Chapter 10
MAXFORD
Idon’t call Nola for two and a half weeks.
My sisters have drilled into me the general rule of thumb to wait a day or two before calling a woman, but I spent a solid week staring at the bottom of that box before I even put the number in my phone.
During that time, I processed every possible avenue: maybe she gave it to me but didn’t actually want me to use it; maybe she changed her mind the further she’s been removed from the incident and didn’t know how to tell me; maybe I’d already let too much time go by and now things would be awkward if I did call her.
Didn’t matter. I’ve been busy after work, visiting Stella, winning Bingo games, and getting back into training shape.
Tonight I’m in my office, going through some of Stella’s files for the hundredth time.
I know her whole life doesn’t fall squarely on my shoulders.
She’s well taken care of in a nursing care facility.
By default of living in Boise close to her, I was named executor of her will, and I’m trying to be the adult who understands all the many pieces that make up her large estate.
I choose to work on this task when I need to calm my mind and give it a specific focus.
The call from my agent has been rattling in the back of my brain day and night.
As far as I was concerned two weeks ago, that door was tightly shut and bolted forever.
My attitude at being put on probation hadn’t been great.
Eighty games is a large chunk of any season to have to sit out.
Aaron tried to spin positive PR for me, and I ran it into the ground, letting all my feelings be made known.
I messed up, but I wasn’t going down without the world hearing they were losing the best baseball player to have ever graced MLB with his presence.
After two straight days of lighting my life and career on fire, I went to see Madelyn and let it all blow over.
A month later, the Armadillos let me know my contract was expiring and they weren’t interested in renegotiations.
Before I could even attempt an apology tour, we got the call from Stella about her diagnosis, and I packed both of us up.
Nine months later, I started my first day of school at Garnet Charter.
It wasn’t rubbing elbows with star athletes anymore but it was a job and I was in it for the long haul.
Money isn’t a factor for me but pride as a Hutchings is.
My mind goes through my laundry list of reasons why teaching is the best option for me right now.
This gig affords me the flexibility I need when it comes to Stella.
My schedule is perfect. I have big chunks of time off, and she’s less than a mile up the street.
While she’s been fine since the last setback, I know eventually those harder days will become her norm, and I need to be here for her.
And as a bonus, the kids are growing on me, truth be told.
Aaron’s call was flattering but needs to be forgotten.
My oldest sister, Violet, wanders into my office and out of the corner of my eye, I see her lean on the doorjamb.
She got in three days ago from Vienna and is on Stella Thanksgiving-week duty.
That means she’ll do tonight’s Wednesday night dinner with our grandmother, freeing me up to be in my own head.
“I’m going to Stella’s. I’ll see you later? ”
“I’ll be here.”
“Have you called Nola yet?”
I refuse to look at her and keep my eyes trained on my laptop.
Stella didn’t waste two minutes before bringing up Nola on Monday at dinner.
It had an innocent quality to it—briefly giving her opinion on each artist she’s interviewed.
She barely brought me into the conversation, but I hadn’t missed Violet’s brow tick up as she tucked that information away for later.
“Stella will be expecting you to be there five minutes to five so she can start dinner on time,” I remind her flatly. “And maybe see if Madelyn can FaceTime in. She’d like that.”
It’s a slow time of the year for Violet at the embassy, and we had hoped to have a Hutchings family holiday, but my twin is tied up in Los Angeles with her latest movie’s post-production stuff.
Violet decided to come anyway and subject herself to all the festivities White Pine Assisted Living Center has to offer.
She shakes out her hair and there’s a grin in her voice.
“Tonight promises to be interesting—they’re finalizing their float for the Boise holiday parade next week.
Stella claimed she’s been campaigning hard for an Elf-themed one and she’s promised everybody you’ll be Buddy. ”
This news makes me look up from what I’m doing and spin my chair toward her. “What? Absolutely not.”
“Like I said, it’s not final or anything .
. . yet.” She gives me a naughty smile that warns me she’ll help get the votes needed to make it happen.
Opal shared at Monday night’s dinner how important the float is to the residents.
Last year they chose A Christmas Story as their theme, complete with a leg lamp.
“How cute would it be to have you running around in yellow tights, tossing candy to the kids?”
“Does nobody else have a grandson to volunteer?”
“It’s so hard to be the chosen one. I sympathize.” Her tone suggests she’s joking, but I know there’s some truth behind her words. Ever since Mom and Dad died, she’s stepped up to bridge the gap between Stella and Grandpa, in helping raise us and keep Mom and Dad’s memory alive for Madelyn and me.
“I hate you,” I tell her with a half smile.
“I don’t know how much the government pays you to babysit embassy workers and take temperatures, but I’ll pay you handsomely to swing the vote.
Know what? I’ll just go with you. Robert likes me.
And if I can get him to choose another option, I’ll be guaranteed the Bingo groupies will follow suit. That should be enough.”
She rolls her eyes at my dramatics. “You’re not coming.
You made a big deal about needing to read over Stella’s papers and I’m not going to take you away from that so you can participate in an assisted living center Christmas parade float vote.
” Her mouth twists. “Oooh. Say that last part five times fast.” Her short hair tucked behind her ears reminds me of Mom.
The older Violet gets, the more she looks like her and my chest squeezes tight.
Mom loved all the holidays and even though she was an in-demand orthopedic surgeon, she made a big deal out of them for our sake.
Violet steps over to me and pinches my cheeks in her teasing way. “Enjoy your evening, little brother.”
The house feels empty after she leaves, with only the dim hum from the refrigerator for noise. After an hour of mind-numbing numbers and accounts, I get brave and pick up my phone, hoping my evening will get a lot better.
The phone rings four times before it dawns on me, Nola’s smart enough to not answer an unknown number. I take a different approach.
Max: Hi, Nola. This is Max.
Crickets.
It wasn’t that I was anticipating texting bubbles to appear immediately; those little dots encouraging me to sit tight while she crafted back a reply, but I am bored. I’ll never understand how Stella and Grandpa took his empire and her old money and turned it into the legacy it is now.
One minute turns into ten, which rolls into twenty.
Granted, it is the night before Thanksgiving, and we’ve been given the whole week off from school.
It is possible she and Emma went somewhere for the holidays.
Perhaps she’s hosting family and they’re gathered in the kitchen, busy in the middle of prepping pies.
Or, worst-case scenario, I am too late and she’s written me off.
All things considered, that seems the most likely since she put herself out there and I haven’t even given her a courtesy ‘thanks for the offer.’
More time passes and I breathe easier once Violet texts to let me know the Elf float lost the vote, then spend the next forty-five minutes torturing myself by going down a rabbit hole of old ESPN highlight clips of my time with the Texas Armadillos.
Video after video of my best moments as a third baseman, interviews after winning the wild card series, division playoffs, and finally the World Series.
A clip of my grand slam during my first season; a winning home run my last. Somebody needs to take the internet away from me.
I’m about to click on a new video I haven’t seen before titled “Hutchings’ fall from grace” which, guaranteed, will throw me into a holiday depression, when my phone lights up.
I close the laptop and push away from my desk, a surge of adrenaline shooting through me. I’m not seventeen anymore. The sight of a female calling me has long ceased to be exciting, but Boise has made me become teenage Max all over again.
“Hi-hello, uh, Nola, hi,” I stammer and then facepalm.
She laughs on the other end. It’s light and easy, like my calling her earlier hasn’t interrupted her night. “Are you drunk at the bar?”
“No. I was . . .” watching my career before it blew up in smoke? I clear my throat. “Never mind. How are you?”
“Starving, actually. Look, I know this is a long shot, but is there any way you’d be up for nachos at Gin and Bear It?”
We’re sitting across from each other at my favorite booth less than thirty minutes later.
The place is packed with coeds looking to let loose before intense family time starts tomorrow.
They’re loud, they’re consuming alcohol at concerning rates, and they’re dressed like this is Palm Springs during spring break, not Boise on the cusp of winter.