about tomorrow?”
“Nellie, you guys took that time so you’d be able to get your stuff moved into Joe’s place. You don’t need to spend it moving me. I just want Charlie’s number.”
“No way. Joe and I will help. How much do you have?”
“Five or six pieces,” Becka said, giving up. Somehow, in a way she never figured out how to resist, this always happened when Nellie and her mother were concerned. It was like playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey. One minute she knew exactly what direction she was going, and the next she was spun around until she didn’t know which way was up and let herself get pushed wherever they would push her. And the worst part was, they always meant well, which was what made it all but impossible to fight without being utterly ungracious. Becka sighed. “A couch, the table and chairs. My dresser. Oh, and we have to stop by Ryan’s. She’s giving me her bed. Now, please, I’ve really got to go.”
“Ryan’s not getting married for weeks, is she? Where’s she planning on sleeping?”
“With Cade, I assume. If you’re dead set on the moving thing, it’ll have to be early. I work tomorrow.”
“How early?”
Becka considered. “It’ll probably take a couple of trips, even with Joe’s truck. Could you guys do nine o’clock?”
“How about eight?”
Becka shrugged. “The earlier the better as far as I’m concerned.”
“We’ll see you then.”
“Great. Thanks for calling.”
“You want to talk to Mom?”
“I’ve got to get back to work,” Becka said rapidly. “Bye.”
“Hey, you didn’t have to rush on my account,” Lopes put in as she put the receiver in the cradle.
Becka rolled her eyes. “Believe me, it wasn’t on your account.”
2
MACE WALKED through the door to the administrative offices of the Lowell Weavers. The stadium was new, but its weathered brick and iron blended with the turn-of-the-century factory buildings that surrounded the ballpark, reminders of Lowell’s heyday as a textile center. Though the mill buildings now housed upscale housewares stores and trendy boutiques instead of steam-powered looms, the town still held the faded dignity of a bygone era.
Turning back into the locker room area, Mace heard Sammy Albonado before he saw him.
“Just give me another coupla weeks to straighten him out, Rick. Don’t jump the gun on this.”
Mace knocked on the open door. Albonado waved him in, nodding vigorously to the unseen caller on the phone.
“I really think he’s got what it takes, we’ve just got to get him focused.” Mace took a seat, looking around the cramped office with its battered metal desk and file cabinet. An insurance company calendar dangled from the putty-colored wall, next to faded schedules from seasons long gone. Tacked to a beat-up corkboard on the door was that night’s lineup.
Sammy paused to listen, nodding again. “Okay. Have a good one.” He hung up the phone and grinned, sticking out his hand. “Well, glory be, it’s Mace Duvall.”
“In the flesh.” Mace gripped Sammy’s hand.
“You know, I was at that game a couple of years ago where you hit for the cycle. Single, double, triple, and homer in the same game. What a night.” Sammy shook his head in admiration, standing up to shut the door that led into the locker room. “Want a drink? Got Gatorade, Coke, water, you name it.” He dropped back in his chair and rolled back to flip open the door of the mini-refrigerator that sat behind his desk.
“Water?”
“Sure.” Sammy passed Mace a bottle and cracked open a Coke, leaning back until his chair creaked in protest. “I gotta say, I’m happy to see you here. If you can get a tenth of what you know about hitting into these kids’ heads, we’ll be way ahead of the game.” He took a drink, sighing in satisfaction at the first taste. “I can teach ’em fielding, but we really need someone like you to help them understand how to look at the ball.”
Mace twisted the cap off the bottle of water and took a swallow. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.” He stared into the clear plastic bottle. What the hell was he doing here? And what was he hoping to accomplish?
Sammy examined him shrewdly, then gave a smile that Mace didn’t trust. “Of course you can’t,” he said jovially, “but you know hitting and that’s what counts. Watch the game tonight and you and I can talk over breakfast tomorrow morning. Practice starts at 1:00 p.m.” The phone rang and Sammy gave it a baleful glare. “Okay, take a look around while I get this. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Mace opened the door to step into the empty locker room. Then he heard a throaty female laugh.
“TIME TO TAPE UP that ankle, Sal.” Becka turned to where Lopes lay on the training table. Trying to be gentle, she pulled off the cold pack. The sight underneath made her wince. Though the swelling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, angry red and purple streaks overlaid a hard-looking knot just over the joint.
Lopes raised himself up on his elbows. “How’s it look?”
Becka lifted his ankle gently, moving it slightly to test range of motion. His breath hissed in. “Hurts, huh?” she asked softly.
“Not too bad,” he managed in a strained voice. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”
Becka took another look. “I’m thinking you’ll be lucky if you’re actually walking tomorrow. We need to get this X-rayed,” she said decisively and checked her watch.
“I got to get playing tomorrow,” Sal protested. “Duvall’s only here a week.”
“He’s an ex-ballplayer, not a god,” she said impatiently, pulling a tensor bandage from the supply cabinet. “You rest this and let it recover now, or it’ll just keep giving out on you. Even if it’s just fractured, you’re going to need to take it easy for at least several weeks.”
“They’ll put me on the disabled list,” Sal groaned.
“Two weeks or so on the DL isn’t going to ruin your career,” Becka chided him. “It’s not broken, that’s something at least. Let me tape it up and I’ll drive you to the E.R.” With gentle, competent hands she wound the tape around his ankle until the ankle was supported and restrained. “Okay, big guy, sit up and let’s get you on your feet.” She turned to rummage in the supplies closet, digging back toward the rear. “I have some crutches here somewhere that you can use….” She emerged with them just as Lopes tried to slide off the table.
As soon as the injured foot touched the floor, he yelped and lost his balance.
“Dammit, Sal!” Becka dropped the crutches and leaped to catch him. He slumped against her, face screwed up in pain, one arm hooked over her shoulder. The locker room rang with post-practice silence.
