Fielder's Choice (7 page)

The only blot on the horizon was the damned windmill. Still, in the afternoon light its graceful blades made it look like an ecstatic bird trying to soar. She supposed it could’ve been worse. She sighed. No matter what she decided to do with the ranch in the long run, for now she was stuck with dealing with the windmill. And since it was Nana’s last project, she harbored the hope that she might succeed in getting it approved.

Alana didn’t know that a windmill would be a fitting legacy for Nana, but defeating the naysayers of the county would have been a victory she’d have celebrated in style.

Alana scanned the crates lined up along the far side of the barn. She grabbed a screwdriver from a workbench and pried the nearest crate open. Inside was a bright painting of a girl sitting on the edge of a pond and studying a pelican. Alana’s heart squeezed tight under her ribs. She’d been with Nana less than two months ago when they’d seen the painting on an open studio tour. Alana had fallen in love with it but when she’d returned the next day, the painting was gone.

Nana had bought it without telling her.

She’d always asked Alana’s opinion about art. That was a subject Alana did know and a passion that fired her. Tears pooled as she realized the painting must’ve been intended as a birthday surprise.

But it wasn’t Nana’s queries about art that rose in her mind as she stared at the painting. What seared her thoughts was the last conversation she’d had with her before she’d flown to Paris, two weeks before Nana had died.

She’d pulled Alana aside after lunch that day and walked with her in the sculpture garden. She’d sat her down on a cast bronze bench and clasped Alana’s hands in hers. “If you don’t have something to sink into, darling,” she’d said in a firm tone that bordered on warning, “something to wrap your heart around, some life purpose to give you backbone and focus,
you’ll be just one of those girls
.”

She didn’t elaborate, didn’t have to. Alana knew full well what she meant. She’d seen too many of her friends who’d inherited fortunes far smaller than hers lose themselves in the very lifestyle that she’d been living for the past four years.

There’d been moments, too many in the last year, when the luster of Alana’s fast-paced life had dimmed. But running the ranch was not the way forward.

Oh, Nana, what were you thinking?

She decided to leave the easel in the barn; the light was better than up at the house. She closed the sliding door, picked up the painting and headed out. Spotting a cluster of visitors gathered outside the frantoio, she pivoted and walked toward the back of the house. She stopped when she saw Isobel and her husband kneeling at the edge of the kitchen garden.

Rafael leaned close and closed his hands around the trowel his wife held. As he did, Isobel nuzzled against him. He chuckled and turned her hands, guiding the trowel in a circular motion. Isobel beamed with delight as they pulled out a perfect leek.

Longing rippled in Alana’s chest as a wish crossed into her heart. It was a simple wish, a wish to have someone like Isobel and Rafael had, a partner, someone to live beside, someone to help her. A wish for something she’d never realized she’d wanted.

Chapter 6

Returning from Colorado, Matt dreamed about Alana. He’d just coaxed her out of her gardening clothes and laid her across his bed when the flight attendant nudged him to put on his seat belt. The image of Alana lying naked below him dogged him all the way back to the house.

He opened the front door, and the aroma of ginger and onions told him his mother was making her signature curry. His dad hated it, but it was her idea of a celebration meal.

“Home from the front,” she said as he hugged her. “Did we win?”

“We did. Three straight. I’m starting to like playing at altitude.”

“What’s altitude have to do with it, darling?”

He groaned. It’d be at least the tenth time he’d tried to explain why a mile-high stadium had an effect on the ball. “Where’s Sophie?”

“Glued to her computer. She must have a day-care project.”

“I’ll be right back.” He headed for the stairs, but turned at the door. “Thank you. For changing your plans.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

“Hey, Punkin. School work?”

Sophie flung her arms around his neck and gave him the hug that never failed to melt his heart.

“Nope. Much better. I think I found a mom. See? You just have to fill in all those spaces and—”

“Who taught you how to use the Internet?”

“Mom showed me. Don’t you remember? I was the best reader in my kindergarten class. I’m a parody.”

“Prodigy.” He reached around her and closed the browser.

“And the sitter we had last week showed me the best sites.” She turned a skeptical eye to him. “Besides
everybody
knows how to use the Internet.”

He was gone so much. There were so many things he didn’t know, so many milestones in her life that he’d missed. That was going to change.

“No more mom shopping, thank you very much.”

“But my friend got a new mom that way. Josephine’s dad found her a new mom online. She’s very nice. But not as pretty as the lady at the butterfly garden.”

“No more, Sophie. Promise?”

“But, Dad, don’t you
know
that not having enough relatives can break your heart? You could be at a thousand percent greater risk for, well, for something terrible. I heard it on the radio.”

“A thousand percent, huh?” He knew she meant relationships. Relatives were usually more trouble than they were worth.

“Yeah. Maybe
more
.”

“No worrying about me. That’s my job, remember?” He turned off her computer. “Have your bath and then come on down for dinner. Grandma made curry.”

“With all the little dishes of nuts and things?”

“Yeah, honey. See you in ten.”

His pulse hadn’t slowed by the time he returned to the kitchen.

“Trouble in paradise?” His mother missed very little.

“Sophie was looking at online dating sites.”

“She’s a bit young for that, don’t you think?”

“For me. She was looking for a mom.”

His mother stopped chopping cashews and put her hand on his arm. “You need to send that child to boarding school. Braxton Hall would be great for her. And it’s near us. I could visit. Boarding school will give her structure. Look what it did for me.”

“My point exactly.”

“Watch it. I’m your mother.”

“It said that on my birth certificate. Do you think they ever switch mothers at birth?”

“No curry for you, Matthew Sterling Darrington. And some of the will is still changeable, even if your grandfather’s trust took away what little leverage I had over you and your sister.”

“I made my own money.”

“You didn’t have to. For goodness’ sake, there’s no reason to get testy.” She returned to chopping the cashews with vigorous strokes. “Seriously, darling, maybe boarding school is better than what you’re able to do here. Even I have come to recognize that you can’t quit baseball, so don’t even think of it.”

“I wasn’t.” The familiar knot tightened in his belly, the knot that always clenched when he admitted to himself that he couldn’t give up the game.

“Dreams are dreams,” she said as she scooped the chopped nuts into a bowl. “You can’t live without them. They power life. You may not think I know, but I do. You’ll live with the guilt,” she added as if she’d read his mind. “
I
do. And besides, you and your sister didn’t turn out so badly.”

She’d chased her dreams. And he and his sister had endured endless rounds of boarding schools and nanny-land while his mother and his dad roamed the world. Hell, his nannies knew him better than his mom did. If he put his mother on one of those game shows and she had to answer questions about his favorite food or clothes or books, she’d lose.

Maybe he wasn’t any better than she was. He pressed his palms against the cold, solid stone of the granite counter and willed the knot in his gut to loosen.

“I’m not sending her away.”

“You could hire a nanny.”

“Tried that. Three times.”

“Keep trying.”

“I think I’ve found a good candidate. She’s sixty-two, a widow. Raised four kids.”

“No jail time?”

“Not funny.”

“Or you could have a woman in your life. And don’t think you fooled me. I saw what was happening between you and Liza. Just because that didn’t work out doesn’t mean you can’t find someone to share your life with.”

“I suck at relationships.” It surprised him to hear himself admit it.

“We all do, darling. That’s what makes them interesting.”

After everyone had gone up to bed, Matt couldn’t sleep. He picked up his guitar and began to strum. Music was his refuge, his go-to escape. Usually playing banished the deep loneliness that preyed upon him like hungry lions circling an ailing antelope. But as he sat in the dim room, playing his favorite songs, the tightness in his gut refused to ease.

He rested the guitar against his desk and pressed his palms to his eyes, but the darkness and the pressure didn’t soothe him. He opened his laptop, typed in his password and found himself looking at online dating sites. He laughed at a couple of the profiles written by women who looked way too pretty to be looking for online dates. But maybe they were like him. Maybe their lives were so busy with obligations that there wasn’t any time left over to meet suitable candidates in the normal course of a day.

He moved his cursor to the section that said
describe yourself
and imagined what he could write for his profile.

Nearly-over-the-hill guy who can hit, run and throw, seeks...
Seeks what? Seeks a woman who won’t mind being left alone with his six-year-old daughter while he plays 162 games a year and spends half his time on the road?

He skipped that section and scrolled down the page.

Maybe there was a support group for lonely baseball players—wouldn’t that be a load of fun? They could talk about the embarrassment of being famous and lonely, lonely in a way that gnawed at a man from the inside out. Or about the odd hollowness that came with being objectified, about walking the fine line of stardom, of discerning when you were seen as a person and when you were merely an overblown fantasy. He shook his head. He didn’t want to be someone’s fantasy. At least not like that.

When he got to the section where it asked for a physical description of his ideal woman, he typed furiously. He finished and read it over. Sapphire-blue eyes and toned, strong body. A mysterious smile that promised hidden depths and fascination. Curves that begged for touching. And a laugh that lifted him from his troubles.

A flush of embarrassment stung through him when he realized he’d described Alana, the woman from the olive ranch.

God, why couldn’t he dismiss her from his thoughts? Maybe it was her connection to the land. Maybe the dream he’d buried long ago still held its power—the dream of having a place where he could lay down roots, grow food, a life where his achievements could be measured by something other than stats in box scores and team standings. Yet while that might be an influence, the woman herself was a potent draw. The vision of her tossing her hair in the sunlight and the sultry smile that crossed her face as she did shot straight to his groin, inciting fantasies that shocked him. Fantasies that sped through him, teasing into him, tangling his thoughts and coursing into his body with a power he didn’t try to control. Fantasies that had
complication
written all over them.

He pressed the Delete key and shut down his computer. He’d better just stay lonely. He knew that territory. Knew it all too well.

The next morning, before he’d shaved or had breakfast, Matt called and booked the nanny he’d described to his mother the night before. Mrs. Wallenberg was available and when he’d met her, she’d seemed competent and kind. And she didn’t mind agreeing to head home on those days or nights when Matt didn’t need her.

He popped into Sophie’s room to make sure she was up and ready for day care.