Through the rain and over the stern, Lanny saw a spotlight beaming back and forth. The light shone from the Coast Guard cutter as it powered through the waves, closing the gap.
A frightened Lanny crawled over to help MC navigate.
MC pressed the throttle to full power and glanced behind at their pursuers.“They’re gaining on us, man.”
“Just stay calm and don’t stop till we hit the beach,” Lanny said. They were a quarter mile from land now, and Lanny noted the depth gauge to the left of the throttle. For a couple seconds it showed twenty-nine feet. Then it rose to twenty feet. Then to thirteen. Then nine, then six, then four.
The yacht lurched to a stop. The men went tumbling.
In their anxiousness to reach shore and flee, none of the crew had considered the possibility of sandbars.
Angie’s effort at “I’m sorry” was Braves tickets. My own effort was imported chocolate from Rodeo Drive. She had reconsidered her southern belle protest movement, and now our shared desire was to mend the relationship. We exchanged gifts in her Subaru, moments after she picked me up from the Atlanta airport.
We sat idling at the United drop-off area, holding hands across the console. “Perhaps I overreacted, Neddie,” Angie said, leaning toward me.
“I’m sure you did, pumpkin.” Our foreheads met.“And perhaps I think too often of money.”
“I’m sure you do. But I shouldn’t have protested. The day you flew out to L.A. I read in Proverbs that a quarreling wife is like a constant dripping from a faucet. Am I like a faucet that constantly drips, honey?”
Nose to nose now, I replied with soft-spoken honesty. “Actually, you were more like an eruptive fire hose at full blast. . . but it’s, um, water under the bridge now?”
Her eyelashes brushed mine. “Pristine aqua waters like our honeymoon on St. Croix?”
“Just like those waters, dear.”
Now, before you go thinking that we sped home, kissed on the porch and in the foyer and down the hall, then spent a romantic evening making up and making out, just put the brakes on your lust-mobile. That ain’t how it happened.
You see, the Braves tickets were for that night’s game;we drove straight from the airport to the ballpark. On the way there—she’d asked me to drive, and I was weaving through Friday evening traffic—she ate my apology chocolate, licking her lips and pronouncing it delicious.
I glanced down at the console and noticed four tickets instead of two. It was like they had multiplied. A paperclip held them tightly together. All I could figure was that when Angie had given them to me, I had kept my eyes on her instead of the tickets. I had just assumed there were two.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin as we idled in traffic at the Turner Field exit. I used this moment to pick up the four tickets and spread them like a poker hand in my fingers. “Angie, honey, ordinarily when a couple attempts to make up, they prefer to be one on one.”
Angie reached over and patted my hand. “Ordinarily, Ned. Yes.”
We rolled forward at maybe two miles per hour. A flashing sign over the sidewalk broadcasted BRAVES—MARLINS, 7:35 TONIGHT!
I glanced at my watch. 7:02. “So, Ang, you’re not going to tell me who we’re meeting here at the ballpark?”
I suspected some relational counselors, perhaps from the Baptist church.
She patted my hand a second time. “While you were in L.A., I e-mailed Larry and invited him to the game.”
“You contacted Larry?”
“Yes.”
“And he replied?”
“He’s bringing a date. They’re meeting us at the ticket office.”
Perplexed, I turned right into stadium parking. “He’ll probably be with Miranda.”
Angie immediately grabbed my right arm.
“Miranda?” she asked. “How can his date be named Miranda when the girl in his story is named Miranda?” Suddenly Angie had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide and unblinking, her gaze fixed over the hood. “Oh… oh my. Does she know?”
I parked between two minivans and cut the engine. “Last time Larry and I spoke, he had not informed the young lady of that slight coincidence.”
No way was I wearing long sleeves to the ballpark. I pulled my white buttondown over my head and reached into the backseat for my orange polo. When my head poked through the opening, I noticedo that Angie’s hands remained over her mouth, and that her eyes had taken on a cool, calculating look.
I felt the need—even the obligation—to intervene. “Angie, you cannot initiate any confrontation with Larry tonight. This is supposed to be our make-up date… right? Didn’t we just exchange gifts?”
She opened her door to climb out. “Can’t I just ask him a few little questions between innings?”
I got out of the driver’s side and shook a finger at her over the roof. “This is our make-up date. So tonight we’re both limited to baseball, small talk, and hot dogs all the way.”
She slung her purse over her shoulder and grinned in a manner that bordered on devious.
I went around the hood and took her by the hand. Together we walked toward the ticket office. “Promise me, Ang?”
“Okay.”
“Say it with me….”
She frowned and mocked the movement of my lips. “Baseball, small talk, and hot dogs all the way. Baseball, small talk, and hot dogs all the way.”
Ahead stood Larry, waving at us along with his auburn-haired date. He appeared anxious for an L.A. update. She appeared so innocent for a muse.
Perhaps it was the crack of bat meeting ball that caused me to forget about Hollywood’s disappointing offer. Or it could have been the reconciliation with my wife. Or perhaps it was the smell of hot dogs in the air and the boiled peanuts I’d shared with Larry. In row thirty-two on the first base side of Turner Field, he and I occupied seats one and four, respectively. Larry needed the aisle seat, what with his long legs. In seat three, to my left, sat Angie, and to her left, in seat two, was Miss Miranda Simms.
“Thank you so much for the seats, Agent Orange,” she said after the next pitch. I thought it was cute the way she called me Agent Orange, as if that were my given name.
I caught her glance and pointed to Angie’s head. It was her idea.
Between pitches, the four of us shared our backgrounds, and soon I discovered that Miranda had grown up in Florida, in a suburb of Orlando. I also learned that her parents owned an offshore boat and that she had a younger sister.
By the second inning, Angie had befriended both of our guests and was intermittently yelling at the umpires and making girl-talk with Miranda. “Isn’t the night air wonderful?” she asked.
Miranda nodded. “I just love summer. I even drove Larry here tonight with my sunroof open.”
“Oh?” Angie replied. “And what kind of car do you own?”
“A VW Jetta. I bought it new last year. It’s blue.”
The Braves had their fastest runner on first and nobody out when both women announced that they needed to visit the ladies room. I whispered to Angie as she stood. “Not a word to her about… you know.”
Angie made the zip motion across her lips and followed Miranda into the aisle.
The Marlins’ pitcher kept throwing over to first to hold the runner close to the base. After the third throw over, Larry turned and spoke across the empty seats between us. “Ned, I know you said you didn’t want to talk business at the ballpark, but I can’t wait any longer. I’ve got to know what that producer said or I’m gonna start pacing around the stadium.”
I knew this was coming.
I could not look Larry in the eye. I just kept staring at the infield, not really focused on anything—until the Marlins’ pitcher beaned the batter. The home crowd groaned at the sound of ball hitting flesh. Fastball to the shoulder muscle. Ouch.
The batter staggered to first, and I used this moment to try to level with Larry. “Angie and I promised each other that tonight would be a make-up date. We limited our topics to small talk an
d flirting. This means that you and I can’t talk business.”
Larry sat silent for a minute—until the pitcher walked the next batter to load the bases. “Did you and the producer talk numbers?”
“I told you—I can’t talk business. Let’s just enjoy the game.”
Larry drew his legs in from the aisle and leaned over to pick something up from under his seat. He brought up an unopened packet of ketchup, tore off the corner, and squirted the contents into his right palm. Then he extended his arm across the empty seats. “Go ahead, dip your finger in it.”
“For what?” I asked, wondering if he had gone mad.
“So you can write the number on your palm.”
“With ketchup?”
“Of course. This way you can keep your promise to Angie, and I can find out what the producer offered.”
The next batter strode to the plate, and I reached across seat 3 to dip my left index finger in Larry’s handful of ketchup. Sufficiently dipped, this finger found its way to my right hand and drew a large red eight in the palm. I held this red palm up for Larry’s inspection.
His reaction stretched over several seconds. He read my palm, blinked in disbelief, grinned stupidly, read my palm a second time. Then his grin grew into something beyond stupid.
He moved his lips in slow motion, “Eight hundred thousand?” he asked in a whisper.
I shook my head no before thrusting my palm across the seat at him again. Ketchup oozed down my wrist.
His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He gathered himself and whispered, “Eight million?”
I shook my head again, this time harder.
The crowd booed as the Marlins’ manager removed the starting pitcher and brought in a lefty. Over the chorus of jeers, Larry shouted at me. “I don’t understand… eight what?”
I momentarily forgot my pledge to Angie and shouted back. “Just eight. Eight thousand!”
I’d seen ruptured balloons deflate more slowly. Larry’s very breath left him;his arms flopped over the armrests, and his legs slid back out into the aisle. He remained in this posture while the lefty warmed up and the crowd continued to boo.
“That’s all?” Larry asked.
I nodded and wiped the ketchup from my palm with a napkin. “It’s an offer to option the movie rights. A two-year option for eight grand.”
“You declined his offer, didn’t you? I mean, surely my stuff is worth more than that…. Isn’t it?”
“I told Mylan that I’d talk to you about the ending, then get back to him.”
Neither of us was watching when Atlanta’s oldest player smashed his bat into the next pitch. Both of us, however, followed the ball’s trajectory until it slammed into the right-center field wall. The first of three runners crossed the plate, then the second and third runners slid into home, one behind the other. The umpire signaled safe, hesitated as the ball got past the catcher, and signaled safe again. A three-run triple.
That’s when Angie and Miranda returned with soft drinks and pretzels.
“Did we miss anything?” Angie asked as she settled back into her seat.
“Just a few runs, dear. Nothing major.”
The small talk resumed and, thanks to a few deft questions from Angie, it was revealed that Miranda worked as a news editor, enjoyed the occasional Killian’s Red, and preferred Pantene shampoo.
After the win, the four of us left Turner Field with thousands of other happy fans. Larry and Miranda strode ahead of Angie and myself, and it was then that Angie asked me a question with a tad too much volume. Her question was, “Can I ask Larry a little something about the yacht-stealing part?”
Miranda turned in mid-stride, eyebrows raised. “A stealing part to what?” she asked with a smile and great innocence, like people do when they interrupt at cocktail parties.
I butted in before Angie could answer. “Oh, just a term paper that our son, Zach, has to write for an ethics class at Auburn.”
Miranda seemed content with my answer. Soon she strode ahead with Angie, the two of them on to some topic involving Underground Atlanta.
I walked along with Larry and spoke out the side of my mouth. “She still doesn’t know that she’s the main character in your—”
Larry smiled and waved to the Braves mascot, who had attracted a crowd in the parking lot and was handing out free plastic bats to kids. “Not a clue.”
“Have you even shown her the first chapter?”
Larry applauded loudly as the mascot led the crowd in orchestrated cheers. “Nope,” he said. “All things in their proper time.”
I walked along wondering how this young lady would receive Larry’s tomahawk chop of confession.
A quick scalping, perhaps?
At the exit gate we said good-bye to Miranda and Larry, then made a right and walked up a sidewalk toward our car. We passed a street vendor on the way, and before I could object, Angie was digging in her purse for money and ordering a hamburger all the way and a large Coke.
“You know how caffeine keeps you awake at night,” I said as she paid the man. “And didn’t you eat two hot dogs at the game?” Suddenly I was very concerned with my wife’s figure.
She handed me her purchase. “Carry this, honey. It’s not for me.”
Five minutes later we were north of the stadium and beneath an 1-85 bridge, standing on the curb and peering up into dark, angled crevices. “Victorrrr?” Angie shouted.
I felt the need to intercede. “Honey, this could be dangerous. This side of town is—”
“Victorrrrr!”
The raspy voice waited for a break in the traffic before speaking. The voice came from the fourth dark crevice. He had an old sleeping bag wrapped around him. “That you, Mizz Watson?”
“And Mr. Watson,” I offered out of sheer instinct.
Angie stepped around me and scaled the first few feet of concrete. “It’s me, Victor. I brought you a burger.”
He shuffled down and accepted the meal and sniffed its warmth. “With pickles and ketchup and everything?”
“All the way. Just like you prefer. And a drink, too.”
He climbed back up toward his condo before turning to me with one last comment. “If you’re Mistuh Watson, then you should be proud to have a woman like MizzWatson.”
What could I do but agree?
Saturday morning I woke to the smell of pancakes. Blueberry, medium well.
Since Angie was still sleeping soundly in the center of our king-sized bed, this scent could mean only one thing.
Robed and barefoot and not very surprised, I descended the stairs and found our son, Zach, sitting at our breakfast table, chewing with gusto. His eating was intense;his clothes, wrinkly. Everything about him looked disheveled, from his Dave Mathews Band T-shirt to his khaki shorts to his leather sandals with the broken straps. A small duffel sat on the floor at his feet.
He chewed a huge bite, wiped syrup from the corners of his mouth, and grinned up at me. “Had a free weekend, Pop. Hope you and Mom still have room for me.”
Since he was busy eating, my greeting was a simple squeeze of his shoulders. “You been up all night?”
“Yep, but it’s not what you think. I’ve been reading.”
“Of course you have,” I said, not believing he would be studying on a weekend. “And did you make enough pancakes for all of us?”
“Plenty,” he said, nodding at the stove top. “And by the way, great story.”
“What story?”
“The one you left spread out on the sofa in the den. That’s what I’ve been reading.” He swallowed half a pancake in one gulp. “I just finished the part about the guys stealing the yacht. This the same story Mom warned me about?”
I opened a cabinet and withdrew a glass. “What did your mother tell you?”
Zach poured syrup on his next bite and let the morsel dangle on his fork. “Well, Dad, just before you went to L.A., Mom called and told me that you’re representing a story that promotes atheism, foul language, p
etty crime, and very little respect for personal property.” He counted off each of these shortcomings on his fingertips. Finally he glanced at me as if searching for confirmation. “So, is that the same story I found on the sofa?”
I tried to think of a worthy comeback, but the morning was too new so I exercised my parental right to change the subject. “What time did you get in?”
“’Bout 3:30 a.m.”
I shook my head slowly and with great exaggeration. “Son, we’ve always been able to talk. So if you need to tell me that you were at your frat party, had a bit too much fun, and—”
Zach dropped his fork and waved his hands in front of my face. “Earth to Dad! I’m in a service fraternity. We work with foreign-exchange students, tutor people in English, hold car washes… that sorta thing.”
“Oh.” I opened the fridge and removed a carton of milk. “But still, you haven’t even been to bed yet?”
“Nah, but I’ll sleep today… after you let me read the ending. You do have it, don’t you?”
Angie came up behind me and thrust an empty glass around my waist, shaking it to encourage me to pour. “Yes, Ned, we all want to see the ending.”
I poured us both a glass, and we toasted our Friday night makeup date. She filled two plates with the remaining pancakes and set them on the table before hugging Zach from behind.
“Glad you’re home, precious,” she said, and dipped a finger in his plate of syrup. “Mmm, and you even cooked for us.” Then she hugged him again.
“Mom… don’t smother. Just one normal hug is fine.”
After devouring my breakfast, I wiped my milk mustache and pointed into the den at my computer. “Clan, the ending is supposed to arrive this morning.”
They pointed me toward the den, where I logged onto the Web and found an e-mail from Larry.
* * *
Ned, find attached the first part of the ending. Call me later.
Larry-who-is-surely-worth-more-than-eight-grand
While pages printed, Zach and Angie held a brief argument over who should read first. They even pointed their forks at each other from across our breakfast table.
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