassin’ up Beatrice’s bug. How the hell are you?”
“I’m fine, Pearce. And you?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He’d removed his sunglasses and was still studying her as if he wasn’t sure she was real. Her own sunglasses were firmly in place in the hope that she’d go unrecognized once she left her father’s house. And of all those who might have recognized her, she would have wished it anybody but Pearce. Or possibly his mother.
“Where’s Buck?” He glanced at the passenger seat of the Volkswagen looking for his brother. “After the accident, I thought he’d be confined to quarters in St. Louis by the Jacks. You’re looking great, but how’s our fair-haired boy?”
“He’s okay.”
“He didn’t sound okay when I called him Sunday. Grouchy as a bear with a burr up his—” He caught himself. “And he didn’t say a damn thing about coming to Tallulah. So, how long y’all been here?”
“Just since Tuesday.” Skirting the truth. If she could get by without telling him outright that Buck was not with her, she would avoid questions about why. Let Buck break the news.
“And you haven’t called us at Belle Pointe?” He was shaking his head. “I know Buck would rather kiss a snake than have a conversation with Mama, but y’all can’t hole up at your daddy’s house and pretend she’s not just five miles down the road. She’ll have a fit like you never saw when she finds out. Hey!” His eyes lit with a new thought. “I assumed Buck would be playing, which is why I haven’t called him to set up an appearance in my campaign, but now you’re here it changes things. He’s able to get around?”
“More or less.” She looked at the gauges on the pump and willed the gas to flow faster. “How is your campaign going?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he repeated, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. He took a business card out of a small leather case and used the surface of the pump to scribble a number. “Here’s my cell. Tell Buck to call me. Today. Within the hour. His name’s gold around here. I’ve been lucky the way support is growing, but word gets around that Buck’s gonna make an appearance, the voters will love it!” He grinned, handing her the card. “This is just great. Couldn’t happen at a better time. The polls say I’m the front-runner, but it’s early yet and you can never be too far out front. A couple of appearances with the great Buck Whitaker and it may even scare my opponent into pulling out!”
The pump clicked off automatically. “You’ll need to talk directly to Buck about that,” she told him, with a glance at her watch. “I’m sorry to run, but—”
“No problem. Got things to do, huh?”
“I’m heading for Dad’s office.”
He spread his hands wide with another grin. “Another major advantage for me, having connections at the Spectator. I’m hoping Franklin will do more than just an endorsement. I’d like a nice profile piece, from the standpoint of the Whitakers. You know, playing up the contributions made to the town—hell, the state!—by my ancestors, emphasis on me, of course.” He gave her a playful wink. “Get folks thinking it’s the natural thing, having a Whitaker in the Capitol.”
Anne bent to screw the cap of the tank in place thinking Pearce had found his calling as a politician. With his profound conceit he assumed not only the cooperation of her father in his campaign, but Buck’s as well. Fortunately, it wasn’t her place to disabuse him of this notion.
She closed the lid with a thump. “Good luck, Pearce.”
“Wait a minute.” He opened her car door for her with the courtesy that seemed innate in Southern men. “How about coming out to Belle Pointe tonight? No joke, Buck can’t hole up at the Marshes’ and avoid Mama. Y’all need to make an appearance, if nothing else.”
“I’m sorry, but I really can’t speak for Buck.” She reached over and turned the key in the ignition. “And I’m afraid I really do have to run, Pearce. Tell Claire I said hello, will you?”
“Sure, sure.” He stepped back as she put the car in gear. “And you tell Buck I’ll be looking to hear from him today, okay?”
With a smile and a wave, she drove off. He would know the truth before the day was done, but he was right about one thing. Now she was here, out of courtesy she must pay Victoria a visit. And soon. But she didn’t have to look forward to it.
“Hello, Tyrone?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
Nursing a Coke in one hand and the phone in another, Buck leaned back in his recliner. “Somebody who knows you were the one who tied Ray Dixon’s jockstrap in a knot fifteen years ago, then forced Coach Randall to use you to pinch hit for him while Dixon spent precious minutes trying to straighten it out.”
A moment of stunned silence. “Buck? This Buck Whitaker?”
Buck grinned and felt something ease in his chest. “Yeah, you sonofagun, who else?”
“Buck! Man, how you doin’? I saw on TV where you like to’ve killed yourself and your wife in that expensive car. Y’all okay, man?”
“Yeah, we were both lucky. I’m stove up some, but with a little physical therapy, I’ll be okay.” He took a sip of Coke. “How you doin’?”
“Fine. Fine. But I gotta say if what they reported is anything like accurate, you got a knee injury that needs more than a little physical therapy. You gotta be careful underestimating the damage and what it takes to overcome it, you know what I mean?”
Buck held the Coke can against his forehead. Cold seemed to ease the ache. “That’s why I’m calling, Ty. I hear you’re one of the best physical therapists in the South.”
Tyrone gave a snort and then chuckled low. “I don’t know abo
ut that, but I’m enjoying regular employment here in Memphis.”
“How would you like to spend the next, say six months working in a place outfitted with the best state-of-the-art equipment, be your own boss, right in your own hometown?”
“That would be Tallulah, right?”
“Right.”
“I would say it would cost a nice chunk of change and where would it come from?”
“Here’s what I was thinking, Ty. I’ve chartered a plane and I’ll be flying in to Tallulah in a few days. I need a PT and you’re the best. The setup will be wherever I’m staying in Tallulah, which is a little up in the air at the moment. But after you check me out, you’ll have an idea what kind of equipment and all the other bells and whistles I’ll need for therapy. Are you with me so far?”
“I guess…so far.”
“We could meet, talk, work out the details. I’d leave it to you to set the schedule and start the torture.”
“What time frame we talking here?”
“I need to start right away. And I’d like to hire you exclusively for as long as it takes, Ty. I realize this means you’d have to ask for a leave of absence from your employer. If you need me to make a call or even to see somebody personally, I’ll do it.”
When Ty remained silent, Buck said, “If a leave of absence puts your present job in jeopardy, I’d be willing to subsidize a private clinic here in Tallulah, Ty. That’s how bad I need you. You have any heartburn about being in business in your hometown?”
“I’ve still got family there,” Tyrone said. “I guess you know that.”
“To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure.” After Buck had left Tallulah, he’d lost touch with Ty, who had been an athlete—a good one—but had never quite made it to the pros. From the time Buck was a boy, Oscar Pittman, Ty’s daddy, had been employed by the Whitakers operating and repairing machinery at Belle Pointe. Buck and Ty had played together, gone to school together, been busted for smoking together. They’d done a few other things together that Buck didn’t like to think about. Only by the grace of God and Ty’s mother, Frances, they hadn’t wound up as outlaws. The woman was a saint.
