Fireside. Сьюзен Виггс
this kid. This solemn, very unkidlike kid. And it wasn’t just DNA.
“Is this the first time you’ve ever flown in an airplane?” Bo asked.
“First time I’ve ever flown in anything.”
At last, a glimmer of humor. “Well, hell. This is where the checked luggage comes out. And since you don’t have any, we’re done here.” Bo grabbed the carry-on and led the way to the parking lot. As they stepped through the automatic doors, the outside air assaulted them with bone-cutting January cold. The cindery reek of jet fuel and diesel exhaust bloomed in thick puffs from the shuttle buses.
AJ seemed dazed. He hunched up his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Bo stopped walking and lifted the suitcase. “Hey, you got an extra coat in here?”
The kid shook his head, plucking the nylon fabric of the Yankees windbreaker. It flapped thinly against his skinny arms and shoulders. “This is all I got.”
Great.
“It was hot in Houston,” AJ added.
Now that, Bo could understand. Once in a blue moon, a cold spell might hit the Gulf Coast in a fist-like front known as a Blue Norther. Usually, it was plenty warm down there, and often muggy. Growing up, Bo hadn’t owned a coat, either, except for his varsity letterman’s jacket, purchased by someone from the high-school booster club; no way could he have afforded it himself. Now, that thing had been a work of art—smooth black boiled wool, sleeves of butter-soft cream-colored leather.
He peeled off his olive-drab parka, handed it to AJ. “Put this on.”
“I don’t need your coat.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need you catching cold on top of everything else, so put it on.” A knifelike gust of wind sliced across the multilevel lot.
“People don’t catch cold from being cold,” AJ objected. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“Just put on the damned coat. It’s a long walk to the car.”
The boy hesitated, but then put on the parka. Bo couldn’t quite conceal his relief. He didn’t know what he would have done if the kid had defied him. Bo was a bartender. A ballplayer. Not a dad.
He got his key out of his pocket. The key fob still felt strange in his hand. He pressed the smooth, round button and the low-slung BMW Z4 roadster winked a greeting at him. He pressed another button and the trunk released. Carlisle, the sports agent who popped up at exactly the right time, had put the precontract deal together. Bo remembered standing in the cold November rain, just staring at the thing. A BMW Z4. Convertible.
Never in a million years did he think he’d own such a car. But life was funny like that. Everything could change on the turn of a dime. In a heartbeat. In the time it takes to pick up the phone. Just as he was getting his shot, he found himself in charge of a kid.
“Here’s our ride,” he said, inviting AJ to put his stuff in the trunk.
The kid complied without comment, though Bo could tell he was checking out the car.
It had been one of the first things he’d bought when, last November, a single phone call had rocked his world. Years after Bo Crutcher had hung up his dreams of a major-league baseball career, he’d gone—same as he did every year—to tryouts. The difference this time was that the Yankees finally wanted to do business. Bo knew he was well past the age most players started in the major leagues. He knew he was a long shot. But at last, against all odds, he was getting a shot. Sure, they only wanted to acquire him for a midseason trade; it was a strategy move on the part of the Yankees, but he intended to make the most of whatever time he had with the club. It would be a hell of a thing to earn his spot on the forty-man roster and on the pitching staff. His competition was a hell of a lot younger, but none of them wanted this more.
He had planned to spend the entire winter getting ready for his big break. Life, however, seemed to be making other plans for him.
“All set?” he asked the boy.
“Smells like smoke,” he said.
“I’ve been known to enjoy the occasional cigar,” Bo said. “In the off-season.”
“Carcinogens don’t take any time off.”
Bo felt like telling the kid he was being a pain in the ass, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew why AJ was being a pain in the ass. He was acting this way because he was scared shitless, uncertain of his future and worried about the only person in his life who meant anything to him—his mother. And he was pissed, no doubt, about being sent to a dad he’d never met.
There was a shitload of things to talk about, but Bo figured he’d hold off, let the kid adjust to this bizarre and unexpected situation. Only yesterday, AJ had gone to school as if it was any other day. He had no idea that when school let out, his mother would be gone and he would be bundled aboard a plane bound for a place he’d never been, to a person he’d never met before.
The engine sprang to life with a growl. Bo navigated his way out of the parking lot, paid the booth attendant, then headed for the airport exit.
The last of the cold night lingered, and heavy clouds held back the dawn. AJ didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat and glared straight ahead, his profile clean and angry in the yellow glow of the freeway lights.
“Look, I’m sorry this is happening,” Bo said. “I’m doing my best to fix it as quick as I can.”
“I don’t see why I can’t just go where my mom is,” AJ said.
“Because she wants what’s best for you, and going to a—” He broke off, not liking the sound of detention center. “Going where she is won’t help her, or you. I didn’t ask her to call me, AJ, but … I’m glad she did.” Bo couldn’t figure out if he was lying or not. Sure, he’d always wanted to meet AJ. But he wasn’t certain of his own motivation—curiosity? Ego trip? Or did he really care about this boy?
AJ shifted in his seat. Before long, the shifting became a squirm.
“Something the matter?” asked Bo.
“I gotta take a leak.” The kid sounded sheepish.
And you couldn’t have taken care of this back at the airport? Bo clenched his jaw. He stopped himself from asking it aloud.
“I’ll find a place to stop.” Within a few miles, he spotted a Friendly’s sign poking up into the gray day. The place was open, surrounded by a few semis and travel trailers. They got out, and discovered the air was even colder here, outside the city. Bo hated the cold. He usually tried to spend winters training in Texas or Florida, someplace warm. If the Yankees deal worked out, he’d be headed to Tampa soon enough for training and exhibition games.
The restaurant smelled like pure heaven—frying oil and fresh coffee. Bo waited in the foyer while AJ went to the men’s room. Behind the hostess stand, a young woman checked him out. Bo acted as if he didn’t notice, but he stood up a little straighter. The fleeting moment reminded him that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time. It was easy enough to get dates, but harder to keep them.
AJ returned, sniffing the air like a coonhound on the scent. His eyes shone with a stark, naked hunger, and his face looked pale and drawn.
“You all right?” Bo asked.
“Fine.” AJ’s hair gleamed at the temples, as if he’d slicked it back with water.
For some reason, Bo was touched by the hasty attempt at grooming. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”
A shrug.
“Did they feed you on the plane?”
“Yeah.”
Bo had his hand on the door. Something made him hesitate, and he turned back. “What?” he asked. “What did you eat on the plane?”
“A