Mistletoe Cinderella

Chapter Seven

“You’re such a good son,” Barb Echols said from the hallway.

No, he wasn’t. Finished in the closet, Dylan descended the ladder, thinking that his afternoon sounded like the beginning of a joke. How many ex-baseball players does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Just one, but it took him months to get around to the job. They both knew he’d done the bare familial minimum for years-mailing tickets to games and the occasional Mother’s Day card-but it was just like Barb to content herself on scraps of affection. He’d watched her settle throughout her marriage; an ugly thought chilled him. Was he no better than his father?

“Hey, Mom?” Dylan folded the collapsible ladder and shoved it to the back of the closet, wishing it were as easy to push aside his burgeoning self-disgust. “Would you like to go with me to dinner tomorrow night?”

She blinked the green eyes that he’d inherited. “But you have that important banquet at the KC Hall.”

“I know. I’m asking you to come with me as my date.”

“Me?” She looked shocked by the small gesture.

Why shouldn’t she be? He hadn’t even come home for the holidays, citing his busy new work schedule covering college football games. He hadn’t known then that it would be his father’s last Christmas. Would I have done anything differently? He wasn’t honestly sure, but his relationship with the man was now a moot point. His mom was a different story.

“Come with me,” he reiterated. “Unless you have other plans already? A lady scolded me just earlier today that it’s bad manners to ask at the last minute.”

Chloe had tried to sound mock-indignant at his eleventh-hour invitation, but he could tell she’d been anxious about the idea of going somewhere in public with him. Still, she’d exhibited plenty of nerve when, instead of wisely backing down, she’d brazenly agreed to come to his condo for a decorating consultation! As if he wouldn’t be able to tell she was a fake. What kind of moron did she think he was, to be duped by spluttered nonsense like “a philosophy of the placement of stuff”?

Please. A layman could pick up better specifics than that during a thirty-second HGTV commercial. Chloe was playing him for a fool, but she couldn’t keep it up forever.

“Earlier today?” Barb echoed, pursing her lips. “I’m not the first person you’ve invited to this dinner, am I?”

Oh, hell. Sensitivity was not his strong suit. “Sorry, Mom, I-”

“Are you kidding?” She beamed. “I’d love you to start dating a nice Mistletoe girl!”

She’s not that nice. Despite himself, he recalled the self-deprecating way she’d admitted to her high school crush on him-had that part been true?-and the pain in her voice when she spoke of the aunt she’d obviously adored. Plus, she’d blushed last night in his hotel room, hardly seeming a jaded woman of wiles. She had her parents’ picture displayed on her fridge as proudly as his mother had once hung his kindergarten drawings and, later, his baseball cards. Chloe had even asked how his mother was faring after his dad’s death, showing more compassion than Dylan himself, who avoided thinking about home.

The truth was, he didn’t know what to make of the woman.

He considered asking his mother if she knew anything about her, but Barb already looked entirely too delighted by the prospect of his seeing a local girl, probably imagining his being around more and chubby-cheeked grandchildren. He didn’t want to get her hopes up, especially since his association with Chloe Malcolm was going to be short-lived and would no doubt end badly once he exposed her as the shameless fraud she was.

AS SOON AS Dylan escorted his mom into the hall, his eyes went to Todd Burton, standing amid a throng of well-wishers. Whether the older man was actually stooped with age or Dylan was taller now than he’d been as a high school freshman, Coach B. seemed smaller than he once had, but he was still just as imposing, just as solid. He’d already been losing his red hair when Dylan had played for him; now, only a circle of faded orange and silver remained around his mostly bald head. Dylan was startled to see that the man had gotten rid of the matching mustache. He’d never seen Coach Burton clean shaven before.

The last time the two of them had seen each other was when Dylan had been in the hospital after the first shoulder surgery. Coach had come to visit him. Michael Echols had not.

When Dylan’s father had died right after the new year, Coach Burton had been visiting his daughter in Colorado before the school’s spring semester started. He’d ordered an arrangement of flowers for the funeral and later visited Barb to tell her he was here if she needed anything. Dylan wondered if his mother had ever taken the man up on his offer. Barb could be borderline passive-aggressive, depending completely on others while constantly fretting that she didn’t “want to be a bother.” She’d adopted an apologetic attitude with her own husband, instead of grabbing him by the collar, reminding him that she was half of the marriage, too, and demanding his respect.

In spite of himself, Dylan grinned at the mental image. He would have paid damn good money to see tiny Barb, five foot nothing in her stocking feet, give Michael Echols a piece of her mind. Since leaving home, Dylan had avoided timid women as if they were a curse, gravitating instead toward females who did whatever they wanted. Of course, that practice had netted him women like Heidi. There must be a middle ground he was missing.

“Echols!” The coach had looked up from the people talking to him and spotted his one-time protégé. With a quick nod of dismissal to the people surrounding him, he covered ground in the exact manner Dylan remembered. How many times had he seen that purposeful stride as Coach headed out to the pitcher’s mound to confer during practice or a game?

Nostalgia bubbled up, forming a lump of emotion in Dylan’s chest. Being a guy, he hadn’t cried when he lost his major league career-although, dear God, he’d wanted to at times, wondering if it would help him purge any of the frustration, fury and loss-and he hadn’t shed a tear over his father’s grave. Barb had sobbed enough for both of them, and Dylan had played the part of the stoic son, holding her and thanking everyone who’d come to pay their respects, knowing that many of them were there out of obligation to his mother not affection for Michael. Now, Dylan’s vision blurred for just an instant, his eyes stinging.

Then he blinked, and the world righted itself again. “Coach.” He clapped the man’s shoulder, leaning into it and making it a half hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too.” Coach Burton squeezed him hard, strong as an ox despite his advancing years. Speaking low enough that only Dylan could hear him, he added, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back in time to be here for you in January, son.”

Dylan swallowed and nodded.

Coach Burton moved back, turning to Barb. “Mrs. Echols, you’re looking as lovely as ever. I’m glad you made him bring you. It’s good to see you again.”

“I was glad he asked! You’ve been such a special person to our whole family.” A cloud passed over her face. “I’m just sorry Michael couldn’t be here for this.”

Taking the diplomatic path, Coach patted her arm and said nothing. During his summers off, he’d attended some of Dylan’s pro games. They’d gone out for beer afterward once, and Coach Burton had let slip the opinion that any man who routinely made himself feel more important by belittling his kid should be horsewhipped. As Dylan approached thirty, he found himself wondering if he’d ever settle down and if, assuming he ever became a parent himself someday, he’d be a decent dad. After all, his own father hadn’t provided a shining role model. But I had Coach. That was more than some kids ever got.

Other guys were coming through the doorway now, including Nick and Shane, who was accompanied by a very pretty girl with golden hair. Both men hailed Dylan with loud greetings.

His mother smiled. “You’ll be wanting to catch up with old friends. I should get out of your way.”

Coach Burton extended his arm gallantly. “You two will sit with me. Can I show you to the head table? Maybe get you a drink?”

Looking ten years younger, Barb nodded.

Shane strolled up, introducing his date. “Dylan, this is Arianne Waide. Ari, Dylan Echols.”

She grinned, her eyes twinkling at Dylan. “You went to school with my older brothers. I watched you pitch some great games.”

“Waide?” Dylan flashed back to the pregnant photographer yesterday. “Any relation to Rachel?”

The blonde nodded. “She’s one of my sisters-in-law. Lilah Waide is the other.”

Right, now he remembered the name of Lilah Baum’s steady boyfriend throughout high school. Tanner Waide. He’d been a fairly decent football player, but had been far more passionate about Lilah than sports.

“Nice to meet you, Arianne.” Smirking at Shane, Dylan leaned closer to her. “You do realize you’re too good for this guy here, right?”

She laughed. Shane, less amused, socked Dylan in the shoulder-not the one that had been injured, thank heavens.

“Shane and I are just good buddies,” Arianne said. “Honestly, I think he asks me out because he hopes I can get him a discount on fishing equipment at the family store.”

“That’s not why I ask you out,” Shane insisted. “Although now that you mention it…”

Heckling each other, the two of them moved farther into the room, leaving Nick and Dylan behind.

“I didn’t want to ask for details in front of Ari,” Nick began, “but did you track down your mysterious lady in red the other night?”

“As a matter of fact.” Maybe Nick knew more about her. “Chloe Malcolm. Is she-”

“Klutzy Chloe?” Behind them, a man guffawed. “Don’t tell me she’s here tonight. Better keep her away from the punch table.”

Next to Dylan, Nick had stiffened. His unsmiling expression fell several degrees cooler than civil. “Petey.”

Dylan turned to find Peter “Petey” Grubner holding a drink and sporting the same severe crew cut he’d favored ten years ago, atop a much rounder face. Their former teammate had gained about thirty pounds. What Dylan remembered about the guy was that Petey had often tried too hard to fit in, laughing loudly at his own jokes or picking fights with other teams to prove his “boys” had his back. To give him credit, though, he’d had a decent batting average. One of the best in the county, but he’d lacked the discipline to do anything with his God-given talent.

“Hello, Pete.” Even though he’d heard far stranger nicknames in professional sports, Dylan would feel asinine calling another grown man Petey.

“Dylan Echols.” The man bared his teeth in a smile. “We’re honored that you took time from your high-powered big-city career to hang out with us yokels.”

“No chance I’d miss Coach’s send-off,” Dylan said easily, refusing to be disturbed by someone else’s bitterness. Not when I already have plenty of my own.

“Shocked no one asked him to retire years ago.” Grubner sipped whatever was in his red plastic cup. “I mean, I like the guy as much as the rest of you, but he’s been at Mistletoe High ever since it was a one-room schoolhouse for the pioneers’ kids. It’ll do everyone good to get new blood.”

Go away, Grubner. “Who’ve they got to replace him?” Dylan asked Nick.

“They don’t. They’re still interviewing. The assistant coach, Asbury, will fill in for the interim, but he’s not too far off from retirement himself. They can make him head coach, but then they’ll be going through the same process in a couple of years.”

Grubner rocked back on his heels, puffing up his chest. “You know, I thought about going into coaching instead of taking over the car dealership, but it’s a good thing I followed in the family footsteps. Coaching just wouldn’t be fair to Petey Jr. Wife’s home with him tonight ’cause he’s got some stomach bug, but he’s a strapping boy. Quite the baseball future ahead of him. Why spend all my time and energy on a team that changes every year when I can devote every spare minute to shaping Junior’s career?”

Petey Jr. had Dylan’s sympathies. “Well, it’s been nice catching up, but-”

“When I walked over, you were talking about Chloe Malcolm.” Grubner was studying the room with predatory interest. “Where is she?”

“Not here,” Dylan said, unintentionally biting off the words. “I ran into her briefly at the reunion.”

Again with the braying guffaw-one of Petey’s many donkeylike qualities. “She actually showed up? I’m surprised she left her computer long enough to venture out in public. That little gal’s scared of her own shadow. Most exciting thing she ever did was douse Candy Beemis in punch at a high school dance.” He leered. “Even back then, Candy was an excellent candidate for a wet T-shirt contest.”

“She dumped punch on Candy?” Had Dylan stumbled into some bizarre, grudge-match rivalry?

“Not on purpose. Why d’you think we call her Klutzy Chloe? I remember this one time she-”

“Dude.” Nick interrupted, rolling his eyes so hard his sockets probably had whiplash. “That was over a decade ago. Grow the hell up.”

When Nick stalked off, Dylan and Petey were left staring at each other in surprise. Dylan recovered first, muttering a quick, “I should be going, too.”

He caught up with his friend waiting in line at the open bar. “No one could accuse you of mellowing with age.” But his tone was openly admiring. Grubner had been working his nerves, too.

Nick looked sheepish. “That guy makes me insane. I didn’t like him when we were in school, but he was part of the team. Then he and his wife lived next door to me for a while with these three yappy little dogs. He was the type who complained about everything-say, if a leaf from one of my trees blew into his yard. They moved across town to a bigger place once Petey Jr. outgrew his nursery, and I nearly threw a block party to celebrate.”

“How old is the poor kid?”

“Around seven. With all the pressure his dad puts on him, he’s probably going to hate sports before he even gets into junior high.” Nick asked for two beers, then admitted as they moved away from the bar, “I didn’t like how that blowhard was ragging on Chloe.”

“So you know Chloe?”

“Not well. You remember my grades slipping junior year? Plummeting, really. That’s when Mom started seriously dating again, and I had a tough time dealing with it. You know how strict Coach has always been about no pass, no play. My chem teacher asked Chloe to help me. Nice girl. Maybe a little…awkward, but decent. I see her around town sometimes. She grew up to be a looker, but I’m not sure she knows it.”

So far, Dylan had seen her in a low-cut red dress and a flamboyant purple shirt with a suggestive slogan. It wasn’t a wardrobe that screamed “shy.” Although she definitely had her bashful moments. Hell, maybe she was a split personality. Chloe and C.J. Would that make sleeping with her a threesome?

Grimacing at his inappropriately wayward thoughts, Dylan pushed her out of his mind and focused on socializing with other ball players, some from his time at Mistletoe High and others who had come before or since but shared a mutual respect for Coach Burton.

“I brought my mom with me,” he told Nick, “and I’ve ignored her too long. Why don’t you come say hi. She’d like that.”

“Sure.” Having vented on Grubner, Nick was back to his affable self.

Barb was seated between the coach, who’d lost his wife decades ago to breast cancer and later declared himself married to his job, and the Asburys. She looked like she was having the time of her life, so enthusiastic that it made Dylan wonder if she got out of the house enough. Having lived in Mistletoe since birth, she must have enough friends and neighbors to keep her social calendar filled.

Before long, the waitstaff announced that dinner would be served. People who had been mingling in clumps throughout the hall gradually found their way to their seats.

Over the salad course, Coach Burton asked Dylan, “You nervous about giving the speech?”

God, yes. “No. I plan to regale them with stories about how your answer to everything was ‘walk it off.’” Dylan smiled at Assistant Coach Asbury. “Whereas you always told us to ‘ice it.’”

Coach Burton chortled. “He’s got you there, Steve.” Lowering his voice, he imitated his assistant’s gravelly tone. “‘Go get some ice on that.’ ‘See the trainer for some ice.’”

At sixteen, Dylan had been led to believe there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be solved with enough ice or some pacing.

Steve Asbury harrumphed, but his gray eyes twinkled with humor as he shook his head at his longtime boss. “You know we’re not going to miss you, old man.”

“Liar,” Coach Burton said confidently. “And good luck replacing me. You ever think about it, Dylan? Coaching?”

Dylan coughed, stunned by the question. As far back as first grade, he’d desperately wanted to get out of school; he couldn’t imagine voluntarily returning to one.

“No, sir. Can’t say that I have.” Could he stand it, watching young kids with the same dreams he’d once harbored, doing what he was no longer able to? He shuddered.

The coach eyed him. “The biggest requirements are patience and a love of baseball. I used to ask a lot of you guys in ninety-degree practices and during games. This is the last thing I’ll ask of you-think about it? For me.”

Reluctantly Dylan nodded, trying to ignore the way Barb was practically vibrating with excitement in her seat. He’d resolved to come visit her more, but that did not mean he wanted to move back to Mistletoe. He’d promised Coach to at least consider it, though, so he would. Fleetingly.

His temples throbbed with the onset of a headache. So far on his weekend away from work, he’d become preoccupied with a woman who viewed the truth as nothing more than a loose guideline, he’d been swamped with guilt over what a bad son he was and now he found himself faced with unexpected career questions. Maybe next vacation, he’d try scaling Everest. It might be more relaxing.