Hex on the Ex (6 page)

Relentless cheers brought Jarret out of the dugout before play resumed. He touched his cap in acknowledgement, then pointed up into the stands and blew a kiss in our general direction. I bent my head, chuckling.
He remembered.

Mom leaned over to Robin and me. “Isn’t it sweet how the fans love him?”

“Very sweet,” Robin said.

The inning ended with the Dodgers leading by two runs. The Cubs’ defense cleared the field and the Dodger defense came out of the dugout and took their places. Jarret, the last player out of the dugout, jogged toward the mound.

As he skipped over the chalk between third base and home plate, a white pigeon swooped off the home plate
backstop fencing and dive-bombed straight at Jarret’s head. Jarret flinched backward onto the chalk line.

Mom and I gasped together.

“Oh, no,” Mom said.

“Damn,” I said.

“What?” Nick said.

“Maybe he didn’t notice,” Mom said. “I hope he didn’t notice.”

“He noticed,” I said. “See how he’s stomping his foot? He’s trying to shake off the chalk.”

“What happened?” Robin hunched forward, staring down at the field. “Why is Jarret doing a rain dance on the mound?”

“He’s superstitious about stepping on the baseline,” I said. “He believes a myth about the chalk between third base and home plate carrying runs. If he wears chalk to the mound on his shoe, the chalk will make him pitch runs to the opposing team.”

Nick leaned over to Dad. “Then this should be very interesting. Let’s see how the phenom pitches with chalk dust clouding his focus.”

I rubbed my knees, watching the field. When Jarret performed on the mound, he had a canny ability to shut out distractions around him. Jeering crowds couldn’t shake him. All-star batters didn’t intimidate him. Being behind on the count, hung-over, shivering from the cold, or sweltering in the heat didn’t faze him. But the run-laden chalk on his shoe would shimmy up his leg and into his head.

And it did. Jarret walked the first two batters and hit the third on the shoulder with a wild pitch, loading the bases. The next batter, the Cubs’ left-handed leader in runs batted in, came to the plate.

“They have to take him out of the game,” Dave said.

“They won’t. The Dodgers only have righties warming up in the bullpen. Jarret is their leftie specialist. They have a better chance leaving him in,” Dad said, nudging Nick.

The Dodger catcher and first baseman went to the mound to calm Jarret down. He bobbed his head as he listened to them. The catcher handed him the ball with an encouraging tap on the shoulder. I knew their assurances wouldn’t work. Jarret was freaked, and the worse he pitched, the more freaked he became.

On Jarret’s second pitch, the Cubs batter cleared the bases with a grand slam home run. The manager took Jarret out of the game and he left the mound to lukewarm applause and a few jeers from the crowd.

The Cubs won the game five to three. Dad and Nick exchanged fist bumps and smug smiles.

“Season’s not over. We’ll get you next time,” Dave said.

“I’m happy for you, Walter,” Mom said, kissing Dad’s cheek before they filed into the aisle. “You got your birthday wish—your team won.”

Dave, Nick, and Robin followed them out. As I tagged behind, Gretchen and her blonde friend climbed the steps toward me in dejected silence.

“Gretchen,” I said. She glanced up. “I saw you at the gym this morning. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself, I’m Liz Cooper.”

“Cooper?” Gretchen tilted her head.

“Are you related to Jarret?” the blonde said.

“I used to be. He’s my ex-husband. Tough loss tonight.” I stepped into the aisle and climbed the stairs with them.
“Jarret pitched a great seventh inning. Bad break on the eighth.”

“I hope he remembers his home run and forgets about the rest of the game,” Gretchen said.

“He looked pretty happy rounding the bases, didn’t he?” I said.

The blonde stopped and turned. “Pretty happy? Didn’t you read the note on the scoreboard? He’s the only Dodger pitcher to hit a home run this season. The fans adore him.”

“But you saw the kiss he blew into the stands, right?” Gretchen said.

I smiled, amused by the delight on her face. “I did. And don’t worry about his attitude. He’ll make a comeback with his pitching game. He always does. It’s a long season.”

Mom and Robin met me at the top of the stairs. “Liz, are you meeting Jarret at the pub later?” Mom said.

I exchanged quick good-byes with Gretchen and her friend. As they disappeared into the exiting throng, I said to Mom, “Believe me, Jarret would rather hang out with his pals at Fifth Base than with any of us. Especially tonight.”

Robin, Mom, and I followed the crowd to the escalators with Dad, Nick, and Dave leading the way. When we reached the field level, Mom pulled me to the side. “I feel bad for Jarret. Someone has to cheer him up. You should call him, Liz.”

“Not my job anymore. If you’re concerned about him, call him in the morning. I have a feeling he’ll be busy tonight.”

Jarret soothed his losses with rebellion. Back in the minor leagues, he broke training with a few beers and went
to bed. When he entered the majors, the beers became scotch or pain pills. Age and wear on his arm only served to escalate his dejection over losing. During his worst slump, a disastrous road trip with the Braves, I called his hotel room to comfort him and a woman answered. The next day he swore I’d called the wrong number. Women, each with a different voice, began phoning our house. I refused to stoop to searching through his cell phone messages or texts. The day before I found Laycee’s bra under our bed, he had pitched a horrible game to the Phillies. His losses and our marriage went down together.

Robin waited in the aisle for us to catch up then we followed our guys into the parking lot.

“Thank you for inviting me to the game, Viv. I had a great time,” Robin said.

“Dear, I’m sorry we weren’t able to chat more. I expect you and Dave at the house Saturday night for Walter’s birthday barbeque. And don’t let Dave try to back out with a work excuse. I know all the ploys homicide detectives use to get out of going to functions. I cured Walter of his habit by throwing parties at home. I can give you a few other good tricks to use.”

“Oh, I’m sure Robin has plenty of tricks to keep Dave in line,” I said, laughing.

Robin blushed. “I want to hear everything you know, Viv. We’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

“Whatever you want to, dear. What will you be bringing from your brand-new kitchen, Liz?” Mom said.

“Wine.”

I stopped to give Dad another birthday hug and smooch,
and then Dave, Robin, Nick, and I left my folks in the lot with promises to regroup on Saturday.

As we walked to his car, Nick pointed at the waning crescent glowing over the hills around the stadium parking lot. “The moon will be full in a few nights. The spirits are getting restless.”

“I think your spirits made enough trouble for tonight,” I said.

“You mean Jarret? Live by superstition, die by superstition.”

“I was thinking more about what spooked the pigeon to fly into him.”

“Ah, the white pigeon. Remind me to make a donation to the home for orphaned pigeons. That bird helped the Cubs win the game. I wonder if Jarret has heard about the legend.”

“What legend?”

“White pigeons are death omens.”

“What’s with omens and birds, Nick? Seriously, last year you and Robin had me dodging crows. Now you’re warning me about pigeons?” I laughed. “Forget it. Have you looked around the city lately? We’re surrounded by them.”

Nick opened the door of his SUV for me, tossed his cap into the backseat, and started the engine. I relaxed in the passenger seat for the slow ride to the freeway and home. As we inched into the thick stream of traffic creeping out of Dodger Stadium a sour, yeasty odor permeated the car.

“What’s that awful smell?” I said, wrinkling my nose.

Nick tossed me a glance. “I didn’t want to say anything, but…”

I sniffed a strand of my hair. Oh no. Me. The stink was on me—my hair and skin reeked from the odor of dried beer. I put down my window. Nick put down his. The loud blast of hot air blowing into the car and the freeway noise outside kept our conversation to a minimum all the way to Studio City. He parked in front of my house and we walked inside.

“I have to get out of these clothes and clean up,” I said.

“How? Did the plumber put in your showers and tub already?”

“Not even close. I can’t go to bed smelling like this. I’ll wash my hair in the sink and take another sponge bath after you leave.”

“I have a better idea,” he said, tugging at a strand of my sticky hair.

“What?” I moved close, wanting to kiss him. The stench stopped me. I knew Nick loved me but embracing my smelly body warranted combat pay.

“Where did you put the garden hose I bought you?”

“Are you serious?”

Nick curled his mouth into a sexy, evil grin. “As serious as a shower and nightcap in your backyard. Take off your clothes, get some towels, and meet me outside.”

“N
ick?” Barefoot, with two towels and an open bottle of white wine, I peered over the candytuft blooms shimmering under the moonlight in my backyard. Crickets chirped. A dog barked in the distance. Erzulie watched from the kitchen window.

Nick’s shirt and jeans were draped over the back of a chair on the porch. I scanned the empty yard with caution. Despite the heat in the still night air, I didn’t want to be ambushed with a blast of cold water.

I heard a
squeak
of a faucet turning from the side of the house, and then the sound of water splashing the driveway.

Nick strolled into the yard in his boxer shorts, with the garden hose in his hand and his fingers on the nozzle. “Ready?”

“I’m not taking my clothes off.” I dropped my voice to a
whisper so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “Let’s have some wine and enjoy the night air.”

“Put down the wine and towels, Liz.” He aimed the nozzle at my feet.

He moved toward the steps, teasing me off the porch with tiny squirts of water. I let out a nervous, frightened giggle. He grabbed the towels from me and tossed them on a lounge chair. Another squirt sent me dancing over the grass with wet toes.

“Give me the wine,” he said.

I backed away. “No.”

Nick came toward me and snatched the bottle out of my hand. When he turned to put it on the porch step, I darted across the lawn to hide under the lemon tree by the back fence.

I made three good strides before he blasted me with cold water, soaking the back of my clothes and hair. I stopped and turned. “You are going to be so sorry you did that.”

“I don’t think so.” He drenched the front of my shirt this time. “What are you going to do to me now?”

“Use my secret weapon.” I tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear.

“And what’s that?” He aimed the nozzle at me.

I pulled the soaked pink T-shirt over my head and tossed it across the yard. With my eyes fixed on Nick, I flicked my bra straps off my shoulders, reached behind me, unhooked the clasp, and let my bra drop to the grass.

He relaxed his arm with the nozzle at his side.

Unzipping my jeans, I lowered them inch by inch over my hips, my knees, and then stepped out of them. I snapped the side of my panties with my thumb. Nick moved closer,
watching me. As soon as he got within reach, I seized the hose from his distracted grip and backed away, opening the nozzle full force over his body. He wrestled the nozzle out of my hand with water spurting over both of us. Dancing under the moonlight, we laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

And though I didn’t win the backyard battle, the peace treaty we negotiated in my bedroom was worth the effort. He left at midnight.

M
y alarm went off at five-thirty. I reached across the nightstand and hit snooze. Ten minutes later, I hit snooze again, this time vaguely aware I should climb out of bed and get to the gym for a shower before Stan and his crew arrived at the house, hopefully with my new tub.

Erzulie nudged me before the second snooze went off.

“Okay, okay. We’ll get up.” I shut off the alarm and crawled out of bed. After I brushed my teeth in my wreck of a bathroom, I pulled on my gym gear, threw some clean clothes into my backpack, and trotted downstairs. The dim gray light of dawn crept through the living room windows, illuminating my half-empty bookcase.
I have to pick up that last box.
Even though the rooms upstairs were stacked with unloaded cartons of clothes, I wouldn’t be happy until the rest of my books filled up the bookcase. Somehow that simple accomplishment represented progress.

I got to the gym, left my backpack in a cubbyhole, and looked around. Tess power walked on a treadmill. A few familiar faces from yesterday worked out on machines. I didn’t see Kyle.

Earl the trainer strolled over to the cubbyholes in a red
muscle shirt sculpted tight to his skin. He nodded in greeting then pulled a smartphone from his cubbyhole, scrolling and typing with his thumbs.

“Hey, Earl. Where is everyone? Where’s Kyle this morning?” I said.