Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE OAK STAND RECREATION Center had been built five years before. It didn't smell of dirty socks or sweaty leather yet, so the baseball celebration banquet had been held there for the past few years. The tables were covered in white paper tablecloths and the food was potluck. Traditional Texas barbecue, coleslaw, and fries weighed down the large tables to the side. Not to mention there were gallons of sweet tea, Tupperware containers of ambrosia, and pans of decadent browns and gooey cake.
The chef in Rayne Rose recoiled. The country girl in Rayne Rose put extra butter on her corn on the cob.
"Mom, what's this?" Henry asked, pointing to a Jell-O salad.
"Not something anyone should eat, but you can try it if you want," she said, eyeing the head table where Brent sat wearing a sport coat and tie, digging into a plate of ribs. Rayne could have sworn she'd heard out and-out gasps when she and Henry had taken the seats to the left of him. Presently, everyone was content to eyeball her and whisper.
Great.
She added a scoop of ambrosia to her plate and grabbed a tea. When in Oak Stand and all that.
She walked out of her way in order to avoid Brandi and Stacy. She even hurried past Nellie, who was sitting across from Bubba Malone and trying unsuccessfully to wipe her daughter's mouth. Mae Darby, adorable in a hot pink T-ball shirt with matching bows in her pigtails, ducked under her mother's swipes and talked a blue streak. Bubba thoughtfully nodded his bald head to everything the little girl said. He caught Rayne's eye and grinned. She was glad Meg had seen what many in Oak Stand sometimes overlooked when it came to Bubba. He was a gentle giant with a spark of practicality.
Brent's parents, Ross and Donna, had made it back to town for the event and sat with several other members of Oak Stand old guard They were lively and loud the way they'd always been. Good people, but they'd pushed Brent hard to succeed...in something he'd had absolutely no passion for. She waved to them, but didn't stop to chat. She knew they had questions about her and why she was sitting next to their son at the table of honor.
She set her plate next to Brent's and got Henry settled with a napkin in his lap. She cut up the pork loin he'd picked out and realized she needed to teach him how to cut it himself. There was so much she hadn't taught him. His shoes came untied all the time, washing hair was hit or miss, and he still tore the bread when he tried to butter his toast. Her report card for being a parent wouldn't be all As across the board for sure. Raising Henry would have been much easier with a tag team partner.
Her mind flashed back to Brent's admonishments toward Henry earlier that afternoon. And his words. Don't overanalyze. He's a good boy.
Brent was right. She hadn't done such a bad job on her own these past two years. No mother was perfect and she was trying to put Henry first. If no one came along to tag up with her, she'd be fine. Henry wouldn't go to college unable to tie his shoes or cut his own meat. She needed to give herself a break.
She looked at her son and he smiled. He was an awesome kid.
Brent leaned over. "You okay?"
She nodded, feeling a blip of comfort at his question. It felt nice to have someone who wasn't Meg or Aunt Fran looking out for her. "Everyone's watching us."
"Wanna give 'em something to talk about?" he asked with a wicked grin. Her serious thoughts melted away as she considered his words. He was as big as Texas, brazen, bold and so damn good-looking it made a woman want to hog-tie him and lock him in a backroom for twisted purposes.
"Not really. I'm accustomed to people looking at me because I cooked the food, not because I'm with the hometown hero."
He looked at her strangely but didn't say anything more. Merely tucked into some macaroni and cheese she'd obviously missed out on. She hadn't had something with that much processed cheese since she left Oak Stand years ago, so she snagged a spoonful off his plate.
He didn't mind.
Twenty minutes later, the president of the Oak Stand Athletic Club, Griffin Doyle, strolled to the lectern and cleared his throat. He then began to process of introducing the teams and coaches, listing the records and asking them to stand. Henry popped up when his team was called, grinning through the barbecue sauce on his mouth. Then Griffin began rattling off mind-boggling statistics about the man sitting beside her. She didn't know what half the things meant, but Brent's parents seemed to sit taller. He, however, did not. At the conclusion of the accomplishments, Griffin mentioned the number of years Brent had coached baseball and football for Oak Stand Athletics. Ten years. Almost the entire time since he'd left college.
"So join me in giving a big round of applause to Oak Stand's own all-American... the Coach of the Year, Brent Hamilton."
Henry nearly killed himself joining in on the thunderous applause, and as Brent rose, he caught her gaze. The expression on his face was a mixture of embarrassment and resolve. An odd combination for someone who should be proud of his accomplishments.
Brent walked to the lectern and shook Griffin's hand, accepting the gold plaque that came with the annual honor.
''Thank you for such a nice tribute," he said, motioning everyone to quiet down.
"I want you to know that I've received many awards over the years I've been involved with athletics, but this award means much more to me because it represents my contributions to the future of organized sports."
Several people clapped and one man whistled.
"Yeah, Mr. Stanley, it's so appropriate to applaud the future of sports because these guys sitting with you tonight are our future Hall of Famers, future Heisman winners, future running backs, forwards, shortstops, and gold medalists."
He paused and took a deep breath. "But me, I'm the past and my contributions can only be given as someone who molds an athlete. It's a weighty job, and one that is important, more important than any role I've ever played, which is why tonight I want to come clean about some things."
There was a small murmur in the audience, and Rayne felt something inside her twist into a knot. She was pretty sure it was trepidation. What was the man doing?
"When I was growing up, I loved playing sports, but there was something I loved even more."
Oh. No.
Rayne's heart sputtered then sped. Surely he wasn't going to declare his love for her? Not here. Not now.
"I loved to read and write.” Brent tossed a small smile her way.
Oh, thank God.
“Growing up, I spent hours out in my backyard with my best friend making up stories, creating, building, reading, and dreaming. I carried that love with me all my life." Brent pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Something niggled in the back of her mind. When she caught sight of the faded red heart sticker, she knew. And it caused a prickly awareness to wash over her, a sense of planets aligning.
Or something.
"A while back a friend gave me poem about having the courage to be who you really are. It's a poem about daring to leave what others think of you behind, about reaching for dreams, and holding fast to what you want in life. She spoke to my heart with those words and I've kept it in a special place, pulling it out to read when I sometimes lost faith in myself."
Warmth stole into Rayne at his words, burrowing deep in her heart and causing a clog of tears to form in the back of her throat. She looked around the recreation center. Most people looked confused, but intrigued. Even toddlers stopped wiggling as if they knew this was a profound moment.
"I tell you this for a reason. Being who you truly are is important. I was afraid to do that for many years because I didn't want to disappoint the people who loved me. I didn't want to let people down."
Brent's parents squirmed. They were the only ones. Everyone else looked mesmerized by the admission of the former all-American.
"But in doing that, I let myself down. And I let down the person I cared very much about, the person who wrote this for me."
Rayne centered her gaze on Brent. He swallowed and cut a glance her way. She smiled and he returned it. It was a poignant moment and she really didn't give two flying figs if everyone else shared in it.
"So I want to encourage all of you boys and girls out there to embrace who you are. If you dream of being an NFL quarterback, then go for it. If you want to dance on Broadway, polish up your shoes and tap your way there. If you want to be a writer, park your bottom in a chair and write a story. No one can tell you who you can be, and if you're lucky, you'll have someone along the way who will challenge you to be all that you can. It could be your mom or dad, or a teacher, or a coach, or maybe a special friend who sees beyond the outer wrappings to the real gift inside you." He paused and seemed to fidget, as if bracing to take the next step.
"Tonight I'm going to come clean on …a secret."
A murmur emerged as a couple of kids starting talking. Their parents quieted them. Brent waited. "My dream when I was young was not to play in the NFL as many would expect. My dream was to be a writer. And for the past six years, I've been living my dream, though no one has really known about it. I have twelve middle-grade sports books on the shelf. In fact, most of them are in your school libraries.”
Rayne pressed her hands to her stomach and tried to grasp the magnitude of his words.
“I write the Buttontown Boys series under the name B.J. Hamm.”
Rayne felt as though someone had hit her with a golf club. Brent was a writer? He was a published writer? He was the writer whose books Henry had been devouring? Good Lord.
She knew her mouth had fallen open. She looked out at the audience. Most of them now had their mouths open, too. A few people’s eyes bulged.
But Brent's parents, well, they appeared gobsmacked. Like heart-attack onset shocked. His dad turned to his mom and the look they shared was almost comical.
Brent, with a natural instinct for timing, allowed a moment to pass. He pulled a book from his jacket pocket. It was a copy of one he'd not yet loaned to Henry. He held it up so the audience could see it.
"This was my first book. It's about a boy who tries so hard to be a good basketball player that he nearly misses the opportunity to learn to play the guitar and find his true talent. I had seventy-three letters sent to me by boys and parents who told me how much my story had meant to them, how many found the courage to try what they really wanted to do. I find this much more satisfying than someone telling me how great the catch I made in the Texas A&M game was or how cool it was when the Longhorns won a National Championship. I mean, yeah, that was cool, too, but I love writing stories that help other people be brave, learn lessons, and overcome obstacles.”
Brent paused, refolding the letter. “So my message to you tonight is to not let anyone hold you back in following your dreams, least of all yourself. If you want something, have the courage to go and get it."
With those last words, he looked at her, and she felt the weight of them. Felt that he wasn't talking about writing or football. He was talking about her.
Brent's parents still looked astounded. Donna had her head cocked and a bewildered expression on her face. But then as Brent stepped back from the podium, his mother smiled. It was the biggest, proudest smile Rayne had ever seen a woman wear. In fact, it was catching. Like the flu, that smile spread throughout the recreation center. Rayne couldn't stop her own lips from turning up in sheer wonder.
Then Donna stood. And she started clapping. Rayne didn't fail to notice the tears streaming down her face. She was joined milliseconds later by Ross, who seemed a bit choked up himself.
Then the rest of the attendees rose with a clamorous scraping of metal chairs and clapped not for Brent Hamilton, the guy who broke records and put their town on the map, but for Brent Hamilton, the writer.
Rayne felt frozen in place. Brent looked flabbergasted at the response. He glanced at her with a “what-do-I-do?” look. She shrugged, stood, and clapped.
Henry whooped. 'That's so cool! I love his books!”
What a secret to keep all those years. Pride flooded her as the impact of Brent's achievement crept in. Brent had spent many years among people who expected very little of him, and yet, he'd been successful. Secretly following his dream. But why had he kept being a published writer a secret? One would think Brent would want the people around him to know he'd done something so... amazing.
She didn't understand. Maybe because everything she'd done had been out in the open, heavily promoted by first Phillip and now her agent along with everyone else in her company. She’d had someone to push her, hold her feet to the fire, catch her when she fell short. No bones about it, Rayne had pursued opportunities like a tenacious bulldog which was why the New York deal was so important to her. Two times before she'd been turned down. The networks’ refusals had only made her more determined. Perhaps she should be content with all she’d accomplished. She had a successful restaurant, cookbook, and apron line, not to mention the soon-to-be-opened inn. No one would look askance at that measure of success. But getting a show into production would be the feather in her cap.
Brent shook Griffin Doyle's hand again and made his way to the chair beside her. The audience sat and Griffin made a few parting comments about how the season had progressed so far and a plea for parents to stop parking on the new sod they'd planted.
But Rayne couldn't focus on Griffin's words. Her mind spun, trying to wrap itself around what the man beside her had revealed. An author. Rayne tried to beat down the twinge of hurt that he hadn't shared his secret career with her, but what right did she have to know? His own parents hadn’t a clue.
"Why did you hold out on me?" she whispered. "This is a big deal."
"I don't know. Why are you still holding out on me?" he asked out of the side of his mouth.
"What do you mean?”
Erma Doyle frowned in response. Rayne made an apologetic face, but Brent plowed forward. "You hold back. You won't let yourself jump over the fence you've built between what you want and what you’re afraid to have.”
Rayne sank back in her chair. Fence? She wasn’t holding back. “I’m not. I walked through your door, didn’t I?”
“Did you really though?” He whispered before smiling as Doyle once again congratulated him on Coach of the Year honors. He even held up his hand and mouthed, "Thank you," before leaning back in his chair once more.
Rayne straightened. “I did. And it’s more than just a black and white issue. I’m not …” She stopped talking as the others sitting at the table began to rise. People around the room followed suit, some making their way toward Brent, including his parents. No time to explain where she was in her life. Which was a crossroads, not a stupid fence.
But maybe it was a fence. She’d have to think about that.
Later," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and rising with a smile. "Meet me out back tonight?"
She barely had time to nod before Brent got surrounded by well-wishers, leaving her feeling discontent with his words.
She glanced at Henry who looked fully immersed in some sort of dessert with crumbled chocolate cookies and gummy worms. He crammed the chocolate pudding into his mouth like a contestant in a pie-eating contest …or before his mother could stop him eating something that probably had more chemicals in it than a swimming pool.
Here was her focus. Henry. Not to mention her career, her employees, a house in Austin, a line of hand sanitizers, and polka-dot rubber dish gloves. She couldn't toss her life to take a chance with Brent. People only did that in chick flicks, and half of those ended with moviegoers crying in their popcorn. Real people had real repercussions. They couldn't chase waterfalls and rainbows. Or handsome old flames.
She glanced at Brent, who now had an arm curved around his beaming mother and shook hands with a guy in a crisp police uniform. The guy was attractive in a buttoned-up, military way. She assumed he was the new police chief some of the mothers at the ballgame had been talking about. Bubba held Mae Darby under one arm, and she accidently kicked Brent's father as he chatted with Mayor Tom Sutton. Smiles, laughter, and kids galloping about the room.
It wasn't a bad place to raise a family. Quite good actually.
Her phone buzzed in her purse signaling she had a text message. She slid it from its case and pressed the button that opened her texts.
It was from her agent.
Talked to Tate. Good news. See you Monday.
She stared at the screen then at Brent. At the way his wavy hair dipped over his brow, at his sparkling blue eyes, at the curve of his mouth.
She should be ecstatic. Her agent Holly Munsen never made a peep unless it was noteworthy. So for her to declare good news meant an offer was on the table and it was an excellent one.
They wanted her… which meant New York. It meant her face on TV. It meant more money, not only for her but for her team of chefs, restaurant managers, assistants, and agents.
This was huge.
So how come she felt like crying?