Fireside (28 page)

“Fine, then just tell me what I need to do. It’s your specialty, right? Turning a diamond in the rough into a polished gem.”

She regarded him skeptically. “Assuming there’s a precious stone under that exterior.”

“Ha. You know it, sugar pie.”

“New rule,” she said. “Don’t go around calling women names like sugar pie.”

“If I called men names like that, people would think I’m queer.”

“And don’t say queer.”

“Everybody says queer. It’s even in the name of that show.”

“It’s a matter of context. And judgment. Just do yourself a favor and don’t use that word.”

“What should I use? Ho-mo-sexual?” He separated the word into obnoxious-sounding syllables.

“How about you avoid the subject altogether? People can go for long periods of time without debating sexual orientation.” She assessed him with her eyes. “Unless this is a preoccupation of yours.”

He snorted. “Right. You slay me, lady. You really do. First, you rag on me for being a Lothario. Which, by the way, I looked up. I’m nothing like that guy. He was banging anything in hoop skirts. And I’m not. I don’t have that problem. At the moment, my biggest problem is you. And you’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I am, but I need some cooperation from you.”

“You got it,” he said, polishing off the doughnut. “Sugar pie.”

Nineteen

K
im insisted on getting an early start each morning. By eight o’clock, she was either on the phone or at the computer, preparing her game plan for Bo Crutcher. And finally, for the first time since she’d fled from L.A., she felt anchored to something. She was in her element. It was pathetic, discovering how much she missed this part of her old life. She couldn’t help herself—the work brought her an incredible sense of satisfaction. The pressure and challenge of it was exciting. Even the seeming impossibility of making someone like Bo Crutcher into a star was exhilarating.

She consulted the off-season schedule provided by Gus Carlyle, then glanced through the open door at her client, who was currently in the sitting room, teaching his son “Deep in the Heart of Texas” on his electric bass, killing time before the bus. Since Bo had decided to stay in Avalon, there had been a perceptible thawing in AJ’s attitude. Every once in a while, the boy forgot his worries about his mother, and the bond between him and Bo had a chance to flourish.

Whenever she grew frustrated with her client, Kim reminded herself of this.

The schedule listed a program of upcoming physical training with a strength coach. That aspect of the program would be no problem. Despite all his complaining, Bo was a natural athlete who excelled at physical challenges. He was doing sixty throws a day at the indoor gym, and Kim couldn’t wait to see him on the mound. The strength and grace of a talented pitcher was a thing of beauty; she had no worries about him in that regard. The real trouble would start when he had to step up for meetings with club management and the media. In addition to the upcoming gala reception for patrons, boosters and sponsors, they needed to prepare for New Player Week. He would require a press portfolio and media training right away.

She made some notes on the schedule and then joined them, pausing in the doorway for a moment. After the bass lesson, they’d moved on to ripping a phone book in half. Unguarded, they looked like father and son, although they probably didn’t realize it. On the surface, the two were wildly dissimilar. AJ lacked Bo’s lanky frame. The boy’s Latino coloring contrasted with his father’s blue eyes and Germanic features. Yet when AJ laughed and his eyes sparkled, it was Bo’s spirit that shone from the boy’s face. Bo was like a big kid around his son, with endless patience for silliness.

He was still grinning when he noticed her, and his smile widened. “Time to get to work,” he said to AJ. “I gotta go learn how to be a big-league player.”

“I don’t see what’s so hard about it,” AJ said. “You said you’ve been pitching since Little League.”

“The pitching I can handle. It’s everything else I need help with. What’s on the agenda now, coach?”

“An extreme makeover,” Kim informed him.

He traded a glance with AJ. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said.

“You’re probably not going to like any of it,” she warned him. She had a long list of things to do in order to prepare him for the gala reception in New York that would kick off New Player Week.

“Try me,” he said.

“You need a publicity photo.”

“I got one. It’s up on the Hornets’ Web site.”

“That one looks like a mug shot.”

“It kind of is. Ray Tolley, from my band, he’s a cop. He took the picture.”

“We’ll need a new photo. Your new ones are going to look like fine art.”

“You’re the boss.”

“We’ll get a whole portfolio of shots, professionally done.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I’ll book a studio in the city.”

“No need.”

“Look, we’re doing this my way, or—”

“I’ll go along with getting a new picture made, but we’re using my photographer.”

“You have a photographer?”

“Daisy Bellamy. My best friend Noah’s stepdaughter. She can use the work.”

“It’s nice of you to think of your friend, but no. We need a pro. We need—”

“Hang on a second.” He went to the rotunda and returned with a coffee table book. It was one she recognized—
Food For Thought,
Jenny Majesky McKnight’s memoir about the Sky River Bakery. He handed it to her. Now she noticed the line on the cover: Photographs by Daisy Bellamy. Paging through the glossy book, Kim was impressed by the quality of the photographs and the photographer’s eye for composition.

“She’s a pro, then.”

“A college student, studying photography. But she shoots like a pro.”

“Is she available?”

“We’ll have to ask.”

“Excellent. Give me her number, and I’ll set everything up. In the meantime, we’ve got a lot of work to do.” She enumerated the things they needed to cover—grooming, bio, message development, delivery, on-camera exercises and general issues of poise.

He listened, frowning. Then he said, “I’d rather have my teeth drilled.”

“Actually, that’s on the schedule,” she said. “Not exactly drilling, but teeth whitening.”

“Oh, man.”

She glared at him. “We made a deal. You hired me to do a job and I intend to deliver. I’ve done this before, and there’s a progression. Before the publicity photos, the first order of business is your teeth. It’s one of the first and simplest parts of this process.”

“I use that whitening toothpaste,” he protested.

“Permanent whitening.”

“Shoot.”

“Who’s your dentist? We need to make sure he can do the instant whitening technique.”

“You’re assuming I have a dentist.”

Kim frowned. “You don’t?”

“Just a reminder, up until November, I was making a pittance for playing baseball and tending bar for tips. I went to the dentist once for a toothache. What he did to fix it made the toothache seem mild, so I haven’t been back since.”

AJ hurried to the door and pulled on his snow boots. “Time for the bus,” he said.

“This might turn out to be a long day,” Bo warned him. “If I’m not here when you get back, Dino is in charge.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have my phone with me, although if she’s serious about the dentist, I’ll probably be in a dead faint.”

“It’s no one’s favorite thing,” she agreed. “Is it, AJ?” If she could get his support, this would go easier. Where AJ was concerned, Bo clearly wanted to do the right thing.

“I guess.” AJ offered a vague shrug.

Oh, Lord. An alarming thought struck her. “What about you, AJ? When was your last visit to the dentist?”

He shrugged again. “Never been. Never had a toothache.”

This was incredible to her. Everyone went to the dentist, didn’t they? She considered the thousands of dollars that had gone into her mouth over the years, from regular checkups to the best orthodontics money could buy. She’d taken it all for granted.

“Well, there’s good news for you both, then,” she said.

They regarded each other with expressions of stark terror.

She offered a reassuring smile. “Think of it as a form of male bonding.”

Agreeing to coach Bo Crutcher was like making a deal with the devil. Kim betrayed her own vow to get on with a different life, a different career. But in exchange, she would be helping AJ and also earning money—always a good thing after leaving a job without notice.

She was surprised to discover how important this project was to her. Perhaps it was because she had something to prove in the wake of the Lloyd Johnson fiasco. Yet one undeniable aspect of the business was that her success was inextricably tied to her client. And so was her failure. She tried to work with Bo on things that would make him seem polished and confident—fast. They went to Avalon’s premier restaurant, the Apple Tree Inn, so she could help him with his skills in a social setting. Preparing for the evening, she’d dressed carefully in a form-fitting black jersey dress and burgundy patent leather high heels. The belongings she’d had in storage had arrived from L.A., yet this didn’t feel like a step back into her old life. Everything about this felt new. She told herself she was simply trying to appear professional, but it was more than that. She wanted to look good—for Bo.

When he helped her off with her coat at the restaurant, the gleam in his eye told her she’d succeeded. “I’m starting to like this part of the training,” he said. “Maybe we could skip dinner and—”

“No, you have to learn how to use the right fork, eat like a gentleman and say all the right things.”

“Hard to see how this stuff matters,” he said.

“Trust me, it matters.”

“Baseball fans won’t care which fork I use.”

“News flash. You’re not going to
have
any fans unless you get picked up. And sponsors do care about this stuff. Members of the media—whether they care or not, they’re going to notice everything about you. You’re not just playing baseball for the fun of it. And it’s not just for the money, either. This is about your place in the sport, your image, and—” She stopped, pursed her lips. No point in getting into a philosophical debate with him.

The waiter arrived and she insisted that he order something he’d never tried before, which he did, gamely enough.

“You’re being a good sport,” she remarked.

“No, I just don’t know what half this stuff is.”

When their meal arrived, he scowled down at his plate.

“Is something wrong with your trout?”

He poked at it with his fork. “Looks like a mullet out of Galveston Bay.”

“It’s
truite au bleu,
and it’s delicious.”

“They couldn’t be bothered to take the head off before serving it?” he asked.

“Watch and learn,” she said, sitting back as the waiter neatly boned the fish and served it.

Bo sampled the fish. “Doesn’t taste like much,” he said. “A lot of lemon and butter, and that’s about it.”

“You know, it’s all right to pretend you like something even when you don’t.”

“I thought you said I should be honest. You know, show my passion and my heart and all that.”

“I said you should have judgment. There’s a difference.”

He leaned back in his chair, his posture deliberately loose, she suspected because he knew it would provoke her. He couldn’t seem to resist teasing her. “How do I know when you’re being honest, and when you’re being diplomatic?”

“You’re not stupid,” she said. “I think you’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll never figure you out. Now every time you say something to me, I’ll wonder whether or not it’s the truth.”

That stung. “I’ve never lied to you. I never would.”

“But you’ve been diplomatic with me.”

“Is that some crime?”

He smiled. “No. But I do want complete honesty from you, Kim. And believe me, I can take anything you can dish out.”

“Fine. I feel like dishing out some dancing lessons.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Not yet, anyway. Now, get up and ask me to dance.”

“I’m eating my trout.”

“You don’t like the trout.”

“But—”

“Ask me, Crutcher.”

To her surprise, he did so smoothly, holding his hand out with the palm turned up. “Hey, I’ve been known to watch
Dancing with the Stars,
” he explained.

She walked him through some basic dance steps. He kept trying to hold her close; she kept insisting he needed to hold a dance frame, which he claimed wasn’t nearly as much fun. A natural athlete, he was a quick study, and after just a few tries, he was able to get around the dance floor.

“How am I doing, coach?” he asked, navigating around a middle-aged couple who seemed blissfully lost in each other.

“You’re not humiliating yourself, so that’s good.” Kim watched the other couple a moment too long, and her heel wobbled through a turn.

She would have stumbled, except Bo caught her against him. “Whoa there. I got you,” he said.

Kim let herself enjoy the feel of his arms around her for about three seconds. It felt…exquisite. She was startled but not surprised by his rock-solid musculature. Although he was tall and slender, graceful in everything he did, he was incredibly strong. She savored the sensation for a moment, then pulled back. Any longer than that, and she’d be hopelessly lost.

“That’s the second time I’ve saved you from your high heels,” he said.

The morning at the airport seemed so long ago. She’d learned so much about him, probing into his past as she prepared his publicity materials. His frankness in talking about his past was so unexpected, yet so compelling in its honesty, she couldn’t help being moved. What had emerged was a picture of a man who had grown up rough, and emerged honest and hardworking, never afraid of a challenge. Her favorite kind of client.

At the end of the evening they returned to Fairfield House. Bo seemed quite pleased with himself.

The house was quiet at this hour. In the foyer, Bo took her hand and pulled her to him, lowering his head to hers.

“What in the world are you doing?” she demanded, batting him away.