.5 To Have and To Code (11 page)

No job, no life, and nowhere to go.  A pitcher without a team.

And that was a really pathetic whine for 10 a.m.

He looked up and discovered he’d walked in circles—right back to the baseball diamond.  The kid in right field tossed a seriously erratic throw in the general direction of the infield.  Daniel grinned as the second baseman and shortstop nearly beheaded each other trying to catch it.

The catcher, clearly the intended target for the ball, shook his head in disgust and the batter slid into second base, kicking up way too much dust and missing the bag by at least a foot.  Nobody noticed.

No umpire, no coaches, and two undermanned teams.

Pick-up game.  The very best kind.

Daniel leaned against the ratty backstop, watching the kid on the mound pitch.  And decided, after watching a handful of throws, that the boy catching behind the plate was destined for the bigs.  Getting his glove on balls that wild was a real talent.

The pitcher had speed and a nice spin on the ball.  And his aim should have people over on Shattuck Avenue ducking.

The last batter of the inning struck out to amiable catcalls, and the teams moved to switch places.  Daniel watched the tow-headed kid who’d been pitching meander over to the bench, his fingers in constant motion on the ball. 

Practicing his grip.  He’d been that kid once.

Daniel tossed out a comment before the boy got to his friends.  “Nice speed you’ve got.  If you cut down on that windup, stuff will go straighter over the plate.”

The kid glanced up, suspicious scowl in place.  “Who are you?”

Nobody a ten-year-old had ever heard of.  “I used to pitch some.”  He held out his hand—baseball was a game of action, not words. 

The ball landed in his fingers—warm, gritty, and slightly sticky.  “All those pitchers on TV, they do those long, crazy windups.”  Daniel demonstrated, feeling his back muscles kink in protest.  Wimp.  “Wanna know why?”

Big eyes stared at him.  “Helps them throw better.”

“Nope.”  Well, a little, but as he recalled, ten-year-old life was pretty black and white.  “Psychs out the batters and confuses the guys on base.  And it makes ’em look good on TV.” 

He eyed the kid.  “You don’t need that stuff.  Just a simple windup.  Set your foot against the rubber, pull back like this, and send the ball straight for the catcher’s mitt.”

“I’ve never seen anyone throw like that.”

Great—a natural-born skeptic.  “Sure you have.  Watch the infield players the next time you go to a game.  They have to be fast, and they have to be accurate.  They never do a big windup, and they get the ball where it needs to go.  Pitching’s not all that much different.”  At least not when you were ten.

“Cool.”  Something warmer was sliding into the kid’s eyes now.  “Can you throw a knuckleball?”

Daniel wondered if he’d been this irrepressible at ten.  “You need bigger knuckles.  Get a good fastball first, one that you can put anywhere you want it to go.  Worry about the fancy stuff later.”

The kid eyed the mound.  “No fancy stuff.”  He nodded once and then headed for the bench, acquiring several arm punches along the way.

Daniel settled back to watch.  It took a while for the current inning to end—the other catcher didn’t have future big-league hands.  Two runs scored on a fumbled fly, and then the redhead on second base landed a tag and put everyone out of their misery.

Teams ran to swap sides, the tow-headed kid taking his position on the mound.  A quick grin fired Daniel’s direction, and then he hurled one at the plate.

Dead straight at the astonished catcher’s nose. 

The kid behind the plate got his glove up just in time.  Stared at the ball in his mitt, slack-jawed, for what felt like an eternity.  And then looked up, glee written all over his face.  “Steeee-RIKE!”

When Daniel walked away, his grin was almost as big.  And whatever had been grating on his nerves had found a place to settle.

For today, in one small way—he’d mattered.  Life, unstuck.

-o0o-

Some people peeled off the Band-Aid with agonizing slowness.  Nell had never been one of those people.  So she looked at Sammy and yanked.  “He’s tall, dark, handsome, not total scum, and we hired him.”

She had prepared for the glee in her best friend’s mind.  And still winced as the reality of it hit like a wrecking ball.  Her imagination had been gentler—and left out the part where a full plate of Romano’s linguine almost hit the floor.

Romano was new in town, but his linguine was already the stuff of her dreams.  Any of it on the floor would be pure travesty.

“Don’t stop there.”  Sammy’s dimples were out in full force.  “Start with the handsome part, and then just keep talking.”  She patted her bag.  “I have a dozen Nutella cookies in here if you spill all the beans.  Finally got the recipe perfected.”

It was a really good bribe—the last test batches had been heaven.  “He’s a little taller than Jamie.  Curly hair.”  She pictured his face in her mind and then turned it off quickly, disturbed by how much detail her brain happily offered up.  “Looks good in jeans.  Used to be a baseball player.”

Sammy just rolled her eyes.  “Did he do strange things to your belly or not?”

Nell gestured with a fork.  “This linguine does strange things to my belly.  Guys are just eye candy.”

“Fine.  Did he do strange things to your eyeballs?”  Hands sporting a new hot-pink manicure casually tapped the cookies they were holding hostage.

Damn.  “Yeah.”  Nell rolled linguine on her fork and braced herself to get the rest out.  “He had that hot and slightly cocky thing totally down, and my inner sexpot wanted to totally eat him for breakfast.”  She glared at Sammy.  “Satisfied?”

“Getting there.”  Her friend’s grin was eight feet wide.  “Breakfast, huh?  Did you put your moves on him?”

The last guy she’d put the moves on had been eleven.  It had been a bad idea in fifth grade, and a worse one now.  “We hired him, Sam.  I don’t hit on employees.” 

“You don’t hit on anyone.”  Sammy’s tone was dry as dust.  “Shane has cows with a more impressive dating life than you do.”

“I have more than enough men in my life.”  And unless Romano himself was available, she wasn’t adding to the crowd.

“Brothers don’t count.”

Nell grinned and repeated her usual lines.  “Says the only child.”

She could hear the cranks of Sammy’s brain working.  “So you hired him.”

“Yup.”  Which still steamed her ego.  “He’s going to help us fix the holes he made in our fences.” 

“Sounds like it will involve a close working relationship.”  Innocent brown eyes twinkled over a rapidly vanishing plate of linguine.  “You can’t have the guy mending fences by himself.”

“I’ll be supervising.  That’s all.”  Only because she’d lost the Hot Potato match with her brother.  And because Jamie’s eyes got all glowy when he talked about Daniel hot-shot-baseball-dude Walker.  Someone had to keep a decent eye on the guy or he’d probably sneak off with half the herd. 

And dammit, that was her last cow metaphor for the day.  Nell scowled at her interrogator and decided it was time to get even.  “So.  How goes it with finalizing music for the wedding?”

“Mom’s insisting on her harpist.”  Sammy’s fork mutilated her last remaining noodles.  “It’s a wedding, not a freaking funeral.  I don’t want to walk down the aisle to some choir-of-angels crap.”  Her eyes fumed melancholy fire.  “There has to be a line somewhere, right?”

Hell yes, and in Nell’s opinion, it should have been drawn about five months ago.  But Retha Sullivan, as opinionated as she was, knew how to take no for an answer.  Sammy wasn’t nearly so lucky in the mom department.  “Find a harpist who can play what you want.” 

Sammy looked thoughtful.

Nell grinned.  “I heard this great new country song.  Perfect for Shane.” And probably the first and last time anyone would walk down the aisle to a harp rendition of “Did I Shave My Legs for This?”

Mischief flashed in her friend’s mind.  The wheels were turning now.  “Mom would still hear choirs of angels.”

It was what Sammy would hear that mattered.  Nell started on her second plate of linguine.  “I’ll ask around.  See if anyone knows a harpist with a sense of humor.”

“Awesome.”  The goddess of cookies politely burped into her napkin.  “See if they know a saint of a florist, too.”

Nell groaned.  It was a week before the wedding—a very bad time to be firing the help.  “If I ever get married, I’m carrying a bouquet of dandelions and serving Romano’s linguine.”  All the fun, none of the pre-wedding trauma.

“Witches know how to have a party.”  Sammy squeezed her hand, slightly wistful.  “The rest of us are still trying to catch up.”

A good gamer knew how to sit, stockpile points, and wait for her moment.  Nell had mostly stayed out of the pre-wedding train wreck, but there would be plenty of witches at the wedding.  And almost all of them owed her favors.  Sammy was going to have the day she wanted.

Nell scooped up the last of her linguine, very glad she’d ordered a second plate.  She needed the fuel.  Sexy, suspicious thieves and country-club weddings—it was going to be a hell of a week.

-o0o-

When you raised seven children, four of them witches, you learned a lot of lessons.  Humility.  Hiding places for lost socks, mutant frogs, and half-done homework.  A multitude of cleaning spells.   And the muddy, unclear world of maternal ethics.

Retha Sullivan paused outside her sons’ townhouse, suitable bribery already in her hands, and contemplated whether this was really the right thing to do.  Her daughter was a grown woman, and a fearsomely competent one.

And Nell would not thank her one little bit for interfering.

The face of a small boy with her husband’s eyes swam into Retha’s mind.  Her hands firmed on the burger bags.  Maybe for Grammas, the rules were a little different.  And she wasn’t really interfering.  Yet.  Just collecting information.

Destiny might be coming for Nell, and Retha needed to decide whether to stand in front of her girl or behind her.

“Mom!”  Strong arms swept her into a bear hug.  Her whirlwind son grinned down at her and snagged the burger bags.  “Yum, thanks, we all cleaned behind our ears yesterday, and what do you want?”

She’d been keeping up with Devin Sullivan for nineteen years.  “You’re welcome, your ears aren’t my problem anymore, and I wanted to see my three gorgeous boys.”

He snorted.  “Well, one of those things is true.”

Laughter slipped out—with Devin, keeping it in was generally futile.  “You, I only wanted to hug and feed.  Is Jamie home?”

“Uh, oh.”  Devin’s eyes twinkled as he turned to open the door.  “What’d he do?”

As far as she knew, not a thing.  “Why don’t you tell me?”

Her son laughed, as she’d known he would.  “That trick hasn’t worked since we were four.”

True, but it had been memorable back then.  In response to that very same question, Devin had blithely spilled a month’s worth of misdeeds, implicating himself, every one of his brothers, and about half the kids in the neighborhood.  Retha smiled in fond memory—it had been a very impressive list.

She followed her son down the hall to their kitchen.  Their very spotless kitchen.  Mom radar kicked into high gear.  “What’s going on?”

Devin tossed one of the burger bags into the fridge, presumably for Matt, and tried to look innocent.  “Isn’t it Jamie you came to check up on?”

“Mothers of seven children know how to multitask.”  Retha studied him a little more closely.  Bright eyes.  A recent haircut.  And backtracking mentally, the living room had been oddly clean when they walked by as well.  “What’s her name?”

“Busted.”  Devin tossed over a container of orange juice.  “Her name’s Megan, she’ll be here in half an hour, and no, she’s not ready to meet the clan Sullivan yet, so scoot.  I think Jamie’s fixing his bike in the garage.”  He pinned her with a look.  “No eavesdropping.”

Mothers were supposed to impede their children’s dating lives—it came with the job description.  However, if Megan had inspired housecleaning, Retha was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.  And subtly quizzing Jamie about his brother’s love life might give her cover for what she’d really come to find out.

“I’ll be good.”  She leaned in and kissed her son’s cheek.  “And no one is ever ready to meet the Sullivans.  If she makes it as far as your brother’s spaghetti sauce, I want to meet her.”  It was unlikely—girls had flocked to Devin since he’d learned to walk, but very few made it past his contagiously friendly exterior.  When one did, she’d know.

She grabbed one of the burger bags off the counter and headed out the back door.  At least she could feed Jamie while she interrogated him.

The garage stood at the back of the lot, a tilted and run-down building that had likely never housed an actual car.  It had, however, been home to more than one rock band, a potions lab, and the occasional small fire—the townhome had housed a steady stream of Witch Central residents on their way to adulthood. 

The anthem of curses coming from the hapless garage suggested she’d found her target.  The abrupt ending of the foul language suggested her son had detected her approach.

She smiled.  It wasn’t easy to sneak up on a mind witch. 
I come bearing food.

How about a new socket wrench? 
Her son sounded totally disgusted with his tools and life in general. 
Darn thing broke and I still have three bolts to remount.

Retha made her way into the shadows of the garage.  “Nell could fix that for you, dear.”  Fire magic was handy for all manner of repairs.

Jamie snorted and scooted out from behind his bike.  “I’m not exactly her favorite brother right now.  Wanna walk to the hardware store with me?”

“Of course.”  She handed him the bag of fast food and fell in beside his long-legged stroll.  “And what have you done to earn Nell’s wrath?”

He grinned.  “How come you always assume it’s my fault?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”  She smiled up at him, enjoying the man he was becoming.  “Maybe because your mind is coated with guilt?”

“Hmmm.”  He waved at the little old lady tending her roses across the street.  “I brought in someone for an interview.  For our senior programmer position.”