was, safe choices never led to greatness. Legends were made of risk takers armed with the skills destined for success. A display like that could be just the thing to regain Essick’s interest, to see a winning thoroughbred in a stable of foals.
TJ grabbed hold of that risk, that sample of greatness, and shook off the catcher. “Come on,” he murmured, “something to dazzle ’em.”
The catcher complied: slider.
Now we’re talkin’, TJ thought. With a 3–2 count, the hitter wouldn’t be expecting a pitch that chanced ending up out of the zone. And when done right, a slider gave the illusion of a fastball, up until it fell off a table the last several feet.
TJ readied for the windup. But just as he was about to close his eyes and dip once more into his cage of fury, a question snuck up on him: What if his rage soon tired of being locked up? He could feel its power increasing each time he let it loose to breathe and stretch. Brought out too often and that rage might end up refusing to go back in.
He squashed the thought and threw the ball with all the strength he could muster. Down the pipe it went. The seams spiraled away—a wall of wind seemed to slow every rotation—and laid tracks that led directly to the bat. Crack. The white pill soared overhead while the runners rounded the bases. Every footfall was a stomp to TJ’s gut. Only for the mile-length arms of the left fielder did the ball not reach the ground.
The inning was over. TJ had pushed the batter to a full count and gotten the out, but once more he alone hadn’t closed the deal. When it came to risks, the thinnest of lines separated a legend and a fool.
Quiet applause broke out while the USC players jogged toward the dugout. Following them in, TJ dared to seek Essick’s reaction—not a total disaster; they were still tied, after all.
But the guy had already left.
Apprehension reverberated through Maddie’s body, a concerto plucking away the minutes. Inadvertently sticking her callused finger with another straight pin served as a reminder to concentrate on the job at hand. At least until Beatrice, the manager, arrived after a doctor’s checkup. Then Maddie would be free to leave her father’s tailor shop early, in order to present Lane with her decision.
She scooted her knees another few inches on the scarred wooden floor, dark as the paneled walls, and tacked up more hem-line of the jacket. Emerald silk enwrapped Mrs. Duchovny’s robust form. A regular customer since Maddie’s childhood, the woman had spent her youth as an opera singer. Her endless chatter in the full-length mirror evidenced her sustainable lung capacity. Even more amazing, she gesticulated as quickly as her lips moved, taking only tiny breaks to fluff her pecan-brown curls. None of this made marking her garments an easy task.
“Of course, you know more than anyone,” she was saying, “I have enough holiday suits to clothe all of Boyle Heights. But with Donnie coming home on leave, I just wanted something special to wear for Christmas dinner. Especially after missing him over Thanksgiving. We only have three weeks to go, which doesn’t give Bob much time. He’s trying to surprise our Donnie with an entire wall of custom-made bookshelves in his room. That boy could read two books a day if he wanted. Did I ever tell you that?”
Maddie glanced up at the unexpected pause. “I think you’ve mentioned it.” She pretended Mrs. Duchovny hadn’t already reported the same news about her Navy son a thousand times. Often Maddie wondered about the true reason the woman had insisted on becoming her benefactress for Juilliard. A charitable act of kindness? Or an investment in a potential bride for her son?
Mrs. Duchovny prattled on, continuing to drop matchmaking hints, until Maddie announced, “All finished.” Then Maddie snatched two stray pins from the floor and pressed them into the cushion bound to her wrist. She rose, wiping a dust mark from her apron.
“Madeline, dear.” Mrs. Duchovny faced her, suddenly serious. The corners of her eyes crinkled behind her thick glasses. “Are you feeling all right?”
And there it was. The dreaded question Maddie had heard more times than she cared to count.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” She forced a smile, feeling anything but fine, as always seemed the case when delivering the phrase. Fortunately, frequency of use had worn the roughness off the lie, turning it smooth as sea glass.
“Are you sure about that?” said Mrs. Duchovny, resonant with disbelief. Before Maddie could repeat herself, the woman cracked a wide grin and displayed her right arm. “Because I think you’ve forgotten a little something, dear.”
The other sleeve. Maddie had only tacked the left. “Good grief, I’m so sorry.” She resumed her tucking and pinning as Mrs. Duchovny chuckled.
“I’m actually relieved. For a minute, I was worried one arm had grown longer than the other.”
Maddie’s lips curved into a full smile. Soon, though, she recalled her meeting with Lane. Today. At the Pier. And her anxiousness rose like the tide.
Oh, how she wanted to get the conversation over with.
She had planned to inscribe her thoughts in a letter, but just as she’d flipped over the OPEN sign this morning, Lane had phoned. He’d said he was headed to Santa Monica with his sister, and that he and Maddie needed to talk before he left town.
It’s about us, he’d replied ominously when she asked if everything was all right. There had been a heaviness in his voice throughout the call, yet it was the word us that had landed with a thud, a trunk too burdensome to carry.
Clearly, he too had been pondering the impracticality of it all: A couple weeks for winter break and he would be back at Stanford; by summer’s end, she could be off to New York for who knew how long. There would be no harm done should they simply put their relationship on hold, revert to friendship for now. If they were meant to be, destiny would reunite them.
The bell above the entry jarred Maddie back to the room. Beatrice Lovell entered—at last!—hugging a sack from the corner diner. It took two shoves for her to fully close the door. The sticking latch was among the list of repairs the seamstress had been chipping away at since becoming the shop’s overseer.
Maddie hastened a review of Mrs. Duchovny’s sleeve lengths. Satisfied, she secured the second one with more pins.
“Lord ’a’ mercy,” Bea exclaimed with her residual Louisianan accent. “I thought I’d left hurricane weather behind me.” She set the paper bag on the counter. Outside the windows, red ribbons flapped on storefront wreaths. Passing pedestrians looked to the pavement, hats held to their heads in a tug-o-war with nature.
Mrs. Duchovny clucked in response. “I tell you, this wretched wind is a lady’s enemy,” she said while Maddie eased her out of the jacket, guiding her around the exposed metal points. “You should have seen the scattering of clothes that ended up in my backyard this morning off my neighbor’s line. Good thing Daisy sews her name into her undergarments, because I wasn’t about to go door-to-door in search of their owner.”
As Maddie hung up the coat, Bea dabbed two fingers on the tip of her tongue and tamed the silvery strands that had escaped her signature bun. Her pursed mouth created a coral embellishment on the wrinkled
