Fielder's Choice (29 page)

She decided to take the painting up to the house and finish it there. Her stomach rumbled as she made her way up the path. Cake wasn’t a proper lunch, not even for her.

She leaned the painting against the kitchen cabinets and checked out the fridge. She pulled brightly colored sweet peppers and an onion from the crisper. Inspired by their colors and shapes, she decided to attempt a frittata. She’d never cooked much, but since she’d been at the ranch, the delicious meals that both Mark and Isobel made straight from the garden had inspired her. And anyway, how hard could a frittata be?

She chopped the peppers, put them in a pan, then drizzled olive oil into it and turned on the flame. She started to put the bottle back on the counter, but instead stared at the grassy green liquid. It was beautiful. So was the label on the perfectly shaped bottle. Greens and umbers colored the olive tree, and a slash of blue on the lizard and the red of an acorn woodpecker added just enough color to make the image pop.

The body care line needed a perfect label. Something similar, but not quite... and just that quickly she had an idea. She turned her painting around and studied it. In the hands of a graphic designer, the fairy garden would make an intriguing brand. Maybe they should even keep an image of a child and—

Smoke pulled her out of her musings.

Isobel rushed into the room just as the smoke alarm blared. She grabbed the pan off the flame and ran out the back door. When she returned, she waved a kitchen towel under the smoke alarm.

“Alana, grab a towel. Wave it, like this. You’re taller.”

Alana waved the towel and sure enough, the blaring ceased.

“I’m sorry,” Alana said, feeling more stupid than sorry.

Isobel surveyed the peppers and onions Alana had spread across the counter.

“You’ll need some basil with that,” she said as her eyes crinkled with a smile. She started out the back door that led to the kitchen garden, but stopped when she saw Alana’s painting propped against the cabinets. She stood for a moment and put her hands on her hips.

“It’s not finished,” Alana said, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious.

“It’s how Señora Tavonesi would have wanted it.”

“The garden?”

“And the child enjoying it.” She held Alana’s gaze and then turned to clip a few sprigs of basil from a pot near the door.

Isobel spread the basil onto a cutting board and chopped with efficient, confident strokes. “I’ll make this frittata for you today.” She waved her knife at Alana. “Tomorrow I’ll show
you
how to make it.” She turned her attention back to her chopping.

“Isobel?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For believing in me.”

Isobel stopped chopping and smiled at Alana. “Your nana believed in you. From the beginning.”

Alana picked up the painting and headed upstairs. In a quiet place deep inside, a place growing stronger each day, she was starting to believe in herself. Starting to trust herself.

When she got to her room, she leaned the painting against her bed, stepped back and, hands on hips, she stared at it.

It was good. Really good.

She grinned.

And she kept grinning, even as tears fell down her face. She smiled because not only was she finding it easier to believe in her strengths and her instincts, but because she discovered she actually liked herself, the woman she was becoming, the Alana Tavonesi who wasn’t always a screw-up but a competent and talented woman.

A woman who could happily be both quirky and capable.

The woman Nana had known she could be.

Chapter 24

The San Francisco night fog soared over the stadium lights. Matt took a few swings in the on-deck circle. After having struck out twice, he wasn’t about to let Maddon get his number a third time. He
knew
this guy, knew what he had. Matt usually got a good piece of Maddon’s four-seamer and could smack a double on a good night, a homer on a great one. But tonight the kid was throwing change-ups that fooled him.

The competitive impulse that normally drove him just wasn’t there. It’d surfaced a couple of nights prior during the Pirates game, like an infusion from out of the blue. He’d reached base every at-bat, hit a homer, and batted four guys in. But after that game, the juice just as quickly vanished.

His heart wasn’t in the game and neither was his head. It was impossible but true. Who knew that a lifelong dream could lose some of its luster, maybe evaporate entirely? He’d even considered retiring at the end of the season. That thought had depressed him more than anything.

He forced himself to tune out the crowd and to focus.

Alex took a hard swing and smacked a single up the middle.

Matt stepped toward the batter’s box.

And then damn if the Rockies’ manager didn’t pull Maddon and call in the lefty from the bullpen.

Matt watched Ramirez throw his first two warm-up pitches. He wasn’t giving much away. Fresh out of the pen he could throw over ninety miles an hour.

Taking advantage of the break for the pitching change, the huge screen behind center field blared out ads. Matt heard a song he recognized and glanced up. There, on the screen, towering into the night sky in all her heart-stopping glory, was Alana. Laughing beside her in the video promo for the symphony was the guy in the tux. Matt recognized the guy now. Marcel.

Images flashed lightning fast through Matt’s head.

Alana had surprised him. He’d thought she’d be like other heiresses he’d met—float above the day-to-day details of life, let other people do her work and make her decisions. But she’d rolled up her sleeves and dealt. Dealt with the homeless woman in a heartfelt way that shocked him. Dealt with him.
Not
heartfelt. But he deserved the boot. He’d criticized her and judged her. And now, recognizing what she was capable of, he respected her. He’d been wrong about so many things, but mostly he’d been wrong about Alana. She’d cracked him open, and he’d just have to find a way to seam himself back up.

He struck out again, and Walsh yanked him from the game. As he stepped into the dugout he vowed that no matter what happened in his personal life, he was going to focus and get his heart back into the game. He knew how to do that. At least he had until now. Until Alana.

When Matt arrived home, Mrs. Wallenberg had left and his parents and Sophie had all turned in for the night. His mom and dad had flown in that morning on their way back from Fiji. They were staying for two days, so he’d already arranged for Mrs. Wallenberg to have the next day off.

Though his mom wasn’t the ideal babysitter, she loved Sophie and they usually had a good time. He had managed to curb his mom’s habit of taking her shopping. First up on tomorrow’s activity list was an excursion to Muir Woods to see the giant redwoods. He’d offered his mom his car, but she hated driving the California freeways. When he’d suggested the bus, she’d scowled. She’d probably hired a limo and driver. He had a long way to go to convert her to any recognizable environmental sensibility; visiting Muir woods would have to do for a start.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed for his study. His guitar sat in the corner, but he couldn’t get the tune from the symphony ad out of his mind, so playing wasn’t an option. He settled in behind his desk and clicked on his laptop.

In the sidebar of his homepage was a still from the same damned video, encouraging patrons to buy their tickets to the symphony gala early. Alana’s glittering smile beamed out at the world. If he believed in ghosts in machines, he’d say his computer was haunting him. In a perverse mood, he clicked on the video link and watched Alana and Marcel laughing, smiling, clinking glasses. He played it again.

Midway through the third replay, he came to his senses and clicked over to his email. At the top of his inbox was an invitation from Alex to attend the gala. He banged his head on his desk. Was there no justice in the world? Maybe there was and he was paying the price.

He looked at his bookmarked pages and saw the website promising to
solve your loneliness problems
. The site promised that it could help anyone combat loneliness in any situation. Reading the headline announcing that it was okay to feel lonely didn’t improve his mood. He went down the suggested strategies one by one.

Avoid sitting around and fretting
. Failed that one.

Engage in a hobby
. He looked over at his guitar. All it did was remind him of the night by the campfire, the night he’d first held Alana in his arms and shared mind-blowing sex with her.

Take a class
. Not gonna happen.

Volunteer to help others
. That one he might try in the off season.

Get a dog
. Better not let Sophie see that one, or he’d have a dog before sunset the next day. He was gone too much for a dog. The post went on to say that dogs were natural friend finders. That made him laugh.

As if she’d been reading his thoughts, Lauradore jumped into his lap and started purring. The cat sure hadn’t been any help in the find-friends department. He set her gently to the floor and continued reading.

Go to a place of worship or a spiritual place
. Great. If he were honest about that one, the ranch had become Mecca to him. That’s where he’d found love, found what he’d been searching for. He’d just been too stupid to realize it at the time.

Talk to strangers
. Right. Just the ticket. He could see it now—he could hand out signed baseballs while he was at it. No thanks.

He read through the rest of the list and finally called it quits.

Alana Tavonesi was both the poison and the cure.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to imagining a life with her at the ranch, a life where he could put his carpentry skills to work and do something tangible, something lasting. A life after baseball. A life with
her
.

He was screwed.

Chapter 25

Iris came by looking for you,” Isobel said when Alana came down the next day for breakfast. “I think she’s in Peg’s office.”

Alana wolfed down a scone and headed down to the office, but neither Peg nor Iris was there.

“She’s down at the cottage,” one of the student volunteers said. “I guess Mr. Hartman upset the crazy old lady.”

“She’s not crazy,” Alana shot back, surprised at her harsh tone. The volunteer couldn’t have been more than fifteen. All older people probably seemed crazy to him.

Alana ran down the path to the cabin. Already it had a homey, lived-in appearance. Pots of herbs graced the front porch and curtains hung at the newly installed double-pane windows. Peg and Gustavo and their crew had worked fast to welcome Iris. Oddly, Iris fit into the ranch community as though she’d been there all along.

“I heard Mr. Hartman ruffled some feathers,” Alana said to Iris as she opened the door.

“Maybe not as many as I did. Come in, Alana. It’s time we had that talk.”

Alana smiled. She suspected Iris had cast the same spell over Zav that she cast over everyone else at the ranch.

She motioned Alana to a chair next to a table set for tea. The flower arrangement at the center of the table would’ve won a prize in any photo contest. Iris sat and folded her hands in her lap.

But as Iris’s story unfolded, Alana’s smile dropped away and she leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, and stared wide-eyed at the other woman.

“So you see,” Iris said, winding up her tale, “I had no idea if Zav would welcome me back. I’d been away for fifteen years. Our father disowned me after I married Sam. He wasn’t a bad man, just irresponsible. But he was a fine artist until drink put him in the ground. I guess I underestimated what he meant to me. I know I underestimated the paralyzing power of grief. After a few years of floating around, of living on the edge and working as temporary help in gardens in Europe and back East, all I had the strength for was coming home.”

Iris poured the tea with steady hands. As she took the cup that Iris passed her, Alana’s hands were less than steady.

Good lord, Iris was Zav’s sister. And she’d been living a soap opera, with all the attendant drama and passion and sorrow.

“I was working up to seeing Zav. If you hadn’t come along, that might have taken years.”

“But he’s your brother.”

Alana still had trouble believing that. She wondered how Zav had taken the shock of seeing his sister rather than the stranger he’d been expecting. But maybe Iris was a stranger to him. Alana caught her breath; and maybe Iris wasn’t even an Iris. Zav hadn’t blinked when Alana had mentioned her name to him, so maybe she was using an alias.

“Blood doesn’t always make a bond or hold one when two people are so different. The Zav I saw today is a much mellower man than the judgmental one who had no sympathy for my troubles years ago. I suspect your grandmother had a hand in that mellowing process.”

“She’s had a hand in more than you know,” Alana said.

What Iris said made her think about Simon and Damien, made her want to spend more time with her brothers, get to know what they loved and what they dreamed about.