Smith said, rubbing his jaw as he eyed the framed, autographed game picture in his hand. “’86 Mets, game seven over the Red Sox. With the certificate of authenticity, six minimum, maybe seven.”
Nodding, Janie jotted a note in her small, spiral notebook, which was already filled with information the man had provided. He’d been an absolute godsend. Without Mr. Smith’s input, she would probably have sold her brother’s 2004 autographed Red Sox ball for ten bucks to some kid on a Little League team.
“You’re my guardian angel,” she said, squeezing Mr. Smith’s age-spotted hand before putting the picture in her bag.
“Hands off, girlie, he’s mine. Wouldn’t want to have to arm wrestle m’own granddaughter for a man.”
Grinning, Janie eyed her grandmother, Anne Nolan, who sat beside Edgar on the blanket. Tart and spry at seventy-eight, Grandma Anne was her closest ally, and her only family other than her brother. Even if Janie didn’t love the depth of character she’d always found in the elderly, she would have spent every minute she could here just to enjoy her grandmother’s company.
“I’m not a man stealer,” Janie replied, lifting her brow.
Man “repeller” would be more accurate, given her romantic track record. Three words would sum that up, too: zip, zero and zilch. The last time she’d dated anyone seriously was before she’d taken over the store, so she was going on a three-year-long dry spell when it came to sexual experiences. Unless vibrators, rich chocolate ice cream from her friend Babe’s shop or the number of times she’d watched the Brad Pitt bare butt scene in Troy counted.
“Unlike Mary Moseby. She is a man stealer,” Grandma said. “I think she hid my uppers so I couldn’t go to the races last week.”
Janie didn’t ask why Mrs. Moseby was swiping another elderly woman’s dentures. And why her grandmother—who’d moved into the retirement community after a heart attack two years ago—was attending horse races. Sometimes she was better off not knowing.
“I should be going,” Janie murmured, glancing at her watch.
She wished she didn’t have to leave. The three of them were enjoying their Sunday afternoon picnic on this lovely early spring day, talking about family and the latest scandal among the amorous elderly. And baseball. Always baseball.
All around them, families visited with their loved ones, kids darting around catching butterflies or playing tag while the adults chatted. It was a ritual, and Janie loved it. If life hadn’t interfered, she would have been working at this place full-time rather than just volunteering on Sundays. But life, in the form of her ex-sister-in-law Beth, had interfered. When she’d walked out on Janie’s brother Tom, Beth had done more than break Tom’s heart. She’d thrown Janie’s life a curve, too. Literally.
Grandma Anne frowned. “You sure you have to go, honey?”
“Yes. Tomorrow’s the start of another long work week.”
“You’re a good sister, Janie, to do this for your brother. Giving up three years of your life…there’s not many who’d do it.” Grandma’s tone was hard. She hadn’t gotten over Tom’s boneheaded decision to enlist in the National Guard to nurse his broken heart any better than Janie had. “That boy didn’t have the sense God gave a mule when it came to his trashy wife.”
Janie remained silent, not daring to agree for fear Grandma would go off on a tangent about her grandson’s poor judgment. Though agree she did. Tom’s reaction to his wife’s abandonment had landed him in the Middle East. Not even the fact that he’d finally attained his dream of opening his own sports memorabilia shop could keep him from enlisting. He’d left not giving a damn about anything, and Janie and Grandma had lived in terror ever since.
Grandma Anne hid her terror behind anger. Janie hid hers behind the store. Keeping Round The Bases up and running was the only way Janie could feel as if she were doing something for her brother. As long as he had something to come home to…well, he’d come home. She refused to think of the alternative.
She’d work at the store for as long as it took. Her degree in geriatric social work would still be there in the future. As she often reminded herself, everybody got old eventually so it wasn’t as if she was going to miss out on all the business.
Edgar tapped her arm. “Are you gonna bring me the jersey that fella says is a gen-u-ine Cal Ripken?”
“Next weekend.”
“It’s a date!”
Janie smiled at the pleasure on Edgar’s face. The man lived for baseball and loved helping her. Grandma liked the arrangement, too, because Edgar was a catch among the geriatric crowd. Janie’s need for help gave her grandmother a leg up on the other widows, who outnumbered the men two to one around here.
“Before you go, honey, would you mind dashing to my room and getting me the book on my beside table?” her grandmother said. “I think we’ll sit out here and read aloud for a spell.”
Rising, Janie brushed any stray grass off the back of her baggy jeans. “Of course,” she said before heading inside.
Once in Grandma Anne’s room, she spotted the book right away. Then she read the title: Sexual Positions For The Ages.
Janie gulped. Either her grandmother was playing a joke on her, or she was reading sex manuals aloud to her elderly boyfriend. Janie preferred to think it was a joke. Still, knowing Grandma Anne…well, anything was possible.
Determined to hand her grandmother the book and leave before any specifics were discussed—like which position was best on an eighty-year-old man’s knees—eww—she headed outside. Striding toward the shady spot where she’d left the amorous octogenarians, Janie wondered whether she’d inherited any of her grandmother’s sexual longevity. It was a serious concern, given her track record. Which was, er, uninspiring to say the least.
Yes, she’d started out with a bang, her first sexual affair being with a fellow college student—a musician—who’d introduced her to every naughty little thing a mouth could be used for. And she’d discovered she liked those things. Really liked them. Janie had, in fact, pretty much sixty-nined her way through senior year.
But when they weren’t making it in her narrow dorm room bed, they’d had almost nothing to talk about. Eventually, even the sex hadn’t been enough to make her put up with his laziness.
Since then, she’d been darn near celibate. Considering she was short, relatively flat-chested, always kept her long, boring brown hair in a ponytail and wore glasses—she liked to sleep late, and wearing glasses allowed her to spend an extra five minutes in bed every morning instead of putting in contact lenses—maybe that wasn’t so surprising. A femme fatale she was not, even if she did like sex more than she liked to breathe. Now that she worked in a store where ninety percent of her customers were jocks who liked cheerleader types, the thought that she might meet someone who would see the sex-addicted female beneath the bookish exterior seemed to have flown right out into left field.
Oooh, a baseball analogy. Maybe she was getting good at this sports thing. “Or is it football?” she mused aloud.
Deep in thought trying to remember the basics of team sports, she barely noticed that her grandmother and Mr. Smith were no longer alone. She was just a few feet away, coming over the top of a small hill that hid them from view, when she saw they had company. And what company.
