Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Brooke
The only downside to working a normal shift is that I have no excuse not to go through the car line. Granted, it has run better with Aniston in charge.
I pull up to the hospital and grab my almost empty coffee cup. One perk to working at the hospital is we never run out of coffee or Band-Aids.
I may or may not have taken advantage of the latter when Timothy was into making fishing lures.
He’s gone through several fads and had many interests. For some reason, I never anticipated him wanting to play baseball. It makes sense for him with a lot of friends playing. Plus, it’s in his blood.
I squeeze my cup as I enter through the side door. So far, carrying this secret has served me well. Now that Nate’s back in town, it makes me nervous. I’ve seen him two days in a row, and both times Timothy was with me.
I go through the motions of securing my purse and lunch in the locker room. Armed with my mug and phone, I march down the hall in search of more coffee.
Voices come from the break room, which isn’t usual any time of day. What is unusual is one sounds exactly like Nate. Maybe it’s my imagination.
Nope.
I poke my head in the doorway and leave just as quickly. Nate sits at a table, arms folded, across from a physical therapist.
Interesting.
I’ve dealt with enough in the past to appreciate people staying out of others’ business, and I’ve never been particularly nosy. However, I’m drawn to the door like a moth to a flame. I stand close as I can to the opening without being spotted.
They’re discussing the hospital layout, which is strange.
“I think every hospital needs a designated physical therapy environment,” Nate says.
Oscar agrees and gives a laundry list of what he goes through every time he comes to our hospital. He currently floats around at different rural hospitals on different days.
“I don’t know where I’d be without physical therapy,” Nate continues.
I lean closer, wanting to learn more. There’s so much of his story I don’t know. Sure, he’s been in the news and on TV throughout the years. But I don’t care to know about his baseball career. I care to know about him.
Nate scoots his chair like he’s about to stand. I jerk back against the wall in a panic. When I do, my coffee mug hits the ground and bounces. Thankfully, it’s now empty. Unfortunately, it’s big and metal and sounds like Daddy working on the industrial-size apple slicer.
I watch it roll a few feet, then jump forward like it’s a grenade I have to grab. Once it’s in my possession, I hightail toward the end of the hallway without looking back.
Forget getting a refill. I pass another coffee counter and don’t stop until I’m at the nurse’s station. Easton, or Dr. West, stands at a filing cabinet. I have to remember where I am before I address him since I see him outside of work a lot now that he’s engaged to Aniston.
“Brooke, you’re late.”
I lift my brows and check my Apple watch. “Actually, I’m right on time.”
“I meant for you.” He laughs. “You’re always beating me to work.”
I nod and laugh.
“Here’s the first X-ray of the day. Reception just brought it back.”
He hands me a folder on the counter beside him. I pick it up and roll my eyes at Bessy McCain’s name. She calls herself a holistic doctor, but still comes in on occasion. Then she complains if Dr. West prescribes medicine that isn’t natural herbs. Oh, and she never wears shoes.
“Good start to the day, huh?” he says.
“Makes the car line look like a cakewalk.”
He laughs.
I take the chart and make my way to the front waiting area. Bessy’s bare feet welcome me when I open the door. I can’t help but stare at them as I call her name. They dangle above the floor, as she’s vertically challenged. Yet another reason she should wear shoes.
She hops down from her chair and scurries toward me. That tile floor has to be cold. The hospital is always cold.
I tug my jacket tighter around my chest and force my eyes toward her face. “Morning, Mrs. McCain.”
She nods.
I lead her down the hallway, thankful we don’t have to pass the break room. It’s bad enough that I drive by Nate’s house every time I leave the orchard. Now I see him at church and at work?
What’s next? Will he show up at the hair salon?
I sigh and open the door to the X-ray room. “Okay, Mrs. McCain.” I allow her to enter, then close the door behind us. “Your chart says you have something going on with your heel.”
Imagine that. Someone who never wears shoes is having trouble with her foot.
“Yeah, I have this spot on it that’s a hurtin’ and my essential oils ain’t cuttin’ it.”
“Let’s have you sit on the table and prop your leg up.”
I should’ve suggested something different, but for an older woman with a frumpy build, Bessy is very flexible. She swings her leg high and wide, flashing me in the process.
And shoes are not the only essential she leaves out of her wardrobe.
I blink like ten times to try and erase the image from my brain. We see a lot in the medical field, but it’s not common to see that area when X-raying a foot.
Of course, she’s wearing one of those snap-button house dresses we refer to as muumuus in the South. It’s free flowing and not much different from our hospital gowns. Except it does close all the way.
Thank God.
Her dress flattens out when her leg is lowered. Relieved at that, I turn her foot and prepare the machine to take images.
I hurry behind the window and instruct her how to turn after every few photos. She does surprisingly well, and I get some detailed scans of what I’m guessing is a shard of glass.
“Mrs. Bessy, the doctor will have to make a conclusion on what exactly it is, but it appears something is lodged in your heel.”
“Well, I declare.”
“If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll get Dr. West.”
“Take your time, dear. According to the Farmer’s Almanac , it’s not a good day to do anything but go to the doctor.”
“All right, then.”
I text Dr. West that Bessy’s X-rays are ready for him, and he asks me to take her to one of the exam rooms. This would probably be a good time to warn him she’s not wearing panties, but I can’t imagine typing that in a text.
“He wants me to take you to room three. I can get a wheelchair for you if it’s more comfortable.”
“You’re sweet.”
I unfold the wheelchair we keep in the corner of the room and help her onto it. My eyes are glued to a spot on the wall above her head in case she tries to show off any acrobatic skills getting in the chair.
Out of impulse, I pull a blanket from the closet. “Here. Your legs may be cold.” I drape it over her lap. Cold or not, I don’t want her flashing anyone on the ride down the hall.
“Just one second.” I file the X-rays in her chart to show Dr. West. Then I tuck them under my arm and wheel her to room three. “He will be here as soon as he finishes up with his other patient.”
She half smiles, and I exit before anything else gets odd.
I close the door and shove her files in the pocket on the wall. Unless Easton needs more images, I can move on with my day.
I turn and bump into something hard. “Oomph.” Hard as in a muscular chest.
My eyes trail a tight athletic shirt to a neatly trimmed beard. It’s Nate. Again! I jump back, banging my head against the door.
“Are you okay?” He reaches for my head, and I flinch.
“Yeah, uh, weird morning. That’s all.” More like weird week, thanks to him moving back.
His big hand cups the back of my head. It’s warm and kind, and I try not to enjoy his gentle touch. After what feels like both a short second and a lifetime, he removes his hand, brushing my hair slightly to the side.
I suck in a breath and think of an exit strategy. Which is hard when something his size is blocking my path and the only alternative is retreating to a room with a backwoods witch doctor who doesn’t wear shoes . . . or panties.
“You’re wearing scrubs, so I guess you’re not a patient.”
“Nope.” I cross my arms, hoping he will back up at least enough so I can’t smell his cologne.
“I thought you were in college for teaching.”
“That was before—” I stop myself. Now’s not the time to let the cat out of the bag on him being Timothy’s father. “When I got pregnant with Timothy, I moved back here and went to the radiology school.”
He lifts his chin. “But you always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher.”
“It was easier to be with my parents and finish college sooner. Besides, I’ve raised my own kindergartener.” I laugh nervously.
“That you have.” He smiles. “What grade is he in now?”
“Second.”
“Cool.” He scratches the back of his head and fumbles with his cap.
A telltale sign he’s a little nervous. At least it’s not just me.
“I’ll let you get to work. I need to head out anyway.”
“Good seeing you.” I clamp my mouth shut.
Is it though? Maybe it felt good to see him, but it’s not exactly good for me to see him.
“You too. See you around our road.” He gently touches my arm for a beat, then turns and walks away.
I grip the spot still warm from his touch and demand my heart to quit beating so fast.
Having a kid on my own and keeping his dad a secret has taken a toll on my dating life. As in made it nonexistent. Plenty of people have tried to fix me up, and a few promising guys have asked me out. But I never made it on a date with any of them.
Not because they weren’t interested, but because I wasn’t. None of them measured up to what I had in mind for my husband and Timothy’s dad. I assumed it was because I’m super picky and protective of Timothy.
Now I know it’s because they weren’t Nate.
* * *
Nate
Running into Brooke set my stomach in knots. I expect to see her on our road, or even at church, but not the hospital.
Part of me is a little disappointed she didn’t get to be a teacher. I’m sure she’s great at the radiology thing, but I know how much she wanted to teach kindergarten. Maybe she could give me advice on backup careers in case my shoulder never heals.
I shake my head. That’s not something I want to consider. At least not in my twenties. I’d planned on playing until my mid-thirties, then maybe opening a training facility or something. I’m still too young to feel this old.
Mary’s Diner comes into view, and my stomach growls. Maybe it’s from the Brooke thing, but food never hurts. I pull in the parking lot. It’s late morning, which means she’s probably still serving breakfast. Mary’s is the kind of place where you can order anything and know it will be good.
The door drags across the welcome mat. It’s just loud enough for every head to turn when I enter. Paul and Dot sit in a corner booth, and a couple of guys in camouflage sit at a table. I nod to all and continue toward the front.
Everything is the same. Checkered tablecloths, framed photos of Apple Cart back in the day, and my high school jersey hanging on the wall behind the counter.
I sigh and think back to my glory days playing high school ball. I’d assumed the best would be when I made it to the big leagues. It’s great, no doubt. But playing for your school with your buddies is far more fun.
“Hey, sugar.” Mrs. Mary smiles widely, showing the gap in her front teeth. “I was wondering when you’d come by.”
“Where you want me to sit?”
“Anywhere you like.” She wipes her hands down the front of her apron. “You caught us between breakfast and lunch rush.”
“Thanks.” I take a seat in the corner booth where Brooke and I often sat. We’d share a bigger table across the room when friends ate with us.
Second to my mom, Mary has fed me more than anyone. Mom would help her prepare for catering events at times when money was tighter— really it was always tight. Mary would send her home with a plate for me when they finished.
I’ve barely settled in my seat when she brings a big glass of sweet tea. “Here’s a menu, but let me make a suggestion.”
“Absolutely.”
“We still have breakfast food and we’re starting to grill steaks for lunch. How’s scrambled eggs with steak and hash browns sound?”
“Delicious.” I take a long drink of my tea.
She gathers the menu and smiles before hurrying to the back.
I slump down and push my side of the booth farther from the table. I grew two inches since high school, and the change is noticeable sitting here.
A black-and-white photo of the original high school stares at me. It burned down long before Mom and I moved here. I went to the school built sometime in the eighties.
It’s rumored that a former principal set the school on fire to get an upgrade. People say she was mad that the athletics facilities got a new gym. The weird thing is we still called that gym the “new gym” when I was in school.
Mary returns with my food, humming a cheerful tune. She’s never in a bad mood, at least that I’ve seen. She can be stern and serious, but never unhappy. With any luck, eating her food will transfer some of that upbeat attitude to me.
“This looks delicious.”
“It is.” She laughs and slides into the seat across from me.
I stab some of the scrambled eggs with my fork. She catches my hand midair. “Boy, you forgot your prayer.”
I smirk and lower my fork. I thank God for the food and the visit with Mary and say a quick “amen.” This time she doesn’t intercept the eggs when I reach toward my mouth.
“How long you plan on staying in town?”
I swallow and consider my answer. Mary never asks a casual question. She usually has a deeper question buried beneath it somewhere.
“You know I bought the Vanderburke Mansion.”
“I do.”
Of course she does. Mary knows all in Apple Cart, even before the rest of us.
“I’ll live here in the off-season and whenever I’m not needed with the team. I’m trying to get Mom to move there too.”
“That would be nice.”
I chew a big bite of steak and nod.
“Great location. Across from the golf course, just a stone’s throw from the Marshall family orchard.” Mary’s eyes twinkle as she draws out the last part of that sentence.
I stare at my plate, not caring for her insinuation. She has a bit of a reputation as a matchmaker. Brooke being my ex will only add to her meddling.
When I bought the place, I didn’t know she still lived down the road. Would I still have bought it had I known?
I don’t want to answer that.
“You know, I always pictured you being a good coach and mentor to young men.”
“That is kinda my current retirement plan.”
Mary straightens the condiments in the corner of the table, then looks at me. “You don’t have to wait until retirement to start helping out.” She gives me that all-knowing look.
“Funny you say that, since a kid asked me the other day about pitching lessons.”
“Oh really, who?”
“Ethan Archer.” I don’t dare add that Brooke’s son was with him. That would be like tossing kindling on the fire.
“He’s a good ballplayer. There’s several kids in this town who have talent and drive, but no father figure to help them. So sad.” She shakes her head.
The question of Brooke’s relationship status comes to mind. I know Mary knows, but I don’t dare ask. That would prove my interest in her.
Mary’s lips curve into a grin. “I best get back to the kitchen. One of the church small groups comes in for an early lunch on Wednesdays.” She stands and winks before hurrying away.
I chug my tea and sigh.
It would be in my best interest—and Brooke’s—to assume she’s involved with someone. Even if she’s not. She broke up with me long ago and hasn’t bothered to contact me since. If that’s not a clear message, I don’t know what is. For all I know, she hurried out of church on purpose.
If she wants me to help Timothy, I will gladly. I’ll treat him like I would any other boy eager to learn ball.
Lord knows I’ve had plenty of single moms sign their kids up for pitching lessons with ulterior motives. I call them cleat diggers. Cleat chasers and gold diggers rolled into one.
Only difference is the mom is Brooke, total opposite of cleat diggers. She ended our relationship when my career started to take off, and her family has plenty of their own money.
This time I’m the one who might have an ulterior motive.