door to double-wide trailers. A few homes had weathered gravestones in their front yards.
Jack breathed in the earthy smell of the marsh. He wasn’t in Tangier as a tourist, but the guide had aroused his curiosity. “How big is the island?”
“Three miles long, one-and-a-half miles wide.” She turned the golf cart down another street that had a partial view of the bay. “We have room for some churches, a few grocery stores, a school, a health center and not much else. Even in the high season, we’re not crowded. Exactly how we like it.”
She pulled up in front of a large yellow clapboard house with turn-of-the-century Victorian architecture and a steeply pitched white roof. A wide porch wrapped around the house.
“Here we are,” she said.
If Jack had known exactly how close the dock was to the B and B, he would have skipped the golf cart and set off on foot. But then, he would have missed the nuggets of information about Tangier.
He pulled out his wallet and withdrew enough money for her fee plus a healthy tip. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I hope you have a wonderful time here on our little piece of paradise,” she said, puttering away with a wave of her hand.
The house had none of the trappings of tourism except the Marsh Harbor B and B sign suspended from one of the porch railings. Jack climbed the three wooden steps leading to the front door, stopping abruptly when he noticed a gently swaying hammock occupied by a man with white hair. Could it be? Jack narrowed his eyes. Yes, it was Robert Reese.
Although they’d never been introduced, Jack recognized the other man from his website photo. Not many guys sported a full head of prematurely white hair before they were forty years old.
Jack strode forward, the soles of his sturdy sport sandals clapping against the wooden slats of the porch. “Dr. Reese?”
The man rested his book against his stomach spine first. It was a mystery Jack recognized as one of the blockbuster hits of the year. He looked up at Jack with a quizzical expression, as though Jack presented a bigger puzzle than the book.
“You are Dr. Robert Reese, aren’t you?” Jack asked.
The other man scrunched up his brow, contorting his regular features. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
Jack stuck out his hand. “Jack DiMarco.”
Reese took it, a wary look in his eyes. “Refresh my memory.”
“The pitcher with the torn labrum,” Jack said. “We spoke a few days ago. You said you were on your way here, that the only people you’d be seeing in the next three weeks were on Tangier.”
Reese swung his legs over the side of the hammock and stood up. His book slid off his lap, falling to the porch floor with a loud thunk. Several inches shorter than Jack, he carried himself with the confident air of a successful man. “I remember now. Don’t tell me you took that as an invitation?”
Jack wasn’t about to admit he realized Reese had been brushing him off. He inhaled the scent of island flowers before answering. “I tried to call ahead to let you know when I was coming, but I couldn’t get through to your cell.”
“There’s no cell phone reception on the island,” Reese said, then stopped. “Wait. You never did tell me how you got my number.”
Where there’s a will, Jack thought, there’s a way. He’d called in a favor from a former teammate who’d become golf buddies with Reese after the doctor operated on his shoulder.
“Does it matter?” Jack asked.
“I suppose not.” Reese bent and picked up his book. “So, tell me. Why exactly are you here?”
“My goal is to play ball again. To achieve it, I need to be operated on by somebody who’s tops in the field.” Jack omitted the fact that the team doctor of the Owensboro Mud Dogs had advised against surgery, leading to the team releasing Jack. “Lots of people say you’re the best.”
“Are you trying to flatter me?” Reese asked.
“That depends.” Jack cocked his head. “Is it working?”
Reese ran a hand through his white hair. “The reason I vacation on Tangier, that anybody vacations here, is to get away from it all. I should tell you to leave me alone.”
“But?” Jack asked, starting to hope.
“But vanity is a weakness of mine,” Reese finished. “You understand I can’t do the surgery on the island?”
“I just want to get it scheduled. The sooner, the better,” Jack said.
Reese walked over to one of two large wicker chairs on the porch and sat down. Jack took the other seat.
“Tell me how the injury happened,” he said.
“About a year ago I collided with a base runner and broke my collarbone.” Jack stated the barest facts when there was so much more to the story.
“I thought you tore your labrum,” Reese said.
“I didn’t know the labrum was torn until the collarbone healed. The MRI I had a month ago confirmed it.” Jack held up his cardboard folder. “I brought my films, present and past.”
“You do understand I need a computer to look at those,” Reese said, making no attempt to take the films. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, past?”
“I’ve had two rotator-cuff surgeries.”
“And you want to go through surgery a third time?” The tail end of Reese’s question rose.
“If it means I can pitch at a competitive level again, hell, yeah.”
“Stand up and show me your range of motion,” Reese said.
Jack raised his arms over his head. The right one touched his ear. The left one came close.
“Not bad after a rotator-cuff injury,” Reese said, “especially considering you have that tear.”
“Tears,” Jack corrected. “There is no one big tear, just a number of smaller ones.”
Reese stroked his chin. “How old are you, Jack?”
“Thirty-one.”
Reese whistled. “Too bad I didn’t know about the other surgeries or I could have saved you a trip. A third surgery won’t get you where you want to be.”
“How can you say that without looking at my films?”
“I don’t need to see them,” Reese said. “The labrum is collagen based. It can’t be strengthened.”
“People have surgeries to repair their labrums all the time,” Jack argued.
“Yes, they do. But if they’re athletes who use an overhead motion, like a pitcher, it’s highly unlikely that surgery will yield the desired result,”
