Love Bats Last (The Heart of the Game) (22 page)

She rested a hand on his arm. “Sabrina told me about the woman from the California Marine Mammal Center. I’d like to meet her.”

“That’s over,” he said, wishing it weren’t true. Over before it had begun. “You shouldn’t listen to Sabrina’s version of anything. She’s an optimist.”

“
All
Tavonesis are optimists, darling.” She patted his arm. “Love can pass you by, Alex,” she said with her most piercing gaze. “You can’t give your whole heart to a game.”

He swallowed down his practiced retort. He won no prizes for not admitting she was right.

“Sabrina and I are going to Paris,” she said as she turned to leave. “She has a three-week break before she starts shooting her next film. You know how I love Paris.”

He did. And Sabrina needed a vacation. The indie film she’d starred in last year had become a runaway success. Even Sabrina, for all her confidence, hadn’t been ready for the onslaught of publicity.

“I’ll be back before the playoffs,” she added, turning back and reaching to once again pat his arm.

“They have televisions in Paris,” he chided.

“I want to see you win your title in person. I’m your
mother
, Alex.”

“Hadn’t considered I was any competition for Paris.” He winked.

Emilio tromped down the path toward them. From the look of him, he’d already been up and out for a good long while.

“I’ll leave you to your meeting,” his mother said as she headed up the path.

Emilio clasped him in one of his bear hugs, then pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. “You look terrible.”

“I thought we were talking about the vines,” Alex said as he stepped back.

Emilio raised a brow.

“I haven’t been sleeping right,” Alex said. “Just about back on track though. No worries.” He kicked at a stone in the path, then lifted his gaze to Emilio. “Out with it,” he prompted.

“This weather isn’t going to hold.” He slowly turned, his jaw tight as he studied the vines. As he checked out the sky. “But I’m not sure about the timing. The question is whether to bring the grapes in early or risk a freeze.” He pointed at Alex. “You have to decide.”

“
We
, Emilio. We decide.” Alex palmed a cluster of grapes, fingered them gently. He lifted them and inhaled. The musky scent of the ripening grapes was like a tether through time—he could travel its length as it stirred memories of autumns past, autumns when life was simpler, decisions easier. “What did the sugar tests show?”

“Enough to convince me we shouldn’t harvest for at least another three weeks, maybe more. The grapes haven’t set, at least not to my liking.” Emilio plucked a grape hanging from the vine next to him and rolled it in his palm. “It’s a risk. We could lose more than last year. But if we harvest now, it won’t be a wine we’ll be proud of.”

Alex’s father had worked hard to keep the wines they made top-notch. And at Trovare, they used only organic methods. Emilio was a wizard at working with the soil and the beneficial insects, and fine-tuning the irrigation to create a symbiotic system sustainable for the long haul.

“Di Salvo’s crews are harvesting today,” Emilio said with a nod toward the neighboring vineyard that bordered the river.

The Di Salvo vineyard had twice the acreage of Trovare, but neither Alex nor Emilio knew how they’d managed a bumper crop last year. Evidently they were taking no chances this year. But the Di Salvo wines weren’t winning gold medals like Trovare did.

“It’s not Di Salvo’s anymore,” Alex said. “I have to remind myself of that—old man Di Salvo would never have pulled his crop this early.”

He’d have liked to compare notes with Di Salvo, but the man was ninety and was rarely in the area anymore. He’d leased his land to a large conglomerate three years before, claiming that the warmer weather in San Diego suited him better in his old age. The reps that came to the growers and vintner’s meetings kept their distance from the locals. The growers were a tight-knit community, and the newcomers’ odd behavior raised brows.

Alex nestled the cluster of grapes back into the vine and stared out over the vineyard. Timing the harvest was a risky business. Even with the heaters and blowers, a hard freeze could ruin them. And if it rained and then warmed up, they’d lose the crop to mold as they had last year. Growers tried to beat the weather; vintners plied for more time on the vine. Alex was both. It was like having the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. He pictured the grapes as he’d just seen them and the way they’d look at the perfect moment.

“We wait,” Alex said, opening his eyes.

Emilio, his shoulders relaxing, nodded. He picked up a rock on the path, tossed it to Alex. “I saw the interleague game against the Yankees. You’re hitting better than two weeks ago.”

“If Duarte keeps up his hitting streak, it’s gonna be a fight till the last game of the season. And Randy Hamilton is no slouch this year. His RBI numbers are tracking right with ours, so he could knock us both out. Maybe neither Duarte nor I get the big one.” He didn’t mention the couple of hitters who had a shot at passing both him and Duarte with home runs. He didn’t think any of them had the staying power he and Duarte had.

Emilio rapped him on the forearm. “You’ll do it.”

The Triple Crown was elusive, and with the way hitters specialized these days, it was growing even more so. But it had been a goal Alex had chased, had wanted, since he’d begun playing. He’d either do it this year or never get close again. Unfortunately, Duarte was having a hell of a year as well.

“Wouldn’t be happening without you,” Alex said, tossing the rock back to Emilio.

Emilio snatched it from the air. “My wife says you’ll do it.”

“Francesca still thinks the game is played with goal posts.”

“Well, I have base motives for wanting you to succeed,” Emilio said. “I want bragging rights. And a division champ’s cap for my sister’s boy. I’m practicing being considered a hero.”

Alex laughed. Securing hero-worship for Emilio was a first-rate motivation.

Although he’d left Trovare an hour early, the traffic on the Embarcadero had backed up and Alex was nearly late for batting practice. At least he missed the press interviews in the locker room. Not so the press on the field.

“Hey, Tavonesi! What’s the prognosis for Sunday?”

“I never make predictions,” he said to the network reporter. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well, what about Cincinnati?” the reporter asked, holding out the mike. “Hitting territory?”

“Cincinnati has Cepedes. He’s throwing sharp. I can’t bat anybody in unless they get on the bag.”

“How’s the wrist holding up?”

Alex met the reporter’s stare.

“Just glad to be part of the team,” he said as he turned away and headed for the clubhouse.

There was no way he was going to announce to the pitchers he’d be facing that his wrist was giving him trouble. He’d already doubled up on physical therapy and tripled up on ibuprofen. He didn’t like taking anything stronger; it made him fuzzy and affected his sight. And he didn’t want to resort to cortisone, not in his wrist; too risky. What he was doing would just have to work.

He peeled off his practice uniform and tossed it in the bin, then reached into his locker for his game uniform. He started to suit up, but decided to shower first. He hadn’t taken time to wash off the vineyard dust.

When he returned to his locker, Scotty was already suited up and sitting on the bench next to it.

“I made the gala,” Scotty said. “Danced with Sabrina.”

“I heard,” Alex said, his tone icier than he’d intended.

Scotty whistled. “Guess I don’t have to ask how the lovely Dr. Jackie took your absence.”

“She’s steamed. She tried to cover it, but she’s steamed.” Alex buttoned his jersey. “I made it there just as she was leaving.”

“Aw, just make it up to her. It’s not like you could’ve done anything.” He swatted Alex with his towel. “You could send flowers.”

“She’s not the type.”

They didn’t talk any more about Jackie—though Alex did grill Scotty about dancing with Sabrina—but when he took the field, Alex pivoted in the dirt near first base and quickly scanned the stands. He’d sent tickets to the Center, to Gage. Two sets. He saw Gage sitting behind the dugout and waved.

No Jackie. Not that he’d expected her.

The game started well. The Giants leaped to a four-run lead and held it. Scotty pitched six great innings before Walsh called in the bullpen. At his next at-bat, Alex whiffed at a curve ball and struck out, leaving two guys on base. He hated stranding base runners.

In the bottom of the eighth, he struck out again and didn’t like the feeling in his gut. His wrist was acting up, but that wasn’t his problem. He’d lost his focus. He should’ve seen the changeup coming. He’d tried to visualize and run his sequences in his head, but his mind seized on the image of Jackie’s face the night of the gala. He’d fought to keep
her
out of his head, but he knew why he was failing now. He cursed whatever power had made him so damn sensitive to letting people down. It wasn’t helping him or anybody else right now.

As Romaro, their closer, threw warm-up pitches, Alex glanced up into the seats near the visitors’ dugout. The Giants’ mascot was jiggling around in his seal suit, playing to the families, lighting up the kids. And reminding Alex of Jackie and the Center. But seeing the grins on the kids’ faces planted an idea in his mind. A terrific idea. It would be perfect if he could work it out. But that’s what the team had assistants and PR people for, to work stuff out. He felt lighter just picturing his idea. Jackie wouldn’t want flowers as an apology, but she’d love this.

After the game, the locker room was livelier than usual, especially with a win like tonight’s. Even Romaro managed to crack a smile.

“Saw you talking to the brass,” Scotty said as they walked back from the showers.

“I wrangled a day at the ballpark for the Center. There was one slot open on the twenty-third.”

Scotty let out his low whistle. “What’d that cost you?”

“I asked them to trade you to Kentucky Triple A,” Alex said with a grin. “Told them you’d like the food better.”

“Remind me not to be nice to you, Alex. It goes to your head.”

When he got back to his apartment, Alex called Michael Albright and told him about his plan. The man sounded genuinely grateful.

“It might be best to let a couple days go by before you tell Jackie,” Alex suggested. “I think she’s pretty pissed that I missed the gala.”

“She’s good at that,” Michael said. “But why do I think you see her good side?”

“I’ll need the Center’s logo sent over to marketing.” Alex ignored Michael’s probing. “They want it tomorrow. Something about short notice and all that.”

“Done. Anything else?”

Alex wanted to say
yes, sweet-talk your ace vet for me
, but he’d seen enough of the two of them interacting to know that wouldn’t do any good.

“Nope.” He paused, then added, “At least you know I’ll make this one.”

Chapter Seventeen

The sound of Beethoven’s Ninth blasted Jackie’s ears. She reached over and smashed the snooze button. Didn’t public radio
know
it was seven in the morning and that there were gentler sounds to wake up to? She snuggled back under the covers. Then it hit her.
Seven
! She must’ve hit the snooze button more than once. She’d called a crew supervisors meeting for seven thirty.

Her coffee spilled a streak down her jeans as she leapt into her truck. She put the dripping mug on the dash and backed out of the drive, flipping on the radio to catch a weather report.

“And for those of you lucky enough to have tickets, there’s that special California Marine Mammal Center Day at the ballpark,” the announcer chirped. “The first ten thousand Giants fans will receive a special tote bag with the Center’s logo on it.”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard right, but of course they didn’t repeat the announcement. She drained her mug in two gulps and accelerated.

Loose gravel skidded in her wake as she pulled in next to Gage’s truck. She nodded to the volunteers and crew members as she hustled toward his office.

She pushed open his door and kicked a crumpled bag of Cheetos out of her way.

“You need a
vaccination
to come into this room,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Knocking,” Gage said, waving a glazed donut at her before using it to point to the door. “It’s called knocking. Surely it’s still a practice in jolly old England?”

He leaned over the pink cardboard box balanced on his knees and took an enormous bite.

“Want one?” he mumbled, sugar glistening on his chin. “Compliments of Tuesday day crew.”

She waved off the donut box he shoved at her. “Living Ocean Day at the
ballpark
? I suppose that was your idea?”

“A great one, but can’t claim it,” Gage said as he took another bite. “You seem to have made an impression on one of their players. Somebody with influence who doesn’t mind throwing it around.”