Stealing Home

EVEN THOUGH I’M EXHAUSTED, I WAKE UP AT FIVE A.M. I TRY TO fall back asleep, but I’m haunted by flickering images of Gone with the Wind. I’d somehow dreamed myself to Tara, complete with thick southern accents and torrid love affairs. The last scene of the movie is ugly—Rhett bails, leaving Scarlett to face the mess of her life alone. I don’t even want to analyze the metaphor behind this nightmare. I’ll leave that crap to my English teachers.

My biggest issue is that I can’t pin down exactly what happens in that last scene besides some serious tension between Scarlett and Rhett. I remember his line: Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. I know she says something almost equally famous, but I have no idea what it is. After fifteen minutes of trying to figure it out, I grab my phone and Google.

A dozen memes come up, most of them with cartoons of women holding martini glasses, but the video clip is there, too.

Oh, I can’t think about that today, Scarlett says as she stares out the front door of their enormous mansion, watching Rhett disappear into the fog. I’ll just go crazy if I do. I’ll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

There are a lot of theories about what Scarlett meant with that line, standing there watching Rhett’s shadow blend in to the mossy cypress trees lining their front drive. I make a mental note to ask Sawyer about foggy Georgia mornings and if that was the director’s idea for cinematic effect. But other than the scenery feeling wrong to me, that whole bit about “thinking about it tomorrow” seems out of character for Scarlett. Scarlett O’Hara was a boss. She worked people; she worked situations; she was problematic, for sure, but she got stuff done.

She may not have been able to manipulate Rhett with her tears, but I’d bet the wheels in her head were spinning well before he left their property. I bet she was taking stock of what she had left and how she could bend the situation in her favor.

And I’m going to do the same.

I only wait half an hour before I text Dad, telling him I’m going on my run. I know that being alone with the pavement and the sunrise will help me figure out what my plan should be.

Seven miles later, I come home sweaty and discouraged. Not only because my split times sucked, but my brain didn’t magically clear. The answer didn’t fall from the sky. I can’t see any way out of this mess.

I drop my shoes off in the laundry room and head straight to my shower, where I stand under the cold water until I stop sweating and start to shiver. Then I turn up the heat and decide to stay in a little longer and deep-condition my hair. Again.

People always say they get their brilliant ideas in the shower. I’m going to wait around for mine.

But nothing comes.

When I leave the bathroom with the mirror completely steamed over, I catch the delectable fragrance of bacon.

“Dad?”

“In here.”

With my towel still wrapped around my head, I walk into the kitchen to find my dad frying bacon, his iPad open on the counter next to him.

I hover over his shoulder, watching the bacon sizzle in the bottom of a stainless-steel pan. “Are you making breakfast?”

“Yep. Figured I’d try.”

There are eggs, shredded cheese, a half gallon of milk, some pre-diced vegetables, a bag of frozen hash browns, and tortillas. “Everything to make breakfast burritos.”

Dad squints at his bacon tutorial, then raises a piece of bacon up to the light. “Does this look done to you?”

“Is it supposed to be orange like that?” I wrinkle my nose at it.

He shrugs and puts the slice on a paper towel–covered plate.

“I’m going to go brush out my hair. I’ll be back in a second.” My phone is on the bathroom counter. There are a dozen missed calls from my mom and several texts from Mia, but nothing from Campbell. My thumb hovers over his name—I’m aching to tell him everything that went down with my mom last night. Instead, I send Hope you made it home okay.

Three little dots appear, phasing from dark to light, and then they disappear. No message comes through. I wait, expecting the dots to start again, embarrassingly desperate to hear something from him.

After five minutes, disappointment settles heavy on my shoulders, and I set my phone down. If Campbell wanted to know what happened with my mom last night, he’d text me. And since he didn’t, I guess that means he doesn’t give a damn.

GALVANIZED BY A GOOD, ONLY SLIGHTLY BURNT BREAKFAST, DAD AND I head to the park at the same time. We run through our morning routine as if nothing has changed, because we don’t know what we’re facing.

Our afternoon staff meeting takes a turn when Dad doesn’t start with a joke. Instead, he clears his throat and shifts his weight a little. “I’m sure there have been rumors, but I want to give you the information I have before you hear about it somewhere else. My business partner”—Dad doesn’t say “my ex-wife,” though at least half of the staff knows exactly who that business partner is—“has sold her shares of the team to the Black Keys Entertainment group. I’m not sure what that’s going to mean for us or how it’s going to affect day-to-day operations. I do hope you’ll come to me with any questions or concerns. And please know that if …” Dad clears his throat again. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him struggle to find the right words. “If any of you chooses to leave the Beavers or seek new opportunities elsewhere, I’d be happy to provide recommendations.”

Meredith’s face goes pale. A couple of hands fly to cover mouths. Sucky Salesman Steve doesn’t hide his conniving glare. I guess he’ll have to figure out how to not work very hard for another baseball team.

The room clears out, voices subdued as our staff whispers about what it means and what they’ve already heard or guessed. I’m sitting on one of the worktables against the back wall, and Mia’s sitting backwards in the chair beside me.

“So,” she says once the door closes after the last staffer flees. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly, looking at the top of my knees. “Dad’s got a two p.m. conference call, and he’ll have a better idea of what Black Keys plans for us then.”

“You gonna bust in on the meeting?”

I shake my head. I know it will be better if Dad can assess what Black Keys plans, and then we can work on countermeasures and evasive maneuvers and some other military-lingo stuff. “Black Keys always sends out a press release when they purchase a new team, and Dad didn’t want the staff to find out from the newspaper before they heard it from him directly.”

“What about Campbell?”

“What about him?”

Mia gives me her patient look, which honestly isn’t very patient. I tell her about my conversation with Campbell in the batting cages, and she clutches her chest like she’s been stabbed through the heart.

“Did you tell him about this?” She waves around the room, even though it’s totally empty now.

“I shouldn’t give him another thing to worry about.” She opens her mouth to counter, but I stop her. “You’ve been through slumps before.” I kick the table leg in frustration. “And it’s not like he can do anything to change what my mom has already done.”

“You’re right, but he’s going to be mad if you don’t say anything.”

“I don’t know about that.” I try to shift the conversation to her. “Tell me about Ollie.”

“What about him?” I can see her trying to keep the happiness off her face.

I lift my eyebrows at her.

“He’s fun.”

“Like, summer fun or …?” I leave it hanging.

“Summer fun for sure.” But she doesn’t look at me when she says it. I don’t push. She stinks at secrets, and I know she won’t be able to keep what she’s thinking inside for very long.

OUR PROMOTION SCHEDULE IS SET FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR AND we have a lot of good things happening. Maybe that is what I can work on—at least so that I feel like I’m doing something—filling up any empty nights with promotions that won’t cost us much but will drive up attendance.

Mia and I search best/funniest/strangest game promotions as we take the long way back to the office and find a few that we haven’t done and haven’t considered: hairiest back competition (gross), speed dating (awkward), and Netflix and Chill on the Field (which I can almost guarantee my dad isn’t going to go for unless we can find an ice cream sponsor).

I stop by my desk and check the glowing buttons on my receptionist phone. Dad’s isn’t lit, which means he’s either off the call or using his cell. His door is shut, so I tap softly.

“Come in.”

Mia gives me a thumbs-up and heads over to my desk to take calls while I chat with him.

“Hey,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “How’d it go?”

He’s holding one of the mini-bats in his left hand and rolling it across the desk like he’s pressing flat imaginary pizza dough. “They’re coming here on Saturday.”

“That’s in five days.”

“They want to get a jump on things, so new elements are in play for next season.” He’s talking to me, but his focus is somewhere else. “My lawyer is going over the contract right now, but I know your mom. She’s got things locked up tight.”

Dad’s never said it out loud, but I’m pretty sure he got screwed in the divorce. I drop into the chair across from his desk. “What do we do now?”

“Prepare financial reports and sponsorship portfolios, run Meredith into the ground putting a good spin on the sale.” He doesn’t sound defeated, more like he’s gearing up.

“I’ve got the templates for the portfolios from last year. I can work on those today.” We lay out all the details—the number of exposures from each sponsor’s contract, photos, testimonials, whatever it takes to convince a sponsor that their money was well spent. It’s usually months of work, and I’ve got a few days to make it happen.

Dad looks up, really seeing me for the first time, and he smiles. “Your mom called right after I got off the phone with Mr. Jamison. She’s really upset by the way you left last night.”

I make a noncommittal noise and leave it to his interpretation.

“She said to ask you about some presentation you prepared?”

“Yeah.” I hesitate, feeling a little guilty about going behind Dad’s back, working on new ideas without his go-ahead. The truth is, he loves the Beavers’ traditional promotions even more than I do, and it takes a lot to convince him to try new things. I’d hoped that my plans for an addition to the stadium, the camps, the extra events, would sway Mom first—a fail on that count—and then she’d back me when I took them to Dad.

“Ry?” he prompts.

“I’ve got some ideas, Dad.” I remember the breakfast he tried to cook, which was a first. Maybe today is the beginning of something new. “They may help us keep the team in Buckley.”