that she had a last-minute … well, errand to run. But Mrs. Duchovny interjected, “Ooh, I almost forgot. Donnie’s favorite dress shirt is missing a button.” From a shopping bag near the sewing machines she produced a white, long-sleeve garb pin-striped in blue. “I was hoping you might have one to match.”
“I’d be right surprised if we don’t.” Bea turned to Maddie. “Sugar, would you mind peeking in the back?”
Maddie strained to preserve her waning patience. How could she deny her patron a measly button?
“Not at all.” She accepted the shirt and hurried toward the storage room. Mothballs and memories scented the air, luring her inside, in every sense. It was here, between the racks of now dusty linens, that she and TJ used to hide, still as mice, awaiting a familiar waft. The fragrance of rose petals and baby powder. Their mother’s perfume. A sign she’d returned from shopping at the market.
The giggling youngsters would huddle together as two sets of hands swooped in for the capture. And with their small bodies cradled in their parents’ arms, a sound would flow through the air, lovelier than any sonata could ever be. For try as she might, Maddie had yet to hear a melody more glorious than their family’s laughter. A four-part harmony never to be heard again.
Enough.
She wadded the thought, tossed it over her shoulder. There were plenty more where that came from, and the clock wasn’t slowing. Lane, with a train to catch, would only be at the Pier another hour.
Refocusing, she scoured an old Easter basket filled with abandoned buttons, found a decent match, and headed down the hall. She was rounding the corner when she caught the women in hushed voices.
“Goodness me,” Mrs. Duchovny lamented, “I forgot how terrible the holidays must be for them.”
“Aw, now. You shouldn’t feel bad, for having discussed your family gatherin’.”
“I suppose. Just such a shame, the poor girl.”
There was no doubt whom they’d been talking about. The same family everyone was always talking about. After two years of rampant whispers, Maddie should have been used to this.
Bea popped her head up with an awkward abruptness. “Any luck, sugar?”
Maddie swallowed around the pride, the voiceless scream, lodged in her throat. “I found a button that’ll work.”
“Splendid,” Mrs. Duchovny gushed, her cheeks gone pink. With arms appearing weighted by guilt—or pity—she reached out for the items.
“No.” Maddie stepped back, her reply a bit sharp. She held the shirt to her middle and softened the moment with a smile. “That is, I’d be happy to do it for you. No charge.” She would have offered normally anyhow, yet it was her sudden inability to unclench her hands that left her without choice.
Mrs. Duchovny conceded, followed by a rare moment of quiet. “I’d best be getting home. Bob will be sending out a search party soon.” She shrugged into her fur-collared overcoat and covered her locks with a brimmed hat.
“We’ll call y’all when everything’s ready,” Bea said, and ushered her to the exit while they exchanged good-byes. A burst of air charged through before the door closed, rocking Maddie onto her heels. And not for the first time, she was surprised to discover she was still standing.
“Kern!” Coach Barry’s voice shot over the departing spectators at Griffith Park. “Need a word with you, son.”
TJ fought a scowl as he zipped up his sports bag. Since being pulled for the last two innings, he’d been counting down the minutes to leave. Their closing pitcher had held on for a 7–5 victory, but TJ wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.
He slung his bag over his left shoulder and hid his purpling bruises by dangling his right hand behind him. Thankfully, only a muted yellow tinted his cheek.
Coach Barry strolled toward the outfield, a signal for TJ to join him. A private talk. Not a good thing, considering TJ’s mediocre showing today. The solid, dark Irishman carried a thoughtful look, hands in the pockets of his baseball jacket. A taunting wind blew past them. It flapped a lock of the man’s slicked hair, receding from the effects of close-call games and concern for his players.
As they passed the pitcher’s mound, TJ mined his brain for arguments to defend himself. He wasn’t about to surrender all hope of regaining his slot in the starting rotation for USC’s upcoming season. When his game had gone to hell last year, a compassionate demotion landed him in the bullpen. Now he wanted out. He was a prisoner who knew what it was like on the other side of the fence, and could feel his cell closing in on him. Telling the coach about a new pitch he was honing might aid his cause. A “slurve,” they called it. The slider-curve combo could break wide enough to raise some brows.
He was about to volunteer as much when Coach Barry asked, “So how’s your father been?”
Your father.
Swell. Was there anything TJ wanted to talk about less?
“The same,” he answered. Which meant mute in a convalescent home, nearly too depressed to function.
Coach Barry nodded pensively. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
TJ squeezed the strap on his bag. Redirecting, he said, “My sister, Maddie, though—she’s doing great. Her violin teacher says she’s a shoo-in for Juilliard this year, if her audition goes well. Just gotta keep her on track till then.”
“That’s good, that’s good.” Coach Barry smiled. “I’m sure you’ve done a fine job looking out for her.”
TJ shrugged, despite feeling as though caring for Maddie was the one thing he was still doing right.
“What about you, son? How you doing these days?”
“I’m gettin’ by.” The reply was so reflexive, he didn’t consider the bleakness of the phrase until it was too late to reel the words back in. “’Course, if you’re talking about baseball, I can assure you, my pitches are coming back more and more every day. You just wait and see. By spring practice—”
Coach Barry held up his hand, bringing them to a stop. “Look,” he sighed. “I’m gonna cut to the chase. Your professor, Dr. Nelson, paid a visit to my office last week. It’s about your grades.”
The path of the conversation, in an instant, became clear. A detour TJ resented. He didn’t need their sympathy, or to be ganged up on. That woman had no business stirring up trouble on the field.
“It was a couple lousy tests,” he burst out. “I’ve told her that. Got plenty of time to make it up.”
“And the rest of your classes?” The challenge indicated Coach Barry was well informed of the situation. That his former-ace pitcher was barely skimming by, tiptoeing on the fence of a scholarship lost.
TJ clenched his jaw. He wrestled down his anger, to prevent it from seizing control.
Coach
